Cassana III & Barristan VIII (298 AC)

Cassana III

"I'm not sure why you brought her along?" Uncle Stannis didn't quite glance at Cassana pointedly as he followed father up the steps from the Stag Tower.

At the very top of the Crown of Westeros there was a chamber - not tall enough to call a tower in its own right - on top of the dome. Most of the roof was curved, making it hard to reach except from the Stag Tower, where steps had been carved into the dome.

Father didn't look back. "There are two reasons I've brought Cassana along, Stannis. Firstly for the same reason I'm bringing you: continuity."

"And secondly?"

He paused a second, looked back and winked at her. "There's a saying I came across - not a common saying these days - that if you have a plan, it's worth having a child look at it to see if they can see any problems."

"Why a child?"

"Firstly, because they're unlikely to 'tactfully' pretend they didn't see a problem in their lord's plans. And secondly, how many times have you seen someone come up with a 'oh so clever' idea and thought that a child would have seen the obvious flaw?"

Uncle Stannis snorted.

"Uh, but why am I here, Your Grace?" asked Daenerys politely.

"Ah, this is all about you. Don't worry, it's not a new variation of the Maidenvault." Taking a key from a chain around his neck, father unlocked the door and then stepped inside. When Cassana followed, she found the room inside was circular and made up the entirety of the structure. There were chests stacked around the circular walls and in the centre, around a table which bore a single candelabra, several Essosi couches.

"Please, sit." Father waved them to the couches and opened one of the chests, pulling out a heavy book bound in black leather... no, it wasn't leather. Not quite...

"That's dragonskin," Daenerys said in surprise.

He nodded and made an approving noise. "One of Ser Gerion and Ser Tyrion's gifts to me from Old Valyria." Setting them on the table he turned back and lifted the entire chest down so he could get at the one below. This one needed a key, yet another one from the chain around his neck.

Cassana's uncle hissed as Robert lifted the contents. "It's a dragon's egg."

"Aye." It was red, not the colour of blood but more of an orange, Cassana thought. Her father cradled it in both hands - it was the size of a small cat - and placed it in Daenerys' lap.

The girl cupped her own hands around it and Cassana felt jealous for a moment of her for the chance to touch something like that.

With a sigh, Robert sat opposite her. "A few years before I was born, our mutual great-grandfather took seven dragon eggs to Summerhall. Exactly what was done... well, if anyone knows then they aren't telling. He attempted some sorcery to hatch them. Some say that wildfire was used. Either way, the fires gutted the castle and many died. Aegon, his eldest son, his oldest friend... your mother was there. She gave birth to your eldest brother in the ashes."

"I know. Viserys told me." Daenerys didn't take her eyes off the egg.

"Dragons haven't been seen in more than a hundred years. Dreams of them have led many a Targaryen to their deaths. Some of them as a tool - a dragon would be a potent means for Viserys if he wanted to dethrone me. Some as a symbol. Ancient Valyria. Ancient magic." He touched the book. "My high Valyrian isn't perfect but I've been studyign this book for a few years. If I understand it correctly, even they didn't fully understand the methods of hatching Dragons."

"Who would want a dragon?" asked Stannis. "It's not as if you need one."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes."

He looked at Cassana. "Do you think we need dragons, Cassana?"

She hesitated. What did he want her to say? "Are you sure we could hatch one?"

Father shook his head. "Daenerys has the best chance of anyone I can think of, but no, I'm not sure. The book describes how the ancient Valyrians hatched there and it's a practise the Targaryens have followed for centuries by placing eggs in the cradles of their princes and princesses... it was never an entirely reliable process and the eggs in Rhaegar's and Viserys' cradles didn't hatch. But no dragon egg was in your cradle, Daenerys. And both of your parents were the result of a Targaryen wedding Targaryen. If any child could hatch an egg, it's you - for by my count the daughters hatched eggs more often than their brothers."

"You could have left an egg in my cradle if you chose."

"I could," father agreed. "And who would have ridden it? Your brother, young and angry and without wisdom to guide it, much less himself."

"I don't think we need dragons, father."

"And I already know your opinion, brother." He sat back and smiled. "Well, as it happens, I don't think we need dragons either... yet."

"Then why bring us here. Why show us this?"

"Because that's subject to change. When Ser Tyrion came back from his second voyage east he brought me tales and rumours from all along the Summer Sea and the Jade Sea. Everywhere from Volantis to Asshai, there are cults spouting prophecies of dark days. And we're looking at a winter that might be worse than recorded history, something right out of the darkest of the old legends of the First Men."

Father reached out and took the egg from Daenerys. She didn't resist, but nor did she take her hands off it until it was out of reach. "I hope it's nothing, but I won't rely on hope." He locked the chest once the egg was inside it, then handed the keychain to Cassana.

"If we need a dragon," he said to her, "And if I'm not here, your uncle will have control of access to this room. You will have the only keys to the door and to the chests. And Daenerys has the best chance of us all of hatching the egg. I strongly suggest you work on your High Valyrian... and we might all pray that we never need to talk about this again."

Barristan VIII

"It was quiet last night."

Tyrion Lannister nodded and went back to clipping his beard, using a polished bronze mirror to check the shape of his facial hair. It was too cold to shave unless you boiled the water and there were more pressing uses for fires, but the dwarf insisted on remaining dapper. "That's an ominous thing to say, Lord Barristan."

"It felt ominous. Wolves howling, owls hooting... That's normal. But last night even the tree branches seemed subdued."

The dwarf set aside his scisors and rubbed his whiskered jaw. "Aye. And I've heard naught from the shores since dawn - save our own men."

"Then you agree?"

"I'm not as woodswise as our valiant leader but it seems to me that if the beasts are silent it's because they aren't here. And if they aren't, what is?"

"Wildlings?" Barristan reflexively checked that his sword was still loose in the scabbard. The blade slipped an inch free as smooth as silk and he released his hold.

"Or snarks and grumpkins. Which may be just as hazardous."

They'd pulled the longships up on a shingle beach against the west bank of the Milkwater. Even rowing and sailing when the wind was from the south they made slow progress up the river. Rayder claimed they could walk faster, but the longships allowed the party to carry vastly more supplies than men afoot. The peaks of the Frost Fangs seemed no closer but there were hills Barristan guessed as foothills of the range to both sides.

"I don't believe in ghosts," he said.

"Well they say the forests here are haunted, but I doubt ghosts." Tyrion stretched and his own hand went to a long dagger at his belt. "But there are things beside ghosts that haunt."

"Giants? Children of the Forest? Myths from the old days."

"Giants still exist." Mance Rayder had joined them, feet silent on the deck. "A few tribes, far to the north. The Children of the Forest I'm less sure of, but they existed once. The trees still bear their marks in places east of here."

"Marks on trees?"

"Aye. Weirwood trees live longer than the most ancient oaks. Don't take the pines here by the river for what the deeper forests are like." Mance raised his voice. "Everyone aboard the ships. We move on."

There was a bustle as those men ashore gathered their gear.

"Last night..." Barristan said cautiously.

"I heard." The ranger looked over at him. "If there's something out there, best meet them with some water between us and the shore."

Yet as the oars to the rear of the longships paddled and men pushed against the bows, the vessels stubbornly failed to leave the shingle.

Ser Tyrion had his crew stop pushing and dig down around the prow of his longship. "It's ice!" he exclaimed.

"Well break it!" called the ranger in charge of the next ship along. Ser Alliser was from a Crownlands house and had chosen the Wall over bending his knee to King Robert. Some blamed his disposition on the cold of his exile but as far as Barristan could remember, he'd always been like a grumpy badger.

"What a wonderful idea, why didn't I think of that?" the Lannister replied sweetly. He nodded to one of his men, who brought a pick down on the ice.

"If you'd encountered this before," Barristan said quietly, "You'd have warned us before we beached."

Mance nodded grimly. "I've never taken ships up the Milkywater, but I've not heard of anything like this, even from wildling clans that use the river."

Barristan raised his voice. "Send out pickets! Three men per ship, up to the tree line but not out of sight of the ships. And have archers ready on deck!"

There were calls of acknowledgement from the other ship and Barristan jumped down onto the beach to be one of his ship's pickets. Whatever was hiding in the forest, he wanted to see it. As he straightened, Tyrion gestured for him to come closer. There was no merriment in the dwarf's eyes.

"The ice is barely flaking when the picks hit it. We're making a little progress but this will be slow."

A shiver went down his spine. "That's strong ice."

"Yes." The Crowslayer had two daggers at his belt now, his usual long knife and a short one with the distinctive hilt of those King Robert gifted to those at the wall. "The magi of Asshai speak of blood and fire and shadow. I rather wish they'd had something to say on the topic of ice."

"Did they anything about cold steel."

"Only as to dragonsteel. Valyrian, that is to say."

Barristan nodded and walked towards the trees. As the previous night it was eerily quiet. No birds. No anima noises. Only the wind - and that barely strong enough to stir the thinnest pine branches - and the sound of picks working at the ice and men swearing.

Even when the sun was half-way to it's height - as high as it got this far north - the ships weren't free. Barristan rotated the pickets and he could hear the men muttering at how long it was taking to break the ice. Someone had even suggested fire, Mance advised, although that would likely burn the ships as well, making the entire exercise pointless.

"The sky's clear," Barristan noted.

"Aye, we'll likely have a frozen night." And if the ships weren't freed before then the ice would be renewed. Mance shook his head. "If it comes to that, we'll keep fires going all night and leave the ships. Build a few small boats to get a report south to the wall and continue on foot."

Barristan nodded. "I'll have the men bring a tree or two down for the fires. If we don't need it, at least the men are kept busy."

Green wood would make for a smokey fire, but it was better than no fire and it wasn't the first time that they'd done this so a party was assembled in short order to bring down one of the pines upstream of the ships and reduce it to conveniently sized sections of firewood.

The Wildlings swarmed them over almost before they could fight back.

One moment the treeline was silent and the next more than a dozen men in furs came out of the shadows. There were no war crys and the only shouts of pain came from the woodcutters and the two nearest pickets as bronze weapons - and even stone weapons - feel upon them.

Barristan had his sword and and before the last of the woodcutters fell, he was running up stream and shouting for the men to rally on him. As far as he could tell, not one of the wildlings had fallen, and every one of the men he'd sent out was on the ground.

Fortunately the archers hadn't let their guard down and as the wildlings charged - still silently - across the beach, the leaders were struck by arrows, shafts jutting out of their furs. It didn't seem to slow them down. To his surprise, nor had the ones that jutted out of flesh.

And still they said nothing.

The first one Barristan reached fought with force, but no art. He slapped the man's axe aside with his buckler and side-stepped to half-sever the arm holding that arm with his sword.

No shout of pain and despite the depth of the wound blood barely trickled from it. Barristan withdrew his sword and then smashed the guard against the man's throat, staggering him. He saw that the blood on his blade was black and congealed.

Another of the wildlings moved in on his flank but Alliser Thorne stepped up and blocked the man, who bore an iron axe - one of the wood cutters' wood axes, not a proper battle axe. The brother parried, then thrust. His sword ripped into the wildling below the ribs, twisted and then tore out.

Barristan had rarely seen a better executed gutting. It was the ideal opportunity, an unarmoured and unskilled opponent. The wound would be agonising and demoralise the other wildlings. But the expected screams, the expected spilling entrails, did not result. Instead, the wildling almost brained Ser Alliser with his axe.

"Who are these people?" he exclaimed as he stepped back.

A crossbow bolt snapped past his head and buried itself in the wilding's face. This also didn't stop them.

"What are they?" Barristan grunted, yet another arriving. There weren't many of them, but an increasing number of the men were on the ground and if the wildlings didn't cry out, his own wounded did. It was an all too familiar sound from scores of battlefields.

"Ser Barristan!"

He grabbed Thorne's shoulder and backed up a step before looking back. As he thought, that Westerland voice was Tyrion Lannister's. The half-man had thrown aside a crossbow and was advancing with a burning brand. The dwarf certainly wasn't without courage - or sense, since he handed it to Barristan rather than trying to wield the flaming torch as a weapon himself.

Dropping his buckler, he accepted the new weapon and thrust it in the face of the first wildling. Hair and beard caught flame, blue eyes burst. Then the flesh ignited and the man - or was it even a man - fell, burning as brightly as an oil lamp.

"Fire kills them!" he shouted.

"Beware the right!" called out the Lannister and Barristan glanced that way. More furred, blue-eyed men - and women - were emerging from the trees and outflanking the line of men.

The three of them put their backs together, an action followed by other rangers, knights and men at arms as the line collapsed. Barristan saw Mance Rayder pulling the men along the shore back towards the ships. The bulwarks might provide some useful fortification for those who could reach them.

Barristan slashed the throat of the wildling who was coming at him, kicking it away, no longer surprised that the woman (beneath her cloak of fur she was bare bodied, so he could tell) did not die.

"It's almost like they're..." There was a gasp of breath from behind him and he turned to see a wilding on top of Tyrion Lannister, yet as he looked, the struggle ended and the shaggy man ceased to move. Stepping back he protected the little Lannister as he wriggled free.

Rather than stand, Tyrion reached over and grabbed the dagger in Barristan's own boot, then rolled over and drove it into the woman's calf.

She fell, as silent as she had fought. As silent as the grave.

"There's something wrong with the world when naked women throw themselves at you, Ser Barristan," Tyrion gasped out. Then he pulled himself to his knees. "Dragonglass! Use your daggers, use the king's daggers!" he screamed out at the top of his voice.

Some women appreciate experience, Barristan thought as he recovered his purloined dagger.