Argella stood in the chamber that had once belonged to a frightened girl.
Nearly two years had passed since she had last slept there, yet very little had changed. The bed remained against the same wall beneath its dark canopy, its carved posts marked with scratches she had made as a child. Several dresses still lay across a wooden chest where her handmaidens and servants had left them before her flight, their colours faded beneath a thin layer of dust.
She crossed the room and ran her fingers over the nearest gown. The last time she had stood there, she had been preparing to run.
Her father was dead. Enemies had closed around Storm’s End. Lords who had sworn loyalty to her were already choosing which claimant might reward them best. She had possessed a name, a claim, and little else.
That girl would scarcely have recognised the woman who had returned.
Argella Durrandon had returned as a conqueror. The blood of the storm goddess had awakened within her, answering her fury with thunder and lightning. Lords who had once debated whether she could inherit now knelt and called her queen. The last rival claimants were dead, defeated, or imprisoned.
Soon, she would become Queen of the Heartlands as well.
Argella released the gown and wiped the dust from her fingertips.
Nothing had gone as planned after she marched south from Bronzegate.
She found Lyonel first.
Foolish, vain Lyonel had gathered a small force of sellswords and coastal lords near one of the eastern towns, still pretending he could be king if he wore enough velvet and spoke loudly enough about his blood. In truth, he was little more than a common bandit, allowing his sellswords to have their way with every settlement they crossed.
Argella had sent no messenger and offered no parley.
Some of her own lords had looked uneasy when she ordered the attack. They had expected terms, perhaps a chance for Lyonel to bend the knee.
But she could not. Not after what she had seen.
The road south passed through settlements that no longer had names because no one remained alive to speak them. Houses stood blackened beside fields stripped bare. Bodies had been left hanging from trees with signs naming them traitors, though some were children too young to understand the word.
In one village, Argella found an old woman sitting beside the ruins of her home. Every member of her family had died. Lyonel’s men had taken the grain first, then burned what remained so Baldric and Ormund could not use it.
Men who did such things did not deserve chances. They deserved only death.
Argella’s army broke Lyonel’s sellswords before noon. His coastal allies fled once the fighting turned against them.
Lyonel himself tried to flee, but Argella caught him before he escaped.
He called her cousin as lightning gathered around her hands. He reminded her of their shared blood, then claimed he had been forced into rebellion and held hostage by the coastal lords. When that failed, he begged.
His screams carried across the field.
Some called her a kinslayer afterward. Argella cared little.
They continued their march.
Every road revealed more of what the claimants had done to the Stormlands. Granaries had been emptied, bridges destroyed, and farms abandoned. Bands of deserters wandered the countryside, taking whatever the armies had missed.
Argella dealt with them as she found them.
The Keepers of the Covenant who had travelled with her army stood at the forefront of the relief efforts. Grain flowed south from the Heartlands, where the end of winter had left Harald’s storehouses with more food than his people required. The Keepers measured it, guarded it, and distributed it without demanding coin.
That generosity won Argella more goodwill and loyalty. The people hailed her as the good and true queen. She restored order where she could, left garrisons where she could not, and marched on.
The scouts eventually found Ormund and Baldric moving toward one another near Storm’s End.
Argella could have joined the fighting at once, but there had been no sense in throwing fresh soldiers into a battle between two enemies. She ordered the Legion to make camp for the night while the loyal stormlords watched the roads. By morning, one claimant would be weakened and the other easier to destroy.
Then the world began to shake.
Even now, standing safely inside Storm’s End, the memory made her glance toward the floor.
The tremors lasted through the night. The earth rolled beneath the camp like the deck of a ship in a storm. Men were thrown from their feet. Horses broke their tethers and fled into the darkness. Cracks opened between the tents, then closed again with grinding sounds that seemed to come from somewhere far beneath the world.
For several moments, Argella believed the ground would split beneath the entire army and swallow them.
Lightning filled the sky. Thunder came from every direction.
By dawn, they were still alive.
The camp had suffered damage, but the Legion remained intact. The loyalist stormlanders had endured beside them. Argella had scarcely begun counting their losses when scouts arrived with stranger news.
Baldric was dead.
Lord Swann had joined Ormund and opened the gates of Storm’s End to him.
Everything pointed toward a siege until Harald arrived.
He flew upon a red dragon. Odahviing possessed four great limbs beneath his wings, a broad, horned head, and an intelligence no ordinary beast could possess.
Harald flew directly to Storm’s End, and the dragon landed atop one of its massive towers.
By the time Argella reached the gates, Ormund had surrendered.
Reunited once more, Harald took her aboard Odahviing and flew to where Connington and the surviving lords who had followed Baldric were camped. The sight of the dragon broke their spirits completely.
Argella had enjoyed that immensely.
She left the bed and crossed to the window overlooking the bay.
Shipbreaker Bay stretched below, dark beneath another gathering storm. Waves struck the cliffs in white bursts while clouds rolled together above the water. Lightning moved through them.
Power stirred beneath Argella’s skin.
Thin arcs of lightning crawled across her fingers and vanished into her palm. The air before a storm always did this now. Her blood sang as though the ancient gods could feel her presence.
Harald had explained what had happened during the night the world shook, though his explanation had done little to make it understandable.
A golden monster had been released at Highgarden by King Edmund Gardener and the archmaesters. Harald had fought it from the Reach to the Red Mountains, and their battle had broken more than the continent. When the creature died, time itself shattered.
A Dragon Break, he had called it.
The Red Mountains were gone. Dorne had been separated from the rest of Westeros by a new sea. In some places, years had passed during a single night. It was a catastrophe greater than anything Argella had ever imagined.
She understood perhaps half of what Harald had told them.
The gathered lords understood even less.
None dared accuse him of lying.
Harald’s presence alone made them submit and declare themselves loyal to their new king. The dragon waiting outside only made disagreement seem even less sensible.
Yet despite Harald’s reports of death, destruction, and the sundering of the world, many of the marcher lords welcomed the disappearance of the mountains and the Dornish lords who had inhabited them they would be Haralds biggest supporters she was sure of it Lord Dondarrion looked the most pleased. Part of Argella found herself agreeing with them. The Stormlands and Dorne had been bitter enemies for generations, their long border soaked in blood by raid after raid and war after war. Now that border was gone. So were the lands that had caused so much conflict, and Dorne itself had been cut away from the continent.
Argella’s smile lingered until Odahviing roared above the castle.
The sound rolled through Storm’s End and out across Shipbreaker Bay. She turned toward the window in time to see the red dragon pass through the rain, his vast wings carrying him north over the dark water before he disappeared into the clouds.
“I wonder where he is going,” she murmured.
“I have given Odahviing a quest. He will be away in the Heartlands for some time.”
Argella turned at the familiar voice.
Harald stood near the chamber door, smiling as though he had been watching her longer than she realised. For once, he wore no armour. Someone had found one of her grandfather’s finest court garments and adjusted it to fit him, a black doublet edged in gold beneath a heavy cloak clasped at one shoulder.
He looked down at himself and tugged at one embroidered sleeve.
“I do not think black and gold suit me.”
“They suit you well enough.” Argella crossed the chamber and placed one hand against his chest. “You are about to become king of these lands. You can endure their colours for a day or two.”
“Very well, my lady. As you command.”
Argella laughed, then adjusted the collar they had left slightly uneven.
His smile faded as he covered her hand with his own.
“We cannot remain idle,” he said. “The Stormlands are still wounded. The traitors must be removed from power, loyal houses rewarded, and the king and queen’s peace brought to every corner of the realm.”
Argella nodded. She had been making the same lists since entering Storm’s End. Ormund and Swann were prisoners, while Lyonel and Baldric were dead, but ending the war would not repair burned farms or return stolen grain. Several lords had changed allegiance so often that no one could say which oath they believed, if they believed in anything beyond their own survival.
“We will begin with the lords who joined us before victory was certain,” she said. “Bronzegate must be granted to Lord Wensington. Most of the northern lands will be taken from the traitors and given to the loyalists.”
“Remember to keep the finest lands for yourself, especially those along the coast. The lands controlled directly by the crown should be five times greater than they were before.”
Argella nodded. “The lords will object.”
“By the time our reign ends, Argella, the lords will possess very little power.”
Harald glanced toward the window where Odahviing had vanished.
“Odahviing has sensed wounds in the world. Places where time changed drastically.”
“The Dragon Break,” Argella said. The words still tasted strange, even after hearing him explain them several times.
“Most of the wounds are in the east,” Harald continued. “Across Essos.”
Argella’s fingers tightened slightly against his chest. “What worries you there?”
Harald moved away from the window and lowered himself into one of the chairs near the cold hearth.
“Do you remember when I said that years might have passed in some places while only a single night passed here?”
“Yes.”
“I believe much more time has passed in Essos. Perhaps eight years, or even ten.”
“The Targaryens.”
Harald nodded.
The last reliable word had placed them in Pentos, gathering power and turning their attention toward Lys. What could they have accomplished in ten years? Did they now control the entire continent? Had they pushed even farther east?
Harald leaned forward, resting his forearms across his knees. “From what I learned when I met Visenya, their family is under the influence of Mehrunes Dagon and Molag Bal.”
Argella knew those names only through Harald. Daedric Princes, beings powerful enough to be worshipped as gods, yet monstrous and evil enough to inspire fear even in a man like him.
“Both will come after me, and they will use their champions to do it.”
Harald rubbed one hand over his face.
“I fear another war is coming, Argella. A war for the soul of this world.”
He looked toward the floor as he spoke. “We are not prepared. They hold every advantage now.”
Argella walked over and settled across his lap before he could object. One arm went around his shoulders, and she linked her hands behind his neck.
“We have you.”
Harald looked up at her. “Yes. You do have me.”
“And were you not the one who called Targaryen dragons overgrown lizards compared to a true dragon?”
“They are.”
“I have become rather good with lightning myself.”
“That is also true.”
Argella smiled. “And most of Westeros will soon stand behind us. So I say let the sister-fucker come here and die.”
Harald laughed, though the concern remained in his eyes.
“Oh, Aegon will die quickly if he faces me himself. That is not what troubles me. It is what he has built.”
Harald shifted beneath her, one hand resting at her waist.
“The freedmen of Essos worship him as strongly as the people of the Heartlands worship me, perhaps with even greater fervour.”
“A war like that would kill millions. Even if I killed him, they would not stop. I would become the man who murdered their saviour.”
Argella touched his cheek.
“Then we make certain the war is fought on our terms,” she said.
Harald nodded. “We consolidate first. The Stormlands must be stabilised, the Reach settled, the Vale brought to heel, and the Legion expanded. Fifty thousand soldiers within three years, perhaps more if the threat proves as great as I fear.”
“The new lands Loren granted us in the Reach will help with that.”
“They will,” Harald said.
He then stood without warning, lifting her with him as though she weighed nothing.
Argella made an undignified sound and tightened her arms around him.
“Harald.”
“I believe we have a coronation to attend, Your Grace.”
Their eyes met, and she grinned.
“I believe we do.”
.
.
.
“It is dark magic,” Lord Royce said. “There can be no other answer.”
Several men around the command table murmured their agreement. Artys stood at its head and studied the reports in disbelief.
He remembered the battle at Saltpans. He remembered every glorious moment of it.
The plan had been his, formed alongside Lord Royce, Lord Corbray, and Ser James Tyrell. While the Heartlanders prepared to meet the Vale host descending from Widow’s Pass, James had led a second force west beneath the cover of the hills. Scouts were killed before they could report the movement. False campfires were left behind. By the time Edmyn Tully realised another army existed, it had already struck his exposed flank.
The heretics broke exactly as Artys had known they would.
Vale knights crushed their centre while James drove his men into them from the west. Lord Corbray killed Tully and Vance with Lady Forlorn. Blackwood died beneath Royce’s horse. Piper and Frey were taken alive, then beheaded before sunset.
Artys had ordered their heads placed on pikes where the surviving Heartlanders could see them.
That was how holy wars were won. Not through soft words, pardons, or the cowardly compromises Sharra had favoured, but through fear and certainty. The enemy needed to understand that the Seven had passed judgment and that Artys Arryn was the sword carrying it out.
Afterward, they sacked Saltpans.
He had given no quarter.
Men, women, and children, it made no difference.
For three days, the town burned.
On the fourth, Artys prepared to march deeper into the Heartlands.
Then he awoke to a world that claimed none of it had happened.
The battlefield had vanished first.
No corpses lay where thousands had died. There were no dead Heartlanders and no pikes bearing the heads of traitors. Grass covered the ground, wet with morning dew.
Men Artys remembered losing during the first charge walked through the camp, asking why everyone stared at them. One knight returned to his tent and found another man sleeping inside, a man who remembered watching that same knight die beneath a spear.
Fights followed. Accusations of witchcraft gave way to drawn swords. Two supposedly resurrected men were killed by their own companions before the officers restored order.
Saltpans had changed as well. Half the town remained burned. The other half stood untouched, its houses restored and its people alive when they should have been dead.
Artys had acted quickly. He claimed the returned townsfolk were undead creatures raised by Covenant sorcery, wearing familiar faces to mislead righteous men. He ordered the town taken again and declared every resurrected inhabitant an abomination.
The command had not been obeyed cleanly.
Some soldiers refused to enter the streets. A septon attached to Lord Hunter’s household dared suggest that the return of the dead might be a warning from the Seven, perhaps even a command to end the war.
Artys had the man confined.
A septon who spread doubt during a holy campaign served the enemy, whether he understood it or not.
Still, the doubts spread. Men whispered that the Seven were displeased. Some wondered whether the restored town was a miracle meant to undo their crimes. Others stared at comrades returned from death and asked why a holy victory needed to happen twice.
Artys answered with the only explanation that preserved order.
The men restored to their host were blessings from the Seven, returned so they might continue their holy work. Those restored among the enemy were corpses animated by the dark gods of the Covenant.
“We cannot remain here,” Royce said, cutting through another low exchange between the lords. “This land is corrupted. Every hour we linger gives the enemy more opportunities to confuse our men.”
Lord Corbray’s fingers tightened around the pommel of Lady Forlorn. “Your Grace, we came to destroy the Covenant. If we flee after our first true test…”
“I agree with Lord Royce,” Lord Belmore interrupted. “We regroup at the Bloody Gate, restore discipline, and learn what happened before committing the Vale to another battle.”
Lord Hunter leaned over the table. “Belmore speaks sense. These lands are cursed. Roads have shifted. Men’s minds have been addled by dark forces. We should return to the Vale while we still know which direction it lies.”
Artys felt the council slipping away from him.
If the army returned to the Vale now, it would never march south again.
“No,” Artys said.
Royce looked up. “Your Grace?”
“We do not retreat.”
Before anyone could answer, the entrance to the command tent opened and Ser James Tyrell strode inside.
“Your Grace,” James said. “My lords.”
Artys straightened. “You have news?”
“The scouts have returned.”
That silenced the table.
James approached and placed a small wooden marker on the map east of their camp.
“They found the Heartlands army.”
Artys looked at the marker. “The remnants?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Explain.”
“The scouts saw their banners clearly. Tully. Blackwood. Vance. Piper. Frey. Darry. The same host we fought at Saltpans, restored much as parts of our own army were.”
Lord Corbray half-drew Lady Forlorn. “Impossible. I killed Tully myself. Vance as well.”
“The scouts swear both men are alive,” James said. “They command the centre together.”
Corbray slammed the sword back into its sheath. “Then the scouts lie.”
“Three groups reported the same thing.”
“Dark magic,” Royce murmured. His eyes had fixed upon the wooden marker. “This whole kingdom is drowning in it.”
The lords began speaking at once.
Belmore demanded that the army break camp immediately. Hunter wanted riders sent to confirm the reports. Corbray accused the resurrected men in their own host of carrying the enemy’s corruption among them. Royce called for the septons to perform blessings over every company.
Artys let them argue for several moments.
Fear loosened men’s tongues, but it also revealed which words might bind them again. Belmore feared the curse. Corbray feared dishonour. Royce feared offending the Seven. Each concern could be turned toward the same purpose.
Artys struck the table with both hands.
“Enough.”
The lords quieted.
He looked from face to face, allowing the silence to settle before he spoke.
“You are wrong.”
Corbray frowned, but Artys continued before he could interrupt.
“This is not merely a war between two kingdoms. It never was. While we fight upon the earth, a greater war is being waged beyond mortal sight.”
Royce’s attention sharpened.
“The false gods of the Covenant know their followers cannot defeat us. We proved that at Saltpans. We shattered their army and killed their heretic lords. So their gods reached beyond death and dragged those souls back, returning them as undead.”
Belmore shifted uneasily. “And ours?”
“The Seven answered.”
Artys stepped away from the table, forcing the lords to turn with him.
“When the dark powers restored their servants, the Seven returned ours. Not as abominations, but as warriors granted another chance to complete their sacred duty. That is why men who fell beneath Covenant steel now stand among us.”
Some of the tension left Royce’s face.
Good.
Hunter remained doubtful. “Then why do some remember us losing?”
“Because the enemy attacks the mind as well as the body.”
Artys pointed toward Lord Corbray.
“You remember killing Tully.”
“I do.”
“Then trust your own hand. Trust Lady Forlorn. Trust the victory the Seven allowed you to win. Do not permit some sorcerer to steal that truth from you.”
Corbray’s fingers closed around his sword again, though this time with pride rather than fear. “I will cut him again, from shoulder to breast.”
Artys turned toward Royce.
“The enemy’s gods have challenged the Seven. That is what this is. Heaven and earth have both become battlefields. If we retreat now, we do not merely abandon the Heartlands. We declare that the dark powers possess greater endurance than the Seven Who Are One.”
Royce recoiled at the suggestion and lowered his head. “You speak truly, Your Grace.”
Artys returned to the head of the table.
“This war will be decided by endurance. Their gods will raise the dead. Ours will return the righteous. Their sorcery will try to twist our minds and corrupt us, but the Seven will strip away each lie in time.”
“And if the enemy returns again after we kill them?” Belmore asked.
“Then we kill them again.”
Corbray smiled at that.
Artys raised his voice.
“We have already defeated this army once, and we will do it again.”
Around the table, doubt began to retreat. None wanted to be the first lord to admit he lacked the endurance Artys demanded of them.
“We march at dawn,” Artys said. “We will meet the Heartlanders again on ground of our choosing.”
Lord Hunter exchanged a look with Belmore, then bowed.
“As you command, Your Grace.”
Royce placed a fist against his breastplate.
One by one, the others gave their agreement.
The camp broke before dawn.
Artys’s words were repeated to the men.
“Do not fear the heretics or their dark sorcery!” Lord Royce shouted. “The Seven stand with us!”
“The Seven stand with us!” the men answered.
The cry rolled through the camp, gathering strength as each company took it up.
By dawn, the army was moving west from Saltpans toward the Trident.
Artys rode at its head beneath the blue falcon and crescent moon of House Arryn.
The first day passed without any sign of the Heartlands host.
That suited Artys.
A second army was descending from the Vale, smaller than his own but strong enough to decide the battle if used correctly. Ravens and mounted messengers moved between the two forces, carrying instructions. Artys intended to draw Tully toward him and hold his attention until the reinforcements closed from the rear.
It was the same design that had destroyed them before.
They would die the same way twice.
The thought pleased him.
Whenever scouts reported the Heartlanders approaching, Artys withdrew to stronger ground. When they slowed, he turned and threatened battle, forcing them to form ranks before pulling away again. Tully followed because he needed a victory as badly as Artys did.
Artys also gave orders to burn the surrounding lands and settlements. Some villagers fled before the Vale riders arrived. Others remained beside their homes and begged beneath images of the Seven, as though that could erase years of serving false gods.
Artys refused to be deceived by them. All heretics needed to be put to the sword.
By the sixth day, Artys judged that the time for retreat was over
Artys chose the ground himself. The Heartlanders would need to cross open land to reach him, and the second Vale army was less than half a day away.
If Tully attacked before the reinforcements arrived, Artys could hold the ridge.
If he waited, he would be surrounded.
Either choice favoured the Vale.
The Heartlands appeared near midday.
Trout. Raven. Horse. Maiden. Piper. Twin towers.
Each banner belonged to a lord Artys remembered dead.
He raised a hand to shade his eyes and watched them advance. Tully rode beneath the central banner, alive despite Corbray’s certainty that Lady Forlorn had opened him from shoulder to breast. Blackwood rode nearby, as did Vance and Piper.
‘Undead servants of dark gods,’ Artys told himself.
As their lines settled into place, the confidence running through the Vale host began to weaken. The men could see the same army they had defeated only a week before standing across the field from them again.
Artys rode before the first rank, his white horse stepping carefully across the uneven ground. Ser James accompanied him, carrying the royal standard.
The soldiers watched their king.
“Sons of the Vale!” he called.
The nearest ranks quieted. Men farther down the line turned toward his voice, and captains repeated the call until silence spread across the ridge.
“You look across that field and see men you remember killing. You see banners we cast down, and knights and lords whose blood has already darkened our swords.”
He let the words settle.
“I know what question sits within each of you. You wonder whether they can be defeated. You wonder whether dark magic has made them stronger than mortal men.”
Artys drew his sword and raised it above his head.
“It has not.”
The blade caught the pale daylight.
“The Seven are with us!”
The cry spread through the front ranks.
“By honour, by blood, and by the Seven Who Are One, stand with me against this darkness!”
Thousands of weapons rose.
“This day, we do not flee!”
The men roared.
“This day, we do not falter!”
Their voices rose louder.
“This day, we fight!”
“The Seven are with us!” Artys shouted.
“The Seven are with us!” the army thundered back.
Artys turned his horse toward the enemy and lifted his sword.
Before he could lower it, a roar broke across the sky.
The sound silenced thousands of men at once.
Artys looked up.
A vast red shape descended from the clouds.
For a moment, his mind refused to give it meaning. He saw wings blotting out the sun and a body larger than any living creature had a right to be.
A dragon.
The dragon opened its jaws.
Fire gathered within its maw.
"YOL TOOR SHUL"
Its breath struck the Vale line.
The cheering became screams.
.
.
Next, Odahviing and the Heartlands army visit the Vale.
Months pass as the consolidation of the conquests begins.
Visenya finally meets Aegon and learns that not all is well within the Freehold.