By Alex Marshall

"It was once all going so well, correct up till the massacre."

Twenty years in the past, feared common Cobalt Zosia led her 5 villainous captains and mercenary military into conflict, wrestling monsters and toppling an empire. whilst there have been not more titles to win and not more worlds to beat, she retired and gave up her legend to history.

Now the peace she carved for herself has been shattered via the unprovoked slaughter of her village. looking bloody vengeance, Zosia heads for conflict once again, yet to discover justice she needs to confront grudge-bearing enemies, once-loyal allies, and an unknown military that marches below a well-known banner.

Five villains. One mythical common. a last quest for vengeance.

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Martin PROLOGUE The day was grey and bitter cold, and the dogs would not take the scent. The big black bitch had taken one sniff at the bear tracks, backed off, and skulked back to the pack with her tail between her legs. The dogs huddled together miserably on the riverbank as the wind snapped at them. Chett felt it too, biting through his layers of black wool and boiled leather. It was too bloody cold for man or beast, but here they were. His mouth twisted, and he could almost feel the boils that covered his cheeks and neck growing red and angry.

Ah, but can she use them? Jaime meant to find out, as soon as he rid himself of these fetters. He wore iron manacles on his wrists and a matching pair about his ankles, joined by a length of heavy chain no more than a foot long. “You’d think my word as a Lannister was not good enough,” he’d japed as they bound him. He’d been very drunk by then, thanks to Catelyn Stark. Of their escape from Riverrun, he recalled only bits and pieces. There had been some trouble with the gaoler, but the big wench had overcome him.

He hated archers. At the prow of the onrushing galley stood a stocky man with a bald head, bushy grey eyebrows, and brawny arms. Over his mail he wore a soiled white surcoat with a weeping willow embroidered in pale green, but his cloak was fastened with a silver trout. Riverrun’s captain of guards. In his day Ser Robin Ryger had been a notably tenacious fighter, but his day was done; he was of an age with Hoster Tully, and had grown old with his lord. When the boats were fifty yards apart, Jaime cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back over the water.

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