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[Kill The Boy] Chapter 35: Powers In Motion
🕑 Added 2025-08-18 22:07:44 +0000 UTCDisclaimer: This is a work of fiction and all rights for character, plots and settings belong to GRRM. I have no ownership.
A/N: Wanted to get this chapter out yesterday but I had to do some extra edits to a scene as the flow wasn't to my liking. Hope you enjoyed this chapter and please leave a comment if you did! :)
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Year 300 AC
Highgarden, The Reach
The parchment crackled between Olenna's fingers, Leyton Hightower's seal broken and discarded on the rosewood desk. Outside, Highgarden's gardens bloomed in mockery of her grief, their perfume drifting through the solar's open windows like incense at a funeral. She read the words again, though they refused to make more sense the third time through.
A kraken. An actual kraken.
Her knuckles whitened around the letter. Baelor Hightower's signature sat beside his father's—steady, precise, the hand of a man who understood the weight of his words. Not prone to flights of fancy, that one. Yet here he wrote of tentacles thick as trees crushing ships like kindling, of Gunthor Hightower's blood painting arcane symbols across Silence's deck while Euron Greyjoy madness was in full display with that strange glowing crown.
The door creaked. "My lady, shall I bring you something?"
"Wine." Olenna didn't look up from the impossible report. "The Arbor gold from my personal stores. The good vintage."
Footsteps retreated. She set the letter aside and picked up another, this one from Garlan. Her fingers trembled slightly—age, she told herself, though Mace's burned flesh haunted every blink.
Grandmother, Margaery lives. The wildfire spread faster than we anticipated, but I reached her before the flames. She's weak from the smoke but recovering. We've withdrawn to Bitterbridge with what remains of our forces. Lord Tarly estimates we lost nine thousand men to the initial explosions, another two thousand to the fires that followed. The capital still burns as I write this.
Eleven thousand men. Boys from the Reach who'd marched north singing songs about golden roses, now ash on the wind. And Mace...
She pressed her palm flat against the desk, feeling the wood's grain beneath her skin. Real. Solid. Unlike everything else crumbling around her.
The servant returned with wine. Olenna poured herself a generous measure and drank deep, letting the sweetness coat her throat. Cersei Lannister had murdered her son. Oh, the mad queen sent ravens claiming Aegon Targaryen was responsible, but Olenna hadn't survived seven decades by believing Lannister lies. The wildfire beneath the Sept, the caches hidden near the Reach encampment—too convenient, too precisely placed.
But Cersei wasn't clever enough for such coordination. Someone else had provided the strategy, the timing, the placement of those hidden caches that turned her army's camp into an inferno.
Qyburn, she thought. That twisted maester with his unnatural experiments. Or perhaps someone else entirely, someone still hidden in the shadows of the Red Keep.
Another sip of wine. The taste turned bitter on her tongue.
She picked up Leyton's letter again, forcing herself to focus on the immediate threat. Euron had ransacked the Citadel's deepest vaults, emerging with that crown and the power to summon monsters from the deep. The ironborn had withdrawn after barely three hours of raiding, suggesting they'd found exactly what they sought.
Olenna's thoughts drifted to Loras, and her spotted fingers tightened on the wine goblet until her knuckles went white. Another grandson sailing these cursed waters. She'd ordered him shipped back from King's Landing on Paxter's three fastest galleys that would peel away from the main fleet while the rest maintained their blockade of Blackwater Bay. The decision had seemed prudent then, getting him away from Cersei's madness.
Now I've sent him straight into Euron's path.
Three ships against whatever nightmares that one-eyed demon could conjure. I might as well have tied stones to the boy's ankles and thrown him overboard myself.
Her hand trembled as she set down the goblet, wine sloshing against crystal. The smart move would be to recall Paxter's fleet immediately, bring every ship racing back to escort Loras home. But that would leave King's Landing's sea approach unguarded, give Cersei room to maneuver.
Trapped between a kraken and a wildfire. She pressed her palms against her temples, feeling every one of her years in the ache behind her eyes.
"Please," she whispered to gods she'd never believed in, the word scraping raw from her throat. "Let him be swift. Let the winds favor him. Let Euron be hunting elsewhere."
When did I become so helpless? The Queen of Thorns, reduced to muttering prayers like some sept-bound fool. But what else could she do? Send ravens to ships already at sea? By the time any message reached them, Loras would either be safe in Oldtown's harbor or feeding the fishes.
"Maester Lomys," she called.
The grey-robed man appeared with unseemly haste, as if he'd been hovering outside. His chain clinked softly as he bowed.
"My lady?"
"Send word to Willas. He's to proceed with extreme caution. If Euron Greyjoy can summon krakens..." She trailed off, the impossibility of it catching in her throat. "Tell him to coordinate with Baelor Hightower. The man has sense, unlike his late brother."
Poor Gunthor. Sacrificed like a goat on an altar while his men watched helplessly from their ships. And Garth, pulled beneath the waves with his entire crew. The Hightowers had lost two sons in a single day, their fleet crippled.
"Also," she continued, voice hardening, "send ravens to our bannermen. Every keep from Ashford to Cider Hall. They're to muster what forces remain and march to Bitterbridge. We'll not leave Garlan and Lord Tarly exposed."
"Yes, my lady. Anything else?"
Olenna stared at the golden rose carved into her chair's armrest, tracing its petals with one spotted finger. Mace would never sit in this solar again. Never boom with laughter at his own terrible jokes or preen over Margaery's beauty. The Sept's wildfire had consumed him utterly, leaving not even bones for the crypts.
"Prepare a raven for Storm's End," she said quietly. "For the Griffon."
Lomys's chain rattled as he shifted. "Lord Connington, my lady? But he serves—"
"I know who he serves." The supposed Aegon Targaryen, another player in this game of thrones. Real or false dragon, it hardly mattered now. "Write this exactly as I speak it."
She stood, joints protesting, and moved to the window. The sun hung low, painting Highgarden's walls gold and shadow.
"Lord Connington. I write to you not as the Queen of Thorns, but as a mother who has lost her son to Cersei Lannister's madness. You seek the Iron Throne for your prince. I seek justice for Lord Mace Tyrell, burned alive by wildfire while trying to save his daughter. Perhaps we might discuss how our interests align. Come to Bitterbridge under a peace banner. Bring your prince if you dare. We have much to discuss regarding the Lannister woman who styles herself queen while King's Landing burns. Signed, Olenna of House Tyrell."
The scratching of Lomys's quill filled the silence. When it stopped, she turned back to him.
"Send it immediately. And Lomys?"
"My lady?"
"Inform Garth to double the guard on Highgarden's walls. If krakens can rise from the Sunset Sea, then all our old certainties are ash." Like Mace. Like her beautiful, foolish son. "We must be ready for anything."
The maester bowed and departed. Olenna returned to her desk, picking up the reports once more. Somewhere out there, Euron Greyjoy sailed with an artifact of terrifying power the idiot maesters kept in their vaults. Cersei Lannister sat her stolen throne atop the ashes of thousands. And in Storm's End, a young man claiming to be Rhaegar's son gathered strength.
The game continued, even as the board burned.
She raised her wine cup in a bitter toast to the empty room. "Growing strong, my son. Even in death, we grow strong."
The sweet wine tasted bittersweet.
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Kingswood, The Stormlands
Steel rang against steel as Jon Connington parried a Lannister soldier's blade, the impact jarring on his hands. The Kingswood pressed close around them, ancient oaks and soldier pines creating a maze of shadow and blood. He drove his sword through the man's throat, stepping over the body as crimson pooled into the forest floor's carpet of dead leaves.
"Lord Connington!" Aegon's voice carried over the din of battle. The prince fought twenty yards away, his blade dancing silver arcs through dappled sunlight. Three Golden Company men formed a protective triangle around him, their movements precise despite the chaos.
Jon pushed through the melee, noting how the Lannister forces held their lines with unexpected discipline. No Jaime Lannister to lead them with the Kingslayer having vanished in the Riverlands yet these men fought like lions cornered in their den. Sellswords from Lys and Tyrosh bolstered their ranks, their exotic armor gleaming between the trees.
Addam Marbrand, Jon thought, catching sight of the copper-haired commander directing troops from horseback. Of course. The man had served as a trusted commander under Tywin, learning strategy at the old lion's knee. Now he commanded with the same cold efficiency, using the forest itself as a weapon against them.
The old lion's ghost still commands these fields, Jon thought, watching their shield wall absorb another Golden Company charge without buckling. His greyscale fingers throbbed beneath leather gloves as he parried another strike, the disease's slow crawl up his arm a constant reminder of time running short.
A Tyroshi sellsword lunged from behind a pine, his forked beard blue as his blade. Jon sidestepped, drove his pommel into the man's temple, then opened his throat in one economical motion. Blood sprayed across moss-covered roots, adding to the forest floor's growing marsh of mud and gore.
Even with Kevan dead and Jaime vanished, House Lannister endures. The bitter thought roused in the middle of battle. Their gold still buys the best steel, their name still commands respect born from fear. He'd underestimated them, assuming the lions would scatter without their pride leaders. Instead, they'd closed ranks, fighting with the desperate precision of cornered predators who knew surrender meant extinction.
An arrow whistled past Jon's ear. He ducked behind an oak's massive trunk, as another arrow hit the bark where his head had been. Somewhere behind them, the oliphaunts bellowed in frustration, their handlers unable to maneuver the massive beasts through the dense undergrowth.
"Push forward!" Jon roared to the nearest Golden Company sergeant. "Drive them toward the clearing!"
The sergeant nodded, rallying his men. They surged ahead, and for a moment Jon thought they might break through. Then Marbrand's horn sounded three sharp blasts, and the Lannister line bent but didn't break, falling back in perfect order.
Jon found Aegon during a brief lull, both men breathing hard as they crouched behind a fallen log. Blood spattered the prince's cheek but not his own, thankfully. The boy had learned to fight dirty when needed, a far cry from the idealistic youth who'd first landed at Griffin's Roost.
"Marbrand chose his ground well," Aegon said, wiping sweat from his brow with a mailed fist. "The oliphaunts are useless here. Might as well have left them at Bronzegate for all the good they do us."
Jon nodded, scanning the trees for movement. "The forest negates our advantage. He's trading space for time, bleeding us with every yard."
A Golden Company archer loosed an arrow that took a Lannister spearman through the eye. The man's scream cut short as he toppled backward, his spear clattering against exposed roots.
"Still," Aegon said, steel ringing as he deflected a thrown dagger, "we're winning. Look—their left flank wavers."
The prince was right. The Lannister forces had begun to buckle, their orderly retreat becoming something more desperate. Jon saw Marbrand wheel his horse around, shouting commands that were lost in the clash of arms. Red cloaks fell back through the trees, some stumbling over roots and undergrowth in their haste.
Harry Strickland appeared through the smoke and shadow, his golden armor dulled with dirt and blood. The captain-general of the Golden Company had lost his usual nervous demeanor in battle, becoming the seasoned commander who'd kept the company profitable for decades.
"Your Grace," Strickland said, inclining his head to Aegon before turning to Jon. "Marbrand's called a full retreat. Our scouts report they're making for the Kingsroad."
"Back to King's Landing?" Aegon asked.
"What's left of it," Strickland confirmed. "Half the city still burns, if the ravens speak true. But Cersei holds the Red Keep, and Marbrand knows those walls."
Jon watched the last Lannister soldiers disappear into the green darkness, their retreat covered by crossbowmen who fired blind into the trees. A Golden Company man cried out, a bolt sprouting from his shoulder.
"Should we pursue, Your Grace?" Strickland asked. "We could harry them all the way to the city gates."
Aegon looked to Jon, violet eyes seeking counsel. Jon considered their position—scattered through unfamiliar forest, the oliphaunts trapped behind them, men tired from hours of fighting. He gave a slight shake of his head.
"Send a pursuit force," Aegon commanded, "but no more than five hundred men. Don't chase them past the forest edge. Marbrand's too clever not to have planned for pursuit."
"Wise, Your Grace." Strickland saluted and moved off, barking orders to his lieutenants.
Jon stood, his knees protesting after crouching so long. Around them, Golden Company soldiers and Stormlanders emerged from cover, some laughing with relief, others tending wounded comrades. The forest floor was carpeted with dead red cloaks and golden alike, their blood feeding the ancient roots.
"We've secured the Kingswood," Jon said, pulling off his helm to let the cool air dry his sweat-soaked hair. "The road to Bitterbridge lies open."
Aegon's expression darkened. "The Tyrells."
"We need them," Jon reminded him. "Our forces aren't enough to take King's Landing, not with Marbrand commanding its defense. The Reach can provide food, men, and most importantly, legitimacy."
"I know." Aegon sheathed his sword with more force than necessary. "But Olenna Tyrell..." He sighed, suddenly looking younger than his years. "The Queen of Thorns. I remember your warnings about her."
"I've met her," Jon said. "Years ago, when I served your father. She's everything they say she is, sharp as Valyrian steel and twice as cunning. But she's also pragmatic. Her son is dead, her granddaughter almost joined her son. She wants vengeance against Cersei as much as we want the throne."
They walked through the battlefield, stepping carefully around corpses and the wounded. A Golden Company healer knelt beside a groaning Stormlander, pressing cloth to a gut wound that would likely prove fatal. The man's eyes rolled white with pain.
"I should be wedding my aunt," Aegon said quietly, ensuring none could overhear. "Daenerys has dragons, a proper army. We're of an age, both Targaryen. It would be..." He paused, searching for words. "Right. Proper."
Jon's jaw tightened. The boy didn't know about the reports from Slaver's Bay, the whispers of crucifixions and burned cities. Better he maintain his idealized image of his aunt for now.
"Or even Arianne Martell," Aegon continued. "She's my cousin, even if we have yet to meet. Beautiful, they say. And Dorne has never bent to the Iron Throne, not truly. That alliance would mean something."
"Arianne is her father's daughter," Jon warned. "Prince Doran plays a long game. We couldn't wait for him to decide if you were truly Rhaegar's son or some Lyseni pretender."
Aegon kicked a stone, sending it skittering into the underbrush. "And instead I'm to court Margaery Tyrell. Thrice wedded, twice widowed." His voice turned bitter. "She was Renly's queen, then Joffrey's, now Tommen's. How many kings can one woman marry?"
"As many as it takes to see her family's ambitions fulfilled." Jon grabbed Aegon's shoulder, forcing the young man to meet his eyes. "This isn't about romance, Your Grace. Your father understood that. He did his duty to Elia, even as his heart belonged elsewhere."
And look where that led, a voice whispered in Jon's mind. A realm bled white for love.
"Margaery's marriage to Tommen will be annulled," Jon continued. "The High Sparrow is dead, the Faith in chaos. She needs a new husband to secure her position, we need the Reach's strength. It's a practical arrangement."
"Practical," Aegon repeated flatly. "Yes, how romantic. How long till I am the next King to die wedded to her."
A raven cawed overhead, drawing Jon's attention. The sun was sinking toward the western hills, painting the forest canopy gold and crimson. Soon it would be dark, and the Kingswood would become even more dangerous.
"We should make camp," Jon said. "Tomorrow we'll send riders ahead to Bitterbridge, announce our coming."
"And soon I'll smile and court the Queen of Thorns' granddaughter while her grandmother dissects my every word, searching for proof I'm false." Aegon's hand went to his sword hilt, a nervous gesture he'd developed recently. "Sometimes I wonder if the throne is worth all of… this."
"Your father would say it was," Jon said softly. "The realm needs a true king, not the abomination that sits the throne now. Every day Cersei rules, more innocents die."
Aegon nodded slowly. "For the realm then. Always for the realm."
They made their way back toward the Golden Company's lines, where soldiers were already raising tents and building cookfires. The oliphaunts trumpeted in the distance, finally being led forward to the clearing now that the fighting had ended. Their massive footfalls shook the earth, a reminder of the foreign power that backed Aegon's claim.
The Queen of Thorns awaited them at Bitterbridge, and with her, the key to the Iron Throne. Jon could only pray that Aegon had learned enough to match wits with the most dangerous woman in Westeros.
The forest grew dark around them, full of shadows and the cries of the wounded. Somewhere to the north, King's Landing still burned. And somewhere to the east, across the Narrow Sea, a dragon queen has set sail.
Jon flexed his greyscale fingers, feeling the stone creep another fraction up his arm. Time was his enemy now, more than any Lannister force. He needed to see Aegon crowned before the disease claimed him entirely.
Hold on, he told himself. Just a little longer. For you Rhaegar. For your son.
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Redwyne Straits
The screaming had stopped an hour ago, but the symbols Euron carved into the miller's daughter still wept blood across the deck of Silence. The Bloodstone Crown pulsed against his temples, each throb sending new colors cascading through his vision—hues that had no names, that shouldn't exist in this world. The girl's soul had tasted of lavender and terror when it fled her body, adding its essence to the growing chorus of voices trapped within the crown.
"Bring the next one," Euron commanded, his voice carrying despite barely raising above a whisper. The tongueless crew scrambled to obey, dragging forward a sobbing septon they'd taken from a village near Oldtown. The man's fat fingers clutched a seven-pointed star, lips moving in desperate prayer.
Euron traced the ritual blade along the septon's cheek, savoring how the man flinched. "Your Seven won't answer, priest. They never do." He began carving the first symbol, one he'd seen in dreams of drowned cities and burning skies. "But something else might."
The Redwyne Straits stretched behind them now, their waters turned the color of old wine in the dying light. Euron could taste the possibilities spreading before him like a feast. The Arbor lay defenseless with Paxter's fleet scattered across the Narrow Sea. Lord Redwyne's vineyards would burn so beautifully, each flame a prayer to powers older than the Seven, older than the Drowned God himself.
You waste time with petty raids.
The voice slithered through his skull like ice water, making the crown burn cold against his skin. Euron's lips curled into a smile as he continued carving symbols into the septon's flesh, ignoring the man's shrieks.
"Do I?" Euron asked aloud, causing his crew to exchange nervous glances. "Strange, I thought I was following your grand design. The Citadel burns, the maesters' secrets are mine, yet..." He paused, pressing the blade deeper, "the Horn of Winter seems to have grown legs and wandered off."
You were distracted. Too busy playing with that kraken, too busy with the slaughter.
"The horn wasn't there." Euron's laughter rang across the deck, sharp as breaking glass. "You promised me it would be waiting in those dusty vaults alongside this pretty crown. Were you lying, or merely incompetent?"
The septon's blood formed patterns on the deck that hurt to look at directly. Through the crown's sight, Euron could see the man's soul struggling against invisible chains, trying to flee but held fast by the symbols.
You didn't look properly. Someone moved it before you arrived.
"Ah, so now the story changes." Euron wiped the blade on the septon's robes. "First it was there, now it was moved. Next you'll tell me it was never there at all."
Silence, mortal. I know where it travels now.
"Do tell." Euron gestured for his men to position the septon over the side.
Something clouds my sight in Westeros. A cold presence in the North grows stronger, blocking my vision like a wall of ice. But the horn... it moves through Dorne. Southwest, toward the mountains.
"Dorne." Euron rolled the word around his tongue like wine. "How tedious. All that sand and self-righteousness." He nodded to his men, who pushed the septon overboard. The splash was followed by inhuman sounds as the ritual completed itself, sending ripples of wrongness through the water.
You must hurry. A dragon rises in the North and not one of the girl's three, but something else. Something that shouldn't exist again.
Now that was interesting. Euron's blue eye gleamed while the patch over his other socket seemed to drink in light. "A fourth dragon? How delightful. Perhaps I'll get the chance to sacrifice it."
Fool. Retrieve the horn, then bring both artifacts to Valyria. Only there can the final ritual—
"Yes, yes, doom and glory, blood and fire." Euron waved dismissively. "You've been singing that song since I left Valyria. But tell me, ancient one, if you can barely see into Westeros anymore, what use are you?"
The voice's rage made the crown burn so cold it felt like fire. You dare? Without me, you're nothing but a mad reaver playing with toys he doesn't understand.
"Without you, I'm the man who tamed a kraken, who holds the Bloodstone Crown, who makes the Reach tremble." Euron's grin widened. "I think I'll manage."
You need me, Euron Greyjoy. The crown alone isn't enough. When the true darkness comes—
Euron closed his mind like slamming a door, using techniques the warlocks of Qarth had taught him in exchange for their lives. The voice's protests faded to distant echoes, then nothing. The crown still pulsed with power, but quietly now, submissively.
"SAILS! SAILS TO THE NORTH!"
The lookout's cry drew Euron's attention. Three sets of purple sails marked with the burgundy grapes of House Redwyne cut through the waves, probably a patrol from the Arbor. They hadn't spotted Silence yet—the ship's dark sails and darker reputation made it nearly invisible in the twilight.
Euron's laughter started low in his chest, building until it echoed across the water. Three ships. Three sacrifices. Three more voices to feed the crown's endless hunger.
"Signal the fleet," he commanded, his voice carrying promises of violence. "We take them intact. I want their crews alive."
The ironborn scrambled to obey, readying grapnels and boarding pikes. Euron touched the crown, feeling the trapped souls writhe within its metal. Soon he'd have enough power to not need anyone at all. Soon he'd write his own prophecies in blood and saltwater.
The Redwyne ships drew closer, still unaware of death approaching on black sails. Euron began humming an old song from Asshai, one that made even his crew's skin crawl.
Comments
Blake Thomason
This is getting wild! Love it so far!
Ryan
Euron is gonna screw himself eventually, just hope it isn’t Jon who has to deal with it
ND518
Wow Euron is terrifying and I love it
Full Horizon
Can't confirm or deny D:
에스라 이
Oh my god… I have a feeling the final boss is not the Others, but Euron horrible Greyjoy…..
Full Horizon
I call it Karma :)
Mandragoran
Man, the south makes the north’s troubles seem like a pleasant stroll through the park. Well, apart from the ice zombie army coming for them that is
