Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki, Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

You can find all of my relevant stuff here.

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3rd Day of the 11th Moon

Sansa Stark

In barely half a year, so many things had changed. Knights and princes and kings had somehow… lost their lustre. The blatant disrespect Robert Baratheon showed towards his wife was… unexpectedly jarring. The king's wishes were law, and Sansa didn't think of it then, but now she had time to reflect. Being neither a queen nor wed to a prince or a gallant knight looked as appealing anymore. Sansa couldn't help but notice that Myrcella had not mentioned her mother even once. Cersei Lannister was one of the most tragic women in the realm, she decided.

The fate of the previous Queen and crown prince's wife was no less tragic. Princesses were not supposed to be murdered by marauding knights like Clegane and Lorch!

Joffrey was all too gallant and beautiful as a prince ought to be, but underneath that, something gave her the chills. Princes in the songs did not go to whorehouses or pick fights with her brother… and a day later, he sauntered right back to Sansa as if he had done no wrong.

She could somewhat understand her father's reluctance toward a match with Joffrey. Yet things had spiralled so hard since Bran's death. Archery and dagger practice were odd and got her sweaty and messy, but they weren't… terrible. They also made Arya all the more bearable, for her sister now channelled all her focus in the yard instead of making trouble for everyone else. It had been over two moons after the hawking skirmish, and Arya's punishment had yet to run out as she joined that wildling woman in the kitchens, scrubbing pots and getting shouted at by Gage.

The Others supposedly returning sent half of Winterfell into a panic reminiscent of the Greyjoy rebellion. She was young then and did not understand why Mother had a solemn, sad face and her father had gone away for so long. Now, though, it was no less chilling. Yet when the royal decree arrived, announcing the Watch's reform and a hefty royal endorsement, the kingsroad swelled with men. Robb even declared a rare feast, and the mood in Winterfell turned for the better.

Farmers, peddlers, hedge knights, second and third sons aplenty had picked up hoes, carts, and arms and headed northwards to the Wall. For over a moon, the inns in Wintertown had swelled overmuch, and even another one had sprung up to bear the influx of travellers. She even heard Myrcella mention the possibility of expanding Wintertown to Robb! True, some were not there to fight but to settle in the vast lands of the Gift, yet her good sister was seen poaching several craftsmen on their way to the Wall, and Robb was not very pleased. Sansa thought her brother had become far too easily swayed by his new wife, though she did not mind. Myrcella had taken her duties with zeal, especially after the kiln had been finished.

In a single day, Sansa had seen more men pass to join the Watch than would volunteer for a handful of years.

It was not all good, though, as the influx of people had made some overly daring. Robb and the guardsmen often rode out to ensure the roads remained safe and even struck down a band of daring brigands who had tried to settle in a tumbledown tower to the north.

News of Jon continued to arrive by word of mouth from merchants and travellers or her father's ravens from King's Landing. Her half-brother had even made a name for himself beyond the Wall, slaying slavers and dark foes of yore. Sansa couldn't help but remember Jon in his bed, all feverish, face reddish akin to the coals of Mikken's forge and still as a corpse. Robb and Father had said he lost his wits, saying all sorts of mad things. Yet, could a madman put the heroes and knights from the tales to shame?

No, was Jon even a madman? If even half the tales were true, her half-brother had ventured into the icy wasteland Beyond the Wall, saving maidens and slaying dark things as if he had crawled out of the Age of Heroes, not… Winterfell. Sansa had spied a few times on her brothers' practice; Jon was good with the sword and could best many of the younger guardsmen and Robb, but he didn't look or fight like a legendary knight.

Regardless, it had to be true because her mother did not look surprised, grimace notwithstanding, and even the king had acknowledged Jon's exploits, ennobling him. Sansa and her siblings were all happy at the news, although Arya grew disappointed once she realised Jon would probably not return to Winterfell but to a holdfast of his own. It was odd to see over half of Myrcella's ladies in waiting moon after Jon, dreaming of being wedded to a man they had yet to see. Even Jeyne grew dreamy at the mention of her half-brother. As usual, her mother remained silent on the matter.

On the other hand, her father was finally returning North after a quarrel with the king, and Sansa couldn't help but feel glad. Without him, Winterfell felt… different. At least she was going to have another sibling and become an aunt. Another sister, if only a little better behaved than Arya, and a nephew to spoil!

Everything was different but in a better way. If only Bran were still here to see it.

"How romantic!" Jeyne gushed at Cerelle Lannett holding hands with the young and shy Farlen Locke, Lord Locke's only grandson, as they made their way to the Great Hall. "Their wedding is in a sennight, is it not?"

Myrcella had played matchmaker for the two; with so many maidens in Winterfell, many heirs and spares from every corner of the North could be seen flocking to the Heart of the North. Five of them had gathered in the castle yard, idly watching the brothers, cousins, and other sons and nephews spar. Rickard Liddle was swinging a greatsword against Eryk Ironsmith's shield and axe.

"Indeed it is," Wylla Manderly tutted, finger twirling her garish green braid. "Only I don't think poor Farlen will manage to carry his bride to the wedding feast with those twigs for arms."

Sansa barely managed to suppress the snicker at the image. Farlen was thin and gangly, and the plump Cerelle was twice as wide as her husband-to-be.

"Perhaps she'll carry him instead?" Serena Umber, towering half a head above them all, said, eliciting a few giggles from Jeyne and a snort from Wylla, while Sansa had to bite her lip not to guffaw. Then, she imagined the Umber maiden carrying her husband to the wedding feast and had to cover her laugh with a cough.

"Too soft, these Southrons," Brenda Dustin shook her head.

"Here comes your brother, Roderick," Wylla said as the Dustin heir challenged Torrhen Karstark.

Sansa shook her head, scratched Lady's ears, and idly watched as the direwolf's tail swished slowly in contentment. Her companion was now the smallest of the litter but still reached above her ribs, twice the size of most hounds.

At that moment, Rickon left the Great Keep, looked around warily, and dashed Sansa's way as soon as he saw her.

Sansa pinched the bridge of her nose as Rickon slammed himself onto her and pulled her skirts, face almost crying. "Sansa! Robb won't let me go hunting with him. And mom stole Shaggydog again!" And with Arya still punished with additional dancing lessons and helping their mother in her free time, there was nobody for Rickon to play with.

The other maidens cooed at her brother, eliciting a wry smile from Sansa and an adorable toothy growl from Rickon. Lady went over and started licking his face, much to the boy's chagrin. "Do you want to visit the new guest house with me, Rickon?"

Fighting off the enthusiastic direwolf, her brother managed to bob his head.

---

4th day of the 11th Moon

The Bog Devil, ?

"Lord Stark struck his head hard," Arlyn reported. "Once from the barrel, and a second time with falling on the deck. Had to shave his mane to check, but there's no swelling or fracture in the skull, thankfully. Injuries inside the head are hard to predict, but it's best not to move him just yet."

"Very well then," The crannoglord exhaled slowly. Nearby, Tommen clung to Winter, looking lost and alone. The direwolf looked wary, golden eyes darting around. Jory Castle, Vayon Poole and all the northern noble sons and uncles had gathered around him, over thirty of them, with morose faces.

"Fuckin' sea," Morgan Liddle spat angrily. "Give me mountains and snow any day!"

The crannog healer coughed. "If I can procure the ingredients for smelling salts, I can attempt to wake him."

Yet, there was not a single village or settlement in sight here, making such materials extremely challenging to procure. The rocky coast was bare, reminding Howland of tales of the Stony Shore. The five mighty carracks now looked a sorry sight. Only two could be seen from here, nearly a mile apart, yet both ominously stuck amidst the waves, all battered masts ripped off or half-cracked across a rocky stretch of shore. The other three were further down the bend of the rocky cliffs, out of sight.

"Just take care of Lord Stark for now. And I must be informed of any changes immediately."

Arlyn ran off, returning to the encampment of tents on a hill near the shore. At least they managed to salvage all their belongings and some horses. The three ship captains and four first mates returned from their smaller rowboats, all grim. Two of the five captains had been washed into the sea during the storm.

"Any luck?" Wylis Manderly tiredly rubbed his meaty face.

"Nay."

"So you can't repair the ships?" Howland asked the captains.

"Not here," The oldest one, hair all gone grey, answered dourly. "Maybe if we were in a harbour or a shipyard. But here? Nay. We have only two good rudders and four masts spread around five ships. And the storm threw us into the rocky shallows, cracking all the hulls. 'Tis a miracle most of us made it."

As most of the Northmen remained below the deck, almost all the casualties had been from the sailors; the storm had washed off a good fifth of them into the raging sea, yet they had managed to rescue some who had also washed ashore.

"So we're stranded somewhere on the Andalosi coastline," he sighed.

"And it's too risky to move till Lord Stark wakes," Wyman grimly added.

"This is a sign from the gods," Damon Dustin smiled lustily, hand on his axe's handle. He had been over the moon when his precious steed was secured and would not leave him out of sight for more than a minute. Even now, his squire kept the horse close. "We ought to scour this place clean like the Hungry Wolf did!"

"There's nothing here already, you battle-crazed numbskull," Rogar Wull snorted. "Look at the surroundings. 'Tis all rock, grass, sand, n' weeds!"

Howland pinched the bridge of his nose. Gods, if it wasn't for the Stark guardsmen and Red Walder listening to him, the Northmen would have all started quarrelling and fighting each other over the smallest things. Ned had not bothered to appoint a second in command for a simple voyage, but alas, it seemed like the gods had other plans for them.

"We ought to scout the surroundings first and find out where we are," Howland said before the argument could heat up. "Norrey, Ryswell, take as many horsemen as you need and cover the north and the south. See if we can find some fishing village along the shore or some game to hunt. The sailors will start fishing and dismantling the ships. We must set up at least a ditch and a palisade on that hill lest we get attacked from the east."

The hill in question was a rocky thing barely a few dozen feet high, yet it would do as a defensible camp. The men quickly busied themselves as Howland continued barking orders, trying to remember all of the lessons and advice from his childhood. He couldn't help but lament; crannogmen were not meant to lead like this, not outside of the Neck.

"Prince Tommen still needs to continue his princely training while Lord Stark is knocked out," Ser Wylis Manderly coughed before they dispersed, grabbing Howland's attention again. Suddenly, everything grew quiet as the Northmen halted, and all turned to look at Ned's page. The golden-haired boy tried to hide behind Winter, but the direwolf twisted and pushed Tommen forward with his snout.

"Aye, that's right," the crannoglord agreed. Ned had done his best to mould the young lad into a worthy Prince of the realm, and it would not do for those lessons to be stopped abruptly.

Morgan Liddle stepped forward. "I'll train the boy in the axe."

"I will teach him how to ride-"

"A Prince must know how to wrestle and kill foes in heavy armour-"

"The warbow-"

"We must make a proper lancer out of him-"

"Greatsword-"

"Warhammer like his father-"

"Ambush and hunting-"

Before Howland Reed could blink, Tommen had found himself multiple teachers for every discipline a nobleman could ever be required to excel in, and the Northmen were already squabbling on who to teach what and when.

---

8th Day of the 11th Moon

The Red Viper, The Wall

"I definitely prefer the South," Ellaria said hoarsely, all wrapped in thick furs and wool like a toddler. The rest of them were no different. "A seven hundred feet tall wall made from ice… madness."

"Ah, but the line between madness and greatness is often thin. The Builder had plenty of both, I say." Oberyn shook his head and looked behind at his newest squire, Lom, an enthusiastic young boy he had picked up from Gulltown to help them with the servant duties. He was riding a mule just behind them, loaded with most of their supplies.

"Snow in the fucking summer," Obara groaned from her mare.

They had taken a ship to Eastwatch and were now approaching Castle Black. Everything was covered with a thin veil of white, and snowflakes danced in the wind. Yet that did not stop the small but constant stream of travellers and volunteers headed for Castle Black. However, quite a few had stopped at the newly reopened Torches and Sable Hall to the east.

Worse, it was too cold, and Oberyn was forced to pay a hefty coin to send his sand steed back to Sunspear by ship. That was only possible because the ship captain had hailed from Planky Town and knew him personally. Now, they were all riding a shaggy garron each.

"I did offer to send you back to Dorne," Oberyn smiled thinly at the three of them, but his eyes settled on his younger daughter. Truth be told, he began regretting his decision to take all of them together; Nymeria's face was reddened, having caught some northern chill in the last two eves. It was not too serious, but he knew how such things could suddenly turn for the worse.

Thankfully, they were finally approaching Castle Black, who had a maester and a proper supply of medicine and herbs. The long line of volunteers and travellers stretched so far into the Gift that he could not see its end.

"How are you faring, Nym?"

"'M fine." The words came out weak and croaky, making Oberyn worry even more. He nudged his steed forward, riding next to his daughter in case she fell off the garron.

"What's with all the obsidian?" His eldest asked. The kingsroad was filled with carts, some filled with fur, barrels, and more, but more than half carried only dragonglass. A smaller stream of crude wagons was moving southward, with quite a few going West.

"According to legend, it kills the Others," Oberyn hummed, remembering the old dusty compendium of First Men Myths and Legends he had studied in Oldtown after bribing the Archmaester of History to open his personal vaults. Ellaria immediately sent him a warning glance, making him chuckle. His paramour did know him all too well. "Don't worry, my love, I did not come here looking for a fight."

Although if opportunity lent itself, he would want to test his mettle against the so-called Cold Gods. Truth be told, Oberyn could have poisoned the Mountain back in King's Landing, but doing so would be meaningless. A poisoned man would never confess who ordered the death of his pregnant sister and niece. While the Red Viper hated the tool with a burning passion, he had not forgotten the hand that wielded it. Alas, Tywin Lannister was not so easily killed; the Old Lion dwelled in his Rock, rarely stirring from his lair.

Doran would say now was not the time. But it was never the time. They could have declared their independence once more after Robert's Rebellion, but Doran did not want to fight back then. Now, he was even older and more cautious, and Oberyn knew he would want to fight even less.

Regardless, he was done waiting around, and it was time to taste the world and make some connections of his own until the old Lion moved.

Like the other keeps of the Watch, Castle Black had no walls and was a hodgepodge of timber keeps, halls, and weathered stone towers. They rode into the yard, only to find it swarming with men training, looking like a gigantic ant hive. Some shovelled snow and shit from the stables and pigsty or were knapping at the obsidian, turning it to spearheads and arrowtips, and many were unloading carts and dealing with newcomers. A slew of masons were pulling down a dangerously leaning tower while others toiled repairing another broken one.

One of the watchmen, a thin, dour-looking man with greyish hair, came their way.

"Are ye here to take the black?" The voice was as surly as the man who spoke it.

"Nay, my good man." Oberyn smiled. "I'm Prince Oberyn Martell, coming for a visit."

"I'll inform the Lord Commander," the watchman glanced at his daughters and paramour, groaned, and made way for the formidable stone tower, probably the seat of the Castle.

His girls attracted plenty of glances as they waited, and the young Lom grew uneasy, but none dared approach. With a sign from him, they all dismounted, and his squire went to stable their steeds.

A gaunt, dangerous-looking man came out of the stone tower five minutes later. A long but thin pale scar marred his face from the brow to the cheek. Oberyn couldn't help but be on guard, for the man walked like a seasoned killer, and he noticed the black pommel of his sword was carved in the shape of a direwolf head. If that was not a dead giveaway, the direwolf behind him, as large as a horse with fur as black as sin, definitely was.

A sideways glance told him his daughters were eyeing the man with undisguised interest.

"Benjen Stark," Oberyn greeted, smiling wide. The man before him was no less fearsome and dangerous than his brother, but in a different way, even without the enormous wolf beside him. "These are my Paramour Ellaria, my daughters, Obara and Nymeria, and my new squire, Lom."

"Oberyn Martell," Stark nodded, blue eyes like two chips of ice. They had met once long ago, in the accursed Tourney of Harrenhal, and it seemed like the young pup had grown big and fierce. "What brings you southrons to this frozen corner of the world?"

"After hearing all those rumours, I just had to come and see for myself. Also, my daughter has gotten… ill. I would humbly request the services of the maester here."

Stark's face grew sterner, but the First Ranger knew better than to snub them openly. "You're in luck. Our own maester is busy, but Archmaester Marwyn is here as a guest. Edd, escort the lady to the Mage." The dour watchman helped Nymeria, and Obara followed along; both kept throwing glances at Benjen Stark, who shook his head with a frown.

"It seems I am not the only drifter brought by the wind here," Oberyn smiled. "Marwyn the Mage seldom leaves the Citadel after becoming an Archmaester. Did he perhaps bring an… acolyte with him?"

"Aye, Alleras, Pate, and some foppish Tyrell boy," Stark sighed, idly running his hand through the black beast's fur, but the Red Viper couldn't help but smile widely. Fate worked in mysterious ways. "As for why Marwyn is here, our Maester invited him as an advisor. We need all the wits and knowledge we can get, but the Citadel is slow to send new maesters for the reopened holdfasts."

"Ah, the Conclave has always been an old, miserly lot," Oberyn agreed and eyed the direwolf. It sat down like an enormous, obedient dog next to its master, but judging by its powerful maw and razor-sharp teeth, the beast could easily rip off a man's limb.

The First Ranger shook his head. "You are in luck, Martell. A sennight later, there would have been no quarters left to accommodate you. We're stretched thin now; food is scarce, and we're short on room. Eight keeps were reopened in the last half a moon, but the men kept coming. Gods, I never thought I'd say this, but we need more farmers and builders than swordsmen."

"Those will come too, sooner or later. A royal endorsement of such scale is a rare thing. Let alone two town charters. I do not know if you heard just yet, but the king decided to dedicate half of his purse from the Boulder Lifting to you." Oberyn paused, and then a smile crept on his face as he waved Lom over. "Let it be known that House Martell is no lesser in generosity than the Starks and Baratheons. I, Oberyn Martell, shall gift the Watch with two thousand dragons of my own pouch!"

The stunned look on Benjen Stark was worth all the gold, and it made the Red Viper burst out in laughter while Ellaria was shaking her head fondly.

"Unpredictable indeed," The Ranger muttered in wonder, then gave him a grateful nod as Lom brought over the coin; the poor boy looked like a duckling as he struggled to carry the large sack with both hands.

"Say, any trouble with the drastic changes?"

"Plenty of grumbling, but they quickly shut up once the wandering crows started returning with hundreds of volunteers each. Let me show you the quarters, I suppose. But don't expect any Southron luxuries here."

"'Tis fine," Oberyn bobbed his head. "I want to taste everything Castle Black has to offer."

Stark snorted, "I doubt it. Unless you want to take the night patrol atop the Wall?"

The words made Oberyn blanch while Ellaria burst out in laughter.

---

9th Day of the 11th Moon

The First Ranger

Benjen was glad the Red Viper had not proven a nuisance. Although it had scarcely been a day, it was too early to tell, especially for a man with such a deserved reputation of being fierce and unpredictable. However, the presence of his daughters and paramour did attract plenty of unwanted attention, even if they kept to their quarters most of the time. It didn't help that both Sand Snakes were eyeing Benjen like a piece of meat, precisely the excitement he did not need. Nymeria was a beauty, he could admit, and the vows now allowed such things, yet he found himself reluctant.

Sure, they were not here to join the Watch, but the tale of Danny Flint was not some made-up song, and while capable with dagger and spear, they lacked a lordly retinue to protect them. Of course, if something went wrong here, the Night's Watch would doubtlessly be held responsible. At least the new Auxiliary order, with all the lawbreakers and brigands, was kept separate from the rest.

Gods, why were the Dornish so troublesome?

"Lord Stark delivered, and then some more," Aemon feebly shook his head, breaking Benjen out of his musing. "Restructuring the whole order has been a cumbersome task." The upper echelons of Castle Black had all gathered in the Lord Commander's Solar.

"Stark, Stark," Mormont's raven cawed as Jeor fed it a kernel of corn.

The Commanders still had to give the old vows, but surprisingly, volunteers to hold the newly opened castles were plenty. Eleven Castles were officially back in use, and all nineteen castles could be open by the end of the following year if things continued this way.

The master-at-arms could no longer handle the amount of training and had enlisted five captains, whose job was to keep everyone well-trained at all times and drill formations until the men could do it with eyes closed. Marriage might have been allowed, but no women were housed in the castles along the Wall. Instead, small villages formed half a league to the South. Not many were in a rush to wed, especially with no land and because the Watch offered no coin in remuneration for service.

The vows remained as before - only the parts about taking wives and fathering children were removed.

A scant few who had served for over twenty years had chosen to leave the order and receive the promised plot of land. A smart move from Ned, which helped start up farms and villages and, in a few years, would help feed the Watch, for all the taxes in the Gift were gathered in kind. In times of dire need, the retired watchmen were obligated to mobilise and aid in the Wall's defence anyway.

Senior Ranger was a new rank, which would command two dozen rangers in turn, making it easier to organise in higher numbers. The Stewards and the Builders had undergone similar restructuring.

"Six thousand four hundred and twenty-nine Watchmen," Jeor guffawed, taking a mouthful of dark ale from his horn.

"We ought to start using the newly formed Auxiliary order to reclaim more land. With all that coin, we can buy more herds of cattle, like hairy oxen from the Umbers and mountain sheep from the Norreys can graze in the snow."

"Aye, that ought to do it for now," the Old Bear agreed. "There must be a decent fisherman or three in all the auxiliaries. We must start fishing in the Bay of Ice and use the rivers and lakes in the Gift. Benjen, tactics?"

Benjen ran a hand through his dark mane; he had been tasked to figure out different ways to combat the Others when the Lord Commander left for King's Landing. With Maester Aemon and the Mage's advice, he had rudimentary tactics prepared.

"According to all accounts, the Others all strike in the darkness of the night or cold, sunless days." Benjen pointed out.

"If they don't start bringing the dark with them, too," Ser Alliser groused. The crotchety knight had only grown gloomier as of late, though he seemed to have taken to training the recruits with a renewed passion never shown before.

"Regardless, the Haunted Forest is not fitting terrain for us to fight such foes. Now, we have the manpower to start chopping down the woodland and get plenty of timber for construction. We can make a series of wooden forts to be used as a staging ground for further advance. It would also be wise to send hunting parties for game before winter arrives and the beasts hibernate."

The Lord Commander looked at the map. "And what about Rangings? We're blind to anything happening to the North right now."

"Risky," Benjen said. "A large group would surely be attacked at night, although with our enlarged numbers, we might be capable of forming a combined platoon with those clearing the woodlands. Perhaps sending a group of three or five at most ahead of them, but they must sleep atop the trees if they do not want to be torn up at night, which means no horses and a slower pace. I'm not even sure that would work."

"Alright then, have three such squads sent while I ready the clearing teams. Volunteers only. If they manage to return, we can discuss further. And no, Stark, I'm not sending you. I need you here."

Benjen closed his mouth and grimaced. Was he so predictable?

"What about the wildlings?" Thorne asked, a heavy frown on his sharp face.

"They're probably busy killing each other without Mance or have gone to the winds," Mormont snorted.

"Winds, winds," the raven jumped in the air, making a circle around the table, before landing on Benjen's table. "Snow."

His thoughts couldn't help but drift to his nephew. He just hoped Jon was faring well. But then, Benjen shook his head; his nephew might look young, but he was better than them all. The savage finesse and speed with which Jon effortlessly threw himself against the Cold Ones was still fresh in his mind. Midnight nudged his side, making Benjen turn absentmindedly and earn himself a sticky, wet slobber to the face. Besides, Ghost was with his nephew, along with an entire pack of the beasts.

"We've yet to decide how to use the two town charters," Mormont grunted while Benjen grabbed a nearby rag to wipe his face clean.

"Perhaps at each side of the coast?" Aemon proposed quietly. "With Mole Town in the middle, it would alleviate-" At that moment, the door opened, and Marwyn entered, face flushed from exertion and a roll of parchment in his grasp.

"The king is dead." The Archmaester's voice was deep and breathless.

---

Myr

"The red priests have all gone mad," the man said. Cloaked in robes of deep indigo with intricate Valyrian glyphs and fiery patterns in silver and gold, the wizard looked enigmatic, especially with his cowl covering everything but his mouth. By his side lay a staff made from a goldenheart tree, all carved with intricate patterns and lines, a red ruby encrusted at the end. They were sitting in a lavish tavern a stone's throw away from the harbour, a skilled bard tugging the strings of a lyre on a small stage in the centre as three half-naked maidens danced sensually.

"Oh?" It was another tall figure, cloaked in a dark cloak, with a black beard and a mocking smile showing beneath the hood.

"Aye, the fools in the red temple here quarrelled for moons. Supposedly, their red god stopped answering prayers. One night, they started killing each other and set their shrine ablaze. By the morrow, there was nought but ash and charred stone left," The wizard let out a cold laugh; there was little love between the red clergy and the other sorcerers. "They can't hear their red god. I've heard it's even worse in Volantis. They have dragged the tiger cloaks and the fiery hand in the fighting, and the streets ran red with blood for a sennight."

"They felt it too, then. Just over eight moons ago… things changed." The dark-cloaked figure uncorked his flask, filling the air with a sickly sweet scent as he took a strong gulp. When the flask was returned to his belt, his lips were dark blue. "So, what say you? Can you do it?"

"… Perhaps." The wizard hesitated for a handful of minutes, fingers tapping rhythmically on the table, yet his companion waited patiently, as still as a statue. "Nine moons ago, I would have said no, but now… It has to be awoken from the stone first. I have some ideas, but such things are gruesome and… costly."

"The price is of no issue." The black-cloaked figure leaned forward, the cowl pulling back slightly, revealing a black patch over the man's left eye and a golden kraken embroidered upon his silken doublet peeking below.

---

Author's Endnote: