A/N: Longclaw: Hey everyone! Good news, Hurricane Laura completely missed my part of Houston so all is well :)

This chapter was quicker than the last one, and it's getting right back into the action.

Ran into some awesome stories recently: A Jade Dragon by bykim0120 is awesome, while the new story The Targaryen Dynasty by BlackRose999 is an interesting take on post-The Bells Targ restoration. Both have my recommendation.

BRuh4: Yo yo, hey there. Luckily, we banged this one out a lot sooner than last time. I certainly expected us to take at least a month. Cool for you guys I guess. It's also long as shit too if you like that sort of thing. 25 pages, I think. There's a lot here, and we're getting ready for some big moments we've known about for a REALLY long time. Which are always cool to actually get to write. We've been on this thing for over a year now. Lots of these ideas we bounced around are becoming a reality.

thanks for hanging out with us.

Enjoy.

Chapter 38: I am Not my Father

"Right this way, Lord Hand."

Hayford Castle had been the last of Cersei Lannister's possessions outside the walls of King's Landing to fall to Stannis' juggernaut, but fall it had. From what Davos had seen outside the walls, whatever siege that occurred there had been at most one dodgy fortnight, ended without incident and the Baratheons invited in. One step closer to defeating the usurper lioness.

Ser Edric Storm - every inch his father's son - banged hard on the door, opening it a moment later. "Your Grace, Lord Hand Davos has returned." He bowed respectfully before allowing Davos entry to the solar turned war room of Lord Hayford.

Hunched over a large map, Stannis' dour expression softened considerably at seeing his Hand after so long. "Lord Davos," he said. "My right hand has returned to me."

With a grin, Davos moved to kneel but instead found Stannis clasping his hand, to which he shook. A gesture of the most profound respect well-earned by the former smuggler. "Forgive me, your Grace. I was sidetracked a bit at the end."

Stannis waved him off. "Doesn't matter. You're here and at just the right time." He gestured to the map. "We're on the cusp of my final victory over my brother's whore of a wife."

There was a tinge to Stannis' voice… something akin to viciousness, but Davos knew just how vile Cersei was and didn't begrudge his King for such feelings. "Happy to assist in my duties, your Grace." Something came to mind, a solemn frown passing over his face. "My sincerest apologies for the death of…"

"No, Davos. We have more pressing business," the King snapped, tensing up. "No talking of it."

Quiet - chastised by a King he figured was still grieving - Davos settled at Stannis' right, looking over the three other figures in the room. Randyll Tarly and Harry Strickland didn't surprise him, for both were seasoned military commanders and - with Jon gone - the best choices to lead the armies. But to Stannis' left side was Petyr Baelish, the slimy Lord from gods knows where. I'll have to keep an eye on him.

"Alright," Randyll stated, picking off where he left off. "Cersei Lannister has lost all allies that aren't within the city. House Hayford has declared for us, while Rosby and Stokeworth declared for the Dragon Queen one week ago."

"I'll deal with them after I take the Iron Throne," Stannis growled. "What of the Westerlands lords? Baelish?"

Littlefinger's smile made Davos' gooseflesh rise. "Morale is low. That is unfortunate for Cersei, but they will not break from her unless you breach the defenses and look unstoppable… no, the true foe isn't them. It's the wildfire."

Stannis stiffened, as did Davos. "What of it?" Anyone who had lived through the Battle of Blackwater Bay remembered the wildfire. Images of Davos' lost sons flashed before his mind, making his heart clench.

"They have more… a lot more. However, my spies know where they are keeping most of it."

"Perhaps our men can sneak into the capitol and disarm the caches?" Harry Strickland commented, puffing a strand of dirty-blonde hair from his forehead. "Cersei is allowing many refugees into the city as more human shields to ward off the dragon queen. They could infiltrate that way."

"He speaks of a good idea, your Grace," Davos commented, heartened when Stannis nodded.

"I shall reflect on it… dismissed." With another wave of his hands, Stannis sent them away. "Baelish, not you. I need words."

Davos blinked, surprised. "Would you like me to…"

"No, go rest, Lord Davos. You must be tired."

Littlefinger's counsel… I do not believe this is a good development. Walking down the hallways, Davos nevertheless put it from his mind for the moment - eager to see another person he had been separated from. Exhausted and frustrated as he was, Davos wrapped gingerly on the door. "Princess," he said softly. "May I enter?"

After a moment the ironwood door creaked open just wide enough for him to slide through. In an instant a short figure had her arms wrapped tightly around his torso. "Ser Davos!

"Thank the gods you're back."

A happy chuckle leaving his lips, Davos hugged Shireen back. "I'm glad to be back." The Princess pulled back with a sparkle in her eyes, and Davos managed to get a good look at her. "Seven hells, you've grown into a beautiful young woman." That only seemed to make her smile widen.

It was true. In the moons that Davos had been absent, it was as if the sweet, kindly child had transformed into a comely young lady. All childhood chubbiness in her cheeks melted away, leaving shapely cheekbones framed by lustrous brown hair. A dress of the Baratheon house colors - black and yellow - did little to hide a womanly figure starting to develop. Apart from the cracked scars of her childhood greyscale below the piercing blue eyes, there were few alive that could compare with her beauty.

But even with her delight at his return, Davos could sense a deep solemness that overwhelmed the Baratheon Princess. Stress and horrors that no child should endure… especially someone as pure as Shireen. "What's wrong, Princess?" Her smile faltered, Davos being able to read her better than even her parents. "Your mother?"

Shireen bit her lip, looking away. "It's my fault she's dead."

"Of course it's not, my child," Davos shushed her, holding her close to his chest. "It's not your fault."

"But it is!" She let her head fall against the wall, as if in shame. Her shoulders trembled. "If I hadn't spoken..."

"You mustn't speak that way, dear." Davos placed a hand on her shoulder. "It can lead to very dangerous places. Physically, and emotionally." He heard a soft sob and it broke his heart, only for Shireen to launch herself back into his arms, desperate for his fatherly affection. It surprised him… Am I the only one who's comforted her after it happened? "It's alright, my dear… after a loss like this, it's alright to let out your sorrow."

"I know," she murmured against his gambeson. "It's just what you said… about the dangerous places." Shireen tried to compose herself - it half worked. "Most around here wouldn't mind if I stayed in such a place."

He furrowed his brows. "What are you talking about?"

"They all blame me, Davos… I haven't a friend in the world anymore. Even the servants…"

"That can't be true."

She looked up at him, red-rimmed eyes nevertheless firm in her statement. "They do, Ser Davos. I can hear their whispers, their insults. I mean, mother was never well-regarded but…" she trailed off.

Children were quite perceptive. Davos wasn't shocked that she could pick up on the subtext and demeanor of the adults around her. "I'll have to speak with the servants and anyone else that spreads such vile words around."

"It will be difficult," Shireen replied with resignation, "Since his Grace - my father - is the source of such vile words as you say."

Pulling back, Davos' expression took a surprising form before he pursed his lips pensively. "I am certain that his Grace doesn't speak of you in any tone but affection and reverence." For decades, he had seen Stannis through all the doldrums of his marriage and stillborn sons - watched Selyse descend into hysteria and the King bear it all in a quiet stoicism. While it was obvious that those stillbirths weighed deeply on him, the one living child of Stannis Baratheon was worth everything to the King. Perhaps more than even the Iron Throne.

But apparently Shireen didn't believe that about her father anymore. "Ser Davos, you have to believe me about this. To trust me."

"You are a smart girl, Princess, but this goes against everything I know of your royal father."

Running a hand through her brown locks, Shireen looked a mix of frustrated and frantic. "It's not just from my mother's… demise." She choked back another sob. "Your leaving has been the worst thing that ever happened. He's descended further into his visions, his so-called destiny. No longer does he even require the Red Woman to conduct his fire-rituals or prophecies for him."

"Princess, I don't think I fully understand."

"Ser Davos, my father is not the man you think you follow. Not anymore. He's not a loving man anymore, not that he was ever affectionate. But… He keeps me away. Makes sure I stay in this room. Servants bring me old bread and dry meat. I'm a prisoner."

Davos felt aghast. Yet he pointed a thumb at the door, "There were no guards at the door. It wasn't locked. Doesn't seem..."

"There needn't be locks if I'm too scared to leave."

"Has something happened… to you, Princess?"

"Ser Davos, I…"

"Princess, please tell me."

"My father… He doesn't feel like who my father once was," she said. "He's… angry with me. All the time."

"In what way?"

"He yells at me," Shireen whispered. "Not often… but I've never seen a viciousness in him when it does happen. I know he blames me for my mother's death."

"How could he? What happened to your mother had nothing to do with you."

"I don't know, Ser Davos, but I know he does," Shireen said, her eyes lowered. It didn't take a learned man to decipher that this poor child was suffering over this. Her father had done nothing to ease her pain either. Which frustrated Davos because he really started to wonder what sort of man Stannis had become. Nothing he'd recently heard or seen of the Stag King reminded him of the man he chose to follow all those years ago.

"Princess, I…" Davos found himself at a loss for words. While also being a bit impressed with Shireen's fortitude. Even though she had no reason to lie, registering the reality of it became difficult for him. What all had happened to Stannis for him to act this way towards his only child? Sure, Davos factored in the loss of Selyse. Yet this was such a departure from the Stag's normal behavior. Reminded him none of the man he loved to follow.

His instincts told him to investigate further.

Sometime later, Davos went back to find Stannis. He really needed some concrete answers on what had been going on. No one better to give them then Stannis. He found his way back to Stannis' chambers. The two guards out front stepped in front of him.

Davos frowned, then tapped his finger on his Hand of the King pin. "Do move aside, Gents. Need to speak with the King."

"His Grace said he didn't want to be bothered," one of them said.

"I am his Hand. I should be allowed in."

The two guards exchanged a puzzled look, they didn't move. "I think not, Ser Davos."

Davos shook his head, then raised his voice, "Your Grace? May I enter?"

After a few moments, a voice from inside answered, "Ser Davos, of course, come in."

Chuckling, Davos watched the guards step aside. He went through the door with ease. Stannis was in almost the exact same position as earlier in the day when he arrived. Eyes scanning endlessly over his map of the greater area.

Stannis circled the map to move closer to Davos. "Ser Davos, it is good to see you again. I've sorely missed your council."

"I'm glad to be back, Your Grace."

"You did well to secure the Golden Company," Stannis nodded his head, glancing back to the map. "Their numbers are a welcome addition. We dwarf anything Cersei has."

"Good to hear."

Stannis seemed to peer behind Davos like someone stood there. "I have noticed Lady Melisandre isn't with you."

"Yes," Davos said. "She wished to return to Volantis after… Well, I suppose it's a long story."

"Volantis?"

"Yes, she seemed like she had an urgent business," Davos replied. "I advised her otherwise."

Stannis was dismissive. "It's no matter. I don't need her. The Lord of Light shines his sun on me regardless. I will have victory. I am certain of it this time. I see my own visions in the flames. I perform the words she used to say."

"I… I see."

"As glad as I am to see you, Ser Davos, I grow tired. Is there a specific reason for your visit?"

"I had hoped to tell you about my journey. I have some important things to tell you."

"Yes, but you said it's a long story. I suspect it's quite the tale. Perhaps we share some ale while you tell me of it on the morrow? That is after we've gone over all our plans for the upcoming battle."

"That sounds... Lovely." Davos did like hearing a flash of the man he used to know. Perhaps he had nothing to worry about.

"Great, well-"

"I'm sorry, Your Grace, there's something else."

Stannis did sigh, "What is it?"

"Shireen. I'm worried about her."

"Oh, that's what this is about? She's fine."

"I'm not too sure," Davos said. "Her soul felt heavy to me."

"Don't bother yourself with her," Stannis said, turning his body back to the map.

"Your Grace, you don't… resent her? Do you? For what happened to Selyse?"

In a quick motion, Stannis' head snapped toward Davos. "What? Resent her?"

"The poor child thinks you blame her."

"Why would she think that?" Stannis turned fully to him.

"I'm not sure, Your Grace. That's why I came to speak to you. She's just scared. A bit paranoid perhaps, thinkin' everyone speaks poorly of her."

The Stag frowned, "That's not true. At least not I know of. I'd certainly stop that dead in its tracks if it took place."

"I'm so glad to hear…"

"But," Stannis cut in, holding his hand up. "There is a flip side to this. Shireen ought to learn how harsh this world is. Her mother is gone. There is no one left to coddle her. I certainly won't. I don't have the energy to. Even if I wanted to."

"I don't understand. Why not treat her with the utmost respect? She is your heir."

Stannis' brow furrowed, "Yes… Well, it's time she starts acting like it. Hard truths are what she needs now."

"She's but a girl."

"Ser Davos, If I wanted your advice on how to raise my daughter, I'd ask you. Understand? I don't need your input on this," Stannis said, sternly. "She'll do her part but I won't treat her as some…" Clearly he couldn't find the word and that frustrated him. He scowled, "She'll have to learn some respect at some point."

"She respects you, Your Grace. More than anyone."

"That didn't stop her from speaking out of turn, did it?"

"Your Grace..."

"If she stays where she is and does as I say there'll be no issues. If she strays… that's when there will be trouble."

Davos had more to say but Stannis turned back away from him, facing the map. Stannis didn't seem like he wanted to hear anything else on the matter. He wasn't sure what to think about what he'd heard. He did know that Stannis' mind had been altered. Whether that was from time or Littlefinger whispering in his ear, Davos didn't know.

He bowed, "Your Grace." Then left the room as quietly as he could. Many thoughts swirling through his head.

Exasperated to the extreme, the Hound resisted the urge to punch one of the trees. "You're the one who lost all the damned food!" Sandor yelled.

"There was a bear," Arya growled. "I'd rather go hungry then get mauled."

Sandor muttered some words Arya didn't hear. He kicked some dirt around and scanned through the wreckage. Though he exclaimed suddenly and reached into a torn open bag. He pulled out one of his flagons. Rubbing his hand over it, searching for holes or leaks. When he found none he exhaled heavily out of relief, "Fuck you, bear. But I'm glad you didn't take my wine."

Arya shook her head and he knocked flagon back, high up in the air. "Wish the damned bear had."

During the day, Sandor grumbled something under his breath and walked away from their camp. Given he carried his wine flagon and began undoing his belt, Arya guessed he was going somewhere to squat. Which happens every so often so she thought nothing of it. That is, until she heard some rustling in the brush directly behind her. Her hand went to Needle immediately, expecting a pair of raiders to come running at her. Unfortunately, it was much worse. A giant brown bear waded out into the open. Likely coming for the rabbit they had roasting over their campfire.

Arya did the sensible thing and climbed the nearest tree as fast as she could. Three tinier cubs appeared behind the large bear. She watched helplessly as the mother bear ravaged their camp and ate most of their food. She couldn't help but laugh at the impossibility of the situation.

At some point, Sandor came back from his deposit. Though the bears were still lingering. Arya heard him curse, below her, "Fucking hell." Clearly having seen what was going on. She peered down at him and waved sarcastically. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Waiting," she said.

Sandor ducked further behind the tree as to not be noticed. "Fuck off. They'll eat all our shit."

"Try to stop them if you'd like."

After making a right mess of their camp, the mother bear finally got disinterested. She wandered away, cubs close behind.

"Oh, fuck off, girl," Sandor scowled, taking big gulps from his flagon. Stomach rumbling, he groaned and took a seat on the ground near their ragged tent. "Well, I can't expect much from a little girl."

Lips curling into a frown, Arya stared daggers at her erstwhile partner. "I could kill you in an instant if I wanted to."

"Sure, you got some fancy moves since ya' looked exactly like a skinny boy rather than just mostly like a skinny boy. Couldn't stop a bear now could it?" He shook his head. "How else do you expect you'll take on my brother?"

Arya scoffed. "Why did I want to bring you along again?"

"Because people need killing. You can't do it all." He cracked his knuckles. "We're out of food, kid," Sandor told her. "Found those chickens on that abandoned farm, and now some bear is eatin' my fuckin' dinner thanks to you."

"Do you always think with your stomach?"

He huffed, "Keeps me the most satisfied."

"So, what? You wanna waltz in there and kill everyone? Take their food?"

"Do you have a better idea? We have to eat."

Picking up her rucksack, Arya slung it over her shoulder. "Well, can't do anything over here. May as well get on with it and see if there's an inn somewhere. I still have two silver stags."

"Got 'em hidden, cause I haven't seen any."

"You don't want to know."

Peering down at Arya, the Hound snorted. "Yer right, I don't want to fucking know." Arya smirked to herself.

It was about a mile down the Kingsroad where their solitude seemed to end. Dozens of others crowded the wide road through the forests of the Crownlands. Men, women, and children of all walks and Kingdoms, plodding in carriages, horses, or on foot towards the largest city on the continent. Winter was coming, and one step ahead of starvation at the hands of the elements or King Stannis' war taxes only gave these people the promise of hope under the reign of Queen Cersei.

Arya wanted to tell them how foolish they were, but such was only a passing fancy. Everything she experienced told her it wasn't worth calling attention to oneself.

But as was wont to her, sometimes attention came to her without fault. "Raiders!"

The hue and cry raced through the throngs of refugees rather quickly. Before either her or the Hound could truly react - and their reflexes were like lightning - the crowd descended into panic. Some tried to flee, and were cut down by the charging light cavalry sporting the flaming stag of Stannis Baratheon. Most clustered close together like a herd of elk or flock of sheep.

Going for her dagger, she was stopped by a shake of the Hound's head. Not worth it… or safe. Arya dropped her hand, eyes peeled, and waiting for the right moment.

Unlike before, when she was but a tiny girl pretending to be a boy under Yoren's care, Arya would not be afraid or defenseless.

Trotting forward on a large stallion was a grizzled knight, draped in plate and mail with a Stormlands-style conical helmet atop his head. Taking the van of the circle of horse hemming the refugees in, he eyed them all with disinterest. "Greetings. I'm Ser Colen Greenpools, the sworn sword of Stannis Baratheon, First of his Name, rightful King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men. Who leads this procession?"

There was a silence, but eventually, an able-bodied man with a wiry frame and calloused hands stepped forward. "Mycah Tanner, good Ser. I suppose I's am."

Ser Colen looked at him with disdain. "Very well, I'll say this to you. This entire group is committing treason by advancing towards the control of the Lannister Whore. Pledge yourself to King Stannis, and your lives will be spared."

"We'll pledge to anyone, good Ser, but we're just headin' to King's Landing for food and shelter. Winter's comin' after all."

"We want food!" screamed someone in the crowd.

"King Stannis provides sustenance to all of his subjects," Colen stated.

"Lies!"

"His men took all mi'grain!"

"Stannis is a burner!"

"Who said that?!" Colen drew his sword. "Hand him to me or I'll kill your leader." Arya then moved for her knife and the Hound didn't stop her…

But for once it wasn't she that struck the first blow as an arrow shot out from the trees and slammed straight through Colen's armor. With a grunt and a gurgle, he fell off his horse into a bloody heap on the ground. Arya and Sandor didn't waste time - crouching, they drew their weapons.

It was quiet but hit like a thunderclap. Both Baratheon and smallfolk looked around, milling about confused as ever. Another arrow took down a horseman, then another wounding one in the shoulder. Such was a collective jolt of alarm. "Raiders!"

Before Arya could blink an eye the entire forest clearing around the Kingsroad descended into something akin to a winter's blizzard of attacking men and whizzing arrows. From the western canopy and underbrush emerged what had to be three dozen raiders, lightly-armored and without a care as to who they killed being combatant or civilian.

The enemy of my enemy is… my enemy still. If that wasn't a lesson of Arya's life she didn't know what was.

Apparently the Hound had a similar idea. Bashing a raider in the face, he screamed at Arya. "Fight your way south. I'll follow you!" But only moments later a sword nearly knocked him off balance, forcing him to skid to a halt and draw his axe. "Wait a minute? You're that cunt from the Blackwater."

Bronn squinted his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things. Unfortunately, he wasn't. "Fuck me, it's the Hound. What a big fucker. I prayed I'd never see your ugly mug ever again."

"You should've prayed harder."

"Huh, never thought about that," Bronn shrugged. "Much less actually praying." Spinning his sword, Bronn slashed at the Hound, who blocked it with the handle of his axe. Such a weapon was ill-advised in an actual clash, Bronn knocking it away within seconds. "You're gettin' sloppy."

With an agility of a fall smaller man, the Hound sprang back and escaped a swing. Catching a glint of steel on the grass and diving for it. When Bronn lunged, Sandor rolled on his back. He caught the blow with the greatsword now clutched in one hand. "Now who's fuckin' sloppy…" With a snarl, he shoved Bronn back, leaping to his feet.

"I saved you, y'know? At the battle of Blackwater. Maybe I should've let the man on fire get you," Bronn shrugged.

Spitting on the ground, Sandor cracked his neck. "Which man on fire? I've fought too fucking many." He snarled and charged, thrusting straight at the former sellsword's neck, only for Bronn to sidestep the attack and parry away the greatsword.

"The one that made you tuck your tail between your legs like a sissy girl!"

Racing along the ground in a crouch, Arya leapt from the grass and grabbed onto a horseman - whichever side, it didn't matter. Her hand grabbed a strap of armor plate, distracting her foe enough with a pure surprise for her to sink the dagger deep into his neck. Blood spurting out, death overtaking him. Arya dropped to the ground, smacking the horse on the rear and sending it galloping madly into throngs of people. Creating the most chaos as she could.

Now if only she could find Sandor, they could both get out of there.

Sword swinging over his head, the flash of a charging beast forced Sandor back. Leaping out of the way just in time to escape the horse, corpse hanging limply in the saddle. Bronn wasn't as lucky, a glancing blow staggering him and forcing his sword to the ground.

With Bronn's sword cast aside, Sandor pounded a few blows to his face. The sellsword tried to retreat but he had nowhere to go. Sandor stayed on the offensive. Bronn managed to dodge a blow, then deliver a body blow. But given Sandor heavy chainmail, the punch hurt him more than anything. He backed up, hissing and shaking his wrist.

Bronn retreated to the outskirts of the skirmish. Where little action went on. The meat of the fight lay behind them a bit. Only a few bodies here and there where Bronn went.

The Hound belly laughed, "You fucking pussy." He kept pressing on towards Bronn. Who started to look somewhat scared. He stumbled over a dead body, given he wasn't watching where he was going. Eyes locked on Sandor as he backed up. He fell on his back with a thud, dust filling the air. It blurred Sandor's vision, so much so that he didn't see the helmet flying into his face. Bronn must have grabbed it off of the guy he fell over. It split Sandor's lip and gave him a nosebleed.

"Fucking cunt," he exclaimed. He powered through the dust cloud to find Bronn still on his back, crawling. Managing to grab him by the ankle, he twisted Bronn over unto his chest. Bronn grabbed fistfuls of dirt, trying to pull himself away but Sandor held on tight. Adversely, Bronn got pulled in closer. Raising high, Sandor brought his boot down over Bronn's back a few times. Grinding him into the dirt, cracking ribs, then grabbing his back to slam him against the ground over and over again.

Sandor backed up and beckoned to him, "Come on, get up, if you can."

Bronn huffed through bloody teeth, "Oh, fuck off."

"You must want me to crack your fucking head open."

"Be better than listening to you talk," Bronn replied, then managed to get to his feet. But before he could even get his hands up, Sandor buried his fist in his face. He fell all the way to his knees, his right eye felt like it caved in. Staying on him, Sandor grabbed him around the neck. Ringing him around like he weighed nothing. Any air Bronn had in his lungs evaporated. Only to be thrown back down, cast against the dirt.

Taking a few steps back, Sandor crossed his arms. "I was wrong. You're not just like me."

"Aye… but at least a got a... a few good fucks in. The cheapest whore wouldn't touch you," Bronn said, slowly. A fit of laughter kicked in, short-lived though, as it clearly hurt him to do so… that proved to not be a wise idea as the Hound lifted him by his neck, burly hands slowly choking him.

"Nothin' to say now, huh?" His grip tightened.

"Don't kill him," A voice called out from behind them. Arya, she scampered up closer. The skirmish had died down significantly. The Baratheon's had killed most of the raiders. Started taking prisoners. The three of them were far enough away, most likely wouldn't be bothered as long as they weren't too loud.

"Why not?" The Hound asked. "Just another one of Cersei's dogs."

"Put him down."

Sandor sighed but tossed Bronn into the air. Falling down with a thick bounce, Bronn coughed out. His chest raised and fell slowly, windpipe halfway closed from Sandor's grip. Would've closed entirely had it not been for Arya speaking up. Said girl leaned over Bronn, hair crowding her calm countenance. "Can you walk?" There was a subtle nod from the sellsword, but she doubted his integrity. His body was in shambles. She looked to Sandor, "Are any of the others still alive?"

The Hound shrugged and spat bloody spit onto the dirt. He turned around and scanned the bodies strewn around. Most were unmoving but one Lannister seemed to twitch every few seconds. Sandor trounced over and grabbed the man by his collar. The poor man started to wail and flail but couldn't stop what was happening. Sandor drug him over nearby where Bronn lay. Arya hung over him next and asked the same question given to Bronn. "Can you walk?"

The Lannister had a black eye and his nose was crushed, other than that he seemed fine. He gasped and snorted a bloody chunk from his nostril. Yet he said, "Yes."

Arya rose straight, hands behind her back. "Excellent."

"What's the fucking plan here?" Sandor wanted to know. "Just kill 'em both. Fuck 'em."

"I appreciate your enthusiasm for killing Lannister men, but I have an idea," Arya said, strangely giddy. Then looked down over Bronn, "Can you hear me?" Another nod. "Good, I want you to deliver a message to Cersei."

"Why don't you tell it to the damned one who can speak?" Sandor scoffed, nodding his head at the one he dragged over. Then patted himself down, searching for his wine flagon.

"Because it'll mean more coming from this one," Arya sighed, still staring at Bronn. "You make sure Cersei hears this: 'The North Remembers'. You got that? Repeat it back to me."

The sellsword took a few moments, but he uttered slowly, "The... North Remembers."

"Good boy," Arya smirked. She pointed a girl at the live one, "You make sure he makes back to Cersei. Or I'll find you and cut your balls off."

As fast as he could, the Lannister man got to his feet. Bronn rolled over onto his chest then leaned onto the man as he got helped to his feet. Arya stared at them as they moved off.

"Why in fucks name would we want Cersei to know we're coming?" Sandor said, scowling.

"What does she truly know? She doesn't know the two of us are coming. Not specifically at least. It won't change anything… other than make her look over her shoulder. And there's wrong with that. I want her to know she's in boiling water, and her days are numbered."

"She's not scared of you. We saw the army Stannis has. She'd be dumbfucked to be more scared of anything than that," Sandor said, still looking for his flagon.

"Trust me, she'll be scared. She should be." My father didn't scare Cersei and it ended in his betrayal and death. She would honor him but not make his mistake. "Nobody gets away with anything, especially if I have anything to do with it."

"Hmph… We'll see," Sandor huffed.

"They're not waiting," Edric told his lover, palm held over his eyes to block out the sun as he peered out over the parapet. "Neither infantry nor cavalry."

Arianne's eyes narrowed, the voluptuous beauty having ditched her rather revealing, seductive dresses that made her renowned all over Westeros in favor of the same leather and cotton that her cousins Obara and Nymeria favored… or at least ones they had favored before they were butchered by the Ironborn. "Baelor is smart. Attacking while the sun is in our eyes… and before it can bring warmth to the ground."

Daemon Sand nodded, the commander of the Dornish right conferring with his Princess before heading back to his forces. "Full armor in midday heat? Even in winter those flower knights would roast." He bit his lip. "Perhaps we should retreat, at least tactically to delay…"

"No." Arianne was firm about it. "We give battle here, just as her Grace commands."

"Targaryens never had Dorne's best interests at heart. We know this from the histories."

Casting a glare at her commander, Arianne shook her head. "In the last three decades we've been battered, bloodied, and massacred by the likes of four great houses of the Realm… and none of them were named Targaryen." She sighed and peered out at the assembling enemy formations. "Back to your commands, you know what to do." Bowing, Daemon complied while Edric pulled her in for a kiss - the young lovers lost themselves for a moment before it was over… If only for peace, get up on a quiet morning and rest under the shade of the trees.

In her short life, Arianne had learned to push away such unrealistic fantasies.

The Dornish had come well prepared, honed after centuries of invasions and occupations. Nearly a dozen times they had been attacked with the intent of conquest, and every time the sons and daughters of Nymeria had beaten them back. The art of the ambush, of the utilization of the rocky, arid terrain to their advantage was one the Dornish made their own. Every army took the lesson of Harlan Tyrell to heart, advancing either close to the sea or with massive wagon trains… perfect targets for ambushes.

Arianne's battle strategy borrowed on such tactics, just adapted for an entire army rather than for small unit attacks. No further would they retreat - not one more inch of Dornish territory would have Reach horses trod atop. She and her men knew the price of failure… both Aegon the Conqueror and Daeron the Young Dragon came close to crippling Dorne to the point of no recovery, and now Baelor Hightower was set in doing the same.

The bannermen and noncombatants worked hard through the night, even the Lords and knights pitching in to fortify their lines. They had come prepared to, for along with their weapons, rations and armor, each Martell bannermen carried a long, thin wooden log and a burlap sack with them. Holes were dug to fit the logs, while the dirt and sand excavated from the rocky hills These logs were used to build a simple wooden palisade along the initial slope of the western side valley at the foot of the rolling hills to break up the Hightower heavy cavalry charges, while the sand-filled sacks piled up for a mobile fortification for the Dornish forces to mount during the coming clash. Such tactics dated back to Daeron's invasion, and Arianne and her commanders dredged it up.

In the morning sun, Baelor Hightower and his own commanders - including both of his younger brothers - dismissed the enemy fortifications… if they could even be called that. Thin palisade and a low line of sand-filled sacks against a fully-armored heavy cavalry charge? It was a very amusing jape.

"We'll run them over easily," Lord Oakheart announced with a flourish - young and brash, he led the powerful House since the death of his father from rheumatism three moons before and commanded seven thousand men on his own. "Full attack along the line, overwhelm them as the Dragon bitch did to the Northerners at Duskendale."

But Baelor was a veteran of several wars - of the Bells and the Trident… of the relief of King's Landing and every attack from the Torrentine to here. He wasn't about to underestimate the Dornish. "No, we attack smartly." Drawing lines with his fingers through the unfurled map, the plots of his mind translated that morning into the Hightower strategy. Three large clusters of heavy horses in a wedge position, one in the center and two on each flank to shatter the Dornish defenses. Clustered in the middle and in the rear were the crossbowmen and heavily-armored men-at-arms to exploit the shattered enemy formations. They outnumbered the Dornish three to one, so such seemed to be enough.

Victory filled the minds of the Reachmen just as the first trumpets blared, signaling the advance.

"Here they come!" Arianne announced, at the front lines with her men. The armor plate of thousands of knights glinted in the sun, reflecting off like a clear beach. It was truly a breathtaking sight… breathtaking and frightening, but the Dornish had steeled themselves for this. A line of spearmen stood at the bagged palisade, while the light skirmish troops that made the bulk of Dornish armies since time immemorial stood behind, scimitars sheathed and bows were drawn.

The three waves of horse - Oakheart on the left, Gunthor Hightower on the right, and Baelor personally leading the center - kept a slow trot to allow the infantry to catch up, the banners of half a dozen noble houses of the Honeywine whipping back and forth in the gentle morning breeze. Running through the middle of the valley was a dry riverbed, either sidelined with sandbanks deposited by late winter floods and unmoving. As powerful a break on a horse charge as a muddy field, to truly have enough momentum the Reach horse had to traverse it slowly… which hurt the overall charge when the trumpets finally announced it. Arianne and Edric chose their positions well.

Emerging from the riverbed only four hundred yards from the first makeshift fences at the base of the hill, a thunderous rumble overcame the dusty field as thousands of horses erupted in a charge. While heralds and trumpeters had been drilled to coordinate the charges as they had before outside Blackmont and Starfall, the delays of crossing the riverbed found each of the three prongs charging at different times. But the short distance and the close proximity to the infantry encouraged Baelor to push this aside and attack.

Commands came simultaneously from across the entire Dornish line. "Nock!"

Spearmen crouching, the skirmishers stepped forward, pulling an arrow from their quivers and quickly drawing back their reflex bows… light and powerful, easy to carry for a light-infantry army. Some would fire over open sights, while the others angled upwards for deeper attacks.

"Hold!"

Fifty yards out, the Reachmen depressed their lances, an enormous cloud of dust and sand kicked up by their horses' hooves. Helms giving them an almost demonic appearance. Forty yards, thirty yards, twenty yards… close enough to see the whites of their eyes. To any observer untrained in battle and unknowing of the Dornish plan there could be no hope for anyone to survive this.

But even the rumble of ten thousand horse couldn't overcome the twin, ear-splitting roars that echoed from the mountains to the west. The infantry faltered, while the knights were too committed to halt and reform.

Arianne didn't waste chances. "Loose!" The skirmishers followed her commands to the letter.

Swooping from the west to the eternal shock of the Reachmen were two of Daenerys Targaryen's dragons - far too large and distinctive to be mistaken for anything else. Mounted atop Drogon the Black Dread Reborn was the Dragon Queen herself, silver hair styled in the intricate braids of a veteran Dothraki Khaleesi and fierce in her black and red battledress like a goddess atop the heavens.

Not allowing the Hightower army a moment to reform, the order came quickly from her lips. "Dracarys!"

Opening his maw as if to roar, Drogon let loose a jet of orange-red dragonfire that enveloped the center of the right column of cavalry. Dozens of men and horses were incinerated in an instant, further dozens trapped in their heavy armor plate as the dragonfire coated them, roasting them alive screams and all. Across the battlefield, Viserion did the same thing to the Hightower left continuing along the edge before Daenerys gave the order to pull up. She didn't know if the Hightowers had scorpions nor would she take the chance.

Upon the hills, the fighting had turned into a slaughterhouse of carnage. The sheer power of the knights had brought contact with the Dornish line, blasting right through the wooden palisade to engage directly with the spearmen. Infantry had a tougher time with it - being savaged by the Dragon Queen's attacks and the obstacles but enough managed to scale the hill and clash with the skirmishers. Swords and lances bloody with the blood of their traditional enemies, the pride of the Honeywine ripped through scores of Dornish as they had this entire war.

But between the continuous sheet of arrows and the rigid discipline of the normally hot-tempered Dornish warriors, the Martell forces stood their ground. Spearmen of Starfall, Blackmont, Wyl, and Yronwood stabbed through or over the stockades at any Reachman that made it past the arrows and dragonfire, while Lord Gerold Dayne "the Darkstar" led his detachment of heavy infantry to reinforce the beleaguered warriors in the center with their longswords and shields. Such reserves weren't needed at the flanks as the dragons' attack runs severely weakened the other two cavalry prongs.

Screeching in his dive, fire escaped from Drogon in short, deadly bursts. Turning entire formations of infantry and crossbowmen into ash upon contact. "East, Drogon, east!" Dany screamed over the wind, smelling the acrid smoke wafting from the funeral pyres of hundreds of Reachmen. Drogon roared in acknowledgment, his heavy wings beating hard as he ascended.

Hearing Viserion roar behind her, Dany closed her eyes tight. She never enjoyed killing, but the thrill of riding her dragon into battle as her ancestors did died as visions of Jon evaporating into smoke filled her mind. Unwanted and unbidden, but there. Shaking them loose, she resolved to end this.

"Nock!" ordered Ser Humfrey, wiping the splattered blood and soot from his visor… ultimately tossing the entire thing on the ground revealing a once handsome face of a tourney knight streaked with grime and grease. Hearing another roar, he flinched, slipping onto the ground. Humfrey watched as the Dragon Queen's mount blasted another portion of his brother's reserve force - incinerating them into ash. Fuck me…

Heat bathing her from the harsh winds, Daenerys held tightly onto the spines. Gritting her teeth as Drogon banked over the field. High, boy. Climb. She needed to get above, reclaim her bearings and spot the ways the Dornish would advance so she could attack again. Hurry!

With a roar, Drogon beat his wings - ready to climb, but in doing so bringing him right into the range of Ser Humfrey's archers.

The younger son of Leyton Hightower didn't waste any time. "Loose!"

Longbows thwacking in quick succession, the hundred or so arrows shot through the air. Drogon was fast, but these bowmen were experts - easily judging the proper means to aim at a moving target, firing in front of the dragon knowing it would soon pass right through the line of fire. Come on… come on… One shot. One successful hit and the entire war would be over. One blow and his father would be avenged.

Scales thick from age and experience, the arrows were barely a nuisance to the great dragon. Shutting his eyes closed on instinct, Drogon stood no chance at coming out of this scathed in any way… but Daenerys wasn't so lucky. In her leathers and with Drogon tilted as he banked, she lay exposed and unarmored. When the first arrow came at her, she tried to meld herself as close to the spine as possible…

"AHHH!" Hot blood stung her eyes.

Both Drogon and Viserion screeched, climbing skyward as further sounds of grief and worry escaped them. The presence of their mother was still there, strong and powerful, but she was hurt. She was in pain and it drove them to pain.

Wiping the worst of the blood from her eyes, streaking it across her forehead and cheeks, the pain of her dragons drove her own agony to fury. Inside the fire awoke. "Time to end this!" she screamed into the wind. "Dracarys!"

It took only two attack runs from each dragon to convince Lord Baelor that all was lost. The cream of his forces either charred corpses or carpeting the ground in front of the Dornish defenses, any further fighting would only result in a massacre. A final command blared from the heralds, white banners waving.

An hour and a quarter after it began, it ended.

Another victory. Even soaring above the great expanse of desert, Daenerys could witness it below her. Corpses blanketing the ground, the mustard-swathed figures of the Dornish herding the survivors of the Hightower army into large groups. Horse archers and crossbowmen stood to watch to make sure no funny business occurred. The seemingly quiet cheers rang out from the soldiers of Sunspear, Hellholt, Starfall, and the like as Daenerys flew by. Exhorting Drogon and Viserion as their countrymen hadn't done for any past dragon. It felt thrilling…

At least it would if this didn't bring back memories she would rather forget. Of another battle ended in decisive victory, and yet the only outcome the gods provided was grief and loss. The throbbing of her forehead, wound only now ceasing to ooze blood, added to the unwelcome feeling.

As Drogon circled - preparing to land - Daenerys steeled her soul for what was to come. It would take all the strength and fire within her to get her through this. Ironically, the actual battle had been simpler.

Stepping off Drogon's spines, she allowed him a gentle rub of his scales before she approached the waiting Princess Arianne. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, leather armor covered in sand and grime, but her exhausted expression housed a smile. "Your Grace," she bowed, along with her guards. "You're hurt."

"It looks worse than it is," Dany replied.

Snapping her fingers, Arianne's command obtained results within seconds. "Can't be too careful, let's get it seen to." A team of healers surrounded Daenerys, working with haste yet skill to apply herbs to the wound while wiping it down with a wine-soaked rag.

"Hold still, your Grace," one murmured when Dany winced. "Just let me apply the linen bandage."

She gritted her teeth. "Just be quick about it."

They were true enough to their word, and before Daenerys knew it she was walking alongside the Princess of Sunspear. "The day is ours."

Daenerys returned the smile. "Yes, it is. How many prisoners?"

"Most of their army. The victory was total - five thousand or so casualties." So exactly like Duskendale… "So if I understand Dothraki customs, your braids will only get more intricate now that you've notched another conquest."

Arianne was more worldly than most Westerosi Lords, Daenerys admitted with admiration… but she wasn't in the mood for small talk. "Was Lord Baelor among the prisoners?"

Nodding, the Princess motioned to a group of her guards… the lot of them soon dragging a dirty, bloody knight in battered armor that still looked high-quality castle-forged steel. Baelor Hightower.

Brought before Daenerys, the Dragon Queen took position on higher ground. "Lord Baelor, it is an honor to finally meet one who was once a powerful bannerman of mine… or perhaps of House Tyrell."

Body aching all over, Baelor rolled his shoulders - glaring at the Dragon Queen. "Daenerys Targaryen… you're beauty is as the songs say, though only those with the blackest of hearts would stoop as low as assassination." He eyed the bandaged wound with a smirk. "So Humfrey got you… gods don't bleed, so it appears you aren't one after all." He took pride in that.

The Dragon Queen let that slide. "I did not kill your father, Lord Baelor, nor did Princess Arianne have anything to do with it." Daenerys found that specific insinuation illogical. If we wanted destabilization, then killing a Lord with a healthy line of succession is just ridiculous. Besides, Dorne was barely prepared for an invasion as it was after Euron's attack on Sunspear. "Your conclusions were made in haste."

Many dubbed him 'Baelor Brightsmile' for his jovial attitude and charm, but the Lord of Hightower held no smiles that day. "And I suppose you took her word for it, then? What a reputable source." At his sneer, one of the Dornishmen hit him in the stomach, making Baelor cough and sputter.

To this Dany reacted strongly. "One more hand on the prisoner and I will have yours!" From the fire in her eyes, all understood the certainty of her statement. Clearing her throat, she looked at Baelor. "You may believe what you wish to believe to sleep at night, but the truth is you killed thousands of your bannermen for a lie."

"You killed thousands of my bannermen, Dragon Queen, not I." His scowl attempted to cut off his whole face. "Before you is merely a man who loved his father, determined to avenge him."

Dany raised an eyebrow, her ire rising. "And what of your nephew and sister, driven into exile by Stannis Baratheon - or your goodbrother, niece, and other nephew killed by Cersei Lannister. Where was your desire to avenge them?" To this the haughty Lord went silent, left alone with the thoughts undoubtedly that he had sided with the butchers of his kin in this war. "But this is getting us nowhere. You have the ability to make amends by bending the knee to me now."

Drawn from his guilt, Baelor scoffed. "You expect me to bend the knee to you, Daenerys Targaryen?" Another snort was followed by a chuckle, incredulous, and contemptuous.

Angling her head downward at Arianne Martell, the Princess of Sunspear crossed her arms - honey-brown eyes reflecting an equal contempt. "You are in no position to be arrogant, Lord Baelor. It is my bannermen that hold steel, not yours."

"Or what, Dornish bitch?" he hissed, nothing left to lose. "Gonna kill me?" Looking up, he found Viserion circling in the air not far away - ready to descend and join Drogon on the ground should his mother need him. "Gonna burn me alive like Brynden Tully? Go right ahead."

The mention of the Blackfish brought a whole flurry of emotions to Dany. Regret in general, heartbreak as it concerned Jon, and a dark rage at Lord Baelor for bringing this memory back to life with the current situation - the parallels were undeniable. "Watch your mouth, Lord Baelor. Do not wake the dragon."

He shrugged his shoulders. "There are only two options. One, I live and go either home or to Sunspear as a prisoner, or I die by dragonfire on the field and join my father in the embrace of the Seven while you turn all of the Reach against you. I honestly do not care which." Growing tired, he eased himself to the ground, disrespectfully stretching out his legs. "Do what you will, Daenerys Targaryen. Show the world just what a monster you are."

All around her the Dornish snarled and jeered. Each of them having lost friends… lovers… children to the Reach invaders - hells, centuries past of hate burned between the two kingdoms as they struggled to supplant the other. The very same Wheel that she vowed to destroy. Daenerys wouldn't succumb to the same hate, but her impassive fire burned hot nevertheless. Slowly she stepped forward, halving the distance between her and Lord Baelor. "If such is your wish, very well. Drogon."

From his perch atop the rocks, the Black Dread Reborn snaked his neck out towards his mother and rider. Growling contentedly as Daenerys rubbed his snout, amber eyes finding Baelor with a fury transmitted through their bond. Like Brynden Tully before him, the Lord of Hightower didn't budge from where he sat. "I won't cower."

"No, I don't expect you will." Eyes locking with Arianne - who gave her a nod - Daenerys steeled herself. "Baelor Hightower, for the crimes of treason and murder I - Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of my Name - sentence you to death." Countless dead upon the field of battle, what did one more corpse add to it? Each time blood was spilt, be it that of a mighty lord or a common foot soldier, Dany would earn the ire of all regardless of what she did. "Any last words?"

The happy toast of all the parties of the Reach had his lips curled into one of pure disgust. "You are exactly what they said you were."

"Dra…" Her command died on her tongue, outwardly unchanged but the words hitting her at the core of her being.

"You are exactly what they said you were."

Suddenly her forehead ached, not a dull sting or throb but something pulsing… acute and agonizing. Jon's words… in the same position following Duskendale. He may have been less… blindly obstinate as the Blackfish but he'd stood tall and stubborn in the face of Drogon as Lord Baelor did.

Daenerys resisted the urge to clutch her forehead, trying instead to blink and will away the pain. Is this what Jon feels? Gods, she could only imagine his agony. Her mind began to overflow. Her fresh wound heated to a temperature she'd never experienced before. Hearing the same words Jon spat at her sent her into a tailspin. Her potential actions were called into question.

In times of fury, she always turned to use her dragons. But, for the first time, maybe ever, she asked herself why. How fleeting death became to her. Just as an arrow had grazed her, easily could've been fatal. A few inches lower...

All the destruction she caused. How many lives she carelessly snuffed out just hours before. Countless lives lost over the course of her journey. As the fire plumed from Drogon's mouth… Someone else's fire within them went out.

How many had it been? There was no way of counting. Thousands, likely.

Could there be another way? Could she have avoided killing all those people?

Her frozen posture ended when the black dragon nudged her side. Eyes boring in on her with the undoubted silent urging. Mother, why are you hesitating?

Why was she? Simply saying that it was because of Jon would be hasty. Without a sound she looked to Baelor, then to Arianne, and then back to Drogon, violet eyes lost. Almost haunted as she searched through her mind. The mind of a scared and neglected orphan girl thrust into the same greatness of her ancestors as soon as walking into a pyre and emerging with three dragons hatched from stone. A journey that truly began with Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion.

What was she without her dragons? Daenerys knew - she could admit it to herself. Her plans were hers, but her children the means to achieve them. With Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion she saved herself from death, obtained the largest armies in the world, forged an empire and returned to her homeland. Through her dragons she has been blessed with the power to destroy armies, cities, even entire nations.

I could snuff out all of Oldtown in an instant… but that doesn't mean I should.

Fire killed. Uncontrolled, it could kill many - an infinite number, and control only resided with the person that set it. One use of it had nearly lost her Jon. Could still cause me to lose him forever… Evil, mad, monster… Her brother didn't need the dragons to be called mad, but the power at her fingertips drew the comparisons to Daenerys.

"I heard about how you freed the slaves of Essos. A noble purpose, only for you to do the exact opposite in Westeros."

"Choice?... Between bending the knee and burning alive? What sort of choice is that?"

"Maybe not killing my friends with dragonfire? Not holding me captive for weeks? I question why you wonder of my mistrust of you."

Jon's words… flashes of three different encounters with him - the hate in his eyes, or at least ire. By the gods, it drove Daenerys the closest she came to hating herself since Drogon burned that shepherd girl.

Any person could butcher their way to victory. Even the most simple of persons could forge an empire built upon ash and bone while mounted atop a dragon. Targaryens answer to neither gods nor men. On dragonback, no man nor god could touch them, and corrupted souls only followed.

Faced with the same decision that led her to burn the Blackfish, Daenerys knew that she was at a crossroads. Was she the same as Stannis or Cersei? The same as Maegor the Cruel or her own father? A tyrant… a monster?

Or would she be the rightful Queen? The Breaker of Chains?

I give them a choice…

Yet do I truly let them choose?

Daenerys couldn't let anyone walk all over her, manipulate her, use her good nature to destroy her… the masters tried and nearly ended House Targaryen. She couldn't be weak, but seeking strength through brutality would make her just another tyrant… like the masters… or her father.

No… Sighing softly, she gave Drogon a look. One that he understood, shifting away and ambling towards the rock. Using it as a launchpad to ascend to the skies. I will not be the monster they see me as. I am not part of the wheel.

"Your Grace?" Arianne seemed completely surprised. "What are you doing?"

"Something I should have done before," was her response. "Lord Baelor," Daenerys said louder, addressing him. "You shan't die today."

Resolved to die before, this… it surprised him as well. "If you expect me to bend the knee out of gratitude, I won't."

"As I said before, I don't expect you will." Circling him, the crunch of her boots on the gravel soil and the contrast of the black battledress and hair a braided silver made Daenerys far more intimidating than her size suggested. "But there are other ways of ensuring compliance. A few being your brothers, Humfrey and Gunthor."

Where threats to his person didn't faze him, such brought fear to his eyes. "You monster… they're just knights… they planned nothing of this invasion."

She scoffed. "If I was going to kill anyone I'd kill you, Lord Baelor. I don't practice treason by association… but most do." Stopping right in front of him, the burly Martell guardsmen made any attempt to attack her quite a foolhardy presumption. "So your brothers will join Princess Arianne back to the Water Gardens, guests of hers until a time so convenient as to be certain of House Hightower's loyalty, and with you the rest of the Honeywine."

Gulping, Baelor went pale.

"Not just that… but I am in need of a Lady in waiting." The stories Jorah told her of his life, she knew just the person. "Your youngest sister, Lynesse - she was married to my sworn sword, and as such, I believe I know her better than all others in your House. Hadn't she just returned from Essos?"

There was no reason to lie anymore. "Yes."

"She will accompany me to Dragonstone as my Lady in Waiting." Gingerly, she patted the defeated Lord on the shoulder. "Bend the knee, don't bend the knee. It won't matter, but if you wish for your family's stay with Princess Arianne to be an uneventful one then House Hightower is back under the auspices of House Targaryen, understood?"

Broken, ashen-faced, Lord Baelor looked upon the face of a dragon personified. "Understood… your Grace."

Offering a cold smile, Daenerys walked back towards the Dornish Princess, head held high. All she wished at that moment was for Jon by her side, but there was little doubt that he'd be proud of her that day.

That is where you are wrong, Cersei. Stannis… I am not my father.

A/N: BRuh4: We really do like this chapter. Enjoyed crafting it for your reading pleasure. We've taken these characters a great distance. To larger and interesting places. Finally, some of their arcs are starting to really come around. Especially Dany and Stannis, Jon too. We always had a specific journey in mind for them. Even if it wasn't evident at certain points. Some of it we've known since the beginning and others we came up with when we knocked our heads together. Stannis is becoming the man we envisioned since the jump, honestly. We knew his character had been effectively squandered by D&D in season 5. I personally was always compelled by his story. I suppose they just ran out of ideas for him. We always wanted to take him much further. He's still got some more to go.

Many of you have voiced your concerns over Dany since chapter 20. Some of those people bailed. Some of you came around. Or maybe some of you just stuck around. In the beginning, we really wanted to lean into her Dragon Queen elements, and we did. As you saw. Because I really feel like that's an intricate part of her character. She is a Targaryen and she has dragons. Frankly, in hindsight, we didn't allow much room for the Dany many of us fell in love with. But there's nothing we can do about that now. We've tried our damnest the last handful of chapters she's in, to accent a change in her. I hope it's evident to you. Because all stories in any medium are about change. If there's one thing we've done over the course of this story it's changing the essence of the characters.

I hope you liked this one. I hope you'll hang with us for the rest of this wild ass ride. This has surpassed any expectations I had at the beginning. May 2019 seems like such a long time ago.

Longclaw: It isn't just Jon that's been affected by all of the chaos... Daenerys is learning as well. Putting to use the revelations that dealing with Jon and falling in love with him managed to give her. Dealing with the uncompromising Masters of Slaver's Bay may have worked for them and the Dothraki Khals, but here she figured out a way to bring Baelor Hightower to heel without dragonfire. She's learning.

The battle was based off the Battle of Nagashino.

Tell your friends, and the more reviews we get the sooner we're likely to update :)