Disclaimer- Most things belong to either G. R. R. Martin or HBO. I am neither, but also not making money from this.

Author's note: Update! Again, took a while, so apologies. Have edited and revised the whole story, though, so should have been a slightly easier read for anyone who's just arrived her. Hope you're all doing ok, and that this chapter was worth the wait.

-Chapter Thirteen-

'My king had faith.' Rodrik Harlaw exclaimed defiantly.

'Your king had enemies.' Anaeryn disagreed. He had to convince the man that his ruler had betrayed him, but he could sense he was unlikely to be moved. 'Lords who voted against him at the kingsmoot. Captains who took to sea under his command only with great reluctance. A niece and a brother who actually stood against him, and only bent the knee when the vote was lost. How did he win the Iron Islands?' Anaeryn asked. 'It seems strange that the Ironborn would rush to crown a dangerous exile. A display of sorcery?'

Lord Harlaw hesitated.

'A horn.' He said eventually.

'A horn.' Anaeryn echoed curiously. 'A war horn?'

'A horn used to bind dragons.' Harlaw claimed in a soft voice. 'A horn he scavenged from the ruins of Valyria.'

Anaeryn stared at him. Euron Greyjoy had sailed to Valyria? Had entered the Smoking Sea and survived to retrieve spoils and tell his tale? This was not the time to ask about the man's adventures, however. He could spill them to Anaeryn himself when he had the Crow's Eye in chains.

'He ordered one of his men to blow the horn.' Harlaw continued without prompting, looking shaken. 'I have never heard such a sound. Every warrior in that hall fell to their knees.'

'So you bound yourselves to him because of sorcery.' Anaeryn mused.

'We bound ourselves to him because of power.' Harlaw replied, spitting the last word. 'You greenlanders bend over for blood, for gold and pretty words.' He sneered. 'The Ironborn have always followed strength, whatever form it takes.'

House Hightower's audience chamber was of a scale with the city that surrounded it. It was not on Battle Isle, for long ago the Hightowers had deemed it dangerous to allow unruly mobs of smallfolk into their stronghold. Instead, it stood on one side of the large square in the city that faced onto the causeway that led to the Hightower itself. From the outside it might have been a great sept, with its high walls of pale stone and finely carved statuary. The figures were not representations of the gods above, however, but rather of Oldtown's long-dead mortal rulers. They stood in niches, set at waist height to allow the life-size figures to loom over the citizenry, a hundred benevolent expressions frozen for eternity. Anaeryn couldn't help but find them slightly unnerving; a strange reminder that he, too, no matter what he did, would one day be naught but stone and memory. He thought idly that if he happened to die before Lord Leyton then he might not even merit a statue. Perhaps they would erect one in Starfall.

The tall doors stood open, however, ready for his arrival, and he handed Aella's reins off to Ferryon and mounted the shallow flight of steps to the entrance. A ripple of steel greeted his arrival, two score guardsmen in Hightower livery saluting their master's heir.

'Good morning, my lord.' Ser Tarrant greeted, bowing his head respectfully as he stepped forwards.

Anaeryn returned his greeting and spent the next few minutes inspecting the troops stood around the walls. They were well turned out, as well they should be at a public audience with two days warning. Eventually, he went to take his place on the dais. A chair of solid silver stood atop it, a throne from the time when there had been Hightower kings in Oldtown. It had been brought from the vaults beneath the Hightower for the audience, carried on stout poles by half a dozen strong men. Anaeryn admired its low, square form, and the bands of delicate engraving that covered it, depicting battles whose names were long since lost to time. A plump cushion of grey velvet, tasselled with silver, sat neatly on the seat.

It is all a play, Anaeryn mused to himself as he settled on his own chair, a relatively plain affair of ebony stood slightly in front of and to one side of the throne, and we are but mummers in a game that has no end. The common folk would notice the arrangement, and admire the humility of their lord's heir. Likewise, a dozen of the guardsmen were still sporting bandages, thick bands of white linen that stood out against their gleaming armour and grey surcoats. Their injuries, too, would be seen and remarked upon; evidence of the courage that had been raised in defence of the city.

'You have plenty of ink there, Eleyne?' Anaeryn asked, lifting an amused eyebrow at his guardswoman.

She smiled back and licked the tip of her quill in a manner not remotely suited to a public setting.

'More than enough, my lord.' She replied, tilting her head to reveal an expanse of slim neck.

Anaeryn wondered why Ser Joe had chosen Eleyne for the task of guarding him today. No doubt the smallfolk would think he was fucking her. Beautiful women did not become secretaries in Oldtown. He supposed, at least, that it made them less likely to suppose the array of knives that were no doubt secreted about her person.

Lenyl, another baseborn child of the Torrentine, sat at his own small writing desk next to her. His head was down, and Anaeryn suspected that if he were to raise it he would be found to be as red as a Fossoway apple. He was holding his own quill, however, and seemed to have ink and parchment in front of him, so Anaeryn decided not to embarrass the man.

'Allow the first group of petitioners in, Ser Tarrant.' Anaeryn instructed.

The man nodded, and soon a hundred or so smallfolk pressed nervously into the room, clustering together in a loose knot as they darted uncertain looks in his direction, trying desperately to avoid his gaze. Anaeryn had ordered that they entered in such numbers, partly in the hope that they would feel more comfortable before him backed by their fellows, and partly so that he would have an audience.

Ser Tarrant himself ushered a small woman of middling years towards him. Anaeryn felt a bitter taste rise in his mouth as he took in her thin frame and loose black dress.

'I bid you welcome, my lady,' he began, softly so as not to alarm her. 'I am saddened to see your mourning garb. How might I aid you?'

She squared her thin shoulders.

'My lord, I—' she paused and braced herself again before continuing, 'I lost my family in the great fire. My children. My husband. Our house was consumed, and I have sold all that I have to pay for burial.' She hesitated again. He voice was weak and nervous as she made her request. 'And still I cannot afford the cost of a marker by their grave.'

'Your loss is unimaginable.' Anaeryn began quietly, leaning in. He wanted to reach out and embrace the woman, who looked so small and fragile, so very alone in the huge hall. 'There is nothing in my power to make up for it.' He continued, thinking. 'But your request is reasonable and important.' He paused. 'I will provide funds for grave markers to be set up in honour of all those who died during the Ironborn attack.' It was a little enough thing. A few dozen dragons, at most, to have names painted onto stones. It was something he should have arranged already.

'Thank you, my lord.' The woman replied, dipping a clumsy curtsey and stumbling backwards to rejoin the group.

The day was less of a trial than Anaeryn had feared. Before the attack, the city had been well fed and content. There was still plenty of grain flooding in from the untouched farms upriver, away from the coast, and though many of Oldtown's inhabitants had lost homes and loved ones, the weather was warm and temporary canvas shelters had given cover to the displaced. There was plenty of work available, as well, for there was a city to rebuild. Anaeryn had not made himself popular with the merchants and nobility when he'd put new taxes on the work of the carpenters and stonemasons they were employing to rebuild their city residences. That money was being used for construction in the poorer sections of the city. Anaeryn had spent hours with draughtsmen, rearranging streets and expanding the gaps between rows of houses in order to help make the city more resistant to the spread of fire. Now that the fighting was done the newly expanded City Watch was labouring away, broadening already wide thoroughfares and driving fresh wells deep into the earth. In truth, Oldtown had been carefully laid out already, the product of thousands of years of flourishing trade and careful management, but Anaeryn could see further improvements in its ashes.

His petitioners mostly asked for small things: settlement in disputes over pieces of charred land; compensation for livestock requisitioned without payment by the city watch; the dissolving of betrothals that were no longer satisfactory to one of the parties. In short, the thousand petty issues that were brought in a never-ending stream to every lord's attention. Anaeryn knew that most of them could have been dealt with just as effectively, and probably more efficiently, by Lord Leyton's steward and the men who worked for him, but in a strange sense he enjoyed himself. He liked solving the problems that were set before him, got pleasure from the exercise of his power to settle simple disputes with a few short words. Running beneath that was the knowledge that it was good for him to be seen, to be visible and available to the smallfolk.

He took a midday meal of bread and cheese and water as petitioners continued to parade in front of him, and pressed on until the shadows of the sunset stretched across the full width of the hall. He sent off the last of his supplicants with the promise of work in one of the shipyards that would be working night and day to replace lost vessels, before rising and passing a brief eye over the carefully recorded list of promises he'd made.

I should have stayed in Dorne. He thought with a quiet sigh.

'He's dead.'

Anaeryn looked up from the sheaf of parchments he had been examining, noting the unsettled look on his friend's face.

'Greyjoy.' Aurane clarified, gathering himself.

Anaeryn jerked to his feet, documents forgotten.

'The Lord Captain?' He asked, yanking his sword belt from the back of his seat.

Aurane just nodded, taking Anaeryn's cup of lemon water from the desk and draining it.

'How?' Anaeryn demanded, buckling the belt into place as he walked quickly from his solar, trailing Aurane and a pair of guardsmen.

'I do not know. I saw a commotion in the courtyard outside the cells. Ser Joe told me that Greyjoy had been murdered and sent me to tell you.'

Anaeryn didn't reply, racing down the steps. His guards, encumbered by their armour, drifted ever-further behind as he descended. He slowed his pace as he stepped through the huge bronze doors of the Hightower, not wanting to appear out of breath when he arrived. Ser Joe met him at the entrance to the cells, where Anaeryn discovered a dozen of his own guards standing, surrounded by a confused knot of warriors and servants in Hightower livery.

'He's dead?' Anaeryn asked, wanting confirmation.

Ser Joe nodded gravely, leading him down the dim corridor that ran the length of the dungeon.

'Yes, my lord. He was found not more than half an hour ago.'

The door to Victarion Greyjoy's cell stood open, two more men at arms flanking it. Even before he entered, Anaeryn could smell the cloying miasma; the iron tang of spilt blood cutting through the earthy stench of bowels released by death.

The Lord Captain sat slumped upon the floor, half leant up against his cot. His eyes were open, but even in the dim light Anaeryn could see they were clouded over.

'A torch.' He ordered, kneeling next to the corpse.

'Stabbed?' He asked. He could see the dark, wet stain that covered half of the huge man's tunic.

'Yes, my lord, the neck.' Ser Joe replied, handing him a torch.

Anaeryn held the flame as close as he dared to the dead man's beard, examining the wound he found beneath the man's jaw. It had certainly been made by a knife, and a sharp one at that, for the cut was small and clean.

'Who?'

Ser Joe stiffened under the question.

'I do not know, my lord.' He replied. 'Karl tells me none have entered the cells today save for the guards and the maester who comes to tend to the sick.'

Anaeryn frowned, furious that his prize captive had been slaughtered like a farm animal whilst under his care, in a prison guarded by those sworn to him.

'All of the guards are from Starfall?' He asked, seeking confirmation. It was almost unthinkable that he had been betrayed by one of his own.

'Yes, my lord, as you ordered. Lord Leyton's gaolers go around in the morning and the evening to deliver food and empty chamberpots, but they do so in the company of your guards.'

'The keys?' Anaeryn asked, brushing his fingers over the lock. There was no indication of the door having been forced.

'There are two sets here that I know of, my lord.' Ser Joe replied. 'The head gaoler, in this case Karl, has one, and the other is kept in the guardroom and is only removed when the food is brought in. I believe Ser Tarrant also has a set, my lord, but I cannot be sure.'

Anaeryn nodded to himself, leading Ser Joe back up the corridor towards the sunlight. 'The lock was not picked?'

'I do not believe so, my lord.' Ser Joe looked slightly offended that Anaeryn would think he knew anything about the trade of thieves. 'There are no marks on the lock that I can discern, and in any case, I have been told that it would be almost impossible to pick.'

'Where is Karl?'

'Here, my lord.' The Norvoshi giant lumbered out of the guardroom. He looked guiltily at the paving in front of Anaeryn's feet as he saluted.

'Victarion was alive this morning?' Anaeryn asked, too eager for answers to bother castigating the man.

'Yes, my lord. I saw him me self.' The man rumbled. 'Overflowed his bloody chamberpot, he had.'

'No one else has been in his cell?'

'No, my lord.'

That was clearly untrue, but it was plain Karl had no idea what had gone on.

'This maester who visited the sick.' Anaeryn began, looking half to Karl and half to Ser Joe. 'Tell me of him.'

'It is not one maester as I understand it, my lord, but whoever the Citadel sees fit to send. They dispatch a maester every week to provide some care to the injured.' Ser Joe replied.

'And today?' Anaeryn asked sharply. 'What was this maester's name?'

Karl frowned.

'I don't know, my lord.'

'Who was with him when he went around the cells?'

'I was, my lord, I think his name was Chegwill, or something like that.' A guardsman from the group outside announced, stepping forwards. Anaeryn recognised him as Berrin, a man from a family with no name and little land, but who had served the Daynes for generations. He had been appointed as a man at arms a few short weeks before Anaeryn had first set out for Oldtown.

Anaeryn didn't reply, and stood in the sun-baked courtyard, thinking. It seemed most likely to him that someone in the city, likely a wealthy knight or merchant who had lost family or property in the Ironborn attack, had hired someone to kill the Lord Captain in a quest for vengeance.

'This maester,' Anaeryn began, fixing Berrin with a stare that made the man, barely older than himself, shift nervously, 'you were with him the whole time he was in the cells?'

The man remained silent for a few moments, as though considering his response.

'Almost, my lord,' he replied at least, uneasy. 'I stood outside the cells when he went in. It was only…' Here he trailed off.

'Go on.' Anaeryn ordered. 'I will not punish you, but you must speak the truth to me.'

Berrin steeled himself.

'It was just the cell with the whores, my lord, most of them have the pox, you see, and the maester said it would take him a while to finish with them. He said I should go and have a cup of wine with the others while he helped them.'

The answer was almost enough to make Anaeryn go back on his word and punish the man anyway. He saw that Ser Joe's expression was tight with anger, though, and knew that Berrin would be dealt with.

'You did not leave him with the keys?'

Berrin blinked.

'Of course not, my lord.' He said, sounding indignant. 'I didn't even have a cup of wine. I just went back to the guardroom, played a round of dice, and went back to find the maester.'

'And?' Anaeryn asked, tempted to ban both dice and wine for eternity.

'He was there, my lord, waiting for me outside the whores' cell.'

Five minutes and a brief exchange with half a dozen vicious-looking prostitutes later and Anaeryn had discovered that the maester had quickly dispensed a few spoons of the usual concoction they were given before disappearing. He had been gone for a short while, and then turned up again at the cell door just as Berrin returned.

Anaeryn was almost certain that he had his murderer. He just needed to find the bastard.

'Ser Joe, take Berrin and a dozen guardsmen to the Citadel. Find this maester and bring him to me.'

'They may not give him up without a warrant, my lord.' Ser Joe warned.

Anaeryn grit his teeth with frustration. He did not have the authority to stamp a warrant with the Hightower seal, and it was likely that the archmaesters would only obey such a document. Truly, he did not think it likely they would find the man responsible. He had almost certainly thrown his maester's robe into the nearest sewer and run to a brothel with a purse full of silver.

'Go now.' He ordered. 'Under my authority—' he paused as he spotted Ser Garth crossing the courtyard towards him. 'Take Ser Garth with you.' They might respond to a Hightower, a man they had known for decades. Anaeryn himself had not yet met any of the archmaesters. As much as he desired to visit the famous Citadel in the daylight, he would approach that vipers' nest with caution.

It was the work of a few minutes to explain the situation to his uncle, and have him striding after Ser Joe, brimming with indignation over the slaughter of a prisoner.

Anaeryn watched them go, before turning to Karl.

'Have the body burned.' He ordered. 'Take it through the city on a wagon, so that the common folk might at least see the Lord Captain's corpse.' He knew they would be angry that there had not been a public execution, but hopefully evidence of the man's death paraded before them would cool their ire. 'Light a pyre in the fields to the north of the city and see that the ashes are given to a farmer to plough into the land.' He would not give a pirate the honour of returning to the sea.

Anaeryn set down Archmaester Gyldayn's The Princess and the Queen, marking his place in the tome with a scrap of parchment. He had read the work half a dozen times before, but the story of what had become known to history as the Dance of the Dragons, with its great armies and famous knights and dragons tearing at one another in the skies, had never failed to stir his blood. The messenger who had entered his chambers, however, bore a more pressing tale.

'How many lost?' He asked, remaining seated.

'Ser Ronnel Grimston said thirty, my lord.' The man answered respectfully. He was an assistant to Maester Letwood, who gave counsel to Lord Leyton, and had brought news of a convoy of ships that had set out for Lannisport two nights after the Ironborn attack on Oldtown had been broken. Lord Leyton's steward had advised the merchants to wait, to be sure that the seas were clear, but they had been blinded by their desire to send the first shipments of silk and fruit and wine to the Westerlands since the conflict had begun. There were fortunes to be made, or increased, by such a venture. Fifty stout ships had set out from the docks of Oldtown, a large portion of the merchantmen to survive the flames. Now news had come that the convoy had been set upon as they passed the Shields, with fewer than half of the vessels managing to escape to the safety of Greyshield's sheltered harbour.

'Thirty.' Anaeryn echoed, considering the news. He wondered what the response of the merchants who had lost thousands of dragons would be. No doubt they would furiously attempt to blame anyone but themselves, accusing Anaeryn of being remiss in his duties for not sending warships to guard their vessels, or blaming their captains for failing to escape. There were more important considerations, however, for this was the clearest evidence to yet reach Oldtown that the Ironborn threat remained alive and vicious.

'Did they capture or destroy the ships?' He asked intently. Maester Letwood's assistant shifted uneasily beneath his stare.

'The message said they were burned, I think, my lord.'

Euron, then. Anaeryn decided. No other Ironborn commander would destroy such valuable prizes. He sits off the Shields. Or at least he had been there two days ago, when the attack was reported to have taken place. Anaeryn had been about to give his leave for another convoy to depart the city, comprising some eighty ships of grain to be sent to Seaguard in the north. They would have to be delayed now.

'There was no indication of how many longships there were?' He asked the man, rising.

He shook his head.

'No, my lord.'

'Welcome back, Lord Harlaw.'

'Thank you, my lord. You seem to enjoy my company.'

Anaeryn answered him with a thin smile.

'How can I be of assistance?' Harlaw asked, manoeuvring himself into a chair without an invitation. His side was still bandaged, but he seemed less stiff than he had before, and there was no trace of pain in his expression.

'You can tell me why your king wants Highgarden.' Anaeryn answered calmly. It was, if not a stab in the dark, a lunge into relative shadow. He'd hoped to startle the man, to gain something from his expression. He got far more than he could have hoped.

'He has taken it, then?' Harlaw asked.

Anaeryn kept his expression still as his mind raced. Had Harlaw just admitted to Euron's intentions?

'Perhaps.' He answered neutrally. 'What does he want with it?' He repeated.

Rodrik Harlaw shrugged, apparently taking his words as confirmation.

'I know not, my lord. I was not let into his councils. I should not even know that Highgarden was his aim, I think, but if he has conquered it… well, then I see no reason to keep my silence.'

'He has not. Your king has not even taken the Shields, so far as I know. But I thank you, my lord, for revealing yourself.'

It brought him a considerable amount of satisfaction to watch Lord Harlaw's face tighten and grow pale.

AN: Well, the plot might actually have moved forwards a little bit. Who knows? Anyway, thank you (as always) for all of the support, we're well past 1k followers now. Hope everyone is still enjoying the ride, but all feedback, good or bad, is welcomed. I can't improve if you guys don't let me know what you think. I'm assuming the anonymous 'gross' reviews are indicating annoyance with the slash nature of the story rather than the quality of the writing, so there's not much I can do about that (the story is clearly labelled), but constructive criticism is gratefully received. Let me know if there are any scenes/interactions/characters you guys are particularly interested in seeing/seeing more of. I can very easily get lost in my own little world, so it's always helpful to have other opinions.