Lord Samson Blackmont rose from his seat, and the great hall slowly fell quiet.
The music faded. Cups lowered. Conversations stopped as every guest turned toward the high table. The hall had been decorated for the celebration, with black and yellow banners hanging from the stone walls and fresh flowers placed along the tables. Candles burned in every corner, filling the room with warm light.
Samson lifted his cup.
“My lords, ladies, friends, and family,” he began, “I welcome you all to Blackmont, and I thank you for joining us on this most precious day. Today, we celebrate the tenth nameday of my dearest daughter, Arianne.”
The hall erupted in cheers.
Cups struck tables. Men shouted Arianne’s name, while women applauded and smiled toward the girl seated beside her father.
Samson looked down at her.
Arianne wore the finest clothes she owned, a dark yellow gown with black embroidery along the sleeves. Her hair had been carefully braided, though several strands had already escaped around her face. She looked up at him with a wide smile, her eyes filled with love.
“Arianne is my only daughter,” he continued, his voice softer now. “From the day she was born, she claimed a place in my heart that no other could ever take.”
The hall quieted again.
“Every year, I watch her become wiser, stronger, and more beautiful, and every year, I find myself wondering how the gods saw fit to bless me with her.”
Arianne’s smile trembled.
“I wish your mother were here to see you now. She would have been so proud. She would have smiled at the young woman you are becoming, and she would have reminded me not to embarrass you with a speech this long.”
A few people laughed gently, but Arianne’s eyes had filled with tears.
Samson raised his cup toward her.
“To Arianne. My daughter, my joy, and the brightest light in my life.”
“To Arianne!” the hall answered.
The cheering rose again, louder than before.
Arianne stood and threw her arms around her father before he could sit. Samson laughed and embraced her, kissing the top of her head.
“I love you, Papa,” she whispered.
“And I love you, my little girl,” he replied.
The musicians resumed playing, and the celebration began again. Servants carried roasted meats, spiced wine, and honey cakes through the hall. The noise grew until the entire castle seemed alive with laughter.
“I wish Arno were here,” she said.
Samson looked at her. “He is fostering with Lord Wyl, Arianne. You know that.”
“I know,” she said, looking down at her plate. “But it would have been better with him here.”
Samson placed a hand over hers. “Mayhaps I can convince Lord Wyl to allow him a visit soon.”
Her face brightened immediately. “Truly?”
“Mayhaps.”
“That means yes.”
“It means mayhaps,” Samson replied, though he was smiling.
Arianne laughed and returned to her meal.
The feast continued late into the evening. Samson drank less than those around him, content to watch his daughter enjoy herself. She moved from table to table, thanking guests for their gifts and speaking to everyone, from great lords to the youngest serving girl.
Hours passed.
At last, Arianne returned to the high table, rubbing one eye.
“Papa, I am tired,” she said. “I think I will retire.”
Samson rose. “Then I will walk you to your chambers.”
“You do not have to.”
“Hmm. Shall I read you to sleep as I used to?”
She laughed and took his hand.
They had barely left the table when the castle shook.
It came without warning. Cups jumped from tables. Plates shattered against the floor. The musicians stopped as one of them was thrown from his stool.
People screamed.
Arianne grabbed Samson and buried herself against him. He wrapped both arms around her, planting his feet as the stones beneath them trembled.
The shaking stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
For a moment, the hall remained completely silent.
Guests stared at one another. A servant knelt among broken dishes, frozen in place. Dust drifted from the ceiling.
Arianne looked up at her father.
“Papa, what was that?”
Before Samson could answer, the castle shook again.
This time, it was harder.
The floor rolled beneath them. A crack appeared along one wall. Several people screamed as one of the heavy chandeliers fell.
“Everyone out!” Samson shouted. “Clear the hall! Move!”
His guards pushed through the crowd and formed around him and Arianne. Samson lifted his daughter into his arms as people rushed toward the doors.
His mind raced as he carried Arianne through the passage.
An earthquake.
But the lands around Blackmont had never suffered such a thing, not in any history he had read.
Arianne clung to his neck.
“Papa,” she whispered.
“It is fine, Arianne. Do not worry. We are safe,” Samson promised.
They reached the courtyard with the others. The shaking stopped again, leaving the castle filled with cries and falling dust. Samson lowered Arianne to the ground but kept one hand on her shoulder.
“Make sure everyone is out,” he ordered.
His men-at-arms rushed to obey. Servants counted the guests. Guards searched the lower halls and kitchens. People gathered in frightened groups throughout the courtyard, speaking over one another.
“An earthquake,” someone said.
“Here?”
“The mountains are breaking.”
“The gods are angry.”
Samson found his master-at-arms near the gate.
“How many remain inside?”
“We are still counting, my lord. Some servants may be trapped in the eastern passage.”
“Send men only if the structure holds.”
The world shook again.
Once.
The courtyard bucked beneath their feet.
Then again.
A tower groaned, and stones broke loose from its upper wall.
Then a third time.
The castle began to come apart.
The shaking became violent enough to throw men from their feet. Great cracks opened across the courtyard. One of the towers split down the middle, and its upper half collapsed onto the inner wall.
Everyone ran.
The frightened crowd became a stampede, with people stumbling over one another as they fled toward the outer gates.
“Arianne!” Samson shouted.
He saw her fall near the center of the courtyard.
Samson forced himself upright and ran toward her as the world broke around him. Stones crashed from the walls. A section of battlement struck the ground behind him and exploded into fragments. Someone grabbed his arm, but he tore free and kept moving.
He reached Arianne and pulled her into his arms.
“I have you.”
“Papa!”
He turned toward the gate, but the courtyard split open in front of them. The earth heaved, and the castle walls leaned inward. Samson changed direction, carrying his daughter toward the shelter of a low stone passage.
They did not make it.
A terrible cracking sound came from above.
Samson looked up.
A section of the wall fell toward them.
He turned his body and covered Arianne completely.
Stone struck his back.
The world went black.
========
Samson woke beneath darkness and dust.
For several moments, he could not move. Something heavy pressed against his shoulder, and every breath sent pain through his ribs. Then he remembered.
“Arianne.”
She was still in his arms.
He pushed against the debris, ignoring the pain. One stone shifted, then another. He clawed through dust and broken wood until moonlight appeared above him.
Samson dragged himself free, pulling his daughter with him.
They emerged into what remained of the courtyard.
Blackmont was gone.
Fires burned beneath the ruins. Beyond the castle, the mountains themselves were moving, with great sections of red stone sliding into the valleys.
“We are alive,” he whispered.
Another tremor passed through the ground as he held his daughter close.
He looked down at her.
She had not moved.
“Arianne?”
He shook her gently.
“My sweet girl, wake up.”
Nothing.
His smile faded.
He touched her face, then felt something warm running across his hand. When he lifted his fingers, they were crimson.
Blood flowed from beneath her hair.
Samson froze.
“No.”
He pressed his hand against the wound.
“No, no, no. Arianne, open your eyes.”
She did not answer.
He pulled her against his chest and rocked her as the tears came.
“Please. Please, my little girl. Wake up. You have to wake up.”
Her body remained still.
Samson bowed over her and began to sob.
Around him, survivors screamed for help. Stones continued to fall.
The world shook again.
Samson lifted his tear-filled eyes toward the sky.
High above the collapsing mountains, he saw them.
A man surrounded by golden light and a golden dragon clashed in the skies. Fire and thunder spread around them as they struck one another, their power splitting the clouds.
They collided once more.
The impact struck the land, and a gigantic tremor tore through Blackmont. The ground split, and the remaining walls collapsed. Whole sections of the mountains broke apart. For a moment, Samson felt as though he were floating.
Then everything came crashing down.
He held his daughter close as the world disappeared around him.
.
.
.
Harald knelt at the edge of a vast cliff and stared at the sea below.
The land simply ended in a wall of stone that plunged hundreds of feet into dark blue waves. Far in the distance, several islands rose from the water.
Yesterday, these lands had been mountains.
The Red Mountains had stretched across the southern reaches of Westeros, dividing Dorne from the kingdoms to the north. Now, much of that range lay beneath the sea. Dorne stood separated from Westeros by a new body of water.
He had come here with Odahviing immediately after defeating Urrax, hoping the damage would not be as terrible as he feared.
What awaited him had shattered that hope.
Their battle had sundered the earth. An entire mountain range had been replaced by a sea, and part of the continent had broken away.
How many people had died?
One hundred thousand?
Two hundred thousand?
More?
Their blood was on his hands.
He had summoned storms, meteors, and earthquakes. He had known the battle was tearing the world apart, yet he had continued.
He had needed to defeat Urrax, his mind reasoned. Many more would have died if he had not.
That did not lessen the guilt.
He would carry it for the rest of his life.
Harald finally forced himself to look across the ruined landscape again. The longer he stared, the more disturbed he became.
The land did not look like a place that had been torn apart by a recent cataclysm. The cliffs had already been worn smooth in places. Vegetation grew within cracks that should have been new. Some of the distant islands were covered with shrubs and small trees. Birds nested along the cliff face as though the sea had existed here for years rather than a single night.
That created another problem.
One Harald desperately hoped was not real.
The beat of great wings sounded behind him as Odahviing descended through the clouds and landed near the cliff. The red dragon folded his wings and lowered his head toward Harald.
“My Thuri.”
Harald remained kneeling. “Tell me I am wrong.”
His throat ached, and his voice was weak. It would take some time to recover.
Odahviing was silent for several moments.
Then he spoke.
“Time has been broken.”
Harald shut his eyes.
“A Dragon Break?” he asked.
“Geh. Yes.” Odahviing looked out over the new sea. “The clash between two dragons and a being created to oppose us in every way, combined with the vast amount of power released when we destroyed it, has caused a Dragon Break.”
Harald covered his face with both hands and groaned.
“Of course it did.”
At times during the battle, Harald had felt as though years were passing, as though he had been fighting for far longer than he truly had. There had also been sudden changes in the weather when he struck the final blows against the dragon.
It all made sense now.
“How many years?” Harald asked.
“I cannot say. Time is still settling.”
Harald rose slowly.
His old armor was gone, and he now wore a normal suit of steel. The wound in his arm had closed, but the flesh was still healing, even after a high-level restoration spell.
“We go north,” he said. “Highgarden first, then back to the Stormlands.”
Odahviing lowered one wing, allowing Harald to climb onto his back.
“As you command, Thuri.”
Odahviing leapt from the cliff.
His wings opened, catching the wind rising from the sea, and he climbed into the sky. Harald held on tightly as they flew north over the new waters. Below them, broken fragments of the Red Mountains formed small islands.
He searched for signs that the destruction had spread into the Reach. But once they crossed beyond the ruined mountains, the land looked familiar. There were no changes.
As they neared Highgarden, bells began ringing from the watchtowers.
People in the fields looked up and screamed. Soldiers rushed toward the castle walls. Horns sounded as Odahviing’s shadow passed over the road.
“Land outside the castle,” Harald called.
Odahviing descended into an open field beyond the outer settlements.
Harald climbed down.
Soldiers emerged from the direction of Highgarden in ordered ranks. Their shields bore the golden lion of House Lannister. Archers followed behind them, though few raised their bows once they saw Harald standing beside the dragon.
A mounted officer shouted from the front.
“Calm yourselves! Lower your weapons! That is the King of the Heartlands!”
The soldiers hesitated, then gradually lowered their spears and bows.
The man rode forward. He appeared to be in his thirties, broad-shouldered and golden-haired, with the unmistakable features of House Lannister. He dismounted before reaching Harald and approached on foot.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing. “Ser Tygett Lannister, cousin to King Loren.”
His eyes moved toward Odahviing.
Harald saw fear there.
“This is not the creature that attacked you,” Harald said, loudly enough for the surrounding soldiers to hear. “The metal beast has been destroyed. This dragon is Odahviing, my ally and sworn companion.”
Relief spread through the gathered men. Some crossed themselves. Others lowered their shields completely.
Tygett exhaled slowly. “That is welcome news, Your Grace.”
“What happened here?” Harald asked. “Where is Loren?”
Tygett’s expression darkened. “Come with me. I will explain.”
They entered Highgarden through the main gate.
The castle still bore the scars of Urrax’s awakening. One wing had collapsed entirely. The courtyards were cracked, and the towers were blackened. Lannister soldiers occupied every passage.
Tygett explained what had happened, how King Edmund and Archmaester Eddard had awakened the monstrosity and how it had slaughtered much of the Reach’s army before flying north and attacking their forces.
“More than half our men are gone,” Tygett said.
“Edmund and Archmaester Eddard. Where are they?”
“We have them, Your Grace. We have those monsters in the dungeons.”
Good, Harald thought. That will make things easier.
“Loren,” he said. “Where is he?”
Tygett stopped outside the doors of the throne room.
His face had gone pale.
“It is best that you see for yourself, Your Grace.”
He opened the doors but did not enter.
Harald stepped inside alone.
The throne room was dim and quiet. Much of the ceiling had been damaged, and pale light passed through the broken roof overhead. The banners of House Gardener had been removed. Golden lions now hung from the walls.
At the far end stood the Oakenseat.
Someone sat upon it, almost hidden in shadow.
“Harald,” a voice called.
The voice was weak and dry.
Harald stopped.
“Loren?”
A cracked laugh came from the throne.
“You’ve come. Good.”
Harald walked forward slowly.
The figure leaned into the light.
“I won, my friend,” Loren said. “I brought eternal glory to my house. I avenged my ancestors. The Gardeners mocked the lions for centuries, and now their line is broken.”
He laughed again, only for the sound to end in a violent coughing fit.
“I am King of the Reach.”
Harald reached the foot of the dais and finally saw him clearly.
An old man sat upon the Oakenseat.
He looked to be in his seventies, perhaps older. His skin hung loose over his face. His golden hair had turned almost entirely white. His once-powerful shoulders had narrowed, and both hands trembled where they rested on the arms of the throne.
Harald knew those eyes. They belonged to Loren Lannister.
“What happened to you?” Harald asked.
Loren smiled bitterly.
“The metal demon. It did something to me. It tried to take my soul, as it did to many of my men.”
His dry laughter filled the empty hall.
“The gods-damned dragon.”
Harald said nothing.
Loren looked at him more closely.
“Did you kill it?”
“Yes.”
A genuine smile appeared on Loren’s aged face.
“Good.”
He settled back into the Oakenseat, though even that small movement seemed to exhaust him.
“Then it is done. Highgarden is mine. The Reach is mine. House Lannister... House Lannister is...”
His smile grew sad.
“Come, Harald. Sit with me.” Loren gestured toward a chair near him with a shaking hand.
“Let us speak king to king,” he said. “We have a realm to divide between us, do we not?”
.
.
.
Visenya flew above Myr on Vhagar, her face tightening in confusion as the city spread beneath them.
Something was wrong.
She remembered Myr as a wounded city. Entire districts had been destroyed during the fighting. Dragonfire had blackened towers and melted the ground. The damage had been too extensive to repair quickly. It should have taken years, and thousands of laborers had still been clearing rubble when she left.
Now the city stood whole. There was no damage. It was as though the city had magically repaired itself.
Visenya leaned forward in the saddle, searching for anything familiar.
She had left the newly conquered Stepstones only last night. Her fleet was gathering there, ready to begin the invasion of Lys. As she reviewed the coming campaign, she had decided that one dragon might not be enough to force a quick surrender. Vhagar could break Lys, but Rhaenys and Meraxes would make victory certain and spare their soldiers a prolonged siege.
So Visenya had flown toward Myr to bring her sister south.
A violent storm had appeared without warning during the night. The winds became too dangerous even for Vhagar, forcing them to land on one of the islands and remain there until morning.
The storm had been strange. At one point, Visenya had looked across the island and seen trees growing where there had been only bare stone moments before. By dawn, everything had returned to normal.
Vhagar circled above Myr, her massive wings casting shadows across the rebuilt streets. Bells rang from the walls. People ran for cover, while soldiers hurried toward the gates.
Visenya guided Vhagar toward an open field beyond the northern wall instead. The dragon descended heavily, flattening the grass beneath her and sending frightened horses fleeing along a nearby road.
Visenya remained mounted.
Her hand rested near Dark Sister as her mind raced through every explanation she could imagine.
An illusion?
Had Aegon’s god taught him sorcery?
Had he kept it from her?
A large party emerged from the city gates beneath Targaryen banners. Twenty mounted soldiers rode in formation.
Visenya relaxed slightly when she saw the man at their head.
Orys Baratheon.
Her brief smile vanished as she remembered something. Orys was supposed to be in Pentos with Aegon and Rhaenys.
He had been there when she departed for the Stepstones.
The riders slowed as they approached Vhagar. Orys raised one hand, ordering the soldiers behind him to halt. He stared at the dragon, then at Visenya.
Even from a distance, she could see the shock on his face.
Visenya climbed down from Vhagar and waited.
Orys dismounted. For a moment, he remained beside his horse, gripping the saddle as though he needed it to remain standing.
He looked older.
There were lines around his eyes that had not been there before. Grey ran through his black hair and beard.
“Orys,” Visenya called.
He stepped toward her, moving cautiously.
“Visenya?”
She looked past him toward Myr.
“The city,” she said. “What happened to it? Where are the ruins?”
Orys did not answer.
His eyes moved across her face, studying every detail. His breathing grew faster.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
Visenya frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Where have you been?”
“I left the Stepstones last night.” She approached him.
Orys stared at her.
Visenya placed both hands on his shoulders.
“Orys, speak to me.”
His face twisted.
“No,” he whispered.
“What?”
“No. This... I...”
Visenya’s grip on him tightened.
“I have not seen you in ten years.”
The field seemed to tilt beneath her feet.
Visenya said nothing.
“You vanished,” Orys continued. “You and Vhagar vanished.”
“That is impossible. I saw you only four days ago, Orys.”
“We believed you were dead.”
Visenya stepped back.
Orys reached for her arm, afraid she might fall.
“Look at you,” he said. “You have not aged. Not a day. You look exactly as you did when you disappeared.”
Visenya forced herself to breathe. She felt panic growing within her. She needed to see Rhaenys. She needed to see Aegon.
“Where is Aegon?” she asked.
Orys hesitated.
“Where?”
“He is in Meereen.”
“Meereen?”
“There was a rebellion. Aegon and Rhaenys flew there to put it down.”
Visenya stared at him.
“What are you talking about? We have not even taken Lys.”
Orys closed his eyes briefly.
“Lys fell ten years ago.”
“No.”
“Volantis surrendered after the Battle of the Rhoyne. Norvos and Qohor bent the knee two years later. The Dothraki were driven east, and Slaver’s Bay fell soon after.”
“No,” Visenya repeated.
“It's over, Vis.”
Her mouth went dry.
“Essos belongs to House Targaryen.”
.
.
Big changes:
Loren is now old because Urrax nearly tore out his soul.
The Dragon Break caused ten years to pass in Essos, and the Targaryen Freehold now reigns supreme.
No major passage of time occurred in Westeros, except around the former Red Mountains. However, there have been some changes, such as the Battle of Saltpans, developments north of the Wall as some one has woken up early.