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Chapter Text

Bran

Bran’s world spun as he saw it all. Everything that had happened…and everything that would have, but for him. He could hear the voices, the countless lives of the Three-Eyed Ravens that had come before panicking, trying to reach out to him. Echoes, they are only echoes of those long past, he thought. Rather than let them fill his being, he replied in kind. You are no longer needed. Your bodies have long decayed to dust, your mates and children wait for you, it is time to go to them, he called, patient but firm. You are dead. You must go. They protested of course, voices crying out in uncertainty- the unknown, the inability to see all ends, to leave the present to the mercy of the future being their greatest objection. Bran did not yield, as he might have in another life. He held his ground, until the youngest of them finally began to dissipate. The elders cried out in alarm as each Raven ceased to be, their knowledge, their histories lost. As it happened though, and the vast chorus of voices slowly faded to a very few, Bran found he was better able to impress on them the importance of the moment. Your work is done, your songs sung a thousand thousand times over across a thousand thousand years. It is time for new life, new songs. We’ll take it from here- and if we fail, we will join you shortly, to meet you and yours beyond the curtain. Would that be so terrible? At long last, the old ones’ voices began to dim, until Bran Stark found himself alone in the great web of weirs. With only himself for company, he drank deep of the tree’s power, feeling it fill him, until hunger, thirst, tiredness fled. Until he felt strong enough to rejoin the world of the living.

With a great wrenching effort, he pulled himself free of the tree, collapsing backward into someone’s arms. Meera, he thought. The ravens in the branches of the white tree were screaming and flitting from branch to branch in alarm. An avalanche of emotions, of raw feelings surged through him, and he found himself too overwhelmed to even speak.

“Bran! Bran?!” she cried, falling backward to the cold earth with him held tight.

“I’m alright…” Bran muttered, shaking his head, feeling dazed. “I’m alright, Meera.” As if realizing just how she was holding him, her lord, she reluctantly released him and he flopped out of her warm embrace and onto his belly. “Oof.” he grunted. Alright, brilliant. Stupid legs, he thought. He flopped over again, feeling so much like a fish wriggling around uselessly on a dock. Tentatively, he reached for the Raven’s power, and found only the warging he had always been able to do. The Flock has flown, he realized. It is only me in here, only Brandon Stark- and that’s all I’m meant to be. He refocused on the present, letting the half-remembered past-that-wasn’t fade into nothingness. “Sorry if I scared you, Meera. I just… wanted to see if I could do it. Use the trees, and all that. They wanted me to join them, the other Ravens-” he saw her beautiful green- no, grey, eyes widen “-but I told them to move on. We can do it, Meera. We don’t need the echoes of the past to help us forge the future.” She looked at him like he had sprouted wings. “Don’t worry. It’s done with, we just need to move forward. We need to get back to Winterfell as soon as possible…” he trailed off as he realized the birds had all gone silent, looking to the treeline north of them. The air became noticeably colder, even in the snowy wood. Meera held her weir-handled sword close, found in the depths of the Raven’s cave. “Hold it close.” he warned her, and she looked at him with those big eyes again. Gods, I could drown in those and happily, he thought, forgetting the peril for a moment. The two watched with bated breath as the sun sank below the horizon- and something stepped into the edge of their clearing.

The Other looked nothing like the beings from the cave. Rather than appear as a sort of…winter-man, Bran supposed, this creature was not and had never been human. It stood perhaps five and a half feet tall, wearing the storied reflective icy armor- a razor-thin crystal sword in its left hand. White hair fell in a careless curtain about its shoulders and down its back, and yet it never seemed to be so much as a frizzle out of place. It advanced slowly, almost listlessly. He’s bored, Bran realized. He thinks this is beneath him. Meera’s breath quickened, and she became Bran’s world.

“Don’t be afraid.” he said quietly, as the Other’s eyes fixed on her raised sword. His nostrils flared, he lifted the crystal blade, and launched himself at Meera faster than Bran’s eyes could follow. With the reflexes only possible of a crannogwoman, the Lady Reed brought her sword up and the Other’s blade crashed against the dark metal with a single clear ring. In the split second of the Other’s flinch of surprise, Meera forced the Other’s blade away and brought her own down in a short brutal slash. The dark metal bit through icy armor, white-blue flesh, and the bone beneath, and the Other’s shin parted at the middle. The creature thrashed wildly as it fell, razor-sword flitting through the air. It landed sideways in the snow with an otherworldly shriek of pain. Bran watched, transfixed, as the stump sizzled and burned like a wound being cleansed of corruption by Maester Luwin. Dragonglass, they cannot so much as touch it! Bran remembered. The Other rolled over, a jab at Bran as he lay prone in the snow. As always, Meera’s intervention saved him, her sword smashing down on the Other’s outstretched arm! Bran could hear the elbow shatter like glass, his attacker letting out a fresh screech, silenced when Meera drew a dragon glass arrowhead from her pocket and pressed it to the Other’s temple. His ice-blue eyes bulged and his skin bubbled like melting wax, exposing bits of crystalline bones beneath, hair melting away like a dew-frosted spider’s web! He fell face first in the snowdrift, lying inert, as Meera took several shaken breaths. She prodded the Other with her foot. When it did not melt, she raised her sword above her head. “No.” Bran said, finding his voice after the flurry of attacks. It hadn’t been a minute. Meera looked at him incredulously. “They need to see. They all need to see.” he explained- reaching down with a hand protected by fur covering and pulling a frosteel dagger from the Other’s waist. He flipped it and its larger sibling to Meera, who caught each with perfect grace, careful to not let her bare skin touch them.

“How are we going to move him?” she asked Bran as he stared at the unconscious form of the Other. He didn’t answer right away, thinking on the safest method.

“We won’t make it to the Wall before dawn, so if that kills him outright it isn’t our problem anyway.” he shrugged.

“Dawn won’t kill him.” A soft voice at his ear nearly made him jump out of his skin! He flopped over, cheeks burning red. Graceful as a salted slug, while Meera Reed made a prancing stag look bowlegged. A small creature, childlike in stature but with eyes full of wisdom, stared back at him. She and others of her kind appeared from the trees, slowly descending. This is more than just a few… Bran thought wonderingly.

“I thought you’d all gone with Leaf…” Meera whispered behind him.

“Not all of us. Only some.” the Child of the Forest replied softly. Large shapes cut through the trees, snuffling or talking in low voices. Giants, and mammoths with them! Bran’s face split into a wide grin.

“You must come to Winterfell with us. You kept us safe, let us return the favor.” he said at once. The Child bit her lip.

“Once, your race was greater even than the Others. Shapechangers, moon-mothers, wargs, greenseers, swamp shamans…now they fight over space that has never belonged to them. Truly, would the creatures men have become rejoice to see us or our brothers?” she pointed to the advancing giants, most of whom looked haggard, underfed. “Or would they fear losing what they consider their lofty positions?” Bran frowned. “Men, they are the children.” the green girl said quietly.

“Still, we’re better together. You and the giants belong at Winterfell with us. House Stark has wargs when before there were none, direwolves howl south of the Wall for the first time in ages. When we win…you will be welcome in every northern hall, at every northern hearth. It is as much your homeland as ours.” he repeated vehemently. “You can’t just let the Others kill your kind off. Men would fight, will fight, why won’t you?” he asked.

“Let’s just get to the Wall, see how the Night’s Watch reacts to…all this.” Meera cut in, pointing to the first light of dawn on the horizon. “I know we don’t want to be out here when night comes again.” she said. The Children quickly bound the Other in blood-red vines, talking to each other in the True Tongue. “Will they hold it?” Meera asked anxiously. “A friend of ours told us how strong they can be.”

“They will hold. There is power in living wood. So too is there power in all that lives.” the Child replied cryptically.

It was slow going (the giants were in worse shape than Bran had at first assessed) but when the sun was at its height, they saw the Wall break the sea of trees that was the Haunted Forest. A palpable sense of relief broke over Bran then. We’ll have the Wall between us and the Night King…and his new friends. As the ragged column such as it was emerged from the trees, Bran heard the horn of the Night’s Watch sound four times. He grinned again. I wonder what Jon will make of that. He desperately wished to see his brother, to see Ghost too. To lay eyes on another that shared his blood. Not that he’d trade the years he spent with Meera for anything. After what, four years? More? The greatest part of it with only her for company. Hodor had been Hodor, Summer a direwolf, the Children in the cave mysterious and alien, the Raven himself an utter enigma. They had talked of their lives until that point- Meera of her beloved parents, times with Jojen, although Bran noticed she spoke of him rarely. Of Greywater Watch, of learning the sword, the spear and the bow from Howland Reed. The man who helped Father defeat Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, the finest swordsman to ever live.

“He taught me how to be a Reed, Bran. Jojen was never robust, he had my mother’s weak health, so my father taught me all he could. How to hunt, fight, treat a wound, poison an arrow, move in silence, swing tree to tree, all he knew of lizard-lions, …anything and everything.” she smiled, a rare joy for Bran Stark. “I miss him dearly. More than I miss Jojen, though that can’t be right to think…” she sniffled suddenly. He took her hand from the sledge, the Other being carefully carried in its bindings by giants holding either end of the vines.

“It is your heart speaking true, Meera Reed. No one can fault you for that. I know a girl or two myself who might miss their father rather more than their younger brother, half a baby when he last saw them.” he said. She turned to him, walking steadily alongside on those graceful legs he so loved as he loved everything that she was.

“As you say, my Prince.” was her only reply. A man would take her in his arms, lift her off her feet and bring her lips to his, Bran thought. Not me. I’m as graceful as a wight and nimble as a legless turtle. I’m Bran the Broken. The shame of it, the dismay at not being able to care for her as she had him, made his cheeks burn. She had hunted for them, massaged his shoulders and back to keep them from going stiff, even carefully trimmed the hair from out of his eyes with the edge of her dagger, and later her sword. She has carried the whole of House Stark for years by herself. Any lord would be favored by the gods themselves to have her hand. The Reeds were the lords paramount of the Neck, the southern marshy region of the North, a world unto itself- but their loyalty to the Starks of Winterfell had gone beyond simple lip service, it went into their very blood. Before the dragons, before the Andals, before Starks and Reeds…a Winter King had taken a Marsh King’s daughter as his wife. A drop of Stark in every Reed, a drop of Reed in every Stark. Once we reach the Wall, I’ll ask her. Not in front of everyone at Winterfell, out here where the gods can hear. Truly, it’s the least a broken prince can do to make the woman he loves a princess.

Once they reached the Wall itself, Bran looked at the gate with apprehension. This is the first time Children of the Forest will live south of the Wall since it first went up, to say nothing of the Other, he thought. He heard voices on the other side, and finally he heard the great gears and winches clanking to raise the barrier, revealing several men in black who promptly swore or gasped at the sight before them. A crippled boy on a sledge, a tired-looking young woman, who knew how many Children of the Forest, a gaggle of giants… The brother who seemed to be in charge looked doubtfully at the bound bundle the giants minded.

“Is that-” he pointed. “-what I think it is?” he asked, eyes wide. Bran nodded.

“The same. I’m Brandon Stark, Prince of Winterfell, and this is Lady Meera Reed of Greywater Watch. We have her to thank for catching an Other for the whole of the Seven Kingdoms to see.” he explained. The black brothers immediately muttered in dissent.

“Lord Commander, this can’t possibly be allowed-”

“Our whole purpose here is to stop the cold ones from getting into the Seven Kingdoms-”

“Who will keep it confined for such a purpose? Who knows if it will live that long away from the cold and the darkness?” they all interrupted each other. The Lord Commander such as he was closed his eyes and exhaled.

“There are less than a hundred of us, lads. Half of us wouldn’t last a night besieged by scarecrows. If one as a prisoner will finally bring the armies of Westeros to bear in support of the Watch, we can’t pass up the chance.” He turned from Bran and went back under the Wall, the Children trotting past Bran after him.

“I guess that means we can go in…” Meera said uncertainly as the giants began slowly working their mammoths through. The beasts were brighter than they seemed, able to cope with the confined space. They know it will open up at the other side, Bran realized. Finally, Meera took up the rope to pull Bran along, but he gently reached out and took her arm.

“Hold on, Meera.” She looked at him confusedly and then he saw her beautiful eyes go wide again as he slowly turned, his legs slumping over the edge of the sledge. Brandon Stark took a long breath, and then he pushed off, staggering forward, shaky as a newborn colt, onto one knee. “I want to do this before we reenter the Seven Kingdoms.” he said, chest heaving as he looked up at her. “For years, you protected me, provided for me, fought for me. I don’t need carrying, but that doesn’t mean I need you any less. Who in this world could I love more than you? Besides, the Starks after me definitely need carrying, and I would not want to be Prince of Winterfell without you as my Princess. You shouldered the burden of my house this far, Meera Reed. Would you carry it a little further?” Bran asked, breathless and red-faced. I don’t know how to ask a girl to marry me, but that sounded alright, he reasoned. The brothers around them stared. Meera looked down at him, her lovely mouth slightly open. Slowly, she got onto her knees, onto his level, though still a head taller.

“I…I…” she stammered, tears running down her cheeks. She took the hand he held up to her, brought it to her heaving front and composed herself. “You are Bran the broken boy no longer. You are Prince Brandon Stark, a man grown, and due all your mighty name is owed- though I would marry you if you were some nameless wildling boy.” she breathed, and her wonderful hands cupped his face. She drew him up to stand for true, and as their lips met he looked into those eyes he loved so. Yes, her eyes are grey, I see it now. Like Father’s were, like mine ought be, like our children will have.

Chapter Text

Arya

She woke up when the morning rays crept up her face into her eyes. She sat up with a groan, swaying when she realized her head was pounding. Arya whimpered as a flurry of extremes swept through her. Elation, terror…dismay. Somehow, it had all ended with the unthinkable. She could not remember her nightmare, but likely it had to do with a Stark falling asleep within sight of the Twins. I dreamed of Mother floating in the river the night after the Red Wedding, she remembered. The massacre that had wiped her house from the world. I came here for a reason, she reminded herself. A castleful of Freys awaited her, a name to be crossed off her list. Walder Frey and all his get. She took a few breaths, steadied herself, and stood. They had killed her mother and Robb and Grey Wind too- not to speak of all the Northern houses who had lost blood in the betrayal. She took a moment to get her bearings before making for the Twins. She wondered if she could kill every Frey with just Needle in a single night and simply leave the castle’s inhabitants poked full of holes for someone else to find. The thought should have made her smile happily as a normal girl thinking about flowers from a lad, but Arya Stark felt that endless emptiness instead, that awful feeling she could not shake. The feeling a deer might have if it could sense the pack but not where they were. She swallowed, stopping after having gone no more than a hundred feet. She hated it, not having a destination, floating along- the plaything of chance. She closed her eyes and crouched down so as not to be seen by passerby. She let herself wander in her mind’s eye, trying to think what to do. The Freys in all their two-faced maggotry were essentially defenseless, but she could not bring herself to go to the Twins.

“You are a creature of death. To think you could refrain is as a pig that dreams of flying.” The voice made her shoot up, Needle in hand.

“Who’s there?” she asked, though she recognized the voice. “No one.” came the reply, taunting in its casual tone. No, Arya thought. I killed you.

“You killed No One, Arya Stark. I’m the only person you truly cannot kill.” The voice was at her ear always, yet when she spun she found only empty air.

“I suppose Jaqen didn’t take me leaving as well as I thought…” Arya mused. The voice laughed. “He is nothing to us. I’m here now of my own accord.”

“Well, if you’re here, how can I hear you but not see you?” Arya demanded. Suddenly, there was a blinding pain in the back of her head and she collapsed to the forest floor. She hit me with a stick, Arya realized.

“When you were blind, you could hear but not see me. This time your eyes work just fine, and yet you still don’t see. You’re wasting time anyway- Walder Frey’s every breath is one too many, and it is for us to address. A life for a life.” Arya caught her grey eyes in the hilt of her sword, a present from Jon. Another pair, hazy but familiar, glowered out at her from Needle’s blade. A life for a life.

 The Twins themselves looked just as Arya had imagined them. Granted, they were more or less burned into her memory from the Red Wedding, but she was surprised at how well she’d remembered the castle itself. Yoren spoke true. I can barely picture Robb or Mother but I will remember the Twins until I die, Arya mused. The Lion of Lannister flew above the tower banner at the top of the castle, and she gritted her teeth at the sight of a muddied, torn Stark banner lying in the roadway- any cart that came or went from the Twins would have to go over it, treading it deeper into the mud. She spent a long time watching the main gate, the countless soldiers form this village or that town, the giggling girls peeking from hovel windows at boys they liked, and all in armor. Suddenly, a rider shot up the road for the gate.

“State your business.” The bored-looking weasel face of a guard captain drawled.

“An urgent missive from Queen Cersei!” the rider replied, and he was let in. Arya felt a peculiar wind draw prickles across her skin. As if she’d just heard something incredible. I could go in, she thought. A common girl or pretty wench, come to do the washing or a scullion…they’d never think a lone girl a threat. She opened her pack and chose a pretty round face, long dark hair and olive skin. Arya cooked up a quick story. Lycia, a Dornish father and a Landing whore for a mother. When Lycia walked up to the gate, basket in hand, they let her in without a second glance.

“All these Freys. It will take us time, but we’ll certainly kill them all.” No One said. Lycia ignored her. What did she know of Faceless Men? She knew washing and fending off drunken men twice her age, she had no time to think about ludicrous revenge massacres. She made her way towards the center of the castle, listening for someone catching their breath or words regarding Cersei. Finally, she heard a sound that made her eyes widen.

“Heh, heh. Jaime Lannister mocks me to my face and his brotherfucking bitch of a sister sends me a plea the very next day.” a weasel’s voice echoed through the stony corridor. She peeked into the room and say a very old man in a high wooden chair staring at a piece of paper, a girl younger than she at his side, looking utterly hapless. Lycia slowly made her way inside, keeping her eyes down as a serving girl might. “Oi, who the arse are you?” Lord Walder barked. “If a girl like you were around here, I’d have noticed by now. You aren’t one of mine, you’re prettier than any daughter, or granddaughter for that matter.” Frey barked.

 She turned in shock, muttering in a low voice.

“Again, idiot girl, I’m harder of hearing than I am between my legs and that’s saying something.” He grinned lecherously.

“Lycia, milord. Of King’s Landing. I came up with Ser Jaime’s-” she began but he cut her off.

“Oh, fuck that golden sisterfucker. He didn’t have you, did he?” he asked.

“N-no, milo-”

“Good. Then I’ll have first crack at you tonight.” he decided, as if she were a barrel of wine he’d found in the cellar. He laid the paper on the table in front of him, sipping from his goblet, beady eyes locked on her.  

“Kill him now. And the girl, she might be carrying another weaselfaced Frey.” No One said, the voice as loud and clear as Walder Frey’s, though neither he nor his wife reacted to it. Lycia walked toward them, Lady Frey’s eyes going wide at the expression on the serving girl’s face. Lord Walder’s eyes were as bad as his ears, though, and he saw only an approaching curvy body.

“Or, I could have you now. Initiative isn’t something I look for in a woman, but surprises are never a bad thing. Ask Robb Stark.” and Lord Frey laughed, a belly cackle that made his wife’s lip quiver in abject terror. The thing before them wore the face of a common girl, but beneath it was a being without pause or mercy or compassion. Lycia’s breath stayed even as she approached, until she found herself looking at the paper. Daenerys Targaryen has set sail at last, it read. Prepare your levies and march in force to reinforce King’s Landing. Written by Qyburn, Hand of the Queen, in the name of Cersei, First of Her Name.

“First of Her Name…” Lycia repeated, as Lord Walder continued to laugh. A realization made her pause. With all her siblings dead, that made Arya Robb’s heir. Arya Stark, Queen in the North. Lycia blinked, and she began to laugh as well. Lord Walder didn’t realize at first, but when he finally saw just how oddly gleeful the daft wench was being, his weak face curled into a frown.

“Just what’s so gods-damned amusing?” he snarled. Lycia gasped for breath, looking at him with tears in her eyes.

“I suppose I just came here to kill you and all your get, Walder Frey.” she explained evenly. “But that seems uncharitable now. When you betrayed and murdered my brother and my sister was lost to the chaos of King’s Landing, I suppose that you made me Queen in the North.” she pulled her face off, Arya’s grey eyes blazing out like watch-beacons. Walder Frey squinted uncomprehendingly at her while his wife slumped over unconscious. She turned away from the wizened lord.

“What are you doing?” No One hissed in her ear. “He’s on your list!” Arya halted for a moment- and then the long low first note of the Pack hit her ears.

“Seven hells!” Frey snorted. “They never pipe down, no matter how many outriders they tear down!” Arya smirked.

“Their breeding season is in full swing, and the females want to den down. The Pack is hungry, Lord Walder- and Winter is Coming.” Frey made more noise, but Arya ignored him. 

 The Twins had gone to sleep, and the halls were long chilly and dark.

“What the fuck?” someone’s shrewish voice broke the silence. Looking over, she spotted two guards rubbing sleep from their eyes. Behind them was the drawbridge crank. Too sweet, she thought. After knocking the guards’ heads together, she worked out how to lower the drawbridge. She stepped out into the cold night, No One’s voice a single dark hissing note lost in the tide of howling that washed over Arya Stark. A silvery light twinkled down around her, driving the dark voice away into the recesses of her soul. Looking up, she could see the full moon shining down, stopping her in her tracks and catching the breath in her chest. The perfect silver-white orb became the world, her pack-mates dashing about beneath Her. Sound faded but for the Pack’s song, and Arya could hear the carrying note, deeper and richer than any timber wolf. Her heart pounded excitedly. Oh yes, she thought. Oh yes, oh please. She staggered dumbly toward the moon, the Mother of the Pack, hand all but outstretched toward Her.

“I’m here…I’m here!" she whispered, aching to be with Her, to sit at Her side. She could hear the Pack sweeping past her into the castle, an unholy place, a site of betrayal and death. Normally, they’d have avoided it like a marching army column. Now, with the Freys asleep and their Mother with them, the Pack had no fear of men even clad in steel. Arya’s feet touched cold earth, and two eyes glowed out at her from the trees. I know you, she thought, and you know me. The direwolf slowly loped into view. Her size surprised Arya. When last I saw her, she was no bigger than a dog. Nymeria was bigger than a horse now it seemed, easily thrice the weight of the largest timber wolf to ever live. “Hello, girl. It’s me…” she reached a hand out, but Nym’s nose barely twitched. “They would have killed you, Nymeria. I had to keep you safe…” she said. Maybe it isn’t that, she thought. Maybe she blames me for Lady. She felt as though the wolf could read her thoughts, the great face pondering her aptly. Not anger, she realized. Loneliness. She does not allow the common scavenger to mount her, she wants a proper mate. “There are others, girl. Others of your kind. We can go beyond the Wall, and find what you seek…and if we don’t, we can always keep looking. The world is much bigger than Westeros.” Nymeria slowly made her way closer, head low and eyes unblinking. Yes, Arya Stark thought. There will be others after you. After me too, I think.

 When dawn came, she found herself leading Nymeria through woods the direwolf had likely run a thousand times since they first parted. Panting made her ears twitch and instantly two of the ugliest wolves Arya could imagine were simply there, as if from nowhere. One was patchy and mangy and covered in angry red blisters, and the other was white like Ghost. Only, where Ghost was clean as snow, this wolf reeked of blood, and his face had a sort of perverse symbol of the Seven carved into his face. Lines of the Star danced down his head in wavy lines like lightning bolts. You two are killers, Arya knew at once. Flame and blade were all it took to do that.

“To you too, Arya Stark. You may look a lady, but you’re vengeful as they come.” No One taunted. Arya tried hard to ignore her. “We can go to King’s Landing and leave with the lioness’ pelt, no one the wiser. Who can stop us?” Arya’s only response was deep breath and slow exhale, but she headed south. “Good. You know what you are, Arya Stark. A killer, now Queen in the North. The Lone Wolf, the Last Wolf, and all there is to do is tear down those that killed your Pack.” No One’s voice was both elated and smug. Suddenly, Arya whirled around, Needle slicing out at the person she was sure was behind her- and she shrieked in pain as a brilliant red line traced down her cheek, Nymeria yelping alongside, the Pack yipping agitatedly as they looked around for an enemy that they could not see. “I’m not out there…I’m in here with you, Arya Stark.” Staggering backward, she landed on her tailbone, sending a numbing jolt up her back, Breathing hard, she reached up to touch her face, her fingers coming away sticky. She’d cut deep. Cut herself deep. “You see? You can’t kill me- not without killing yourself. I’m part of you ‘til you die, Arya Stark. ‘Til you die.” No One mocked.

 It took Arya a few days to reach anything resembling a destination. As they got closer to inhabited parts of the Riverlands, it became harder for the Pack to move without being seen- so they stopped trying to be stealthy. Nymeria walked alongside her mistress without a second thought, as if there had never been a rift between them. Arya occasionally got a glimpse of a hunter or poacher through one of the scout-wolves’ eyes, but they ran away every time. No one was stupid enough to attack a member of the Pack.

“You are Queen of the Fords, girl.” Arya grinned proudly as Nymeria single-handedly took down a fleeing deer. Her grin vanished though when the direwolf sat, looking at her expectantly. The other wolves circled their mistress waiting for…what? The pack leader eats first…and I am part of Nymeria as she is part of me. They’re waiting for me to have my fill, and for Nymeria to have hers, before they maul the leftovers, she realized. Her reverie was broken when one of the wolves’ heads snapped south, and she caught the smell of smoke. Normally, the Pack feared fire, but Nymeria knew fire usually meant men and so their resolve was not tested. Men were an easy kill. Arya reached for a scout and took their measure. She saw perhaps a half-dozen of them sat around a fire, muttering to themselves. Red, she thought. They are Lannister men.

“To whet our appetite before we skin the main prize.” No One’s voice was muted when Arya was in the scout-wolf’s skin, though. Her hand moved to Needle’s hilt, and the cut on her face seared. Coming back to her own body, Arya made her way to the men- Nymeria’s pack encircling them, one dragging the deer.

“I swear, those hungry demons have chased out everything they couldn’t catch and eaten everything they could. What was it, a thousand gold pieces and a knighthood to the man who can slay the big one?” One of the soldiers mused, as a pathetically raggedy coney cooked on the fire- more fur and bones than meat, and the soldiers were ragged.

“A thousand gold dragons the Rock doesn’t have to risk the only life a man has got?” another opined.

“There’s no risk in it. If you’re guaranteed to die, it isn’t risk.” A third man cut in. “I hear they’re going to call us to the Landing soon- I hope you lads like the smell of corpses and pigshit.” An older man without the long hair of youth grunted, watching the measly dinner spin.

“You aren’t going to the Landing.” Arya said, making herself known for the first time. 

 The men looked at her in surprise. She expected them to grin lecherously, or tell her to fuck off, or just kill her out of hand. Or try to, rather.

“Oh, fuck.” The closest man, a handsome youth with long dark hair and bright green eyes got up and ran to her, sword quite forgotten. “Are you alr-” he froze as Nymeria loped casually to Arya’s side, the pack emerging from the trees on all sides.

“They fear.” No One said, Arya knowing the men could not hear her. “Good.” The man with green eyes’ face grew ashen, eyes wide, as she advanced, Nymeria close by . He isn’t afraid of the wolves, she realized. He’s afraid of me. That thought made her stop. She stood there, staring at the man, unable to think of anything but Jon Snow. One step at a time, she thought. She reached for the wolf with the deer in its teeth. The Pack wasn’t fat but they weren’t lean either, and word would get out if these men made it out of this clearing. “Word that a Stark still lives, the Pack still hunts. That we are hungry for the flesh of lions.” No One said smugly. Arya realized she hadn’t moved or spoken aloud in almost five minutes. In the wolf’s skin, she dropped the deer at the feet of the green-eyed man. She went back and opened her mouth.

“Tell me your name.” she finally got out. The man’s eyebrows fluttered.

“Tylon, Princess Arya. Of Lannisport.” What am I princess of?

“Tylon. Six grown men will not fill their bellies with two stringy rabbits.” She pointed to the deer. “A gift from House Stark and House Tully. Afterwards, you should return to the Westerlands. King’s Landing cannot hold on any longer. Dorne will do what it will do. The Vale is all but immune to outside armies. The Boltons may declare themselves Red Kings again, Kings in the North. Whomever serves as castellan of Casterly Rock must certainly want to keep Cersei on the throne, but there’s no need for you to die fighting for someone who would never fight for you. Go home. Go to Riverrun. Go anywhere- but stay away from King’s Landing.” she said. It wasn’t an order, it was her gut feeling. She walked past Tylon and his comrades, the wolves leaving them to fill their bellies with venison. A chilly wind cut through the trees, the gasp of a dying man, a dying season. Winter is coming, she thought. 

Chapter Text

Sansa

She woke up to the black bitch licking her face. The teeth that tore Ramsay’s chin from his face, she remembered. Sansa got out of bed, stretching in the morning chill, mind already starting to whirl. We have our home back. Jon and I. The Free Folk and the Northmen are starting to blend into a single people after who knows how long apart...

“This is why Jon should be king. Why he is king.” she told the hound, who it seemed was listening to her attentively. It made Sansa giggle for the first time in years. A cold draft made her teeth chatter, and for a moment all she could think of was a warm bath. Then she remembered how many people were at Winterfell. Many more than usual, and only more would be coming in the weeks, months that faced them. Only a selfish girl would waste water on a hot bath when it could be used to boil rags for wounds, she thought. Cold water it is, and I’ll simply bathe quickly and dry just as fast. Still, that didn’t make the experience any more pleasant. At least Myranda wasn’t there to leer at her while she was in the bath like Sansa was a caught fawn she couldn’t slaughter. That doesn’t matter now, she told herself firmly. Myranda is dead, and so is Ramsay. House Bolton had been wiped from the world. Technically, she was still Lady of the Dreadfort as Ramsay’s widow, if one bothered to consider Tommen’s decree of legitimization of Ramsay itself legitimate- which she didn’t. As far as Sansa was concerned, she was merely a particularly brutalized prisoner of Ramsay’s until Theon helped her escape. As King in the North, the Dreadfort and its incomes were Jon’s to gift to one he felt was trustworthy. That was no business of Sansa’s, she wanted nothing and less to do with the seat of the Boltons. The sooner we find a man fitting to hold it, the better. Once she got out, Sansa couldn’t get dry and dressed fast enough. She had been cold by the riverside when Ramsay’s hounds had pinned her under the fallen tree, but this was dreadful. Thankfully she had a fur mantle to put on over her leather dress. Gloves, riding boots, maybe a hood… she thought as she headed for the hall.

Of late, the very sight of Jon made Sansa want to weep in abject sorrow, though for all the world she knew not why. She embraced him, eyes shut and arms holding him tight, before she took her place on his left. Perhaps the northern lords would grumble that surely she belonged on his right as Lady of Winterfell, his heir presumptive. However, Sansa had no appetite for titles, for deference, for crowns any longer and she was resolved to see the chair on Jon’s right sit empty until someone worthy filled it. Not as Lady of Winterfell, but Queen in the North.

“Your Grace, if I may broach the matter, you are no doubt a man of honor as well as action, but you are young yet. Yet to choose a Queen, or a husband for the princess, or a new Lord of the Dreadfort.” Lord Royce’s words cut through the chatter and made several of the lords puff up in indignation. Before any of the puff fish could loose their poison, Sansa piped up.

“I’m sure I’m capable of choosing a husband for myself, my lord, as the last husbands were quite disagreeable- and each chosen without so much as my go-ahead.” she said, making the northern lords laugh while poor Lord Royce turned red. Poor man, Sansa thought. He is only doing what he sees as his duty. Even if he does have a pretty daughter he’d like to parade before Jon, he’d best get in line. The Manderlys have Wynafryd, for one.

“Your concern is noted, Lord Royce. As of now, we need not spouses and weddings, but allies and armies.” Jon managed to get out, though it was clear he misliked being called Your Grace as much as he did these wars of words. He is made for battle and for the field, not the hall or the feasting table. We must find him a queen so much the same, Sansa thought, eyes trailing over a honey-blonde at the elbow of the red-haired Tormund Giantsbane, whose eyes never left Jon. Val. A great beauty, and wild, one the Free Folk would be pleased as punch to see at Jon’s side. But is she a queen? Sansa mused to herself. As if a gaggle of lords trying to wring favor out of Jon weren’t enough to contend with, Sansa could see Petyr Baelish on the other side of the hall, both near enough the high table to see everything yet not too close to suggest indecent familiarity. He will run circles around Jon unless I protect him, and I SHALL. Sansa resolved herself with such sincerity she blinked. He will want his own for coming with the Knights of the Vale, no doubt. Were Tyrion here, he’d bet Littlefinger is about to ask for the Dreadfort. The seat of the Red Kings was a great prize and its incomes considerable. As nominal Lord of Harrenhal until the Battle of the Bastards which no doubt saw Cersei attaint him in the eyes of King’s Landing, Petyr Baelish it seemed was eager to again receive a lofty title, along with a castle that was once the seat of kings.

When morning court broke, Sansa followed Jon back to his room. She was both surprised and unnerved to see Val accompany him inside. Before there was time for any…thing, Sansa hurriedly knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” Val’s voice was annoyed and exasperated. Sansa heard Jon reprimand her softly. The door opened a bit and Sansa found herself staring into Jon’s grey eyes. She curtsied dutifully.

“Your Grace. I wanted to…make sure you were quite alright. It seems holding court doesn’t much agree with you.” Sansa said. Jon sighed, and opened the door for her to come in.

“Please don’t. I’m no courtier, Sansa. I’m a ranger, a swordsman and a warg, but I’m no politician.” I’m no king, the unspoken period to his words. He sat in a chair while Val got a fire going, his face a mask of resignation. Sansa knew her half brother better every day, and was at his knee before the tears came.

“Leave us.” she told Val. Mercifully, the wild beauty left without a word. Astute, a small corner of Sansa’s mind observed as Jon buried his face in his hands.

“Sansa, I never wanted to take Robb’s place, to take his birthright. I’m not a Stark, and Winterfell is not mine to rule.” A quiet sob from Jon put Sansa’s nerves on edge. Her mind whirled. We cannot have Jon lost in his own thoughts, not when so much still needs to be done.

“Well…” she began, thinking quickly. “Well, Jon, nobody’s asking you to rule, just to lead. Even if you believe yourself no ruler, you cannot deny the man who’s done what you have, faced what you’ve faced, is a leader without a doubt.” she said firmly, squeezing his hands while he looked down at her with Father’s grey eyes. A silent shadow rubbed his white head against Jon’s side. Ghost, you must keep ahold of him. He cannot get lost inside himself now. She pulled him to his feet, tugging harder when he did not at once rise. “Maybe you should take a walk outside, visit the smallfolk at their work or even check on the g…the giants.” Sansa stumbled over the word.

Although he did appear a deal happier out in the cold air, out under the sky, Sansa worried for her brother. There is only one Stark left, Jon, you needn’t worry about not being one. You’re more Stark than I will ever be, she thought. She had her arm in his, the dutiful sister to the King, the red rose of Winterfell. Bloodrose, the Bolton men who had survived the battle called her. She had put them to work with the rest of the North, fortifying the castle as best they could. Nearly every group of wildlings they passed roared a greeting to Jon or raised a drinking horn or even tossed Ghost a king’s portion of meat, making Sansa smile. These people more than follow him, they love him. He is their king, now and always. At the furthest edge of the castle grounds, the northernmost ridge, they found the herd idly grazing. Sansa swallowed nervously.

“They smart. Make horses look stupid in.” Sansa recognized the voice of Sigorn approaching them. She would have been terrified of the wildling chieftain in another life, but by now she’d learned. Like all Thenns, he was bald with patterned scars and had precious little Common Tongue, but he was a deal nimbler than many of the northern lords even in the hall, and seemed to enjoy making policy as it were. What would Father say to see his ladylike daughter next to a wildling, staring at a herd of mammoths? Sansa thought. There was a loud snorting and one of them slowly shuffled over. “Female. Almost ready calves.” Sigorn informed them. The animal smelled of course, but not in a particularly bad way, just a sort of heavy scent.

“King’s Landing smelled worse on its best day.” Sansa said offhandedly, taking off a glove and rubbing the mammoth’s side. Immediately, she turned and her trunk slowly coiled up Sansa’s arm but did not tug. She froze and gulped while Sigorn laughed and Jon smiled. Finally, the Thenn chief gave the mammoth a soft prod on the hindquarters with a stick and she moved on, leaving Sansa quite taken aback.

“Come, the giants have set up in the wolfswood proper.” Jon bid her and she followed.

Forests made Sansa nervous. After her time with Ramsay they became the domain of hungry predators, and of late she’d begun to dream of them incessantly. However, these trees were not the quiet ones in her dreams. Instead, she heard the rumbling of giants talking in the Old Tongue, Sigorn smirking or chuckling as he listened. Eventually they reached a clearing, trees knocked over to make for a large firepit that three giants slept around. I will never get used to them, she thought. No matter if I see them every day for the rest of my life. Ghost sniffed at one of them, moving on rather determinedly. Jon seemed to be surprised.

“Ghost, to me.” he told the dire wolf, but the white wolf had quite moved on.

“Oh.” Sigorn said, moving past the king and Sansa. “She-giant. Baby soon.” he told them, pointing. Sansa came around the thick copse and gasped at the sight of what was clearly a female giant sitting up against a boulder. Her belly was round and ponderous, and her face red from breathing hard, but she perked up at the sight of Jon and Ghost, immediately rattling off in the Old Tongue.

“She says hello. She called you Firehair.” Jon said to Sansa, smiling at her. Sansa felt her face turn pink.

“I’ll wear any name that keeps them with us, Your…” she saw Jon’s smile waver. “…Jon.” she finished. Sigorn relayed her words to the giant, who chuckled. “Ah, what’s her name? Do giants have names?” Sansa asked, feeling both ignorant and stupid. In short, she felt like herself. Sigorn nodded and asked.

“Moga.” the giant said, slowly, clearly, sounding like a rumbling of a small tree falling. Sansa tried hard not to flinch when the giant spoke. They’re just so different, she thought. The mammoths were strange, but they did little aside from trundle around and graze. She swore she saw a few hairy unicorns among them, but they looked more like cows than horses. Perhaps I’ll ask later, I don’t want to faint like the pretty southern girl and make Jon look weak, Sansa thought. If giants and mammoths can exist, why not Others? What person could see what we’re doing here and deny times are dire?

He took her back to the familiar confines of the castle in short order. Sansa had put on a brave face, but she knew Jon had a ranger’s senses and she was blushing on the way back, unable to hide her discomfort. Ghost kept close, rubbing his head against her side affectionately. How I miss Lady, how different my life would have been if I’d had her near. Then again, I was stupid enough to name a bloody dire wolf ‘Lady’ in the first place. I didn’t deserve her, she thought bitterly. A quiet hooting made Sansa look up, but to her surprise neither Jon or Ghost reacted.

“What is it, Sansa?” Jon asked, the hero as ever.

“Looking for the owl. It must be close.” Sansa said offhandedly. Ghost pulled away immediately. “I’ve never seen one up close, I wonder if they can really spin their heads ‘round.” Jon looked puzzled.

“Well, they can spin them halfway, but…what owl? It’s the middle of the day.” Sansa blinked. Of course it is, silly little bird, it wasn’t an owl at all. Dreaming of night even when the sun is up and shining, she told herself. She tried to pass it off as nothing more than a mistake, but Jon looked at her concernedly all the way back to Winterfell. Finally, Sansa could stand it no longer.

“Jon, please stop looking at me like I’ll shatter into a million pieces with just a breath. I’m fine, don’t worry about me.” she said, more sternly than she’d meant to. Inside the walls it was harder to worry about her anyhow, there were defenses to prepare and unending supplies that had to go from one place to another. The hounds bounded over to her, once a tool of terror and now her own. No doubt their nighttime romps in the Wolfswood were the cause of her unease. “Silly girls. Why can’t you just lay by the fire all night like good dogs?” she scratched the big black one’s head. At dinner, Jon ate what was brought him, but did not humor the pretty serving maid’s blushing pass. Sansa noticed several northern lords and Valemen watching him. She tossed her bones and scraps to the black hound who snapped them up eagerly as a puppy. Ghost didn’t so much as look at the food on the high table, instead watching the hall. Sansa made sure the contrast was visible to all. He doesn’t chase scraps, my lords. Mine or yours. A normal dog would be a spectacularly poor fit for him.

Once she’d made it back to her room, Sansa realized she could see her own breath.

“Cold, and it is only going to get colder.” she reminded herself, yet she didn’t set a fire in the hearth. The chill sunk into her flesh, yet Sansa Stark paid it neither heed nor mind. She sat down on her bed, remembering the last time she’d been in this room before she went out into the world, went south. It had taken its pound of flesh from her and more. Then I came back, and it was no better, she remembered. Only when I went north for the first time, to the Wall and to Jon, did I do something right. Perhaps I’ll go beyond the Wall next, and see what a boon that proves. From Mother fixing her hair to impress golden Prince Joffrey and the castle was host to a sea of southern swords, to keeping Jon’s head straight on his shoulders and giants’ voices within earshot of Winterfell. Sansa missed them terribly. Her family, her Pack she supposed, but more so she realized she missed a part of herself, a part that had never come to be. Jon had gone from a brooding dour bastard to an unquestioned leader, a King by right and true (if still brooding and dour, but he was a northman, what was he to do?) and what had Sansa become? She had remained the helpless princess in a storybook, the pretty face in a tale who existed to provide a favor for the hero’s joust and sons after he’d won and they’d married. They killed Lady before she could grow into something, Sansa thought. She looked at her hands. Soft and pink, twitching and fearful. I shouldn’t wield cutlery, let alone a real weapon. She put her head to pillow, staring out the window into the starry night. Sansa felt dreadfully tired, she wanted to weep…or else sleep until she could wake more than the weak Stark. I want Mother. I want Father. I want Lady… Outside, an owl hooted.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

He woke and all but launched himself out of his hammock. He shot about his cabin like a babe that just learned to run, unable to really concentrate on one thing for more than a moment or two. I feel like a man awoken from a hundred year sleep, Tyrion Lannister thought. I did not think I would feel so alive ever in my life. Oberyn Martell had once told the dwarf that only the fear of death made him feel alive. Well, that’s one more thing the Red Viper knew nothing about, Tyrion reflected. When I was face to face with the dragons, all I could think of was not shitting myself to death. He got lightheaded and went to the floor, staring up at the ceiling. He gleefully waving his stubby arms and legs as if to make a little butterfly in fallen leaves. The door to his cabin opened and Varys stared down at him with characteristic pursed lips.

“Hello, my friend.” Tyrion said, still wriggling around on the floor like a drunken child. Varys rolled his eyes.

“Is it too much to ask that you save this manic enthusiasm for deposing Cersei? Or barring that, at least waiting until we’re not in a confined space? You’re irritating the Unsullied, and that’s supposed to be impossible.” His voice was clipped, curt. Quite a chance of tone from the eunuch’s simpering sycophantic manner he was famed for back in King’s Landing.

“So was dragons coming back into the world. I’d think that someone who’s seen what you have would think nothing is impossible.” Tyrion replied, though he stopped his foolishness and sat up. “Is something the matter?” he asked.

“You’re missed above decks.” The eunuch said, the soft silky gaze of the court whisperer gone in favor of a steeled stare. A first, then. I’ve not been missed ever in my life, at least in a good way, Tyrion thought. He followed Varys up the mildly rocking stairs into the fresh sea air. He may be right, he pondered. Look at me, cavorting about like a mummer’s monkey and I’m not even drunk.

The sky was a stormy gray, though the wind filled their sails and kept them moving at a brisk pace. Still, what Dothraki were on board walked like the deck was covered in sleeping serpents or perhaps made of glass. Tyrion had never seen people so nervous before, so jumpy, and it was only because their horses couldn’t drink seawater. Perhaps it isn’t just the poison water they fear, but what will ultimately become of them, Tyrion considered. He took his time moving along the deck, gripping the railing and staying out of the sailors’ way. Their sailor argot was a blend of a dozen tongues only Missandei of Naath would likely have fully understood anyway, so he paid them no mind. He was so intent on not falling down (or over the side) that he had his eyes on his feet and not where he was going. Small woonder then that Tyrion walked headlong into Queen Daenerys’ new friend, the self-styled queen of the Iron Islands. Asha Greyjoy turned in surprise and then disgust at the sight of the dwarf. Before she could say anything, Tyrion gave his standard boxed apology.

“Your pardon. The wine was stronger than I thought and the ship’s rocking isn’t helping.” he said, passing her by. A sudden gust made him tense and grip the rail with both hands, making Greyjoy smirk.

“If you’re going to piss yourself at the sky’s kiss, no need to tempt her to take her clothes off and fuck you proper.” she said, passing him in turn and striding up the opposite stair to the fore deck. Up where a curtain of silver hair blew, the plaything of the wind. The black dragon circled overhead, his roaring and shrieking having quieted somewhat. He seemed reluctant to be more than a hundred feet from the Balerion at any time and was fond of shooting down and getting as close to Daenerys as he could, frustrated he could not land. His brothers stayed at the perimeter of the fleet, circling it, lingering it seemed off to the right. It was not lost on Tyrion that not once did they attempt to approach Daenerys, or even take up a new position in the rear or to the south. What draws them? he thought, still as ever bursting with questions. Why do they favor one spot, height, speed, over all the other possibilities? Perhaps I can pen a companion to Fire and Blood, and preserve their majesty if not their mystery. Another gust made him brace again, and he hastily followed Greyjoy to the fore deck before he could tempt fortune a third time.

What giddiness remained plummeted into the abyss of Tyrion’s gut when Daenerys turned to look at him. It came on quicker than a lightning bolt and hit harder too. Tyrion had to push himself not to burst into tears at the sight of her, a sudden swing as scary and startling as any fly-past by Drogon. His mouth hung open and he realized what a dolt he looked before he started a fit of coughing, leaning over to give weight to the mummery. When he felt his face go red, he straightened, took a deep breath and looked into the queen’s purple eyes.

“Apologies, Your Grace.” he said courteously. “I almost swallowed a bug.” Asha Greyjoy promptly snorted and started laughing aloud, the Dothraki present taking the opportunity to mock the dwarf even as they trembled in their horsehide leggings. What was that, Imp? Comport yourself, you’re the man who freed her wild children from their chains, he told himself. Daenerys’ own cheeks had turned pink, he saw, and her lip quivered. No doubt she was trying hard not to smile, or even laugh herself. Tyrion took another breath, as if just to make sure another coughing fit wasn’t imminent. “Varys told me to come up.”

“So he did. I thought it best you joined the rest of us out in the open air, it sounded as though a hundred children were loose in your cabin.” Daenerys said while still struggling not to smile, a sight that charmed Tyrion’s heartstrings. His sudden panic, that awful dread, faded into tiredness.

“Then it is of course my pleasure to-”

“We should make Dragonstone within the next day or two.” The queen cut through his blathering. “When I was small, I’d always imagined it would be me following Viserys if ever we made it back across the Narrow Sea. I do not wish to take my first steps on Westerosi soil alone. Since you are my Hand and my fellow exile both, I should like you to accompany me ashore, Lord Tyrion.” she said. Her words made the rest of the world fade as they had the day she’d pinned the signet of the Hand to his tunic. He opened his mouth to speak, but this time he could not feign comical misfortune- he was truly lost for words.

If only the weather were as jolly as my spirits… Tyrion thought as the sky darkened and the winds picked up. Bugger it all, I suppose a storm is fit if frightening homecoming for Daenerys Stormborn, he told himself, trying to see the silver in those dark clouds. Her own face was shadowed with anxiety, so he waddled over to her acting as if it were nothing.

“I suppose a small squall is in order to welcome you home.” he said lightly, examining his threadbare sleeve.

“The storm that welcomed me into the world nearly tore Dragonstone apart, if the tales I’ve heard are true.” she responded, her knuckles white on the railing. Her Unsullied commander was near as always, as was the big-eyed Naathi, but neither paid him much mind. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they think I’m some kind of living joke, Tyrion thought.

“Such storms happen once in a hundred years, Your Grace. Poor fortune indeed if such a storm were to scatter the fleet before we so much as dropped anchor at Dragonstone.”

“Poor fortune has a habit of following me closely.” Daenerys replied, shivering despite her brave exterior. So it does, you poor thing, Tyrion thought sadly. Beneath the name and dragons, you’re just an orphan with no home and no family. Once you take the throne, we can set that to rights.

“I once heard a trader say poor fortune is the gods’ way of telling you something is off, that there’s something missing.” Tyrion said. She turned and looked at him, eyebrow raised.

“I’ve a deal more than ‘something’ missing just now, wouldn’t you say? I have a tyrant to depose, a throne to claim, and seven kingdoms to set aright. Even with a fleet, an army and three dragons, not something that can be accomplished in a fortnight.” Her voice was determined but not heedless. Not something that can’t be done, given time. There is something else that tugs at the queen, something she dare not broach, he knew.

He felt foolish when he realized what it was. Looking at the rail, he strode over to her to speak where no one would overhear given the rising wind. He could feel the disapproval of her companions behind him, Missandei’s frown and Grey Worm’s stony (stonier) gaze.

“There is no rush, Your Grace.” he said, to an onlooker idly examining his hand for splinters. “We will depose Cersei, and if you find a husband, so much the better. If I know my sister, I’m sure she’s just about run off every ally, burned every olive tree in the grove my father worked so hard to build. We won’t need any house’s assistance to deal with her, I think, but I’m sure you’ll be flooded with proposals all the same. No need to tell everyone about what the maegi told you on the Great Grass Sea, either. It’s nobody else’s business.” he said.

“I’ll not have men make fools of themselves bidding for a jewel made of glass, nor hawk horse piss and call it wine.” Daenerys replied morosely. “To marry without my husband-to-be’s family knowing that children are impossible, without my husband knowing that children are impossible…”

“…you’d lose an ally as quickly as you made them.” Tyrion finished. “But that may be a certain allure all its own. A son of a great house, married to Daenerys Targaryen…” And no specter of mad Aerys to haunt their future generations.

“A match for politics, for the realm.” Daenerys said, looking about as excited at the prospect as she no doubt felt. “Another Hizdahr.” Tyrion frowned at her words but in his heart he knew she was right. It was duty that led her to marry that perfumed fop in the first place, and duty that bade her leave Daario Naharis behind in Meereen. He wondered if the Storm Crows had yet to loot the city of all they could and ride off into the setting sun.

“Still, marriage is the quickest and easiest way to gain a powerful ally, your Grace.”

“The quickest and easiest way to put one house above all others and stir envy the realm over.” she retorted, making Tyrion smile with a combination of sadness and pride.

“I fear I may not be so deserving of this as you opine.” he touched the Hand brooch.

“No, I’ve just had a lot of time to think about the prospect of another political marriage.” Daenerys said, looking at the blackening clouds. Drogon had flown out ahead of them. Whether to dodge the storm or his mother’s anxiety, Tyrion could not say.

The rain fell harder as they progressed, a heavy warm autumn rain. If winter hasn’t come while I’ve been gone. It struck Tyrion how people didn’t seem to track the seasons in Essos as they did in Westeros.

“I think I’ll go below now.” Daenerys said, reaching for Missandei who took her hand at once. The queen led her friend down below decks, Grey Worm following closely. Tyrion noticed Theon Greyjoy for the first time, standing on the other side of the fore deck and speaking to no one. He didn’t seem all that inclined to join the others below, preferring to stand in the ever worsening rain. Nobody can see tears fall when it’s raining, Tyrion thought. He remembered the jesting youth who’d referred Ros to him, before the world had folded in on itself. All that’s left is a shambling skeleton. He never takes the gloves off, either. I’d bet all the Rock’s debts that he’s missing more than flesh. Tyrion walked over to him half warily.

“I thought it would be nice to do without your constant chatter. Little did I know that the twitching bug-eyed mute would be a change for the worse.” he told Greyjoy. The man slowly turned his eyes toward Tyrion.

“You were married to Sansa before she found herself Ramsay’s plaything.” It was not a question. Tyrion’s mouth opened to make a smart reply to something quite apart from that, and hung open in surprise.

“Ah, yes, though it was a sham marriage, unconsummated.”

“I know. Ramsay made me watch him do that.” Greyjoy said in his hollow wooden lifeless affect. Tyrion’s middling spirits sunk. The Hound called her a little bird. Smashed against a castle wall again and again.

“So Sansa is-”

“At the Wall with Jon Snow or dead. Either is preferable to being recaptured.” Greyjoy said. “If you’re going to ask me what I want, I suppose that’s it. Find out what’s become of Sansa.” he made no mention of revenge.

“What about freeing the North from the Boltons? Restoring Sansa to Winterfell?“ Tyrion asked. Greyjoy was quiet for awhile.

“I’ve had my fill of ‘true heirs’ being restored to what is ‘theirs’. Your queen is going to set Westeros alight for a chair. As for revenge, revenge is for men with blood in their veins and all that’s left in me is seawater.” He looked over the side into the swirling blackness.

Tyrion had seen many things wondrous and terrible both and yet it occurred to him he’d never seen a man take his own life. In that moment he could not begin to know Greyjoy’s intent and that scared him out of his wits. Greyjoy put a twitching hand on the railing and took a breath. Oh gods be good, he’s going to jump.

“How will you find out what’s happened to Sansa Stark from the bottom of the Narrow Sea?” Tyrion asked rather squeakily. Another hand on the railing, another breath. The rain got worse and the sky began to rumble. The gods will piss on mortals be they peasants or at the head of the greatest fleet to sail, Tyrion thought detachedly, ready to grab the back of Greyjoy’s shirt. Only when the panic had a chance to subside did he notice the smell. An oily heavy almost acrid not-quite-stink. Fish. The downpour was too heavy to see well, but Tyrion could tell Greyjoy was focused on something out in the water. “Your father doesn’t need you, but Sansa does.” Tyrion said hastily, trying not to sound hysterical.

“What about them?” Greyjoy replied, pointing. Squinting, Tyrion tried to make out if men had gone overboard on account of the steadily worsening storm. He’s gone storm-mad... He thought until he saw several people floating in the roiling waves. Before Tyrion could cry out in alarm, Greyjoy clapped a hand over his mouth. Tyrion could feel the difference between which fingers were real and which were simply stuffed fabric. The men came closer heedless of the waves that crashed around them. As they came near, the smell got worse. Tyrion’s eyes widened and he found himself in a place removed from panic and stilled by fear. Like under the pyramid. When they reached the hull, he could make out three sets of bulging pale yellow eyes staring unblinkingly up at him. No…four…six… Tyrion was still counting in stunned silence when a new sound cut quite through even the tumult of the thunder and the wind. A woman’s voice, singing in a tongue Tyrion did not know. He numbly watched a pale shape emerge from the churning roil. Blonde hair flowed this way and that, and a fair hand beckoned. If I ever make it back to Lannisport, I’m going to buy everyone drinks for a week. While Tyrion Lannister was struggling to come to terms with what was floating not a hundred feet away, Theon Greyjoy simply threw himself off the Balerion, hitting the water with a splash concealed by the sounds of the storm.

Chapter Text

Jaime

When he had smelled smoke instead of shit, Jaime Lannister simply froze in his saddle. His horse had kept moving and when he saw the plume reaching the sky he’d wondered whether it was safe to even be near the city, let alone inside it. Burn them all. I remember Aerys’ last words well. They were seared into my mind that day, and now I’m the sole poor cunt who knows what lies beneath King’s Landing. He’d have bet his left hand he’d never found all the wildfire stashes in the days after Lord Tywin’s sack of the city. A few pyromancers had killed themselves protecting a dead madman’s secret when they got word the newly-coined Kingslayer was hunting them. Still, I have to find out what happened here. It looks like the Sept of Baelor…or where it stood, at least. There was a steady stream of people spilling out of the city, likely fleeing to the safety of the countryside. He passed through the city gate at the head of the Lannister force that had relieved Riverrun taking the measure of all he saw. More than one corpse lay in the streets, feral dogs ran as they would, and beggars of all ages crawled from alley to alley. Jaime turned to the gold cloak atop the gate.

“What happened here?” he gestured to the column of smoke.

“The Sept, Lord Commander. It just…. It went up the day of the queen’s trial.” Jaime’s stomach turned to ice.

“What of King Tommen?” he asked.

“Ah…well, my lord, His Grace took his own life on seeing the devastation. Grief for his wife perhaps, for all the souls lost- a darker day this city has never had. Unless they’re very rich or very poor, most people are leaving. Rumors fly like flies in King’s Landing- rumors that it wasn’t an accident, rumors that there’s more wildfire hidden somewhere, even that it was the work of red priests making a sacrifice to their fire demon of the Seven’s faithful. Regardless of the culprit, this is a big city with basements, sewers, storerooms, and almost none of them are mapped. We could be feet above a cache and never know it.” And how, Jaime thought.

When he reached the Red Keep, he was surprised to find no courtiers milling about. “Highborn cunts jumping ship when things look bad is nothing new.” Bronn had replied when Jaime voiced his thoughts. Then he heard the whispers in the throne room, the words of the man who had quenched the corruption in his stump. What is Qyburn doing in the throne room?, he wondered.

“Stay here.” he told Bronn.

“At once, Lord Commander.” the sellsword replied snidely, leaning back in a chair and pouring from a jug of wine. When Jaime made his way up into the empty gallery, nobody on the packed floor looked at him. He saw Cersei on the Iron Throne, saw Qyburn put a circlet on her head, heard his proclamation and the words the sycophants parroted like the bleating sheep they were. Only then did she notice him, her normal smirk slipping into an unreadable mask. As if this were all a mummery and she the bored audience. Jaime knew that the Sept had been no accident of course, but the pressing matter was how much the queen knew. Any way he could work it out, what she’d done had killed the city. More would leave when the money dried up, what little was still coming through the city in trade. Well, here we are, Kingslayer. You left Cersei alone in a city atop who knows how many barrels of wildfire. Then again, nobody had ever said you were the smartest of Lord Tywin’s brood. Had she known, though? Known her move rather than clearing the game board, simply blew it apart? Had she known that the entire rest of the city could easily have gone the way of the Sept of Baelor had the flying stones hit the wrong building, the wrong street? Aerys would have been proud. He thought himself a dragon, a god- but gods don’t shit themselves when they see a drawn sword coming their way. He couldn’t make up his mind if he was furious with Cersei, ecstatic she was still alive, mournful over a son he barely knew, or just bloody exhausted. His mind was whirling from one scenario to another and he couldn‘t begin to work out how to handle it all. By the time the quite impromptu coronation had ended, he knew only that he had to make sure King’s Landing wasn’t about to erupt in a sea of green flame.

When he rejoined Bronn, a glass of Arbor red was waiting for him.

“Drink. You look like Tyrion did the day of the trial.” he told Jaime, and when the glass had been drained he poured another.

“Getting me drunk won’t make the next few days any easier.” he said, his forehead against the golden hand.

“Next few days? You’re going to stay?” Bronn asked, looking up with surprised if not astonished eyes. Jaime took a weary breath and looked at him over the glass.

“It’s not that simple. Cersei’s been crowned queen and the riots will start any day. Once the smallfolk find their courage and they realize the Sept had all of Cersei’s enemies in the city in it, they’ll cry out against her, no matter the circumstances behind the it all. Margaery Tyrell was loved and Cersei was hated before the Faith took over- I doubt things have changed in that regard.” Bronn leaned forward suddenly.

“I always knew you were the stupid brother, but I thought you were sharp enough to get up when someone lights your ass on fire. Get all the fighters left in this pisspot together and head back out. Head back to the Twins and stuff that serving girl or find another castle that could use a golden cunt’s golden hand to steady. Why the fuck would you stay?” he asked. Jaime didn’t reply, only rose and headed for the queen’s rooms. “I’ll get the lads ready. Won’t take long. We’ll be ready by tomorrow morning, Lord Commander.” That time, the title didn’t sound mocking. He is afraid, Jaime realized. Half-living armored horrors stalk the Red Keep and King’s Landing is about to burst into another wave of food riots, this time compounded by zealotry over the Sept. Could Jaime fault him? Bronn had spoken like just another person eager to flee the chaos, flee the smoke and stink and death, but Jaime heard his meaning. Your sister’s lit herself on fire, why burn with her?

Gregor Clegane was standing outside the queen’s door which surprised Jaime. A king’s guards need to be near, or else they aren’t guarding much. Someone could slip in Cersei’s window, slit her throat, and Clegane’s size would mean nothing. The thought of the queen being gone from his life was such an unexpected relief it made Jaime almost tear up. The massive armored head turned toward him, red eyes staring out from the featureless helm. He neither eats nor speaks, so what good would a visor do him?

“With such a bare helmet, ser, it rather looks as though you’re wearing a metal pail on your head. With little openings for eyeholes.” Jaime brought his hand up and wiggled his first two fingers. As expected, the huge knight gave no reply, nor moved when Jaime reached him. “I have need to speak to the queen. That would necessitate you moving your prodigious frame either left or right, it makes no nevermind to me.” Clegane did not move. “Unless you never learned the difference? See, left is the hand I’ve got-” he held it straight out pointing left “and right is the one I haven’t got. Either is just as good as the other for a man with two hands, so pick one and be quick about it. Er, well, as quick as you can be about anything under all that armor.” Clegane glowered down at Jaime, who was fairly certain the knight would’ve liked nothing better than to rip his head from his shoulders. Perhaps I’m just curious. Whatever horror Clegane has become likely hasn’t been unmasked in public nor run through a real maester’s tests. Ah, now I’m thinking like Qyburn. When Clegane still did not move, Jaime’s patience faded. “Then may I ask you get the queen’s attention? I have rather a pressing matter she needs to be made aware of.” Then he heard her groan, the way Jaime hear her groan whenever he had to stand at the door when Robert took her in the night. Jaime frowned, but not in jealousy. “Who has she got in there?” he wondered aloud. To his amazement, Clegane’s hand came up. Well, this is where I die. In the grip of some armor-plated laboratory abomination. He had just enough time to think that that perhaps wasn’t the worst possibility, it was certainly interesting if nothing else, when Clegane’s hand passed Jaime over and went over one of his red eyes.

Suddenly the door behind Clegane opened and a man Jaime had never seen before grinned out from behind the knight. An eyepatch covered his left eye, an angry red line crawling down his face beneath it. Someone’s had the best of him and recently, Jaime thought. He’d seen ironborn rotting in the dungeons of the Rock as a boy and the Greyjoy ward at Winterfell, clearly this man was of the islands.

“Well met, Jaime Handlesser- er, Lannister.”

“And you, Euron Nayeye..oh, apologies, Greyjoy. I thought you were busy chasing your brother’s children and plundering the coast.” Jaime replied, already sick of the reaver. Another hand pun and I’m going to shove this golden hand of mine straight up your one-eyed arse.

“Amusing as the Shields were, a bigger prize awaited me here.” Greyjoy replied, flashing him a grin.

“Well, now you’ve gone and claimed it, I need to speak with the queen. You might not have noticed, but this city is going to explode in an orgy of riots in a matter of days.”

“Aye, and I will watch from the deck of the Silence, with my feet up and a chicken leg in my hand.” he stood aside and Jaime went in, ignoring the stink of sweat, spilled wine and spent bodies. The scent of Cersei, Jaime thought, and all the perfumes are just more lies. The queen lay out in the bed she shared with Robert, a blanket over her and a bunch of grapes at her side.

“Lord Commander.” she said casually, popping a grape in her mouth, her green eyes regarding him unconcernedly.

“You seem to have gotten over your son’s death.” Jaime observed. Cersei’s careless manner vanished and she got to her feet, the blanket falling away. He tossed her a red robe hanging over a nearby chair.

“I can’t help Tommen now. I can help us, by bringing a powerful new ally into the fold.” she said, pulling it on but leaving it unfastened, more or less defeating the point of giving her the robe in the first place. “By the way, how did you find out?” she asked.

“A king’s suicide isn’t something people take in stride, Cersei. It’s all they talk about down there…” a thought struck him. “How long has it been since you left the Red Keep?” Cersei’s contemptuous half-smirk resurfaced.

“As if I’d ever go down there again, after what the Faith put me through. Well, the Faith is gone now, at least the ones who could bother us, and we have a navy to patrol our shores.” She turned away from him and stretched, likely having spent the entire day in bed.

“Very good. You’ve made martyrs of the Tyrells, the High Septon and his flock, and now the smallfolk will oppose your every move.” Jaime had the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. “What has Uncle Kevan to say about all this, bringing Euron Greyjoy into the capital, cutting ties with the Reach?” Cersei looked at him, her smirk melting into a pallid mask.

“Kevan was at the trial. Lancel was a pious underling of that nameless commoner-called-High Septon. They were no more use to us, and the others would have suspected something had no Lannisters shown up to begin with.”

Jaime had thought he’d seen to much to be shocked. He was wrong.

“You killed them?” he asked, as if he was asking what she wanted for dinner. His tone wasn’t what surprised him, that it didn’t surprise him was what did. “Cersei, they were Lannisters.”

“So was Tyrion, until he killed Father and weaseled off.” He stared at her. Another of Lord Tytos’ sons killed by his own blood, and the son’s son for good measure.

“I suppose then we’ll just have to invite the most attractive blonde haired green eyed orphans to the Rock, then? Our House was numerous and wealthy before the War of Five Kings and its aftermath. Now there is only ruin, ruin and debt.” People used to say the Starks met with tragedy when they came to King’s Landing. This city did for us just as well, it only took its time. Cersei grimaced.

“Golden hair and emerald eyes do not make a Lannister. Neither does a golden hand, it seems. One can be many given time, ask Lann the Clever.” she said.

“Lann the Clever lived ages ago, Cersei. If one chooses to believe he lived at all and isn’t just a nice shiny ancestor any Lannister can point to. A man half myth and half story isn’t one to be inspired by in these very real times. Lann never had to deal with a city that could burn down at any moment.” Cersei didn’t so much as flinch. She knows. Oh, Seven fucking save us, she knew when she had the Sept destroyed. Knew that but for blind luck, her revenge plot could have turned the city into a hole. Enemies, friends, throne and all. When she saw his face pale and his mouth hang open, she snorted dismissively.

“You weren’t here when they forced me to walk naked through the streets, that bitch ringing a bell after my every step-”

“If it would stop our House dying out, I’d happily skip naked down the Street of Steel and perch my ass on a glowing forge, Cersei!” Jaime said, lost for words. All of Tywin’s pride, and none of his savvy. Envious of the reverence he saw, utterly unable to rule without him. Where have I seen this before? he asked himself. “Lord Tytos had four sons, and those four only had four sons between them. Tyrion has gone, Lancel and Tyrek are dead, and I-”

“You are man enough to keep the Lannister name alive, surely.” Cersei said, looking bored stupid. “Uncle Gerion left a dock whore with a gift before he went on his fool’s quest to recover Brightroar in the east. Jayne or Jesice. I can legitimize her to lure the Reach back in if need be. Plenty of those lords eye Highgarden. A marriage to a Lannister, even a paltry one, will strengthen their hold on the castle immensely.”

“Cersei, how? How does a Lannister marriage bring any prestige? We’re a house that eats itself, we’re bankrupt and we have as strong a hold over the Seven Kingdoms as a dying dog has over its bowels.” Cersei’s temper flared.

“I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms-”

“Until Roose Bolton decides he’d rather be a Red King than pay deference to the Iron Throne. Until Dorne picks a leader who will undoubtedly howl to break away from the rest of Westeros. Until the Vale closes itself off, and good luck trying to take it back. The Riverlands are held by Freys, who you know as well as I are as dependable as they are trustworthy. You are Queen of nothing but King’s Landing, and in truth only the Red Keep.” Jaime tried to think of something, anything, that could be done to wash the wounds Cersei had given the alliances their father had left behind. Easier still, just find a way to bring Lord Tywin back, Jaime thought.

Cersei went from pale to fuming and back to pale so fast Jaime thought she might faint.

“Then make me queen for true, Jaime. Ride out with the full might of the Westerlands behind you, empty the dungeons of every castle and conscript the debtors into service. Build an army out of the seasoned veterans of Father’s campaigns and field a mass of peasants to serve as its buffer as they move through hostile territory. Take the kingdoms back for House Lannister one by one until the realm hears us roar from Sunspear to the Wall.” she implored him. Does she think this is a story, where Ser Aemon slays Ser Morghil and all the rest? I have as much in common with the Dragonknight as Cersei has with Naerys, Jaime thought. Then Bronn’s words rung in his head. It took Jaime a moment to get the words in the right order before he said them.

“I will do as you command, Your Grace.” he told her. I’ll take anyone who can walk, anyone who can work. I’m going to get these people out of the fire one way or another, and this is an option Aerys did not give me. Perhaps then I can save you from the tower after all, once I’ve found someone to negotiate with.

“Perhaps you should start with Harrenhal. It’s got plenty of refugees from the Riverlands, fighting men and squatters both. Rumor has it a brotherhood of holy knights holds it at present, surely they’ll join you if you tell them of the tragedy Aerys inflicted upon the faithful from the grave.” Cersei told him, even shedding a tear. A master mummer if nothing else. You always have been, Jaime thought. She rushed up to him at took him in her arms, robe doing little to conceal the flesh beneath it as she rubbed up against him. Another fully intentional trick of hers she used often when they were young. Despite his dismay, despite her actions, despite Tyrion’s voice screaming in his head so loud it hurt, he brought his hand up and pressed it to the small of her back. Cersei shed her robe, and Jaime could no more than stand there and stare. A sudden scream of “Queen!” made Cersei scream as well and Jaime wheel around, to see a raven perched on the balcony railing with a scroll tied to its leg.

Chapter Text

Daenerys

Dany had always envisioned a return to Westeros as something majestic, ordained even. Instead she flopped out of the rowboat like a hooked fish and promptly got a faceful of sand as the storm raged overhead. Asha Greyjoy simply pulled her up to her feet, though her shoes were a poor choice for the shifting surf and wet sand. The she-kraken said something but it was lost in the thunder above, so while the rest of the rowboats landed, Dany simply pulled off her shoes and tucked them under an arm. Her splendid black dress was soaked through and felt as though it weighed two stone. Visibility was markedly bad, and so she felt rather than saw her dear Missandei approach, the Naathi girl’s hand slipping into her own. The rain pours down on all of us, Dany thought, the sky soaks all alike. Her children of course were hidden in the sky, shrieking heatedly to each other. Drogon’s cries were loudest and nearest. He cannot see me, he wants me to show myself, she realized.

“Your Grace, perhaps we should make our way to the castle and get you dry.” Varys told her, louder than she’d thought him capable of speaking. Dany heard Grey Worm commanding in the Common Tongue, directing the landings on the beach and making sure Dragonstone’s occupation force made it onto the beach without much fuss. She let Varys lead her up to the center of the island, the hard grey rocks jutting out of the sand. A peculiar place to find granite, Dany knew. The Valyrians were sorcerers, who’s to say they didn’t use magic to shape an unremarkable island into the seat of House Targaryen?  That thought, that idea, that she had returned to the island of her birth made Dany take a sudden sharp breath. Several Unsullied automatically went to cover her with their shields, but she put a hand up. I would feel the rain, she thought. My first Westerosi rain, my first Westerosi storm. I pray this is the first of many, that Westeros is all I hope it to be.

After about a hundred steps straight up it seemed, Dany had lost count, the wonder of the rain had quite departed. Her silver hair stuck to her face and her feet were rubbed raw from the climb, yet finally she made it to the castle’s main gate. Her heart jumped at the sight of the stone dragon heads on either side, the gate operation mechanisms. The Unsullied got to it, slowly opening the twin stone doors for Dany to pass through, Missandei close behind her and all the rest following in turn. As soon as she felt the stone of the keep proper under her feet, she took a slow breath. This is what I always wanted. To come home. Before Rhaego and the dragons, I wanted to come home. Yet, the walls were chilly and dank, the torches unlit for many days. It felt more a cave than a castle to Dany, yet she pressed on down the dark halls, wondering which room was the one she was born in. Mother died here, Dany thought. She lived just long enough to give me a name, and then Ser Willem took us across the sea…..to the house with the red door and the little lemon tree outside. Suddenly, Dany felt a pang for the girl in her mind’s eye, the tiny little creature just tall enough to peek out the window and spot the lemons on the branches high as the sky. When I was small, I dreamed of reaching those lemons, not the Iron Throne. Yet after everything, only the latter has come into my reach. Suddenly the hall opened into an audience chamber, and Dany found herself looking at a throne in the far wall. Nestled in a thicket of razor stones, it was hewn from the same granite as was used to build the rest of the castle. The seat Aegon vacated for another one, a greater one, that Balerion brought into being. She walked across the empty floor, dripping wet and leaving dainty little footprints, heart hammering as she neared the ancestral chair of House Targaryen. She ran a hand down the arm, and it was dry and cold.

The storm outside raged into the night as the landing party gradually garrisoned Dragonstone. Dany stood in the same room Aegon the Conqueror had, but the wind and the rain blowing in from the open wall drew her eye more than any map table. The wild tempest outside rumbled and flashed bright as day, making Dany gasp. Her children were far too smart to fly in such a storm. Likely they’d taken refuge in the outdoor courtyard sheltered by stone walls. Missandei gave an occasional gasp or jump as the skies bellowed, such a roil as surely none of them had ever seen before.

“Your Grace?” She dimly heard her Hand’s voice, all but lost in the noise outside. It took her a moment to turn to him, rain cascading down her face. She broke into a wide smile. She felt exhilarated- more than that, she felt reborn. “Perhaps our first move should be to send ravens to all the major cities and seats of power in Westeros. Once the storm abates, of course.” He added hastily, looking out into the night himself. “It’s not hard to believe such a storm could tear Dragonstone apart, is it?” he asked her.

“I always thought Viserys was exaggerating, or misremembering from his youth.” she replied in a small voice. Indeed, the walls almost seemed to shake. “Is this a welcoming, or a show of outrage at my return?” she asked him suddenly. Tyrion’s gaze returned to her.

“I think it’s an autumn storm, as have raged on these waters since the beginning of time.” he said flatly, as if omens were a childish notion. He checked to make sure nobody was about to come through the door before closing it. The soft scraping of wood on stone made Dany’s brow furrow. “Your Grace…Theon Greyjoy went over the side as the storm’s temper flared. I doubt his sister has noticed he’s missing yet, there’s more to be done just now than worry about where one invalid’s gone…” Dany’s heart sank. Asha Greyjoy was the only Westerosi lord who outright supported her. Tyrion might be a Lannister, but he has no armies to rally to my cause, no houses sworn to follow him, she thought. Greyjoy might blame the storm, but the ironborn were a superstitious and suspicious lot who feared storms greatly. What if they decided the tempest was a sign of the gods’ displeasure at Dany’s course?

“I’ll tell her. Good practice for giving powerful men bad news, telling them things they don’t want to hear.” she said grimly.

She bade Missandei follow her, deciding to get some rest after her nerve-wracking landing. My first night in Westeros, and I’ll be lucky to get a moment’s sleep. Luckily there was a bathing basin after a fashion, but with the storm and everyone already busy, she decided waiting for a hot bath was both unrealistic and childish. Though Missandei was no doubt displeased by such, Daenerys slipped into the cold water once the basin was filled. The Naathi girl began undoing the sodden once-braids that had become an unsightly clump. Even then, there was no tugging and Missandei’s hands were light as a summer breeze, letting the queen’s hair down in a beautiful silver cascade.

“Are you all right, Missandei?” she asked when her friend’s silence became concerning.

“I suppose it is just the storm, Your Grace. A new country, a new…well, everything. I knew all the customs of Essos, every city, everyone of prominence, tongues enough to speak to most anybody. I could help you in Essos. Here… I am not so sure. I do not know the ways, the names… I cannot be relied on as in the past.” Her words made Daenerys’ mood sink further. It should not be like this… she thought. My first night should not be full of foreboding, of bad omens and homesickness.

“True, you are a gifted interpreter, dear Missandei, and the most observant person I know, but more than these, you are my friend. Perhaps the only one I have. Free of politics, without tie to Westeros…the only one who will not come to me leaning to one side or another, this family or that. There is no slavery in Westeros, you must feel free to speak as you wish when you are with me, in private or in court.” Dany said earnestly. Missandei was quiet for a time, gently combing her queen’s hair with a fine shell comb.

“If I may be honest, then, Your Grace…this is a place of stone, of dark shadows and forgotten things. The people who were here last, the ones who bore the burning heart sigils your Unsullied have found…they must have met with great misfortune or they would still be here. Aside from the dragon statues, there is nothing on this Dragonstone that I can see in you.” Dany’s eyes went wide. She was a very introverted girl, whether that was just sweet Missandei or a quality common to all Naathi Dany didn’t know, but she was more pleased by her honesty than put off by her words. When she heard Missandei set the comb on a cloth, Dany reached up and took her friend’s hand in her own.

“You must speak to me like this always, dear one. I have no need of one more flatterer nor one more sycophant, there are seven kingdoms’ worth waiting for me.” she said in Valyrian.

“Seven kingdoms’ worth of true men and women also, I think. Just waiting to be found by Your Grace.” Missandei answered in the same tongue.

After drying and pulling on a bed gown, Daenerys made sure there was a comfortable bed in the chamber next to her own. She bade Missandei good night and had a passing Dothraki set a torch outside her door to keep the corridor alight. The storm raged as fierce as ever, and Dany had no doubt Asha Greyjoy would be in a comparable mood when she found out her brother had chosen to end his life. Suddenly, Dany felt another pang of something like homesickness. That’s impossible, she thought. I have never had a true home. Then she realized that a vital person in her life had not been on the ship west, one she would have thought would be as a given. I wonder where my bear is now, Dany wondered, feeling sad. Is he still in Essos, searching in vain for a cure to greyscale? Or has he taken his life into his own hands, refused to be the plaything of fate at last? As cold and cruel as the gods had been to Dany, they had been worse, done worse to Jorah Mormont. If only he were here with us. She knew he loved her, and she wanted to want to love him back as fiercely…but he had never been a man she’d sought. Daario Naharis…was his own man, she supposed, and in Essos when she was simply a revolutionary, it didn’t much matter what she got up to at night. Much had happened since the night they’d met and Daenerys Targaryen was not the girl she’d been then, though. Leaving him behind in Meereen bothered her not because it was hard but because it was easy, even with the specter of a Westerosi marriage in her future.. A man she’d been close to physically for years and she’d set him aside like a vintage she’d tired of. A foreign sellsword traipsing around Westeros with no regard for anything but his next good feeling… I was right to leave him as regent of the Bay of Dragons, Dany knew. He will be kept out of trouble and be safe in the Great Pyramid. He’ll find a free woman to temper him into an honest man. That didn’t make it any easier to face an empty bed, or to climb into it, or to fall asleep without someone beside her.

She knew she was dreaming when she saw the dragon banners on the walls, Valyrian tapestries in the rooms and the tongue itself flowing every which way. Women rushed back and forth from the room she now used, carrying bloody rags out and pails of cold water in. Suddenly, Daenerys felt colder than ever she had in her life. A small boy, pinched of face and slight of figure, was kept close by a red-faced breathless old knight.

“We are not sure if Her Grace will…” one of the women told him.

“I want Mother,” the boy piped up.

“Hush now, my prince, you’ll be with her soon.” the man said. Ser Willem, she knew instantly. He was younger than she remembered and far haler. Her eyes found the boy he all but clutched, kneeling to get on his level.

“Viserys…” she whispered. Viserys, Third of his Name, a scared little boy who wanted his mother, she thought. The boy turned fearfully in her direction, eyes wide and seeking.

“Mother?” he asked. He looked right at her. They cannot see me... Dany realized with utmost sadness. She left them and headed for the room that smelled of sweat and a coming scent of blood. In the very bed she slept in was a woman in the final hours of pregnancy, a cloth over her face and her mouth parted in pained breaths. Captivated, she got closer until she was at Queen Rhaella Targaryen’s bedside. Mother, she thought, shaking head to toe. A sudden contraction made her gasp- or was that Queen Rhaella?- and Ser Willem came into the room, passing right through Dany.

“Your-” Unexpectedly, Rhaella interrupted him.

“What am I queen of now, Ser Willem? A sweat-slicked bed and a few bloodstained rags?” she said. “Soon Dragonstone will be out from under us and it will be over.”

“Over?” Ser Willem asked in disbelief. “No, Your Grace, never ov-”

“There’s no need to speak of restorations, Ser. My House died on the Trident. All that’s left is a little boy…”

“No doubt he’ll have a brother soon.” Ser Willem encouraged her, kneeling at her bedside while Dany frowned. Some brother, she thought.

“A girl.” Rhaella said clearly. “No need to speak of claims, Robert will sit the throne until the day he dies. Listen to me, Ser. You’re to take my children and raise them as best you can. Ser, please listen... Please do not fill Viserys’ head with talk of thrones and kingdoms that once belonged to his father. Once perhaps, but Aerys lost them for his son and now his only inheritance is a shameful sire. This girl, Daenerys, will have no need of such stories either. She is free of Aerys as Viserys will never be.”

The rest was blood and pained cries as Queen Rhaella delivered of the princess she had promised. Dany could not forget the look of disappointment on Ser Willem’s face when he saw the baby was a girl, but his face softened- and then his eyes widened in shock at the sight of the little bundle, the crying princess. Rhaella’s head sank back into the sweat-stained pillow, but Ser Willem and the midwife were too occupied with the baby to notice. Dany got closer, straining to hear what her mother was saying.

“I was bound,” she whispered, “but now I’m free.” Her lips stilled and Dany knew it was over. She wanted to cry, she wanted to sob, but the tears would not fall in the memory-world she found herself in. Only when the gulls cried outside her window did she return to the world of the living, the scent of birthing blood replaced by the salt of the sea air. The sun was up and shining, the storm had blown itself out. Daenerys Targaryen did not notice, overcome was she by tears. At the sound, Missandei of Naath burst into the room with a half dozen Unsulled and found the queen a rocking mess at the foot of the bed, and sat down beside her. Gently she put her arms around her and whispered calming words into her ear.

Chapter Text

Samwell

It took a natural sort of talent to handle the Citadel’s ravens, Sam discovered. He’d expected to be put to work copying archmaesters’ treatsies or even returning material to the shelves of the library, but when they saw the Isle of Ravens’ birds behave for Samwell Tarly as they would not for even the resident expert on ravens, he was put to organizing the incoming and outgoing scrolls. As a result, messages came and went easily twice as fast as the Citadel’s occupants were used to. In fact, rather than finding himself the proverbial jousting dummy, Sam discovered he was quite well-liked among the other hopeful novices. This is something I could quite get used to. I’ve never been liked by this many people before, he thought. Even though dealing with a castle’s ravens was a basic tenet of a maester’s duties, most of the highborn novices seemed to believe that dealing with ravens was beneath them. Also, they disliked getting their robes soiled in the relatively unkempt conditions on the separate isle where the ravens roosted. Perhaps it is because I am a brother of the Night’s Watch, I’ll have no place in their petty politics when they’ve all earned their links and try to become archmaesters. A neutral party, a temporary bother. Still, the other novices were nothing like the tormentors of his youth or at Castle Black. But for my oath, I could stay here with Gilly and Little Sam forever and aye. There was plenty to see in the Citadel as well. Men of every kind and cast, flotsam from all over the world, and of course more books than Sam could even keep in view all at once, let alone read. As he was returning to his sleeping quarters for the night, Gilly and Little Sam no doubt eager for his return, he heard a harsh voice call out to him.

“Tarly!” it barked, and Sam turned to see a square-bodied man shuffling toward him. Marwyn the Mage, he remembered from his talking with the other novices. The less kind had called him ‘Marwyn the Mad’. “Come.” the curt order of the archmaester brooked no room for reply.

We are headed back to the Isle of Ravens, Sam realized.

“Archmaester, it will put the birds in a foul mood if woken-”

"They’re all awake already. You’ll see why in a moment.” Marwyn replied in a voice just above a whisper, which caught Sam by surprise. They crossed over the bridge into the dilapidated ruined castle that served the Citadel as its rookery, and instantly Sam realized something was amiss. There’s usually an ungodly racket, he thought. Either all the ravens are gone, or they’re all dead. Since when was it so cold in here? Once at the base of the moldy weirwood that was the building’s heart, Sam looked up. Hundreds of ravens were staring at the top of the tree, at the full moon of all things- until Sam realized that what they were looking at wasn’t the moon at all, but another bird quite apart from the black-feathered ravens of the Citadel. A white owl stared down at the pair, novice and archmaester, with bright blue eyes that burned like stars. Sam froze. I’ve seen eyes like those before. Whiter than fresh snow, whiter than a cloud, the owl seemed to consider them as a child would a hill of ants. It moved not an inch and made not a sound, yet Marwyn huffed impatiently, his breath coming out in a white mist. “Why doesn’t it do something? I’ve never seen a bird like that before. I’ve been all over Essos, communed with all manner of man…” he trailed off immediately as the owl’s huge eyes looked at him momentarily before refocusing on Sam. His face froze in a hardened frown.

“Archmaester, this isn’t something good. I…I must tell you and the other archmaesters of my experiences during the Great Ranging, surely this is a sign I cannot ignore.” Marwyn looked at him so suddenly Sam thought the man might punch him.

“But they can, Samwell Tarly. In my order there are no grey shepherds, only old grey goats who will lock horns with each other over ink and paper and bleat mindlessly at any evidence of a world outside the Citadel. People don’t seem to question why all the dragons died. The Dance did its bit of course, but magic and monsters and such higher mysteries aren’t fit for the kind of future the grey goats want to build. The blaze at Summerhall…it strikes me dumb when people accept it as a terrible accident.” He held up an opened message. “I was fetching this when I saw the owl. Daenerys Targaryen has landed on Dragonstone, and no doubt intends to reclaim what was taken from her father.” Sam was visibly twitching he had so many questions.

“Well…obviously the Citadel should send someone-”

“Obviously, boy, but I’m not going to trust some womb-wet novice with such a task nor a grey sheep eager only to hold an archmaester’s office. You know the world that owl came from-” he looked up and it had gone. “Damn. Anyway, you’d take the measure of these strangers better than any other…” Marwyn trailed off. Sam’s eyes went wide when he got the Mage’s meaning. He was right to warn someone about the Others, he was just in the wrong place.

They came down the quarantine corridor to avoid being overheard, the hall wide with torches burning to keep the maesters at a distance. No spies linger amongst the dying as none did among the ravens, Sam thought.

“Even if I told the archmaesters…”

“They’d brush you off at the time and something unfortunate would happen to you afterward. You’re best off leaving anyway. If it weren’t for this dragon queen, I’d have sent you back to the Watch with a grey sheep to make your trip worthwhile. Anyone who’s seen what you have and knows what you do isn’t safe in the Citadel.” Marwyn said, before a hoarse voice called out to them from a cell.

“Dragon queen?” Sam turned on instinct while Marwyn waved him on impatiently.

“What do you know of this?” Sam asked, too startled to restrain himself. To his further astonishment, and Marwyn’s, the man in the cell laughed.

“More than any of these grey fools or ever will. She finally comes, and I can’t go to her.” Sam saw the glitter of smooth stone reflected in the light coming in from the cell window as well as the torches on the wall. The archmaester checked the notes hanging off the wall to the side of the sealed door.

“Ser Jorah Mormont.” he read.

“Mormont?” Sam squeaked. A pair of eyes peeked out from the dish slot.

“What’s it to you?” the man within asked.

“I…knew your father…” Sam said, again too surprised to hold back. Marwyn looked irritated at their lack of progress, or at least movement. How could such an impatient man become an archmaester? Sam wondered of him detachedly.

“He has greyscale, Tarly. Apparently a severely advanced case. Were it up to me, I’d have a corps of crossbowmen fill the cell with quarrels and toss a burning torch in afterward.”

“Were it up to me, I’d do the same.” Mormont said dryly. The glint of his eyes was focused on Sam.

“I…I have to leave soon, but I’ll need some time to prepare. Perhaps I can come back this way and tell you of your father before I go.” Sam squeaked.

“Perhaps you can tell me of my father before I go.” Mormont replied, sinking back into the darkness, the stone running across his body reflecting the light of the full moon.

Sam remembered then the family he had at the Citadel.

“Archmaester…what of the girl who came here with me and her son?” Marwyn looked at him as if he’d grown another head.

“Tarly, bigger things are apace than the wellbeing of a wildling girl and her bastard. Take them with you if it would bring you peace to have them near, but don’t let such a burden keep you from your duty to the realm and the world. You saw that owl as well as I, what it may mean better still. Two people cannot stand in the way of the world’s salvation.” Sam frowned and looked as his feet as they moved towards his small living quarters. He knocked twice quickly and then two more distanced slower knocks.

“Smart boy.” Marwyn smirked. The door opened and Gilly’s big eyes blinked blearily out at them. On seeing Sam, they sprung awake.

“Sam? What’s happened? Are we being thrown out?” Marwyn cut in.

“No such thing, sweetling. Samwell has been given a task and you and your son are to accompany him is all. A matter for the Citadel’s enlightenment, no more. You’ve nothing to fear but poor weather on the road.” he said curtly. Gilly’s face went blank.

“I’ve known poorer weather than you ever will, maester.” she said tonelessly.

“I don’t doubt it, my lady. If you’ll gather your things and fetch your son, two horses are ready to take you to the city docks.”

“Can we not go up the roseroad-” Sam began, but Marwyn again cut in.

“Cersei Lannister has crowned herself in King’s Landing. The city is going to erupt into riots if it hasn’t already, especially when they get news Daenerys Targaryen has landed. The seas are quicker, if no less perilous. Euron Greyjoy’s reavers favor the western coast, not the south. You’ll sail down along the Dornish coast before coming back up north to Sunspear, and then from there proceed to Dragonstone. Nice and easy.” It was Sam’s turn to stare. That’s hundreds…no, thousands of leagues of sailing! However, Marwyn’s look told him not to ask questions. Perhaps he doesn’t want to say any more aloud, Sam thought.

“Why do they want you to go to Dragonden?” Gilly asked quietly as the archmaesters waited outside. Because the Citadel is no safer than Castle Black for us, and the one wise man in it wants me out of harm’s way and where I can be useful both, Sam thought.

“Dragonstone. They want me to meet the dragon queen and see if she’s everything she’s said to be. I suppose I’m back to being a sworn brother of the Watch, I know dragons would be good when…” he noticed Gilly’s eyes go big.

“When they come.” She swallowed nervously. “Well…if they keep them away, I suppose it’s not bad to have them around.” Sam packed in a frenzy, making sure he had Heartsbane in the bottom of his trunk. Valyrian steel, he thought. Now all I have to do is find someone who can manage to wield it. He held Little Sam while Gilly gave the room a onceover, and it amazed him when she daintily plucked a number of small articles from under the bed, under the furniture, as if she knew they were there.

“How-”

“Babies are wily when making messes, it’s to their mothers to outwile them to find what they lose.” Gilly explained, blushing a bit as she tucked a small blanket in her son’s fist. He promptly began sucking his thumb, leaned his head on Sam’s shoulder, and closed his eyes. After Gilly declared the three of them properly packed, Marwyn had a pair of porters take their trunk to the docks.

“Maybe the lady should take the baby to the ship while we make our detour.” Marwyn said, always in a rush. Gilly’s lip quivered, but Sam gave her a soft kiss.

“I’ll be right behind you. I’ll be on the docks before you even board. I just have to tell someone his father was a good man.” Gilly gulped.

“Well then, just so long as Little Sam doesn’t need someone to tell him his father was a good man. I want him to see for himself.” she said.

While Gilly followed the porters, Little Sam asleep in her arms, Marwyn led Sam back into the quarantine corridor. Sam amazed at the sight of the moonlight filling the normally dark hall. They don’t even need the torches, at least just now, he thought. No sound came from within Ser Jorah’s cell.

“Mormont? Mormont!?” Marwyn hissed through the slot. A banged fist against the stone wall made someone in another cell curse the maester.

“Sleeping here, cunt…” its occupant said hoarsely. The silence made Sam go cold. Has he died already? Or worse? Finally, a low groan let them know that Ser Jorah Mormont had not yet left the world of the living.

“Oh, gods…” the knight mumbled. The sounds of vomiting made Marwyn look inside the cell. Sam saw his jaw drop, his eyes pop, the noise loud enough to be comical. Fingers devoid of greyscale came down on the slot, and Sam could hear the knight pulling himself up off the cell floor.

“Ser Jorah?” Sam asked squeakily. More vomiting.

“I’ve been drunk many times, but never has it tasted like chalk.” Marwyn wordlessly opened the cell, revealing the man inside. Jorah Mormont was the image of his father, at least in Sam’s opinion, even though the Old Bear had preferred black furs and his son wore nothing- not even greyscale. Then Sam spotted a hair shirt and pants in a ball in the corner. He prompted the archmaester with a little nudge, but he seemed quite beyond reach. Sam pursed his lips.

“Well, Ser Jorah, if you’d kindly permit me…” he pored over every inch, gap, fold of the knight. Everything he could think of and a few things that came to him during the examination. After nearly a half hour, during which Marwyn continued to stand there, stunned and looking like a landed fish, Sam straightened with a grunt while Mormont looked highly irritated.

“As far as I can see, there’s not a single trace of it on him, archmaester.” he said simply.

“Room’s spinning and my stomach is doing backflips, but I feel a lot less like death.” Ser Jorah intoned.

“What…happened?” Marwyn finally croaked. The knight looked uncertain.

“My head started hurting something fierce, and then the moonlight came in. Next thing I knew, I was naked on the floor.” he answered with a shrug.

Sam got an idea. “Archmaester, Ser Jorah has no place in the Citadel as an obviously healthy man. With your permission, I would take him with me. A strong back to work on the ship can pay our passage instead of precious coin the Citadel may not have, and a good sword is always needed in such unpredictable times. You said yourself the ironmen lap at shipping in the Summer Sea like leeches sucking on a cow’s belly.” Marwyn had floated off in his own mind again though, and it took a soft prod from Ser Jorah to bring him back to the present.

“Uh, yes, yes, that’s a good idea, Samwell. A damn good idea…”

“The only place I’m going is Dragonstone.” Ser Jorah said bluntly.

“Precisely, ser. We’re going there ourselves, it’s quite in your interest to accompany us on our journey.” Samwell said quickly. Ser Jorah looked ready to protest or be the typical difficult donkeyheaded northerner, but when Sam’s words hit home his eyes went wide and he abruptly closed his mouth. Ah, silence. The northern expression of assent, Sam thought.

“Nobody will question a missing person down here. The other archmaesters scarcely visit the infectious enough to notice.” Marwyn said. “Come, ser. Let’s see if we can garb you in something more than moonlight.” One stolen bag of clothes later and Ser Jorah Mormont looked like any other common laborer in Westeros. The way down to the docks was quick and uneventful. Thank the old gods and the new for that, Sam thought gratefully. Gilly waited for them among the crates and sailors quickly loading the Summershine, giving a happy gasp when the rotund figure of Samwell Tarly came into view. Finally, a time when being fat is an absolute positive, Sam thought, smiling widely. Ser Jorah wordlessly hefted their trunk over a shoulder as if it were a bale of hay, stepping up the gangplank a foot taller than the sailors of Oldtown.

“Who’s he?” she asked Sam when he got close.

“The Old Bear’s son. He wants to go to the dragon queen as well and a good swordsman will put us well at ease. No Jon to protect us here, after all.” Sam told her. Gilly didn’t reply, only getting aboard herself, the first mate taking her hand and graciously showing her to the cabin the four from the Citadel would share. They bedded for the night while Jorah got to work on the deck. If the gods are kind, I’ll be looking a dragon or three in the face before very long, Sam thought.

Chapter Text

Jon

Someone knocked on his door with an impatient rapping. Val murmured in annoyance when Jon stirred, her hand slinking across his front as if to keep him to herself, to keep him from leaving the warmth of bed. Ghost appeared from the foot of the bed, looking at the door with purpose before looking slowly over to Jon. His red eyes betrayed nothing of the thoughts within for Jon knew Ghost thought and more, though Jon could just get a sense of…irritation?…coming from the dire wolf. Jon put an arm around Val, who cooed softly and lay her head in the crook of his shoulder. What’s wrong with her? She is true as anyone, and you didn’t like Ygritte either, he thought. Ghost turned again to the door, nose twitching. Jon sighed and slipped out of bed while Val gave a half-conscious groan of protest. Ghost’s tail gave a twitch only Jon would have noticed, which made him shake his head. I may be the White Wolf, but nobody’s as white as you, boy. No wild girls, no mastiffs, nobody anywhere is good enough for you. My life is mine, though, and I‘m no longer bound to the Watch. You can’t expect me to share your restraint… Not that oaths had stopped him from loving Ygritte. Ghost stolidly ignored him.

“Fine.” Jon muttered aloud, heading for the door and opening it. A gust of cold air from the corridor rushed in, making Val cry out in discomfort. Jon breathed deep of the cold air, it was like a bucket of water without the drying off after.

“Your Grace?” Maester Wolkan called from outside. “Apologies, I thought you should hear of this immediately.” he stammered. He is a big man and yet he has Sam’s shy manner, Jon thought.

“Come in, maester.” Jon said, edging the door open. Ghost got out of the way immediately. Oh, so we like bald men but not wildling girls with honey-colored braids to their hips? Jon thought grouchily. Wolkan came in and studiously closed the door behind him, which surprised Jon. As if in response, the maester wiggled his little finger and Jon understood immediately. Petyr Baelish’s reputation for paramount untrustworthiness despite his bringing the Knights of the Vale to Jon’s aid during the Battle of the Bastards had run through Winterfell so thoroughly even the Free Folk shunned him. Wolkan held up a scroll.

“From Dragonstone, Your Grace.” Jon blinked at him uncomprehendingly.

“What about it?” he asked, before he saw the seal upon it. A three headed dragon, red on black.

He read it three times. The first time he couldn’t see the words, the second he couldn’t understand them. Only when he stopped to breathe did he take in what was on the missive. In a matter of seconds it seemed Jon had bathed, dressed, and was pulling on his gloves.

“Find Sansa. Tell her to meet me in the Great Hall. Five minutes after that, sound a general call to audience. These are not words that should be kept secret.” Read aloud in front of everyone, it’s one less secret Baelish can twist to his own advantage, Jon thought. Val woke during the tumult and shed her sleepy soft air instantly on seeing Jon’s tense expression. Just as quickly, she had on her typical grey fur and a leather dress gifted her by one of Winterfell’s seamstresses. She ran an affectionate hand through Jon’s hair to fix it, or so she claimed, and then they were on their way, King in the North and wilding princess, of a sort. Jon pulled a seat out at the end of the table for Val, but she only gave him a sad smile and instead headed for the leftmost table where the other leaders among the Free Folk had gotten accustomed to sitting. The self-omission reminded Jon so of himself. Even when welcome by Lord Stark, I knew it was not my place to intrude among Lady Catelyn’s children, he thought. Yet, here he stood. The head of House Stark, King in the North, and Robb’s body was who knew where. Lady Catelyn’s, too. Speaking of Catelyn Tully, Jon thought as he heard Sansa’s voice in the hall along with the that of Brienne of Tarth, whose journey to Winterfell was as strange as anyone’s. The pair came in, and they could not have looked more different. Brienne was tall, strapping, and red-faced as southerners tended to get when subjected to the stinging cold. Sansa was lithe, willowy, and it seemed to Jon she’d lost a stone almost overnight. Her eyes were every bit the clear Tully blue, but Jon felt he couldn’t look at them for more than a few seconds. Ghost loped in next, sitting regally before the high table. Gradually the hall began to fill. Northmen, Free Folk, Knights of the Vale, the few ragged survivors of Stannis Baratheon’s doomed northern adventure… Jon tried to keep them all straight in his head, tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. He saw mouths move, King in the North repeated endlessly as they all acknowledged him.

“Remember, don’t rule. Just lead.” he heard Sansa whisper behind him as she sat.

Finally, when Lago came through the doors opposite the high table on hands and knees, sitting knees to chest in the corner, Jon addressed the room at large.

“There may be more people in this room right now than ever there have been in all of Winterfell’s history. To say nothing of the people without, garrisoning the walls, digging moats, working in the yard, or shoring up the towers. Were we just trying to outlast a normal army, we could do so with ease. Our larders are full floor to ceiling thanks to the most welcome generosity from our falcon friends…” he indicated where Lord Yohn Royce and a handsome golden-haired man perhaps a year Jon’s elder sat among the rest of the Vale’s present lords.

“The falcon has picked the flayed man down to the bone.” Ser Davos Seaworth said from where the few remaining stormlanders sat, making the blonde man smirk and the hall resound with laughter and no few raised mugs to the Valemen. The noise quickly magnified, and Jon was loath to ruin the mood. They seem to like their new friends well enough… Jon thought of the northmen, his people, infamous for stubborness and suspicion both. Ridding them of House Bolton will make any man from the Vale welcome in the North for the rest of time. He couldn’t help but smile a bit before he held up a hand for silence. Immediately, the hall quieted. He held up the scroll, thought to himself Sansa’s words, and began to read.

To Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort. Deceit and my father gave you the hall you stand in now. Winterfell is not yours to keep, nor the North yours to rule. As one of the Seven Kingdoms, its overlord and incomes are determined by the Iron Throne. Years of war have exhausted your reserves and my father no longer lives to work your strings as he did Walder Frey’s. You have no answer for a proper army, and no reprieve from your well-known treachery. However, I have advised Her Grace that further bloodshed in the north is simply a waste of life. She has in turn decreed that should you travel to Dragonstone and bend the knee, she will appoint you Lord of Winterfell and pardon you of your many crimes both. I would consider this offer carefully if I were you, Lord Bolton. I have seen Winterfell myself. Its walls are high. So were Harrenhal’s.

Done in the hand of Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Hand of the Queen to Daenerys, the First of her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Breaker of Chains, the Unburnt, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm

The hall was silent. He took a deep breath, and set the letter on the table. “Her bloody titles are near worth sending a second raven. Or at least a sparrow.” he remarked dryly. Instantly the hall exploded, angry voices yelling to be heard. Their ire is not directed at each other, Jon noticed immediately. For some reason, it fascinated him. These are not people made to be together, they want to be together. This time, when Jon raised a hand for silence, the hall was too excited to notice. He caught Lago’s gaze from the corner and shrugged. Lago shrugged in turn and his mouth opened. The giant’s yell made the tables rattle and dust trickle from the ceiling, but it managed to get the hall quiet again. More than one high lord twitching uncomfortably as if he was sitting in something wet.

“Obviously Tyrion isn’t aware of the fact that the Boltons no longer hold Winterfell.” Sansa said shakily behind him. “I’m sure had he known, his words would have been much kinder.”

“Kinder, aye, but his meaning would be the same. Rusty cleaver on a bloodstained rag or polished dirk on a silken cushion, a blade’s a blade.” Alys Karstark said, crossing her arms while the northmen banged the table in immediate agreement.

“Queen of the First Men, she calls herself. None of those dragony folk were ever more than kings- or queens- of kneelers. I don’t see no kneelers now.” Sigorn added, the Free Folk vehemently copying their cousins to show approval of his words.

“Does she have a drop of the blood of the First Men? No, she has only poison in her black veins. Does she pray to heart trees? No, her gods are made of glass and wax.” Ned Umber said, his boyish voice carrying for one so young.

“Rumor has it men made of blood-mortared brick make up her army, them and the Dothraki. And she’s got a kinslaying dwarf as her hand, one with the gall to claim the father’s seat he murdered. I’ll say this for the westermen, if there’s an ounce of honor in them they’ll tie a gold brick to Tyrion Lannister’s stunted legs and toss him in the sea. Blood that tainted ought not be shed on Westerosi soil, the stain would never come out.” The blonde man next to Royce spoke for the first time, making the entire hall shout in agreement or toasts to his words.

“Let her come with her toy soldiers and titles enough to bore a maester. We’ll watch her freeze into a pretty snowqueen and set her out to scare crows.” Lyanna Mormont snorted contemptuously. The noise grew until Lago coughed.

Glad to see we’re all on the same page, if the wrong page. Little steps, Jon thought.

“If the raven who brought this to us can be believed, its point of origin was Dragonstone. That means the dragon queen has landed already, likely begun spreading out across the crownlands. We’ve received nothing from King’s Landing, though. Either Cersei’s got bigger problems than us right now, or she likewise isn’t aware the Boltons have been overthrown. Whichever the case, in no short order she’ll cease to be a worry, distant and impotent as she is. Once Daenerys has finished with Cersei, she’ll turn her eyes to us. Remember my lords, we ourselves have bigger worries than a girl from the east.“ Jon said.

“The island she squats on is a trove of dragonglass we need access to. Stannis used to say there were deep tunnels, veins, under the castle. Somehow we need to finagle it out from under her-”

“Or we could ask her for it, perhaps even explain why we need it.” Jon turned in surprise to see Sansa on her feet. What little color that remained in her filled her cheeks as every gaze fixed on her. “Instead of trying to work out how best to keep her away-” she began slowly, but Val interrupted her.

“You want to bring them in?” Val asked incredulously. “I know little of her and the more I hear the less I want to listen. Who is she to come up here and demand we suck her toes for the right to call ourselves free people? She’s a godless savage, one of thousands-”

“-so were the Free Folk until Jon brought you past the Wall.” Sansa said, frowning. “I wasn’t at the Fist, or Hardhome. Easy enough to make angry noises when there’s stone about you and friends to drink with. What about when all that’s keeping a howling wind out is a soaking fur, and the men you’re rubbing elbows with are walking dead? I don’t know what a wight is, I don’t know what an Other is, I scarcely know the difference myself, but they sound a deal worse than some rowdy lads fond of horses and a girl scarcely older than I.” she added. Jon watched the angry faces of proud Free Folk pale to a one, sinking back into their seats. Their reaction to Sansa’s words surprised the rest of the hall, but Jon knew. They know what it is we face.

“One of the titles she claims is ‘Mother of Dragons’. Tyrion’s little love note referenced Harrenhal. Balerion the Black Dread turned it to molten slag on a whim of the Conqueror’s. Dragonglass aside, imagine what help dragons could be when the… when they work out a way past the Wall.” Jon said evenly, calling for more wine.

Nobody spoke but Jon knew what was on their minds. Must we trade freedom for a promise of safety? 

“We don’t know what the Others are capable of. It could be the dragons are no guarantee. I know fire kills wights though, and that’s cause enough to warrant courting Daenerys Targaryen. At least for now.” Jon told the hall. The uncertainty was still there, he could feel it flowing off them like heat off a hearth.

“Yes. Cause enough to court her.” Sansa said, making him look back to her. Her mouth twitched. “We can leave her down there that sea of southerners, let her get stuck in the mire of King’s Landing until the ill humors overcome her. Or we can do something else. I don’t doubt Tyrion has thought of every possible way to make alliances for his queen without resorting to fighting. Nobody in the south is prepared to resist a battle-hardened well-rested army anyway.” she said. Jon’s brow furrowed. “If we could bring the rest of Westeros in, or as many fighting men as we could-”

“-her father murdered our grandfather and uncle Brandon both, Sansa-” Jon said. She cannot mean it.

“-great lords and small will race each other to her to bend the knee and have all their titles reaffirmed. Were such a thing to come to pass, Daenerys Targaryen would be in a perfect position to bring them all north-”

“Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped aunt Lyanna and Father found her in a bed of blood-” She cannot mean it.

“-ever have you hated being judged for being a bastard, Jon. Yet you are the bastard of a man beloved by his countrymen. I wonder what it will be like for a daughter of the Mad King who is loathed the realm over. I imagine it’s difficult for Tyrion to paint a flattering picture of her to lure suitors. We can part him from that headache very easily. She needs a king. You need a queen. I would think the course is simple if nothing else.” Jon felt he couldn’t find the words to refute her.

Turning to the hall, mouth still agape, Jon saw more than one man with his head in his hands, staring wide-eyed at the wooden table before him. Some had their hands over their eyes, others drank heavily. Val had tears in her eyes. With a sniffle, she spoke.

“Is that true? Will all the kneelers come north if this one girl tells them to?” she asked Jon. He nodded wordlessly. Val took a steadying breath. “More would be better when the Others come. More men, more weapons, more dragonglass, more everything. Were there any other way…” she looked at Sansa half pleadingly.

“Even if there were, it would be wrong to set this aside. As I said, the world does not stop once one leaves the snows and swamps of the North. With such a match as this, we can keep with the south and the world beyond it without being reduced to a pretty pearl ring on the hand of Westeros. Peace is no doubt what Tyrion is after as her Hand. We need such a peace to get as many soldiers north to man the castles of the North in time to stop the Others. If they get past us they will overrun the world, my lords, this is the answer.” She turned to Jon. “When I hailed you King in the North, I resolved not to rest until the woman you love sits in this chair-’ she put her hand on the rest of the empty chair beside Jon’s “-and your son sits in her arms. I’ll settle for the latter at this point, Jon. Time is short and our options few. The ghosts of wronged Starks can’t hear us, can’t hurt us, and a line that stretches back to the Dawn Age is reduced to just you and I. What happens if you should die without an heir?” Sansa asked. “Now is not the time to look a gift dragon in the mouth.”

Chapter Text

Bran

Despite bring a fraction of the Nightfort’s size, Bran could plainly see Castle Black was poorly manned. Those few brothers who’d returned from the wilds and survived the recent internecine conflicts of the Night’s Watch both were exhausted, barely fed, and poorly equipped. Desperate as they are, they give us the best lodgings they can, Bran thought, the tiny hearth alight thanks to Meera. Princess Meera now, or near enough. The thought made Bran smile ear to ear. The southerners among the Watch got a bad shock when the giants had come through the tunnel in number, but in the light of day it was easy to see they weren’t about to start trouble. All they wanted to do was tend their mammoths and rest. The Children of the Forest were even more frightening. Big green-gold eyes and their four-fingered hands were enough to send anyone from below the Neck briskly walking in the opposite direction. As a consequence the little people spent their time keeping near to Bran and Meera.

“They are afraid of us, Bran.” The most talkative of the Children told him one night. As far as he was willing to guess, the Child was male. It’s so hard to tell, they’re so alike, he thought.

“Well, I suppose anyone who can live out there is someone that intimidates them.” he shrugged.

“Out where?” the Child asked.

“Well…”

“You may call me Branch.”

“Well, Branch, most people don’t live out in the open air like the wildlings do. They farm, you know, they grow food and sell or trade it away. Or they fish, or they mine, that sort of thing. They’re very dependent on the weather, their jobs to be able to feed their families.”

“Why would they rather not be so attached to the whims of the seasons? A hunter may go hungry for a night, but from what you say, a farmer will starve if for one day his crop fails, or if insects get to it, or if the skies send snow or hail. The world is not a collection of fields for men to squeeze their meager crops and herds out of like beads of blood out of living flesh. These men here are the most amenable to living with…others. Further south where they care not for living wood but worship pictures of men worked in glass surrounded by scented wax, clad in silk or steel, what place would we have in the world they live in now?” Bran frowned at Branch’s implication.

“They don’t know what’s coming, Branch. The greatest knights to ever live would have nothing to say to a giant on a mammoth. Giants do not scour the land of life as they go, though. Nor do the Children. It would be foolish to worry about such differences with the Others on the doorstep of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Still, Branch’s words irked something in Bran.

“He is not wrong, Bran.” Meera said gently when they were laying by the fire, gazing at each other across the floor.

“What do you mean?” he asked her. She lives in the North, surely she must understand.

“The crannogmen don’t work vast fields or keep herds of cows and sheep. Such animals need far too much space and water to realistically raise in the Neck. We eat such as we can find or catch, and if one is ready to do that, the Neck is more than plentiful in food. People might call me ‘highborn’ for being a Reed, but that word is meaningless in the bogs. Most ‘noble’ crannog families, as much as that idea applies, don’t live in castles or even houses. A great many live in winding warrens underground or else nowhere, wandering the Neck as they will. Few if any have felt silk or steel on their skin, and they use weapons made of wood, stone, or bone. A southron might call them primitive, but when the storms start and the snows fall, who trembles at the sight of a graying sky? In the Neck we have a saying. Only southrons fear lizard-lions. Not because crannogmen keep them as pets, but because they see the armored back or eyes poking from the mire while a southron will clank along in his steel and step on one’s tail and have his shiny head in its mouth before he knows what‘s happening. Knights are so venerated for their steel armor. What good is armor when House Styng throws a nest full of ghost hornets at a knight’s face? Or one of House Webb’s green widows creeps between the plates and bites the flesh beneath?” Bran saw her cheeks had gone pink. I did not think such fire was in her.

“Or a lizard-lion pulls down both horse and knight in a leaping ambush from the water?” he finished for her. Meera looked away from him. “I remember the story you told me, Meera. About the crannogman and the three squires, and the girl who rescued him.” Who they really were as well. “It’s no surprise you’re not fond of knights, that you hold the south in no great regard.” he said gently, scooting closer to her while she sat up. The firelight made her eyes all the more striking. How could I have thought them green? Jojen’s were green as moss…hers are the sky after a blizzard. It was a good few seconds before he realized he was staring at her with his mouth partly open. He blinked and shook his head, blushing furiously while Meera smiled herself, the red ire in her cheeks cooling into a rose blush of her own.

“My mother never spoke about how she and Father met. Only once did she tell me about her life before then. “Even in the Neck, boys are birds in spring for the girls they like”, she told me.” Bran’s blush only deepened. Well, looks like Lady Reed is as right as right can be regarding that.

When dawn came Bran found he had a hand on her shoulder and she a hand on his. Stark and Reed, he thought. As it was in the first days, the beginning of the world. Her grey eyes opened when she felt him move.

“We should be off soon. We don’t want to strain their meager stores any more than we have.” she said. Rather than reply, he simply gazed at her. If I am honest with myself, he thought, truly honest, I would not trade her for all the Starks the Pack has lost. It is to me to prove worthy of such a woman. Had the Reeds not come, Jojen would be alive and his house would have a future. I am the head of House Stark, quite possibly the last. It is to me to prove us worthy of such loyalty, such sacrifice. He wondered if he’d ever manage to meet Howland Reed, the mysterious figure who had been at Father’s side when he found a dying aunt Lyanna. What would Father think to see me now? Lord Howland’s daughter and I, betrothed. The thought was so strange, he never expected to leave the cave. When they had, he never expected to make it to the Wall. Now I have. It seems I have a future after all, and thanks to Meera, so does House Stark. He stood, half to stretch and half to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. I have my legs back. All it took was Summer and Hodor… Bran thought, the loss of his wolf and the friendly child-man who took him to the Three Eyed Raven bringing down his soaring spirit.

“I wish we could have done more. Back at the cave. I wish I could have done anything.” he said as they got ready to go see Jon.

“You’re not Bran the Broken anymore. You’re Prince Brandon Stark of Winterfell.” Meera replied firmly, a hand on his shoulder. “Once we get to Last Hearth, we can confer with the Umbers how best to proceed.” The two of them had nothing but the clothes they wore as far as possessions so traveling was no great burden. And I want to get my legs feeling normal. I feel like I’ve grown them back overnight and it’s like a new tooth coming in a thousand times over! Bran thought.

They heard a furious row going on outside the Lord Commander’s chambers. Evidently they don’t think they’ll be overheard, Bran thought shakily. Meera’s face had gone from rosy to alert, and the two listened at the door as long as they dared.

“-not going to say a fucking word, and if you had a brain in that winesodden skull of yours, neither will you-”

“We haven’t heard anything from Jon Snow, how are we to know he even made it to Winterfell, let alone overthrew the Boltons-”

“-it can’t be that bad-”

“-who’s Jon Snow?-” Alright, I’ve heard enough, Bran decided, the two of them throwing the doors open. The brothers inside all looked to them, and to a man their jaws dropped and their eyes went big as dinner plates.

“Is my brother here or not?” Bran demanded of them. The small man who’d let them past the Wall, the Lord Commander Bran guessed, slowly got to his feet. He opened his mouth, exhaled in exasperation, and promptly emptied his cup of ale.

“How the fuck…” he muttered to himself.

“Just start at the beginning, my lord.” Meera said. Instantly the man stood aright and caught his breath.

“Apologies, L- er, Lady Reed. I’m Edd Tollett, uh, but it seems it‘s an open question whether or not I‘m Lord Commander-”

“-it’s not and you are-”

“-shut up, Satin, and get us more ale.”

“Then surely you’ll know where Jon is? Jon Snow?” Bran asked. Tollett pursed his lips.

“Aw, what the hell? Jon was Lord Commander before me, but a bunch of cunts killed him for letting the wildlings and the big boys past the Wall to get them away from the Others. I was at Hardhome so it made perfect fucking sense to me. Anyway, a red witch brought him back to life. His- er, your sister Sansa showed up not long after, fresh off escaping from the Boltons. They left south with the wildlings to rally the North and retake Winterfell. Last we heard they were making the final push. Yeah, that’s about the size of it.” he finished, smiling bemusedly while Bran and Meera stared at him.

“I suppose you missed the dragons, then.” Meera finally gasped out.

“Only just, my lady. Them and the grumkins and the rain of Arbor gold.” Tollett said, still smiling, even shrugging.

Bran could only stare, mind ground to a halt and whirling all at once. Jon and Sansa, they’ve gone to take out home back. We have more giants and even Children of the Forest, we should go help them…! Then he remembered the giants present were in no shape to get into the thick of a pitched battle, and he didn’t know the full ability of the Children to do battle anyway.

“So…Jon isn’t here.” Bran finally got out.

“I wish he were. I’m not the stuff commanders are made of.” Tollett answered.

“Well, you lasted this long, my lord. How many Lord Commanders of the Night’s Watch have had their predecessors bring wildlings south and come back to life? Not an easy act to follow.” Meera told him.

“Our aim is to go as far south as Last Hearth. Maybe the Umbers went to war with Jon, I remember the Greatjon was as fierce a supporter of Robb’s as could be found, and my brother Rickon was headed there when last I saw him.” Bran said.

“Certainly better than marching up to Winterfell without knowing who holds it.” Meera agreed, taking his hand. The brothers noticed his and one cleared his throat rather conspicuously. Tollett shot him a look.

“It isn’t our place to interfere in the goings-on of the realm, my lord. All I can do is wish you a safe and speedy journey. Not just because of our vows, but also because we haven’t got a crumb of food to spare and that’s the truth.” he said, looking back to Bran.

“What of Samwell Tarly?” he asked suddenly. Tollett looked surprised Bran knew him, then shrugged.

“Lord Commander Snow sent him to the Citadel to become a maester, if I recall right.” He looked to one of his men, who nodded silently. I spent years in a hole while the world moved on without me. Likely everyone thinks I’m dead, imagine Jon’s reaction when I pop back up! I wonder if he still has Ghost? Or if Rickon still has Shaggydog? He itched to get going, to see his siblings again, his Pack. Maybe Jon’s at Last Hearth right now, even! They were so close, even with Summer gone he could feel them, the Wall and the cave’s magic no longer deterrents. Jon has giants with him too, what do the Boltons have that can stop a giant?

“Well, Lord Commander, we only came to tell you we were leaving, and to thank you for taking us as well as our new friends in.” Meera said. Tollett nodded.

“Of course. Regrettably we haven’t got horses to spare either, all our horse breeders in the Gift have either been run off or killed.”

“I’ll send a few your way once I manage to reach Last Hearth. A gift from the Prince and Princess of Winterfell to the Night’s Watch.” Bran told him.

The giants were hard to rouse. Most seem to think being on this side of the Wall is enough, Bran thought. Only when Branch got the mammoths trundling off without their minders did the giants find their vigor and the slugabeds were visible across the rolling moors of the North running hard to catch the herd. Bran heard Meera giggle behind him, her arms about his waist and her head on his shoulder. Only when a giant had gently set them on a mammoth did Bran realize he was taller than she, and by a good half foot. When he mentioned this to Meera, she giggled again.

“Legs will do that, Bran.” Her laughter made him smile. I can do this at least, Bran thought. I can ride while she holds on, she needn’t drag me behind her like a plow ox any longer. When she did not lift her head back up, Bran realized she’d fallen asleep. He turned to the giant guiding the mammoth. “Do you really need to keep a hand on him?” he asked. Another giant, this one a woman with dark hair running to her heaving chest, joined them.

“Wug Wod not talk man-talk.” she informed Bran. “You talk, Ama will say to Wug Wod, say back what he says.”

“Um…” It wasn’t the broken speech of the giant that startled Bran, it was the meaning she conveyed regardless. Branch was right, he thought. It’s truly startling to have talk with someone who isn’t… well, who isn’t a person. Perhaps I was with the Children so long I forgot that. Bran repeated the question, and Ama asked Wug Wod. He went to laugh, but Ama socked him on the shoulder and pointed to Meera. Almost sheepishly he replied in a harsh primal tongue.

“He say mammoth smart. Horse stupid. But smart mammoth go way it wants, stop eat grass, stop drink water, stop talk mammoth-talk. No rider, can go without guide. Carry you, must keep near.” she translated. Mammoth-talk? Bran thought.

“Mammoths can talk?” he asked her. This time, Ama did not need to translate.

“Everything talk. Sky talk, trees talk, stones talk. Yes, mammoths talk. Is we cannot hear.” she said.

They rode over the course of the day. A leisurely unhurried pace despite Bran’s keenness to get back to his Pack to make sure the giants could keep up. The mammoths could not be hurried anyway- Big the giants were, but Bran would not have cared to stand in the path of an angry mammoth, even as a giant. Rather than talk or ask questions of the giants, he found it easier to listen, dozing off here and there himself. A few words of the common tongue he found had their roots in the old. Mamaf, he thought, watching what could only have been a calf hiding behind the leg of its imposing mother. Gond, the giants’ word for their own kind. Suddenly Bran pointed to a creature he had never seen before.

“What is that?” he asked. Ama looked where he was pointing.

“Oh. Rhonok. Big horn. Hard to find, men hunt for lucky horn.” she told him. It looked somewhat like a horse, if larger, very hairy, and with two curved horns jutting from its forehead, one behind the other. Like a unicorn, Bran thought. Only, the unicorns in Sansa’s stories were always horned white horses that carried knights and maidens. If she saw one of these, she’d faint. The animal behaved very like a mammoth, Bran observed, if a bit dimmer and more stubborn. It also did not make the little snuffles and soft trumpets to others of its few kind as the mammoths did."Rhonok not so smart as mammoth. Bad mood, worse temper.” The creature stopped short and slowly tried a bit of grass, snuffling to itself. The giants and mammoths passed it by for awhile until a very large bull snuffled at it in turn. The rhonok looked up at him, blinked blearily and moved on, still snuffling as if in a sulk. Suddenly one of the giants pointed to something off to the right. Bran recognized the yellow glint in the light of the sun just beginning to set.

“Queenscrown. Uh, a tower. Trees. No men.” Bran told Ama, who relayed his worlds.

“A roof would be good, as well as a copse to hide our friends in.” Meera said suddenly, softly. Bran nearly jumped out of his skin. How long has she been awake? he thought. Wug Wod pointed towards it and began to lead their mammoth off the kingsroad, the rest of the herd steadily keeping pace.

By the time they got to the ruined tower, dusk had set in and the giants were ready for a rest. Bran saw them simply sit up against trees or else lie on their sides, most falling asleep straightaway. The mammoths in turn formed a loose circle around their young. When Ama gently helped Bran down, he had to rub the stiffness out of his legs as Meera in turn came down.

“The first Stark to ride a mammoth.” he told Ama. She only smiled.

“First in long time, yes. First? Don’t think. Men old, mammoths older. Long time to think “first” .” she replied. He took their mount and led it off to the rest of the herd while he heard Meera come up behind him.

“Our normal place, then?” she asked quietly. He nodded and followed her, working their way through the maze of puddles and stone debris to get to the tower proper. Once at the threshold, he took her hand.

“Meera, let me go first. Just in case.” he said. And because it’s the first time I can protect you, if only from collapsing stairs...and I don’t want my mind on your rear when I’m climbing such a stair. She got behind him without a second thought, and up they went. As they did, he noticed how close she stayed to him. At this rate, if I fell through, so would she, he thought. Only when they reached the top of the tower did he notice that Meera had taken off her fur, looking at him with an expression he had never seen before. A fire lit within and he quickly went over to the window such as it was, sitting down and trying to ignore it. Meera came over and sat beside him. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and Bran noticed its every movement. Finally, he could take the silence no longer and turned to her. The setting sun lit Meera Reed’s face perfectly, her grey eyes staring into his being. He stilled the butterflies in his chest, and when his hands came up, they did not tremble. Slowly, he began to undo her jerkin. She shrugged it off, the rising moon turning her skin a dappled silver. Wordlessly Meera lay her legs across his lap. Bran slipped a hand down her waist, fingers trailing down her thigh as he gently pulled her leggings off. He could see his princess’ breath coming out in little wisps. He could not remember disrobing. It wasn’t important. His siblings weren’t important. The world wasn’t important. She lay back on the furs, his and hers. Bran went to her, not daring to speak. She let out a soft breath as he brought his lips to hers, his hands to hers, his body to hers. I am Brandon Stark, Prince of Winterfell, he thought, and Bran the Boy no more, no more.

Chapter Text

Arya

She stayed on the eastern bank of the Green Fork. There aren’t any castles on this side, and the villages will still be deserted from the war. Arya remembered the devastation visited on the sleepy country by Tywin Lannister. Still, with the kingsroad not a half league further east, a keen eyed traveler might notice the countless tumble of wolves running through the trees. Nymeria kept close to Arya without exception. Can’t exactly fault you, girl. I’d do the same were I the direwolf, she thought. Even so, neither Arya nor Nymeria heard anyone on the road. At night the banks filled with a thick mist that soaked into her clothes and chilled arya to the bone. “Were you not here, I’d be scared out of my wits, girl.” Arya told her wolf.

“Scared of what, Arya Stark? These mists are empty of anything that can harm us. We are the hunter, not the prey.” No One said. Arya tried to ignore her.

“You aren’t real. Go away.” she finally blurted out, when the feeling of the other’s presence was too much to bear. No One laughed.

“How might I do that?” she replied. Nymeria looked at her warily, yipping uncertainly. I do not need to be afraid. I have Nymeria, her pack, and I have Needle, she resolved. The further south they went, she knew, the more likely they’d hear travelers passing by, so they stayed in the woods between the river and the road. It was something to see them, the common timber wolves, acting so regimented. The burned one and starred one in particular kept near Nymeria always but never presumed to approach closer than a body length. Arya tried to calm them the first time she saw them get into a spat, but Nymeria only sat on her haunches, the others circling loosely, and watched. Afterward, she knew better than to interfere in the politics of the Pack. If that’s what they are, anyway, she thought. Soon though, Nymeria lost patience with her pack-chieftains. When next the starred one bit down on the burned one’s haunch, she drove her shoulder into his side, sending both off their feet. She didn’t growl or pace, Arya noticed, only gazed with her pitiless eyes at the pair. Who, she also noticed, were quick to submit. If only I had No One on such a tight leash, she thought. Whereas I have you on one even shorter, Arya Stark, she could all but hear her witty retort. When night began to fall and the mists rose off the Green Fork, the Pack bedded down in a copse of oaks nearer the water than the road. Some of the timber wolves watched the river, some the road, ready for anyone to come upon them.

She sat bolt upright when she heard the noise. She was more than half in the embrace of sleep and it came sudden as a bolt of lightning out of a clear sky. Boots caught in sucking mud and a man’s haggard breaths cut through the silent mists and Arya was on her feet instantly. Nymeria’s pack circled up around she and her mistress both yipping and growling to scare off the intruder, who seemed oblivious to the masses of wolves in his midst. A man slumped out of the mist too tired to even get off his knees. Before Arya even looked at his face she saw the towers on his surcoat. Thought No One was in the middle of drawing Needle, something in Arya made her stay her hand. These are Frey lands now, thanks to the Red Wedding. Why is a Frey man-at-arms out here running for his life in the middle of the night?

“Who are you?” she asked shakily, too surprised by the man and too caught up in her own thoughts to do anything more. He didn’t hear her the first time so she had to repeat herself and when he looked up, his eyes popped and he gave a gasp. Tall shadows in the mist drew nearer until Arya realized they weren’t shadows at all, but men. Then they came closer. No, she thought. They only used to be men. They wore badges of houses loyal to Winterfell or Riverrun, and all carried ghastly wounds from which fetid water flowed continuously. The guests of the Red Wedding carried no weapons, as they hadn’t that night, but they didn’t need steel when rotting hands were strong enough to start dragging the man towards the water, who had already fainted dead away. The walking corpses paid Arya no mind. Only when a part of her unfrozen by fear (No One was quite silent) forced her stiff limbs forward into their path did they turn to face her. One look in their milky eyes told Arya all she needed to know. These aren’t men, she resolved again. Just shuffling piles of meat. Rather than attack her though, they just stood there in the moonlight, as if unsure what to do next. Arya’s stoniness didn’t last though, when she gave a gasp of terror the pack attacked. The dead men made no move to defend themselves even when the wolves tore them limb from limb. All the while Arya watched petrified as the dead men merely began shuffling out of the mist hale as ever. The moon was reflected in each pair of eyes brighter than ought. I would know, Arya thought detachedly. I’ve seen a lot of corpses.

Again, they seemed unable to deal with her intrusion into their disposing of the Frey. Gingerly, she reached out for a man with a bear on his surcoat. To her amazement, her hand passed through his arm and came away slimy and foul-smelling, as if she’d stuck her hand in a stagnant pond. “You’re not even meat, then.” she said to them. “You come and go with the mists, or else the moon, one or t’other or both.” she surmised. Nymeria for her part didn’t seem agitated or aggressive, merely wary. Arya was sure that as bad as the things smelled to her, it was worse for her direwolf. Then she got the feeling she was being watched. Not by these unblinking unthinking dead men, if they even saw with those milky eyes, but from the thick obscuring mists. “Who’s out there?” she asked. “I am Arya Stark, Queen in the North, the Last Wolf, and I won’t be stalked like a motherless fawn.” she called out into the night. The mists swirled and broke and her heart stopped. No, she thought, but the woman who came into view was younger than Catelyn Stark, her face rounder and definitively Essosi. What’s a Volantene doing among our dead? A serving wench perhaps, or even a whore, Arya thought, again too confused to be afraid. The woman had been a beauty during life and the deep rend in her rounded front would most definitely have been absent. She was pregnant when they killed her. An arrow would have done the job as well… Arya thought. Her eyes were neither milky nor unthinking, and for her part she looked just as confused at the sight of Arya. “Who are you?” she demanded, perhaps trying to shake the woman or ghost or whatever she was out of her silent shock. The lips twitched. Do I even want an answer? Arya thought. It seemed to take her a moment to remember how to speak.

“I don’t remember.” she said.

Arya had not expected that.

“You’re from Volantis, what are you doing here? Why can you talk, think, when the others just seem to mindlessly maul whatever Freys they find?” The woman’s face darkened.

“I remember them. The towers. One of them gave me this.” she patted the oozing slash across her belly.

“The Red Wedding. Where the Freys turned on their guests, among them my brother Robb, King in the North and my mother, Catelyn Stark.” She had to be reminded. Her face twitched and Arya’s spirits soared, but there was no hint of recognition. The dead woman’s eyes fell on Nymeria. Grey Wind, Arya remembered. Grey Wind was with them. “My brother had a direwolf too, a boy one. Grey Wind. Did you know him?” She reached for the Volantene’s hand, was surprised to feel cold wet flesh rather than water or nothing at all, and led it to Nymeria’s muzzle despite the wolf’s obvious dislike of the situation. “Grey Wind. He was my brother Robb’s-” the hand was pulled out of her grip.

“Go. This isn’t a place for any girl, let alone a queen.” the woman said suddenly. Her face had gone from unknowing to reticent. Arya’s fear had by then been replaced by the hole in her chest she’d felt in the days after the Red Wedding. It’s as if they’re right here, right with me, if I could only find them in the mist.

“But you should be…”

“Be where, Arya Stark? She is a dead thing, and the dead do not belong with the living anyhow. What business of ours could matter to her or her subjects?” No One said, sounding a deal less smug than was her custom.

“If you were a servant of Catelyn Stark’s, she was my mother. You should be somewhere else besides this mist-choked riverside. With your family, wherever they are.” The woman’s eyes fell back on Arya.

“Wherever they are.” She repeated Arya’s words. Turning, she moved back toward the river, the others following her immediately.

“Wait! Don’t go, my mother is here somewhere, she has to be, she was killed at the Twins same as any of you!” she cried to no avail, the recipients of Frey hospitality vanishing into the river one after another. Tears welled in her eyes and she dashed off into the mists before Nymeria could stop her. She ran for it felt like hours, visibility steadily thickening to within a few feet. The shapes of trees faded in and out of sight as she ran and she could hear the pack calling to her, for her, beside itself in Nymeria’s haste to locate her mistress. Unable to see where she was going, Arya suddenly sank up to her hips in the cold waters of the Green Fork and was swept away by the rush.

Her world became mud leaves and water as Arya Stark was carried further south. She managed to catch herself on a low-hanging branch, pulling her sodden self up out of the river and clinging to it like a kitten caught in a tree. Exhausted, she inched along to the trunk and lowered herself onto solid ground though her whole body hurt. Like someone’s been at me with a stick, she thought. She collapsed at the base of the tree that had saved her, chest heaving. Queen in the North, she thought bitterly. She brought her knees to her chest and sniffled, then started to quietly sob. I always seem to come last. I’m Arya Underfoot, I’m the one everyone always forgets, the last Stark but for good now. Even my Pack forgot to take me with them when they died. No wonder Jaqen thought I could be a Faceless Man. Now I don’t have a purpose any more than that Volantene did, I’m as much a ghost as any of them. Arya cried herself out and clumsily got to her feet, slipping and sliding in the mud as she did. She began to stumble along, heading who cared where, having nowhere to go and no one to see. Another mud puddle took her feet out from under her and she landed flat on her back, knocked breathless. After a few frantic gasps she made to rise again then stopped herself, sliding to lay her head back in the mud. What’s the point? I’ll just be knocked back into the filth like I am every time I try to do something, Arya thought. She spread herself out like a sea star, content to stare straight up at the stars overhead. The moon shone down beautiful and unreachable. Like Visenya would have been on Vhagar, Arya thought. High above the world, where nobody could have dragged her down. The north star glinted down as well, the two lights in their endless dance across the night sky. Tell me what to do, Arya implored Her. You led Nymeria back to me, or I back to her, I don’t know, I don’t care. I’m done with the list, done with No One. Tell me why I’m still alive, why I made it back from Essos when kings and armies never have. Tell me why I am-

“Ouch!” Arya cried as something hard poked into her side. Wincing, she slowly sat up and went digging in her pockets, filled by the river’s dragging her along its bottom. She pulled out a clump of leaves and dead plants and made a face at it, before emptying her other pocket. At the center she could feel a stone. She grit her teeth. “Stupid rock. I’ll soon have you back at the bottom of the river where you bloody belong.” she hissed, pulling out the clump. Eager as she was to confront the culprit, she was badly shocked when she spotted dark red in the leaves. Am I bleeding? Arya checked but aside from a fading pain there was no harm done. Puzzled, she looked back to the clump, peeling away the dead leaves and revealing a deep red stone in the shape of an oval. It was my idea to go looking for rubies, Arya remembered numbly as the mists receded in the first light of dawn. My idea to ask Mycah to help. Rhaegar Targaryen’s ruby was a burning coal, the moonlight cascading across it like the lines of a star sapphire. My idea too, to ask You why I am, she thought, looking back up. “Daenerys Targaryen has set sail at last.” Arya remembered. She held the ruby up to the moon, the brilliant red stone without a shadow of a flaw even after years at the bottom of the Green Fork. “I believe I’ll return you to her.” she said. “After all, you’re a royal heirloom.”

After only a few hours of walking southeast again along the river’s edge, Nymeria and her pack reappeared, many of whom were wet or panting. Nymeria herself was unquestionably irate and voiced her displeasure by licking Arya’s face.

“I know, that was stupid of me. I found this though.” She held Prince Rhaegar’s ruby up for the wolf to sniff, who did so curiously. “Dragonstone for us, girl. We’ll just leave your pack in the crownlands while we make our visit.” she said. It was a restorative all its own to have a destination, a thing she wanted, or rather a place she wanted to be. What came after was of no concern nor consequence.

“We have a lioness to skin still, or have you forgotten?” No One hissed in her ear. Arya ignored her with no great effort. It seemed No One’s voice was fading little by little to its owner’s great frustration. The shouts of the names still to be crossed off the list were the buzzing of a fly by the time the sun had risen, and Arya could see the roof of the crossroads inn in the distance. I’ve no coin for a bath or food, she thought, but perhaps a pack of wolves will be enough to convince them to part with some trifles. Coming down the kingsroad with Nymeria at her side the first thing Arya heard was a panicked screaming. Alright, not like I expected any better… she reasoned when a little girl on the road turned on her heel and went running back to the safety of the inn. The other wolves were tense until they realized the people out and about around the inn were obviously not a threat. Arya saw mostly old people twice her father’s age and children half her own. I wonder if Hot Pie is still here. Taking a rag off a hastily abandoned cart she wiped her face as much as she could, as well as brushing the mud and leaves from her hair. She stepped up the the door of the inn.

“Hello!” she called out.

“Is a wolf!” one small girl inside cried. “She’ll gobble us up!” Instantly there was an outburst of noise, crying, a few muttered curses and the clang of a dropped pot. There was some hushed whispering and a window on the second floor opened. A girl a bit older than Arya poked her head out.

“We haven’t got any food for you or your pets. Go away.” she said.

“Is Hot Pie still here?” Arya replied. “Baker boy from King’s Landing?” The girl’s eyes popped.

“What’s it to you?” “I’m Arya Stark, a friend of his.” The door of the inn swung in and Hot Pie bound out with a beaming smile on his face.

"Joining the Brotherhood didn’t much work out then, did it?” he asked.

“Neither did joining the Faceless Men. I’ll tell you about it-”

“-after you’ve had a bath and a bite. You stink worse than the pigs do, Arry.”

Chapter Text

Daenerys

Whenever she went out to the ramparts to look at the sea or watch her army continuously disembark on the beaches, Daenerys noticed Drogon closely shadowed her. He circled overhead unendingly or even tried to land on the castle walls themselves, roaring in displeasure when he found the space too narrow for his feet to stand apart and hold him up. When she went down to the beaches themselves, he landed beside her, nearly on top of her, and quickly coiled around her in an unmistakable show of possessiveness, roaring at anyone who came too close be they Dothraki, Unsullied, or Westerosi.

“Perhaps bringing the lords of the crownlands here is a bad idea.” Tyrion opined as Dany unsuccessfully tried to escape her child’s overprotective wings. “I doubt they’ll see fit to hold an audience with you when Drogon won’t so much as let you more than a hundred feet away.” He knew his name, of course, and the massive head turned to Tyrion, red eyes staring coldly, smoke pluming from his nostrils. Dany finally managed to squirm through and land near one of Drogon’s legs, making him whine.

“I suppose he liked it better when I was atop a pyramid and out of harm’s way. Either that or he doesn’t trust me not to do something stupid.” she commented dryly.

“Normally children cry and throw tantrums to get their mothers’ attentions. Keeping him occupied will prove an important task if you’re to woo the lords of the crownlands. Keep in mind these men were loyal to Stannis during the War of the Five Kings, some all the way to the end. I can’t imagine they’re altogether chuffed you’ve come back to Westeros at last.” Tyrion said. They’d sent the ravens as he suggested and only got polite nothings back from the nearest castles, Sharp Point and Claw Isle among them. I’d bet the poor birds we sent north are still awing, Dany thought. The tip of Drogon’s tail snaked between her legs while she was lost in thought and Dany had to quickly sidestep her child’s attempt to reclaim her and hoard her away. She ignored his displeased whine and began to walk down the beach, hailed by groups of Dothraki as she went.

Rather than a proper Westerosi dress as Tyrion had recommended she get used to wearing, she wore her usual Dothraki vest and a thick coat to keep out the cold wind that sometimes rushed the island off the sea. It was more comfortable as well as more practical. To her secret delight, Dany had discovered that leather was much harder to smoke-stain than wool or cotton. Given Drogon’s moodiness of late, such light fare seemed unwise.

“Lord Bar Emmon is but a boy younger than yourself, there will be no need to bring anything resembling intimidation to bear.” Varys said as he and Missandei came down the granite steps to the beach. “Ardrian Celtigar is a wholly different sort. Old proud and rich.”

“How did you even know what we were talking about?” Tyrion asked incredulously. Dany saw Varys roll his eyes.

“Rhaegal heard you and he’s closer to the sun than he is us right now, my lord.” she giggled, pointing to the skyward green sliver no bigger than a dragonfly. “Sound carries between the rocks, even on the beach.” she told him.

“Well, corkers for Rhaegal. Maybe if he could tell us what kept him up there at all hours we’d see fit to join him and nevermind all this.” Tyrion said, making Dany laugh aloud this time. If only I knew where Viserion has gone, she thought. In truth, it was likely that the other two dragons’ marked change in behavior had to do with their escape from captivity. She’d seen them simply blast their way out from under the pyramid and engage the slaver ships, but only the ones in their way. Dany knew had they not been distracted thus, they’d have disappeared before she or Drogon could have stopped them. From what little she saw of Rhaegal as she approached before he flew off, Dany could tell he wasn’t just faster than Drogon, but he was better in the air. The green dragon had wasted no time in catching up on flying, and spent just enough time in roost to sleep before he was off again. Not just off either, but up. He went so high it made Dany dizzy to think what the world must look like from up there. If someone fell from that height they’d have time to draw a proper map of the world before they hit the ground, she thought. The first time she and Drogon had tried to follow him he soon had them at an appreciable distance and breaking away. Drogon’s powerful robust body could not simply rise the way lithe Rhaegal’s could, and it cut her proud child to the bone.

“Never mind, sweetling.” She’d kissed the scales of his shoulder, harder and thicker than steel plate. “A lowly scout may ride faster than a knight.”

“If someone spots Viserion I would know of it.” Dany told Varys, who bowed at once. “Hopefully he’s staying close to Dragonstone and hasn’t gone to make mischief on the mainland.”

“Oh, we’d know if that were the case. Lords are slow to reply when asked for something, but when it’s them doing the asking, the ravens never stop.” Tyrion said. They watched the Dosh Khaleen disembark, having waited out the storm before coming ashore themselves. The old women and young widows turned caretakers peered fearfully up at the castle. The oldest of them could not have been younger than eighty and the Dothraki quickly discovered it was simply faster to carry her where she needed to go. “Have you decided when you’re going to call upon the port town?” Tyrion asked pointedly. Dany did not answer, only managing to turn pink. Dragonstone boasted more than the Targaryen seat, there was a small bustling port on its eastern tip, hugging the castle. My first time meeting common Westerosi, she thought. The bulk of her forces would never have fit on the tiny island and so had set up camp on the northern shore, Crackclaw Point.

“We are not in Essos.” she had told them before they left. “You will stay near just as my dragons do. The people of this land are my people, not Lamb Men to be raided.” However, according to Varys, that wasn’t the problem.

“They hem and haw like the herds they ride about the poison water, how it is full of demons.” he’d told her. Dany rolled her eyes. Brave and fierce the Dothraki were but their superstitious nature sometimes tested her patience sorely. Are they children who hide behind their mothers’ legs at the sight of lightning and the sound of thunder, or are they my khalasar? she thought. Thinking of the sea reminded her. My first casualty. Bad news men don‘t want to hear.

“Make sure Asha Greyjoy is in the council room tonight.” she said in a quiet voice. Again, a bow from Varys. She resumed her walk down the beach in silence, Drogon snorting in alarm and following when he realized she’d gone off without him.

She came upon a lone Unsullied standing by a pile of little black stones. With Drogon bounding after them, it was hard not to go unnoticed so the soldier was facing her when she approached.

“This one has the honor to be White Shrike, Your Grace.” he said in Valyrian. Dany recognized the look of one who had been born Dothraki immediately.

“White Shrike. What are you doing here?” she asked him in the same tongue.

“This one remembers Your Grace telling Grey Worm that the safety of your people is paramount. Several Dothraki children told this one that some of the stones on the beach made them feel ill. I and several other Unsullied set to helping them gather all we could find and piling them so that they could not be a danger forthwith. Now that Your Grace has arrived, White Shrike awaits orders what to do with them.” Dany stared at him. Even White Shrike didn’t seem to know what to think, only staring resolutely ahead and ignoring the pile of oval stones. She looked to her advisors at a loss for words in any tongue. Tyrion pursed his lips and loyally nudged the pile with his foot, bending to look. He picked one up with the sleeve of his jerkin so as not to touch it barehanded. Dany saw his face go from patronizing to deeply disturbed.

“They’re not just random lumps of rock, look. This one has a fish on it.” he showed Varys with a casual air, who likewise took it without making skin contact. Dany saw his lip curl.

“I don’t much care for the artist’s impression of a fish.” Missandei looked over Varys’ shoulder.

“You aren’t holding it right, my lord.” she said softly. She picked one up in turn but held it vertically rather than horizontally.

“They’ve all got the same thing on them.” She showed the queen. To Dany it looked very much like a man with the head of a fish, or at least a fish that walked on two legs.

“Rumors that the First Men worshipped strange gods have plagued Crackclaw Point since before the Conquest.” Tyrion said. He’d gone pale. “Maybe the Citadel would pay handsomely for them.” Suddenly Dany saw Varys squeeze his eyes shut, dropping the stone. Tyrion coughed.

“Or we could put them in a leather bag, tie it nice and tight and toss it in the bay and never mention this again.” he said as if nothing had happened.

Once that was done they continued on their way. White Shrike was given quiet orders to continue combing the beach and flicking any such stones he found back into the sea with the butt of his spear. I’ll have to ask him if he’s alright when we have a moment, Dany thought. She was prepared for battle and readily told her advisors so, but the situation seemed very much like Tyrion had described.

“No one is going to give battle against Dothraki cavalry and Unsullied infantry, much less with Drogon circling above. If I may say so Your Grace, you’ve brought a splendid army for a war you’ve all but missed.” he commented.

“It will be waging peace then.” she surmised. Her words seemed to surprise her pet politicians if not Missandei.

“Your Grace? We’ve still the capital to take-” Tyrion began.

“Her Grace has already seen the beauty in letting the victory come to her.” Missandei interrupted for perhaps the first time in her life.

“Time is more a friend to dragons than all else that lives. Where other things grow old or sick, dragons only grow bigger and stronger. Why does she need another city? Men with important names will flock to her as they did in Essos wherever she is. If I have my facts right, this island and its castle were the seat of House Targaryen to begin with. There is no need to rush anything and risk making an easily avoided mistake. Again, if I have the grasp of the situation, this Cersei Lannister has no true allies, only followers who will readily abandon her, no ability to influence what goes on outside the city walls, and no reasonable expectation of reinforcement.” She turned to Daenerys who beamed at her. “Even if it takes until you are this Cersei’s age, what’s to rush for? Never has a war been won by waiting but to this one’s eyes this could very well be the first.” she said. My precious Missandei, ever loyal and wise as well, Dany thought. She had got the queen to dry her tears and reassured the Dothraki that nothing was wrong and to go back into the corridor the night Dany dreamed of Queen Rhaella. Free of Aerys, she’d said. Free as you could wish, Mother, Dany thought. I was born after the Kingslayer murdered him and save for the Targaryen hair and eyes I wouldn’t know him if he stood in front of me.

Once it became clear that locating Viserion was a fool’s hope, Dany bid them accompany her to the port town before the sun set. As she half expected, Tyrion and Varys both began to talk at once. She wasn’t properly dressed, she ought have her crown on and further objections.

“They are not high lords born in lofty halls. They are fisherfolk and dockworkers, I would not show them a silk façade.” she said. Upon approaching the low-slung buildings Dany could hear the townsfolk of Dragonstone raise a lively racket at the sight of Drogon who snorted in irritation at the sound. “Now stop that, sweetling.” She patted him on the snout and he slyly tried again to stash her beneath his wing while she had her eyes on his head. A timely throat clearing from Tyrion gave the dragon’s game away though and Dany quickly sidestepped the tail. Drogon snorted in frustration, a plume of smoke billowing a few feet over Tyrion’s head. It was Varys’ turn to clear his throat and Dany turned to see several older gentleman coming toward her little party. Her giggle at Drogon’s antics died in her throat. They were silent, regarding her with impassive stony faces. They’re waiting for me to speak first, she realized. “Well met, gentlemen. I am Daenerys Storm..born…” she trailed off, the stony faces moved not a jot. Something tells me they’re not here to hear the titles.

“How may we be of service, good people?” Missandei asked. One of the men stepped forward.

“I am Oscryd, Your Grace. I’ve been appointed to speak for the town.” Dany nodded in turn, blushing and feeling like nothing else than a little girl. I had the slavers over a barrel and the Dothraki worship the ground I fly over, and yet…

“Well met, Oscryd.” she managed to reply.

“We’ve come to tell you that we gave all the sons and coin we had to Stannis on the Blackwater and then in the north. We’ve not got a babe nor penny more to give to help you chase the Iron Throne.” Dany’s heart sank.

“I have armies well enough already and don’t expect more of you than the port’s normal dues owed the castle, Oscryd.” There was a murmuring among the group that Dany dared to hope sounded accepting, though far from content. “I can imagine some of your families have lived on Dragonstone as long as the Targaryens have. We might be distant kin, if out of wedlock.” They looked at her with surprise then. Not used to being talked to as if their need and desires had merit, and never mind their loved ones, Dany thought.

Another man stepped forward suddenly, mouth moving soundlessly as if he didn’t know what he was about to say himself.

“I am Erril, Your Grace. The catch is in for the first time since before Stannis Baratheon took up with that red witch from Asshai. They could chant and writhe like savages all they liked up there, but any fool could tell you a fire demon has no place on an island like this. If you stand in one of those big castle towers you could look in any direction and see the only god that matters to us. The one that pays our rent, feeds our families and keeps us safe from pirates. Or so we hope. That’s all we can worry about now, Your Grace.” Dany got his gist.

“You have no need to fear, Erril. I’m no more a zealot than I am a warlord. I keep to no gods myself, they will do what they will do and I stand very little chance of changing their minds be they one or many, male or female. You might say the same about the sea.” Erril’s mouth curled in the ghost of a smile. These people are hurting, Dany knew, and they have only just begun to heal. “Tell the others that I’ll not interfere with your comings and goings, nor will you be expected to send any men to augment my forces. I’m not sure how long I’ll stay on Dragonstone, but should I leave you’ll find the castellan of the castle will ask you for no more than what tax can be reasonably expected. Perhaps a bit less. My coffers are full and there is no need to fill them further, gentlemen. The slavers were as rich as they were proud.” After a few more small formalities she bade them go on their way, relief plain on their careworn faces. Such a sight made Dany’s heart flutter. This is why I crossed the sea, she thought. At least as much for the people as for the throne. I know what it is to be downtrodden as no queen ever has, and I will not forget what power I have to change the lives of my countrymen for the better.

Chapter Text

Sansa

It was snowing in the wood as it did most every night. Despite the cold her limbs were languid and dexterous. The cries of the pack alerted her to the presence of prey and despite her somewhat sedentary nature she answered with a cry of her own. As there was nothing keeping her from wandering off to join the hunt she shot off through the trees, going from ground to trunk and back with thoughtless grace. The incessant shrieking of the numerous males would drive their quarry on she knew, few animals would go to ground or stand and fight when the pack was upon them. Instinctively she twitched and considered the sky, full of stars and snow. When all was quiet a moment longer she sped off again. Free of soft shapely curves, a silky prison, her body then was iron-hard, sharp and quick. The soft speech of those that cherished her kind made her pause in the branches of a sturdy pine. She knew some, mostly regarding movement and the status of her kind, but the rest she couldn’t care about and would not have had she could. Another gust of freezing wind made her limbs tremble in anticipation, the great light was gone from the sky and all was good save her empty belly. She could smell it in mere moments, the tantalizing hints of passing by an easy meal. Of course those who kept her kind had countless livestock she could bring down, but they were the fare of the weak or infirm, the undisciplined, the wild. Besides, they were the property of the ones who walked below and so not fit for being prey. She sprung from her perch when she knew none of their speech was directed at her and not before, speeding off past their half-visible forms and the stumbling senseless plodders both. The closer she came it seemed the more the scent filled her senses. Prey, she knew. Finally she leapt from atop a large rock, her shadow eclipsing the fleeing creature beneath her. She came down atop it, sinking her fangs into its back- and instantly knew she had erred. The flesh was parched, unliving as the livestock was, so her frigid fangs did no great damage. It began to thrash as prey did and she felt the searing bite of a black fang of its own, pulling off with an agonized screech.

Sansa less woke and more burst out of bed, falling off and to the floor caught in her blankets. She writhed for a moment more until her senses returned, taking lungfuls of air as she tried to gather herself. Whatever had just happened, whatever dream she’d had…it was more real than any she remembered having. I was Lady, she thought. Like everyone says Jon can do. But had she been? There had been curious discrepancies, the jumping the climbing, the speed… Sansa took a moment more to catch her breath before she got free of the blanket, teeth chattering from the cold. Once the dream had faded into the deep waters of her mind, she got to her feet and went about a cold bath before she let herself think about what she had to face. We are leaving today, she thought. Leaving but for a moment, and for no flight of fancy. She knew that without her nudging the King in the North would never leave Winterfell, never leave his people. Once dressed she went to Jon’s room, surprised to find the door already open and several people inside arguing. A half-packed trunk lay at the foot of his bed and Jon himself sat on the bed itself, looking thoroughly miserable as was the norm for the King in the North of late.

“Your Grace.” she announced herself, the others quieting immediately. “Has something happened?”

“Ghost is gone.” Val said curtly. The others nodded or murmured furtively, half-glances at Jon shooting from around the room. Sansa was taken aback for only a moment.

“Well, he is a direwolf. A very large direwolf, and as I understand it, they quite enjoy food. I can scarcely expect him to eat from a bowl polite as a hunting hound when he’s what, ten times the weight? Likely he’s just off hunting. Or on matters of his own. He is not a smitten spirited lass off in a huff that the King in the North is leaving to meet a mysterious beauty from the east.” she shrugged while Val turned red.

“I was going to take him south with me.” Jon said wearily, looking up for the first time.

“Why? Grey Wind, Nymeria and Lady once they left the North never returned. It isn’t a place for a direwolf even in the last days of autumn, Jon, and there aren’t prey large enough to sustain him. So while you take the measure of Daenerys Targaryen, Ghost will come and go as he pleases as he always has done. Or did he spend every moment flush to your side at the Wall and beyond?” she asked. Val and the Free Folk among the others murmured in realization at her assessment. Jon swallowed.

“I just…wanted part of the North with me when I leave it.” he said as Sansa pulled him to his feet.

“Then take the North with you. I should think seeing Tyrion’s face when I step onto the dock will quite be worth the trip.”

“Sansa, you aren’t coming.”

She blinked in surprise.

“Not coming? But…Your Grace, if I’ve dis-”

“Sansa, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell…and like it or not, you’re the last one. I’m not about to bring you to Dragonstone when there can be danger waiting. Besides, if I were to let you set a foot out of sight of Winterfell Father’s ghost would haunt me for the rest of my days.” he smiled sadly, taking her in an embrace. “While I’m gone you’ll have to lead, or at least not let the Others sack the place while I’m gone.” Sansa’s insides turned to ice.

“What?” she yelped most unlike a princess. “Who will help you get around a southern court? Jon, if you think Winterfell’s hall is befuddling-”

“-Ser Davos is coming to help with that. He spent years trying to stop Stannis’ retainers from killing each other, I’d say that’s quite a qualification.” Sansa’s apprehension was cut but not by much.

“He’s still common-born, Jon. That may not matter here-”

“-It won’t matter on Dragonstone either, Princess. Her court is made of slaves and savages, kinslayers and worse. Oh, I forgot, there is nothing worse.” Ned Umber said to a general agreement.

“I’ll be taking Lord Umber, Lady Karstark, Sigorn, Tormund, and a just proportion of men each. I’m going to take Littlefinger to represent the Vale-”

“-and the vote of confidence does wonders for a boy from the Fingers.” Petyr Baelish’ soft voice cut in from behind Sansa, yet he seemed to know better than to actually cross the threshold. As always he wants something, Sansa knew. With the Knights of the Vale and the northmen enamored of each other, his position as Robert Arryn’s stepfather meant less by the day. Quite possibly because Robert Arryn himself means less by the day, Sansa suspected. The valemen did not speak of it but she could sense their anticipation. Lord Royce had yet to officially introduce Lady Waynwood’s handsome ward to the King in the North, likely because they were waiting with bated breath for the raven from the Mountains of the Moon informing them of Robert’s death, the sickly feebleminded boy no longer a barrier between Harrold Hardyng and the great name of Arryn. It is a cold thing to hope for, but Sweetrobin is less fit to lead men into battle than Joffrey or Ramsay, Sansa reflected. A renowned Lord of the Vale beloved of his people and sympathetic to Winterfell meant a deal more than the weak blood ties she and Robert Arryn shared.

Sansa excused herself and went to find Brienne of Tarth, the big woman herself a stormlander by birth and only slowly adjusting to life in the harsh north. Despite the Free Folk taking her in stride, a few spearwives even cheering her on whenever she knocked a knight to the ground in the training yard, Brienne seemed an intensely introverted person and Sansa felt no need to try and change that. She knocked once, the predictable scraping of the woman getting to her feet quickly meeting Sansa’s ears.

“Who is it?” she heard her call.

“Sansa Stark, Brienne.” She so misliked to be called 'milady' but Sansa felt her given name was something of a disrespectful address. She’d been through much and spent a deal of time alongside her lady mother after all. The door opened at once and Brienne came into view in her one-of-a-kind blue armor. Sansa had never asked where it had come from. Yet I’ve never seen someone commission such field finery and Brienne of Tarth herself is certainly too humble to spend that much gold on herself, Sansa thought. Perhaps her father? Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall Hall? If there’s a single place in the south I wouldn’t mind visiting it would perhaps be Tarth, the Sapphire Isle.

“Princess.” she nodded her head.

“It’s come to my attention I won’t be going to Dragonstone after all. The king has decreed I’ll be…well, I’ll remain at Winterfell, so you can get unpacked as well.” To her surprise, Brienne’s face relaxed markedly. “I would have thought you’d enjoy the trip south..” Sansa said as Brienne stepped aside for her.

“The northern climate is something of a discomfiture, princess, but it’s better you remain than go afield again.” she replied. “Indeed, but for Littlefinger shadowing your every step, I would think there’s nothing much to make you unhappy about being home.”

“Just the ghosts I suppose, but they only haunt you if you let them.” Sansa said. They’d burned Rickon with the fallen of the Battle of the Bastards and so there was no corpse to lay in the crypts below the castle, but Sansa knew their brother was just another heavy stone of guilt dragging the king down. He feels guilt enough for both of us, she thought. He didn’t get Rickon killed. Or Father, for that matter.

The party assembled in the yard piecemeal, Ser Davos Seaworth surprisingly first to be ready.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve gone on a long voyage out of the blue, helps that I’ve not got much to worry about lugging with me wherever I go.” he said quietly to Sansa when she and Brienne made their way out to bid Jon a safe journey. Indeed, it seemed that of all the trunks set onto the two carts bound for White Harbor fully half belonged to Petyr Baelish. Even Alys Karstark does not own so many clothes, Sansa observed.

“Is Littlefinger going too, then?” Brienne asked. When Sansa answered, her face further relaxed. Jon appeared, looking at the open gate anxiously as if Ghost would trot in just in time to leave. Though that would most definitely be like Ghost, Sansa sensed the white direwolf had no intention of leaving the North. Tormund followed him out into the yard, clapping a hand on his shoulder and muttering some jovial-sounding words. Once the others had their own belongings brought to the carts Jon found Sansa and gave her a rare smile before hugging her.

“Remember, don’t rule…” he began.

“Just lead.” she finished for him. But while you’re a proven battlefield commander, I’m still the little bird, the pretty tourney prize, Sansa thought. When Jon got ahorse the rest of the party followed suit and then they started off. The departure was so abrupt Littlefinger hadn’t even the time for a last wheedle at Sansa or to broach the topic of the Dreadfort. South to White Harbor and a quick jaunt around the Vale before Dragonstone. Nice and easy, Sansa thought. Even with Littlefinger among their number he’s not about to pry a member of the Free Folk or the northern houses away from Jon. Though he’d broached the topic with the giants, Sansa suspected that anywhere their mammoths could not go the giants would not in turn, and when the subject of sea travel came up they declined out of hand. Going overland was both a deal longer and more perilous. With the chaos that reigned in the south everyone felt it would be an awkward time to introduce the giants, including the giants themselves. Besides, going south overland means passing through the Neck and even the Knights of the Vale ferried into the North from Gulltown rather than take that course, Sansa remembered.

Dinner in the hall was much quieter than had been the past few days. Everyone was somber, muted, shooting glances at Jon’s empty chair. Most telling, it seemed they were determined not to look at Sansa. As if to do so would be a breach of Jon’s trust, she thought. Since it was deemed imprudent to have Val hanging off Jon’s arm when he met Daenerys Targaryen, she had been left behind as well much to her ire. However the Free Folk and northmen agreed to a man on that point much to Sansa’s surprise and home she stayed. The blonde leaned across Jon’s chair suddenly as Sansa was picking at a roast chicken.

“I…” she began before blushing and resuming her own meal, noticing the eyes upon her.

“After.” Sansa whispered. As she went to take a drink she caught her reflection in the surface of her silver goblet and was stricken by how thin she looked. Her face wasn’t exactly the blushing beauty it had been fresh off escaping from Ramsay and the battle but she expected to have recovered by now. Instead her cheeks looked hollow and her eyes were wide in their sockets, as if she’d gone off food for a month. I look half-real, she thought. Haunted, though no less beautiful. Well, I suppose that fits. She ignored the cup from then on, trying to keep her thoughts on Jon and how best to lead until his return. Once she had finished she found herself thinking about what had brought all of them to this point, why wildlings and northmen were eating together in her father’s hall joined by valemen and stormlanders. She stood suddenly and the hall’s murmurings died out immediately. “Jon is only doing what he thinks best for us. While he is gone, we should do what we can for him. Winterfell is a fortress without equal, but from what I hear our enemy is a force as unequaled. More. I would learn all I can from those who have faced them, fought them, and further prepare the castle and grounds for a prolonged investment come winter. Surely they will see Winterfell as a threat to be dealt with. I would have us make that dealing as hard and as costly as we possibly can. We have a number of giants, surely they can raise great earthen walls given the knowledge to do so, but attacking the castle itself must be made terribly costly. Would anyone among us know how to make it so?” They stared blankly at her.

For a moment Sansa thought she’d made a terrible mistake, what did the king’s pretty sister know of warfare, when one of the wildlings stood. She spoke the Old Tongue but another translated.

“Frygga, of the Ice Wives.” Sansa nodded and bade her continue. “The Others are a race unto themselves. They are not men and to call them thus is to give us too much credit and them too little. Their numbers are few but not so few as to be nothing without their dead men. Even if we had some moon beauty drop by with a horde of her own and a dragon or three, the dead are without number. Without number. They have no regard for their own safety and need not eat nor rest. If we want to make this wolf den count, we have to take their dead men away from them. Walls seem to work, but one thirty feet high or so instead of seven hundred will do. We can chip great blocks of earth out and build a ring around ourselves, or maybe two or three as children do preparing for a snow fight. Doing so gives us a moat besides, a great pit we can fill with unpleasantness the dead have to contend with before scaling a sheer earthen wall.” Frygga’s words were met with a rumble of table pounding and raised mugs. Sansa’s mind whirled at the thought of three great rings around Winterfell, creating a keep within a keep of the castle and opening more ground for the defenders while staving off the dead. The dead, she thought. Oh, that’s right. The crypts are full of them. Then she thought again. If we were to clear them out…turn the crypts into more space… That thought kept her occupied for the rest of the meal. Once she called a close for the night most people filed out immediately, some nodding to her before doing so.

“Come with me.” she said to Val before collecting a few men having a last drink at a far table. Moving through the halls of Winterfell, her odd party behind her, Sansa found Maester Wolkan returning from sending a raven to White Harbor letting them know of the king's arrival.

The stone direwolves flanking the entrance to the crypts stared resolutely ahead. One of the men, a Cerwyn archer, seemed particularly opposed to going in.

“A Stark place, after all…” but Sansa merely lit a torch and went in, the others reluctantly following. The statues of Starks dead decades and scant years both flanked her as she moved further down the cold tunnels. She stopped in front of one.

“Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf.” she read the side of the stone tomb upon which the statue stood. Theon. I wonder if he’s alive now, she thought. I wonder where he’s gone.

“Open it.” she said suddenly. The men looked at her as if she’d started breathing fire. She looked to the Cerwyn archer. His face had gone pale and he gaped like a fish.

“Out of the way, you heard the princess.” a half-familiar voice said. For a bizarre moment she thought Sandor Clegane had joined them somehow, but the dark red leather and smaller stature were those of a particular man of the Boltons, Rylis. A survivor of the Battle of the Bastards, he’d been simply picked up and thrown from the fray by a passing giant and only woke up when a wildling tried to loot his corpse. Indeed those commons on the losing side had found themselves in service to the wolf rather than the flayed man and all was well, but those who’d earned some manner of position under Roose Bolton and his depraved get were in a trickier position. Some had gone to the Wall, some had fled south, others had stayed more for lack of options than any other reason. Rylis, Sansa knew, was one of those. The sergeant-at-arms and a Thenn together slid the heavy lid aside, revealing the bones of the past King in the North. They buried him in armor, she saw. Theon Stark wore chain and a helm still, even gauntlets and greaves. Those hollow sockets once held a pair of grey eyes. Were he to stand right now, not as a wight but as himself, would he know me for a Stark? Or see only a Bolton man, a Thenn, and some red-haired witch and cut the lot of us down?

“A fine thing it would be if we set up for a siege and the Others set the kings of old on us.” she said, and dropped her torch in with the Hungry Wolf. Even Rylis let out a sudden cry of alarm, whatever they’d expected of her it hadn’t been that. She calmly turned away from the burning bones. “We will fire every king that lies within this crypt.” she declared. “Those dead a thousand years will not envy us safeguarding the lives of those yet born.” she said turning to Wolkan, his eyes wide and reflecting the blaze behind her. “Get word to every northern house. Fire every barrow they know of in their lands. Cairns, lichyards, I care not. I want as few corpses in the ground when the Others come as possible. Honor or no, I will not let our barrows become their barracks.”

She’d wanted to set about the rest of the crypts that night, but Val objected, no doubt voicing the concerns of the rest of the group.

“Now, not that I think you have the wrong idea, Sansa, but we best wait till morning. You look dead on your feet and this sort of thing is best done without blinking sleep out of your eyes.” she said almost tenderly, using her name to her face for the first time Sansa could recall. Once the Thenn got wind of the fact that great patches of the North were graveyards he practically hauled poor Maester Wolkan off to get the ravens awing as fast as possible. Though Sansa was indeed exhausted, she could not have wanted to sleep less. There’s so much to do… and when I sleep, I dream of Lady. Sleep brings me neither rest nor respite from a waking world with problems enough. Val gently hooked her arm in Sansa’s and began to lead her from the crypt, the sudden feeling of cold night air on her face a more potent tonic than any meat or drink. Just as they were to pass back into the castle proper, there was a sudden rumble from behind the buildings, where the giants were living. Rowdy shouts and booming voices in the Old Tongue, the trumpeting of mammoths and other odder sounds made Sansa’s head pound. The noise of it made her sway and Val had to quickly catch her, even hold her aright, before Sansa’s senses returned. The torches burned brighter than the sun on King’s Landing’s hottest day and every sound was a giant roaring in her ear. Even Val’s breath was hot enough to make Sansa cry out in pain and it was with surprising strength she pushed the wildling girl away and into a snowbank. The world had become a cacophony of blinding burning noise and Sansa Stark could do nothing but stagger forward and fall face first into the snow, feeling a though she’d been hit with a warhammer. Someone put a hand on her shoulder and flipped her over. Even the moon was too bright but it gave her a chance to look at the face above her. It was one she recognized. But you’ve gone, Sansa thought. On to White Harbor to meet the last Targaryen. The sound of giants laughing, the heat of torches burning, the grey eyes above her dimmed until everything became dark, cold, silent.

Chapter Text

Asha

The summons to the room with the big table came a few days after the dragon queen and her pets finished hashing terms out with the people in the port town. They call themselves sailors, Asha thought. I’d not so much as call them fishermen. A real angler dares the sea where the fish are tastier and the waves rougher. She strode past the Unsullied without a second glance, having quickly learned they were as much brick and mortar as the walls of Dragonstone. In another life she’d have simply called them cockless but seeing Theon twitch in Essos had readily removed the humor from that jape. Speaking of, where is he? she wondered. Setting all the jinglebraids and toy soldiers where they’d fit best proved quite the distraction and she hadn’t seen him since before the storm. Daenerys Targaryen stood by the far wide window, back to the table and eyes out to sea. Asha smirked. A fine backside and her eyes are where any woman’s ought to be.

“Your Grace?” she called. The dwarf and…his bald shadow came in from off the hall, looking uncomfortable. The silver beauty turned and Asha saw her pursed lips and glistening eyes. Uh oh, she thought.

“There is nothing to worry about. I just can’t seem to find Rhaegal.” she sniffled. Right, no flirting tonight. Asha realized the eyes of the room were on her.

“Uh…” she began, sounding stupider by the second. As if I’d know where he bandied off to. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but so what?” she finally got out. The purple eyes went wide across the room. “Gulls in Ironman’s Bay go far afield for a meal, imagine how much open ground or sea a dragon can cover. Dragons are big fuckers with big wings and the green never so much as breezed us by the whole voyage over. The last thing you should expect from him is to laze on a gullshit-stained rock and watch the black try and steal you off, bold as any reaver.” The queen gave a hiccup along with the ghost of a smile. “I don’t need Black Wind to raid a sandbar, a few longboats full of killers will do. Seems to me the same principle applies to King’s Landing. They barely stopped Stannis and that’s only because they had the flower folk to take him unawares at the last second. You have more men, better men, and your black besides. Hell, you don’t even need him. Nobody is going to save Cersei Lannister this time.”

Asha’s words made the queen dry her eyes, swiftly getting lost in thought.

“Still, having two dragons free somewhere in the world doesn’t seem a good start to our invasion.” The dwarf cut in.

“Free? Anything with wings is always free, Imp. Dragon or songbird, if you have to cage it to keep it near you’re doing something wrong.” Oh, fuck me. She’d forgotten that the other two had been chained beneath the pyramid when first she’d met Daenerys Targaryen. Rather than wait for a rebuke she pressed on. “They’re all, uh, lad-dragons, right? The names sound like lad names to me, anyway. Maybe they’ve gone off to look for a nice she-dragon.” she shrugged. Never mind that there aren’t any. “The Narrow Sea is traversed constantly. Merchants, sellsails…someone is going to see something sooner or later. Hard to miss emerald green or bone white against a clear blue sky.” She played it off as the dragons simply being mischievous. Her words didn’t seem to much improve the queen’s spirits.

“Drogon didn’t do that, though. Fly around once I…” she hiccupped again. “He went to ground. In the Dothraki Sea he made a lair among some boulders.” Asha shrugged again.

“If only we didn’t have a nice big map of Westeros handy. All we have to do is pick out where a dragon might hole up and you and the black can go poking around.” she leaned back in her chair. Those words got the queen’s attention and she seemed to relax a bit. “There we are. Speaking of missing idiot lads, might Your Grace know where my brother’s got to?” The queen’s smile died before it filled her face. Ah, Asha thought.

“I’m sorry, my lady. I truly am. He…he went overboard during the storm.” The words made Asha’s stomach turn. Can’t wait until the Crow’s Eye hears of this. Euron Greyjoy had put a hefty bounty on both Asha and Theon and their younger uncle Aeron was a sea-sodden raving lunatic, unlikely to wed and breed. Westeros will be rid of House Greyjoy soon at last, Asha thought. Though Euron was rumored to be a demon in a dead man’s skin, a wizard, an abomination, she doubted his Silence would have much to say against a torrent of black dragonfire. Without waiting for a dismissal, she stood and left the room.

These parapets are lovely for someone looking to clear their head…or jump to their death, Asha observed. The air is never stale up here. The dragonlords got this much right at least. In short order she heard the dwarf coming out after her, panting hard from the climb.

“No wonder the dragons left, they have men following them everywhere they go. If I had wings, I’d fly off too.” she said, half to him half to herself.

“Her Grace is distraught over Rhaegal’s disappearance-”

“They’re not lizards you can keep in a glass box as a maester would. When you stand atop the world you tend to see everything in terms of power. Look at the black. He doesn’t let her out of his sight when she leaves the castle, he hovers over her and tries to hide her away whenever he can. She may not know why, but he’s just following her lead, I’d say. She wonders why he’s so possessive all of a sudden, she best look in the mirror. They’re dragons, my lord. A dragon may have a lucky rider on its back, but its mind is its own. I think they can handle being on their own, they aren’t hatchlings anymore.”

“They are to her.” Tyrion Lannister replied simply, though Asha noticed he looked at her in rather a different light. “My father always said the Greyjoys lived for rape and plunder and never so much as bothered to string two thoughts together.” he said.

“My father always said the Lannisters fought wars over who was richer and that if they had the sense to fortify the coast we’d not have made off with a good bit of their gold.” she replied.

“If we had sense we’d not have let an untold bounty as the mines provided us go to such waste.”

“If we had thought it through for a half second, we’d not have antagonized the entire western coast of Westeros for generations.” The dwarf smiled at her words.

“Fitting lessons perhaps for a pair of endlings.”

“Last I heard, you’re Lord of Casterly Rock.” she said. “Ugly as sin and worse with a beard, but any number of greenlander girls will suffer your bed to be your lady. If you wanted you could wed some lickspittle’s daughter and have a babe before the year is out.”

“I killed the last Lord of Casterly Rock. The greatest man my family has produced if stories tell it true. The westermen are unlikely to welcome me with open arms, Lannister or no. Also, I’ve had more whores in my life than any man in history. I’ve not a single babe as you say to show for all my lordly exertions. Perhaps the quill, fine as it is, hasn’t ink that stays to page.” he shrugged. “My father insinuated it once and I hotly denied it at the time, but now I think he may have been right. I thought we might get Tommen away from Cersei, salvage something out of all this, but with Cersei crowned I can only assume he’s dead. Jaime’s in the Kingsguard so it looks like I‘m it.” Asha pursed her lips but said nothing. “Endlings we may be, but sterile kinslaying imps make for poor tales. Swashbuckling beauties that woo dragon queens are another matter. We’ll sort your uncles out if they don’t do it themselves. Asha Greyjoy, the Last Kraken.”

They stood in the wind for a few moments, both contemplating perhaps the lateness of the hour.

“I suppose I never thought it’d come to this.” she said finally. “Truth be told I was amazed Theon hadn’t had a whole flurry of Snows from his time in the north. Just makes being the last harder to swallow.”

“You aren’t the last, not yet, not either of you.” a new voice said over the wind. Asha turned and saw the queen coming toward them, no guard and no dragon dogging her steps. Tyrion bowed but Asha only looked at her. She wore a leather vest, a dark overcoat, and a deep green dress that had been found in a room containing a ghastly trio of quickening in jars. They quietly burned the half-babes one night, the unspoken consensus that they weren’t to be brought up again. “As long as a dragon has food and freedom he will continue to thrive. Given the breadth of Westeros to roam, I see no reason they shouldn’t live for many years after I am gone. I did that much at least.” Daenerys told them. “I brought dragons back into the world. For a few centuries, at least. Even Balerion succumbed to time.” she said. “Unfortunately the hedge witch that killed my son also did for any siblings he might have had. In Meereen I told you two we were going to leave the world better than we found it. Without a future to worry about, for any of our houses, we can devote our lives to such an enterprise.” Asha’s eyebrows went up. Barren? “It’s come to my attention that there are other endlings as you call us taking in a little sun down in Dorne. Varys says that a certain Ellaria Sand and her charges, as well as an Olenna Redwyne, wait to hear from us. If I may ask it of you Lady Asha, will you retrieve them? I can visit the crownlanders easily enough but I doubt Drogon will take me so far from this place of relative safety as Sunspear. That, and I don’t want to offend the Dornish by putting dragon wings above them.” The prospect of a voyage of course teased Asha mightily but she was in no hurry to leave the goings-on of Dragonstone.

“I’ll need to be filled in on whatever I miss.” she said finally.

“As you wish.” the queen smiled.

When she told her first mate to ready Black Wind for a jaunt to Dorne he nearly cried. So ready were the men that they were ready to leave the next morning along with a contingent of a half dozen other ships. Whether needed or no getting the ironborn sailing again was any man’s notion of a good idea and so they came along. The crow’s nest became a hotly desired post as the man atop only had to peer about with a Myrish tube, looking not just out to sea but in the sky as well for a hint of green or white. Not like they’ll spot one.The dragons left to get away from men, and men swarm where it’s warm. If Daenerys wants to find her babes, she best look north, Asha thought. Tyrion had had the idea to fly the Targaryen dragon from the topmast so as to calm the nerves of any ship that might flee from Greyjoy colors as well as keep the Free Cities from launching a sortie against them. As it was a straight shot south without a foot of sea sailing nor a hint of the storm that had heaved them to and fro Asha left the wheel to her first mate and stayed to her cabin, coming topside when she grew bored or a ship was sighted. Occasionally the crew would flock to one side of the ship or the other when the man on high whipped around, Myrish tube jutting out, but inevitably the excitement waned when there was no screech or sound of wings. They passed through the waters of the Narrow Sea claimed by the Stormlands and into the islands of the Stepstones, more than one ship along the way steadfastly turning away and sailing off before they came close enough to be hailed. The dragon may scare them worse than the kraken does, Asha thought. Only when they passed the last of the Stepstones did the water get lively, even spirited, the waves coming in and slapping the Black Wind like a hand on Asha’s rear. And the fool drowned priests think the sea a man, she thought with a lusty grin.

“Ship ahead!” the man in the nest cried, and the crew shuffled laxly to their posts.

“Maybe the hunnerth time’s the charm.” someone said, the others sniggering. Asha peered out from the bow as best she could but looking over water at night was tricky from the deck. A glint of gold caught her eye and she looked down, seeing a gilded tentacle dancing in the roil. For a moment she was ready to scream “Kraken!” until she realized the squid below was made of silk instead of flesh. Her hands found the deck rail as she stared fascinated at the floating Greyjoy banner, the crew quieting at once.

“They’re here. The Crow’s Eye or his dogs.” she hissed, her men snapping to and readying weapons in a flurry of furious movement. They pressed on toward the phantom ship, even as the man atop signaled it was indeed a longship, one of their own. We should hear them, Asha thought. If not the Silence with its crew of mutes, then a deck full of reveling reavers fresh off a raid. Only when they were a scant hundred feet away did she see why there was nothing and no one to hear. Ironspar of Euron’s Iron Fleet had been cracked open like an old cask and the sea was spilling in eager as ever to claim another ship. Black Wind came up amidships and Asha tried to spot the derelict’s crew. The bodies stuck out a mad bright pink amid the wood and rising water. Baffled, Asha and a few brave souls headed across the gangplank to make sense of the situation. More fearful muttering than she’d have liked accompanied them. Close up the bodies were indeed bright pink, some even red as a boiled lobster. The sorry souls’ eyes had either melted out of their sockets or popped from their skulls like wine corks, and Asha could see the wood of the deck had been heavily warped, even seared.

“One of the dragons.” one of her men said at once.

“Dragons breathe fire, boy. You see fire here? You smell smoke?” another replied.

“These men weren’t burned, they were boiled. Steamed up fine as a bucketful of crabs.” Asha drew her axe and prodded one and nearly threw up as the man’s flesh slipped from his bones in a mess of flesh-colored sludge. Several of her crew were not so steeled and the sounds of vomiting filled the night.

“Captain, we ought be off. No reason to linger when whatever did this might still be around.” Asha nodded mutely, lighting a torch and throwing it over to Ironspar when they were back aboard Black Wind. They headed west to the Dornish coast, and not a man among them spoke. Only when they were a good few hundred feet away, the burning Ironspar a beacon in the night did Asha slowly exhale.

“Years from now when your wives are driving you mad and your babes are bouncing off the walls of your houses, you’ll head to a tavern to get some peace. You may even run into another man from tonight’s crew. You’ll talk of your adventurous youths and how miserable you are now and grow bolder over a mug or three of ale and you’ll get it in your head to go out to sea one more time. When you do, remember Ironspar, pay for your drinks, and go back to your wives and babes.”

Chapter Text

Jaime

Bronn began complaining as soon as they left the Landing. That his ass was raw in the saddle after only a short time out of it, that all the washerwomen were too ugly to consider bedding face-to-face, even that Jaime’s horse was better outfitted than his. Jaime knew a man hoping to deflect tensions when he saw one. As Cersei had bid him he emptied the dungeons, finding more than a few prisoners who’d not have been locked up even under his notoriously draconian father. One such unfortunate rode a pony at Jaime’s side, a sandy haired urchin arrested for poaching in the Kingswood.

“We haven’t enough archers to let a deft hand with a bow get chopped off. Fit him and send him to the rally point at the north gate.” Jaime had found any excuse to take whomever he found, strong men could chop trees for fires, women could do the so-called army’s wash and so on. Taking the boy had already paid dividends as he’d brought Jaime a pheasant their first night out.

“How did you get so good at loosing shafts, boy?” Jaime asked.

“When the choices are shoot true or starve, you get the knack right fast, milord.” he replied. While the sentries began their first shifts and the ditches were dug, Jaime and Bronn waited for the bird to cook on the spit along with Ser Ilyn Payne. It seemed once he was replaced by Gregor Clegane as the Queen’s Justice he’d retreated into the cell blocks beneath the Red Keep and not come out. Watching the fire roast the pheasant and Payne’s silent gaze made Jaime think of Aerys for the tenth time in an hour. Let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat. He rubbed his eyes and blinked the spots of firelight away. The urchin was giving Ser Ilyn terrified glances every few moments.

“Never mind him, lad. He hasn’t a nice thing to say about anyone.” Jaime said without looking at the mute knight. “What’s your name, anyway? How old are you?” The boy’s eyes widened when asked a question directly by the Lord Commander.

“Freglyn, milord. Uh, I’ve never had a mum to figure that for me, but the first big thing I remember was when they rung the bells on account of King Robert’s tussle with the boar.”

“Nine or ten, then. You’re not so big, so we’ll say nine.” Jaime told him. Freglyn nodded and got back to turning the spit. He could be as old as twelve, Jaime thought. Lads who don’t eat are lads who don’t grow.

Once his tent was erected he went inside, Bronn and Payne following him.

“So I suppose now you tell us your amazing plan for dealing with the dragon girl.” he said. The raven had brought news that a fleet that dwarfed their own even augmented by the reaver’s longships had landed on and around Dragonstone and Cersei’s wrath could have melted brick. Furious commands to attack the invaders sent to Rook’s Nest and Sharp Point received no reply. While Cersei ranted about traitors, Jaime could only guess that the crownlanders were a deal nearer Dragonstone than King’s Landing and were keeping their own counsel for now. Of course Cersei had commanded him to raze both places once he’d gathered reinforcements at Harrenhal. When he told Bronn and Payne, the color drained out of the sellsword’s face. “She wants us to attack them? With what army? A great big chamber pot of refuse is all this is and no mistake. Waiting for us is a war-hardened horde from the east led by a girl that cracked slaver cities open and shook supporters out like a monkey with hard fruit looking for seeds.” he said, forgetting even to pick his teeth.

“Those were the queen’s orders.” Jaime said colorlessly.

“Seems to me it isn’t the chair what makes a queen but rather the nice big army the girl’s got, a navy to match and a small matter of three dragons buzzing around looking for something to burn.” Jaime tried to think how Lord Tywin might have handled the situation. It would never have happened in the first place, he thought. Cersei had her legs crossed over how to reassert control and Daenerys Targaryen landed a people right under her nose. Lord Tywin would never have made such a mistake.

“We can make every preparation to avoid another Whispering Wood but the truth is we won’t last an hour in a pitched battle.” Jaime said, looking at their map of the land. “They could even intercept us if they fielded in force from Rook’s Nest and squatted on the Kingsroad.” His unperturbed manner seemed to deeply unseat the sellsword.

“Ah, so they could. Do we have a plan for-”

“Hell, she wouldn’t even need an army. Any one of her monsters could sneeze on us and that’d be it.”

“Right, I still say we could have waited for Qyburn to finish the-”

“Nobody in Westeros knows how to use a scorpion. They aren’t part of standard orders of battle, there isn’t one anywhere in Westeros and even if we had a complement of mastercrafted pieces, their crews would be green as swaddling shit. They’d not be able to hit a castle wall. Do you know how hard it is to hit a moving target in the air? You can’t shoot at where it is, you have to take a guess and shoot at where you think it’s going to be. Keep in mind you aren’t using a bow either, it takes longer to reload a scorpion than just nocking another arrow. Of course, none of that will matter even if you hit the dragon, which you won’t. The bolt will just bounce off the scales. Dragons don’t need armor made for them because they’re covered teeth to tail in it. I had a long childhood, Ser Bronn. I’ve heard Tyrion talk about dragons more than I’ve heard anyone talk about anything. Ever. During the Conquest Rhaenys was stupid to get close enough for the Dornish to hit Meraxes in the eye. That will never fucking happen again. The only thing that can kill a dragon is another dragon.”

Bronn’s brow furrowed.

“So we’re fucked then, are we?”

“Jolly well so.” Jaime replied. “At least in terms of winning a war against Daenerys Targaryen.” Payne looked up from his pheasant leg.

“Chopper here’s right. What are you on about?” Bronn asked.

“She has the only dragons in the world. If Tyrion’s still alive, he’ll be with her.” Jaime tapped his fork on the map, on the black dot that was Dragonstone.

“And if he’s not?” Jaime considered that.

“Bugger it. Daenerys gets a new rabble to follow her and you help me kill myself before fucking off far from the crownlands.” His briskness seemed to amuse Payne, who made a clacking sound, a tongueless laugh. Then Jaime remembered. His eyes went wide and he very nearly fainted. Oh fuck me handless, she has dragons. If even one of those things attacks the Landing even once… His marked change in demeanor killed even Payne’s darkly merry mood. Jaime leaned in and waited until the other men did the same before speaking. “Right. I killed Aerys because he was going to burn the Landing down rather than lose it to Robert and my father. I spent the next few days hunting all his pet pyromancers and killed all that I could find but I have no illusions I found every cache of wildfire.” Bronn’s jaw dropped.

“So if the dragons reach the Landing…” he began.

“One snort, one sneeze and King’s Landing becomes a hole.” Jaime finished for him. Bronn stared aghast at Jaime and Payne in turn. The mute knight only opened his mouth to show another legacy of Aerys’.

“So this lunatic tries to broil the capital, you kill him, a few decades later his daughter arrives with three dragons, only you know what will happen if she uses them, and we’ve still got to hand her the city anyway?” he said weakly.

“Actually, all of that and more. I have to live long enough to tell Tyrion in person, if he’s still alive, because there’s a good chance she won’t believe me or even hear me out. Were I her, I’d kill me out of ha-” he’d raised his golden hand on instinct. Oops, he thought, and had to fight a mad urge to burst out laughing. “That done, someone has to talk her out of seizing her life‘s ambition because if she gets any closer one of her lizards will turn it into ash, whether they like it or not.”

“Pardon me, Lord Commander, but this sounds like a pretty shit situation.” Bronn said, face ashen.

“Life is shit.” Jaime replied, shrugging. Payne nodded in firm agreement.

Only when Bronn had a moment to think did he look up again.

“Hang on. Did your cunt sister know she was more like to burn the city down than not when she cooked the Sept?”

“Whether she knew or didn’t is irrelevant now. She managed not to somehow, but I wouldn’t put it past her to mishandle the stuff and, well…” he made a popping noise with his mouth, which Payne copied enthusiastically. Bronn shot Jaime a look he could read better than any book.

“Well then, Lord Commander, what the fuck do we do?” Jaime’s finger drifted away from the crownlands into the riverlands, to Harrenhal.

“We’ll stay the course for now. Cersei does stupid things when she feels she’s losing control of a situation, so I’ll make like I’m following her orders until we pass beyond her influence."

“Got that done when we rode out the city gates.” Bronn said dryly, knocking back a cup of ale. Jaime didn’t reply, only tapping the dot that marked the ruin of Harren’s folly.

“From there we can pick up the garrison such as it is and decide what to do next. Might be simplest just to go straight to Daenerys and surrender. Removes the possibility of her flaming us without knowing we mean no harm and can do less harm than even that.”

“Or she does her father proud and finishes us off.” Bronn said. Jaime leaned back to get a bit of space.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Trying to plan to save everyone you can is a lot harder than simply planning to kill the enemy.” Thinking hurts my fucking head. The letters on the map flipped and floated like foam in the tide and Jaime saw the dots begin chasing each other around the parchment.

“Well, you can’t be blamed for being stupider than your brother.” the sellsword said with an air of mock wisdom. Stupider is right, Jaime thought. A smart man would run from Cersei in any direction with all speed. Instead I’m dragging my heels to do what she tells me anyway. When he announced he was turning in they left him for their own tents and Jaime sat on his camp bed, likely the only true bed for miles. And yet lads like Freglyn are sleeping in the mud more soundly than I will, he thought.

The pounding rain woke him and he let out a dismayed groan.

“Aww, fuck.” he grumbled, slowly getting out of bed and stretching. He was in no hurry to give the order to strike his tent and be out in the rain with all the rest of them, but he wasn’t going to get a step closer to Harrenhal by wishing for it. Resignedly he stepped outside, immediately got soaked and tasked a few indebted carpenters turned peasant levies with maintaining his camp goods. Once ahorse he took his place at the head of the army as it was, finding Bronn and Ilyn Payne waiting for him.

“Well, at least no dragon’s going to roast us in this!” Bronn had to yell to make himself heard.

“Don’t think Dothraki or slave soldiers are too familiar with deluges like this either.” Jaime replied, yelling in turn. Freglyn had got back atop his pony and was doing well for a lad who’d only learned to ride the day previous, following the Lord Commander dutifully. It was slow going even with horses, the rain having turned the Kingsroad into a muddy ditch. To make things worse the rain only got heavier as they made their way north, soon Jaime couldn’t so much as see past his horse’s nose. “Could be snow. I’d bet a bag of dragons winter’s on the way.” he said to Bronn.

“Soaked and warm or dry and cold?” he grumbled back. Rain like this is common when one nears the riverlands, I remember the weather being fickler than Cersei. Well, maybe not quite so, Jaime thought. It doesn’t usually last too long, all you have to do is grit your teeth and plod on through it. It rained without pause for the next four days. Once they figured they had the God’s Eye directly west of them they turned northwest, abandoning the kingsroad for the rougher but somewhat dryer rolling greens of the Riverlands.

“Maybe we can take shelter in this copse here…” there was a brush of green paint on the map on the lake’s near shore. Payne held up a blanket as Jaime consulted the map, not for the first time.

“Then it’s not a half day to Harrenhal.”

“Bugger camping. Let’s just get to the bloody ruin and shack up there, the lads are as soaked and exhausted as we are. They’ll put in a few more hours’ effort to kip under a free roof and get dry for the first time in a week.” Bronn said, getting out from under the blanket.

To Jaime’s great surprise, when put to a company vote they did indeed favor pressing on to Harrenhal, the rabble’s stamina quite a feat of endurance. Given a chance to be more than peasants and they took it by the horns, he thought. One of the horse thieves turned outriders in particular, a man named Rogyr, kept Jaime abreast of everything on either side of the column even in the driving rain. It was he who announced first sighting of the castle and there was a collective outcry of relief. “What if they don’t let us in?” Bronn whispered to Jaime as they drew ever closer. I’ve spent the last few sodden days trying not to think about that myself, he thought. Outside the great gates, Jaime dismounted and waited for someone to hail him. After a long few moments several heads poked out from the parapets.

“Who goes there?” a voice called.

“Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, here to be reinforced on orders of Her Grace, Cersei the First of Her Name.” Jaime knew the rote. Could be Daenerys Targaryen has taken the castle already and I’m about to eat a crossbow bolt, Jaime thought, until another man’s head took form in the slowly weakening curtain of water. He had to put a hand up, squinting hard to see him but could make out no arms.

“Who are these that travel with you?” The new voice was not lordly proud not the curt grunting of a brute.

“The First Army of King’s Landing.” Jaime replied, foundering for a name. “Debt and hunger cost them freedom. They marched here in a rain fit to flood the river lands twice over, ser. I’d say it’s washed away their petty crimes as well.” Jaime called up. Silence from the parapets and the man’s head disappeared. The gate began to slowly open. Naïve, Jaime thought, or else they know what straits the capital is in. He was still tsking about the open gate when he saw inside. It looked like the whole of the riverlands was packed into Harrenhal with room to spare. Orphans, babes in mothers’ arms, old men…everyone from all over the countryside. Come to hide at Harrenhal, Jaime thought.

As the column proceeded inside the people had a bad shock, but when they saw rabble instead of Lannister soldiers their manner relaxed a great deal. Jaime turned in the saddle.

“Get dry. Get warm.” he ordered and the column dissolved, every man or lad off to find a dry spot or a seat by one of the many small fires. His horse’s reins were taken and he dismounted, walking over to the helmed knight. “My lord, had your visor been up just now I may have kissed you out of hand.” Jaime said, relief seeping into his stiff legs.

“I am no lord, only a faithful servant of the Seven.” Jaime dimly recognized the man’s voice. He did not remove his helmet. “Ser Bonifer Hasty, a servant as well to the common folk of Westeros.” Ah, an idealist. Not so naïve though, or he’d not have helm or armor on. “I mean no harm to you or those taking shelter within these walls, Ser Bonifer. Her Grace has merely sent me to convey orders that you and all able men augment the First Army.”

“To what end, Ser Jaime? What war is there to fight that can be won? Do I look like I have a battle-ready army here? It is I, the remainder of my brotherhood after dealing with the last of Gregor Clegane’s robbers and rapers, and those smallfolk who have come under my protection.” I might have thought as much. Cersei sent me after a force that doesn’t exist, he thought for a moment before proceeding.

“As you say, Ser Bonifer. Might I suggest a different course? The original plan was to proceed east, back into the crownlands to take Rook’s Rest, but if you’d prefer we can-”

“Rook’s Rest? Has it been seized by some outlaw band?” Bonifer asked.

“In a manner of speaking. Daenerys Targaryen has landed and Her Grace suspects that Rook’s Rest has fallen to her savages and slaves. Or did you not know why people were streaming to Harrenhal from all over the countryside?” Upon hearing the girl’s name Ser Bonifer froze.

“Ser Bonifer?” Jaime asked when the knight did not reply. He was completely motionless and Jaime was starting to wonder if his heart had simply given out when he reached out and pushed up the visor himself. I wasn’t far off the mark… Ser Bonifer Hasty was an older man, older than Jaime, but his dark hair had yet to pepper. He had deep green eyes far darker than the Lannister shade, and they were wide with shock. It took almost five minutes for the man to regain himself. “Not fond of fire, I gather.” Jaime jested to make light of his odd acquaintance’s freeze-up. He tried to remember if there was anything he knew of House Hasty. That’s right. A real hotspur when he was young, and then all of a sudden he put away his jousting lance and became a penitent. Something happened to this man, he thought.

After his awkward meeting with Harrenhal’s castellan Jaime went to find an empty chamber to set up in. It didn’t take long and after only twenty minutes or so of wandering he found Bronn in a wing filled with the upper crust of his touted First Army of King’s Landing. He pulled off his soaking garb and dressed as best he could, a doughy boy from the kitchens bringing him a mug of ale and a small side of venison. After making sure his lads weren’t up to mischief in the castle yard he tucked in and was promptly blown away by how well the venison had been prepared. He wolfed it down famished as he was, and had it in his mind to send to the kitchens for another side when his feet went numb.

“Uh…” he wondered before his legs gave out from under him and he collapsed to the stone floor. “Ow.” he grunted. When he tried to move, he could only get down to his waist to obey. The door opened and closed quickly. “Um, help, this is quite a distressing feeling.” he said, trying not to flop around His visitor tenderly sat him upright and poked his thigh with his fork. “Nothing.” Jaime said. “Now, about a maes-“ Only then did he recognize his rescuer. “You were at the Twins. The scullion who kept making eyes at me. Well, my legs have gone about as useful as Walder Frey’s, so-”

“Don‘t worry. It won’t last.” she responded, pulling out a thin dancing blade and looking down at him with a markedly empty gaze. Like a snake coiled around a rat, Jaime thought. Fear started to stain his insides. Not of death, but of whoever this girl was.

“What’s your name, child?” he asked her.

“Lycia of King’s Landing.” she replied without a hint of emotion.

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” He tried to think. “Honestly I’d be stalling if I could think of a thing to say but you look like you’ve stabbed people just to watch them die so if we could get this done with…” Some lass mad with grief most like, learned a thing or two of poisons from life on the run. He looked into his lap. “Might as well know who I’m being killed over. Who was he? A smitten country lad? Your brother? Some fool who ran off with Robb Stark to kill the vile Kingslayer and never returned?” he guessed. She didn’t respond, only slid her hands around herself. “Your father.” he knew then.

When she turned to face him her lifeless affect had gone.

“Him, and all the rest. My lady mother, my brothers, my sister. You killed everyone I had. Now it’s just me.” she said through tears, the thin sword pressed to his throat quicker than his eyes could follow. Lady mother? he thought. I still can‘t…Seven hells.

“What did you say your name was?” he asked, this time quieter. Her breathing had quickened. He looked down his lifeless legs and then to the needle sword. This girl could never pass for red-haired Sansa Stark, but what was the other girl’s name, the ratty one… “Lady Catelyn never stopped looking for you.” he said suddenly. “She freed me from your brother’s stockade with the promise I would deliver her daughters to her. She made me swear on my honor that I wouldn’t raise arms against House Stark or House Tully again. Bloody let me go in exchange for a hope of a hope. Were she any other woman the Young Wolf would have had her executed.” he told her. For the life of me, I cannot remember her name, he thought. The needle sword pressed harder to his throat and Jaime Lannister let out his breath, closing his eyes. They hung there on the brink for a heart-stopping moment.

“One less Lannister.” she said evenly.

“You’re not real…” she gasped, tears streaming down her face. Jaime looked up in utter confusion.

“I’m more real than you are. I’m the Self and you’re the Shadow.” she said in that terrifying lifeless drone.

“No…” she sobbed, wrist tensing. Fighting herself, he thought numbly. In the fallen silver tray he could see her, them, one their reflection while the other wore their flesh. She isn’t mad, he realized. I’m watching two minds fight over a body.

“You can’t live without me. You can’t live without this.” She brought the needle sword upright. “You’re only part of me. Only part…”

“Part? Part?! I am not part of you!” She leveled it at Jaime‘s chest and lunged. “You are part of ME!!!”

Chapter Text

Theon

He woke in utter darkness. I’m in a dungeon, he thought, before he realized the ground was rough and uneven, weathered rock and not shaped stone. He wasn’t manacled either, just soaked to the bone and chilled as much so. He tentatively got to his knees, reaching out into the darkness, hand finding only air. A bit of panic set in. Am I dead? Is this a hell of some kind? He wondered before he heard the stirrings of another. The sound made him jump and he felt his hair touch a ceiling closer than he expected. Any higher and I’d have cracked myself good. A bit of luck at last… He started to inch around looking for his companion in the darkness, only to hear a startled gasp and a stream of calls and cries in a harsh savage tongue. Dothraki, he knew.

“Stop screaming-” A sharp inhale told Theon to duck as what felt like a fist whipped over his head. More panicked Dothraki gibberish.

“This one’s head hurts.” A new voice called from several feet away.

“Who’s there?” Theon called, again avoiding the savage’s fist.

“This one is Red Flea. I cannot find the weapons I fell into the water with.” Theon’s new friend reported. An Unsullied…that’s right, we went into the sea. Well, they did, I jumped… Then he remembered why he’d jumped. What use would I have for a mermaid? Fuck, what use would a mermaid have for me? he thought. Finally the Dothraki’s fist found cave wall and with a high-pitched wail the swings at Theon stopped.

“I’m…Theon Greyjoy. The gold squid on the black.” Theon said into the darkness.

“This one remembers. You are from Her Grace’s country.” Red Flea replied. Her Grace. Daenerys Targaryen. Asha’s idea… Theon thought before he tried to move again.

“Careful. The ceiling is not so high as you’d expect.” he warned. Predictably there was a thunk and an uttered curse as the Dothraki’s head met the ceiling.

“Where are we?” Red Flea asked. Theon knew they were trained from birth to be fearless and all that, but he could hear the uncertainty in the man’s voice. Join the landing party, Theon thought. He put his hand to the walll and began to walk, gasping when there was a break in the stone. The wall started again about three feet past.

“A doorway. Come to me, slow. On hands and knees if you must.” Theon called, the Unsulled reaching him first. Finally the Dothraki got the message and came closer until the three of them were less than a foot apart.

“Alright. We’re going to go slowly down this hallway. Got that? We’re going to go straight.” Theon said slowly.

“I speak the Common Tongue.” Red Flea said with a hint of derision.

Theon tried to squint, tried to see anything but there was not a mote of light. Suddenly the Dothraki began to rattle off again.

“What’s this idiot saying?”

“He says the walls feel strange.” Theon frowned, stopping to give it another go. Only when he focused did he realize that the walls were worked stone. Of a kind, anyway. Over and over he ran his thumb over what could have only been a clam shell carved in the wall. Others, too. Fish, waves, circles… Theon realized the wall was covered in runes. Raised out of the wall instead of carved in, he thought.

“Aye. Shapes from the sea cover the wall, what of it?” he asked as if it were trivial.

“This one is ignorant of the Queen’s lands. Ones that walk in caves and carve sea shapes in stone without need of light are unknown in Essos.” the Unsullied answered. In Westeros too, Theon thought. Then he remembered the night of the storm. The bulging yellow eyes. They reeked of fish. Their stink will give them away if they’re near. He shut the thought out of his mind. Down the hall they went, the Dothraki muttering fearfully. Not used to being shut up in darkness, eh? Theon thought as they inched along. We’re going up, Theon realized with a hint of relief. Maybe we’ll find a cave mouth. Instead the air got somewhat warmer and the fish-stink hit, the screamer’s muttering getting more agitated. Then there was a wet croak from further in the darkness and the three froze.

“Who’s there?” Theon asked, his own voice sounding shaky to his ears. A wet slapping sound started, getting closer in pairs of twos. Feet. Webbed feet, Theon realized until the stink got so bad it made his stomach turn. He’s right in front of us. Staring at us. He knows we can’t see him. The croaking resumed so close Theon jumped, foul break reeking of bilge wafting right in his face. Short, he thought. The croaker wasn’t so tall as a man, or at least as tall as Theon. The breath was coming from somewhere at shoulder height. “I can’t imagine you could repeat all that in the Common Tongue…” Theon asked.

“He says you’re going the wrong way.” A voice from the far side of the corridor said, the light of a torch igniting. Theon whirled around in surprise to see a man about his age in a loincloth holding the torch staring at him still as stone. Healing burns covered him head to toe, puckered scars making him look striped as a zorse. He was completely hairless. Likely lost in the blaze that had given him those scars, Theon thought. For the first time Theon got a glimpse of his companions as well, Red Flea turning out to be one of the Ghiscari and the Dothraki looking wide-eyed as a child during a scary story.

Rather than face the horror behind him Theon stepped to the fore.

“Who are you?’ he asked after a hundred other questions came and went in his mind.

“No one you need be concerned with. Come.” he hooked a left around the corner and the three hurried after him. The croaker behind them pursued slowly. We’re being herded, Theon realized. They continued to go up, the corridors at a slight incline until they came into a much larger chamber bigger even than Winterfell’s Great Hall. Several pools glowing bright with strange light dotted the ground and a lake in the middle of the huge chamber made the three stop in their tracks. A huge rock jutted out of the lake and at least a dozen mermaids lounged on it, lazily dipping their tails in the water or weaving shells and seaweed into each other’s hair. The Dothraki’s eyebrows went up in perfect surprise. Upon noticing their visitors a great outcry of giggling broke out and the whole collection slunk over to the water’s edge nearest them. Some were blonde, some were redheads, and all batted their eyelashes coquettishly. The rather bolder leaned their elbows on the stone, letting their chests show.

“Bad luck, girls. Two of us haven’t got fishing rods and the other’s deathly afraid of the sea.” Theon finally gasped out. The thing behind them croaked at the mermaids in translation, their faces falling in dismay and sinking out of sight sulkily. The Dothraki slowly turned to him with lips pursed in a look of blackest disdain. “What are you going to do? They can’t come to you, and Dothraki piss themselves when they get in water higher than their ankles.“ Theon spat. With more than a bit of trepidation he turned to take the measure of their captor. A hard swallow and a lungful of moist stale air didn’t make facing it any easier. It stood perhaps five feet tall on spindly legs ending in webbed claws, its arms ending in more of the same. Its neck was nonexistent, head much like that of a fish but for the yellow eyes. They took Theon in and flitted across his companions, advertising a mind no less quick than a man’s. Savage though. Like a wildling, Theon supposed.

“Right.” he said, addressing the burned man. “Not that we don’t appreciate you scaring us shitless, but why are we here?”

“Because we have a message for the one you serve.” A rich deep voice empty of weakness made Theon turn back to the rock. This time he gasped. The man standing before them had sea-blue skin and his hands were webbed as well. Powerful corded muscles tapered to a chest that would make a maiden blush and he likewise had on only a loincloth. In one hand he held a trident, in the other a conch. After the man-fish he supposed he’d seen all this place had to offer but this new man quite set those thoughts aside. The mermaids had resurfaced, all looking up at the man with dreamy adoring expressions. He set his gear on another rock and strode up to Theon bold as you please. Wait a second, Theon thought. He took in the burned man again. The same chin, the same nose.

“We serve Daenerys Tar-” Red Flea fell silent as from out of the pools a legion of the man-fishes emerged, some shorter and others with hunched backs. A new mermaid clambered up to the rock, facing away from them. Theon caught sight of a pink tail and long brown hair. A proper fucking town, Theon thought. Well, if I were one of a waterborne race I’d probably just wear a loincloth, too. Red Flea swallowed and continued. “We serve Daenerys Targaryen.” Their translator plied his trade. A chorus of croaks broke out among the creatures. The sea-skinned man raised a webbed hand and they quieted at once.

“What does a kraken want with a dragon?” the mermaid asked in perfect Common. Theon thought carefully, sensing that her patience was not to be tried.

“My sister wants to procure the Iron Islands’ independence from the Iron Throne. By supporting Daenerys’s own claim to a throne she seeks to strengthen her own.” More mermaids began to meekly comb their mistress’ hair with shells as she listened, content to remain facing away.

“The Seastone Chair.” she finally said. When the translator croaked his part the walls rang with angry voices, one small individual poking Theon with a bit of soaking driftwood.

“Aye.” he said finally, wondering what care this place had for the world above the waves.

“The Seastone Chair as your kind calls it does not belong on dry land.” the mermaid finally said. “Nothing from our world does.” Her words made the sea-skinned man twitch almost imperceptibly. Their world? Then Theon remembered. That’s right. Bleeding thing looks like it’s covered in snot, like sweating stone. Unnatural. As Theon recalled the Ironborn didn’t actually make the Seastone Chair, they’d just found it on the beach when first they settled the isles. Well, if I live to meet Uncle Rodrik again, that’s one question I can answer. Rodrik Harlaw had ever had a curious mind, especially for an ironborn.

“Then I can only guess you want it returned to you.” he surmised.

“To the sea.”

“Well, I’m sure I could get Asha to come ‘round to the idea of pitching it into the waves.” Then he got an idea. “What am I saying, of course I can.” he dug inside himself for memories of wooing willful beauties. Easy ones had only needed a shared cup of ale and a kiss but a silver tongue was necessary for the more reserved. It was for that Theon that the man he’d become reached, speaking in a more measured, even cocky, tone. The mermaid got his meaning.

“You can does not mean you will.”

“Aye. I’m just thinking that there’s plenty also below the waves that belongs above them.” The burned man bristled at once.

“You’re the pirate, not us, and a poor one at that.” Touchy.

“Did I say you were pirates? At worst I inferred you might be legitimate salvagers of lost and unclaimed property. Goods I’m sure you have little and less need for. Depending on their nature I could secure the return of the Seastone Chair posthaste. If in all the ages ships have roamed your waters not one has sunk with so much as a glass bead aboard, well then, consider the return of the Seastone Chair merely a gesture of my sister and her queen’s amity with the World Beneath the Waves.” There was silence. Then she turned to her right, face still hidden and her attendants stopped at once. The sea-touched man went to her side and he whispered for a few moments.

“And if they have?” she asked finally. Who needs a worm on a hook when a tongue works just as well?  Theon thought.

“Daenerys will have plenty of supporters to reward when she takes the Iron Throne. Westeros is very large but there is only so much land. Treasure is not a coin so dear. In addition to the Seastone Chair, I’ll see to it that anything we come across made by your people is set back from whence it came. In return, your countrymen such as they are can start returning what is lost to us but for your beneficence. They need not even go ashore, just send it with the waves so that it washes up on the beaches of Dragonstone. You know the island I wager.”

“I know it. Suffice to say we are nearby.”

“Splendid. Oh, there is a small matter of another Greyjoy, one titling himself Euron, Third of His Name. He claims to be the champion of the Drowned God-”

“As has every man to claim a crown on those bleak isles.” she broke in indifferently.

“Of course. I can see to it we drop all that overproud foolishness if you could keep an eye out for him for us.”

“First we’re pirates and now we’re killers for hire!” the burned man said, scars going red with indignation. That fire must have hurt, Theon thought.

“Did I say that? I only suggested you might keep us abreast if he should appear.” Theon said mildly. “If he should meet a storm such as the one our fleet met, well…there’s no need to go to his aid as you came to ours. Your stalwarts only plucked us from the water because you wanted to talk. We have, terms have been agreed upon, and now we only have to return to the surface.”

Again the mermaid listened to the words of the blue-skinned man. Who is he to her? Theon wondered. The others looked to him besotted as harem girls, but the one doing the talking didn’t so much as turn to face him completely when he whispered to her. He looked back to the burned man, still full of pride and piss and scars red with anger. All he could divine from the man’s gaze was that he plainly thought Theon Greyjoy an utter waste of their time. The man with the mermaid beckoned to him suddenly and the burned man paled, gulping. He hurried over to the rock where the mermaid spoke to him directly, handing him something. He returned to Theon’s side of the chamber alone.

“Come. This audience is at an end. As you said, terms have been agreed upon. There is no more need for you to linger here.” He walked on back the way they had come. Theon turned back to the rock.

“Thank you for your hospitality, my lady.” he said before sauntering after his unpleasant minder. The light faded as they put the pools behind them, the orange torch all of a sudden positively abrasive to the eyes. It took a good bit of blinking to acclimate to such harsh light and when he had Theon found himself staring into another room like the one he’d started in, A gray-hair with his mouth gagged by slimy seaweed and his wrists tied gurgled loudly at them. “Might we take him, too?“ Theon asked. The man’s eyes went wide.

“As you will. Careful, he’s the kind of fish that bites.”

“So were the kind back there by your lady. Or were those needles in their craws for chewing seaweed?”

“They are what they are. As you are or as I am. Alive and part of the world, jealously invested in keeping it from harm.” The man’s words made Theon’s brow furrow. Before he could ask quite what the man meant he felt a rough cool sea breeze and heard the sound of waves. The Dothraki gave a happy gasp, the tears on his copper cheeks shining like bits of topaz in the torchlight. More of the fish-men loitered around a wide cave mouth, most holding spears. Theon led his party forward toward the breeze until they found themselves on a beach at dusk. The burned man pointed to a little dinghy. “Dragonstone is a few hours to the southwest.“ he tucked what the mermaid had given him into Theon’s hand. He could feel four hard objects within. Dice perhaps.

“Then we’ll be off straightaway.” he replied, the Dothraki and Red Flea wrestling the ornery old goat into the boat. When he turned back to the burned man, he was startled by the disappearance of both the man and the cave mouth. All that remained was a sheer rock face. He shrugged, got into the dinghy and they pushed off. Once away from the strange shore, Theon realized he recognized the stars. Indeed, we can’t be more than a few hours from Dragonstone. He realized then that his companions were looking at him in amazement. “Allies are allies and coin is coin, lads. Their spears are no less sharp, their gold is no less golden.”

Chapter Text

Jon

“Looking over your shoulder a thousand times in an hour won’t make him come, Snow.” Tormund said, not unfeelingly. Jon knew the wildling chieftain was fond of Ghost, as nearly all the Free Folk were. “How many kings have had a white direwolf before, on either side of the Wall?” they were fond of saying. “Besides, he doesn’t belong much further south than we are right now. Down in those green lands they piss themselves at the sight of a timber pup- man’s like to shit himself senseless at the sight of Ghost.” He went back to minding his horse. South down the White Knife to White Harbor, seat of House Manderly. Jon had explained their significance to the Free Folk among their party. Kicked out of the Reach and taken in by House Stark to guard the White Knife. See, even the South does something right sometimes, Jon thought. He turned to look at Ser Davos, another exceptional southerner. Then again, he’s a smuggler. He’s not had the cushy life, he’s had to hustle and grind to feed his family. No wonder Stannis valued his counsel so. The aging smuggler-turned-knight had survived a lifetime’s worth of battles in only a few years and Jon had no wish to see him thrown into the fray again. Alys’ horse was free of a rider, the relief for the cart horse in effect, as Alys herself was in Sigorn’s arms. Every so often he’d kiss her neck or whisper something in her ear, making her giggle up a storm. The sight made Jon realize he missed Ygritte fiercely. I could have Val in front of me and please her to the bone, but it wouldn’t be the same. Then again, if I did love Val, I wouldn’t be pining for a spearwife gone years now. Even thinking of Ygritte and Val’s big sad eyes made Jon feel guilty. I wish I could do right by her. She wants only to be close, to be warm. She misses her sister and the way things were in Mance’s tent, maybe she thought I could be her Mance. Jon’s mood did not improve when he thought on why he’d left Winterfell. Now I’m on my way to Dragonstone to bring an outsider into the fold, the daughter of a man who killed Uncle Brandon and my grandfather. Yet Sansa wants nothing more than to woo this faction of barbarians and slave soldiers. When he voiced his uncertainty to Tormund, his jovial manner became muted. “You were at Hardhome, lad.” So I was. Sansa had to remind me of that as well.

Then Jon remembered he’d never told Sansa about the Fist much less Hardhome. Ned Umber brought up the rear, trying to hide a yawn and failing.

“Don’t worry, my lord. We’ll only have to camp once before we make White Harbor.” Jon said.

“Apologies, Your Grace. I didn’t sleep well the night before we left. I suppose I’m just a bit wary of going south. I’m the last Umber, I’d hate for my house to fail somewhere on the Narrow Sea or gods forbid on Dragonstone itself. They say Starks don’t do well below the Neck, but look at my grandsire. Dead in a cell at the Twins.” He went quiet suddenly and Jon looked back to see the boy blushing and staring at the back of his horse’s head.

“All the better that I’ve come along then, Your Grace.” Littlefinger said. Jon had no illusions. Getting closer to Cersei and further from Sansa makes him both nervous and grumpy. An off-balance Petyr Baelish is good, not letting him run amok in my absence is better. Maybe I’m figuring this out after all.

“No doubt you’ll find southern courts easier to navigate, my lord. At any rate you’ll be able to get warm.” Jon replied. Let’s see you make mischief among Dothraki and freedmen, few if any of whom speak the Common Tongue. They camped when they met the other fork of the White Knife, laying out behind a knoll to keep out of the wind. Jon was worried for the younger members of their party but Alys had Sigorn and Ned Umber simply crawled under a log. At this Tormund gave a hearty laugh.

“There’s a clever lad.”

“Clever enough not to ask who killed his father during the Battle of the Bastards.” Jon said quietly.

“He knows. I told him the morning before the Free Folk and your lot managed to have our first joint good idea.” he slapped Jon’s shoulder.

“What did he say?” Jon asked, surprised.

“He said it was what it was. Certainly he’d have done no good serving a vicious cunt who would have been useless against the cold ones himself.” Tormund shrugged. No wroth. No blood feud. No typical northern hardheadedness, Jon thought looking back to the log. Clever indeed, or just ready to turn the page.

Instantly he knew he was warging Ghost. It was appreciably colder and there was no river in sight. Off to the west he could see the mountains that traditionally framed the boundary of the North. No more, he thought with no little joy. But for the Wall and the Others, there was nothing stopping them being a world unto themselves. Ghost trotted off on his own business and Jon found he could just make out the yellow tips of Queenscrown in the distance. Where are we going, boy? Jon asked. He could feel the direwolf’s drive, the fire as he brought down a deer. To Jon’s surprise he didn’t eat it despite his empty belly, instead he dragged it off. Every few hundred feet he checked to make sure he wasn’t followed. Slowly Jon got the picture. Have you got a den somewhere, boy? A nice wild girl you’re hunting for? At that thought Ghost’s mind fled from him and all Jon could see was the Wall. No castles though, and no top that I can see. Then he woke with a start. For a moment he was so disoriented he couldn’t stand, so confused he couldn’t think. Ghost kicked me out. He hid what he was up to behind a wall and then he kicked me out. The thought that the direwolf could do that, would do that, made Jon’s stomach turn. He must not want me worrying about him while I need my wits about me in the south. Dawn had just broken and Jon saw that Baelish had been forced to use his lavish tent more or less as a blanket. Certainly nobody had put it up for him. He got up and worked the stiffness out of his limbs, remembering he’d had to do the same in his first days with Ygritte. No wonder Ghost doesn’t want me poking around. I can’t get her out of my head, he probably doesn’t want her stuck in his. A few sheep had taken up grazing on the opposite shore of the White Knife, placidly trimming whatever grass had lasted through the nightly frosts. Surely if Ghost had been with them the sheep would have never come so close, though the direwolf had never been the frothing voracious beast Jon remembered Shaggydog being. They bleated nervously at Jon’s movement, waking a few of the others but realized they had a freezing river between themselves and Jon’s party and promptly went back to grazing.

“Where’s their shepherd?” Ned Umber asked from behind Jon.

“Who knows? Fled? Dead?” Jon replied. The Boltons had done no little damage during their tenure as Lords of Winterfell, letting their thugs prey on decent folk to undercut further Stark support in the North. “They look fairly well-shorn so I’d guess they just don’t want to get near an armed party. In fact, if I were them I’d be anxious to get my herd back in the paddock. Let’s leave them to it.” The two went around waking the others, Alys Karstark groaning and burying her face in Sigorn’s chest in complaint. As they advanced further south Jon could faintly spot several figures corralling the sheep back east.

Ser Davos spotted the white towers first, pointing with a shortened finger. He had been quiet since they left, a disquieted face enough to convince the others to give him space.

“Is it not a friendly city for you?” Jon asked. The smuggler likely had made his share of enemies in the shipping business and White Harbor held a near monopoly on all goods coming into the North by sea.

“There aren’t any cities friendly to a smuggler, Your Grace. Just an old voice from the past that’s been on my mind recently.” Jon noticed Littlefinger listening intently without looking to. He’s like a squirrel burying every nut he can find for later. No, a rat.

“Well, who doesn’t have ghosts chasing them when they’ve lived through what you have?” Jon asked.

“Aye.” Davos replied curtly before withdrawing into himself again. When they reached the gates of White Harbor they had to wait for the captain of the guard to affirm their identity. Sigorn noticed smallfolk coming and going unimpeded and remarked what made them so suspicious.

“Apologies, ser. My Thenn has a brick for a brain but his other bits more than make up for it.” Alys said, rolling her eyes while to Jon’s astonishment Sigorn blushed red as a maid. While Tormund laughed himself breathless a very fat man who could only be Wyman Manderly’s son Wylis waddled into view past the guards.

“Your Grace, I owe an apology to my guardsmen. The walk from the New Castle to the gatehouse was a journey in itself and I spent the night there rather than return to my own chamber only to have to roll myself back down. As a result my back is aching and I’ve been put off my appetite for the first time since I could get down solid food.” The fat man’s jovial words only made Tormund break out in another laugh, making the guards eye him nervously. Indeed, when Wylis Manderly saw Sigorn for the first time his eyes popped. “So. Wildlings come into White Harbor as guests of the Merman’s Court.” There was not a hint of derision in his voice. He knows what this means, Jon thought. Or at least suspects. The Manderlys were not part of the North the last time the Others came.

“Aye. Eager we are to have us a taste of the food that’s seen you go so round, merlord.” Sigorn replied coolly. Jon could hear his true words loud as a ringing bell. There’s much needs having words about and the longer we take the worse it gets. Take us where you will so we can get to it.

To his credit Wylis Manderly made it all the way back up to the New Castle unassisted despite his bulk, an endurance that seemed to impress Tormund and Sigorn.

“Fat I may be, but never feeble.” he said when he noticed them looking. “Easy enough to stand in one place and swing a poleaxe, particularly when the doughball body you’re stuck in is inclined to revolutions.” He twirled his finger in a circle. When they reached the Merman’s Court, they found themselves facing two full tables of food laid out as well as all manner of white wines. “I’m sure you’re eager for a bit of food before we get to court niceties. I’m going to call the worthies of White Harbor so we may discuss matters of import with everyone present. In the meantime eat and drink your fill. If my cooks can keep up with my father and I who may just miss outweighing the seven of you put together, you’ll be no trouble.” He waddled off. Immediately Sigorn went for the beef and fish.

“Cows are difficult to keep without land to graze. Rare a member of the Free Folk gets as much as he likes.” he said when he filled a plate with it. Jon tried a bit of everything, noticing the wine wasn’t overindulged in by his two chieftains. Either they want to make a good impressions, he thought, or they want to be sober when talk of the Others finally comes up. Or both. Ser Davos stuck to clams and sea fare while Alys and Ned tried to follow in Jon’s lead. For Sigorn and Tormund to whom food had never come easy, it was possibly the best they’d ever eaten in their lives.

“A bit of food the merlord calls this.” Tormund said after eating a whole chicken and sighing in wonder at the sight of three more on the other end of the table. “No King-Beyond-the-Wall ever ate a tenth so well.”

“Among our kind, anyway.” Jon said quietly, looking at a sweet bun on a dish of pastries. The sounds of eating stopped and when Jon looked up all eyes were on him.

“What are you inferring, Your Grace?” Littlefinger asked in that soft voice Jon so hated.

“They won’t just throw a sea of dead at us and call the job done. It’s going to take more than a Hardhome full of wights and a single horned shepherd of the dead to invade Westeros, it’s fucking huge. They’ve had ten thousand years to ready for this while we fought and feuded and bled each other dry. It will take planning, multiple fronts and a chain of command. A mastery of war borne from battlefield experience accrued over many lifetimes of men. Or they couldn’t do it. Obviously they think they can, so we should be ready to be substantially outmatched in most every sphere.”

Those bleak words made the rest of the table pick over dinner in forlorn silence save Littlefinger, who seemed to revel in whatever made others unhappy. Indeed his appetite only seemed to increase and by the time a serving maid called for them to bathe and prepare for court, he had nearly managed a whole chicken himself. By the time Jon had bathed and changed the moon had risen and he had to work hard not to double take when Tormund emerged in a fresh doublet, tunic and field trousers.

“Could be worse.” he said, as if bothered by the fact that it was likely more comfortable than furs. Sigorn for his part had Alys to help him and but for his Thenn scars and shaved head he could have passed for a northern lord without effort. They filed into the Merman’s Court, the hall of the New Castle to find themselves the last to arrive. Jon heard Tormund curse under his breath and smiled. Wylis Manderly began with traditional pleasantries, introducing his wife, Lady Leona and his daughters Wynafryd and Wylla, a scant few years older and younger than Jon respectively. Wynafryd in particular blushed prettily and curtsied when her name was called. Ah, Jon realized. The dutiful daughter trying to please her father by becoming Queen in the North. Wynafryd Manderly was a lovely girl but from what Jon saw she was entirely too used to the comforts of the New Castle and living in the safety of White Harbor. Too much the lady, too much the girl, he thought. Though she was older she had a sort of courtly innocence that reminded Jon of Sansa. Before the world had its pound of flesh from her, anyway. Jon in turn introduced his own party. Littlefinger got more black looks by far than either wildling, a sight which pleased Jon to no end.

“Now…” Wylis said before he took his seat. “Not to be rude or question the making of new friends, but I’m sure we’re all wondering why wildlings have come to White Harbor, Your Grace. Also, the veracity of rumors that a number of giants have taken to the Wolfswood, mammoths included.” The hall filled with murmuring at his words.

“Giants!” a little boy called from his mortified mother’s arms. Jon waited for the murmuring to die down.

“There are giants at Winterfell, my lord, and mammoths too. What’s more, there are valemen, mountain clans, even a few stormlanders that made it through Stannis’ campaigns. Surely White Harbor is aware that Mance Rayder marched on the wall some years ago, hellbent on getting past it. Unlike raider kings of old, he didn’t come for loot or women.” The murmuring started again, Tormund and Sigorn’s faces resolved.

“We came to get away from the Others.” Tormund said. Not a person spoke.

“Pardon me, Your Grace, but what exactly is an Other?” Wylis finally asked.

“They’re why Brandon the Builder put up the Wall in the first place, my lord. He didn’t stack blocks of ice seven hundred feet straight up and across the breadth of Westeros to keep a few hairy raiders out, or giants for that matter.” he tapped Tormund’s shoulder.

“Or hairless raiders, Jon Snow.” Sigorn said behind him, Alys stifling a giggle despite the mood. The simple truth of Jon’s statement was enough to draw looks of unease from the highborn and the wealthy of White Harbor.

“They’re…” Well, if we knew what they were, we’d not be in this position. “They’re a race apart. Out of the Land of Always Winter perhaps, we don’t know. They bring cold that can crack bone and freeze blood in the vein and send the dead as thoughtless fodder against the living. Often they carry swords of razor ice. If you saw one and survived, it would stay with you the rest of your days.” Jon said, trying hard not to make it any worse. They look at us as a man would look at a mummer’s monkey. Their tongue sounds like ice cracking on a lake.

“For some time they’ve been marshaling just out of sight, sweeping across Thenn and the Frostfangs first and hardest. They wanted us out of the way quickly so they could get up to their own cold games right away. Mance thought there could be something in them mountains, the Horn of Winter, that might help us pass the Wall. Might be the Others were keen on finding that same horn. We never found it, the ground was hard and cold and digging was a trial, but it’s not so hard to dig when you have blades that go through steel and slaves that neither eat nor tire.” Sigorn said.

“As they’ve moved out of the Frostfangs into the Haunted Forest in force, I think it’s likely they’re about to find the Horn or already have. The Wall won’t keep them out much longer, my lord Manderly.” Jon said. Though Wylis had a look of grim confirmation on his face, his wife and daughters looked a blend of mystified and aghast.

“But they were stopped.” a small voice cut through the silence and low murmurs. Ned Umber cleared his throat. “The Others came south once before, before there even was a Wall, and they lost.”

“The Long Night.” Jon nodded. “They came and it took a generation to fully kick them out. We’ve found that dragonglass goes through their armor as easily as their swords go through ours and creates terrible wounds if it should touch their flesh. If flesh it is, I mean. Also, Valyrian steel seems to do the trick, but as there’s not an abundance of it lying around we figure it’s easier to just stick with dragonglass. A maester might call it obsidian. There’s a mother lode of the stuff on Dragonstone. That’s why we’re here, to hop a boat and head south to get as much as we can.” This time the murmurs were louder, fullblown conversations. Wylis quieted them with a hand.

“You’ve certainly not been idle, Your Grace, but there’s a bit of an obstacle as far as Dragonstone.”

Now for the mammoth in the room.

“Daenerys Targaryen.” The mere name caused the hall to explode with such energy that Alys put a hand on Ned’s shoulder to steady him. This time it was Jon who put a hand up. “Whatever else she may be, her army is now of a size with our own. If we could convince her coming north is in her best interests-”

“So we can watch her make you kiss her feet?” Wylla Manderly asked indignantly, rosy face going pink. “If she wants the North she can come get it. Lizard-lions grow as the food does or so I hear, and Freys make poor fare. By the time they’re through with her army the Neck’s lizard-lions will be bigger than her dragons.” There was an outpouring of cheers and banging at her words.

“Even the biggest lizard-lion cannot breathe fire, Lady Wylla.” Jon’s words again quieted the hall. “Or fly for that matter. I can’t think that the Others would have a counter ready for something they’ve never seen before. The wights, their dead men, are in particular susceptible to fire. A single dragon could reduce a tide of walking corpses to a great grey ash wind in minutes.”

“Or White Harbor, or Winterfell.” Wynafryd spoke this time. “What if the price for her assistance is the North’s fealty?” Jon swallowed.

“She wants the North. We need all the knights her southern kingdoms can muster. I would think the way is clear.” They stared at him.

“After what the Mad King did? After Prince Rhaegar kidnapped your aunt?” Lord Wylis asked, paler by the second.

“At Castle Black I met a maester who turned out to have once been Aemon Targaryen, elder brother of Aegon, Fifth of His Name. He was the wisest man I’ve ever met, one of the few who did not dismiss the notion of bringing the wildlings into the Seven Kingdoms out of hand. I pray Daenerys is the same sort, the kind who sees that left to their own devices the Others will knock her dragons from the sky with icy gales that would have grounded Balerion the Black Dread.”

Chapter Text

Tyrion

As they neared Driftmark Tyrion could see the queen get increasingly nervous.

“Your Grace, you’ve been pacing the deck since we left Dragonstone and the rain is coming on. Come, join me below decks for a bite and perhaps some hot spiced wine.” he called to her. Reluctantly she obeyed, coming over after a last wistful look at the sky. “Watch your step, there you are.” Tyrion told her as she stepped out of sight. The drizzle started not a moment later. He left the sailors to their business feeling a tremendous thirst. Unfortunately I’ll need to be sober when we meet the Velaryons. Perhaps they’ll serve wine at High Tide. He found her seated in her cabin.

“I still think we ought have brought Drogon.” she said almost sulkily.

“The Velaryons need no encouraging to abandon Cersei and join you. You share no small amount of blood.”

“They have Valyrian blood. I would have liked to show them a dragon and inspire a few songs.” she replied.

“Once they see you, they’ll be able to think of little else. You’re dragon enough without the wings and the fire.” Tyrion poured her a cup of wine and pushed it towards her, even fetched her a small plate of cheese. She looked at it as if it were a full dinner.

“I don’t think I could keep it down.” she confessed. She is so nervous. Smallfolk are one thing, but she wants so to make a good impression with Westerosi lords as well.

“Your Grace, I advise you to steel yourself. Monterys Velaryon is a little boy, ten at the oldest. He will not be hard to treat with. When Roose Bolton’s northern envoy arrives he will be someone the Lord of the Dreadfort trusts enough to speak for him in the south and little enough to not care if you burn him alive. He will be a man to worry yourself about meeting, and that will be on Dragonstone.” Tyrion said, pushing the cup into her shaking hands. Poor thing. Half a queen and half a child. She worries about what the smallfolk think, what the lords think, over her missing children and even making Drogon and Missandei feel left behind. The Naathi girl was innocent and sweet, bringing her anywhere uncertain was foolish and so she’d stayed on Dragonstone. How Daenerys had got across to Drogon to remain on as well, Tyrion would never know, but the dragon’s temper tantrum had been a thing of terrifying awe. As the island disappeared from sight jets of black flame had still been visible from the tops of the rocks. The rain was making a proper racket on the deck above and the queen hiccupped.

“Perhaps you were right to stow me away. Drogon would approve.” she smiled weakly.

“I’m certain if you’re not returned in anything other than pristine condition he will rid Cersei of me immediately.” Tyrion replied, taking his own wine slowly. A bit at a time. No need to drink like I’m trying to drown myself in it.

They sat in silence as the crew prepared to bring the ship to dock.

“How did you do it?” he asked her finally. Ever had Tyrion Lannister been curious about dragons and it was a question he burned to ask.

“Do what?”

“Get him to remain behind.” She bit her lip.

“I simply told him to. In Valyrian, not the Common Tongue. He understood at once but as you’ve seen, he was not pleased about it. In fact, I could ask the same of you.”

“Me, Your Grace?” Tyrion asked, eyes widening as he set his cup down.

“Lord Varys tells me you freed Rhaegal and Viserion from their chains beneath the pyramid. When I led the Meerenese nobles down to meet them seemed singularly ill-inclined to accept visitors, even me. Rhaegal snapped at me more than once, a green coil that no food could tempt. Anyway, Ser Barristan had just been killed by the Sons of the Harpy and I wanted to pay them back in kind. Rhaegal got irritated at the sight of men, or me, or both..” she explained. Tyrion frowned.

“As Varys could tell you my spoken Valyrian is just shy of an atrocity. I moved slow and kept my voice soft and soothing, if one could call it that. Mostly I was just trying not to shit myself unconscious, if you’ll allow the expression.” he said. “While Viserion was sniffing me I pulled the bolt from his collar and when Rhaegal heard it clang to the ground he allowed me to do the same for him.” She looked into her lap.

“Ever was Rhaegal the suspicious one. Viserion was the baby, he only wanted to ride on my shoulder even when he got too big. Drogon until recently did only what he cared to. Rhaegal kept his distance always, he has never had much love for men or their workings and I fear trapping him in the darkness beneath the pyramid has only compounded his attitude in that regard.” She feels guilty. Guilty that they’ve quit her presence, that they’ve gone beyond her power to control, Tyrion realized.

“Well, Asha Greyjoy brought up a good point. They’re dragons, Your Grace. A dragon may know many riders over its long life but a man- or woman- will only know one mount. She was right also in that you’d only need Drogon to take King’s Landing, if even him. You could buzz about in pretty circles and watch the city fall in a day without him so much as yawning. You may get lucky. Perhaps they’ve just gone off to find their riders.” Tyrion shrugged, pouring her another half cup to steady her stomach.

“I’m not sure Rhaegal is the type to take a man on his back. Were Viserys alive I suppose he’d try to ride one or the other, but they’d have rejected him out of hand. They don’t like weakness and Viserys was weak.” The queen’s face had become a mask.

“If they don’t like weakness, how am I still alive?” Tyrion asked.

“That’s easy. You are a stronger man than you account yourself.” she replied.

When the cog finally docked Tyrion found himself staring at a complement of men all bearing the Velaryon seahorse on their shields, banners or jerkins. He waited for the queen to come off of Balerion rather than be the first to speak. When she did the men of Driftmark knelt at once. Daenerys smiled.

“Rise, good sers. I am Daenerys Stormborn, First of Her Name.” she introduced herself. “This is my Hand, Lord Tyrion Lannister.” He saw more than one face twitch in a frown. Kinslaying has made me anathema to all of Westeros by now, I’d bet. No doubt the older lords all scheme to be her Hand, the younger ones her husband. We are not in Slaver’s Bay anymore, she’ll have so many options her head will spin. She bade the man in front stand.

“Your Grace, I have the honor of being Ser Colrod Hull, a leal man of Lord Monterys Velaryon and a keeper of your peace.”

“Well met, Ser Colrod. I am anxious to meet Lord Monterys, another of Valyrian look would be a most welcome sight.” she said. Tyrion could hear her anxiety even if this Ser Colrod could not. The knight nodded and offered his arm to the queen, who took it, before leading her up to and into High Tide proper. Tyrion followed as best he could, ignoring the murmurs of those around him. It was bad enough when I was but an ugly dwarf. Now I’ve proved them right in their minds. Well, the joke is on them. Daenerys made it to Dragonstone, in truth she doesn’t need a tainted dwarf anymore. I could eat a quarrel right now and die a happy Imp. The thought made him smile the remainder of the way until he made it to a pair of rooms adjoining the queen’s. They’re better than the accommodations my own father set for me after I saved the bloody Landing, Tyrion thought. A dozen maids were given to Daenerys to help her bathe and dress while he merely soaked in cold water for a few moments in the solitude of his chambers. Corlys Velaryon sailed further than any Westerosi, he remembered from reading as a boy. If only he could be here now instead of some burbling boy scarce quit of the breast. Then again, Tyrion himself had been no stranger to travels abroad, and even his journeys were paltry fare compared to those of Daenerys Targaryen.

When Monterys Velaryon joined them Tyrion saw he’d been a bit uncharitable as far as his age. The boy was about ten, silver hair pulled back in a loose knot and Tyrion knew love at first sight when the little seahorse first laid his lilac eyes on the dragon queen. Evidently so did Daenerys, who humored the little lord’s innocent inquiries with patience and charm. This meeting will make the Velaryons dutiful vassals of the Targaryens for another three hundred years, Tyrion guessed, smiling to himself as Monterys asked if it was dry-hot or wet-hot in the east. Daenerys looked puzzled and Tyrion himself was lost for words.

“They went east, Lord Velaryon. Not south as well.” Ser Colrod explained.

“Oh.” the boy replied, picking at his steamed crab. “Forgive me, Your Grace. The Sea Snake of old found himself on several unclaimed shores full of leafy green jungle. He claimed them hot as any desert but wet as well, enough to soak a man in their mists.”

“I’ve been to many places but never a proper jungle. When I asked my brother if we could go to a jungle to visit he said I’d get eaten. I had nightmares for a year.” the queen said, blushing just a bit and looking in her lap. Tyrion found her ability to relate to a boy she’d never before met fascinating. There are child lords aplenty in Westeros. We may turn ill luck into good fortune. The Essosi freedmen called her Mhysa, after all. The little lord did not so much as give Tyrion a glance. He can hardly be blamed, it’s either look at her or me. If the lords of Westeros decided to ignore him rather than mock him as before, so much the better. Once dinner had ended Monterys insisted on showing the queen what was left of the treasures the Sea Snake had brought back from his nine voyages. Piqued, Tyrion waddled behind them, wondering what could await.

Several dark disused rooms held wooden crates of all sizes, dust flying when Monterys pulled the sheets off a sort of dress made entirely of songbird feathers.

“Not this one…” he muttered when he opened another of arakh-like weapons longer in the curve. Less sickle more sword, Tyrion thought. Monterys Velaryon showed them all manner of curious oddities. A palm-sized jade figure of an ape with arms to its chest, a necklace of shark teeth, even the skin of a snake that would have been twenty feet long.

“My lord, surely Her Grace would like to rest…” Ser Colrod said exasperatedly. Suddenly the boy gave a gasp and dropped the lid of a large crate, evidently having found what he was looking for.

“The Sea Snake dared not venture deep into Sothoryos. It’s a helljungle without end full of diseases and danger, not remotely a place for a Westerosi. He met a troop of them, the Sothoryi brindled men.” he explained. The queen nodded.

“Several of them were in the fighting pits. I never did get close…” she prompted him.

“When they decided he wasn’t a threat, they kept giving him gentle shoves back the way he came. I guess the Sothoryi aren’t so much beasts as people suppose, at least the ones on the coasts who must get visitors often enough to know they don’t do well in the jungle. They gave him something as a parting gift and followed him to shore to make sure he left.” Monterys said, trembling with excitement. Daenerys was all patience while Tyrion’s boyhood dreams had him waiting with bated breath. Monterys grunted with the effort of shoving the lid off, coughing a bit as the dust rose. When it cleared his face was ashen but the grin on it was unmistakable. “See what they gave him.” he said, and the queen looked inside. Tyrion saw her purple eyes go wide as plates. The Mother of Dragons is amazed, he thought wonderingly, climbing on a smaller crate to look inside himself. His jaw dropped. In the crate lay a skull. From tip to tip it might have been five or six feet long, too heavy to move for a dozen strong men. Teeth like daggers filled both jaws and the top was honeycombed with holes.

“What is it?” the queen whispered.

“I have no idea. Neither did the Sea Snake, he just kept it near and dear and only showed it to the royal family.” It isn’t a dragon skull, Tyrion thought. He’d seen the things in the depths of the Red Keep, black with iron but curiously gracile. This animal’s head was so thickly reinforced that even a skull weakened with age could have capped a battering ram. It would have weighed thrice as much as a dragon of comparable size, Tyrion thought. The bones alone…and the muscles needed to hold them up…

“But what do they eat?” the queen asked suddenly, bringing Tyrion back to the waking world.“Surely to reach that size there must have been plenty of food, but it isn’t like there are herds of livestock in the jungles of Sothoryos to gorge on.” Daenerys said.

“I only know that the Sothoryi the Sea Snake met thought this one a juvenile. See, there’s no scratches or scars.” They get bigger, Tyrion thought dizzily.

Shortly after Ser Colrod insisted it was time for the little lord to go to bed. Of course he’d wanted to stay up and talk with the queen some more, but when she told him sleep was a blessing there was nothing for it but for everyone to go to bed immediately. Tyrion’s thoughts were utterly devoid of dragons for the first time he could remember, instead thinking of colossal god-lizards that shook the ground as they walked and made a dragon’s roar sound a kitten’s mewl. However he could never quite picture what their prey looked like. He always came back to them eating livestock as the dragons did, which he was sure wasn’t the case. Likely I’ll never know, he thought. I’m not exactly going to Sothoryos to check. Or maybe he would. Perhaps I’ll stick my head down one’s throat and see what’s in its gullet. I’m so small and they so large it might not even notice! I could prop its mouth open, walk in, have a cup of wine and leave without it noticing! However his flights of fancy managed to upset his dreams, and in them he was the giant and the creatures below so small he couldn’t manage to see them clearly, even on hands and knees and squinting. I can see the world from up here, but all I wish to see is too small for me to spot. Maybe it’s good I’m small in life. Then suddenly he was being chased by a giant seahorse that breathed lightning. The dreams got more and more absurd until he dreamed Jaime’s golden hand had a face in the palm that would only talk backwards, ensuring his elder brother was the only one who understood it. He always gets the letters backwards, I helped him trick Father into thinking he’d learned them rightwise, Tyrion thought. When morning broke he got up stiff as stone, almost falling out of bed. Once dressed he made his way to the sitting room, waiting on the queen’s pleasure. He could hear her maids giggling and whe she walked in she started at the sight of him.

“Goodness, you look like you hardly slept.“ she said.

“Wine and monster bones definitely don’t mix.” he replied.

They left Driftmark that morning, heading south across the Gullet for Sharp Point. Monterys Velaryon had wanted to treat them to breakfast but Daenerys explained that Drogon was likely eagerly anticipating her return, and so they went after bidding him farewell.

“Well, its unlikely Sharp Point will prove quite so stimulating. Lord Duram Bar Emmon is older, near your own age, but feeble if my father’s word is to be trusted. Bar Emmon was one of the houses sworn to Stannis during the War of Five Kings, so in this regard I would think him correct.” Tyrion told her.

“Well…at least that means we should be able to return to Dragonstone within the day. We needn’t stay overnight, they aren’t kin…or if they are, not nearly so close as the Velaryons.” Tyrion felt inclined to agree.

“Once we return Drogon will promptly sweep you off your feet and curl up and that’s the last we’ll see of you for a week.” Tyrion said, sighing. She giggled.

“Leaving him behind was hard but you were right. I can’t imagine him taking kindly to…well, me being courted.” she explained, blushing a bit. Tyrion pursed his lips.

“Are those his feelings on the subject or your own?” he asked in reply. “He didn’t start this streak of trying to hog you to himself until you began to worry about his brothers. He didn’t much seem to care to be around you in Meereen, maybe because you didn’t want him around because you were trying to keep the peace and be a queen. I would think it obvious he follows your lead, or at least can pick up on how you’re feeling. Unfortunately a young woman’s feelings and a bloody dragon’s are quite disparate as far as meaning. You can’t exactly breathe fire or eat a sheep whole."

“I can if I’m hungry enough but the wool gets stuck and tickles my throat.” the queen said, smiling slightly. They spent the rest of the voyage trading such jests and when they arrived at Sharp Point Daenerys was in a much better humor.

Duram Bar Emmon was all Tywin Lannister had said he’d be, Tyrion discovered. That is, not very bloody much at all. They discovered that it was the master-at-arms and the maester who truly ruled at Sharp Point, each more eager to flatter the queen than the other. She saw them for what they were immediately, parroting their courtesies back at them neatly. All ceremony, just what she can’t stand, Tyrion knew. The three of them knelt as one, a puppet split between two puppeteers. There’s a pun in there but I’ve not the patience to try and tease it out, Tyrion thought. After collecting their oaths to support her in her bid for the throne Lord Bar Emmon hosted them in his modest hall for a bite of swordfish and politely inquired if Daenerys had brought the dragons with her. She merely stuck to the story Tyrion had concocted- two were hunting and one could not be bothered to follow the ships another foot after the interminable journey from Meereen. Their absence seemed to stem his stuttering if only a bit. He looks too jumpy to face down a mule. A dragon would make him keel over, Tyrion thought. Again the problem of finding the queen a worthy husband sprung up in his mind. When they had gone back to Dragonstone and Drogon predictably curled up around his mother, shrieking all the while, he broached the subject with Missandei. To his shock her soft Naathi manner vanished at once.

“She is not a silver mare for you to grind foals out of. Whether she takes a husband or no is not for us to worry about. You want her to do so to make an alliance as you call it. How conducive to ending slavery was her alliance with the House of Loraq? You would tie her to some noble here who can offer her no lasting benefit, the politics of the world you’ve brought us to are as changing and uncertain as the one we left. The Mother of Dragons woke life from stone, walked through flame while khals burned, drove the harpies from the sky, razed their nests and freed their slaves. What man in this Westeros of yours has something she does not? You say you want to find the proper husband for her. Look the rest of your days in lands known and unknown, he does not walk upon this earth. The full moon has no husband, little lion. No light in the night sky is the equal of she.”

Chapter Text

Bran

She looks so like Mother, Bran thought as he watched the man in in the red jerkin who’d picked Sansa up out of the snow slip her into bed. Her lips had gone blue and her skin was white as bone.

“Is she breathing?” Meera panted. With longer legs and no ennui to recover from she’d made it to his sister first. The man looked at Sansa for a moment before holding his hand in front of her face.

“Not that I can feel.” he said bluntly. The yard below the window was still an uproar of confusion and anxiety, evidently they’d picked the worst possible moment to return to Winterfell. A big maester came into the room next, red-faced from having run clear across the castle. He looked lost for words. “What’s wrong with her?” Bran asked him, trying not to cry to let his nerves get the better of him. I finally make it back and Sansa heads to her deathbed, Bran thought. The maester took Sansa’s hand and cried out in pain as he dropped it, a cold dry burn rising across his own.

“Cold.” he said in a shocked whisper. Even with a blanket over his hand Bran could feel the cold that radiated from Sansa’s body as he tried to find her pulse. With a happy gasp he felt it. A single beat every three minutes. It didn’t go any slower or fade entirely, and Bran felt he was waiting for the world to start spinning again, but it was consistent and unmistakable.

“Got it…” he said shakily, trying to get the maester to corroborate. He looked utterly mystified.

“That’s impossible. Blood won’t travel through the body on a beat every three minutes.”

“Not normally. Does this look normal, jingling man?” Branch’s voice made the maester and man in red turn and give twin yelps of alarm.

“There’s no need for alarm, sers.” Meera said, a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Branch and his kind are here at Prince Brandon’s invitation.”

“Jon Snow’s brother is a cri-” a young woman with honey blonde hair began before screaming aloud at the sight of Branch, who pursed his lips.

“No longer, my lady.” Bran said, standing shakily. From nerves, not weakness, he realized.

“I thought you all were supposed to have direwolves of your own?” she asked, face pale.

“Summer was killed by wights. May I ask your name?” Meera inquired firmly, stepping forward while the maester pulled a blanket up to Sansa’s chin.

“Val, and yours?” the blonde asked in turn, eyes locked on the girl in the bed. Meera introduced herself without pomp as befit a crannogwoman, as befit a Reed. Val bit her lip. “You missed the King in the North by a few days. In fact, there’s a great deal more than that you missed.”

It took her a good few minutes to bring them current on matters that ran apace. While they talked, Branch left to be with his kind.

“Jon’s gone south to treat with a Targaryen?” Bran asked, stomach feeling stormy.

“Aye. Your sister had the right of it though. No need to get pissy about who’s standing next to you when the Others are coming and she’s supposed to have three dragons. No doubt they’ll help up polish the wights off if nothing else.” Val said.

“We meant to stop at Last Hearth to see if Jon was there, but…” Meera blushed.

“I know how fussy you southerners get about marriaging and bastards. Why you get your smallclothes in a twist is beyond me, but I’ll not question the workings of your lot.” Val said, trying to get her breaths out in a measured steady pace. Jon’s King in the North, Bran thought, feeling incredibly excited and terribly anxious both. The only reason the northmen would have gotten close to the wildlings is because Jon must have told them what comes for all of us. “What of you? How did you manage to find the Children of the Forest?” Val asked.

“They found us. They’d been living underground and we were with them a good year or two, if not more.” Bran said.

“Uh, speaking of living underground, Princess Sansa gave orders to burn the crypts out as well as fire all the barrows in the North. Apparently it‘s wasted space as is and can be put to better use elsewise.” The man in red told them, introducing himself as Rylis. Bran could only shrug.

“The babes of the future cannot be sacrificed to please the ghosts of the past.” Meera said, taking his hand in hers. Then Bran remembered what they’d brought with them. Not what, who, he reminded himself.

“Meera…maybe we should ask the Children to get some red vines across one of the crypts. If we had the dragonglass I’d rather use that, but…” Meera nodded, paler by the moment.

“The fuck are you on about?” Rylis asked.

“If you could start putting the yard to order, we have something to show those gathered in the castle. Not just the lords, either.” Bran said firmly. Rylis nodded at once and left immediately. Used to taking orders, Bran surmised. He gave Sansa a last look. Frost had appeared on her lips. With the softest sniffle he left Meera guide him from the room.

It was about an hour before everyone who could be found had squeezed into the yard. Bran had never seen so many people at once, not even when King Robert visited Winterfell two lifetimes ago. No kneeling, he remembered Val impress on him over and over. When not a soul did he wasn’t taken aback. Not like I could bloody kneel until recently anyway, he thought. Meera held her smoky sword point down, the fur wrap at her side containing an altogether different kind of blade. While Jon may have found a king’s voice in his many battles and at the Wall, Bran had spend his years on the run and underground with only Meera and Hodor for company. I do not have a prince’s bearing, he gulped. Meera prompted him with a kiss on the cheek, causing more than a few surprised and raucous calls.

“You all know why Jon went south. Not because he wanted to or because he desires a powerful ally in marriage. Because he had to.” Bran noticed a blonde man about Jon’s age, a little older, sitting at the forefront of the Knights of the Vale. He listened attentively. “Now that you lot have all got used to each other you don’t go weak-kneed at the sight of a wildling or a knight or a giant anymore.”

“Ah, some of us still do.” someone called, drawing some light laughter from the sea of people.

“What I mean is, removing that veil of mystery makes it easier to see what we have in common with each other. I believe removing it from our shared enemy will likewise make them easier to face.”

“Oh, aye. Got one in your pocket, then?” another voice called.

“No, but I have one just outside the walls of Winterfell. We’re going to have a look at him, all of us at once, that way your first time seeing an Other won’t be with one of these in its hand.” he nodded to Meera who wrapped a fur-clad hand around the hilt in the wrap and drew the razor crystal sword. The jesting and idle words died immediately.

“Bring me forge scrap.” Meera said. When a lump of rusted iron was provided she drove the Other’s sword straight through it one-handed, clean as spearing a frog. There was a horrible screeching sound, ice cracking at an impossible shrillness as she pulled the blade out, giving the iron a good kick. It shattered into a thousand pieces of sparkling dust.

“Seven save us,” one of the knights murmured. Bran looked to Branch, who nodded. Several Children dragged a snugly wrapped form into the yard, looped a dozen times in the red vines.

Bran took a breath.

“Get him out.” he said. Branch drew a stone knife and drew it vertically down the bundle, backing off immediately one the task was done. The bundle remained motionless, not a person in the yard breathed. Bran counted the moments in his head. Maybe he’s de- The bundle exploded in a flurry of fur and strips of vine. The people nearest gave out cries of alarm to a man save the blonde knight who only watched with wide eyes. Whether brave or paralyzed with fear Bran could not say. Meera had taken off the leg at knee and arm at elbow both of his left side when she captured him, so when the Other stood his left leg ended in a cruel sharp ice spike, almost like a pirate’s peg leg from all the stories. His elbow was much the same, the missing hand replaced with a curved icy sickle. The legendary blue eyes that shone like stars ran over the crowd in disinterest. Bran saw the fear on their faces. It isn’t everything you think it would be that makes them scary, it’s the little things. The things that are inexpressibly inhuman. His face was uncolored by emotion, his body lithe and sleek like a runner’s. The hand that remained was slender, the fingers nimble and delicate, gripping a strip of fur to hide his pelvis. He had no hair on his head, evidently he hadn’t recovered from Meera’s dragonglass touch- in fact, the image of the arrowhead she’d used was burned into the flesh of his temple, smoking ever so slightly. As cold as it became when the Other showed himself, it wasn’t enough to keep him at full vigor and whatever sustenance the Others required was obviously being denied him. His eyes were sunken and his thin frame showed the ribs beneath the skin.

“They can run faster than a fleeing horse, throw a big man thirty feet, shatter steel with a touch and send our own dead after us, for a start...” Meera said, her voice the only sound. The Other turned to look at her at once. “…but they are not invincible.” She had dropped the razor crystal sword and drawn her bow, a shaft tipped with dragonglass pointed at the Other’s unarmored chest. The Children had followed suit, some with spears tipped of the stuff, others with little bows of their own. “If he moves, kill him.” she said clearly before stepping forward, arrow nocked. She kept walking toward him until there wasn’t ten feet between them. Bran could see the frost form in her hair, her breath come in white clouds. Slowly, deliberately, she touched the arrow to the Other’s chest. Instantly there was an unholy hissing and the flesh began to bubble, began to boil. The creature threw back his head and let out a shrill high shriek that caused the new greenhouse’s panes to shatter clear on the other side of the castle. It collapsed backward, writhing as its improvised limbs melted away. If he’s hurt too bad he can’t keep normal ice attached, Bran saw. Or at least, if he’s hurt with dragonglass. The Other finally stopped screeching, taking long pained breaths, the place where Meera had poked him slowly congealing into an ugly black wound oozing smoky droplets in the nearly translucent skin. His mouth moved and there was the sound of ice cracking on a lake. He’s talking, Bran realized. The Other rolled over onto its side, perfect frozen drops falling from its squeezed-shut eyes.

As he rolled again, this time onto his back it was clear he was in a daze. Or wants us to think so, Bran suspected. The fur had fallen away and any question of him being a he was answered. Meera straightened up.

“Dragonglass kills them. More than that, dragonglass hurts them. Badly. Worse perhaps than any person can do to another. We don’t know why, we don’t care why, but if the King in the North has gone to get us more of it, that can only be good.” she concluded.

“Take him to the crypts. An empty one, make sure he can’t get out.” Bran told Branch. The Child nodded and he helped his fellows drag the Other, still twitching, off underground.

“Any questions?” Meera asked.

“Gods be good…” the blond knight spoke finally, exhaling slowly. “Quite a performance. Did you come upon those green child-people after they’d lamed it?” he asked her.

“I did the laming.” she replied, more than a few heads turning in surprise to look at her with new interest. She turned and strode back to Bran’s side, who slid an arm around her waist. “This is Meera Reed, daughter of Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch. She took me beyond the Wall to find the Children of the Forest and lost her brother Jojen, her father‘s only son on the way. Then she brought me back and helped me get my legs back,” he introduced her, “and once we marry, Princess Meera Stark.” The murmurs and quiet whispers were not what Bran expected. No doubt the northmen think of crannogmen as little hidey people with green hide and moss for hair, Bran thought, not keen-eyed beauties with skin like snow and hair like night. They certainly didn’t sound disdainful.

“You say you’ve got a pa? And countrymen besides?” one of the mountain clansmen asked her.

“Yes.” Meera replied simply.

“Well, why in balls are they not among us?” he asked with his palms to his cheeks.

“The raven will leave presently.” Bran said turning to the big maester, who needed two healthy prods and a horn of ale to get moving, dumbstruck as he was. “That is all, my lords. Carry on.” Bran said, he and Meera headed back to Sansa’s bedchamber through the crowd, hastily parting for them. More her than me, Bran thought. To my happiness, my delight.

“I think I’m going to have to go in and get her. I don’t think she’ll be able to come out on her own.” Bran said after an hour had passed with no change in Sansa’s state. Meera’s eyes went wide and the color rose in her cheeks.

“I’ll be here to pull you out then, in case you go too deep.” No objections, no fear, Bran wondered at the girl the gods had so burdened with him. He took her hand and kissed it.

“I love you, Meera. Just in case.” he said, feeling Bran the Boy all over again.

“I love you too, Brandon.” Her hands found his face and her lips met his. “Just in case.” she said, the color in her cheeks rosier by the moment. With that he warged. Not into Summer or a tree, but into Sansa. Instantly the world became an icy whirlwind, a howling storm of sleet that made it impossible to divine even where he was, let alone Sansa’s whereabouts. He could feel an arm around his waist even then. Meera, he knew. Making sure I don’t float off. He took a few steps into the wind, body going numb immediately, but as it wasn’t real flesh Bran wasn’t worried. He kept pushing, pushing, trying to get through the storm, and found himself falling quite out of it and sinking to his knees in foul river water. Dead men waded to and fro, blindly staggering away from the storm that centered near him. Stupid sleet. I want to see Sansa, not more stupid wights, Bran protested. Only when he peered into the tempest from outside it did he see a figure within, a white fur mantle hiding whatever it could have been. Sansa hasn’t got anything like that… Bran thought. The figure walked across the water with ease, the corpse-choked run freezing as the figure moved across it. He followed clumsily, trying not to slip off the narrow icy path and tumble off into the clutches of the dead that massed in the water to either side. Finally under a rotting tree trunk that had collapsed into the river, the figure stopped. Bran caught long white hair flowing from under the hood of the mantle, hair so white it hurt to look at. The figure stooped, the tempest broke, and Bran could see an Other’s dainty hand emerge from the mantle, reaching for something under the log. Something wanted to make him run at it, push it into the water, but the tiniest voice in his head held him back. Ice is patient, ice can wait, it said. His heart hammering, Bran crept closer. If she sees me… he had no doubt the Other was female. The hand he saw was not used to the sword as the one in the waking world’s had been, and its movement was slow and fluid not quick and sharp. What does an Other need with a mantle? he thought to himself, feeling stupid. I’m missing something. He got so close he felt she must know he was there, standing right behind her, but so intent was she on the river that either she could perceive nothing else or he wasn’t worth her time. Or both, Bran realized. He tore his eyes from her, looked into the green water, and laid his eyes on the naked corpse of the woman who had been his mother. There was a sound of crackling ice and in this world of half-past half-future, he understood just fine.

“Awake.” In the water Catelyn Stark’s eyes shot open.

He gripped the she-Other by the shoulder and pulled away the mantle as the water under the log churned with movement. Rather than the face he expected to see he saw red Tully hair and blue Tully eyes and he was on the floor of Sansa’s bedroom, the world spinning as Meera held his head in her lap.

“Bran!” she cried out, hand to his cheek as he waited for her face above his to stop spinning like a potter’s wheel.

“Did I pull her out?” he asked, sounding drunk as a lord. Movement from the bed tore Meera’s eyes from him and slurred speech was interrupted by a thud and a cry of pain as the bed’s occupant fell out. Bran finally got his head screwed on straight and crawled on hands and knees around the foot of the bed to find Sansa throwing up with gusto. Cold clear water came out in gushes and Bran kept her hair out of her face and held her shoulders until it stopped. She jerked out of his grip with an energy he wasn’t ready for, making funny guttural sounds before she seemed to remember how to breathe, filling her lungs with a deep greedy inhale. Meera came around the bed next, easing Sansa into a sitting position while her blue eyes groggily rolled in their sockets.

“Ogg…” she gurbled unhelpfully.

“Princess Sansa. Princess Sansa.” Meera repeated her name until a glint of recognition sparked in his sister’s Tully eyes, the ones he’d seen when he pulled away the mantle. They locked on Bran and widened, a clammy hand reaching for him. He took it immediately.

“It’s me, Sansa. Bran. And this is Meera, your sister-to-be.” She woozily took Meera’s measure, thought Bran doubted she saw more than a dark blur. Bran turned to Meera. “Let’s get her in a hot bath. Maybe if we drive out the cold it will help bring her out of it.” he said. She took off on her lovely legs while Bran cradled Sansa. “It’s alright, Sansa.” he whispered in her ear, her head on his shoulder. “I’m home now.”

Chapter Text

Arya

Someone was poking her.

“D’you think she’s dead?” someone asked, a man with a lowborn affect.

“Who knows? She screamed like she was getting gutted herself when she faceplanted into the floor.” Another man answered, and then she was moving, in someone’s arms before they set her in a bed. Her limbs felt like bags of bricks and her eyes wouldn’t open but Arya could feel them poking her with something like a flat rock. Finally she got out a slurring grunt, gargling noisily. I’m alive, she tried to say. Stop with the poking.

“Gods, still kicking.” The second man said, the sound of him backing away quickly a dead giveaway. She could hear another man in the room, hear his breathing, but he hadn’t yet spoken.

“Maybe one killed the other.” The second man said.

“What?” the first asked. She opened her eyes and it felt like she was working a gatewheel on her own.

“Careful, she’s waking up….” the first man warned. When the blurriness cleared, Arya could see a sellsword on her left, a handsome green-eyed man on her right and someone on the other end of the room, too far for her to see. The green eyes sparked her memory. Jaime Lannister. Her left hand twitched. I lost Needle, she realized. Lannister shrugged.

“You missed.” he said simply. “Got the bricks instead of me.” He held something up, she had to squint to see. Needle had snapped in half at the hilt and that was all the man was holding. Jon gave me that sword. Her eyes began to water. “Although, whether you wanted to stick me or miss is either of you’s guess.” he said. The sellsword gave him a confused look. “I think I have this under control, Ser Bronn-”

“My hairy ass you do, Kingslayer-”

“-if she kills me you can be off, you’ve nothing to lose here.”

“I don’t know about that. We’ve still got pressing business, remember?” he looked at Arya. “Don’t kill him yet. I mean it. There’s something important he needs to do. Then run him through.” he said before stepping out with the third man.

The Kingslayer pulled up a chair and sat at her bedside while Arya tried to get feeling back into her body.

“Whatever went on in there, I suspect the half less keen on doing me in won.” he said, looking at her with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. “Ned Stark’s younger daughter looked like him. You look nothing like a Stark. Or do you and she just share a list of grievances with House Lannister and I’ve confused you terribly?” he asked. “Not exactly unlikely, unfortunately. We’ve rather mucked the riverlands up.” Her fingers twitched and all of a sudden the face was so hot, the underside of it so prickly. Her arm shot up and tore it away, making Lannister calmly vomit into a bucket. “Please don’t ever do that again.” he said weakly, the golden façade gone. All Arya saw was a tired aging man in armor he had no business wearing.

“You look like shit.” she told him.

“Feel it, too. At least you look a Stark now.” he replied. She expected No One to force her to fly at him, strangle him as he gasped for breath, bury Needle in his throat. Needle’s gone, she remembered. The only voice she could hear in her head was her own. So is she, she slowly concluded. It’s just me in here. It took her a bit to get the strength to sit up.

“Feel it, too.” she said, smiling a bit, tears trickling from her grey Stark eyes. He snorted in amusement in turn.

“Were you headed for King’s Landing?” he asked quietly. She didn’t answer, but that seemed to be a confirmation all its own.

“Look. I don’t know where you went off to, where you’ve been since the day your father was arrested.” he said slowly. “But killing Cersei, or anyone else, isn’t going to bring him back. Take it from someone who’s been killing people for years. I’ve not yet seen hide nor hair of my lady mother.” Arya gulped, trying not to start crying. “Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like. What Cersei’s children would have been like, if they knew. Myrcella told me right before she died that in a way she’d always known. If I was to be murdered, would Myrcella hound my killers to the edges of the map and past them, let the chase become her world?” he looked to her. “Lord Eddard was lucky to have a daughter so dutiful, so devoted. If misguided.” she sniffled. “Lady Stark, you may not think it but you’re a child. You haven’t so much as sniffed life yet. You were a child when your father was murdered and since then nothing has mattered but the chase, and when your prey was downed I’ll wager your nattering shadow came up with another and another until you were more her than Arya Stark. Fear of death fades quickly when you’re afraid of part of yourself.” Her eyes narrowed.

“You speak as if you know me, Kingslayer.” she said finally.

“I know myself. I was sixteen when I killed Aerys and that’s been all that’s ever mattered since. Until someone took away what made the Kingslayer, the golden lion’s golden claw.” he held up his right arm and pulled a leather strap, the hand falling to the floor with a metallic clunk. “There is no more Kingslayer, Arya Stark. It’s just me now, trying to make sure a few people around me see the next sunrise in this mad fucking world. I don’t rightly think I’ll amount to much as Jaime Lannister, Handless Cunt, but it beats the alternative.” he stooped and fetched his metal hand. No more No One, Arya thought. No more Ghost of Harrenhal.

“Are you going to do anything? About me?” she asked.

“What’s there to do? I’ll not go back to Cersei for a new hand, let alone to give her some runt of a girl I can’t be certain is Arya Stark.” he smirked, a ghost of the man he’d been at the welcoming feast Father held for King Robert.

“Are you going to do anything? About me?” he asked. “No. I don’t want to do anything about anybody now.” she replied.

Lannister let her rest. Paranoid as she was she still found sleep soon enough, even had a few glimpses of the world through Nymeria’s eyes, waiting patiently in the woods outside Harrenhal. I’ll be back soon, girl. Her thoughts echoed in the direwolf’s mind. Nymeria whined as her mistress left her. She saw flooding towers and a bridge sinking into the Green Fork. The water had a woman’s face and the full moon had one, too. Then everything became green fire and she saw a snorting creature, a bull, trapped in a ring of emerald flame. He grazed placid as could be, ignorant of the death that ringed him in. Arya cried out in dismay then a sharp pain shot up her side and she woke clutching her hip. I still have the ruby. I still have my reason, she remembered. No One wanted to go to King’s Landing and kill Cersei. I wanted…I want to go to Dragonstone and give Daenerys this. Then she remembered the bull.

“He’s in trouble and he doesn’t even know it. I have to go get him first.” she said. The ruby twinkled in her hand. “You waited twenty years at the bottom of the Fork, you can wait a few weeks more.” With that she got up and made for the door. As her hand laid on the wood she remembered what was in the room with her. She turned slowly, watching Needle’s pieces glint invitingly from the dresser. Gendry would fix it for me, she knew. Then I could kill Cersei and it would be done. She walked to the dresser and carefully picked up the shards of blade, the little hilt. Instead of carrying them out with her though, she simply slipped them one by one into the crackling hearth. “I am Arya Stark of Winterfell.” she said. “I am going to my family.” She left the room feeling clean, feeling free of all that had plagued her since the day Eddard Stark had died. Sansa was right, Arya realized in the corridor. Being a lady is better than being No One. She found them sitting at a table sharing a small cask.

“Who are you?” the sellsword, Bronn, asked rudely. It took Arya a moment to realize that he’d not seen her true face before. Before she could think of a good lie, she found herself blurt it out.

“Arya Stark.” she said simply. The third man looked up from the cask and she found herself staring into the face of Ilyn Payne, the man who’d struck Lord Eddard’s head from his shoulders. She’d expected to feel hate, revulsion, disgust. Instead she felt nothing.

Evidently Lannister had expected a somewhat more spirited reaction to Payne’s presence but she just sat down across from his empty chair.

“I have to go to King’s Landing.” she said, looking in her lap.

“Why can’t anybody stay the f-” “Lannister interrupted him.

“I thought you said-"

“This isn’t about that. There’s someone…I…I don’t know if he’ll be there but it’s where he’s from and if he’s alive, he’ll be there.” she explained. Lannister wasn’t impressed.

“I swore to Lady Catelyn to keep you safe and bring you home.”

“Lady Catelyn is dead and Winterfell is lost to me. I can go home myself. Once I’ve got him I promise, I will meet you on Dragonstone.” she pulled out Rhaegar’s ruby. “I have something for the dragon queen. Or if you’d rather go together, just wait for me at say, Duskendale. Give me a week.” Payne coughed. “Or two. I will come, Ser. My father kept his word and so do I.” she told Lannister. The man sighed deeply.

“I hope you do. The last Stark would go a long way towards convincing Daenerys not to kill me on sight. Particularly because…” he exchanged a glance with Bronn. “Look. Do what you have to but do not linger in King’s Landing. Nobody who wants to live seeks that place out. Get your friend or whoever he is and get away from the capital.” His words reminded her of the ones she’d given Tylon. It sounds like there’s more to it than just bad memories, Arya thought.

“Is it bad?” she asked. “Whatever it is?” Lannister waited a moment before nodding.

“Lady Arya, think keenly on your next move. He’d better fucking be worth it.” he told her. She tried to picture Gendry Waters in her mind. Black hair, blue eyes, strong jaw, blacksmith’s arm, stubborn as a mule, she knew it all by heart. A list that made her breathing quicken rather than slow, her heart flutter rather than freeze.

“When you see him, you’ll know.” she said.

She went to find Hot Pie after.

“I have to go. Only for a little while, though.” she said. His face went from sadness to disbelief.

“You disappear often, Arry. Never for just a little while.” he told her.

“I have to get Gendry. We’ll meet you in Duskendale, it’s a little ways from here. Tell Jaime Lannister I told you to go with him.” Hot Pie’s eyes widened.

“I can’t just talk to-”

“Once, no. These days anyone can talk to anyone else. I’m a lady, remember? You’re talking to me just fine.” she kissed his cheek and he actually gasped, hand to the spot.

“Have you gone ill?” he asked.

“No. I was ill, but I think I’ve finally shaken it. Bake Gendry a loaf of bread shaped like a bull, hm?” Mutely Hot Pie nodded and she hugged him before walking out the gate of Harrenhal. Arya Stark disappeared years ago surrounded by Lannister swords. Nobody will see me and think I’m anyone but a country girl. Unless they see Nymeria of course. “Ah, let them look. I’m not going to hide anymore, not behind lies or faces.” she said to herself, feeling wonderfully careless. The Kingsroad was again void of travelers and Arya found plenty of places to sleep. She and the pack bedded down in ruined barns, stables, even a hut with no owner. The closer she got to the capital the more excited she got and only when she was a day away did she turn to Nymeria. “I need you to go now, girl. Don’t look at me like that. This isn’t like before. I want you and the others to be safe, even your ugly killers. Go toward the rising sun until you hit water, then north slow until you find a castle. Lay low and keep out of sight, I’ll be there soon.” she said earnestly. Nymeria gave her a long glance, licked her hand and bounded off. Her pack followed. Arya turned south and began to run. A new sort of hunger began to grow in the pit of her stomach, a mounting excitement that kept tiredness from her muscles and her eyes until she found herself sleeping in trees to not waste time looking for a ruined buildings. The reek of the Landing, of open sewers and unburied corpses hit her nose. I never thought I’d be so excited to be back, she thought. No, not excited. No One would have been over Cersei. I feel happy.

Coming up to the Dragon Gate Arya could see that getting into the city was a deal easier than getting out. The road beneath the gate had been trod by countless people and animals lately and Arya guessed the other gates looked much the same. Everyone has left, Arya realized. The place stank worse than ever but the streets were wide and empty save for the occasional fatted rat or wild dog. The Street of Steel is on the other side, on Visenya’s Hill, she remembered. What gold cloaks patrolled looked like common thugs in yellow capes. Cersei has worse men chasing the criminals than the criminals themselves, Arya saw. She stuck to the side streets, going up buildings and across rooftops when she had to, arriving halfway up the Street of Steel with a frown. He’s talented enough to be at the top, but would anyone take him on? She wondered. She checked a half dozen forges, seeing all manner of spectacularly built lads banging metal or polishing finished pieces but none of them could have prayed to pass for Gendry Waters. Come on, you stupid, you’re here. I know you’re here, she thought. She decided to go up rather than down, slipping in and out of shops with a half dozen brutish guards on duty in each. Far off cries to the Seven and the end of golden tyranny made Arya swallow uncertainly. Lannister spoke true, she thought. I best find Gendry and get gone before something bad happens. The higher she went on the Street of Steel the more nervous she got. She could sneak past any number of hired brutes but their very presence seemed to advertise that the city was a wrong word away from a riot that would blow it apart. Finally she found herself at the top of the hill, facing the entrance to a particularly fine shop. She heard several voices laughing and jesting, clearing away as the workday came to an end.

“What do we think, lads? A tavern tonight? Or a trip to Chataya’s, let’s see if we can’t get Strong and Silent to finally take up with a girl.” He’s already got one, Arya thought, running through the shop on silent feet.

Their backs were to her when she saw them but he was absolutely unmistakable. He was a foot taller than any of his friends and his thick black hair had been all she could think about for days. She sat on a barrel and waited, waited. I’m not ten feet from him. I was in Braavos and now I’m here.

“Gendry, how are you going to make one of those girls from the Street of Silk an honest woman if you never leave Mott’s?” asked a lad with brown hair and the beginnings of a beard.

“I look like the kind of man wants silk on me?” Gendry replied, making the others laugh. “Trust me, lads, it’s best for me if I don’t have a family.” Arya’s heart broke and she could stay silent no more.

“I can be your family.” she said. The others looked to her in surprise. The brown-haired boy was about to yell for the guards when he saw Gendry stiffen. “You wouldn’t have to smith, not for anyone but you. I haven’t got a family left you need impress.” she told him. Slowly Gendry Waters turned, storm-blue eyes wide in shock. He stared at her with his jaw hanging open. She sniffled. “You stupid. This is the part where the boy does something, I don’t know what to do-”

“-I do.” he interrupted, striding right for her. She leapt off the barrel at him, her lithe weight nothing in the biggest arms she’d ever seen. She kissed every inch of his stupid stubborn bastard face she could reach, a hand around his waist and one clutching his shoulder. But for him kissing her back Arya Stark could have been showering affection on a granite statue. His friends stared in amazement as the pair continued, one of them coughing to announce their continued presence. With a last kiss on the lips that left Arya breathless and blushing like a maiden in a storybook Gendry looked into her eyes. “I knew you’d come back. Nobody in the world is stubborn as you.” he said, forehead to hers.

“You are.” she accused him. “Stubborn as me and stubborner. And stupider. Now kiss me again or I’ll beat you up.”

“As milady commands.” he answered, obeying her to the letter.

Chapter Text

Daenerys

The day after returning from the mainland the weather behaved meek and mild as a contrite child. You’d swear it were like this all the time, Dany thought with a humorless smile. Anyone who landed with me knows better.

“I think I’ll visit the Dosh Khaleen today.” she told Missandei as the Naathi girl fixed up her braid.

“The wind hasn’t had the chance to get at your hair, Your Grace. It would seem an optimal time, before your splendid braid becomes a sparrow’s nest.” Missandei replied. Dany giggled with a hand to her lips.

“Somehow I doubt they’ll be in much of a judging mood. Half of them are still trying to stop the ground from shifting it seems. Sometimes I…I forget how little they know of the world outside Vaes Dothrak. They are wise women all, I would show them more than the insides of horsehide tents. Perhaps all the mysteries of the world can be unwoven by such women, if they weren’t hidden away behind countless arakhs.”  Missandei tried hard not to smile in turn.

“To be true, one could say the same of you Your Grace- that is, if only Drogon would stop trying to hide you away as if you were his hatchling.” She walked Dany down to the small stone yard where the Dosh Khaleen had the Dothraki set up their big tent. The night they’d arrived, if her riders told it true, the storm within the tent rivaled the one without as the old women raged at each other over whether it were proper for them to spend a night under a “hood of stone”. Their usual horsehide tent was viewed as permissible, even pleasing to the Great Stallion but it seemed the more conservative among the crones quite took issue with staying in Dragonstone. They’d worked out that the yard got them out of the wind and driving rain but there was no “hood of stone” and that but for their tent the stars could still see them. The old ones grumbled even then but their objection had been rectified by majority measure. The tent itself had dried due in part to the fire that burned in the little stone pit in the middle and Dany found the stifling heat more than welcome.

“Khaleesi.” Ornela, a Khaleen of Lhazareen origin, came them came to her at once. Daenerys took her hand and let her lead her to the circle around the flames. That was me, once. A tiny flame flickering among these widows, Dany remembered.

The eldest of the crones had to be stirred from sleep. The milky-eyed old woman had become a Khaleen before the next oldest of their number was even born, if the Dothraki told it right. Daenerys sat down next to her and pulled a blanket snugly around the old one’s shoulders. As no Khal ever would, Dany thought.

“Are you unwell?” she asked in the woman’s tongue. It was a long moment before she got an answer.

“Not unwell, Khaleesi.” her sunken mouth split in a toothless smile. “There is nothing unwell about dying so old.” Her worlds startled Daenerys.

“You are not going to die. You are safe with me in the halls the dragons built.” she said firmly, taking the crone’s wizened hand.

“Even the Mother of Dragons cannot stop death. I am nine tens and two years old. I dream of things that happened before your grandsire was born, I remember things that happened many moons ago better than I remember this morning. I can hear the Ifequevron talking in their song-tongue, hear the laughter of my sons and daughters before they grew, before others took them from me.” she said.

“My son never had a chance to grow.” Dany said, looking in her lap.

“I remember, Khaleesi. I saw that your son would be the Stallion Who Mounts the World.” the crone replied.

“Rhaego is gone these long years, gone after Drogo into the Night Lands.”

“Rhaego and your son do not have to mean the same man. A woman may have many sons, but they do not share a name.” Dany was surprised.

“The maegi-”

“The maegi’s words mean nothing here. You will hear them too, Khaleesi. The woods-walkers were not fat witches or shrieking fools in red poking their fingers into what they ought not like a child into a blood pie. Womb-curses and a fire demon’s slaves mean little here, I think. When I see Rhaego, I will tell him of the Moon that is Mother to the World. You will have to tell your son yourself.” said the crone. Daenerys could hear the excited voices of several young Dothraki sharply hushed by the man escorting them. Ornela moved to the tent entrance to hear his words. Dany watched her come over with an odd expression on her face.

“Iggo says the young ones have found something in the rocks, Khaleesi.”

Daenerys had a somewhat complicated relationship with the Dothraki children. Some saw her as a god made flesh, others the greatest Khal to ever ride, for what horse in history could match Drogon? Still others, she suspected, followed the black dragon more than she. The Dothraki follow strength, she remembered. Without Drogon and his brothers, I’m just the girl Viserys sold to a barbarian for a chance at Father’s throne. Most of the Dothraki though, after seeing that seawater was just that, seemed to be in a curiously open mood and in no rush to rail against the leadership of Daenerys Targaryen. Dothraki women and children of both sexes roamed the beaches of Dragonstone, keeping within the castle’s shadow to give the port town room, and children were digging holes in the sand or building what looked like Meereen’s Great Pyramid made small, or else little sand Dragonstones. At times like these, when she was with her people, there was no place in her life for Drogon. The dragon whined whenever she left the confines of the castle and snapped at the air whenever she slid out from between his coils or out from under his wing. His mood grew blacker by the day and with it his possessiveness of his mother. He would allow no man near and Missandei had too much sense to go poking a hand into the coils he became to try and pull Dany out. Only with soothing words in Valyrian could Dany coax Drogon into yielding her up when she tired of his games and still then she had to get gone quickly or else she’d find herself yet again underwing. He’d taken up on the high cliffs just outside the castle, dropping straight off to the beaches two hundred feet below. Daenerys had been excited as a child on her nameday at the sight. How many Targaryens took off from these cliffs? How many times had Aegon gone up on Balerion? Did he take off from here with Rhaenys and Visenya when they flew forth to conquer the kingdoms of the Andals and the First Men? Not that they’ll see much use now, Drogon will not even take me up anymore, Daenerys thought sadly. Whenever I get near he tries to squirrel me away as if I’m a nut he’s storing for winter.

The gaggle of children grew as the ones on the beach forgot their little sand buildings, rushing over to gather around her. Daenerys had a small girl no older than two in her arms, letting who looked like the babe’s elder sister lead her flush to the rocks, curving off away from where the noncombatants of the khalasar spent most of their time. Suddenly Dany felt a cool chill from the rocks and the girl in her arms began to cry. She was handed promptly back to her mother while the elder sister pointed out a space in the rock face. Daenerys got closer, seeing that the passage in the rocks was situated so that only one who knew it was there or was deliberately mucking about around the space as the children playing were would come across it. The path led it seemed straight into the stone, uneven and cramped instead of wide and spacious as the Valyrians had built the castle above. Finally she came upon a cave mouth. Inside was pitch dark. The sun could pass overhead a hundred times and never see it, Dany thought. She fancied herself brave, but heading into a cave with nobody protecting her or even a torch felt more like foolishness to Daenerys, so she waited for a few Unsullied to join her. To her surprise, Ornela was with them.

“The old ones sent me forth, Khaleesi. They are too frail to move and their eyes would not see well even if they could.” she explained. “They argued whether it was for a Khaleen to leave the circle ever, but it came to pass that the Dosh Khaleen would see what it is the young ones have found for you.” she said. Tyrion had to be pulled away from half-finished letters to the lords of the mainland. Quite literally Dany saw, for Iggo returned with Tyrion Lannister in one of his strong arms. Ornela giggled.

“I take it we’ve received no response?” she asked him. He straightened up and cleared his throat.

“The ravens might not have got through-”

"They got through. The lords’ silence tells me all I need to know, no need to send more courtly words after them.” Daenerys said coolly as Tyrion soothed his bruised ego before seeing the cave mouth.

“What’s in there?” he asked.

“I’ve no idea. I thought you’d like to be with me when I go in, as you shared my…appreciation for the relic Lord Velaryon showed us.” she said. she said. At her command Iggo lit several torches and gave one each to Daenerys, Ornela, Tyrion and kept one himself. The Unsullied moved into hexagon formation around Dany and they went in.

“The Valyrians never did things so…”

“Primitively?” Dany finished for Tyrion as they walked, further and further until Daenerys fancied she was nearly directly under the castle. “House Targaryen did not hold the island for all of its existence, perhaps we’ll find something left of those who lived on Dragonstone before it became Dragonstone.” Dany replied. Only when she stubbed her toe on an outcropping and bit her lip to keep from swearing did Dany look away from the darkness ahead and to the walls the torches brought light to for the first time in who knew when. Ornela gasped and Iggo muttered in Dothraki as Dany got closer. Crudely made images showed animals of all kinds. Bears, wolves, even hairy elephants. As they went, Dany could see the emergence of little green figures and towering brown ones. Ornela pointed at the green figures excitedly.

“Ifequevron, Khaleesi! Look!” she cried. They were joined in turn by red figures of middling height. Men, perhaps. The First Men, Daenerys thought. The three races seemed to coexist without much trouble in the drawings on the wall. Unexpectedly the cave opened into a much larger chamber, this one oddly glittery until Daenerys saw the lodes of glassy material jutting from the ground, the walls, the ceiling. Much of it was black, but some was red or green, even purple.

“Oh, look. Perhaps some jewelry can be made of this.” Daenerys said, laying a hand on one of the purple veins. It took her a moment to realize her companions had gone quiet.

“Daenerys.” Tyrion said, her name echoing around the glittering room. She looked up in surprise, and saw what they saw. All around the room, the three races were fighting what looked like a seething sea of black figures of all sizes. One passage Dany saw had a man dying and rising again as one of the unceasing tide. At the far side of the chamber Dany saw a glint of white. The moon, she thought. Instead she saw a fourth race driving the sea of walking dead along. White slivers dotted the monsoon of dead, sometimes accompanied by white balls with eight lines coming out of their sides. Only when the weapons of the three races became tipped with glittering black dots did they drive the white creatures back. The final battle occurred on a vast plain somewhere under a full moon and a star that Dany realized was a diamond shoved high in the cave wall.

“They couldn’t kill them all.” she saw. The white shapes suffered casualties, but few, only leaving when their losses ceased to be worth the effort. “Just drove them away.” She looked to Tyrion for an explanation. He only shrugged.

“Unless I’m very wrong, this is the Long Night. The Others, some kind of monsters from the furthest north, came down into mainland Westeros and laid utter waste to the place. As the account goes, the First Men, giants, and Children of the Forest were sore pressed to push them back, back to where they could no longer pursue. The Wall must have gone up after the mural-makers had quit this island.” he said shakily.

“Ghost grass, with stalks like milk that glow in the night and kill all else that lives.” Dany said in a small voice. Tyrion looked at her uncertainly. “The Dothraki believe that it will one day cover all, and that is how the world will end.”

The murals would not fade no matter how many times Dany blinked.

“Why have I never heard of this?” she asked. Tyrion could only shrug.

“I doubt nine-and-ninety of a hundred living people could tell us as much as these cave-painters could, and them dead ten thousand years. All this happened long before the Andals came with knights and the Seven and ironworking. There are such legends in the east as well, Your Grace. The Bloodstone Emperor. The Rhoynar tell of a time when the river dried up. All of them occur during a common period of darkness when the sun was gone from the sky for years. Perhaps they were…interconnected. Perhaps not. Maybe the darkness was just a boon the Others took advantage of. Certainly the Essosi never speak of them in their histories, never speak of winters that lasted generations. At any rate, the darkness receded and with it went the monsters. The Bloodstone Emperor was overthrown and the black starstone he worshipped thrown into the sea. The Rhoyne flows fast and strong as ever. And the Others it seems were turned back when the poor bastards facing them figured out to use…this.” he laid a hand on a black vein and swore loudly. Dany heard blood dripping. “Fucking sharp!” he hissed.

"Khaleesi, we should put a rock in front of this place and forget it. This is a place of evil.” Iggo said, face pale and hands twitching.

“Not evil, blood-of-my-blood. This is a warning.” Daenerys replied. “Evidently the people who made this place thought another Long Night was possible, hence why they left plenty of this glass behind. To arm whoever fought these Others next.”

“The Wall is seven hundred feet high and runs the breadth of Westeros, Your Grace.” Tyrion said.

“Walls are not proof against all that comes. You told Roose Bolton as much in your letter.” she reminded him. “If I had ten thousand years to ready for the next…darkness, I think I’d find away around, over, or through a wall, no matter the length or height." She bid them follow her and left the chamber after a last look at the last mural. The full moon gave light enough to see without need for the sun, she saw, and the mysterious star glinted like the jewel in a crown.

When she made it back up to the castle that evening she let Missandei pull off her leathers and unbraid her hair. Daenerys waited until she was up to her shoulders in a hot bath before she took the Naathi girl’s hand.

“Are their stories of…darkness on Naath?” she asked. The island was much closer to Sothoryos than Essos, and Dany wanted to hear of a place that had never fallen to such terror. Missandei poured a bit of lavender scent in and Dany sunk further, up to her chin.

“Why do you ask this?” she inquired finally. Daenerys was surprised by her answer.

“Below the castle, we found a cave that…that detailed the coming of a race from the north. They had to be driven back before the sun would rise again.” she said, feeling foolish and a frightened child both. Missandei pursed her lips.

“It is not for me to speak ill of the ancestors of your people, Your Grace.”

“Please do.” Dany said, squeezing her hand. “Tell me what you are thinking, Missandei.” The Naathi looked uncomfortable in a way Dany had never seen her.

“People fear what is unknown to them. The Dothraki feared the poison water until they realized it was merely a little salty. Their horses could not drink it, but fish live in the sea, no? They came to understand it, even in that minute context. When a thing ceases to be unknown, people lose their fear of it.” she said, making Dany’s head spin.

“What does that mean?” she asked, feeling stupid.

“On Naath, we say that life takes many forms. There are butterflies of all kinds, sizes, colors, but when the sun goes down moths emerge. We see them little and know less of them, but that doesn’t mean we’re afraid of them. Look at your dragons. How did such creatures come to be? The workings of a god? A bloodmage? Or do dragons predate the gods? They are alive as we are, and that is all that concerns the Peaceful People. Naathi do not chase crowns or thrones or build empires or strike down tyrants. Naathi see the wonder, the magic that is life itself, and are content.” she finished, picking up the shell comb and moving to Daenerys’ hair.

Chapter Text

Catelyn

When she regained her senses, she was lying at the bottom of a river. Immediately she began to thrash about, her limbs numb and clumsy, but when a few moments passed and she neither drowned nor tired, Catelyn’s movements slowed and the fish swimming past drew close again, unmindful of her. Robb was her first thought, enough to make her cry out again- only for mud to issue from her opened throat. I’m naked, she realized, looking down. Her flesh was pallid and the color of curdled milk, and only stiffly responded when she tried to move. My own body feels like a glove that’s too big, she thought. It was some time before she got to her feet, the current dragging her along until she worked out how to use it to hold her up rather than toss her about. There was no steep wall to cling to, Catelyn saw. The river was less cup, more plate. Come on, she told herself. You’ll not get anything done at the bottom of a river. She tried to walk up the incline to dry land but the current was too strong and she ended up having to drag herself on her elbows out of the depths and then the shallows. When her head broke the surface her first glimpse world was filled with silver. The moon, she thought, flopping onto her back. She expected to be exhausted. She expected to be gasping for breath. Contrary to her expectations, she felt as though she’d done nothing at all, and with a bit of a shock she realized she was far beyond the need for breath. She sat up, sodden and filthy, throat still oozing muck. Catelyn tried to cry out for Robb, then for Ned, and only felt the issuing of river silt from her lips. It was like suffocating, only there was no pain and it didn’t impede her in the least. Onto her hands and knees she went, trying to force the mud out. She felt a steady lightening sensation as her stomach emptied, throwing her head back and forcing air down a throat denied it for Seven only knew how long and into lungs that no longer needed it. Trying to speak, to cry out was very difficult, like blowing into a trumpet with holes poked all down the sides. Gingerly she held a clammy hand to her throat, to close the hole and keep the air, the voice long enough to sound aloud.

“Robb.” she rasped out, sounding like a leper gasping her last. The light of the moon made it easy to see, so Catelyn crawled to the cover of the trees on the river’s bank to get out of sight. The Green Fork, she knew the river on sight. I’m still in the Riverlands. South of the Twins. Had she been north of Lord Walder’s seat… I’d have been eaten by a lizard-lion already. She was at a loss as the fullness of her memories returned and the sharp edges of her shock dulled like a stone worn smooth from years underwater. Robb. I saw him die, she thought, despair robbing her of what little command she had over the corpse she was trapped in. She slumped against a tree, rasping out in grief, waiting for sleep that did not come.

Movement broke Catelyn out of her torpor. The sun had risen and her flesh had dried, though she was no less filthy. After pulling a clump of leaves from her throat through her throat she stood, legs wobbling like a babe’s.

“Eyes open. Nights with a full moon are always worst, the Green Fork’s full of things hungry for any man what wears a Frey badge.” The voice made Catelyn crouch warily, peeking out from behind an elm. Several men-at-arms, peasant levies, nervously clutched stars of the Seven or stout clubs or both, while the knight that led them wore the towers on his cape.

“Seven save us.” One man muttered. A boy, Catelyn amended when she saw his face had yet to know a beard.

“Sod the Seven. If they had any right power to save, they’d have saved all them at the Sept before it blew to holy hell.” the Frey knight replied. What?  Catelyn thought, utterly confused.

“There’s one. Looks like an archer. Bow might still be good. Grab him.” The knight ordered, and several of his men pulled a dead man wearing a Frey badge from the Fork. They unslung the bow from the corpse and handed it to their leader.

“Sodden. Useless.” he said after appraising it, snapping it and tossing it aside. The peasantry meanwhile got to saying a quick prayer for the man. They’ll not even bury him, she saw. It would take too long and what was once Frey land is no longer friendly to them. She waited for them to move on north, toward the Twins, before gently carrying the corpse, another boy, she saw, out into the Fork, letting the river take him from her arms. Hardly a fitting funeral, she thought, but better to feed the fishes than feed the crows. She kept to the woods, keeping out of sight, heading north herself. Despite her bare feet and womanly highborn build, Catelyn had become sure of it. I do not tire. I could run all night and all day without so much as a breath, if only I could make my legs work. Indeed, she plodded along like a drunken man deadened to pain. Her fingers barely twitched and when she had to move a branch she simply chopped it out of her way with a stiff downward movement of her arm. I do hope I regain that much, at least, she thought. I feel like a stone statue stumbling along like this. The fled need for food and rest more than made up for her clumsiness though, and in short order she discovered that even pain was lost to her. She tripped over a root and when her skull met rock it split open like a melon. Catelyn cried out in panic as she felt something wet running down her face, only to blink and see her darkened right eye come back cloudy, then back as if nothing had happened. She felt her face, her head, where the rock had brained her. Nothing, she thought. In a fit of nerves she grabbed another rock and crushed her hand against a tree with it, seeing rather than feeling a knuckle split the drowned skin. To her amazement no blood came forth and her hand simply oozed water until her curdled flesh had been restored.

Catelyn was still considering the implications, the limits of flesh-that-was-water. She had no idea how she had come to be how she was, yet it was clear the waters were to her what the wolves were to her children. More, she thought. They were close, but they were not one and the same. Perhaps I would be better served walking north at the bottom of the Green Fork, she half-jested to herself. Where am I going, anyway? Why am I here? Why have I not been returned to the arms of my lord and love? she thought. She missed her children as well, the father whose dotage she had missed, the mother she had scarcely known. At the very least, I should see the others of Robb’s court, the ones murdered at the wedding. Wendel Manderly and Dacey Mormont. Robb himself. Even Talisa, she thought. The girl her son had lost everything for. No, she thought. It isn’t fair to blame her. She didn’t even want to be Robb’s queen, only his wife. She didn’t want to bear Robb’s prince, only his son. Catelyn remembered how Frey hospitality had done for Talisa. Is it just me, then? Doomed to wander the lands of my birth, death not enough to erase my faults in life? She tried to find the venom for revenge, but it was like building a castle atop a running river. The currents drag away the foundation before I can even lay it. She caught up to the band of men that afternoon, keeping her distance, hungry for information.

“I tell you, this war will never be over. All the five kings have gone and yet we’re stuck here fighting still. I hear Edmure Tully has expelled our garrison and hung all the officers from the walls of Riverrun, it will be petty kings all over again as it was before the dragons came.” one of the men muttered. All five kings?  Catelyn wondered. What happened to the others?

“I swear, Red Wedding’s come and gone these three years, or close enough, and still the rest of Westeros looks at us as if we’re talking dog turds.” Three years? Catelyn thought dizzily.

“Says you. I heard the gilded bitch is massing an army at Duskendale to storm Dragonstone. Ain’t Stannis’ ghost they’re chasing.”

“Beets, you get a flagon of ale in you and every frog’s a dragon and every snake’s a sea serpent.” another man scoffed. Dragonstone?  Her world was spinning. What else have I missed?

The men moved off in a hurry, no doubt eager to be behind the gates of the Twins when the sun set. Catelyn considered going after them but then remembered her brother. Edmure’s returned to Riverrun. How? And what’s become of Uncle Brynden? There was still too much unknown to her. Rather than follow the Frey band, she headed southwest. I don’t even need a map. I just need to cross the Blue Fork and then let the Red carry me all the way to the moat of Riverrun. When the moon rose, so did the mists and Catelyn found herself wandering through trackless forest for miles, yet never once did she come to another river. Something is wrong, she thought finally. I ought have made the Blue Fork by now, at least. Movement caught her gaze and to her great shock she saw several people milling about sluggishly, the moon reflected in glassy eyes. Dead, she knew at once. She saw the merman of Manderly on their surcoats, yet not the rotund form of Ser Wendel himself. She stepped out into the night, into their midst, yet heard no cry of recognition. They merely turned to her, staring and unseeing.

“Sers,” she rasped. “What has happened? Where is Ser Wendel? Where are the rest of us?” she asked them, not particularly expecting an answer. One of them turned, his dead gaze staring north. The Twins, she knew at once. “Come, then. It seems we have a rally point to make, and smartly.” she said, trying not to let their appearance get to her. While she was nowhere near alive, she had memories and initiative. These are just puppets with no strings, wandering and attacking anything wearing a Frey badge or flying Frey colors. As these lands belong to the Twins, I’d say the stories are already spreading, she surmised. To her relief, if faint sense of foreboding, they obeyed at once following her like a ghastly procession of ducklings. I thought I was going west. I suppose I can’t leave sight of the Green Fork then, she thought glumly. Either they moved faster than she thought or the mists made strides of leagues, for she could see the outline of the Twins rising off the river in only a few moments.

There was no sound. As they moved they’d picked up more water-haunts, river men and northmen alike who’d died at the wedding. What would Father say to this? Catelyn thought. Or Ned? Or any of the Targaryen kings? Even the Black Dread’s flames could not boil away the Green Fork. The thought affirmed Catelyn’s resolve. Even the Conqueror was just a mortal man, no more suited to breathing water than the men he burned. Still, she expected to hear cries of alarm with an army of the river-dead massing around the Twins. Instead the drawbridge lowered and she saw the form of Dacey Mormont, silt flowing down her belly from the wound in her gut, standing on the threshold. In her hand she clutched the longaxe that had killed her. You danced with Robb not five minutes before his death, Catelyn thought sadly. The woman was as heedless as her fellows, a sodden shade with a bear split in twain on her jerkin. Wordlessly she stepped aside as Catelyn crossed over the drawbridge, looking around. The Twins’ inhabitants laid where they were slain, blood running with the river water to stain the bricks a muddy red. Young and old, men and women, the shades had put the entire castle to the sword. She couldn’t care less. Passing the body of a boy with a gash in his head, she waited for the shades to push the heavy doors to the hall open. The hall where Catelyn Stark died, and years later I came up from the river, she thought. Am I Catelyn Stark anymore? Surely she would mourn the dead, and I do not. They had been in the middle of a feast it seemed when the first shades got to them. As thorough as a tidal wave, she saw. What shades lacked weapons had used their sodden hands, ripping the feasters limb from limb or else simply strangling them where they sat. A few arrows had been shot, a few bolts loosed, but they lay harmlessly on the floor and she knew the shades could no more be harmed than she could. A figure with long hair that hung about her face stood at the high table. She held something to her breast, like a helmet. No, a skull, Catelyn saw, drawing nearer. The skull of a direwolf. The woman turned to her.

“Talisa.” She could not remember having said her daughter-by-law’s name aloud before. She blinked as if in a fog. “Talisa Maegyr.” Catelyn said again, gently taking Grey Wind’s skull out of her hand and setting it on the table. The sharpness of her voice shook the girl, who set a hand on her ruined belly. Her eyes got big as the fog lifted.

“Lady Stark.” she said in shock at the sight of Catelyn. She put a hand on Talisa’s shoulder.

“Are you alright, child?” she asked her. Talisa looked at Catelyn and then herself. The same but for the wounds, Catelyn thought. Not the puppets but the puppeteers.

“It doesn’t hurt.” the Volantene got out finally.

“No, it doesn’t. We can be thankful for that small mercy, at least.” I need a scarf, I sound like I have all the frogs of the Neck in my throat.

Whether or not the beings they’d become could cry was a question answered then as Talisa’s eyes began to stream. Not river silt, but clear twinkling drops. Catelyn put her arms around the girl, cradling her head in her hands.

“What now?” she whispered. I’ve been wondering that since I came out of the water, Catelyn thought.

“My brother it seems has taken Riverrun for House Tully. He needs us not.” she said. My children are dead or gone. I am a ghost lingering here, and I belong in a place fit for ghosts. The crypts sprung to mind then. Far was Winterfell from the Twins even tireless as they were, and then there was the Neck to consider. If the crannogmen can free us, so be it. Otherwise, we make for Winterfell, Catelyn decided.

“Now we go home. It is for us to return Grey Wind to the earth that bore him.” she told Talisa.

“Robb used to talk of bringing me to Winterfell. After the war.”

“So he did. You will walk through those doors with me, Talisa. You are the only child left to me, one the fates it seems cannot take away. We will go to Winterfell together, with the others if they can or no. I do not doubt the castle is in ill hands, perhaps Roose Bolton got the north for his part in the murder of our king.” I should like to see his face when he drives a blade through me and all that happens is I smile. Catelyn helped her from the hall, the shades following closely. Outside the castle ever more gathered, more than Catelyn cared to count. The gods took a mother, a queen and too many leal men, and sent a pair of revenants and a host of mist-shades loyal even beyond death. It began to rain as they headed north from the Twins, first a drizzle and then a deluge. Catelyn stopped on a small hill, Talisa’s hand in hers. Rain enough to wash this place from thought and memory, she asked. Water enough to loosen the ground the stones stand on, high enough to sink the bridge to the bottom of the Fork. Overhead the sky grew darker.

“We should go, my lady.” Talisa said after a moment. The rain was driving, a howling host of freezing spears. Catelyn turned away after a moment and the two left the storm to rage.

The Green Fork forked off left and right in turn, they saw. Both led into the mass of low-slung greenery on the horizon. The Neck, Catelyn knew.

“Those trees are the first steps you’ll take of the North.” she pointed. Talisa’s eyebrows raised.

“Already?”

“The North is vast and the Neck is its southernmost part.”

“Robb never made mention of any Neck.”

“Neither did Ned. They are northern, but they are not northmen- at least, not the kind we know.” Ned never spoke to me of this place and its people, Catelyn thought. Never once hosted a delegation from Greywater Watch, never once invited Howland Reed to Winterfell.

“The Freys have tried countless times to conquer the Neck. Always the hosts they sent in fail to return. Vanished to a man.” she told Talisa.

“I like it already.” was her reply. Though the distance between the Twins and the edge of the Neck was no great journey for a tireless army, Catelyn saw the shades melt away into mist at the first light of dawn.

“So. They can come only when the moon is high.” she observed.

“Only too, when they are called.” Talisa tapped the skull in Catelyn’s hand. If I can feel nervous, I suppose I am right now, she thought as the bogs grew closer, wet marsh hidden from the sun by twisting canopies.

“They’ll have sunk the kingsroad. The crannogmen suffer no intrusions into the North. Upon word of Robb’s murder, they’ll have cut the North off from the rest of Westeros.” Catelyn told Talisa. “Likely you are the first Volantene to pass through these lands.”

“I am not Volantene anymore.” the girl said. “Not Talisa Maegyr. She died with her king, as Catelyn Stark did. We are the Ladies of the River, come to flood away those who thought us gone.” Catelyn stopped a few yards from the silent swamp, vines and ferns and bubbling pools the least of the Neck’s barriers.

“When they murdered Robb’s father, he told me with his arms around me and tears in his eyes that he’d kill them all. I told him we needed to get the girls back. My daughters by Ned have gone to Robb and their father. This I know. You are the only daughter that remains to me. It is for us then to do what we can.” The girl turned to her.

“Kill them all.” daughter said.

“Kill them all.” mother replied.

Chapter Text

Sansa

She stopped telling them not to bother after a few hours. She didn’t remember getting into a bath fully dressed, didn’t remember anything from the last day or so, but Sansa felt well enough not to have people fussing over her as if she were made of powder sugar. No, she thought. There were things… A snowy forest with masses of people moving through it. I remember seeing Mother somewhere in the riverlands, left to rot by the men who murdered her. Nightmares only. Reaching for Lady, I may as well reach for Father. She shook her head firmly and shooed away the poor maid. Sansa knew she was only following instructions but she was tired of being looked after as if she were a babe.

“Bring me something to wear. I want to see my br-” Bran burst through the door and was at her side before Sansa could blink. He got tall, she thought shakily. Brandon Stark had been dead to the world when she left Winterfell for King’s Landing, a boy who could scale sheer stone easily as any spider. The man he’d become wore the fur of a wildling and smelled of dirt and wood. He hasn’t got Summer, she noticed. Unless he’s waiting outside. “Hello, Bran.” she got out. I never expected to see you again. Somehow that felt wrong to say aloud. He hugged her, soaked and steaming as she was, her hair a tangle of red ribbons. Slowly she brought her arms up and wrapped them around Bran. “Wet sleeves feel heavier than a cask full of rocks.” she whispered in his ear. He pulled back and took her in.

“You’re looking better. You look like Mother.” he said. No, she thought. Mother’s skin is the color of off milk and she has mud on instead of fur, sitting in stagnant water instead of a hot bath. Then she remembered what it had cost to take Winterfell back from Ramsay Snow.

“Bran…Rickon’s dead.” she said quietly. His joy melted away into somber sorrow.

“So is Summer.” he told her. Another Stark without a wolf.

“How did you…well, what happened? I was in King’s Landing and heard only what the Lannisters saw fit to tell me, and even then I trusted not a word of it.” she asked him.

“Theon took Winterfell and Rickon and I escaped, Summer and Shaggydog in tow. We split up, I went beyond the Wall and Rickon went to Last Hearth.” So it was the Umbers who gave Rickon to Ramsay.

“Why go beyond the Wall? What was out there that you could need? How did you do it? I remember hearing you were crippled…” Sansa said uncertainly.

“I was. For a long time, until…well, until I wasn’t anymore. I’m still not quite sure how it happened myself.”

“If you were crippled, how did you get that far? I assume you had Hodor with you…”

“Hodor didn’t make it either. It wasn’t just Hodor though, a brave woman named Osha and…” unexpectedly his face went a perfect Tully red. Oh?  Sansa thought.

The door opened again and a woman came through. She was older than Sansa and had the eyes of someone older still, a deep polished grey. Her hair was a black curtain to her shoulders, unbraided or tamed in any way. Sansa’s mouth opened slightly and she was lost for words.

“Princess Sansa Stark, this is Lady Meera Reed of Greywater Watch. Soon to be Princess Meera Stark of Winterfell.” he said bashfully, biting his lip.

“We’ve been introduced already but as you were insensate perhaps a second try was warranted.“ Meera Reed gave a small bashful smile of her own. Sansa shrugged off the heavy fur coat and felt like she’d lost half her weight. Clambering from the hot water she made her way to the beautiful stranger.

“It seems I’ve you to thank for keeping House Stark alive in the male line.” she said, hugging her sister-to-be as well. At once she felt a nimble pair of arms around her in turn.

“From what I hear, you should thank yourself. You took the initiative when it came to naming a King in the North.” Meera replied.

“Jon is…” Sansa paused. “He’s not not a Stark, he’s something all his own. A white wolf and more.”

“Quite. Bran doesn’t talk of him as his bastard brother, he talks of him as his king. There are giants here and Free Folk, Knights of the Vale and even a few lucky- or unlucky- stormlanders. The Old North died with our last King, we are something new now. All the endlings of the North come together.” Meera said, eyes misty.

“Meera’s brother Jojen died beyond the Wall as well.” Bran explained to Sansa.

“Now House Reed is just my parents and I.” she turned to Bran. “By the way, we’ll need a different way to get word to them. Ravens cannot find Greywater Watch.” Her demeanor, her manner, her face made Sansa’s spine tingle.

“As you wish. Perhaps a rider can be sent to the edge of the Neck and word passed from there?” she asked. A northern girl, a beauty, a princess tailor-made. When Sansa was younger she’d imagined a princess as someone along the lines of Margaery Tyrell trapped in a tower or in the clutches of a black knight. This Meera Reed would climb out of the tower herself or leave a black knight to drown in the mire of her homeland. She found herself terribly excited. I wonder…if another Stark is among us now.

They left so she could dry off and dress. Sansa made her way to the hall where she was met with a rousing cheer and no shortage of impromptu toasts, Frygga pressing a half-full horn into her hands. Mother would be aghast, a wildling woman talking to her daughter. Sansa smiled, took a long breath and drained the horn, gripping Frygga to make sure she didn’t fall over. Thankfully they didn’t ply her with more- Sansa suspected that it was only in Jon’s absence they dared give her something stronger than water. Bran and Meera weren’t at the high table, instead they’d taken the leftmost corner as their place. Sansa nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw the…strange person they were talking to. He stood no higher than four feet or so, had skin the color of bark and bright golden eyes. A Child of the Forest, surely. That’s why they went beyond the Wall! Sansa thought in shock. Thinking of the Children made her dizzy so she made her way towards them to better take the measure of their mysterious guest. He got more than a few nervous glances from those men sitting closest but the Child paid them no mind. Only when she was close enough that Bran didn’t have to shout did he acknowledge her.

“Uh, Sansa, this is Branch. Branch, this is my sister Sansa.” Branch peered at her with slit catlike pupils.

“Well met, Sansa Stark. Even with your southern cast, I think there is little of the south in you…and less each passing day.” he said in a high musical voice. His words made Sansa’s skin cover in gooseprickles. Whatever does that mean? she thought. She realized she was staring and cleared her throat.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Branch of Those Who Sing the Song of Earth.” she said. He blinked. So did Bran and Meera.

“How did you know what they call themselves?” Bran asked in an amazed hush.

“Well, we should hardly call them children. They are not. They are earth-singers and woods-walkers.” she said, shrugging. Rylis approached them suddenly, clearing his throat to announce himself. He resolutely avoided looking at the others, focused solely on Sansa. A man who knows to keep his eyes forward and ears closed to all but he is meant to hear. In short, a man who’s served House Bolton.

“Princess. Regarding the barrows. The ravens have flown and now that you’re…making public appearances again, perhaps we should begin with the crypts tomorrow.” he said. I haven’t told Bran about that yet, she realized.

“We’ll begin at first light. Make sure the rest of the garrison doesn’t drink itself into a stupor, I want them sober on the morrow.” she said. He nodded and headed for the table where the other Bolton officers were seated, no doubt to relay her instructions. Perhaps he considers me the one to follow. There aren’t any Boltons left so he’s worked out I’m the closest thing.

Once Rylis had gone Sansa turned back to Bran. They are not the besotted couple, she observed. At least not when others can see. Something about that made Sansa sad. To hear the hall cheer Bran on with Meera in his lap, to hear them celebrate life not just now but coming, that would bring me the greatest joy. Then she reminded herself that Meera was going to be Princess of Winterfell in the very near future and it was neither Sansa’s place nor business to have an opinion on the crannogwoman’s relationship with her brother. Another pair might bring with them joy to all, though, she thought. If the gods are good and fate is kind.

“I suppose then that there are… a number of you and not just you yourself?” she asked Branch.

“Yes.” he said in reply.

“We brought a number more of giants with us too, and their mammoths.” Bran added. Forget Frygga, imagine Mother’s reaction if she saw Branch in the Great Hall. “Sansa…we brought someone else as well.” Subconsciously she straightened the front of her dress, taught from girlhood to make a good first impression. When not one of the three spoke it was to her to prompt them.

“Someone here at Winterfell? Very good, more allies are always better. Jon will be pleased.” she said. Bran and Meera looked at each other, so much passing between them in a glance that Sansa’s excitement only rose. If they tell me now I may faint.

“Not an ally, though.” Her giddy feeling cracked in half and sunk to the depths of her stomach.

“Who, Bran?” she asked again.

“Show her, Meera.” The girl dutifully unstrapped a fur bundle from her thigh.

“I got his sword too, it’s in our room.” she said, opening it to show Sansa. The first thing she thought of was the High Septon’s crown the day of the riot, but Sansa realized how stupid that was when she saw it was just a dagger. Then she realized how stupid that thought was when the dagger’s chill made her breath show even in the heat of the hall, a glittering beautiful thing that made the fat stubs of glass the High Septon wore look the cheap display they were. Slowly Sansa worked out what they were implying.

“You couldn’t…you didn’t bring one here?” she whispered, hands to her mouth.

“We did. Meera gave him a hiding and took a few bits off for her throuble, the Singers wrapped him in red vines and we dragged him to Winterfell to show everyone.” An Other. After Frygga and Branch…poor Mother, Sansa thought weakly.

“Where is he now?”

Now it’s my turn to be afraid of going in the crypts, Sansa thought as Bran and Meera led her out of the hall, Branch bringing up the rear.

“We found more than singers and Others. Uncle Benjen was out there too, after a fashion. One of the dead men but not a thrall.” Bran told her. Sansa remembered Uncle Benjen dimly, wearing well-washed blacks of the Night’s Watch and always eager to talk with Father when he passed through.

“Magic.” she said, feeling dizzy again.

“Magic.” Bran agreed. “The world’s going wild, it seems. It isn’t a place of roads and walls any longer.” The crypts went from dark and muggy to cold enough that Sansa felt the want of her fur coat in moments.

“You put him in where Theon Stark lay.” she noticed at once.

“Your man Rylis wouldn’t tell me but I’m not deaf, either. Burning the Kings of Winter, firing the barrows of the north… it’s a good idea, Sansa.” Bran’s approval was the last thing she expected and she hiccupped in surprise. “Probably didn’t think I’d agree. Anyone who’s seen what Meera and I have would tell you the only good corpse is a burned one, no matter whose, no matter how old.” They stopped a few feet from the crypt in particular. “Take all the furnishings out and they make more than passable cells.” Bran said. She saw the black dust on the floor first, appearing almost like a night sky full of stars. It was very cold. When she came to face the Hungry Wolf’s crypt proper, it was too dark within to see anything.

“We can’t set torches.” whispered Meera. “He puts them out.” Branch stepped forward, staring into the darkness himself.

“Show yourself.” he said. The bluntness of his words and the lack of fear the two betrothed had somewhat confused Sansa. Eyes like blue stars burned out from the back wall suddenly and Sansa went still as a dead king’s statue. No man in the world has eyes like that. She blinked. The eyes were still there.

“Will he not come any closer?” she asked, her voice a breathy whisper.

“They don’t like dragonglass. Doesn’t matter what shape it’s in. Whole or broken, clump or dust. It’s agony for them to touch any which way.” Meera said.

“Can he not speak?”

“Not in a tongue that we’d make head or tail of.” Bran said quietly. Sansa turned to Branch.

“What about you?”

“What about me, Sansa Stark?”

“Well, if he says something, can you understand him?” The question made Branch blink.

“What would give you that idea?” Meera asked in surprise.

“Those Who Sing the Song of Earth speak to each other in the language the world itself uses. Rain pattering down on spring leaves. A brook running across a boulder. When the Others talk, what do they sound like? Is it a strange tongue…or does it sound like a noise of the world?”

Again Bran and Meera looked at each other while Sansa stared into Branch’s eyes.

“For one who has never gone beyond the Wall, you know more than I would expect, Sansa Stark. Of our enemy as well.” he said finally.

“I know nothing. I can only figure from what stories Old Nan used to tell, and ones my father would when my mother was out of earshot."

“Branch, I’ve heard the True Tongue plenty of times. Not much else to hear in that cave besides Meera, Hodor, and the Singers talking to each other. When Others talk they sound like cracking ice, like ice on a lake. Is that…is that the True Tongue also, just as they speak and hear it? The Singers learned from sounds they heard in the world. Could not the Others have fashioned a tongue the same way?” The implication that there might be so much as a shared way of developing a tongue between Branch’s kind and what stared out from the crypt seemed to deeply disturb their guest. They did not come from nothing, Sansa thought. Nothing does. Perhaps they came about the same way, just in different places. Dragons came from Valyria, but what if they’d come from the Land of Always Winter instead? Surely they’d breathe ice instead of fire. Finally, Branch spoke.

“It is not so to say we share a tongue.” he looked at his feet. He looks like Bran did whenever Mother told him off, Sansa thought. Like a child. “It is not so to say we don’t, either.” Bran and Meera both gaped at him.

“We could have used that information some time ago.” Bran said tersely.

“To speak of it…to speak of them is not done among my kind. We want only to sing and tend our trees and listen to the earth when it deigns to sing back. We’re spring rains and summer heat and autumn wind. Those That Walk With Winter want only to lay the world low, as winter does. Blizzards, avalanches, thunder-hail, ice storms, freezing fog…all they know, all they want to do is be winter given will, be winter given form. To scour the land of life before the sun drives them away as it does their night frosts and frozen lakes. They are all that we are not. The Singers are not warlike. We do not march and conquer. We have circles, not regiments. We build groves in godswoods, hallowed places of the world, not icy fortresses at the top of barren mountains the sun has never seen. If we have failed to enlighten you as to the origins of the True Tongue, Bran, it is because we are ashamed, not duplicitous. What one among your kind would consider the deepest dishonor.” In the darkness, Sansa saw, the blue eyes watched without the barest hint of what was going on behind them.

Sansa swallowed and knelt, taking Branch’s hands in her own.

“It is no dishonor to speak as they do.” she said. The Singer’s gold eyes went round as rings, Bran and Meera likewise astonished at Sansa’s forwardness. “I don’t know what’s gone on between your people and theirs, it sounds like there’s more to the story than just one Long Night… but they are part of the world as you are, part of the seasons as you are. Be aware of them, of course, be afraid of them, no doubt… but to be ashamed of them is for a man to be ashamed of death. Of his own mortality. All that is born must die, no? All that comes must go, and all that goes will come again. Winter wins all battles, as death does, but to this day it has not won the war. The Others can take the world, but what good will that do? They cannot stop the seasons, only slow them at best. They may well kill us all and usher in a darkness, but the darkness of the womb, not that of the tomb. Life will keep regardless of whether we stop them or no, that is your concern and the concern of all your kind. Worry less about the future, as out of reach of the Others as it is of us, and worry about you and yours. The world was before we were, it will be when we are not again. You, me, Bran and Meera, House Stark, our unwilling guest…The world is a dragon and we are all but scales. A direwolf, and we are all but fur. Do not mourn as if the world needed one more sad face. Revel in the fact that your people are once again free to multiply across the world. That there is no wall between your kind and men, or between giants and men. There are Seven Kingdoms that lie in ruin now, let alone when the Others have been addressed. Were a Singer to appear and make a burnt field fallow or a dead orchard bloom…we want you with us, not hidden away in underground grottoes lost to mind and memory. Fill the air with the True Tongue, let the children born these coming years hear living Singers and not dead songs. After the Others are defeated, we should have a new Dawn Age, I think, and what is a Dawn Age without Those Who Sing the Song of Earth?” she asked.

“A bloody waste of time.” Bran finished for her.

Chapter Text

Samwell

The first morning, Sam had sat on a barrel watching Mormont comfortably do the work of four strong men without getting winded. In no short order the crew had noticed as well and got to leaving the knight to himself. The captain seemed bursting to ask Sam what was going on, but the first mate it seemed was the more sensible man, politely attending to Gilly and steadfastly ignoring the peculiarities of the group from the Citadel. Maybe they don’t bother me about working because I’m fat, he wondered. Or because Ser Jorah does enough for four people and more. The weather was kind and despite the imposing length of the voyage Gilly didn’t seem bothered by being surrounded by men. Not many in the world who are worse than Craster, I suppose. Easy to like people when he’s all you’ve known.

“Is it all yellow?” she asked, pointing to the Dornish coast when again it came into view. The captain does not like to sail out of sight of land, Sam noticed. Ironborn reavers didn’t either, but if they went a day without a Dornish house’s ship on patrol it was rare.

“Not all. Dorne has some mountains and even a valley or two right through them, the Prince’s Pass and the Boneway, not to mention all the ruins.” Sam told her.

“I like the Prince’s Pass better. Is that where princes come from? Ones born south of the Wall?”

“No, it’s just called that because whoever rules Dorne, the head of House Martell, is a prince or princess.” Sam said, smiling at her.

“There’s princesses in charge in Dorne?” Gilly asked, surprised.

“They’re different from the rest of Westeros, like the Free Folk are. Your father might call them kneelers, but they’re less kneely about it.”

“I like Dorne.” Gilly said, smiling widely.

“I don’t think Ser Jorah does.” Sam replies, nodding to him. The knight had a full crate of some spice or other in his arms, pressed tight to his chest as he brought it up from the hold. Thought the ship had stopped in Salt Shore and Lemonwood, only Ser Jorah had actually gotten off and only to move cargo to and from the ship, sticking to the dock. The Dornishmen had noticed him as well, staring at the hairy bear of a man from the frigid north with contempt, then interest, then shock as he flipped the old rowboat onto his shoulder and hefted it off the ship singlehandedly.

“We should make Sunspear by tomorrow, good lady.” The first mate said, always quick to keep Gilly informed. The voyage after won’t be half so sweet, Sam thought. Ironmen tire. Storms don’t.

On reaching port Sam stared up in awe at the sand-colored buildings. The Spear Tower, the Tower of the Sun…he tried to remember the rest but he was being shuffled down the gangplank, Gilly close behind him. He could hear her shushing Little Sam in her scared hushed voice. It’s the different world. After Craster’s hut and a series of small apartments, even Oldtown…this is a world apart from anything else she’s known. Anything I’ve known, too. He slipped a hand in hers while Ser Jorah hauled what crates were bound for Sunspear down.

“Oooh, what’s that?” Gilly exclaimed suddenly, pointing to another ship a few docks away. Sam looked and saw an ironborn longship flying of all things a dragon banner from its mast. What’s that all about? I thought Archmaester Marwyn said the ironborn were reaving. When Mormont caught a glimpse of the dragon he marched off without a word, leaving them standing awkwardly on the dock. “Is he coming back?” Gilly asked fretfully. Sam could see the shirtless knight talking with someone who had the ironborn coloring, if lacking in the beard and scars. To Sam’s surprise the knight kept his temper in check and when he returned, he had the seeds of a smile on his face.

“These reavers belong to Asha Greyjoy. Declared for Daenerys, probably to get out from under her uncle. Guess you were right to sail all this way, Tarly.” he said, hand raised as if to pat his shoulder before he quickly pulled it back again.

“So now what?” Sam asked him.

“We head up to the Tower of the Sun. If that beardless whoreson told it true that’s where we’ll find Greyjoy and the Martells both.” he replied as they moved into the city that surrounded Sunspear proper. The buildings up against the great dun walls allowed for countless alleys and rooftop passages, enough to keep the canniest thief from ever knowing them all.

“It’s hard to imagine the Others doing much damage here.” he said quietly to Gilly as Mormont came up behind them. Her lips pursed.

“Sand can freeze too, Sam.”

“Come on. I’m sweating boulders here. The sooner we get back to decent country, the better.” Mormont grunted. “They’ll wait in port for us, I guess the sailors are eager to spend some time ashore. Can’t blame them, that voyage was hell.” he said. He never sounds happy, Sam thought. You can tell if he’s pleased by how much he talks. Several Dornishmen shot Ser Jorah dirty looks until they saw him properly. They must never have seen a northman before. Passing through the Threefold Gate Sam found himself at the entrance to the Old Palace, the seat of House Martell proper. The guard at the door was a woman to Sam’s surprise and her stare made his tongue knot. After a few moments of awkward silence, Gilly piped up.

“We’re headed for Dragonden, miss. We need to talk to the captain of that black-sailed ship, pirates will stay away from anything with a dragon flag.” she said with a naïve smile on her face. The guard’s brow furrowed in utter confusion, looking from Sam to Gilly to Mormont in a mystified silence. Stepping aside uncertainly as if too dumbfounded to question their intent, Gilly thanked her and passed over the threshold, Little Sam looking up at the mosaic-lined ceiling. Sam followed dutifully, Mormont bringing up the rear, their trunk in his arms, playing the common laborer perfectly. Again they got more than a few uncertain stares but nobody seemed in a hurry to stop them. Or stop Gilly, anyway. I wonder what’s going on? Sam thought. The guards seem rather high-strung as if they expect problems and the appearance of our odd little group has only thrown them for a further loop. They waited in a round sitting chamber for someone to receive them. I don’t recall Dorne being so liberal that they don’t keep servants, Sam thought uncertainly. The shuffling of a dress caught their attention and he looked up expecting to see anything but a tiny old woman in black slowly making her way toward them, muttering darkly to herself.

“A right whorehouse they’ve made of this little sandcastle…” she said before realizing they were there. “Now who are you?” she asked brusquely.

“A wildling girl, a northman and a brother of the Night’s Watch hoping to join that black ship on the docks for the journey to Dragonden.” Gilly replied, nonplussed, before turning back to face Sam. The old woman’s eyes popped.

“Dragonstone.” Sam whispered to her.

“Don’t correct her, boy. I’d not give you an escort down the hall, let alone Dragonstone. At least she had the stones to answer.” The old woman tapped her walking stick on the sandstone floor in irritation. Sam frowned as his eyes found the gold rose ring on her left hand.

“What’s a Tyrell doing in Sunspear?” he asked, surprised near out of his skin.

“What’s a landed sea cow doing in the middle of the desert?” the woman responded, tapping her stick again. “You may be the fattest man I’ve ever seen. Fortunately for you there seems to be some steel under the suet, unlike a certain son I once had.” She sharply prodded Sam in the leg with her stick. “Fat men are not always so feeble as they appear.”

Sam was so taken aback he couldn’t find the words to answer and Mormont looked as likely to speak as the statues they’d passed on the way in.

“The maesters can argue over what my name is now. Cersei killed my son and his children when she destroyed the Sept of Baelor.” the old woman said sullenly. “Olenna Redwyne I am by birth, Olenna Tyrell by marriage.” she added.

“The Queen of Thorns. I’m Samwell Tarly of Horn Hill, my lady.”

“You only took five minutes to say something intelligent. A marked improvement over your father when last I met him. The gormless fool saw fit to toss away a son more fit to the pen than the sword it seems. Well, lords use pens a deal more than swords, even precious Valyrian blades they’d choose over their own wrinkly manhoods.” The woman seemed in a singularly unhappy mood, even given her circumstances. Sam swallowed nervously. The very blade she speaks of lies not three feet from her, at the bottom of the trunk.

“Uh…quite. We’re trying to get to Dragonstone-” Sam began.

“So your charming companion has already evidenced, Tarly. Well, assuming that mongrel’s stamina lasts, we’ll not leave until tomorrow morning at the soonest.”

“Are the Martells so indolent?” Sam asked, frowning.

“In a word, yes. Though being a corpse does tend to excuse indolence.” Olenna said, giving Mormont a prod with the stick in turn, though a deal less sharply. Her words made Sam nervous.

“Who rules Dorne now?”

“The gods only know. Each lord has seen fit to take primacy over his or her keep’s lands and the Viper’s concubine splits her days between trying to woo them and her salty guests.”

“You’ll speak kindly of my mother, crone. At least she has enough life in her to run both heart and mind at once.” An accented sensuous voice made Olenna roll her eyes.

“Half a fool and half a whore. And I thought you the smartest of the brood when you kept your mouth shut.” A young Dornishwoman sashayed into the room wearing only what seemed like a yellow curtain around her waist, quite forgoing a shirt. “This is Tyene Sand. She’s as much a randy slut as her mother. She’s also the least annoying by far of the bunch of bastards.” Olenna introduced her. Tyene frowned at the sight of them.

“Well, maybe your hairy brute will have some luck with Obara, but none of you are to my taste.”

“I’ve seen dragons in the flesh, crossed the Red Waste and fought in fighting pits and I haven’t been hotter than I fucking am now. All we want is to go on to Dragonstone. If you could pull your mother off whatever stripling she’s got in her, we’d appreciate it.” Mormont said suddenly. Tyene Sand gave a sultry smirk.

“Well, maybe a little hot blood in you, after all. Too bad you haven’t the kind of tongue I like.” she blew him a kiss and swept off the way she’d come.

“Bugger it all. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d just come off a stripling of her own.” Mormont said, pulling a face.

“They’re Dornish, darling. They do a good deal more coming than necessary, and as you can see the results are hardly worth the exertion.” The Queen of Thorns pinched her nose in disgust.

Despite her rude manner, Samwell found Olenna Redwyne a deal less grating than the cloying sensuality of Tyene Sand. When she returned with a woman who could only have been her mother carelessly wrapped in a red shawl, Olenna crossed her eyes at the Citadel group before turning to her.

“Welcome to Sunspear, Lord Tarly. I am Ellaria Sand, current…regent, I suppose, of Dorne.”

“Only because the rest of the Dornish seem reluctant to rip you and your brood out like the weeds you are. Or because they know letting you live bothers Cersei immensely. Or both.” Olenna said.

“You came to us half hoping we’d kill you on sight. Instead we let you linger like a mouse in a viper’s hole.” Ellaria Sand replied.

“Indeed, the Dornishwoman who’d sooner kill the last Martells than the last Tyrell. Truly the world’s gone beyond all help.”

“Right, I’m sure listening to you two argue would be marvelously entertaining for any other three people but we’re in quite a hurry to get to Dragonstone.” Jorah said, color rising in his cheeks. Despite the revealing shawl and her positively suggestive pose, Mormont seemed to be in as much a mood for the woman’s games as Olenna Tyrell. “If we could get a word in with Asha Greyjoy, perhaps ask her to escort us as she’s returning anyway-”

“That sounds like more than a word to me.” Another woman strode arrogantly into view, lustrous black hair falling to her shoulders. She had on ironborn garb, if loose and only recently donned. A man about her age grinning ear to ear brought up the rear, wearing only a pair of pants. His below-the-belt salute made Olenna groan in impatience.

“You might yet be of use, Greyjoy. Don’t let these louts fog those sharp wits.” she put a hand to her forehead in despair.

“Too late.” the man said before being sharply silenced by both Sands and Greyjoy in unison.

No wonder Sunspear is on edge. The Tower of the Sun has become a bordello and a Tyrell stalks the halls, scolding anyone who will listen and poking anyone who will sit still, Sam thought.

“As it happens I’m in the middle of convincing Ellaria to come to Dragonstone and lend her support to Daenerys.” Asha said, slipping an arm around the woman’s waist.

“Speaking of, I don’t think I’m quite convinced. I think you’ll just have to reiterate your point until dawn.” Ellaria said in reply, touching her forehead to the she-reaver’s.

“Right. Go back to your mongrel-making, I’ll play the civilized woman and see your guests are fed.” Olenna said, wringing her hands and all but dragging Sam and Gilly from the hall, Jorah hefting the trunk and following, Tyene Sand shooting a whistle at his back.

“I have been naked on the auction block. I have had a man look me over head to toe for any trace of greyscale. Until the hour preceding this one, I have never been that uncomfortable.” Jorash said, eyes flashing.

“You should have been here when that salty wench arrived. I couldn’t sleep for the moans.” Olenna said, bringing them to a small dining hall. “These blasted people gorge on fruit that boils the blood and eat serpent flesh and cooked scorpion. Had I known they’d simply leave me to haunt Sunspear I’d have saved the trip south and jumped from one of Highgarden’s windows. Funnily enough, when the ironborn arrived the whole lot of them were somber as could be, it took the lusty attentions of the Dornishwomen to reinvigorate Greyjoy and her crew. I’ve been meaning to ask her what went wrong but I’m hardly about to watch a brass behind bounce while I do it. Maybe once we’re on the ocean. Greyjoy will be too busy captaining to entertain Sand, and her mongrel will be likewise on the deck. In fact, the moment first light breaks I’m going to go right in there and start throwing pails of water, never mind we’re in a desert.” This woman is either too mad to reach or too brilliant to question. She has full bleeding conversations with herself! Sam thought weakly.

After dinner Olenna got them a room of their own and Jorah one next to theirs.

“Remember, first light. I refuse to tolerate the thought of yet another day wasted lingering in Sunspear.” she said crossly, smartly shuffling away. It seemed to Sam he’d only just dozed off with Gilly’s head on his shoulder when the daft old bat was back, poking him vigorously with her stick! “Up, Sam Sea Cow! Those blasted Sands have taken the lead, we can’t let them show proper Reachmen up!” she cried. Sam sat up with a grunt and a murmur, Mormont cursing from the next room as very loud steps thudded around his room. He was marched in moments later by two enormous twins, red-haired and mustached with blue eyes and no-nonsense faces. “Quite! Samwell, these are Left and Right. Since I can’t tell one from the other, their proper names are quite irrelevant. Let’s be off!” she ordered before sweeping from the room, her massive guards following immediately. Even Gilly was confused.

“Sam?” she asked. “Is Dorne not supposed to make a bit of sense? At least to someone who isn’t Dorny?”

“Dornish, Gilly. And I can’t be certain, Lady Olenna seems as mad as any Sand. Maybe they amuse each other.” Sam said, getting to his feet.

“They can amuse each other all the way up the Narrow Sea for all I care. I just want us to get gone and fast.” Mormont grumbled. When they dressed and made it to the docks Sam saw that the Sands had indeed been the first ones there, dressed in elegant court finery without a hint of the night’s mischief on their faces. If Jon ever met these people, his head would explode, Sam thought. They were so changing, all one feeling or the other and never for long at a time. With Jon’s Stark blood slowing him down they’d seem a veritable dust devil. With an immense sigh of relief he got back onto the ship that had taken them this far, following Asha Greyjoy’s Black Wind out toward the Stepstones. When the coast vanished from sight, Olenna’s dry voice broke his reverie.

“I don’t care if it means going beyond the fucking Wall.” she said. “I am never setting foot in Dorne again.”

Chapter Text

Theon

“A few hours to the southwest…” Theon muttered as their dinghy got free of yet another current.

“It has been a day and a night. Perhaps he meant in terms of their ability to travel over…under open water.” Red Flea replied. They’d left the island relieved and lighthearted but rain, sea winds and the wretched currents took them in circles adding hours to the voyage. The greyhair thrashed whenever someone approached him so they got to leaving him in the bow.

“Who is he?” the Unsullied pointed to the man.

“Some daft old salt who went overboard and waited a bit too long for someone to take him off the man-fishes’ hands.” Theon said, shrugging. Only when a shadow passed over the boat did Theon look up to consider the sky. The black dragon circled above, red eyes fixed on them. He could not see the dragon queen. “Uh…” he said uncertainly. “He knows not to torch us, right?” The Dothraki seemed to sense Theon’s apprehension, bellowing out in some savage war cry that made his ears ring. Immediately the dragon answered with an earsplitting scream. The gagged man stared in wide-eyed shock at the beast as it circled lower, still shrieking. No free passage you big bastard, Theon thought. They were afloat for the moment but if the dragon tried to land on the dinghy it would sink immediately. Sails broke the horizon next. One of the slaver ships we made off with, he remembered. The dragon held position over them, circling in tight loops as he heard a greeting shouted across the water. Red Flea responded in kind. The larger ship caught them with no trouble, steadily lowering a rope down the side. When he hauled himself up, Theon saw the majority of the crew was Essosi. Fuck, he thought. He didn’t know a word of the argot they garbled at each other, much less Valyrian. One of the lot wearing better garb than a deckhand’s stained rags stepped forward.

“I am Zhaffar Toliz of Her Grace’s freedmen. Welcome aboard Setting Sun.”

“Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands.” Theon replied. Red Flea said something in Valyrian Theon assumed to be an introduction. Nobody on the ship spoke Dothraki so the rider just tapped his chest.

“Malakko.” he grunted. He slung the old man onto the deck.

“Oh, and this old crab.” Theon added. He pulled the gag from their guest’s mouth.

“Water.” he croaked. Toliz readily filled a cup and poured it down the man’s throat as Theon cut away the bindings. Our little jaunt ought have taken the fire out of him, he reasoned. His reasoning was somewhat undercut when the man’s knee knocked the wind from his chest and his elbow drove into Theon’s cheek, and he’d taken a beating worthy of his older brothers before Malakko and Red Flea pulled him off, Toliz having gone pale.

“Good sailor!” He cried in dismay while Theon blinked the stars from his eyes and spat blood on the deck. “There’s no need for such enmity!”

“Bugger off, Essosi. This spineless squid deserved that and more.”

“Agreed.” Theon muttered, getting up unsteadily. Had Ramsay let me keep more teeth this tough old fucker would have knocked them loose. “Who are you and what did I do?” The man spat on the kraken sewn on his jerkin.

“Everyone calls me Blackfish, and you killed two of my grandnephews. Three if you count deserting Robb.”

Oh, Theon thought.

“Well, you’re no bloody northman, so that puts you on Lady Catelyn’s side. As for the Stark lads, they escaped one day and that was the last I saw of them. The bodies hung from the wall were Winter Town urchins, no more.” he said, rubbing his jaw. “That was years ago, mind. No telling if they’re still drawing breath. Those are two corpses you can lay at someone else’s bloody door, I’ve enough to reckon with as is.” he added. Toliz looked from one man to the other uneasily, shouting for the crew to take them back to Dragonstone with all speed. Malakko was grinning from ear to ear, garbling away in his own tongue, but it was obvious he found the sight of Theon getting beaten senseless amusing. “Yes, very funny. Old men and broken men trading blows.” Theon muttered.

“What blows were traded? This one saw Black Fish give you many gifts yet you gave none in return.” Red Flea said.

“Bugger it.” Theon replied, turning back to the…fish. “I’m not sure what Blackfish means, so if you could kindly spit out your real name I might be able to help you.” The old man took a moment to gather himself.

“Ser Brynden Tully of Riverrun.” he spat.

“Well met. I’m sure you’ll be very popular among the Dothraki. They think old men who can still break a nose with one blow are very amusing. As it happens the dragon queen has begun the task of taking back the Seven Kingdoms for House Targaryen. I’m sure no one wants to see the Boltons hold Winterfell a moment longer than necessary, so in the likely event Ramsay offends Daenerys somehow the North will need a new lord. Obviously your niece’s sons are ideal but as nobody’s seen them in years it will be likely that Sansa is Robb’s rightful heir. The last I saw of her she was heading for the Wall, to her bastard half-brother Jon Snow.” he rattled off. Tully took a few winded breaths. This fish is not so hard to catch after all. He tires quickly, Theon saw. “If you saw her you would know her for Catelyn Stark’s daughter immediately.” Toliz silently handed Tully a wineskin, prompting him to give the Essosi a surprised look before drinking. Free wine is not so common in Westeros, aye.

“So you want me to help your queen win her wars in return for seeing my grandniece restored to what is hers.” he said finally.

“Even if you die in the wars to come, Daenerys is not the sort to renege on such a promise.” Theon replied.

“I’ll make that determination for my bloody self, Greyjoy. Get me to this queen of yours and we’ll see.” he said, giving the sky another look. Imagine, Theon thought. Anger enough to forget a fucking dragon flying overhead.

“As fortunate as it was for us to pluck you from the waters, our momentary stop as well as towing the dinghy will delay our arrival until nightfall, my friends. Therefore I will show you to cabins so that you may rest beforehand.” Toliz said when silence had fallen between the Westerosi. Before the captain could object, Red Flea and Malakko took one cabin for themselves. Appreciate it, lads, Theon thought sullenly, stuck with Tully for the rest of the voyage.

“Speaking of fish…” he said suddenly.

“I was ready to die defending Riverrun from a Lannister-Frey force. Before the fuckers could give me a proper case of sword-through-bowels those croakers cracked me on the head and I woke up in one of their sea-cells. That one twat with the burned look, he never told me more than that I’d be their guest until it was prudent to let me out. Tossed me a few seared trout every day and that was all I saw of them. All I saw of anyone until you lot decided to pull me out of there.” he said. “I’ll have to find out what happened to my cheesebrained nephew as well, I suppose. Edmure Tully, rightful Lord of Riverrun and may the Freys choke on trout bones their first feast there.”

“Boltons and Freys make queer bedfellows.” Theon said.

“None queerer. But even they were only catspaws of Tywin Lannister. Neither Walder Frey nor Roose Bolton would have dared to pull the Red Wedding without his say-so. Now he’s dead, his puppets dance on blindly. Unable to stand without their strings being pulled, let alone ruling the riverlands or the North.”

“Keeping Ramsay on a short leash is a job all its own. I can’t see the northern lords supporting his father long with Ramsay tearing their lands up. Should Sansa resurface, they’d flock to her just to be rid of the flayed man.” The shrieks have stopped. The dragon’s moved on, Theon realized. Tully seemed to notice what he was listening for as well.

“Fucking dragons.” he grunted.

“She has three. A fleet reinforced with Asha’s half of the longships, Dothraki screamers, Unsullied soldiers, countless Essosi freedmen, and three fucking dragons. It’s only a matter of time before she takes the Iron Throne, and even how much time it takes is wholly up to her.” Theon told him.

Theon was woken by a chorus of shouting voices on deck.

“Fucking shit, what now?” he heard Tully groan. “Go shut them up.” Theon dutifully went topside, looking around and yawning. The sailors were pointing and arguing at something on the fuzzy shore of Dragonstone. Theon had to blink the drowsiness out of his eyes to make sure he was seeing right. The surf glittered with reflected starlight, gold and silver flecks luring them forward sure as a pretty maid.

“That was fast.” Theon said, surprised. The rowboat was lowered and they pressed on to the beach. Regardless of his origin every man stared into the water at the feathers that glinted below, more than one man forgetting to row at the king’s ransom that begged to be scooped up. Only when they landed and the reek of fish did Theon’s elation vanish. He took Toliz’ arm. “Easy. My guess is they’re not fond of fire but a mob of fearful sailors would surely make it worse.” he said quietly.

“What’s not f-” Toliz gave an ungodly shriek when the shape of several man-fishes and the burned man who’d given him the dice loomed out of the night, standing between them and the steps up to Dragonstone. Theon could hear the alarm raised above, the man-fishes croaking to each other, eyes on the stairs.

“You’re late.” the man said.

“Currents are fickle cunts.” Theon replied. Boots coming down the stairs made the creatures shrink away from the landing, croak-muttering apprehensively. Red Flea called out in Valyrian, another Unsullied up the stairs answering in a terse voice.

“He asks why there was an outcry.” he whispered to Theon.

“Tell him it’s alright, to come down slow and easy.” Red Flea relayed his words and the queen’s soldiers began pooling at the bottom of the stair, looking at the man-fishes and little else. The burned man pointed to shore.

“We’ll toss more into the surf every night, the waves will carry it to shore. What happens to it after that is for your kind.” he said.

“I know the whelps will have the time of their lives scooping it all up.” Theon replied. “Allow me to express thanks on behalf of Daenerys Targaryen and indeed, the world above the waves, to you and to your lady.”

“She does not require the thanks of an air-breather, only the returning to the sea of what belongs to it.” the man said, moving toward the freedmen who hastily parted. His fishy companions followed at once, croaking to each other in what might have been amusement.

Theon took Red Flea, Malakko and Tully with him up to the castle, thighs aching when he finally reached the great doors. That staircase has to be some long-dead dragonlord’s idea of a joke. Welcome to Dragonstone. Oh, can’t fly? See you in two days, Theon thought grumpily. Only the Unsullied didn’t seem winded from the climb. I wonder what the Damphair will say when we turn up with a horse of the croaking things in tow and let them drag the Seastone Chair off. Hard to take the drowned priests at their word when there are man-fishes and mermaids who would laugh them out of their sunken hall, he reflected. He supposed Asha would either be abed or making eyes at the dragon queen in the map room, so in he went. He stared out into the night, out onto the roiling Narrow Sea. How many mornings will see the hoard renewed, he wondered. He remembered the words of the mermaid with the pink tail, the one on the rock. And if they have?, she said. I’ll bet there’s enough and more to simply buy the Iron Throne out from under Cersei. The thought of so much plunder simply rolling out of the surf into their laps made Theon grin. Grin as he had when he saw Ros pull her dress off for the first time. Fuck it, he thought. The women across the Narrow Sea were as wanton as could be, some even with jewels through their nipples or navels. Mayhaps I find a knife just as good as the one I lost, better even, wrought in tireless gold or silver. The thought made him laugh. He leaned against the wall then, breathless with mirth, laughing as he had with Robb when they watched Jon’s moping face wince as his hair was cut. The sound echoed off the stone until it sounded as if a dozen Theon Greyjoys were all laughing together at a joke only they knew. When he turned he beheld the dragon queen garbed in a silk robe, a sight any man would have gone breathless at. Theon was no different, yet he was winded from laughter, not lust. The world is one big joke, the people in it clueless dupes, and I the only one to see, he thought, walking toward her. Even you. A life spent chasing a lump of ass-polished iron.

“Your Grace, a few more weeks and we can put your perky ass on a pile of treasure taller even than the Iron Throne.” he said, laughter renewed at the look on her face as he staggered from the hall.

Suddenly none of it much bothered Theon Greyjoy. Euron, Ramsay, the dragon queen, they’re all just crabs in a bucket and I the crabber. He hadn’t felt so alive since he left Robb’s tent to go treat with Lord Balon. Thinking on his father too made him chuckle, shaking his head. You took a crown so Euron could take it from you. What the fuck did you know? There was a knocking on the door of the unfurnished bedroom he found himself in.

“Lord Greyjoy, Her Grace wishes to see you.” An Unsullied called from the other side of the wood. I wonder why? Theon thought, taking a moment for the laughter to die down. Someone could run me through and I’d laugh in their face. Once he could stop his lips from curling he went back into the map room, finding Daenerys Targaryen surrounded by two dozen of her toy soldiers.

“Where have you been?” she asked. Theon heard the irritation in her voice. She must not want to offend Asha or I’d probably be dead already, Theon reasoned.

“Pardon me, Your Grace, I’ve just had a trying few days. I leapt off your ship after a mermaid, you see. Wound up in a cave with a few of your more loyal men, did a bit of haggling with a fishwife and filled your coffers full and more. In the morning perhaps you can set the Essosi urchins to combing the beaches, there will be more to find than pretty rocks.” he said, sitting in a chair near where the Iron Islands would be had the Painted Table included them. “Also, I don’t think we’ll see much of my uncle going forward. The Ironborn are the greatest sailors in Westeros, but that doesn’t matter put against spears on the sea bottom, footmen that breathe water.” he said, looking from the seat the queen occupied, the raised one near Dragonstone, to the coast to the northeast of the island. The queen frowned, mystified. “Ask Malakko. Ask Red Flea. Man-fishes, croaking scaled things that walk on two legs and carry spears. Mermaids, women with fish tails instead of legs and the best breasts I’ve ever seen. One among them told me they wanted the Seastone Chair returned to the sea. I told them fine, then asked if they could toss up whatever booty lies on the bottom of the Narrow Sea. They agreed.” he shrugged. Her face then would have been a thing to laugh at all its own, but Theon thought better of it.

“Where is Asha? Sampling some poor chambermaid?” Theon asked, looking around as if she was hiding in the room with them.

“Lady Asha has gone on to Sunspear to ferry representatives from Dorne and the Reach back to Dragonstone.

“How do you know they’re there?” Theon asked uncertainly. “How many from each kingdom?” Daenerys’ cheeks turned pink.

“Prince Oberyn Martell’s paramour and natural daughters and Olenna Tyrell.” Theon’s eyebrow went up at her response.

“So a few women bending the knee to you makes Dorne and the Reach yours?” he asked. “Were I you I’d come up with something better when the lords proper ask you why they should follow you. If this Tyrell had the loyalty of the Reach, for one, she’d be in Highgarden, not languishing in Dorne.” His objections only made the queen’s cheeks go from pink to red. “So what? Not like they’re going to go for Cersei when you’re clearly the better option. Do what you did with Asha in Meereen and you’ll be fine.” Daenerys stared at him. “Well, with less flirting and letting them stare at your chest.” he amended. “Probably don’t even need to do it from dragonback, just stroll up to them, say fuck the Lannisters and you’ll have nine of every ten lords on principle. At least below the Neck.” The color in the queen’s cheeks receded and her eyes widened a bit.

“Not above, though.” she said finally. Theon shrugged.

“I’ve no idea what’s going on up there. Speaking of, though, I found you a Tully of Riverrun who might be of service in regard to the North.” She uttered a command in Valyrian and Tully was brought in wearing fresh garb looking his typical sunny self. On seeing the queen his eyes widened warily.

“Welcome, Lord Tully.” she said courteously as ever.

“By rights my nephew is the lord. Edmure. A captive of the Lannisters somewhere, likely the Rock.” he said in reply. “I’m just a knight who’s long outlived anyone worth serving.” For some reason the queen’s eyes got a bit misty, Theon saw. “If Greyjoy tells it right we may run into my niece’s daughter, who happens to be the last Stark of Winterfell. Give my nephew Riverrun and my grandniece Winterfell and I’ll take you wherever you want to go, your Grace.” he said, getting to one knee.

Chapter Text

Jaime

When he told the army such as it was that they’d soon be off the way they came, Jaime expected the complaining only soldiers could do. Instead Rogar had readied his horse and Freglyn spent all day refilling his quiver. In short order the men were ready to head to Duskendale, accompanied by a few riverlanders who either wanted to see the dragons, relieve the castle of a hungry mouth, or were just bored out of their minds. Ser Bonifer took a deal of coaxing to leave both his order behind for a bit, but in the end he delegated command and joined Jaime’s corps of officers.

“At least it isn’t pissing on us.” Bronn said, looking up at the clear blue sky. “Are we going to run into trouble on the way to Duskendale?”

“Antlers is the only castle near directly on our route, ser. The Buckwells are staunch champions of the smallfolk and have been more than generous sending what food they could to Harrenhal.” Ser Bonifer replied.

“I thought Harrenhal was in the riverlands?”

“So it is. But the Seven Kingdoms do not have lines drawn through them in life as on a map, and plenty of people live where the distinctions become blurred. My youth was spent in tournaments and other shallow displays of vanity, but I saw that there is little true difference between men from what a maester might term the Andal kingdoms. The Reach, the westerlands, the riverlands, the crownlands, the stormlands and the Vale…They may be different colors on a Citadel map and the high lords may draw great distinctions between themselves, but the smallfolk who neither read nor care only know the land as Westeros.” Ser Bonifer said.

“Aye.” Jaime agreed. “It’s highborn cunts who start the wars and go after each other to make their little spot on the map a bit bigger, until they lose it in turn to some other wastrel.”

“Sounds like what we need to do is round up all the highborn cunts and start lopping heads, then.” Bronn suggested, making Payne clack with amusement.

“Who to rule this godsforsaken mess, then?” Jaime asked.

“Fucked if I care.” Bronn replied. More clacking from Ilyn Payne.

“The realms were prosperous under House Targaryen. Even Robert kept the peace, for what he was worth. A better king than Aerys, no man can deny it.” Ser Bonifer said.

“Surely so, Ser Bonifer, and you’d make a better king than Robert. It isn‘t enough to replace a jar of wildfire with a jug of wine and call it progress.” Jaime replied. “Besides, the Targaryens knew no end of grief when it came to the Iron Throne. The Dance took their dragons from them and since that day they were just shitheels like the rest of us, only prettier. The Blackfyre Rebellions in turn were an open sore oozing puss for a generation and more.”

“I’ve never been to fancy lad school or had a man in a gray dress teach me much history,” Bronn intoned. “All I know is that if the wrong fucker has his ass in that chair, or wants to, anyway, the country goes to shit all over again. Even a man who knows what he’s doing only lives one lifetime and there’s no guarantee his son’s not a cunt and fucks what his father built up. Even if that red castle and iron shitter kept it all together once, it don’t anymore.”

Fitting perhaps we have this discussion on the way to meet Daenerys Targayen, Jaime thought. Bronn is right. Even if she’s the answer to every prayer ever uttered, she still has to die like everybody else. What if her children are fops who can’t ride fences let alone dragons? To say nothing of Aerys’ daughter awing in her own right. Jaime frowned. Killing pyromancers to get to Aerys was one thing, but he’d been young and whole then. Killing dragons to get to Daenerys was a different prospect. We’ll see, he thought. Even a loon would know attacking King’s Landing is just a wash. Either the dragons light the torch or Cersei does. A few days afield, the army came upon a company of outriders wearing antler badges.

“By what warrant does an army march unannounced through lands belonging to the Antlers?” their ranking officer demanded.

“We’re heading to Duskendale for further reinforcements. Tell the Buckwells we mean only to cross their lands, not take them from them.” Jaime said, acting as if he were simply bored. Bronn helpfully stifled a yawn. “Unless you’d rather take this rabble on to Duskendale and I could tell the Buckwells myself, sergeant.” Jaime added. The man promptly turned his company away and rode northeast toward the castle, a black dot off to their left. Payne clacked once.

“Cunt is right.” Bronn muttered. After a quick look at the map and watching the island of Dragonstone gleefully disappear north in the whorl of color and letters the paper became, the sellsword pointed to Rook’s Nest. “Isn’t that where we’re supposed to be going? Your sister’s orders?” Bronn said.

“Rook’s Nest is a castle. Duskendale is a port town of great repute, the ships going in and out will be larger and easier to charter. We’ve got someone to meet there as well.” Jaime said.

“A hundred dragons she doesn’t show. Anyone mad enough to want to go to King’s Landing has a death wish.” Payne clacked his agreement.

“Whom are we meeting? Ser Bonifer asked ncertainly.

“Right, you missed the batty serving wench. Our lioncunt picked up an admirer at the Twins and it seems she tried to kill him the night we kipped at Harrenhal.” Bronn smirked. Ser Bonifer’s face paled.

“Ser Jaime, you should have told me at once! You were a guest under my roof, if one of the servants intended you harm-”

"There was no harm done, Ser Bonifer. Besides, her sewing needle of a sword couldn’t have skewered a frog. Snapped in two when she hit the brick floor instead of me.”

“Because a lion queen and a dragon queen can’t drive home the joke. We had to dig up a wolf queen just to keep things funny.” Bronn said dryly.

Another day’s ride and the First Army of King’s Landing and its augment found themselves outside the town of Duskendale.

“Right, have them tent up to the south, on the knife of land that borders Blackwater Bay.” Jaime ordered his officers. He turned to his companions “We’ll go into town and look for a ship.” He pulled a glove over his metal hand. “If anyone asks, Ser Bonifer is heading to Dragonstone to take the measure of Daenerys for the Faith of the Seven.”

“What Faith of the Seven?” Bronn asked. When Ser Bonifer inquired as to what Bronn meant, the sellsword gave Jaime a meaningful look. “Ah… one of the Mad King’s stashes of wildfire ignited under the Sept of Baelor.” he said, watching the man’s eyes go wide.

“That can’t be. The High Sept-”

“There is no High Septon. No Most Devout, no King’s Landing chapters of the Faith. Speaking of the Faith, you may find yourself representing a deal of Westeros’ people, being the founder of the Holy Hundred. Surely your authority would not be questioned in matters of prayer.” Ignoring the mortified look on Hasty’s face was made all the harder by his earnest belief in the Seven. A sycophant may wail and tear their clothes in mourning but there’s a despair the genuine feel that cannot be feigned, Jaime thought.

“And this handless fool thinks handing the country to the daughter of the man who planted that cache is a good idea.” Bronn added, going back to picking his teeth. Payne opened his mouth at Bonifer, showing his concurrence with Bronn’s words. Or so Jaime believed. He has no tongue and yet does not lack for speech if one knows how to listen, he observed. He rode up to the town gate and dismounted as the guardsmen atop the little wall ran about, panicking and trying to decide what to do about the army outside. Eventually one stout old goat stuck his head over the parapets.

“I am Ser Rufus Leek, castellan of the Dun Fort and the town of Duskendale while Lord Renfred Rykker is in seclusion, praying for the souls lost in the Sept of Baelor.”

“We’ve come in regard to the souls that remain, Ser Rufus. I am Ser Bonifer Hasty of the Holy Hundred, here to set the nervous at ease.” Ser Rufus blinked and squinted down at them.

“And who are your men?” he asked suspiciously. “These are uncertain times, Ser Rufus. Strong sword arms to keep the defenseless safe are sure gifts from the Warrior, regardless of who they were beforehand.” Bonifer replied. Not bad, Jaime thought, keeping quiet. Bronn was just another sellsword as far as anyone was concerned and only the people of King’s Landing knew Ilyn Payne on sight. “We are happy to wait until the gods are done with Lord Rykker for an audience ourselves.” Ser Rufus frowned and whispered something in the man to his right’s ear, who dashed off. About ten minutes later he returned, whispering into the knight’s ear in turn.

“Very well. Your flock may stay outside the walls, ser, while we find you some accommodations.” Leek said, the gate opening.

Jaime let Bonifer take the lead as fit the leader of a flock of religious rabble. Payne and Bronn kept up, their faces impassive and uninterested in the town around them, just as keep to keep Hasty’s little game going as Jaime was. Still, it seems a shame to use Ser Bonifer’s piety as a glamor just to get me nearer Dragonstone, he thought. He saw the castellan lacked a left leg, preferring the saddle to make up for it. When he dismounted to take them into the castle, he leaned heavily on a wooden stick. Leek led them through town to the Dun Fort, into the castle itself. Jaime wondered whether or not Rykker had something else in mind than having them wait in some tavern. They went down two stone staircases, finding themselves in the dungeons.

“There are plenty of sinners in need of confession to a man of the Faith, ser. You’ll find the last cell on the left a good place to start.” he pointed the way for Ser Bonifer.

“I thank you, Ser Rufus. I’ll find the way, you can return to your duties.” The one-legged knight grunted and limped off. “Well, shall we, sers?” Hasty said over his shoulder. Jaime headed in the direction Leek had pointed, seeing all the cells were in fact empty. The last one had become a sort of tiny solar, where a man with crossed hammers on his breast looked over letters marked with Lannister wax. Ser Bonifer coughed to announce them and the man looked up.

“Well met, Ser Bonifer. I’m afraid I must apologize for the circumstances of our meeting, difficulties with King’s Landing and the developing situation on Dragonstone force me to take meetings where no one will overhear. I am Renfred Rykker, Lord of Duskendale.” he introduced himself.

“There is no need to apologize, my lord. I understand fully your desire to avoid being drawn into yet another conflict.”

“Over a throne I’ve never laid eyes on, caught between a bitch-queen who’d rather drink boiling oil than give up power and a madman’s whelp with all the power of Essos behind her.” Rykker said, running his fingers through his hair. “I’ve little ones and a wife to worry about, not to speak of my smallfolk. It is to them I owe my allegiance, not one queen or another.”

"A man after my own heart.” Jaime said, speaking for the first time. Before Rykker could rebuke him, he pulled off the glove and showed the lord of crossed hammers. Instantly the man’s face when pale and he started gaping like a fish. “There’s no need to make excuses, my lord. I’m sure you’re doing the best you can given your tricky circumstances. You needn’t worry about Cersei finding out, I expect I’ll not see her again for some time.” he said offhandedly. “All we need is a discreet ship to take us to Dragonstone.”

“If you think I’m letting you try some mad scheme to remove the dragon queen, you’re madder than she is.” Rykker said flatly. “A dragon could wipe Duskendale off the map in five minutes.”

“Oh, I’m not going there to assassinate her. I haven’t the knack for it anymore, among other things.” he tapped the wall with his hand. “I’m going to surrender and preserve as many lives as I can. See, I’ve no more desire to die over the throne than you do.”

Rykker looked at him as though he’d asked for passage to the moon. His gaze moved from Jaime to the others. Bonifer kept his resolute air, Bronn shrugged and Payne clacked.

“If I die, well, no need to mourn me. At least you’ll know to bend the knee when Daenerys Targaryen comes calling. King’s Landing may be closer on the map but as the dragon flies you may find it more conducive to living to declare for Dragonstone.” Jaime shrugged.

“If word got back to the capital that I sent you on to the dragon queen…” Rykker said.

“It won’t. My little game is known only to these three worthies and Cersei has much and more to worry about already than coming after you. If you like I can pass along your oath of fealty to Daenerys, or even come yourself if you’re feeling brave. Dragons may be a terrifying prospect but I look forward to seeing one in the flesh just as well.” Their host grew ever paler. Jaime felt for the wretched choice facing the man. “If you have a son, all the more reason to come. Secure his inheritance and position under the coming regime, maybe you can even make his little piece of Westeros a bit bigger. Plenty of crownlanders lords did not survive the War of Five Kings and those loyal to Daenerys will find themselves wealthy in coin and land both come her accession.” Finally, Renfred found his voice.

“You speak as if such a thing is inevitable, ser.” he said slowly.

“Three dragons will do that, my lord.” Jaime replied.

“That’s not all. Rumors of Dothraki screamers and men made of blood-mortared brick taking up along the southern shore of Crackclaw Point have driven those folk dwelling there off their lands, fleeing to the safety of Maidenpool or such places.”

“All the more reason to come with us, Lord Rykker. Then you can return to your solar as befits the Lord of Duskendale, a vassal of House Targaryen as your ancestors were, instead of hunching in the dark like an eyeless creature hiding from Cersei’s wrath.” Renfred bit his lip and peered into the cell across from them.

“There are plenty of folk in Duskendale who loathe the memory of the Mad King. The Darklyns were wiped out on his order and your lord father’s, but they have close kin within these walls as well. Unlikely they’d appreciate the accession of Aerys’ daughter, dragons or no dragons.”

“Unfortunately, Lord Rykker, the latter is the situation we’ve got, and that makes such an accession something they should come to grips with and soon.” Renfred looked as though he’d swallowed a lemon.

“We’ll leave at dawn. My Blackhammer is no pleasure boat and its crew experienced and loyal. They will take us to Dragonstone. If it isn’t out of taste, ser, perhaps you’d like to spend tonight at prayer. You will need the favor of the gods to survive such a journey.” he told Jaime.

The morning dawned misty and wretchedly chilly. A sheen had covered Jaime’s hand as he slept, so he busied himself by drawing a face with his left finger on the back of it. It struck him how much the face looked like Tyrion’s, then he remembered that if luck went his way he’d see the dwarf in only a few hours. I’ll tell him about the wildfire first, he thought grimly. Once he hears about Tysha he’s not like to listen to shit else I say. On the way to the docks a covered wagon began following them, creaking from the weight it bore. Suddenly Jaime put his hand to his forehead.

“If she thinks she’s getting the direwolf on board…“ he muttered.

“She does, and she is.” The Stark girl’s voice emanated out from the mist.

“No games today, I’m in no mood. You happen to be late as well, we got here yesterday and with a throng in tow. Did you at least find what you were looking for?” he asked grumpily.

“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.” She poked her head out from the wagon. “Who’re you?” she asked Rykker.

“Lord of Duskendale. He’s coming with us to meet the dragon queen.” Jaime informed her. Stark made a face at Rykker and a deeper voice in the tent said something.

“Why don’t you make me?” she replied to whoever it was. A low growl from within the wagon made all the horses whinny in fear.

“How are we going to get it on the ship?” Jaime asked. In reply Stark vaulted out of the wagon, followed by a sullen bull of a lad with black hair to his shoulders and blue eyes that would make even Cersei blush. Robert’s bastard, Jaime knew at once. “I thought Cersei had them all murdered.” Jaime said, turning to Stark.

“She missed one.” she replied, shrugging. He was about to introduce his companions to her when a wolf bigger than a horse got up from the wagon, peering at the muddy ground sulkily. “Come on, you’ve had muddy feet plenty of times.” Stark said, scratching her wolf’s huge head. The beast hopped nimbly out of the wagon, the axles creaking under considerable stress until she was quit of it. “You have no idea how long it took to coax her in there.” Stark said, pursing her lips while Rykker stared at the direwolf. Introductions were made and they were off before anyone else could see the northern monster loitering calm as a mongrel hound at the shoulder of a girl she herself stood taller than. Blackhammer lay at dock with three guards waiting for them, each staring at the wolf as she trotted up the gangplank without a second thought. Jaime had his glove on and let Bonifer and Rykker do the talking, content to remain some nondescript until it came time. Time enough to perhaps break a brick soldier's nose before his friend puts a spear between my shoulders, Jaime thought. Coins were clinked to keep the dockmen quiet but Jaime had no doubts that rumors would fly. A direwolf in Duskendale. The wind picked up a bit on the open sea, slowing their progress but Rykker opened a barrel of spiced wine to tide them over while Stark and her two companions found their own cabin.

“I only had time to tell my wife.” he told them. “The children were still abed and I wasn’t about to wake them to tell them where I was going. She cried a bit when I told her, but she bravely bade me return to her before moon’s turn.”

“She sounds a good woman. You are fortunate, my lord, more so than many men harried by shrewish wives in this world.” Jaime told him as the sounds of the waking port town sank into the distance.

Stark shook him awake it seemed moments later.

“Wake up. We’ve landed in the port town. Jaime blinked confusedly. No, that’s where we left. Then his eyes popped open and he was on his feet faster than ever he had been.

“Anything from your wolf?” he asked.

“Nymeria isn’t acting funny, either the dragons don’t bother her or she can’t smell them yet. The wind and the sea are likely hiding their scent for now.” Ser Bonifer looked particularly ghastly. Probably didn’t sleep a wink. The Essosi worship fire demons, goat-headed monsters and million-faced men. They made their way topside, the sailors muttering fearfully at the sight of Nymeria, as Stark called her, clear of mist. She looks a splendid beast, truly, Jaime thought. Robb Stark’s wolf had been intent on intimidating Jaime and so he’d quite missed it the first time. Ser Bonifer led them onto the docks of Dragonstone, the people predictably stunned at the sight of the beast. The wolf for her part ignored them utterly, even their animals. Stark herself seemed overjoyed in the presence of Robert’s bastard, who kept his eyes forward and acted quite disinterested in everything else but her antics. If only her aunt had taken so to his father none of us would be here right now, Jaime thought. Eventually they passed out of the port town and found themselves at the base of a great stair, flanked by several men with skin like cinnamon carrying spears. He thought perhaps the wolf might growl at the sight of weaponry but she acted as thought they were made of stone.

“Good morning, sers. I am Ser Bonifer Hasty of the Holy Hundred, devout follower of the Seven. I would humbly request an audience with the Mother of Dragons on behalf of concerned faithful on the mainland.”

“Me too!” Stark piped up. “I’m Arya Stark, Queen in the North, but I don’t want an audience. I just want to know what she intends to do about the Boltons.” she said. The brick gave absolutely no sign that they had heard, but one of them turned and began climbing the granite stair. That’s going to be worse than the rains, Jaime thought, despairing. I may die of spasms before Daenerys has a chance to kill me. Possibly the person Jaime desired least to meet again returned with the soldier. Varys had dropped his simpering foppish air completely, regarding Jaime with the unreadable composure of a sphinx.

“Oh, fuck.” Jaime and Bronn both said at once. Payne clacked in recognition.

“Welcome to Dragonstone, Ser Jaime. If you’re quite ready for a little climb, I will take you to the queen.” Varys said.

A half dozen of the brick men accompanied them on the way up, Gendry carrying Stark on his back when her lithe legs got too tired. The wolf seemed less unsure more puzzled as to their course, as if wondering why men would need to reach a place up in the sky where neither prey nor rivers ran. Finally they reached the top, Bronn vomiting freely into the grass some feet away.

“Alright, maybe a dragon won’t be so bad after this.” he said on hands and knees before the wine came up again.

“The hero of the Blackwater undone by a little exercise.” Varys rolled his eyes as he addressed the guards in what Jaime thought might be Valyrian. The great doors of the castle were duly opened. Neither Jaime nor Rykker wore a sword but Bronn and Ser Bonifer both were required to give the guards their blades. They seemed at a loss, or as much as they could be, about the direwolf. However, the beast made no move to cross the threshold, sitting squarely in place and resolutely ignoring Stark's appeals to get her to come. The wolf’s eyes roved over the granite the Valyrians had shaped and Jaime didn’t need to be a northerner to know she cared not an iron bob for the place. There were always stories that the Valyrians shaped this place with magic, he thought. Small wonder the wolf doesn’t like it. Finally Gendry stepped in.

“C’mon. She’s smarter than the rest of these anvil-heads put together. Besides, it’s an island, she isn’t going anywhere.” he said, making Stark giggle.

“You’re an anvil-head.” she taunted him.

“You’re a bigger one.” he replied, serene as his father never had been. As Varys guided him through the halls, Jaime felt he was walking back in time to when he had half the years and twice the hands. The Targaryen banners were new and some crudely made of dyed horsehair, but the dragonness of the place was more than the Red Keep had ever been, even with the dragon skulls leering at visitors. Except I’m not going back, I’m going forward. Dragons are Westeros’ future, too. The throng in the throne room was one Jaime had never experienced before. The voices, many speaking Valyrian or else a series of snarly grunts he assumed to be Dothraki, seemed more than content, they seemed hopeful. Even Robert’s sputter of peace had never inspired such a strange occurrence. The Essosi of course, knew him not from any other Westerosi but he caught sight of a few faces he half-recognized. Silence fell as the sound of approaching footsteps made the crowd turn to a great stone chair set into the far wall. Jaime tried to remember how Aerys had looked before the rebellion, but all he recalled were the long fingernails, the sour breath and the sunken pinched face. At least Brienne isn’t here, he thought as the far hall doors and people began filing in. The Tyrell harridan from Joffrey’s wedding. The Blackfish, fresh off his ‘death’ at Riverrun. The Greyjoy lad from Winterfell and a woman who could only have been his sister. The Red Viper’s paramour and her train of his bastards. Tyrion waddling as gracefully as his leg would allow. The queen came in last, arm in arm with a girl with peculiarly guileless eyes. She sat without pomp in the stone chair, looking at the throng impassively. Now you’re just rubbing it in, little brother, Jaime thought. Gradually he squeezed through the throng until he stood before her. He must have had a truly confounded expression on his face, one that warranted explanation, because nobody tried to murder him. Aerys was a shrew and Rhaella a wisp. This girl is neither. The silence drew out until Jaime realized all eyes were on him. Father would say something legendary. He took a breath.

“Fuck.” he said.

Chapter Text

Asha

Her lip curled. She couldn’t help it. The famed Kingslayer, terror of the tourney fields, famed son of Lord Tywin and infamous sisterfucker, looked like a haggard farmer. Lannister pulled his glove off and waved his golden hand to prove his identity. When nothing but hot air tumbled past his teeth, Asha let the laughter come.

“This one’s got less hot blood in him than some dead men I’ve known.” Her words took everyone from the dragon queen to the man himself aback. “Well, look at him! A stiff wind would put him on his aging ass.” her hand came up and she gestured at him. “The dwarf could best him sword to sword.”

“We get your meaning, Lady Asha.” Tyrion said tersely.

“Bugger your family awkwardness, Lannister. We’re all waiting for something out of myth to stride in and brandish some ruby-encrusted golden sword and instead we get the bits of Cersei that weren’t woman enough to be born a girl themselves.” The Dornishwomen smirked in turn at this. Even the rosy hag seemed distantly amused.

“Can I run him through now?” Tully asked, a man after her own lord father’s heart in terms of cheerfulness. He isn’t afraid, only anxious, Asha noticed, giving the Kingslayer a second look. He knows he isn’t leaving Dragonstone alive and yet that much doesn’t bother him. But something does.

“Right.” He cut through the murmurs and sudden conversations with a single word. “I know what you’re thinking, but trust me when I say you need to listen to me. After, you can poke me full of holes or feed me to a dragon or just toss me down those hellish steps and see if I bounce.” he said, face a blunt bemused grin. The queen looked to Tyrion.

“Is he deranged?” she asked, sounding almost curious.

“I’d rather not speak of matters in public when they’re meant only for your ears, Your Grace.” he said, shrugging. “If you prefer I can blurt out every depravity of Aerys’ where everyone can hear.” The color rose in the queen’s cheeks immediately.

“You murdered my father. You can see how I’m having difficulty granting your request.” she said, trying hard to keep her composure. A man you’ve never met sitting a throne you’ve never seen, Asha thought. My own father was a deluded cunt who left his wife to haunt Ten Towers like a sea-shade.

“I killed his pyromancers, too.” Lannister said, making Tyrion frown deeply, as well as the robed eunuch.

The queen gave no reaction, likely because she had no idea what the significance of Lannister’s words was. Neither do I, Asha thought. Lannister shrugged.

“Last chance, Your Grace. Surely it’s enough to live under Aerys’ shadow without his every atrocity fresh in your vassals’ minds.” He spoke as if it were nothing to him, the queen before him just another face on the road to the grave. That is not how a liar speaks, Asha thought. The queen seemed resolute not to rise to the bait. He looked over his shoulder. “Waters. Take her outside and wait with her. Bronn will fetch you when it’s time.” When a stripling in the crowd’s cheeks rounded in a pout the bull on two legs behind her simply scooped her up in his massive arms and carried her out of the room.

“Speak, ser.” Asha had for a moment forgotten Theon was standing next to her, but it seemed he had quite found his voice.

“It seems the laughing wastrel from the feast at Winterfell has gone.” Lannister replied. “Nobody can deny that Aerys was little more than a wild animal that wore the title of king. Aegon the Unworthy’s crown was too big for his head and sat low around his brow, giving him an appearance one would associate with a mitered ape. He shrank from every shadow, screamed himself hoarse at those he thought disloyal before exiling them or worse and looked like something a drunken mason would carve to accompany the gargoyles on the ramparts of Dragonstone. It wasn’t that though, that bade me draw my sword on him. By the end, he could not bestir himself to ravage Queen Rhaella unless a man had burned that day. One evening mauling, when the queen’s cries were too much for the boy who became the man you see, he turned to Ser Jonothor Darry, a fellow Kingsguard member. Surely another white cloak would join him in putting an end to it. Protecting the queen is a duty of the Kingsguard, after all. Instead he was told protecting Queen Rhaella was not his duty if it meant protecting her from Aerys. Perhaps then the veneer fell away. Or when that boy watched the Mad King burn the Lord of Winterfell while his heir strangled himself in a Tyroshi torture device trying to save his father, all while the honorable white cloaks simply watched. By the time Aerys made butt-boys of the pyromancers, that boy could only wait to see what happened next. News of the Trident set events in motion. When Aerys saw the war was lost, he decided he’d make a pyre for himself as his ancestors had had. Wildfire caches strewn about the city, major buildings and beggar’s hovels. He would not be parted from his capital, he would not be parted from his throne. Burn them all, he kept saying. I took matters into my own hands that night. I was not about to let a madman turn a city of half a million people into a smoking hole. Honor be damned, vows be damned, gods be damned. I killed the pyromancer and then Aerys, running my golden sword through his twisted back and across his gurgling throat before the words of his house could ring true. Then I sat on the throne that had cut him time and again and waited for whatever came next. Later on, years after Robert’s Rebellion, Barristan Selmy liked to give me this disdainful look, the same look Eddard Stark gave me when he found me sitting on the Iron Throne with Aerys lying on the floor staining it with blood and shit. If honor meant letting a madman claw and rend a woman’s flesh because he has a ring of gold around his head, if honor meant letting a madman set five hundred thousand souls aflame, if honor meant one man was more important than all the rest put together, I decided, then honor was more dangerous than all the wildfire in the world.”

Jaime Lannister looked as though he’d aged thirty years in five minutes. No one spoke, no one moved, no one breathed. He held his hands out to his sides.

“If you are going to kill me, now is the time. I don’t know what honorable Ser Barristan Selmy or Lord Eddard Stark would have done in my place. I don’t care. Vows did not stop me from protecting the realm from Aerys. Should you follow in his footsteps I pray that someone follows in mine, and protects the realm from you.” He turned to Tully. “Am I meant to be afraid? Do I look like I want to live? I may know what Cersei’s cunt feels like, but I’ve yet to sink my teeth into her breast so hard it tears. The same could not be said of Aerys. Call me Kingslayer, call me Sisterfucker, call me Man Without Honor, call me what you like until your wits fail you. I know who I am. Someone who would make the choice nobody else would, put a stop to horrors nobody else would.” He smiled, a truly terrifying sight. “I can die knowing I put the realm first.” He refocused on the queen. “Aerys was a monster. Knights kill monsters. All the songs say so. In some of the scary ones though, the monster kills the knight. Which is it to be?” his green eyes bored into the queen without a hint of fear or pity. A soft sound like silk on flowers made Asha turn to the left to make sure she’d heard something in the first place. The Naathi.

“You speak of our queen as though her father made her what she is.” Her voice made Lannister blink.

“Are you fucking deaf? There’s still enough wildfire beneath King’s Landing to make it disappear if one of her lizards so much as farts over it. I killed the other pyromancers Aerys had recruited in the days after the Sack, but I never found all the caches.”

“Daenerys is not a queen because she is a certain man’s daughter. She is a queen because she spent her youth among the defenseless and the abused, and refused to stand by and let the scourge of slavery continue. Uncounted men women and children from the days of Grazdan the Great to modern day perished in chains and no one so much as batted an eye. It was as you said, the way of things. She put an end to it not for gain or support, but because she knew slavery to be wrong.” The Naathi seemed to be trying to find common purpose in Daenerys Targaryen and Jaime Lannister.

“Bully for her. So she’s an idealist. Idealists can be zealots. Call me prejudiced, but I’m not keen on letting Aerys’ daughter flit about the realm on dragonback, least of all near the capital.” Lannister said. The queen’s mouth moved, her cheeks red and eyes watering. It took her a moment it seemed to Asha before she realized no sound was coming out.

“You say there is still wildfire in King’s Landing, enough to present a problem in the event I attack it.“ she finally got out, eyes starting to slowly stream. She is strong, Asha thought, feeling seasick. Her voice did not break. Gods, please don’t let me throw up.

“Your Grace, you may think the Iron Throne your purpose. If you move on King’s Landing, you are condemning everyone inside.”

The thought of stopping, of simply remaining on Dragonstone, seemed to Asha most unlike the woman she’d met in Meereen. Daenerys could charm anyone, but she could not hide her streaming eyes or her trembling lip. When she spoke though, her voice was firm.

“You need not remain with me, my lords. Keep the peace and protect your smallfolk and you’ll need never think on me again.” She’s talking to us, Asha realized. Her lords of Westeros such as we are. “You needn’t fear me, ser. Drogon will not take me up any longer and his brothers have been missing for weeks. If you wish to know why I haven’t yet moved on the capital, the best reason is because I needn’t. The real reason is because I can’t-”

“The dragon’s name is Drogon?” Lannister cocked an eyebrow and looked to his brother. “Imaginative.”

“Named for my first husband, ser. The one my brother sold me to for a hope of a homecoming.” Daenerys said, cheeks red again.

“Homecoming? Well then, you’ve quite the army of your own, a navy to match, and you’ve come back to Westeros at last. Do you feel you are home, Your Grace?” the cripple replied. He looked around at the assembly of lords. “You’re missing the stormlands, the Vale and the North. Assuming the Reach and Dorne will follow an old maid and a kinslaying whore, respectively. Speaking of...” he snorted lordly and spat just as Ellaria Sand opened her mouth for a fiery retort. Asha gagged when Lannister’s aim proved true and the woman instantly threw up. “That’s for Myrcella.” he said sullenly. Tyrell broke out in the most blissful smile, an outright glow, and she looked at the man with unabashed shameless fondness. “As for the North, I might be able to smooth things over for you considerably.”

“No need.” Daenerys said, looking green herself. “I’ve already sent a raven to Winterfell inviting Lord Bolton to come to Dragonstone.” Uh oh, Asha thought as Theon frowned.

“Bad idea. Roose Bolton is a bloodless fiend and his bastard is truly worthy of the term. I’d show you in particular but I don’t want to make you vomit, too.” he told the queen.

“Who needs the Boltons?” Lannister said. “I’ve got an infinitely better option waiting outside.”

His men duly went out to fetch the pair who’d left earlier. What’s this all about? Asha thought curiously, eager to move on from the topic of the queen’s father. The lad returned with his stripling in tow, a small girl with dark hair and grey eyes. When she noticed them all staring, she slowly shrank behind her friend.

“Oi. This is the part where you introduce yourself.” Lannister said, pulling the bull out of the way.

“Um. Hello, I’m Arya Stark. The last Stark, the Lone Wolf, Queen in the North as my brother Robb’s heir.” she said. Asha was ready to laugh herself breathless until Theon stepped off the dais.

“Heard you were dead.” he said.

“Heard you were worse.” she replied.

“Am.” he explained. The girl looked him over.

“I miss Father.” she told him.

“Me too.” he told her and they briefly embraced. Seven hells, she’s real? Asha thought. Tully came off the dais next, staring incredulously. The girl recognized the black fish on his nape.

“I was thinking about going to you when I was on the run in the riverlands. Instead I went to Braavos and spent two years in the alleys. I shouldn’t have left.” she said. If this is how all northerners talk, short and to the point, I could move there at war’s end, Asha thought. “If you don’t believe I am who I say I am, if you don’t believe Theon, my wolf is at the castle gates. She won’t come in, I guess because of the Valyrian magic in the place, but Nymeria’s always been willful.”

“You brought a direwolf to Dragonstone?” Daenerys asked, surprised.

“Nobody stopped me.” Arya Stark shrugged. Tully didn’t seem convinced, suspicious as men of his cast always seemed to be, and he strode off to go look.

“He knew your brother and his wolf both.” Lannister explained to her. “Once he sees, he’ll come ‘round.”

“Don’t know about that. A man like that is only happy when he’s angry. Balon Greyjoy was the same way.” Theon said.

“Bugger Father, I want to see one of these famed direwolves.” Asha said, hopping off the dais and making her way out of the room. Her flippant comment hid her feeling that standing there amid such enmity had simply gotten too uncomfortable. Out in the sun with the wind blowing off the Narrow Sea it became much harder to brood on the evils of the past. Asha saw no wolf, but then the girl had vanished too. She heard an exasperated voice out on the knoll and the shouts of surprised Dothraki and freedmen and headed after them.

Seven hells, she thought as the beast came into view. The direwolf sat in the sun, looking curiously at the bronze-skinned people circled around her, Tully among them. Stark sat at her feet, grinning ear to ear. Even sitting on her haunches the animal could look a tall man in the eye.

“Didn’t know Grey Wind would have got bigger. Wonder how many Freys she’s eaten.” Tully murmured.

“She’s got special wolves for that, Uncle.” Arya said, standing on her toes to scratch behind the wolf’s ears. “Besides, Freys don’t make good eating with their weasel chins and pointed heads. Kill their horses though and they can’t get away.” This made Tully snort in amusement.

“There’s a bit of Robb, I think.”

“She’s bigger than a horse.” Asha said, knees a bit weak despite her bravado.

“Aye. Queen of the Fords and no mistake.” Arya replied. It shocked Asha how aware the creature was. In her experience wolves either mauled your horse or ran away, yet Nymeria as Arya called her simply sat there and let them stare. A queen indeed, Asha thought. A pair of small gasps alerted her to Daenerys’ presence and that of her Naathi friend. The queen stared at Nymeria with her lips parted, looking nothing less than awed. This from the girl who’s been on dragonback, Asha thought. The black dragon could have scarcely had a different temperament, though. He was huge and terrifying but he was also moody, whiny and hogged his mother, always screaming at anyone who approached. Nymeria looked at the men around her as if they were simply food she wasn’t hungry enough to eat.

“When I was with Drogo on the Dothraki Sea, sometimes he would hunt hrakkar, white lions that oft make meals of men and horses both. It took him and his bloodriders all day to track and kill one, I still have its pelt. You would need no pack to kill a dozen in the same time.” she told the wolf quietly, reverently. Where the Naathi remained quite content to keep herself out of mauling range as Asha herself did, Daenerys turned to the girl at Nymeria’s side.

“May I pet her?”

“Direwolves are no more pets than dragons are. Like most wild things, they seldom like men’s hands on them.” Arya replied, Nymeria’s nose twitching in the direction of the queen. She does not miss a word, Asha saw. “We all had one, but I’d guess the rest are dead. Except maybe Ghost. He’s with my brother Jon Snow at the Wall.”

“I wonder what Lord Bolton will say to Lord Eddard Stark’s daughter?” Theon mused, coming up the knoll toward them. “Lannister’s sellsword started taking wagers how long it would take for someone to murder him. I put you in at sunup, Asha.” he said, looking around. “Where’s the dragon?”

“Probably sleeping. Midday is when the herds on the northern shore are most alert, scattering when Drogon appears overhead. It isn’t worth chasing goats down one at a time when you’re his size.” the queen explained tonelessly, still obviously quite taken with the direwolf. “Are there more?” Arya Stark shrugged.

“Not in the Seven Kingdoms. Beyond the Wall, maybe. I’m not about to go check.”

“Sadly, neither am I. Silverwing was bigger than Drogon is now and still she would not take Alysanne past the Wall.” Daenerys said, looking put out.

When Nymeria bored of the attention she simply trotted off through the crowd of Dothraki as they stumbled to get out of her way. The sun began to sink and a shrill shriek from the cliffs advertised that the dragon had woken.

“That’s our cue to fuck off.” Asha said, making her way back to the castle. She made sure her lads were alright given the days no doubt blending together for them, then returned to her room where a cask of Arbor gold waited for her. To her surprise, the queen’s pet eunuch soon appeared in her doorway.

“Lady Asha.” he said in greeting.

“What do you want?” she asked, eyebrows narrowing as she emptied a cup.

“Just to satisfy a pique of curiosity. Funny how Arbor gold makes even the rusty tongues of Iron Islanders wag.” Fuck, now what?

“Well, Lord Varys, perhaps if you cared to get to the fucking point, I could help you.” she said bluntly.

“If I could do such a thing, I wouldn’t need to intrude on you. I’ve heard mutters of events concerning a certain ship, Ironspar.” Asha went from irritated to subdued. “Ah, you know it. Splendid.” He came in and shut the door, sitting across from her. “I couldn’t help but notice you haven’t yet asked your brother how he came to Dragonstone.”

“Theon is none of your concern. He’ll tell me what he will when he’s ready, he doesn’t need someone else giving him the oh, you’re alive look.”

“Very sensible, he’s been through more than most. Lord Tyrion’s account seems to involve him throwing himself into the sea under a certain impetus one would expect a man in his condition not to be subject to. One I myself certainly am not.”

“The dwarf told you Theon jumped into a roiling sea after a woman? Then he’s blind as well as short.” Asha said grumpily.

“Possibly not. Others who were thrown over by the tempest corroborate certain details that are impossible to ignore.” he leaned forward. “Talk of walking fish and women with fishtails instead of legs.” She raised an eyebrow.

“Mermaids are the fantasies of old men drunk on seawater.”

“I would know for certain. Please confer with your brother when you can. Knowledge is my trade and if what a bit of what I’ve heard is true, then I am woefully underinformed.” He stood and bowed to her. “Good evening.” he left her in stunned silence.

Theon had the room next to her, so when he returned Asha knew at once. Ignoring the sailor next to him, she made for her brother.

“The Spider came to me asking after you. Apparently something about-”

“Mermaids and walking fish. Aye, all of it and more.” he said with a shrug. Asha’s jaw dropped, all lingering thoughts about the Mad King and direwolves both fleeing her mind.

“Wh…what?” she asked, unsure if she’d heard right or if her brother had lost his senses.

“Man-fishes. They’re hell to listen to, croaking and gurgling. Huge eyes and needle teeth. Not the kind of folk you’d want saving you from a storm.” he thought a moment. “Though the mermaids didn’t give them a second look so probably woman-fishes too, I didn’t ask. Fish don’t have teats so I couldn’t tell anyhow, but the mermaids more than made up for it.” he grinned. “A man may appreciate a painting even if he cannot paint.”

“Theon, you’re talking about things that would make the Damphair’s beard go dry.” she said, knees weak again.

“Who’s the Damphair?” Theon’s companion asked.

“My uncle, Aeron Greyjoy. A priest of the Drowned God.” The man stared at Theon before the both of them burst into laughter. He pulled down his hood and Asha could see the puckered skin that had once been a canvas of burns.

“Has this Damphair walked on the seabed? Watched a shark pass overhead? Under the waves everything can fly, you see. It’s just a matter of how well.” He walked off, still laughing.

“You know where you’re going?” Theon asked after him.

“I’ve been in this castle before, air-breather.” the man replied over his shoulder before he disappeared around a corner. Asha turned back to her brother.

“Theon, on the way to Dorne I came upon the wreck of Ironspar, part of Euron’s fleet. The hull was cracked open like an egg and the crew were dead to a man, boiled bright pink. What if your fishy friends are more dangerous than they let on?”

“Of course they’re more dangerous than they let on. But they were somewhere around Claw Isle, not the Sea of Dorne. A hundred man-fishes with steel hammers couldn’t pop a longship’s hull the way you say. Speaking of them, though, one of the fishwives told me that we’re to huck the Seastone Chair back into the sea the second we get our hands on it.” Asha’s temper flared.

“Bugger that. The Seastone Chair belongs to us-”

“In return for all the shine that lines the bottom of the Narrow Sea.” He grinned at her. “Come dawn, we’ll go down to the beach, you and I, and do a bit of appraising.” He left her in mute amazement in turn, thoughts of every fat merchant vessel and banking cog to go down between King’s Landing and the Free Cities filling her mind. If Theon speaks true, she thought, a glittering ocean in its own right lies beneath the Narrow Sea.

Chapter Text

Jon

I wonder if Robb had as much trouble leaving as I am, Jon thought as he watched the white towers of White Harbor shrink out of sight. He couldn’t remember stepping off the dock, walking up the gangplank or even putting his trunk in his cabin, it was as if heading down to the water and boarding Silverscale had been time lived by another. Sleep was a simple impossibility for him so he remained on the deck, his first time at sea, watching the northern coast likewise disappear from view as the sun set. Over the course of the voyage they in turn passed Oldcastle and caught a glimpse of the Three Sisters. Jon felt like he’d been kneed in the gut when he realized he’d left the North. Northmen and valemen fought over those islands for generations. Now their descendants crash mugs together waiting for an altogether different sort of war. It had taken a few days to finish heading east before turning south to go around the Vale’s possessions and when they did, Jon again felt desperately homesick. For the pines, the moors, the frigid air. For Ghost, Jon thought. He didn’t so much as come to White Harbor to see me off.

“Oh, look, Your Grace.” The man he least wanted to speak to in all the world’s sickeningly soft voice greeted one morning only moments after he’d woken himself, it seemed to Jon. Slowly he looked to Baelish as the man pointed to what looked like a lone watchtower out on a bleak beach. “Baelish Keep. As illustrious and storied a hall as I remember.” he said dryly. “It seems a man may never escape how he came into the world. Well, unless he is truly exceptional.” His eyes glittered at Jon.

“What would you have of me, Baelish? I’m not up to playing any games this morning.”

“I thought not. We turned south yesterday and you’ve looked worse by the hour. Then again, when has a Stark ever done well in the south? Or pray, been in the mood for games as you call them?” Blunt. Perhaps he’s learning to say what he means.

“I assume it has something to do with either Sansa or the Dreadfort, if not both.” Baelish’s mouth twitched.

“Spoken like a true northman. You see only what’s so obvious it’s painful. Any man who says they’d turn down the princess’ hand and a massive castle untainted by living claimants is a liar. No, Your Grace, it has naught to do with anything north of the Neck." Jon’s eyebrows went up.

“Then I fear I have neither the knowledge nor the interest to be of any help, Lord Baelish.”

“That’s precisely the problem. Having brooding contests and seeing who can drink the most ale in a quarter minute may pass for diplomacy among your countrymen, but if you expect to do as your father did and simply stubbornly north your way though a southern court you’re going to bang your blessed northern forehead bloody on Dragonstone’s front door before you manage to speak to a single southron.” Baelish sounded irritated. Genuinely, to Jon.

“You’re afraid I’m going to embarrass myself.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to embarrass me. I’ve spent my life painstakingly building myself to be more than a small boy from the Fingers. I don’t want to see my future endeavors ruined by a surly bastard and his savage friends.”

“That’s why Wynafryd Manderly came with us. To show a civilized face to the southerners and make us more palatable.” Jon said.

“One girl, who’s never stepped out from under the prodigious shadows of her father and grandfather. Who has no experience outside of White Harbor, who has no lead-in to the cliques and circles of southern ladies. I don’t know who to pity more, you or she.” Wonderful.

“My lord, your confidence in me grows ever as my trust in you does.” Jon replied, the heavy fur he wore growing steadily warmer.

The growing silence visibly discomfited Littlefinger but suited Jon just fine. After a few soundless moments more the man swept off. I gave him nothing to twist or pervert, Jon thought, trying not to smirk. Father would be proud. A soft gasp at the touch of the wind made him look the way Baelish had gone, but instead of Littlefinger Jon beheld the shivering form of Wynafryd Manderly.

“My lady, why are you up here at the mercy of the winds?” Jon asked, heading past the crew at their tasks to wrap her in the fur. It’s gotten too hot anyway, he thought. The girl was tall, a year or two older than Jon but it was plain from her flawless cheeks and wide eyes that she had lived a life of comfort few could imagine. Her brown hair normally in a long braid down her back but the wind carried it out away from her shoulders.

“I could ask the same of you, Your Grace.” she said, fighting through a shiver. “You’re barely in your cabin and it’s the finest on the ship.”

“I suppose I’m not an easy quarry for sleep to catch just now, Lady Manderly. This is my first time away from the North, away from the land of my forebears, and I can think of precious little else.”

“It’s my first time outside of White Harbor. I’ve yet to see a mountain or a forest, much less a desert or a jungle. I suppose you think my lord father hopes I charm you. Of course he does, what man wouldn’t want his daughter to be a queen? I think him a more realistic man, though. He wants me to find a husband in the south, that’s the only reason he let me leave the safety of the New Castle. He thinks I’ll be safe in some high lord’s keep in sunny lands.” Her mouth tightened. “I may not be Wylla but neither am I made of satin.”

“You are a soul akin to my sister, Wynafryd. I am sure your spirit is willing, but could you endure life in the wilds? Living in tents, or nowhere at all with only trees to stop the wind from freezing you to the bone? Eating meat seared over an open flame, not prepared by some of the best cooks in Westeros if your lord grandfather and father are any way to judge?” Wynafryd blushed and giggled. “There is no need for you to feel ashamed, Wyn. You are no less a northerner for having been born a Manderly of White Harbor instead of a spearwife in a tent.” Jon said firmly. “Speaking of, your Manderly cheeks are getting redder by the moment. Why don’t you warm up in my cabin? It’s far more fit for a lady than a bastard, king or no.” he smiled at her, sending her back below decks.

The morning they passed the Bay of Crabs Jon found himself in the waters of the crownlands. The people here know little and less of dragons, Jon thought. Before the Black Dread’s shadow crossed over these lands, they were farmers and herdsmen no different from other Westerosi. The Targaryens made bankers and shopkeepers and more of them.

“Your Grace, we should make Dragonstone by midday.” Ser Davos Seaworth told Jon while he brooded over the games of southerners.

“Thank you, Ser Davos. For coming, I mean. I can’t imagine Dragonstone is a place you’re much keen to return to.” Jon told him. He’s lived a life most would run screaming from. Davos Seaworth nodded.

“I’ve not got the best memories of the place and that’s the Father’s truth, but I doubt I’ll see as many storm lords or fanatics as when Stannis Baratheon held the island.” He drew a blackened piece of wood from his pocket that might once have been a doe. Red priestesses either, Jon thought, mood not improving at the thought of Melisandre of Asshai.

“Do you have any inkling as to where she’s gone?” Jon asked him as the old knight pondered the ruin in his good hand.

“I don’t know. I don’t care. My son died beneath her flaming heart on the Blackwater and plenty more good men followed Stannis to his end outside Winterfell. She may have brought you back but I’m waiting on all the others she’s gotten killed or killed herself, and I’d still like to dash that ruby of hers against a stone wall. At least then her mischief would be at an end.”

“Fire makes for a poor god.” Jon agreed. “Oh, regarding the circumstances of my…absence and return. Can we perhaps keep that between us in the south?” The old knight looked back to the doe, nodding silently. “I suppose there’s the small victory that fire is only fleeting, only momentary.” Davos glanced up at him. “Fire has no foresight. Fire tires easy. Ice is patient, though. Ice can wait. People say fire keeps the Others away but torches and bonfires both die in their presence. It wasn’t a wall of fire that kept them out for ten thousand years.” Jon squeezed the man’s shoulder. “Besides, there was no fire I saw when I woke up on that table.”

“What do you mean, Your Grace?” Jon smiled.

“I suppose she asked her red demon to bring me back. The North belongs to the old gods, not to R‘hllor. Could have been someone else was listening. Could have been someone else answered.” At this Ser Davos smiled as well, taking a deep breath.

“Not like anyone’s likely to question you on this, Your Grace. It gives me a good bit of relief to think the old gods are looking out for their most devoted son.”

Everyone watched the skies over Dragonstone as Silverscale approached, but Jon saw and heard naught but gulls.

“Where do you suppose they are?” Tormund asked, voice lower than Jon had ever heard from the notoriously loud wildling.

“Sleeping? Elsewhere?” Jon couldn’t begin to guess. “Might be she’s already gone off to make her ancestors proud.”

“Dragons or no dragons, it would be quite an undertaking to invade the North.” Alys Karstark said dismissively. “She’s got the big lads to contend with, a castle ready to hold against more than toy soldiers, and she’d have to come through the Neck to start with. After that she’d only have her dragons.” Dragons are still dragons, though, Jon thought uneasily. I only pray that the Others have no answer for them. The ship came to a stop yet Jon could feel it shift to and fro all the same.

“That will last a few hours, Your Grace.” Ser Davos told him. “Usually goes away after a day on solid ground.” As hard as it had been for Jon to leave White Harbor, he found it was even more difficult to step down the gangplank and set foot on the dock of the port town beneath the black granite monstrosity that was Dragonstone. The hall of dragonlords. Jon looked to the people working, the smallfolk of the island. Fishmongers and day laborers, no different than White Harbor. No visible delegation from the castle waited for them, so he turned to the nearest man. He was staring at Sigorn with his bald head and scars, looking stunned slack-jawed.

“How do we get up there?” he asked, pointing to the fortress.

“There’s a big stair on Dragonmont. Leads you right up.” The man said, shaking his head to break out of his reverie.

“Much obliged, friend.” Jon said. He turned to Silverscale’s captain. “We’ll head up first. No reason to bring the trunks without seeing what we’re dealing with.” The man nodded.

“I’ll not leave without you and yours, Your Grace…though if you manage to lose the fingerman, well, we’ll mourn him with a cask of ale.” Then the northern party headed up into the hills behind the town, Jon in the lead.

Despite her privileged background Wynafryd Manderly neither hesitated nor slowed them on their ascent. Every noise made them all jump and Jon was braced the whole way to leap out of the way of a jet of flame. Upon reaching the landing of the stair, Sigorn let out an irate yell.

“Finally! At least now it’s a small matt-” he stopped dead upon seeing the way forward. It’s as if someone thought to build a stair to the clouds themselves. What did Valyrians need stairs for? Jon thought, similarly aghast at the thought of climbing such a daunting obstacle.

“Should have brought a giant just to have him carry us up this fucker…” Tormund muttered, looking positively pale.

“How did Stannis contend with these?” Jon asked Davos.

“Contend, Your Grace? He barely ever left the castle. Save for the nights we sailed for King’s Landing and the Wall, he never so much as set foot in the port town.” With groans all around they started walking up.

“Good thing Father didn’t come.” Wyn panted. “He’d never have got halfway up.” Eventually, thighs aching worse than when he’d climbed with the Halfhand, Jon made the upper landing and found himself staring at a massive pair of doors, dragon heads on either side sitting in eternal vigil. After a few minutes of catching their breath, they drew nearer to the doors.

“I wonder if they’d even hear the poor giant knocking after he hauled us up here.” Little Ned Umber said doubtfully.

“Surely someone will check eventually?” Littlefinger asked irately, looking for any kind of knocker. Tormund pursed his lips and looked sidelong at Jon.

“Well, baby crow, we know what to do with walls, eh?” he asked.

“We haven’t got climbing spikes, Tormund.”

“Don’t need them when you have the rocks to the sides of this dragon-door…and the stones to climb them, aye!” he laughed, and started scaling the jagged granite to the left of the great door. Sigorn stole a kiss from Alys, making her shriek in delight before following Tormund.

“Coming, Snow?” he grinned. Jon sighed and started up the right side, the sharp unnaturally-shaped granite outcroppings making climbing both uncomfortable and a deal easier than at first glance. When he poked his head up over the parapets, he scared the wits out of some poor Essosi girl escorted by three copper-skinned men.

“Hey, cunts! Open the door!” Jon heard Tormund roar.

The men looked ready to push Jon off the wall or put their funny sickles to use but the woman sharply rebuked them in a harsh tongue, instead pointing at Jon and giving an order. They grabbed him and pulled him over the parapet none too gently, Jon landing on his face as he heard the other two get the same tender greeting. One of the Essosi barked at Sigorn questioningly, snickering as he pointed at his bald head. Evidently they took great pride in their long hair and the lack of it on the Thenn seemed to amuse them.

“Says the grown fucking man with baubles in his hair.” Sigorn said evenly, his huge fist crashing into the man’s face as Jon groaned. He collapsed at once. His friends pulled their sickles but the woman again screamed at them, pointing to their sickles and then the ground. They stared at her incredulously but she repeated herself in a tone that brooked no argument. She sauntered over and prodded the unconscious man with her foot. Up close Jon could see the three of them were of an age with him. The poor lad on the ground would have a searing headache and a broken nose to contend with when he woke. Fiery lads eager for a fight stuck on an island with only fights to distract them. Fantastic, Jon thought. To his astonishment and Sigorn’s both, the woman looked at him in apt appraisal, even interest. She reached for him next, squeezing his bicep and murmuring appreciatively.

“Have they killed you yet?” Jon heard Alys yell up. Sigorn for his part went from stony to stuttering in the Old Tongue at the strange woman’s touch, turning to look down.

“Give us a minute, the situation is developing.”

“Grand. If I find out you’ve developed the situation any further I’m going to chop your Thenn hands off your wrists and slap you stupid with them.” Alys replied affectionately.

“Should have brought her up, Snow.” Tormund guffawed at Sigorn’s babbling. “She could have cracked these copper lads’ heads together until their bells rang us a proper northern tune.” The Essosi woman gave an order to one of the other lads, the young man running off without a second glance. Like as not to inform Daenerys Targaryen we’ve killed one of her men. Even with the yelling, Jon realized there had been no shadow from on high, no hellish shriek nor tongue of flame. When his eyes searched the gray sky the woman’s mouth curled in a slight smile. Jon looked at her wearily. You know good and well what I’m looking for, words or no words. In time the man returned, muttering to the woman who garbled at her retinue. The lads worked great cranks that opened the stone doors from atop the parapets and once the others had crossed over the threshold, the Essosi woman led them into the keep proper.

Jon’s impression of a slave-soldier when he first glimpsed one was a disciplined fighter, not a brawny berserker. Certainly they were less imposing than the lads he figured to be Dothraki, yet the jingly men gave the soldiers a wide berth.

“How long until we find someone who speaks the Common Tongue?” Wyn whispered to Jon over his shoulder.

“Courage, my lady. They’re no less men than we are.” When Jon turned to her though, he saw it wasn’t fear Wynafryd was prey to. She gave each Dothraki they chanced to pass a long look, the same sort the Essosi woman had given Sigorn only less brazenly in Wyn‘s case. Not many lads left up north regardless of the house or tribe, Jon thought. Dragonstone’s interior was a maze and more than once the woman got lost, muttering darkly to herself until they ended up in a hall, a great stone chair on the opposite side. People milled about the room and nobody gave them a second look until Jon heard a jaw drop with a loud pop. Samwell Tarly stepped out of the herd of bleating sheep, staring at Jon as if he’d just got off a dragon himself. “You’re far from Oldtown.” Jon said with a grin.

“And you from the Wall.” Sam replied, looking utterly confused. He took in the sight of Jon’s companions.

“Things went south after you left. I was right to put you out of harm’s way.” Jon said quickly, quietly.

“But Jon, the vows-”

“Aye. I know them as well as you do, Sam. Until my death. You missed quite a show.” Sam’s already-wide eyes went wider still. “Have you met her yet?”

“I’ve seen her at morning court a few times, but never spoken with her directly. It seems I’m only one of many eager to be heard by Daenerys Targaryen.”

“What about the Citadel?”

“They’re about as likely to be of help as I am. Their world is ink and paper, Jon, not flesh and blood. Grey sheep and aptly named.” Sam looked so utterly unlike himself, so disappointed, so embarrassed of the order he’d once so longed to join. Perhaps a shadow of Lord Randyll, Jon thought, impressed. “Jon…” Sam’s dejected expression vanished as quickly as it had come. “Jon.” he whispered, as if just seeing him for the first time. His eyes had found someone behind him. Puzzled, Jon turned to see just who’d flustered Sam so.

She couldn’t have been there. Dragonstone was the last place in the world Jon would have expected to find a Stark. While his mind was still coming to terms with what his eyes beheld, Arya simply leapt at him as she had the morning he left Winterfell for the Wall, her arms so tight he saw stars. Finally his mind remembered the rest of his body and his own arms came up around her, breath growing steadily more irregular, tears falling freely. Mirages don’t have weight, Jon thought in some distant corner of his mind. He heard her breaths, more in a minute than some took in a month, likely thinking too fast to realize the gasps she was making weren’t actually words.

“You look like Father.” he finally heard her whisper. Why he’d come, who with, all had fled his thoughts but those of her. When an eye twitched and the stars grew brighter he finally set her down despite his every muscle screaming to hold her tight. Words were still beyond him, and his incapability of anything but breathy gasps concerned his retinue.

“Is he dying again?” Sigorn asked irritably. “Someone smack him.” It took time but he regained command of his tongue.

“How did you get here?” he asked, too dazed, too blown away to think of anything better. She looked too excited, too beside herself with emotion to answer, only looking up at him with her grey Stark eyes wide. He didn’t realize until then what a spectacle they were making of themselves and didn’t care when he did. Southerners of every kind and cast were looking at him with varying degrees of interest. Arya reached out behind her and began pulling someone forward, evidently one who wanted little and less to obey.

“Come on, you stupid, I want you to meet my brother.” she hissed, bringing a man to bear that gave even Sigorn pause.

“I’m not punching this one.” he said curtly.

“You’re not Ramsay.” Jon heard a voice he thought he’d forgotten then, and looked to see Theon Greyjoy standing nearby, Tyrion Lannister at his side. Then he fell backward and his head bounced against the floor in a dead faint.

Quite apart from her interest in the Dothraki, Wyn got heated when the southerners flocked around Jon.

“Hands off. The King in the North belongs to the North, you lot can’t have him.” she said sharply. Arya’s face broke out in an elated grin at her words. People stepped over and on Theon to get closer until one of the slave-soldiers simply dragged him from the hall. Tyrion Lannister was lost in the wall of people circling the northerners, the Dothraki woman from the ramparts talking loudly to the others in the room. Normally Jon might have felt cooped up but Arya’s hand in his kept him from any black thoughts. I’m ready to go back to Winterfell, he thought mildly. Arya’s muscled friend simply stuck a fist into the gaggle and pulled Lannister out by the scruff of his neck, holding him aloft.

“Hello, Jon Snow.” the dwarf said, on a level with him. Tormund’s eyes shot to and fro as the southerners got closer, a wall of women in silk it seemed was greatly unnerving to the wildling chieftain. Jon’s world became a whirl of noise and movement until another Dothraki bellowed from the hall’s entrance. Immediately the other horse lords streamed out, whooping and raising an unholy racket. “They’re headed up the mountain.” Tyrion explained from his new elevation. “They always greet her when she comes down.” It took the dwarf half a dozen attempts to get things quieted down. “Her Grace commanded that she be alerted immediately if a northern delegation arrived.” He half reminded the southerners half explained to Jon.

“No need. I’ll go up with the Dothraki to see her myself.” Jon said, Arya in his arms as he freed himself of the mob, her massive friend simply moving through them quite literally.

“You’re not familiar with the situation, Jon Snow. Her Grace is with Drogon just now. He doesn’t take kindly to intrusions, especially when his mother is with him.

“Is he a dragon or a babe in arms?” Jon replied.

“He is her babe in arms, Jon.” Tyrion explained. he saw Littlefinger in a corner, gazes locked with a bald man he had never seen before.

“I didn’t leave the North to wait on a dragon’s pleasure, much less one treated like a spoiled child.” Jon said. And I would see the creatures that may save us, he thought.

Chapter Text

Daenerys

Despite the heat, Dany found that laying her cheek against Drogon’s black scales was more comfortable than the softest bed. Her child gave a low gravelly purr from deep in his throat, tightly coiled around his mother in the bone-littered clearing. The next thing she knew Drogon was snorting irritably in his sleep, black smoke billowing in twin thick plumes from his nostrils.

“Peace, sweetling.” she whispered to him, always in Valyrian. I must have dozed off, Daenerys thought, unsure just how she’d manage to extricate herself from Drogon’s clutching coils without him waking and simply stashing her beneath his wing again. He grew steadily more restless, snapping at the air as he dreamed, long neck allowing him to sniff about without letting his mother out of his clutches. He let out an irate scream. “There’s no one there, sweetling.” she said softly, running a hand down his scaled chest. Harder than steel, proof against all but mountain-fire, Dany thought wonderingly. Drogon slept on, sniffing and snarling, chasing some threat in his world of dreams. A black-gloved hand appeared from behind one of Dragonmont’s crags, and a muttered curse seemed to Dany louder than a dragon’s roar as a man climbed up over the rocks, finding his footing and leaning against the stones. He sidled his way down to mother and child, hopping off a stony shelf and landing on all fours. Dany stared at the man incredulously as he came nearer. He stopped mere feet away from Drogon’s head but his grey eyes were locked on the twin canopies that were the black dragon’s wings. He seemed quite stunned, the climb and awe both forcing him to stay where he was while he caught his breath. Normally he wakes up straightaway and in a black temper when he smells men approaching, Dany thought, fascinated by the bravery or stupidity of the man. She moved as much as she dared, the stranger looking to the spot of silver in a sea of black scales. On seeing her his breath caught yet again, this time enough to make him forget about the sleeping dragon whose nose twitched well within sneezing range. For some reason she blushed deeply on realizing she wore only her horsehide vest and leggings. Usually Drogon’s warmth is all the clothing I need up here, no man is mad enough to try and spy on us, she reasoned to herself and who was this impertinent man anyway to look at her so? She worked herself into quite an indignant temper when the stranger simply extended his arm to her over the width of Drogon’s tail, a finger to his lips.

He looks like the Stark girl, she realized, and in that moment she was the little princess again on the morning of her wedding to Khal Drogo who wanted nothing more than to crawl under her child’s wing where it was close and warm and safe. She shook her head, shrinking into Drogon’s coils, looking out at the man from perhaps the safest place in all the world. The man pursed his lips and again held his arm out insistently. Go away, Dany thought. Could he not see the queen was sleeping? When again she shook her head, he walked in front of Drogon’s head, the sleeping dragon snorting at his closeness. As the man moved Drogon sleepily followed him, taking the bulk of the dragon with him and robbing Dany of her sanctuary. Suddenly she felt a tender arm around her and the man was scooping her up before she could so much as squeak! Her eyes went wide as they looked into his, gray eyes which had seen more than Daario Naharis could ever dream. He took a contented breath and silently left Drogon’s clearing, making for the path she herself used to go up and down. A passage through the rock worn into Dragonmont by generations of dragon riders visiting their mounts. Despite his middling height and build he neither huffed nor grew red in the face as he carried her down, silent as a ghost. That’s what he is, a ghost, Dany thought. A stealing ghost who snatches up little princesses awake when they should be abed. Viserys had told her the story once when she took to wandering one residence or another at night and she had cried for weeks. He stepped onto the smooth landing without a sound and Dany paled when she realized her entire court was waiting for them. The man set her on her feet and stepped away respectfully. Missandei came forward immediately, wrapping her in her hrakkar pelt and muttering Valyrian in her ear about dressing more warmly, Drogon or no Drogon. A shriek that shook the stones beneath her feet got most of the Westerosi moving and in the tumult, Missandei and Grey Worm spiriting her to her room, Dany lost track of the grey-eyed ghost.

While her Dothraki handmaidens talked a mile a minute about the new arrivals, Missandei let down Dany’s hair and set to it with the shell comb, looking perhaps as cross as Dany imagined a Naathi could look.

“Why so dour, dear friend? I am not hurt and so far as I can see, there was no harm done.”

“It is not the place for some stranger from the north to climb up the mountain after you when you are with Drogon. A dragon’s lair is a place for dragons only. He was told to wait with the other Westerosi for you to come down on your own, but he would not listen.” she sniffed. “The people he came here with have fire for hair or none at all, smell of onions and fish or look too young to step out from behind their mothers’ skirts.” She worked the tension from the Queen’s shoulders as she sunk up to her nose in the bath, blowing bubbles at Missandei’s words. The Naathi girl’s mouth twitched, resolved not to smile, but the corners flicked up after a few moments. Grey Worm was not so easily softened though and when Daenerys looked to him his face was as stony as ever.

“Speak freely, Torgo Nudho.” she told him. As usual it took the commander of her Unsullied a few moments to put the words together in his head.

“You are our queen. The Mother of Dragons and the Breaker of Chains. To see someone be so…liberal with your person when you ought be left alone…” he said, Missandei agreeing with him at once. I wonder how the Dothraki feel, Dany thought, feeling herself like a child being scolded.

“Have you found out who he is, at least?”

“The ones he came here with claim he is a king. Jon Snow, they call him. Lannister is adamant you should speak with him before you meet this northern man officially.” Grey Worm told her.

“Properly dressed too, I should hope.” Missandei added, Dany turning pink. In time a black dress complete with a three-headed dragon shoulder clasp wrought in silver was brought into the room, a gift from Monterys Velayron. Missandei helped her dress, working her hair into a splendid braid with twin tendrils circling to her collarbone, one on each side of her head. Once a pair of gloves and shoes were found to Dany’s liking, she made her way to her Hand’s chambers.

“Who is he?” she asked as Tyrion Lannister gawped and babbled and flustered about a hundred nothings.

“The letter…had no idea…King in the North…” he gasped, mind clearly running far faster than the rest of him could manage. Dany sat before him and smartly brought her hands to the sides of his freshly-shaven face. The cut down his nose was a truly ugly thing but Dany kissed it all the same. Tyrion promptly stopped gibbering like a Little Valyrian.

“Who is he?” she asked again.

“The bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark. A man murdered by my family’s machinations, as was his wife and eldest son. The last I saw of Jon Snow was at the Wall a lifetime ago, a lad with dreams of honor and glory. Small wonder he seems to have abandoned that open sewer of robbers and rapers, but the Night’s Watch vows are for life. To desert is death. How he’s calling himself King in the North is beyond me, Your Grace.” he confessed. “Or indeed, how he’s taken up with wildlings.”

“No matter. It appears events in the North have moved apace without your knowledge. You can hardly be blamed for that, my lord.” she said encouragingly.

“Your Grace, it is a deal more complicated than that. Even under your ancestors the North was a world unto itself, and now that wildlings are counted among their number…men whose own forebears have never been subjects of the Iron Throne…” Dany’s smile wavered as she realized the implication.

“Well…Dothraki were never much interested in the affairs of dragonlords before I came.” she reasoned. “Perhaps these people from the furthest north are cut from similar cloth.” Tyrion’s dismayed expression told her all she needed to know of his attitude towards northerners. “Come, my lord Hand. Let us meet them as we are, not as they happened upon us.” she told him, taking his hand and leading him toward the audience chamber.

Taking her seat, she adopted her typically aloof air as befit treating with Westerosi so far. She did not see Tyrion’s Jon Snow anywhere, nor anyone who could have passed for northern, yet all her Dothraki could talk about was the man who’d stolen the khaleesi out from under her fiercely possessive child. They are more than impressed, they are awed, she realized. They will bore all the quicker of southern courtesy and niceties now that someone so fearless has appeared. She hadn’t come back to Westeros to leap into the arms of a northern bastard at the behest of her khalasar, though. The Iron Throne awaited her, after all, and the rule of the Seven Kingdoms stolen from her family was hers to reclaim. The last Targaryen, she reminded herself. The days of traipsing around Essos doing as I pleased are over. I have vassals to mind and kingdoms to rule, and a capital to take. The North is no less a kingdom than the rest, I must have them behind me when I… then she remembered the Kingslayer’s words. He does not think Cersei will cede the city under any circumstances, she thought. As soon as she sees my banners on the horizon, she will ensure I never so much as catch a glimpse of Father’s throne. Of my throne. Now, what good is gold too heavy to carry, what good is a throne too dangerous to sit? She remembered her mother’s final words, a pained request Ser Willem Darry did not heed. You wanted us to live for ourselves, not to placate the ghosts of those who came before, Dany thought. She said I was free of Father. Free from knowing who he was, what he was. Would you have had the Kingslayer executed, Mother? Or would you have freed him? Dany had not been able to make up her mind in the moment, so she took the middle way and had him locked up in the dungeons beneath the castle. If I cannot restore House Targaryen, then why did I come? Why am I here? And where am I going?

As court progressed, Theon Greyjoy stepped forward. Once granted permission to approach, he knelt at her side.

“Your Grace, the northmen are quite unfit for court today. They’re…still celebrating the rediscovery of Princess Arya.” he said, not catching his own slip of the tongue. Or is it? Dany thought. Arya Stark has a family, a land full of countrymen who love her and her blacksmith. The southerners may call me a queen and she a lady, but really I’m just seen as an invader and she a sister to one who can back up his claimed title of king. Nobody wanted the Targaryens back, least of all the wolves of the north. Dany was shaken from her ill humor when she noticed an older man standing off to the side, looking up at the walls where dragon banners hung as if unsure how they got there.

“You, ser.” she said, the loud chatter quieting as it always did when she addressed someone on the floor. The man didn’t realize he was the one being hailed, and it took an elbow from Obara Sand to bring him back to the present. “What is your name?” she asked. “I’ve not seen you before.” The man gave a sad smile.

“No, but I’ve seen much and more of the hall you’ve taken for your seat, Your Grace. I am Ser Davos Seaworth, once of King’s Landing and now of Cape Wrath.” he told her. There was no murmur of recognition from the lords of Westeros.

“Whom did you serve in the War of Five Kings, Ser Davos?” Tyrion asked, similarly mystified. The man was quiet for a long moment.

“I served Stannis Baratheon from the siege of Storm’s End during Robert’s Rebellion until he sent me to the Wall to deliver news of his progress to the then-Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. I served him for near twenty years, Your Grace, and I’ve stood in this hall more nights than I can count as Stannis sat where you do now, holding court if it could be termed so over a few shipping captains and guildmasters. He sacrificed everything to win the Iron Throne, and died in the snow as an outlaw for all his troubles.” Ser Davos pulled a bit of charcoal from his pocket. “If giving his own daughter to the flames could not make him king, I fail to see how sending King’s Landing down the same road can make you queen.” His words were not angry, not accusatory. They were earnest and honest in their pain, in a way even worse than simple hatred. The Westerosi faces had gone ashen, Dany saw, while she was quite sure she’d gone green as Rhaegal.

“I’m in no rush to do what Cersei seems talented enough at doing to herself, Ser Davos.” Dany said gently. “The Kingslayer seems of the opinion that she didn’t mind destroying more of the city than just the Great Sept of Baelor. If I try anything I’m sure she will finish building on the stones my father laid.”

That evening Dany kept a cloth on hand in case she had to hide her tears. I talked about breaking the wheel in Meereen, she remembered. How can I break what defines me? All I did in Essos I did to get me here, within reach of what Viserys wanted more than anything. Certainly more than he wanted a little sister. I made it known the slavers could live in my new world or die in their old one. What is chasing the throne but choosing to live in the past as well? The Westerosi came for hatred of Cersei Lannister, not love of Daenerys Targaryen. The days of Jaehaerys the Conciliator and Good Queen Alysanne are long over. She let Missandei slip her into bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin. The full moon outside lit the room up better than any torch and couldn’t set the bedding afire if neglected, so Dany bid her friend get her rest as well. Once the door shut behind her and she was alone, Dany pulled the blanket over her head and cried herself to sleep. Her dreams were full of cold hungry nights in Essos, her many fearful hours not of Robert’s assassins but of her own blood. Viserys was always near, nearer than any hired knife, and so often she found herself hiding from him as much as from any phantom killers. The frightened breaths of her small body filled her ears, fear until then forgotten in the mists of memory, until she found herself a woman once more, standing in a hall that dwarfed the one on Dragonstone. Dragon banners sewn by practiced hands instead of hasty first attempts hung from the walls. This can only be one place, Dany thought, about to turn. She heard the Common Tongue, but an odd archaic inflection. Whirling about she beheld the Iron Throne, a great fan of blades and metal, the font of royal authority over the Seven Kingdoms. Forged in dragonfire, Dany thought wonderingly, until she saw the man sitting in it. He was tall and thin with a long silver beard and purple eyes that twinkled out from bushy silver eyebrows. Dany felt herself calm just a bit at the sight of him. He was talking with another man covered in burns and scars.

“I know when they are dying, and that is what the Black Dread is doing, Your Grace.” the burned man said flatly. The old king frowned, looking desperately unhappy.

“Balerion forged the Iron Throne. Never did a beast so mighty live. You must save him-“

“He is fat and old and lazy. He lacks the muster to mount Vhagar even on the ground, as he lost the vigor to take her in the air. When the Dread was put in the pit, the death set in. Dragons are not pets, or slaves, or property. They are their own creatures, and if made to be any different, they can and will wither, like a warrior king gone to fat from too many years of peace. Even Vhagar at her wiliest cannot stir the Dread from ennui. He is bored. Bored of his many wives, of his get, of the hunt, of the wing, of life itself. I will do what I can for him, but I suggest you make plans for the inevitable.”

The king’s brow furrowed.

“Perhaps if we got him out of the Dragonpit-”

“How, Your Grace? A fleet of sledges? Vermithor will not so much as approach the Pit. It’s plain as day that the dragons cannot be made to sit or stay in any way. They have wings for a reason. Had your grandsire any sense he’d have taken his dragons and sisters both where no one would have ever found him.” The king frowned at that.

“The Conqueror-“

“Conquered nothing from anywhere but Balerion’s back. Now Balerion is dying and nothing can stop it. Once he goes, his offspring will take after their vainglorious riders, each scrambling to get nearer the throne. Dragons and their riders share more than time in the air, the rider’s very nature can become the dragon’s over time.”

“Proud and powerful when carrying Aegon the Conqueror...brutal and destructive when carrying Maegor the Cruel...” the king recited.

“And slow and fat now he carries Prince Viserys, if you can find it in yourself to call what the Dread does these days flying.” The man who could only be a dragonkeeper finished.

“I should have never let Viserys take him up.” The king said.

“He should never have been pinned down in the first place, Your Grace. This was not of your making, nor the prince’s.” the man replied, a touch less harshly than he had been speaking. “Balerion learned what it was to be a dragon in Valyria of old. These days they flit about like birds in spring, bold and heedless as fresh-faced tourney knights. When the Black Dread goes his get will become unruly and in time turn on itself.” The old man on the Iron Throne’s face went pale.

“Surely it will not come to that-”

“Aye, and sooner rather than later. You have reigned well, Your Grace, but no king reigns forever and the last true Valyrian is evidence enough of that.”

Dany woke with a gasp, heart hammering in her breast as her bedroom took the place of the throne room. Looking around until she was dizzy, she could find no trace of another person in the room with her. Jaehaerys the Conciliator, she thought, drawing her blanket over her head like a hood as she had when she was little and all the family history Viserys told her might as well have been a fairy story. She did not know the name of the other man but his lack of hair and numerous half-healed burns gave away his role as a Dragonkeeper. Their conversation had shaken her to the bone. It was not age that killed the Dread, she thought, but captivity. A dragon is not a slave. If you chain them, you lose them. No wonder Rhaegal and Viserion left me behind…Wherever they were, Daenerys prayed to whatever god might lend a kindly ear that her children were safe, happy, and healthy. I know now why you turned my womb to stone, she thought. I am not fit to raise children of mine own. She pulled the blankets closer around herself, making a cloak of sorts of it, before peeking out her window. The glittering of the morning’s tribute from the sea twinkled up from the beach below and when Dany inhaled, she could just catch a hint of fish-stink in the air. What would Jaehaerys have said to me? she thought. Or Aegon, any of them, or the countless Targaryens who never wore the crown? Who never thought to put down roots in Essos as I was forced to, who never rode with Dothraki or struck the chains from slaves’ wrists?  Her mother had wanted her to be free of the throne, as she claimed Dany was free of Aerys. Even if I took the city, she thought, what would become of the Dothraki? Or Drogon? The Dragonkeeper had it right, dragons don’t belong in cages, and neither do I. She amused herself with thoughts of all those she’d met coming face to face with one of Theon Greyjoy’s salvage acquaintances as he called them. Dany hadn’t seen one up close but apparently it wasn’t unheard of for early risers to see them shuffling up and down the beach, looking for clams or crabs. The poison water was anything but, just as she had always told Drogo. Races all their own called the sea bottom home, and it was through improvised parley on Greyjoy’s part that they had filled the vaults of Dragonstone with treasure of every kind. Another pleasant enough distraction, Dany thought. I’ve still got to sort through it all and see what’s what. I should probably have one of the man-fishes on hand just in case.

Chapter Text

Bran

The crypts took several days to scour.

“Might be we can get away with coming down here,” Rylis had said, “But only a Stark should see the Kings of Winter off.” So it fell to Bran, Meera and Sansa to walks down the cold corridors, setting a lit torch in with each skeleton. It produced a truly haunting effect, light coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Meera had objected herself at first, but before Bran could reply Sansa simply stuffed a torch into her arms as she went down. The True Tongue echoed off the walls. A tribute from the Singers, perhaps, Bran thought as they headed further down, to where Father had told them never to go. Collapsed or filled with rats, he’d said. Old Nan told us of rats and spiders the size of dogs. The Kings of Winter he passed then were unknown to him, men who’d lived when the North was a world all its own, a world that ran from the Neck to the Wall and ceased to be outside of either. They all had the same hard face, the same powerful eyes that of Lord Eddard’s children, only Arya and Jon Snow shared. They look so like Jon, Bran thought, enchanted by the likeness.

“Were one of you to walk into the hall during a feast, you’d count Jon among your number before you looked twice at Robb.” he whispered to one of the sleeping kings, a man with a long beard and a scar down his face. He is old. He lived a long life. Some were not half his age, a few even beardless despite the cold, but long reign or short any King of Winter had a place here. It startled Bran to see the tears streaming from Meera’s cheeks. She neither sobbed nor sniffled but he knew when she was upset.

“This feels wrong.” she finally said when she noticed him looking at her. “Reeds protect Starks, they do not burn them.”

“That is what you are doing, Meera. I cannot think any of these men would object to us stopping their bones from being used against us.” Bran said gently, tenderly, squeezing her hand.

“If anyone is fit to be here, now, it is the woman who carried Bran into the eye of the storm and out again.” Sansa added, pulling off her glove and running a hand down the arm of a king who had a warhorn at his side. Upon reaching the stairs down to the next level, Branch peered into the darkness.

“It is collapsed, but earth is earth. It can be moved. As you labor in the sun, we will toil among the roots.” he announced, and several Singers proceeded down the steps to the fallen stones, talking to each other in the True Tongue. Bran went to the far side of the level, as far as he could go and found another stair trailing down to where still more kings slept. We are old, he thought, smiling. Despite their small size, it seemed the Singers had a knack for moving stone. In only minutes they had cleared way the debris and were even working on new tunnels when the stairs themselves were cleared. “We are ready when you are.” Branch said, golden eyes blinking at Bran.

Still further down in the earth and in time, the kings lie in the open in alcoves in the walls, reliefs of their faces by their heads and those of wolves by their feet.

“What’s this?” Sansa asked, blue Tully eyes wide.

“These Starks lived in a time before such masonry as could produce full statues.” Meera said, her hand tracing one of the stone faces. “Even here, you can make out the Stark face.” she said softly. As there were no heavy stone lids to move, these older kings were easier to see to and it became easier for them to talk. Rylis and the others said not a word, as if they thought to speak aloud would anger those who slept.

“What does House Reed do when its members die?” Sansa asked as she tucked a torch in with a king who could not have been older than Bran when he died. Meera frowned.

“I do not know. I never asked my father and there were never any other Reeds besides the four of us. There’s nothing like this at Greywater Watch, nothing close, if that’s what you mean.” she said, swallowing and lighting another skeleton. To Bran’s astonishment, there was a way down still, but it was little more than an inclined tunnel. When he pointed it out and they made for it, Rylis cleared his throat. Sansa waved him off.

“You may go. I doubt we’ll be needing stone lids moved down there.” she said. Immediately their helpers left, looking relieved to be quit of a place they could surely not be welcome. Bran went first this time, torch in hand to light the way. When was the last time a living Stark came down this far? he wondered. Even the Singers had gone quiet. When finally they came into a larger chamber, Bran had to blink to make sure what he was seeing was what was there. A grove of weirwoods stood in a massive grotto, and Bran could hear the lapping of water. An underground lake, he thought numbly as Sansa gasped, the sound echoing off the walls so much it sounded as if a dozen Sansas were down there with them. The reliefs of the levels above had become scratches in the walls, shadows in the stone. Branch staggered forward and Bran got to see what an amazed Singer look like for the first time. He slowly sank to his knees, raising his arms and letting out an ecstatic moan. The place was something like the cave, only far larger, far older, far grander. Cairns little more than piles of rounded stones lined the edges of the grotto, a direwolf skull atop each. Bran realized Branch was sobbing.

“Are you alright?” he asked, startled. Branch brought his fists to his forehead and flung himself forward, crying into the dirt.

“This place is older than the Dawn.” A she-Singer whispered heavily. Bran could see moss growing on the cairns as the light was brought to bear. This place is alive, a place of life, not death, he realized. One of the walls bore several grey and green lines and Bran went for a closer look. The grey lines, the figures, are taller than the green, he realized.

“Is this…a Pact?” he asked.

“This place you call Winterfell is more than stone walls or a wolf den or a seat of men. It is a living thing, the trees above drawing light to feed the trees below, the trees below drinking deep of holy water to quench the thirst of the trees above.” Branch whispered hoarsely from his prone position.

“I thought the Pact was struck on the Isle of Faces?” Sansa asked.

“As far as anyone living knows. If they could speak they might say different.” Meera replied, pointing to the cairns. Her eyes went wide and she put her lips to Bran’s ear. “There’s someone in the trees, Bran.” she whispered. Peering into the intermittent darkness, Bran was shocked to see someone sitting near a tree, leaned up against it. He pointed it out to Sansa, who squeaked in alarm and dropped her torch, hastily picking it back up. The person made no sign they had heard. Eventually Bran worked up the courage to go nearer, to walk among the trees.

“Meera,” he called in a low voice. “Please come here.”

He could hear her dash for him, Sansa trying to keep up. When the women reached him he pointed to the person sat before them. It was a woman, or the body of one anyway, but she looked as if she’d died in the last few days, not the last few thousand years. She sat in a low position, head to her knees and arms around herself, but what struck Bran was how small she seemed to be. In life she would not have been more than four and a half feet tall, yet she was no Singer. A crannogwoman, Bran thought. She wore a sort of pendant, a white painted circle on a dragonglass arrowhead.

“That’s a lizard-lion skull.” Meera said, looking at an object in the woman’s lap.

“What’s a Reed doing down here?” Sansa asked.

“There is no place better for her.” Bran replied.

“The stories say one of the Stark kings got the Neck by killing a Marsh King and marrying his daughter. Stories change, truth doesn’t.”

“But why does she look-”

“Sometimes we find bodies like this in the Neck.” Meera said.

“In the peat bogs. They all look the same, but they come from every age and time. I suppose…the Starks brought her here after the other crannogmen had seen to her.”

“But why? Why go to all that trouble unless…”

“Unless she was a Stark.” Bran and Meera finished in unison. Bran looked at her face again, at the face of the woman whose line lay above her. A drop of Stark in every Reed, a drop of Reed in every Stark, Bran thought. That wasn’t the Pact between the First Men and the Children on the wall, it was the joining of our houses. Though Bran doubted the King of Winter who’d been the woman’s husband had been much either a Stark or a king, more likely a tribal chief with a direwolf at his side. Bran reached for Meera’s hand again. He sniffled and tasted salt on the tip of his tongue. Wordlessly Sansa offered Meera her torch. Taking it with slow measured breaths, she gently torched it to the crannogwoman’s breast, and the three of them watched their greatest-of-great-grandmother disappear in a brief warm glow.

The ashes Meera scooped into a pouch and scattered among the trees. Once they determined there were no more bodies after the cairns had been seen to, they left the Singers to dig passages anew and returned to the surface. Even the cold radiating from the Hungry Wolf’s crypt didn’t much distress them, they were too tired and caught up in their thoughts and covered in ash, dirt and sweat besides. Nobody bothered them with inquiries, evidently Rylis and the others who’d gone down had got word to the rest of Winterfell that the Starks should be left be just then.

“Mother shouldn’t have treated Jon the way she did.” Sansa said, sniffling. Bran and Meera looked at her. “He was a Stark, is a Stark as much as you and rather more than I.”

“Sansa-” Bran made to comfort her, but she pulled away.

“When I first went down there to start clearing it out, I wondered what Theon Stark would have thought on seeing me down there, if he would know a Stark when he saw one. Well, what would she have thought if she’d been alive rather than dead? She’d have seen a woman with her husband’s face, a husband of her own and his useless pretty little bird of a sister.” With that she was off, the door to her room shut. Sansa’s words made something tickle in Bran’s mind. Jojen had not been robust but neither had he looked out of sorts for what he’d heard of crannogmen. In fact, he looked of a kind with their ancestor in the grotto. How strange Jojen looked more like a woman dead ten thousand years than his own sister. Tall and beautiful, with skin like snow, hair like night and the face of a King of Winter, Bran thought. When King Robert had visited Winterfell, Bran once heard his lord father and lady mother talking about betrothals. A possibility instead of Sansa marrying Joffrey had been betrothing Bran to Princess Myrcella. Bran dimly remembered her long golden curls and bright green eyes, the giggly cheerful air that her mother so lacked in comparison. The thought of her in Meera’s place to Bran was so distasteful he shuddered. What would Mother have thought on seeing her Dawn Age mother-by-law in the grotto? Bran thought. Would she still care about influence and schemes and the court games of the south? But then, she’d have wanted Robb to marry Meera, not me. That thought made Bran’s insides feel like ice. Meera didn’t carry Robb past the Wall to the Raven, kill one of the white walkers and bring him back, Jojen’s voice said in his mind.

Once they had rinsed the crypt from their bodies, Meera took her time chasing any lingering doubts from Bran’s mind. To go from feeling nothing to everything…I wonder how many men are as lucky as I, Bran thought as Meera slept beside him. Every time Sansa saw her Bran knew she wanted to ask, itched to ask, but she had so far left the subject unspoken of. Certainly there’s no want of trying, Bran thought, turning pink as he stared at the ceiling. A rider had been dispatched the day before the crypts and with any luck, Lord Howland Reed would arrive before a moon’s turn. Bran would have been delighted to use his arrival as occasion for a feast, perhaps announce the coming of another Stark at last. He was with Father during the Rebellion, he saved him from the Sword of the Morning, Bran thought. If we have a son, I would name him Howland. He knew he was asleep when he saw the grotto again, but it was empty of wall-figures and cairns. Groups of people milled about, hunched over small fires far from the trees. They were clad in uncured animal skins and what weapons they bore were wrought of wood and stone. They seemed incapable of more than curt unsophisticated grunts, but they stood as one to their full height when another group came into sight, a race of smaller men with deep green eyes and olive skin. The crannogmen of the Dawn Age were beautiful beyond words to Bran, and his sentiment seemed shared by those around the fires. One of them, a lad no older than Jon with a brown direwolf came forward as a girl stepped away from the enclave of crannogmen. Bran recognized the woman from the grotto immediately even younger and alive by the arrowhead pendant, even void of the white circle it would receive. She gently took the warg’s hand and guided it to her belly, smiling shyly as his fellows let out a chorus of howls, the pack outside the underground grotto answering with equal fervor. Another crannogwoman dipped her finger in some white chalky mixture and carefully drew the circle on the girl’s pendant. Only when the silver light came into the cave and the howls grew louder did Bran realize the circle was the full moon. Mother to every wolf as you are to every Stark, Bran thought, looking at the girl. This is the bond that gave the Singers and giants such pause, that ground the Andal invasion to a halt, that stopped the Others in their cold tracks. The howling grew louder until it made his head hurt and then he was back in bed, Meera murmuring at his tossing and turning. The full moon was streaming through their window and it made her skin glow like polished pearl, like white silver. Only then did he realize she had woken, taking him in as he did her, smiling her small modest smile.

“We stopped them before.” he told her. “We can do it again. Together.” They are not so great, Bran thought. If men wearing pelts and wielding clubs can stop them, so can we. In reply Meera snaked her hand up his side and down his arm, making him break out in goose prickles before taking his hand in hers. Slowly she guided it to her side, his fingers trailing up the round of her hip before bringing his hand down, where she held it flush against her belly.

Bran closed his eyes then, trying not to worry or get overexcited or jump out of bed and scream at the top of his voice but by the gods it was hard. He wanted to run until he ran clear off the edge of the world and climb up to the moon herself and kiss her for afters. His mind reeled with a thousand thoughts and none, getting dizzy despite lying down and not having moved an inch. He so wanted to tell Sansa, tell everyone, he wanted to clang a great obnoxious bell out in the yard and wake the whole castle and scream at them that finally the day had come but before he knew it Meera was easing him back down, head across the pillows from hers.

“There’s plenty of time, a little more waiting for something they don’t know they’re waiting for won’t hurt them. Besides, I want to tell my father first when he arrives.” she whispered, blushing deeply.

“Meera, if I don’t at least tell Sansa she’s like to burst from trying not to ask. Also I’m sure she’ll toss me in the grotto lake if I don’t let her see to you.” She bit her lip.

“Alright. She is your sister and now mine, she ought to know. But nobody else, not until we can tell my father.” He kissed her hand.

“I promise.” he said, sliding out of bed.

“Where are you going?” she asked, startled.

“Where are we going, Meera. Sansa is just across the hall, sleeping off one of her moods. This will cure her of any lasting ill, I’m sure of it.”

“Can we not let her rest?” She asked.

“She’ll want to know. More than sleep or food or water, she aches for this.” Bran wrapped Meera in the fur blanket and kissed her on the neck, making her giggle as she so rarely did. He had a hand to the door, ready to push, when he felt how cold it was. He could not stop himself though and it slowly swung open, throwing Sansa’s frost-covered door into view. Sansa, he thought, rushing it and throwing it open. The cold that greeted him knocked him breathless for a moment and Meera gasped at the sight of Sansa’s room, everything covered in a sheen of frost. Sansa stood in the far corner facing away from them, arms at her sides. She did not move nor turn to look at them. I know this cold, Bran thought.

A soft hooting made him blink, and from the open window an owl glided straight into Sansa’s arms. In the icy patch on the wall before her Sansa’s reflection became visible, and her eyes shown like blue stars. She trailed a finger down the owl’s head, the bird so white it hurt to look upon. Bran heard Meera’s breath hitch behind him and in the moment he could not move, so terrified was he for his sister and for his wife-to-be. Slowly Sansa turned and Bran’s knees began to wobble. The eyes stared out from her face but they were not the ones Catelyn Tully had given her daughter. They were old, unfeeling, and utterly without warmth. They stared past Bran to Meera, trailing down her body until they affixed on her belly. Meera let out a dismayed whimper, bunching the fur around herself. The Others know when life is near, he remembered. Life is life, born or yet to be. The owl in Sansa’s arms considered them detachedly, as if they were a hair less boring than the rest of the world around it. This must be how bugs feel when children pick them up, Bran thought. When neither he nor Meera moved a few moments more, Sansa gracefully stepped to the window and fluidly set the owl off into the freezing night. She made a gasping choking sound, one to Bran that might have meant something had the True Tongue been within a person’s ability to speak, then simply sank out of sight behind the bed. The intense cold vanished and in moments the frost had gone to moistness, turning the room into a cave of sorts. Sansa groaned, holding her head as she came up to lean against her bedside.

“Uuugh…” she muttered. Upon noticing them she straightened up at once, blinking sleep out of her eyes. “What’s happened?” she asked, looking from one to the other, turning pink as it as obvious Meera wore only a blanket. Bran gaped at her.

“Sansa, what’s the last thing you remember?” Meera asked softly, tying the blanket with little regard for modesty. Practical as ever, Bran thought. Sansa went from pink to red, sitting on her bed.

“I…well, if you must know, I was feeling useless as usual, wishing Lady were here. I…” her voice trailed off.

“You what, Sansa?” Bran prompted gently.

“It was more than wishing. I felt like if I just reached far enough…”

“You tried to warg into Lady?” he finished for her.

“I’m not a warg, I have too much of the south in me.”

“Trust us sister-to-be, it’s not your southern half that’s troubling us.” Meera said, eyebrows raised.

Bran’s eyes were on the doors then, trying to make sense of the situation. Wait a minute…

“Sansa, Lady is dead. If you reach for her, you’ll not find her. Like trying to find a room in Winterfell that doesn’t exist. However, that doesn’t mean you don’t leave your room, nor does it mean another cannot come in while you are gone.”

“You think…I’m being warged?” Sansa went even paler.

“Not you, just your body. I guess when you reach for a body that can’t be found, you float around who-knows-where and something else sneaks in like a nosy maidservant poking ‘round your bedchamber.” Bran shrugged. As if I know the first bloody thing warging. Summer is dead. “As if we needed another reason for Howland Reed to come to Winterfell.” he said, looking out into the night. Whatever it was trying to do most likely got done.

“Well, at least this must explain my fits. I thought I was just going mad.” Sansa said. Color had returned to her cheeks and she was standing again. Bran was astonished at her brusque handling of his theory.

“Sansa, we have no idea what’s really going on, I could be so wrong-”

“I don’t think you are, Bran.” she said, taking deep measured breaths. “Every time this happens, every time I have a fit, the last thing I remember beforehand is wanting Lady. You say something fills in for me while I’m out.” she said, brow furrowing. Slowly her intended course became horrifyingly clear to Bran.

“Sansa, I forbid it. I’m your prince, and while Jon is away you have to listen to me.”

“When I was your age I was learning to go cold whenever Joffrey or Ramsay tried their games. Besides, I’m older than you.” she stuck out her tongue at him so incredibly like Arya it made him miss her terribly.

“We don’t know the first thing about them, it would be so dangerous-”

“Not if you have the jump on whatever tries to poke its nose in our business. If nothing else just wrap me up in a blanket and toss me in the yard. I’ll worm about for a few hours and then be all right again.” Bran looked at her exasperatedly. “More even than Lady, I wanted to be useful. To be more than a pretty little bird, a maiden in a story. If I do this, I can be.” she said.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

He laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling hours into the night. This is too much, too fast, he thought. I fumbled around with politics in Meereen like a child with a loaded crossbow and only avoided quarreling myself because Daenerys managed to take it out of my hands before I found the trigger. Rallying the lords of the crownlands had gone well enough, but it seemed all constituent realms of the Seven Kingdoms had simply turned up on Daenerys Targaryen’s doorstep. Aside from the westermen, he reminded himself. To think I might speak for my countrymen is a fantasy. The only man the lords of the west might consider deferring to languished in a cell deep below the castle. True, the queen didn’t much seem in a rush to execute him but bringing her around to the idea of the man who’d killed her father sitting on her council was an altogether different beast. Maybe he can help, Tyrion thought. Beats sitting here playing with my cock, thinking in circles. He slid off the bed and waddled for the door, before he turned and fetched the wine jug. Arbor red will improve his mood mightily. He passed several Dothraki in the corridor and despite his lacking mastery of their tongue, he could tell they were more than a little excited concerning the new arrivals. By comparison they actively disdained Tyrion Lannister, a dwarf (never permitted to live in the harsh wild of Dothraki society) and one among the talking men they so despised. Rumors had spread like wildfire concerning the actions of Jon Snow, scaling Dragonmont past Daenerys’ bloodriders and simply plucking her from the sleeping Drogon’s grasp. I’ll need to get to the bottom of that as well, Tyrion thought. I’d love to hear the story of how he got out of those damned Night’s Watch vows. He’d never expected to wish for a Bolton delegation, but they’d have been much easier to parlay with. Instead, a united North bolstered by Free Folk and the Father only knows what else…not like we’re about to march through the Neck and simply demand they capitulate, either. If Lord Tywin’s estimations were to be believed, Roose Bolton had lost anywhere from a quarter to a third of his army returning from the Red Wedding.

Even with the swollen court, Tyrion caught no glimpse of anyone among the northern party on his way down, but he did find someone he had no expectation of finding on Dragonstone.

“Oi, made it back from across the pond, have you?” Bronn asked, leaning up against a pillar, cup in hand.

“Glad to see you got on without me.” Tyrion replied, the sellsword easily keeping pace.

“Had to get me affairs in order after you were first arrested, remember? Never figured you’d get out of that with your head on your shoulders.”

“Neither did I. Prince Oberyn’s gaggle of hens still shoot me dirty looks every chance they get.” Bronn stopped walking and when Tyrion turned, his eyebrows had gone up.

“The Dornish girl with the great tits?” Bronn asked, as if his prospects had improved considerably.

“The same.” An accented teasing voice came from around the corridor corner. One of the Red Viper’s bastards, the one without the spear or whip, came sauntering toward them.

“And I thought this whole thing would be a waste of time.” Bronn said, arms crossed. “This wench tried to kill me while I went to that daffy sandy land with your brother.” he explained to Tyrion.

“Putting you in harm’s way and trying to kill you are two different things. At least in Dorne.” Sand replied.

“Well, if your waistband is any evidence, you’ll be of no help at all going forward. I only pray you don’t die abed or I’ll be forced to tell everyone you were too old to see it through.” Tyrion said crossly, leaving the pair to their banter. Walking past twin motionless Unsullied, he felt the air get hotter as he descended into the bowels of Dragonmont, swallowing nervously. This is the last place one of those white slivers from the cave would be hiding, Imp, he thought sternly. Stop quaking like a boy lost at the market. He heard a faint hissing and his breathing hitched in alarm until he heard a sort of amused laugh he’d know anywhere.

“Jaime.” he called out, the torches burning in sconces shaped like dragon mouths.

“No need for a piss bucket here, Tyrion. If you piss on the wall it simply boils away.” Jaime replied from the cell he’d been put in, sitting on a wooden bench.

“At least you aren’t manacled.” Tyrion reasoned.

“Bugger that. At least I’m not dead.” Jaime Lannister looked both happy as a clam where he was and also terribly weary.

“Why did you never tell anyone? About Aerys? Why did you never tell me?” Tyrion asked, sitting on the dungeon floor across from the bars.

“Well, here’s where I remind you that I’m a stupid man, Tyrion. I didn’t think the wildfire would matter as long as nobody knew about it. When Cersei fired the Sept of Baelor, that was a sharp wake-up slap and when rumors of dragons reached me…well, I suppose it seemed particularly stonebrained to keep it to myself any longer.”

“A bit. You might have at least told Father.”

“What would he have done besides tell me to keep my head shut? If word got out the people would flee that firepot of a city in droves, House Lannister would have nothing to show for its several million dragon investment in Robert’s reign and we’d most definitely lose our hold on the throne.”

What little excitement Tyrion could muster on seeing Jaime quickly floundered at his words.

“A poisoned prize.” he concluded finally. “A rotten egg Cersei perches on.”

“Your queen doesn’t seem too fussed about it. I’d have expected Aerys’ daughter to make a beeline for the throne.” Jaime said, shrugging.

“Her Grace is not so opaque as an advisor might sometimes hope, but that also makes it a deal more difficult for sycophants to get close to her.” Tyrion replied. Jaime snorted.

“That was never a fault one could lay at Aerys’ door. As long as you told him what he wanted to hear, you were golden. Until it went wrong, anyway.”

“A lifetime in Essos has rather beaten that bit out of Her Grace, to be sure. Perfumed flamboyants of every cast tried luring her from her course, but she remained resolved. To do away with slavery and to one day make it back to Westeros.”

“You forgot the bit about retaking the throne and the Seven Kingdoms for House Targaryen.” Jaime added.

“To tell it true, she’s queen already. Cersei has only one stinking city and Her Grace all the rest save the North. Even the stormlands and westerlands must prefer her to Cersei, and when they come around, all will be as it was before the Rebellion.”

“Save the wee bit about half of Westeros dashing off into the wild above the Neck.” Jaime said dryly. Tyrion frowned.

“I’m not sure the North is destined to remain a realm apart.”

“Tell that to the crannogmen.”

“Well, perhaps we’ll get lucky and they’ll take to each other.”

“Who? Stark and Robert’s shadow? I doubt the bog devils will be much impressed.”

“No, jackass. Her Grace and the King in the North.” Jaime’s eyes widened.

“Is it that likely?”

“She’s nothing if not dutiful. I can’t think she much wants to marry simply for an alliance’s sake, it has served her quite poorly in the past, but-”

“Any man up to climb a vertical maze of razor rock just to steal her out from under a dragon’s nose is worth a second look.” Jaime finished for him. “Well, if something goes right for once and they agree to it, that just puts an end to whatever delusions Cersei’s likely dreaming of, hoping they destroy each other.” he shrugged.

“Not every monarch is like her. That’s why she’s doomed.” Tyrion said.

Jaime was quiet for a little while, looking into his lap. Tyrion knew when his brother was struggling with something and in a rare departure from the norm, it didn’t seem to be Cersei.

“She was never a whore, Tyrion.” His words so confused Tyrion his brow furrowed.

“Well, so far as I know, you never paid her, but then you’d know what it takes for Cersei to-”

“Not Cersei.” His words cut through the barb before Tyrion could finish it. “Tysha.” Despite the heat pouring off the walls, Tyrion felt his insides go cold. “Father…didn’t think it proper that a Lannister should wed a crofter’s daughter. Maybe he couldn’t understand that someone could love his Imp of a son. Or maybe he didn’t want to.” Tyrion had thought a bit of wine to settle his stomach earlier had been a good idea. As it came up, steaming against the floor, he tried to keep his feet. How many silver stags that night? he thought. A gold dragon, too. He did not remember falling.

“Before Tysha, all I had were you and dragon dreams.” he said, staring at the ceiling of the cavern. “Now I haven’t even got you anymore.” Had he anything more to vomit, he would have. In order for a man to stand he needs good stone beneath him. My life has been built on quicksand. Jaime was talking but Tyrion had closed his ears to Lord Tywin’s golden son. He staggered away from Jaime’s cell, ignoring the yells. We are far beneath the castle proper. No one will hear him until after I’ve had my way. If I can’t ride a dragon, I can at least feed one. The night was crisp and cold and Tyrion found himself alone on the parapets, even at the foot of the path to where the dragon roosted. He began to climb, panting hard as he neared the clearing. I dreamed of this always, Tyrion remembered. Since I can remember, it was always dragons, never lions. He heard the dragon snoring, evidently sound asleep. As he stepped off the path into the clearing, he smelled burning leather and realized it was his shoes. The ground is hot. Animal bones lay scattered around the perimeter, the vast dark shape that had taken hold of him perhaps from birth sleeping feet away. From birth, he wondered. Somewhere in the sky thunder rumbled and Tyrion was struck by a terrible thought. I’m not afraid of if he kills me, he realized. I’m afraid of if he doesn’t. “Your brothers were chained in a dark hole.” he said, his voice a high-pitched squeaking set against the rumbling in the sky and in the dragon’s belly. “Even stunted as I was, I could be of use to them. I’ve done all I can do for your mother and for you. What’s more, I’ve done all I care to do. When I was little…er, I thought I’d have to go across the Narrow Sea to glimpse a dragon. Never did I think…” He realized the thunder nearby had stopped, and from the onyx coils blood-red eyes stared out at him. “I wonder if this is how they felt. The first of them, the first to climb the Fourteen Flames and look into the eyes of your ancestors. What did they think, I wonder, when they looked into the eyes of mine?” he said. He stood there, unable to move, unwilling to run.

Drogon exhaled as he rose, his great wings pushing off the hot ground and his huge jaws stretching in a yawn. He did not blink nor take his eyes off Tyrion. The great head came closer until Tyrion fancied he could see his face reflected in the black teeth, the furnace behind them bright enough to blind.

“At least I am man enough to wake you.” the tears turned to vapor as soon as they left his eyes. “Jon Snow only got away with your mother because those bloody wildlings taught him how to steal a woman.” The nostrils flared and a wind blew in Tyrion’s face, a hot dry wind that nearly bowled him over. “You’re going to get bigger, you know? Mother or no mother, brothers or no brothers. You may think you are alone, but you aren’t. There are wyverns in the furthest east, firewyrms in Valyria if the stories are to be believed, even great serpents in the Sunset Sea…You have a world full of wives awaiting you, and no one to tell you no.” Drogon snorted, loud as a falling tree. Or was that lightning? “One day, you will be master of the world whether you know it or not. Breath and scale built Valyria, not silver hair and purple eyes. Balerion was the true king, not the hairless monkey clinging to his back like a tick on a dog. Now the monkeys fight and kill and die over a lump of iron the Black Dread sneezed on once.” His lips curled into a smile. “Aegon had no right to Westeros, he simply woke up one day and decided two wives and three dragons were not enough, as they should be for any man. He chained himself and his get to the Seven Kingdoms when he made the Iron Throne and ever since his descendants have bled each other to the bone fighting over it. Your mother is the Breaker of Chains. Maybe she’ll know one when she sees it.” He pulled off a glove as Drogon’s head came closer. When his hand met the dragon’s nose, the first thing he thought of was hot glass. The scales down the snout were flat and flawless, and Tyrion doubted if Ser Gregor Clegane could have scratched them with a greataxe. “I suppose that answers that.” Tyrion said, knees weak and voice breaking. “Maybe that’s why Jaime never held Lord Tywin much against me.” Even when Drogon pulled away, Tyrion Lannister stood there, reaching.

Dawn was blinding. Tyrion blinked spots out of his eyes for what must have been a full five minutes before dizzily getting to his feet, wincing at the stiffness in his back. Did I fall asleep up here? he wondered. Drogon was gone from sight. Likely off on his morning hunt. Only then did he realize that he was still alive, that he’d spent hours in the dragon’s company even if unconscious and lived to tell about it. He gingerly stepped toward the stony path and a deep sore pain shot up his back, making him slump against a hot rock. To his great surprise the heat soaked into his stiff spine and quite alleviated the lion’s share of the pain, making his eyes go wide and his lips purse in a contented smirk. Well, I’m not about to get back down there anytime soon. Looks like I’m going to be Drogon’s house guard for awhile, or at least until Daenerys comes up looking after him. Dimly he looked at himself, covered in soot, ash, sweat and dirt.

“Then again,” he said aloud, “a man who’s spent his night in a dragon’s lair should scarcely look any other way.” His lips were cracked and his throat was parched, but Tyrion paid them little mind. “Let’s see an Other come up here. Or a man-fish, or a mermaid, or whoever else is skipping around just outside the edges of the map.” he said. The sound of footsteps on the stone path made him look to the entrance to the clearing. Daenerys Targaryen wore her Dothraki vest and a simple horsehide skirt, her hair a loose wild tangle. Her shock at seeing him sitting among the remains of Drogon’s past meals, back against a rock in repose made the dwarf smile ear to ear. “Your Grace.” he greeted her warmly. Her mouth seemed frozen as if she couldn’t think what to say, or else there were too many words trying to get out at once. “I think we’ll do well with Jon Snow. I remember something I told him the night his father feasted King Robert at Winterfell. All dwarves are bastards in their fathers’ eyes. No wonder the dragons think me too droll to kill.”

Instead of responding, Daenerys slowly made her way to where the dwarf was sitting.

“If you think I’m getting up, I’m entirely too comfortable where I am just now to go playing courtesies with the fools below.” he told her amicably. “You may be Unburnt, but thanks to this lovely rock I’m Unsore.” She sat down next to him, grabbing a rib of what looked like a calf and looked it over.

“If he’s particularly hungry he’ll just swallow prey whole, but sometimes…ah.” she said, turning the bone over to reveal comically overdone roast beef. Daenerys Targaryen titles and all simply bit into the charred meat, the blackened fare crackling in her mouth. “Mmmph.” she said through a mouthful, holding it out to Tyrion.

“Why not? I’ve no beard to foul anymore anyway.” he said, taking a bite. It was more gristle than meat, really, more charring than actual beef, but it beat by far eating rocks. Daenerys gave a cough and Tyrion readied to pound her on the back when she simply spit the gristle out, wild as a timber wolf.

“Had Aerys not so wronged his Hand, perhaps he would not have lost his throne.” she said.

“Bugger Aerys and bugger his Hand. My brother’s got more Hand in his golden one than Lord Tywin had in both his real hands. If only just.” Tyrion said dismissively. He closed his eyes, content to doze the day away.

“Aren’t you upset?”

“I’m many things just now. If I’m honest with myself, upset isn’t one of them. Confused, uncertain, a bit nauseous, but that’s like as not from the rib I just spent a minute chewing on as from anything else.” he said as Daenerys giggled.

“It was easier when he was smaller and there was more left over.”

“But for the small matter of a few thousand whooping fools, I’d have thought you content to stay out there forever.” Daenerys brought her knees to her chest and crossed her arms around them.

“You say you know this Jon Snow.” she said suddenly.

“Aye.”

“Is it…different up there? In the North?”

“As different as the Great Grass Sea is from the Great Pyramid of Meereen. Or it was, when I was up there last. Probably even more so now a hundred thousand wildlings have stopped to visit.”

“He’s no Hizdahr, then.”

“No, Your Grace. Not a Drogo or a Daario either, for that matter.” Tyrion thought carefully about his next words. “He is his own man. If you’ll quite pardon the title, he’s every inch a King in the North.”

“You think highly of him. What of his family?”

“Well, the little sister seems excitable, but what girl in love isn’t? Robert left no legitimate heirs, maybe the storm lords will spring for the lad when they look on him.”

“And his other sister?”

“Sansa. The image of her mother. Dare I say it but if I know her she’s had the same talk with Jon that we’re having now.” The queen was quiet for a long time. Tyrion could see the shadows of the rocks crawl.

“You think this is the best option, then? To wed the North?” she asked finally.

“When we landed you told me you were missing something. Did you mean battlefield victories, a city, a throne? Or something else?” he got up with a grunt, stretching. “You are not missing any pieces, Daenerys. You are the missing piece.”

Chapter Text

Arya

She was content simply to look at him in the hours after he arrived on Dragonstone. Not the last, not the last. It rang in her head like a septa's hymn. The thought that she wasn’t the last, wasn’t alone was too much to countenance and so she’d spent no few tears against Gendry’s chest the night Jon landed. For his part he simply held her, arms that bent heat-softened steel for a living gentle as a summer breeze when it came to cradling Arya Stark. He neither spoke nor moved, just let her get her emotions out until they had passed.

“Been a good day then, eh?” he asked, trying not to smirk.

“You stupid,” she punched him in the chest as hard as she could and felt her fist bounce off, “I thought I was all that was left.”

“Well, you and your wolf.” Gendry said. “It’ll take more than a few red cloaks to see her off. In fact, I’m sure she’s seen a few of them off in her time.”

“So have I.” Arya said, hiccupping a bit. “That’s not me anymore though. I don’t know who I am now, I jus know I’m not the Lone Wolf.”

“I know who you are. A hardheaded half-wild northern girl with the brains of a mountain goat and the hands of a blacksmith.” he laughed aloud, his huge callused hands holding her slender ones. Arya saw a half-healed burn scabbing up on the back of his left hand.

“Still smarter than you.” she shot back, laying her head on his shoulder. When Gendry didn’t reply, she looked at him. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re the King in the North’s sister. North is where you belong. I can’t say the same for me.”

“Aye, I’m a northron and a fat lot of good my northern blood did me when I was running for my life in King’s Landing, across the Riverlands, and in Braavos. I haven’t been back since I first left, I might die of shivers the first night. I didn’t come back west to go to Winterfell, I came back to go to you.” she said, touching her nose to his.

“You don’t think he’ll mind his princess sister with a bastard blacksmith?” Arya frowned.

“I told you, stupid. I don’t care about that. I’ve half a mind to ask the dragon queen to tap you on the shoulder and make a proper stag of you.” Gendry’s face went pale and he hiccupped in reply.

“Easy now. No need to talk nonsense on top of what normally tumbles out your face.” She punched him. He kissed her.

Given that their first meeting had been packed full of Daenerys Targaryen’s courtiers, Arya wanted to properly introduce her bull to Jon. The morning after he arrived she made her way to his room, hand in hand with Gendry Waters. As she might have guessed, her blacksmith was guarded and uneasy.

“Why so jumpy? Jon’s a bastard, too.” Arya asked him.

“A bastard and a king.” he reminded her. That thought was still so strange. Robb was only ever really king of the riverlands, she thought. He fought there, reigned there, died there. The river-shade came to mind, the one who seemed disturbed by Nymeria. She knew Robb somehow, Arya thought. I wish I could have taken her with me. She wondered what Gendry would think on seeing something of her sort, what Jon would think. The door opened and she saw Jon with his back to the door, smiling at a northern girl herself seated in the lap of a bald man covered in patterned scars.

“Everybody wants a boy,” the man was saying, “but what good is another lout like me? Better for everyone if we get another Alys instead, sharp tongue and all.” he said, going in for a kiss before she bit his ear, making him yelp.

“Sharp teeth, too.” she said, making a wildling with bright red hair howl with laughter. To Arya’s amazement the scarred man looked at the woman in his arms with nothing but adoration, even as his ear bled.

“See to that, Sigorn, or we’ll have to tell the babe how his or her father found out he or she was on the way.” Jon said, grinning himself. A small boy peered out from the hearth at Arya, noticing her for the first time. When he realized who she was he got to his feet immediately.

“Princess.” he said solemnly. Jon slowly turned, content to let Arya come to him. Like when we were littler, she thought. I went to him for everything.

“Give us a bit.” Jon told his friends.

“No need, Jon. I want to know the people who got you here.” Arya said.

“Very well. Arya, this is Alys Karstark and her Thenn pet Sigorn-”

“Beats sleeping with Longclaw, Snow-”

“Ned Umber, and Tormund of the Free Folk, the northern delegation. We have a few others as well but they seem to be more comfortable up with the dragon queen’s court.” He stood. “I’d best keep an eye on Wyn, she wasn’t exactly shy when it came to eyeing the Dothraki.” He stepped over to Arya. “Everyone, this my sister, Arya Stark. Er, Princess of Winterfell, I suppose.” he said, looking like he was trying to figure that bit out.

“Oi. If Sansa gets to be a princess, so does she.” Alys said, pointing to Arya. She grinned, and Karstark grinned in return.

Jon turned to Gendry.

“I suppose I should congratulate you. Not many men can cow our fiery Thenn.” Sigorn muttered under his breath while Alys giggled up a storm.

“Never mind them. Jon Snow’s not about to have a daughter he can teach to throw axes.” she told him, and Sigorn broke out in a wide grin.

“Aye, and I’ll have her split a tree with a brooding face carved into it.” he said, scooping her up and carrying her from the room. Arya saw when the wildling passed Gendry that her bull stood a head taller and must have had two stone on him. Jon looked half a boy in comparison.

“You look like the king.” Jon told him.

“Aye. Might have something to do with me being his bastard.” Gendry shrugged. Arya coughed.

“Jon, this is Gendry Waters. Gendry, this is my brother Jon Snow.” To her budding delight, Jon looked neither dismissive nor disapproving. Possibly Gendry noticed, because he frowned.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?” Jon asked in turn. The confusion on her blacksmith’s face made her want to punch him and then kiss the bruise.

“Lad, among the Free Folk a man whose sister brings you home hasn’t got any right to complain. Not one of those horse-lads could make a show against you.” The red-bearded Tormund said from his barrel. At this, Jon smirked.

“Beyond the Wall, there’s no such thing as bastards, Gendry Waters. Just free men and free women. Your father and mine were close as brothers in their day, I’d like to follow their lead, wouldn’t you?” he asked. Gendry looked pensive, uncertain. That must be from his mother, Arya thought. I doubt Robert Baratheon was ever pensive about anything in his life.

“A month ago I thought I’d work a forge until I died.” he said.

“Oh, about that. How well do you know dragonglass?” Jon asked, clapping him on the arm.

“What?”

“Never mind. Come on, lads. I think it’s time we set the record straight upstairs as to why we’re here. You’d best come too, Gendry Waters. A blacksmith’s opinion would be most enlightening.” Jon said, kissing the top of Arya’s head as he passed.

Jon didn’t seem bothered by the hall full of southerners looking him over. From every kingdom, even the Iron Islands, Arya thought. As a girl she wondered if Dorne might be her favorite of the kingdoms for its attitude toward girls, but the Dornish in person were haughty, overt, and disdainful of everything around them. At least, these Sands are. As the room filled to the rafters she realized she’d made a mistake. No stormlanders, not a one, she realized. That’s not good. Once the queen came in with her retinue, the board seemed set. People even got out of the way so she and Jon could look at each other eye to eye. Her herald ran off a list of titles that made Arya’s head spin, but Jon seemed utterly unconcerned, even at the claim of Queen of the First Men. Arya realized she was holding her breath.

“I would like to apologize for the tone of the summons sent to Winterfell. I was not aware it had been reclaimed from the Boltons.” she said finally, hands in her lap, lips pursed, as unlike the giggling girl Jon had carried from the mountain as could be. The Imp beside her had gone red in the face.

“A kinder tone than we took.” Jon replied, content it seemed to say as little as possible until the subject turned to something he cared about. His words got a few snickers from the queen’s court. House Bolton is not missed, Arya saw.

“Recipient aside, the letter was intended to bring a representative from the North to Dragonstone.”

“We were able to work that much out, aye.” More snickering even as the queen frowned.

“You came all this way, yet I have the strangest feeling you did not come to pledge fealty to me.”

“Now, what would give you that idea?” Jon was smiling now, in a way Arya had never seen before. He’s having fun, she realized, and lots of it.

“Because I gather you fancy yourself King in the North, despite the fact that you’ve taken the vows of the Night’s Watch.” Murmurs from the lords now.

“Funny, that.” was Jon’s curt reply.

“How did you come to crown yourself when by all accounts I hear of you, you are not that sort of man?” Jon’s smile died.

“Not to be particular but as I recall it more or less happened around me.”

“Be that as it may, there’s still the matter of your vows.” Jon looked to an older man with funny stubby fingers to his right, who shrugged resignedly. Jon took a breath and simply shrugged off his shirt, showing off a clumsy constellation of angry red scars across his chest, the courtiers giving all manner of reactions from muttering to cries to silence. How could he have survived something like that? Arya thought. The stub-handed man stepped forward.

“Your pardon, Your Grace, but it isn’t a subject the king much likes to bring up. During his…tenure as Lord Commander, an evolving situation that much necessitated bringing everyone beyond the Wall below it caused no little rancor among the officers. They turned on him and stabbed him to death. Now, as is hopefully evident to all present, Jon Snow’s as alive as you or I-”

“I don’t know what happened. I don’t care. Just like I don’t care about thrones or crowns or houses or names.” Jon interrupted, looking at the queen again. His amused expression was gone.

“Before Aegon united the Seven Kingdoms-”

“Aegon had no more right to a foot of Westeros than you do, Daenerys. He took castles not his to take, took crowns not his to wear, burned men not his to burn. These kingdoms spoken of below the Neck like so many jewels in a crown are not possessions. They are not playthings. They are worlds of their own with millions of people living in them. Millions who down to the last child are in danger.”

His words incensed neither the queen nor her entourage, to Arya’s surprise. In fact, there was much low muttering among the copper-skinned Dothraki.

“Among the khalasar it is commonly held that pale stalks of ghost-grass that glow in moonlight and kill all other plants in their path will overrun the world, and that is how said world will end. Does that story sound familiar, Jon Snow?” Jon’s brow furrowed and his wildling friends muttered in turn.

“It is no story, Daenerys. Not anymore.” Her court seemed desperately confused, all trying to work out for themselves just what was transpiring before their southern eyes.

“I can only gather then that you are here to request my help.”

“Three dragons and six kingdoms’ worth of soldiers would be welcome, yes.”

“Unfortunately I must refuse you on both counts. I have only a single dragon at present and he’ll not bear me just now, and the people in this room are about the extent of my influence over Westeros. I cannot take King’s Landing without Cersei Lannister reducing it to rubble nor the other kingdoms with pretty words and overtures. Not to mention assembling such an army and moving it to Winterfell in a timely fashion. There are not enough ships in the whole of Westeros.” Silence fell across the room as the two looked at each other.

“Might be, if we got ahold of Euron’s half of the Iron Fleet.” Theon Greyjoy said after a moment, looking at his feet.

“The Arbor’s got no shortage of ships and crew enough to sail them, and they’re sitting at port last I heard.” Jon’s fat friend spoke up next. “Unlike Jon Snow, I am a brother of the Night’s Watch, so I’ll need to go back north at some point anyway. I can verify all he says, my lords. The situation beyond the Wall was bad years ago, I don’t want to think about how it is just now. It’s not just swords and ships we need though, its men who know where to put them. Veterans of expansive campaigns who can lead, land and sea.”

“Someone ought to tell the stormlanders what we’re up to.” someone said.

“I’ll do that. They know me somewhat, or knew me years ago.” Stubhand offered.

“Don’t know how good they’ll feel about rallying behind a Targaryen.” the Blackfish said grumpily. It doesn’t matter what they’re talking about, Arya saw. They’re just desperate for a plan, any plan. Any way forward out of the constant fighting.

“Probably not very. But I’m not going to ask they rally behind a Targaryen.” Jon’s elderly friend said. Arya slowly sidled in front of Gendry. That was stupid. I might as well try to hide Nymeria behind an alley cat, she realized. The man turned to her bull.

“At the end, all the surviving stormlords could talk about was which banner to die under. The flaming heart of R’hllor disgusted the lion’s share of them, they wanted to fly the stag banner as it flew in Robert’s heyday. Give those men a chance to do that or better yet, follow a flesh-and-blood Baratheon, and they’ll steal march on the moon.”

Gendry’s breathing had gone rapid and shallow. When Arya looked up, she saw his tanned face had again gone pale and he swallowed nervously.

“Well then, who’s our dupe?” he asked, looking on the verge of tears.

“Don’t worry about it, lad-”

“The last time my father came up a red witch had a leech on my cock. Upstairs, actually. I only got out of here without her sizzling me up like a lamb chop because you broke me out of the dungeon. Call me ignorant but I know when ore’s too shit to use.”

“Look everyone, somebody who’s been fucked by the game of thrones.” Tyrion pointed at him.

“Get in line, young buck.” Tully grunted to Gendry in turn.

“You won’t need to rule. Just stand there in black and gold, look a proper son of Robert’s and bring the stormlords into the fold.” The old man said bracingly. Arya stood on her tiptoes and just managed to kiss Gendry’s chin. He went from chalk to cherry immediately.

“It would be harder for me to beat you up if you had all of Storm’s End to hide in instead of just a single room.” she whispered.

“If we could dig up Robert’s antler helm-”

“Enough with antlers. Nymeria’s eaten more venison in a month than most people do in their lives, a direwolf can’t marry a deer.” Arya snapped at the old man. When she looked back up to Gendry, his pained face had become a wide grin.

“What the hell’s he smiling at?” someone asked. Gendry looked up.

“I’ll do it,” he said, “but I want to do it my way.” Arya caught Jon smiling as the room dissolved into the lords talking among themselves, sensing the topic at hand had quickly gone from the dragon queen and the northern king. Gendry had no people of his own to confer with or be congratulated by so Arya pulled him from the hall before he could protest.

“I expect I’m going to make a right ass of myself.” he said when they reached their little room.

“Of course you are, stupid. But if King Robert was any example all the stormlanders are stupid anvil-heads. At least you’re sober. You’ll fit in fine, all you have to do is look grumpy and not say much. Yes, just like that!” she grinned at him.

“I’m not even from the stormlands. I was born in King’s Landing.” he said.

“You’ll do fine. I’ll go with and Nymeria too so you can show off that you have a tie to the King in the North and Winterfell if nothing else. I suppose it will be what should have been. Your father and my aunt, I mean.” The idea seemed to give Gendry great pause.

“That sort of gives me chills. Like…”

“…there’s more to it than dumb luck.” she finished for him in a similarly quiet tone. She sat on the bed, swinging her legs.

“The way they were talking to each other, it sounds like we’re in for it all over again.” he said as he lit the tiny hearth.

“Maybe.” Arya replied, laying back. “Or maybe this is the end of something, polishing the armor once its cooled, like, and the next thing hasn’t started yet. We won’t know ‘till after.” she said. “Don’t think on that too much, you’ll give yourself a nosebleed.” she huffed. He got up from the hearth and lay down next to her, staring at the ceiling as she was.

“How come you said a direwolf can’t marry a deer?” he asked her after some time in silence had passed.

“Because I can’t. I’ll be too busy marrying you.”

“I haven’t asked. Might be I’ll marry a fish.”

“You’re too stupid to marry anyone but me. A fish would see how stupid you are and swim off.”

“And a deer would see how stupid you are and prance off.”

“Exactly. You’ve not pranced a moment in your life. You might be from the south, but you haven’t any of it in you. I wish I could have met your mum.”

“My mum?” Gendry asked, surprised.

“You’re the image of King Robert, or so people say, but you’re nothing like him. He wasn’t patient and quiet and he’d not have waited a second for a girl, let alone a few years.” She clambered up to straddle his chest, her hand over his heart. “I don’t care about stupid Baratheons and their stupid stag. I don’t want you because you’re half Baratheon. I want you because you’re all Gendry.”

Chapter Text

Sansa

Her face throbbed and sizzled, seared and stung. It took her a good while to blink the pain out of her eyes and even then her sight had not been what it was. Standing slowly she realized that she was off balance, her right side slower to act than her left. The sounds of livestock had gone and she knew without a doubt she’d been left behind to recuperate. Though the pain made it hard, she listened heard and felt what she could, limping back the way she’d come as the throbbing slowly faded from her flesh. Her kind liked dark and cold and quiet, as those who kept them did, so when she heard the rowdy laughter she let out a woozy pained whine. Three of them sat in the clearing, half again as tall as those who kept her kind, a kind quite apart. They looked at her only briefly before returning to their own affairs, peering about anxiously every so often to listen for danger. Something stirred at their feet, twitching feebly, and was promptly given a hard kick by one of them, sending it rolling over to her. One of them, the livestock, the one she’d thought to be food. It began making sounds, sounds that made her head pound and limbs twitch.

“And I thought the dead men were bad…” it muttered, groaning to itself as it sat up. She recognized the face at once. Uncle Benjen, Sansa thought. She’d have screamed if she had a voice, but all that came out was a shriek of alarm. What is this?  She thought, trying to make sense of what was happening. It was like being on hands and knees but upright also, and her eyes never watered nor blinked. Are these legs or fingers? She thought, finding she had no true head separate from her body. When the seven legs that remained to the body she was in came into focus, her mind’s eye widened. Pale spiders big as hounds, Old Nan told us. It was hard to know for sure as she couldn’t really look at herself, she had no neck to crane, but her body felt a dexterous seven-fingered hand of sorts, nimble and graceful. I’m not pale either. Clear, not milky. Were she set against an icy wall, she’d have been hard to spot for one not suited to seeing in heavy weather. A grunt made her snap back to reality.

They are not giants. Not even close, Sansa thought, looking at the three beings that lazed in the clearing. No more than nine feet tall with lanky limbs most unlike the broad muscled forms of the giants she knew. With wiry cropped black hair and bluish translucent skin, the creatures could not have passed for giants even at a distance. They wore only hides around their waists and carried sharpened branches big enough to serve as spears for a race of their size and strength, but Sansa could sense a sort of uneasiness about them, a wariness of the world around them, of something that loomed always. The web came easy as if she were pouring wine and she carried Uncle Benjen off without a second look at the not-giants. Heading south or so she hoped, she felt him struggle feebly all the way. You’re not in any danger anymore, Uncle Benjen, she thought. I am going to take you home. Perhaps it was her newfound resolve or the nature of the spider herself, but Sansa found she was quite at peace with her first warging. The spider’s mind seemed to revolve around stillness, around inactivity. A shrieking pack of males a third her size and a third her cunning sniffed her out and promptly began to follow her. Sansa counted at least a half dozen, each eager to be the one to pounce when she picked a new home. In the trees she could see other she-spiders holding court, each unmoving as their harem fed them, cleaned them and fixed their webs. None of the Others were present. Maybe they want to leave them to it, Sansa thought. Maybe ice spiders are picky about breeding. Aside for very infrequent clicks of mouthparts, it would have been easy to think the females dead. Their eyes don’t close. Tricky to tell if they’re asleep or not. The males definitely weren’t, their movement hardly stopped. The presence of a newcomer, one heavily wounded, stirred her sisters from their inert states and they clicked at her, some in greeting others in indignation. Sansa moved on with her prize, her suitors following her. They began to click among themselves with nervous chirps as night began to wane, and Sansa found that even the first hints of light peeking through the trees were enough to disorient her. The sun itself would be agony, she thought, looking around in some haste. Finally she spotted a hollow beneath a fallen tree, skittering into the close darkness without a second thought. The males were on her at once, edging her up the wall rear first into a cozy alcove, Uncle Benjen forgotten at the bottom of the deep hollow. Sansa finally panicked as something very like unconsciousness set in, then she realized the same sort of inertness that had her sisters in thrall was setting in for her as well.

It wasn’t waking, despite the light of dawn poking in from the window. She didn’t fire out of bed like a crossbow quarrel, she just found herself back in bed in Winterfell. I don’t have to be asleep to warg, Sansa reminded herself. Remember what Bran said. Reach for it and you will find yourself in the body of an animal. Well, corkers for me, but an ice spider didn’t scare poor Meera out of her skin or send an owl out my window. Only when Sansa had gotten out of bed did she realize the hearth had gone cold, yet no chill crept into her flesh and she couldn’t see her breath. It isn’t getting warmer, though, Sansa thought. I’m getting colder. That scary thought made her look in her mirror for a long while, searching her Tully blue eyes for blue of a different kind. You may be watching me right now, she thought, as I watched the ice spider for a time. All she needed was a few weeks more, a few months. Time enough to see Jon return, to see Bran and Meera bring a new Stark into the world. After that I don’t care what happens to me. She had a quick cold bath that made her neither shiver nor chatter and donned an old periwinkle blue gown of Lady Catelyn’s tailored for her height before going down for breakfast. Few had yet woken and when she got into the Great Hall Sansa saw it was almost empty save for Lord Royce, his handsome adjutant and several eminent knights of the Vale. The blonde man far from his customary smirk was curiously pale and wide-eyed, staring at the table before him. His fellow knights murmured to him encouragingly and when one noticed Sansa he cleared his throat and stood.

“Princess Sansa.” he said, the other knights helping Lord Royce to his feet to greet her in turn. The blonde man stayed seated, off in his own world. Only when she came close did he seem to realize she was there, clearing his throat and standing shakily. From so confident to shaking like a kitten, Sansa thought.

“Is something wrong, my lords?” she asked. Depends on your definition, she answered herself, reasonably certain of what had occurred.

“Ahem…apologies, Princess, but it seems Lord Robert has died of a vicious chill. I thought getting him away from the high cold halls of the Eyrie and Littlefinger both would improve his constitution, but…” To her surprise, Lord Royce looked rather put out.

“It was not Robert Arryn’s fault he was born small and sickly, my lord. You did all you could for him and more. Lady Waynwood as well.” Sansa said soothingly. She turned to the blonde man, of an age with Jon or a hair older. “Nor yours for being born in the first place, Lord Arryn.” she said.

The handsome new lord thrown for a loop as it was slowly came back down to earth. He shook his head to steady himself, even slapping himself rather sharply, making Lord Royce cough.

“I must apologize for my own conduct, Princess Sansa-”

“Just Sansa, if it please you, Lord Arryn.” Sansa said. Once I would have given anything to be a queen. Gods protect me from such a fate, she thought.

“As long as it please you to call me Harry. I’ve been Harry the Heir since I can remember, it won’t be such a change to be Harry Arryn.” Sansa giggled.

“Knowing the Free Folk, they’ll just call you Harryn to keep things simple.” Harry shrugged.

“Out loud it does sound a bit fetching.” He visibly stumbled looking for a topic before he turned to his worthies. “Oh, um, I should introduce the lads. Princess Sansa, these are Ser Roland and Ser Wallace Waynwood, oldest son and youngest brother in turn of Ser Morton Waynwood, heir to Ironoaks. Cousins, Princess Sansa Stark of Winterfell.” Sansa nodded to each in turn. Cousins they may have been but Lord Harrold Arryn’s handsome shaven face, clean blonde hair and sky blue eyes looked wildly out of sorts with his Waynwood relations, all stringy brown hair and pointed noses. A falcon raised among sparrows, Sansa thought.

“It seems I should thank you each in turn on behalf of House Stark for helping us reclaim Winterfell.” she said, Ser Wallace stuttering nervously while his homely older nephew beamed with pride.

“We were afraid we’d miss all the battles cooped up in the Vale as we were. Now all of Westeros knows what the freed falcon can do.” Ser Roland said. I see only one falcon here, ser, Sansa thought.

“I’m sure you’d like to spend more time with your worthy cousins, but if we could have a moment?” Sansa asked Lord Arryn. Lord Royce could not havel ooked more pleased if Harry asked for her hand then and there, but mercifully Harry quite ignored him.

“Of course, Sansa.” he said, all manners, offering his arm.

“The parapets are so nice in the morning, you can see everything around for miles if the weather is right.” she told him.

“Is that so? I should like to see as a falcon does, if only from atop a wall.” he replied, looking ever charmed.

Once outside, away from his relatives, Harry’s pretense dropped.

“Would you believe I cannot for the life of me stand heights?” he asked, taking lungfuls of the northern autumn air.

“It would seem then that the Eyrie is a poor place for you, my lord.” Sansa said, a bit taken aback.

“Hang the Eyrie. I grew up in its shadow as all lads in the Vale do and spent the spring of manhood under the thumb of Lysa Tully. It took the finagling of Littlefinger to get us into the thick of it. As High as Honor, but only in defense of one batty widow and her stunted son. And please, it‘s Harry.” the new lord said, dismissive of the ancestral seat of House Arryn.

“I can sympathize, Harry. I spent many a day penned up in the Red Keep, unsure if I’d live to see the next.” Sansa replied.

“I can at least take some solace in doing my part to stomp out Ramsay Snow, his father a puppet of those who took so much from you.”

“He did his share of taking as well, to be sure.” she said, looking off the northern parapet, the wolfswood extending out further than she could see. A lone giant was gingerly trying to herd one of the horned animals back into the trees, but the baby seemed resolutely unwilling.

“We can knight ourselves all we like, but we were just the anvil in the Battle of the Bastards.” Sansa looked up and was surprised to see Harry smiling. “Whoever got them in a rows instead of a column had the right idea. The Bolton corpse wall could trap the king’s soldiers and slow our horses, but the mammoths were another matter.” Harry said. The king, he called Jon.

“Forgive me, Harry, but it’s the rare lord who would so readily follow a bastard, set one such as Jon above himself.”

“One such? Forgive me, Sansa, but there is no man like the king. I’ve heard many a nasty rumor regarding the Targaryens, but Jon Snow is no ordinary man. It stands to reason his queen must be no ordinary woman.” He quieted for a time. “I have a bastard or two of my own. Alys, a girl of two at Ironoaks and an other on the way by a different girl. I suppose I thought it would just be tournaments and splendidry forever.”

“I thought the same during the Hand’s tourney, Harry. It’s not hard to get swept up as if in a song when you’ve known aught else.” Sansa said gently. “I thought my father would live forever and I’d see my mother again.” They stood in silence for a time as the animal ran snorting from the red-faced giant, pursuit only making it flee faster. Up close Sansa could see the giant was younger than most, without so much as fuzz on his face. Harry pointed at the baby.

“One of those hairy bastards smashed a dozen pink men aside with a single charge.”

“The giants call them rhonok, Ser Harrold.” Bran’s voice made Sansa look back and she saw her brother approaching with Meera.

“Bran, our cousin has passed away. Harrold Hardyng is now Harrold Arryn, Lord of the Vale.” Bran nodded.

“My lord.”

“My prince.” Harry replied. “I should think a man atop one could triumph at any joust. The beast brings its own lance, after all.” Bran laughed.

“They have fearsome tempers, my lord. Grown giants treat them gingerly and only bull mammoths can get them moving when they prefer to stay still.” Out from the trees looking rather wary came several mountain clansmen, tightly clumped and giving giant and rhonok both a wide berth. “The mountain clans are traditional northmen. Likely they think all this with the Free Folk and Andals is quite unnecessary. A quick peek at our guest will quickly bring them around.” Bran said as they got around, dashing for the northern gate with all speed. Sansa giggled, as did Meera.

“We went through the mountains on the way to the Wall.” she said, head on Bran’s shoulder.

“Ah, you did. I hung off Hodor’s back like a sack of oats.” Bran said, cheeks red. “Besides, you hated them, all up and down.”

“I was fresh out of the Neck, Bran. To go from bogs to mountains in a matter of weeks is quite the adjustment, and I loved them just as fiercely. High and far and free and cold.” Talk of high mountains made Harry’s eyes cross so that only Sansa could see.

“I think I’d rather fight an Other than climb a mountain.” he said weakly. “When you caught it…”

“I took it by surprise and landed a crippling blow. Then another. He was not expecting to be attacked. I would not care to fight one on even ground.” Meera said.

“Not to be rude, but crannogmen don’t fight on even ground, do they?” Harry asked her.

“We don’t. Speaking of, they should be here soon. A man clanking around in our hollows does not go unnoticed and word will have gotten to my father in hours if not faster.” she replied. Silence fell for a time as they watched the rhonok calf dash off to the east, the giant finally reaching it and offering it what looked like whole cabbages. As the pair slowly retreated into the pines, Harry spoke again.

“I should very much like to meet the man who taught you well enough to lame an Other.”

“I imagine there’s not a soul in Winterfell not burning with curiosity at the thought of Howland Reed.” Sansa added. Meera tucked a hand into her jerkin and pulled out several long yellowed objects hanging off a looped reed.

“Are those..?” Harry asked as Meera nodded.

“Lizard-lion teeth. He made it for me and gave it to me the day I left. All of Winterfell will have rather a long wait you see, as I am quite eager to be reunited with my parents.”

Maester Wolkan stepped up to the parapets with a scroll in hand. “Pardon the intrusion.” he said, a bit winded from the climb.

“From Moat Cailin. The crannogmen should arrive in a matter of hours. Ravens from all over the north had arrived to protest the firing of the barrows, but sharp rebukes from the men who were here to…uh, see have rectified the situation.” he said, red in the face.

“Thank you, maester. Has there been any word from Jon?”

“Not a feather, Princess. I suppose we won’t unless things go very strongly one way or another.” Sansa nodded and he made his way back down.

“I think I’ll go with him. All this about mountains and ravens has my head adrift. Besides, there’s more spiced wine in the hall.” Harry said, bidding each Stark good day in turn. Meera still had her mind on her family while Bran’s eyes hopped from stud to stud atop the wall.

“Bran, if I see you climbing, I’m going to hurl snowballs at you until you fall off and a giant catches you. Them I’ll tie you to a chair and leave you in your room.” Sansa said. The wind picked up, a sharp slap of cold air that Sansa did not feel. Bran and Meera went redfaced and they got close, body to body. “Come, we needn’t linger in the company of boorish weather.” she said, shepherding them back into the hall. It can’t be much longer now, Sansa thought. Perhaps they already know, and they’re just waiting for the right moment? Yet another reason Lord Reed needs to grace Winterfell with his presence at last! Sansa thought impatiently. When they got back inside, Sansa got a few uncertain looks from the guards. I forgot a fur, she realized. I forgot a fur and I was out there at least an hour, and I’m not so much as red-faced. Then she remembered what had happened that morning. Before Bran and Meera could spirit each other off, she caught up with them and bid them join her in her room. At the look on her face, they agreed readily.

“I did it, Bran.” she said when he had closed the door behind him.

“Did what?” he prompted, setting a fire before wrapping Meera in an extra blanket. Please, Sansa thought.

“I…stepped out. For some air.” Bran’s eyes widened.

“And?” She took a moment to remember all she’d seen.

“I wasn’t… I didn’t find what I was looking for, or who as it may be, but…Bran, I walked a bit in shoes I’m quite certain no one has ever walked in before. Ice spiders, Bran. Males the size of dogs, females the size of horses. Fast, strong, clever as wolves and able to scale anything.” she said. They stared at her.

“Did you see any-”

“No Others. Uh…the situation was such that I got the distinct impression they wanted to leave the spiders to themselves.” Meera’s face fixed in a grim frown.

“They’re breeding.” Sansa looked at her in surprise.

“How-”

“That is how it is in the Neck. House Webb’s got green widows the size of a man’s hand. Females are courted by as many as a dozen males at once. If interrupted a courtship hours in the making will be abandoned immediately. Nothing is eaten until after eggs are laid, unless you count the occasional unlucky male.”

“I didn’t see any eggs…” Sansa said uncertainly. “Nor coupling either. The females were bedding down, though.”

“That might be a good thing. If they’re slow at it, the Others could be delayed significantly. Likely they hoped to be further along, past the Wall at least, before the girls decided it was time.” Meera smirked. “Father for one will be glad to know they aren’t moving unheeded. To see the enemy without yourself being seen is one of the first things you learn growing up in the Neck.” Sansa’s face fell as she remembered the rest.

“There were other things, too. They were big, but not as big as giants. Nine feet tall, sinewy, and wary of the forest around them. They wore only waistcloths and carried sharpened branches, but if a man were to close with one it would tear him in half easily.”

“We’ll have to ask Branch if the Singers know anything. If they’re skittish for their size all the better but I wouldn’t want to face one down swinging a torch.” Bran said. They left shortly after to wait by the gates in case the crannogmen arrived but the sun curved through the sky without a single hint of movement on the kingsroad south of Winterfell. Only when Sansa woke for dinner and she left her room did she wonder at the ways of the crannogmen. Small and shy, unlikely to come stomping up to the southern gate with all the pomp of King Robert’s group. Could they have come while she was sleeping?

The hall was full of loud voices as usual, so Sansa slipped in without anyone much noticing, aside from Brienne who kept her place at the nearest table. No newcomer had joined the high table, and since that would surely be where Lord Reed would be sitting (by necessity if not preference, his daughter was Bran’s wife-to-be after all) Sansa merely took her usual seat, leaving Jon’s empty as were the two directly next to his. Left for his Queen, right for his Hand, she thought, or maybe it’s the other way around. Jon will care least of all anyway. Meera was giggling as Bran fed her off his fork, Harrold Arryn was still being congratulated by the remainder of the valemen, and Sansa could find no fault with anyone in the room. It’s not who’s here, she thought. It’s who isn’t. Jon and his company minus Littlefinger. Robb and Rickon. Mother and Father.

“Why so teary-eyed, my lady?” Brienne asked, stepping up to the table. Sansa wordlessly pulled a chair for her.

“You’re to sit there now.” she told her. “It’s come to my attention that you may be the most eminent of all our stormlanders, and by far the most fit to represent them here.” Sansa said in reply. Brienne blushed but did not refute Sansa’s words.

“It seems we’re just waiting, then. For the king and for the crannogmen.” Brienne prompted her with a subject change.

“Indeed, but word is the crannogmen should arrive bef-” the doors opposite the High Table opened and a woman came in, looking around. She was quite short, easily a foot shorter than Sansa but a woman grown. Olive skin and green eyes first made Sansa think of the Singers, but she was not small as they were, nor skinny as Singers were in contrast to men. Nobody seemed to notice her as she scooted along the wall toward them, stepping up just as Meera finished her latest fit of quiet giggles. Immediately her eyes went wide and she stood so abruptly the hall quieted at once. The woman raised her slender hand and her fingers waggled.

“Come,” Meera was whispering in her ear. “They’re in the godswood.” As she and Bran led Sansa from the hall, the strange woman following, she heard someone in the hall give an excited whisper.

“They’re here.”

Sansa had avoided the godswood ever since returning to Winterfell. I spent so much time weeping, praying, or dozing from exhaustion in front of the tree in King’s Landing, she thought. Standing where her father had once prayed felt something like an affront. Another woman was seated on a log, gazing into the water. Meera stopped cold at the sight of her, knuckles white. The woman from the hall silently went back to the threshold to wait. It seemed the world had stopped for Sansa’s sister-to-be. She slowly got closer, breathing ragged, before she stopped not a foot from the woman.

“Mother.” she whispered. The woman turned and Sansa saw a lovely warm face just touched by care lines and framed by long dark brown tresses, out of which looked a pair of bottomless mossy pools. She stood slowly, her clothes mirroring Meera’s. Her hand came up and caressed the girl’s face.

“You grew.” she whispered back. “He always said you would.” A man stepped into view from out of the night, looking at Meera with wide eyes so green they took hold of any who beheld them. His lip was quivering and he looked split between grief and awe. Lady Reed braced her daughter as the poor thing began to tear up.

“I lost Jojen.” she whispered. The man took a long breath, if anything more aggrieved than Meera.

“No,” he said finally, “he is with you always.” Bran and Sansa stood in silence as the Reeds took their daughter in their arms. Lady Reed was taller than her husband and Meera taller than either by a good foot. Howland Reed was a crannogman and no mistake, with his olive skin, green eyes and beardless almost boyish face, but something about Lady Reed made Sansa’s thoughts itch. She looks half-crannog at best, she thought. I’ve seen her coloring somewhere before. Madly she wondered if it had been Joffrey’s wedding, where all the south had come to court. They sat on the log, daughter between parents, her head in her father’s chest. The girl beneath the princess, Sansa thought. At least she is worthy and more of the title.

Once their emotions had subsided, Meera slowly stood and sniffled.

“Bran, Sansa, Lord Howland and Lady Jyana Reed of Greywater Watch. Mother, Father, Prince Brandon and Princess Sansa Stark of Winterfell.” Lady Reed found her feet a few moments after, graciously greeting the both of them though she did not curtsy. Something in Sansa’s mind echoed like a half-forgotten dream. Cersei was making fun of Shae’s curtsy during the Blackwater. Lady Jyana’s never been to a highborn court! A commoner then, maybe they met when Lord Howland left the Neck for the tourney at Harrenhal during the Year of False Spring. The idea might have been beautifully romantic to Sansa in childhood, but as it was she was mostly unsettled. The crannogmen are a world of their own, she told herself sharply. Of course Lord Howland was free to do as he wished and never mind a stupid girl with stupid dreams who never learns. Bran slowly approached him, the little man on the log seemingly unable to stand under his own power.

“Come, my lord. I know what it is to need help.” He slipped an arm around Lord Howland’s waist and eased him up, holding him steady until his knees stopped knocking. “When Jojen died, I lost a brother and the best of friends. He once told me that when word of my father’s death reached you, you wept. Our grief is shared, my lord. As is our glory.” Sansa’s heart skipped a beat but Bran said no more.

“Come, let us show you to the world.” Sansa helped him guide the Reeds from the godswood, the warmth of the Great Hall never more inviting. The sight of myriad banners and standards on the walls made Howland Reed shake all over again, but his wife steadied him before anyone could notice. As they moved back toward the High Table the voices again quieted into silence. While Sansa sat, Bran faced the entire assembly, lords and knights from moor and mountain, even Branch in his corner.

“My lords, Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch. Mistwalker, Fogsinger, the Black and the Green, the Lizard-Lion, Protector of the Old Way and Beloved of the Old Gods.” To Sansa’s immense relief, Lord Howland’s tears had quite vanished and the man whose moss-green eyes took in the hall before him had such an air of inviolability that even Lord Royce was given pause. Indeed the younger northmen looked at him as Tommen had when hearing of Ser Arthur Dayne. Bran turned to Howland Reed. “Your daughter bore me countless miles, wept with me on your son’s passing, protected me from all harm. My only regret, Lord Howland, is that I can name only one son for you.” Lady Jyana’s face lit up as she looked to her daughter. Sansa watched, not blinking, not breathing. Harry stood from the table of valemen, mug in hand. He raised it.

“Howland Stark!” The room exploded in a chorus of shouts, cheers, voices, all singing the same hymn. Those in the hall were soon joined by voices from outside. Voices enough to drown out the giants and their mammoths both, voices high and soft and beautiful, and when Sansa rushed to a window she could see them, hundreds, thousands, more as an endless tide of crannogmen filled the yard, filled the parapets, filled Winterfell.

“Howland Stark!”

“HOWLAND STARK!”

“HOWLAND STARK!”

Chapter Text

Samwell

“Ser, you’ve been in here for almost a week. Time I think to finally go up to meet the dragon queen, no?” Sam asked Ser Jorah as the Old Bear’s son downed another cup of ale. He drinks like a fish and yet never seems drunk, Sam thought.

“Time to finally put a shirt on, too.” Gilly added, bouncing Little Sam on her knee. The boy giggled gleefully, hands out for Sam. He dutifully scooped him up, Little Sam letting out a shriek of joy as Sam held him aloft. Who am I if not his father? Who is he if not my son?

“Events move apace, Ser. If you miss much more you’ll be of precious little use when you finally do resurface.” Sam said. The knight hadn’t been much of a talker even on the voyage north but once they reached Dragonstone he’d become nearly mute. To Sam’s surprise he lurched to his feet rubbing his eyes and groaning before slapping himself in the face.

“Come on…” he muttered. It took Sam a moment to realize Mormont wasn’t talking to him or Gilly. He looked unsteady, even disoriented.

“Come, ser. Sun and decent food will do you a world of good, not to mention fresh air.” Sam said sharply, half-dragging him out to the bathing basin and shoving him in. “I’ll go find you decent garb for court. When I get back you’d best be ready or I’m going to-”

“Go, Samwell Tarly. I’ll be ready when you return.” More than he’s said in a solid month, Sam thought. He left without another word, pondering the knight’s behavior. It isn’t his fault, he’s been this way since I found him at the Citadel. When he went from a dead man walking to hale as ever in the span of less than an hour. What had happened there? Certainly Marwyn had been lost for words, but as they were pressed for time it seemed unwise to question such a windfall. It took Sam only a moment to find something that would fit Mormont from the port town merchants who’d come up to the castle, a few stags would see the knight not have to attend court in the salt-stained rags of a sailor.

On his return and delivery of Mormont’s clothes, Sam simply waited with Gilly for the knight to join them. She was a quiet girl normally but she seemed positively withdrawn that morning.

“Are you alright?” he asked her. Her cheeks turned pink.

“I’m fine, Sam.” her mouth tightened. She was looking at Little Sam as he put his little hands to the warm stone wall, burbling to himself. “What could they have wanted with a baby, Sam? You’re the smartest person in the world, if anybody knows, it’s you.” she asked suddenly.

“Gilly, I’m just a lad from Horn Hill who spent his boyhood buried in books. The other day I was wondering what made the dragonglass so lethal to the one I killed. Then I remembered I didn’t just stab it, I stabbed it in the neck. That would kill any man, I think. We won’t deal with them sitting here in a warm hole on Dragonstone, though. I should get back to the Wall before they accuse me of deserting.”

“What happens if they take your Wall, Sam?” Gilly’s face was an inch from his in moments. “You told me the crows pecked apart the one with the wolf. Well, he’s somewhere on this island-mountain alive as can be. What’s coming out of the…It’s more than a wall can stop, Sam. Even the Wall. I don’t see what good you dying with the few featherless crows remaining does for the rest of the people down here.” She is afraid, Sam saw. Not of dragons or my father or even death. She’s more afraid of the Others than she is of dying.

“Gilly, what is it? What about them is so terrifying?” To anyone else it would have sounded the stupidest question ever asked, but Sam sensed Gilly knew what he meant. “After all, a serving wench could kill a wight with a brick if she had the nerve.”

“It isn’t the dead men, Sam. It isn’t the hungry white mist or the stories of ice spiders...”

“Then what?” Gilly looked on the verge of tears and Sam was ready to comfort her when she answered.

“When you’re out there as we were, praying to all the gods that the embers at your feet take and stave off the cold and the animals, and you see something like a man walking around with no need for clothing, let alone fire…something that when looked at, looks back. It isn’t just the Others I suppose, I’d feel the same way if I were on a sinking ship and I saw a man-fish watching from the waves. Anything as much man as monster.” The Dothraki talked of little else, half-petrified and half-fascinated by the figures that watched from the surf as treasure washed ashore every morning. Yet despite the countless coins Gilly had never once wanted to go down and watch. “I have my Sams,” she’d said, “I don‘t need any treasures more.” Mormont’s knock shook Sam out of his reverie. When Sam looked him over he didn’t see a knight, just a surly man with a strong back.

“Well, I’m all prettied up. Let’s get upstairs before anything else goes wrong.”

The queen didn’t notice Jorah Mormont at first. Too busy looking for a different northman if the rumors ring true, Sam thought. Yet Sam saw little in the way of desire in Mormont’s eyes. He seemed resolved, even resigned, but ready to rejoin the woman he’d followed across the world. The Naathi quickly whispered in her ear and Daenerys Targaryen’s perfect lips parted in surprise when she saw Ser Jorah in their far corner. She stood abruptly and left the throne room without a word to her ever-murmuring gaggle of so-called lords, her whisperer descending to have a short word with the bear knight. Mormont replied curtly before jerking his head toward Sam. The bald man made another inquiry before leaving after the queen. Mormont returned to Sam. “She wants to see us in the map room.” he said lowly. The Painted Table, Sam thought. I heard Stannis speak of it once. He kept Gilly close as the knight led them from the room, out of the public corridors to the higher chambers where the queen lived. Her brick men are thrice as common up here, Sam saw. Maybe on the lookout for wily climbers. Jon’s uncharacteristic boldness made Sam frown. He ought be readying for the Others, not playing games with Daenerys Targaryen. When they got to the room that housed the Painted Table, Sam was surprised to see the far wall was almost totally open, more window than wall.

“Have you found a cure, then?” the queen asked shakily. Ser Jorah shrugged.

“It found me. One day I was dying, the next this man was taking me to Sunspear and from there to you.” he said. “Everybody else made it, I see.” he said, nodding to the Naathi girl and the commander of the toy soldiers. “Where’s Tyrion?” he asked, realizing the dwarf was not among them.

“He’s trying to figure out a way to rally the rest of the southern kingdoms.” Daenerys replied.

“Failing, too.” another voice said as Tyrion Lannister waddled into view. He seemed both pleased and irritated. “So you’ve not died yet.”

“No, but I’ve been to Dorne and that’s about as close to hell as exists in this world.”

“The Sands can be grating. Particularly when they owe you a niece.” Tyrion agreed. He turned to Sam.

“I think you should be off to Highgarden with Lady Olenna before long. The Reach-”

“Owes Olenna Redwyne no more loyalty than they do each other. The Tyrells are gone thanks to your sister. A single old widow will not command the allegiance of the houses of the Reach when she is a creature of the past and has no future.” Sam said grimly. The dwarf’s twisted mouth twitched.

“What then do you propose?”

“I have an idea I think may entice the greater part of the Reach’s remaining strength. If it succeeds we can begin moving out in as little as a month’s time, and the bulk of that will be simply going down the Mander from Tumbleton to Highgarden.” Sam said. “As both the castle and overlordship of the Reach are quite open, I might bring word to the lords of the Reach that you’re willing to give them the opportunity to choose their own leader. It may not be who you prefer but such a chance to voice their opinions will bring them closer to you to a man, even those with no love for dragons, Your Grace.” The queen listened impassively, her eyes flitting from Sam to Gilly and back.

“Would such a plan work for the rest of the kingdoms? The westerlands, the stormlands, the crownlands and Dorne all lack clear leaders. If representatives from Dragonstone could be sent to each and relay that we’re moving on King’s Landing, they may come to get a leg up over their neighbors. As…my Hand’s brother has evidenced, to actually move on the city is, by anyone’s measure, a bad idea. Still, they’ll have been assembled nicely for our true purpose.” Daenerys said, looking from place to place on the Painted Table. Not once did her eyes flit further north than Riverrun. Have she and Jon already reached an agreement? What about the Vale? “I would know everyone’s thoughts on Lord Tarly’s plan.” she said suddenly as she clapped her hands together, the echo seeming to Sam a bit like applause.

They filed in one by one, most still abed despite the late morning. The Greyjoy siblings, the Blackfish, Olenna and her huge guardsmen, King Robert’s bastard and Jon’s sister and the Sands. Once they’d taken their places around the Painted Table, the queen began to speak.

“Lord Tarly has brought an interesting way forward to my attention. If you’d all care to hear him out, I’d appreciate it.” She looked to Sam.

“Uh, Your Grace, there seems little point in proceeding without-”

“This is nice. Nobody’s trying to murder each other yet.” Jon’s voice carried from the threshold. He was accompanied by a short harmless-looking man with a goatee who slid soundlessly into the seat nearest the Eyrie, eyes on the queen’s whisperer. Jon strode clear to the other side of the table, looking out from over the Wall at the lords of Westeros. The very faintest hint of a smirk passed over Daenerys’ face, but thinking about the land beyond the Wall made Sam shiver. Someone else is doing that as we sit here nattering, I think.

“Right. Um, I think those kingdoms without readily identifiable leaders would approve of choosing their own, rather than whomever waves a dragon banner highest as Her Grace passes overhead. Even if they would refuse a call to arms out of hand…everyone in Westeros would want to convene for their respective kingdom’s council. Other cases where the course is more clear-cut, removing this reaver-called-king and setting the Iron Islands to rights for one, well, that must be done at the end of an axe.” Sam said, his stomach sinking but his voice steady. The people around him weren’t dismissive or angry, the majority of them had still-burning fires to put out in their own homelands and such an idea as a council to decide the next overlord for each seemed by far the easiest and least bloody way. “Perhaps sooner rather than later as well. No use in rebuilding just now when…” he looked to Jon. The King in the North wasn’t looking at the lords just then though, but off the map toward Asha Greyjoy.

“How far do your longships regularly go into the Sunset Sea?’ he asked. She frowned.

“What has that got to do with anything?” Jon backed up, trailing to his right, bringing his arm up straight. As he stood, he pointed directly at her.

“If they have ships of their own, and to assume they don’t is stupid, the Iron Islands will be the first heavily populated area they find. It’s isolated from the rest of Westeros and so nobody is like to notice if the Others land in force and whatever sorcery they bring with them will becalm or sink any fleeing ships they cannot catch. Assuming they don’t simply do something worse. If your uncle is still alive by the time you reach the islands, you may find he’s preferable to what bears down on you.” Asha Greyjoy’s eyebrows went up in a combination of indignation and surprise. Even as they are, they do not truly believe him. Sam’s sinking feeling grew worse.

“We’ll go home, pick up a few lads and land…Sea Dragon Point.” Theon spoke up before his sister could do something stupid. “It’s not so long a way overland to Winterfell from there.” His voice was low but he seemed to be operating under the assumption that everything Jon said was as accurate as he knew.

“What if you’re attacked, Theon?” Jon asked. The Cut Kraken as some men called him shrugged.

“At least there are plenty of landing sites north of Blazewater Bay. I wouldn’t want to have to go through the Neck to make Winterfell, the crannogmen would end us before the Others could.”

“Nevermind the crannogmen, the northmen themselves chewed us up last time we tried to take their forests from them.” Asha said.

“I’ll go with you.” Ser Jorah said suddenly. Everyone in the room looked at him. “Sea Dragon Point is not so far from Bear Island. I find I’m very ready to go home.” he said sullenly. “Might be I can talk them as haven’t already gone on to Winterfell into playing nice.”

“It won’t take us near so long to get to Storm’s End.” Arya Stark piped up, pointing from her pet’s lap. “We’d be there and back before the rest of you got where you‘re going in the first place.”

“Aye. Around Crackclaw Point and up the Red Fork to Riverrun, maybe I can slap some sense into my nephew and get him to call the river lords once more. I wouldn’t think we have many men left, the War of Five Kings left corpses enough to make an army on their own.” A plan, any plan, Sam saw. They will gladly do things for themselves, but tell them to and they will plant their feet and pout like children.

“We can bring such a proposal as you detail to the lords of the Reach, Tarly, but like as not your father will get more support than the rest of them put together.” Olenna told Sam.

“Then I’ll have finally done something to meet with his approval. Truly, a wondrous day.” Sam said with a shy smile, unable to stop himself.

“What of Dorne?” The queen asked. Sand shrugged.

“They will do what they will do. Dorne is a long way from the Wall, perhaps they arrive at a decision by then.” Daenerys was not impressed by her answer. She turned to her Naathi.

“It seems a poor move to send you back emptyhanded, Ellaria Sand. I don’t want to indicate disinterest in Dorne, but neither you nor your daughters are much the diplomatic type.” Sam saw Tyrion’s eyebrows go up and the Naathi’s eyes slowly widened, the toy soldier beside her stone-faced but Sam could see the uncertainty in his eyes.

“Neither am I, Your Grace.” she said.

“You made my words in Meereen sweet enough for the Meereneese to swallow, Missandei. Surely you can charm the Dornish lords as well. Besides, as a Naathi you may have a drop or two of Rhoynish blood if the tales of Nymeria and her countless ships are true.” The girl, Missandei, seemed desperately uneasy.

“Dorne is hot, much more like the world you left than the one you stand in now. The sun sets but briefly and Sunspear has never truly known winter.” the Sand without a weapon said. “If there is a place to spend the coming busy months, the Water Gardens is that place. Built at the request of another Daenerys, if I have the story right.” she added.

“See, not every Dornishwoman is an utter dolt.” Olenna broke in, looking pleased. “Get them taking sense instead of venom and you’ll get places pleasant to be.”

“I would be much happier even in the cold north knowing you were somewhere safe and warm, my friend.” The queen told her Naathi.

“The north is cold. Cold and wild. If your first instinct is not to run at it teeth bared, you ought not go.” Jon added from his side of the Painted Table. She looked utterly lost. To Sam’s great surprise, the toy soldier gently took her hand.

“There’s still the lion’s den to address.” he said, conspicuously changing the subject.

“Oh, I’m sure to return to the westerlands is death on my best day. I’ll likely end up going north with Her Grace and believe me, I’d rather sail straight back to Meereen.” Lannister said resignedly. “At least I know what to pack for.”

“So who is going to rally the westermen?” Jon asked him.

“The same person who’s going to persuade Cersei Lannister to abandon her untenable position.” Daenerys answered. She gave an order to the toy soldier in Valyrian and he left immediately. Again to Sam’s surprise, nobody spoke against her unspoken candidate. You can’t denigrate a plan when it’s the only possibility, Sam supposed. “He’s proven that he cares more for the people of Westeros than himself, even if he doesn’t himself know or acknowledge it. I am certain he will do all he can to remove the danger to the realm before we send him on to Casterly Rock. Captured, friendless, Cersei Lannister will be harmless. Once he’s removed the danger to the capital and the crownlands rallied in whole, I will be free to move north myself.” she looked down the table to where Jon stood.

Perhaps preparing for the Others and courting Daenerys are one and the same, Sam thought. He’d never met the red-haired wildling girl Jon spoke of, Ygritte, but a girl calling herself queen was as different from a spearwife as Sam could imagine. In short order the Kingslayer was brought into the room. He took one look at the table and smirked.

“Why would a dragonlord need a map of Westeros? Just hop on your lizard, fly up, and look down.” he snickered.

“I’ve found a way to deal with you, Ser Jaime.” The queen said, ignoring his quip. He looked up blinking the daylight out of his eyes.

“Oh, goody. I thought watching piss steam off the wall of my cell would never get boring. I was wrong.” he said.

“You will go to King’s Landing-”

“Fuck that-”

“-and persuade your sister to surrender. Once she is in captivity and you’ve captured any middling pyromancers she may have recruited, you will proceed west, rallying it as Lord of Casterly Rock and sail for the Rills, from there marching on to Winterfell.” The Kingslayer looked torn between amusement and disbelief.

“Casterly Rock is a fair fetter deal than feeding the crabs, ser. Or a dragon.” Theon Greyjoy said.

“What if Cersei refuses to surrender and kills me as a traitor?”

“Then I’ve lost no one of any great value and the man who murdered my father’s fate is forever out of my hands.” the queen replied. The Kingslayer looked around the room.

“I hope you live,” he said, voice hoarse out of the blue, “I hope you make an end to this. It would be nice to see a Westeros not at war with itself when the Others descend to wipe you from the world.” He thinks he’s going to die, Sam saw. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out to prepare for the journey. Daenerys took a long breath.

“Well, my lords, if there’s nothing else, I should think it’s time we went about our individual labors.” she said. Sam watched Jon watch the lords of Westeros file out of the room, off to assemble a host unimaginable jus a few short years previously. I cannot know how many will be arriving at Winterfell, Sam thought. Surely enough to at least give the Others trouble. Once Missandei of Naath had left with the commander of the toy soldiers, Sam got the feeling Jon wanted to talk to the dragon queen unobserved. He let Gilly guide him from the hall, but as he turned to close the door, he saw Jon Snow calmly walk over to Daenerys Targaryen, take her in his arms, and kiss her full and deeply on the lips.

Chapter Text

Jaime

If I could tie a noose I’d fucking hang myself. Jaime let one of the toy soldiers lead him to where they’d housed Renfred Rykker and Ser Bonifer Hasty. In addition to the lord of Duskendale, Ser Ilyn and Bronn waited for him.

“What did she want?” Bronn asked.

“She told me I’m to go convince Cersei to dip her banners and then be Lord of the Rock.” Payne clacked derisively.

“Bit creepy when you can get meaning from this tongueless cunt’s grunts and gurgles.” Bronn said with a grimace.

“Well, be that as it may, I’ve still got to get to the capital and in haste. Everyone’s scattering just when they were gathered so prettily-”

“You’re going to go?” Bronn interrupted him.

“I’ve always been passionate about not dying horribly. It seems my choices are limited just now.” Jaime said coolly.

“Was she so terrible?” Bonifer asked quietly.

“Well, she’s a Targaryen. Can’t blame her for being a bit…imperious.” Jaime shrugged, looking for his trunk.

“Perhaps I could introduce you and Lord Rykker before I leave on my…before I leave.” Jaime offered half-jestingly until he saw Hasty’s face go white as it had at Harrenhal. “Ser, you’d best steel yourself. I saw neither snout nor scale of a single dragon but I’ve no doubt they’re around. If a single girl is enough to make you…tremble…” he trailed off at the look on Hasty’s face. What makes him quake so? Payne snapped his fingers in front of Ser Bonifer’s nose and it seemed to snap the man back a bit. He’s from the stormlands, perhaps he lost no few family members during Robert’s Rebellion. That wasn’t right, though, and in Jaime’s mind it buzzed like a gnat. He was with the Hand after Father, the horn-of-plenty-Hand. The Chuckler, one of his retainers. Likely a simple knight wouldn’t have followed a disgraced former Hand into exile in the east. He was in King’s Landing up until the early days of the Rebellion then, likely founding his flock of sheep after his master was attainted, Jaime thought. Tyrion would have spotted whatever it was at once he knew, but Tyrion had scarcely looked at him during the informal council ‘round the Painted Table. “I cannot work it out, and so must plead with you to tell me what it is that shakes you so, Ser Bonifer.” Jaime said, his only hand rubbing his temple.

"A droll thing it would be if the Lord Commander of the Holy Hundred confessed past sins to the Kingslayer.” Ser Bonifer replied.

For just a moment the grief had lifted as well as a score of years, and Jaime saw the face of another. He blinked like a dockhand seeing a ghost ship, unsure if his wits, his eyes or his drink be at fault.

“Viserys was ever a pinched thing, frail and frightened of his own shadow. Before I killed his father I had to mind he and his mother both and shadows chased him from one side of the Red Keep to the other. From what I hear, the shadows chased him even into exile, going from monsters to men with knives in the Free Cities.” Jaime said. Ser Bonifer looked as if he’d been stabbed. “I’ve not the faintest idea what he might have looked like in manhood, but only someone too stupid to see straight would think the runt the Dothraki killed and the queen they follow like a walking goddess share the same blood. At least, all the same blood.” Something happened to this man alright, but not something, someone, Jaime thought. Hasty had gone from white to green and Jaime’s instincts brought up a bucket just in time to avert true disaster. Bronn and Rykker let out disgusted cries as they backed away but Ser Ilyn moved not a jot. Jaime shot Bronn the quickest of looks, one the canny sellsword took to heart right away.

“Come, my lord. I’ve got new friends from Dorne I’d like to introduce you to. Maybe they brought a merchant you can wheedle a bauble for your wife from.” He steeled Rykker out without another word while Payne stayed. He is as likely to talk as he is to fly, Jaime thought. He poured a cup of Arbor gold and pushed it into the arms of the man opposite him.

“I would know what it is that plagues you, ser,” he said, “something I think worse than fear of dragons or their flames.” Hasty shook his head. Jaime leaned in, ignoring the smell of vomit. “If you are to her what you may just be, she deserves to know. I know what it is to lose a daughter, ser, worse yet one I was never allowed to have. You are a better man than I by any estimate and there is no sea nor army nor boundary to stop you now.” He straightened up and headed for the door, Payne waiting outside.

“She did not hate him.” The words made Jaime stop in his tracks. “It was not in her to hate, Seven save me.” Ser Bonifer Hasty’s voice had broken. “She did not want to hurt him. She wanted only to be free of him.” When Jaime turned, the man’s head was in his hands and he was weeping like a child. Honor makes grown men weep and pine for women dead twenty years and more. Better to join them than be a living ghost.

“It is no dishonor to love, Ser Bonifer.” he told him.

“You were there. That night. You saw only another knight, you were tasked by Aerys to protect the queen-”

“I was,” Jaime agreed, again moving toward the door. “but not from you.”

His thoughts were still a proper mess by the time he reached the docks, where Blackhammer stood ready to sail. Lord Rykker and Bronn both started when they spotted Jaime and Ser Ilyn approaching.

“What about the pious twat?” Bronn asked.

“Never mind him. He has other matters to attend to.”

“Well, bully for him. He’ll get to mourn us when word we’ve failed gets back to this godsforsaken rock-”

“You’ll come no nearer the capital than this dock, Ser Bronn. My brother needs you now more than I.” he turned to Rykker. “Lord Renfred, you’ve done all and more than can be expected to take me this far. Allow me the honor of returning you to your wife whole and unspoiled and with perhaps a bit of a parting gift on behalf of House Lannister.” He tucked a small pouch into the man’s hands. “Dragons may fly high, but higher still stand the stars.” The noise from the pouch was not the clinking of coin on coin but stone on stone.

“Just a fucking minute, Lannister-” Bronn said.

“Are you still here? No doubt my brother’s off prodding at the baubles those webfoots dredged up. Best you talk him out of sticking his fingers where they don’t belong.” Jaime told him. The sellsword frowned and then clapped him on the shoulder.

“Don’t get killed.” he said before heading back up to the castle. He turned to Ilyn Payne.

“We are both westermen by birth but we were born in the Red Keep, were we not, ser? Perhaps it is fitting that there we die.” Payne gave no hint he had heard but neither did he leave. He has nowhere else to go, Jaime thought. His road was always going to end in King’s Landing, as was mine. The return voyage to Duskendale was quicker than Jaime would have liked but the sight of Lady Rykker waiting on the dock like a common fishwife and her scream of relief at the sight of her husband returned more than did away with Jaime’s reservations. His hood was up and his golden hand well gloved but he waved all the same when the cog carrying salted fish set off for King’s Landing, Ser Ilyn waiting belowdecks. One man at least who will remember a Lannister amicably, Jaime thought. As they came ‘round the knife of land south of Duskendale and into Blackwater Bay proper the crew became quiet, even solemn. When he asked the captain why it was so, the man gave him a look.

“Sailors are sailors, regardless of the flags we fly. Many a man who sails these waters lost kin and friends on the Blackwater. No need to tempt their shades to come after us.” As Lord Renfred had told the man Jaime was merely a royal agent and not to be bothered, the captain seemed reluctant even to say that much. A girl lands with three dragons, an army and a navy and still Cersei evokes more fear. Then again, while Cersei if tales be told was conscripting every man who could stand upright to garrison the city, Daenerys Targaryen seemed content to simply nest on Dragonstone. Cersei waits for a war that will not come. She has neither food to feed her army as it is nor gold to pay them and even if she had, word will have got out that the rest of Westeros has got representatives to the girl’s court on Dragonstone. Public opinion it seemed to Jaime had won Daenerys Westeros before she had a chance to get awing. Nobody is going to face dragonfire for Cersei, much less keep a proper queen from what is hers.

The sight of the city did not improve Jaime’s mood. He paid the captain in coin once banked at the bottom of the Narrow Sea.

“Tend to what business you will and begone, good captain.” Jaime told him.

“What business is that? These docks haven’t seen a profitable day since Tywin Lannister died.” the man replied. He’s not wrong. Mayhaps I have the easy task. To stop Cersei torching King’s Landing is one thing, one choice, one moment. Setting it to rights will take Daenerys a lifetime. Nobody stopped him as he made his way up the city streets, seeing trembling boys and men ten years outside fighting shape both wearing gold cloaks or patrolling in undisciplined bunches. A good thing she hasn’t tried to take the city, wildfire or no. Then again if what I’ve heard of her pets is true they’re content to sleep the days away or scream at men who get too close. At least they give warning, a lion would just eat you. At the castle gate he flashed his golden hand and the bridge came down. Qyburn stood on the threshold smiling his friendly smile. Some greeting, Jaime thought, remembering Lady Rykker.

“Ser Jaime, Ser Ilyn, we were beginning to think some terrible misfortune had befallen you.” The chainless maester told him. Aye. I came back here.

“Nothing aside from some markedly poor weather on the way to Harrenhal. I have the army posted at Duskendale but I’ve received no further ravens. Not to rush things but time is of the essence, I would know what my orders are going forward.” Jaime said, acting the irritated lord commander. If I find her rutting again, I’m going to kill the man atop her be he the castle fool or Euron Greyjoy. No man can fuck and wield a sword at once. To his relief upon reaching Cersei’s chambers he saw only the huge form of Gregor Clegane. “You need to wear a bell, ser. Elsewise we’re like to lose track of you.” Jaime said mildly. Payne clacked his amusement. Clegane only stared out from his oddly wall-like helmet. “I’m only too pleased to wait for Her Grace to hear me, particularly since I have news on the movements of her enemies.” He crossed his arms and tapped his foot impatiently while Clegane made up what little mind was left in his overlarge head. The door behind him cracked open but there was no overbold reaver squeezing past the Mountain this time.

“My brother is late, Ser Gregor. Your vigilance isn’t about to much change that.” Cersei’s voice came from within. The creature stepped aside and Jaime went in, immediately wishing he hadn’t.

Cersei was seated in her typical high-backed chair, squeezed into a gown she had no business wearing. Her slightly swollen belly in particular was stretching the silk and Jaime could see a tear down the middle, Cersei’s navel peeking out. Immediately he was at her side, on his knee. It seemed to take her a moment to realize he was there.

“Hello, Jaime. I was hoping you’d return sooner, before I started showing, but…” she gave a blush. Rather than joy or excitement, Jaime only felt a great resignation. Has she forgotten I haven’t had her in at least a year? Yet Cersei seemed not only enamored but elated. Jaime wondered whether the child was Greyjoy’s, even.

“The army has gathered at Duskendale, as you commanded.” he said, trying to bring her out of her stupor.

“Army?” she blinked dizzily. Drunk as well, most like.

“Your Grace gave orders to-”

“The realm is full of turncoats, Jaime. They will support whoever can give them their next meal, keep their children safe only, not who rightfully holds the throne. No army of mine will go to waste defending the realm when holding the capital is the key.”

“Have you not seen so far as the docks and the city gates, Cersei? Not one man in ten who called King’s Landing home remains when dragons fly not a day away and when there is no money to be made anyway.” She game him a cold look.

“Have you lost your famous stomach for fighting, ser?”

“I think perhaps it better to adjourn to Casterly Rock-”

“Flee, you mean.” she sounded incensed.

“Call it what you like, Your Grace, but even a child could see this city is a lost cause. It is a corpse now, not a living city. The crows have just not picked it clean yet.”

“I’ve not lost it yet, ser. I still wear the crown, I still sit the throne, and I’ll do the same until my days are done.” Then I fear your days are numbered in the dozens, if those. Mine as well at that. All the same, if I have to drag you from the throne room gagged and chained, I will.

For lack of a better thing to ask, Jaime inquired as to the whereabouts of Euron Greyjoy. Cersei smirked.

“I told him the babe was his and he believed me of all things. He’s gone off to haunt the Stepstones and hunt the serpents that killed our daughter.” The golden necklace that had once been Myrcella’s hung around Cersei’s neck. “With luck he’ll catch them on the way to or from kissing the Mad King’s daughter’s feet. Should he do that, I’ve directed him to return to King’s Landing at once.”

“You have what sea power remains us chasing a nest of Dornish bastards?” Jaime asked, inwardly despairing.

“What sea power remains me. I am Queen and the fleets of Westeros are rightly mine to deploy as I will.” Until those croaking bastards roll Greyjoy’s head into the dragon queen’s lap or bury King’s Landing under a fucking tidal wave. He doubted Cersei would much be in the mood for stories though, nor news that Daenerys Targaryen could count the very bottom of the Narrow Sea as friendly territory. I came here hoping to enlighten her, he thought, but the less she knows, the better.

“Very well, Your Grace. What duty may I perform next?” he asked.

“Recall the army from Duskendale, simpleton. With all haste. Then I may grant you whatever favor you may ask if you sufficiently please me.” I’d rather be back in my cell on Dragonstone, pissing on the wall.

“Has anyone rallied to you upon receipt of a raven?” he asked.

“As it happens, a fair few lords of the Reach each hoping to be the hand that plucks Highgarden.” Here for justice for the Tyrells, more like. Besides, Highgarden is no more in your power to give than Winterfell.

“Ah, good. I should like to take their measure and perhaps drill them a bit to see if the reachmen will not disgrace us on the battlefield. If they’re half-competent I should like to set them to Massey’s Hook where several ill-defended castles wait for sacking.”

“Ill-defended and poor choosers in choice of queens, it seems.” Cersei’s lips tightened. “Do that, ser.” He was out of the room not ten seconds later.

Now I have to stop a pack of reachmen from simply breaking down Cersei’s door and bashing her head in or tossing her out a window after Tommen, Jaime thought. To his surprise though, he was not despairing. More still I can boot out of the corpse-capital and into Daenerys’ waiting arms. Droll indeed. When he found the lords of the Reach they were gathered outside the throne room talking in low voices around an older man with a hunter on his surcoat.

“Lord Tarly.” Jaime announced himself and half the men jumped out of their skins. Randyll Tarly was not a tall man but he radiated a sort of heaviness, a page out of the book written by Tywin Lannister perhaps.

“Ser Jaime.” he greeted stiffly.

“I’d have thought you’d be in the Reach marshaling your levies.” For whichever side.

“My son’s at it as we speak. I’m here-”

“To see that the capital is in steady hands, no doubt. As you can see we have the situation well in hand.” He shook his gilded hand in a lively manner, making a few of the reachmen chuckle. “Surely though a proven commander can be of greater service setting the rest of the Reach to rights? I would think Highgarden a better place for you to while away the war than here. Your fine companions as well. When the queen finds you there, with the castle flourishing and the countryside quite in order…” Jaime wondered if the man were as dense as he looked. Wasn’t that fat lad on Dragonstone a Tarly? In the Night’s Watch? How did that happen, I wonder? It seemed to seep in after a moment and Tarly’s eyes narrowed. He sees I’ve failed to name the queen that will find him there. “Either way my lord, the Reach is in disarray, this man and that likely contending for the biggest prize. Surely you belong there, preserving your own lands if nothing else.” Jaime prodded further. “Come, my lords. I’ll see you off and wish you a speedy journey home.” Thankfully they had not traveled with much in terms of baggage and the column was ready to move out in short order.

“By the time we reach Highgarden…” Tarly said slowly. “It may be we’re late to the new lord of the Reach’s investment.” Dragons fly swift, his unspoken words. Assuming we get there first, when can we expect an airborne guest?

“You need not watch the skies, my lord. Her Grace is quite content to ride through her own country on her way to you.” Jaime said unconcernedly. Randyll Tarly’s eyebrow went up.

“And what exactly would you know of this, ser?”

“Never mind, my lord. No need to seek justice in mortal terms when the guilty cannot hide from the Seven themselves.” Thank you, Ser Bonifer, Jaime thought. Some of the lords seemed surprised at his words but also somewhat less…incensed. “Go, I’m sure you needn’t worry about King’s Landing after today.” He say the glint in Lord Tarly’s eye. Understand this, my lord. Go back to your lands. King’s Landing is your concern no longer.

Jaime was thinking about inspecting whatever meat Cersei deigned to call a Queensguard when he found himself outside Tommen’s room. A pit formed in his stomach. Myrcella told me she knew, that in some way she’d always known. Gods, if I’d done right by her. Sand had been there on Dragonstone but Jaime had no stomach for making corpses any longer. I lost more than a hand the night they cut me. He stepped into the room, half expecting the ghosts of the children he was not allowed to call his own to leap out from under the bed or behind a dresser. A red glint caught his eye near the window, one Jaime knew immediately. Oathkeeper’s sibling. Joff called it Widow’s Wail, as fitting a name for the sword as Baratheon was for him. Tommen had never been a martial lad, likely as soon as Lord Tywin shoved the blade into his hand he stuck it under his dresser and tried to ignore it in favor of his cats. Jaime stooped and drew it out, smaller but a deal more ornate than the sword Brienne held. I wonder where she is now. Would he know if she had died, as he always suspected he’d know if Cersei did? He gently swung the sword in his remaining hand. Lord Eddard had two daughters. So did Ice. Oathkeeper is with Sansa in the hands of a more than capable wielder, so you must go to Arya in place of her needle sword, he thought. He found the scabbard and gently sheathed the sword, carrying it as he left as though it were a newborn babe. I wonder if there is anything else I ought save from the flames. He didn’t feel up to digging through Myrcella’s childhood things, her room untouched since she left for Dorne, and likely there were only unpleasant surprises awaiting in Joffrey’s room. Another room, smaller but still well-furnished just before the stairs next caught his fancy. Like as not this is where they put Sansa Stark after her father was killed. If I can only find a brooch or something of her father’s…but all he found was a doll under the bed, of once-exquisite make gone to dust and forgotten. Jaime gently patted her off, getting her as presentable as she was like to get. Why not, he thought. On the off chance I actually do make it to Winterfell it would be nice to have a present for its lady. Once he set the sword and doll safely in his chambers he took a breath, steeled himself, and went to join Cersei’s court.

Chapter Text

Theon

His sister may have been ironborn to the bone but Asha Greyjoy was no more eager to head down to the beach than up to the dragon’s lair. The sea air made Theon’s eyes sting, yet the telltale fish-stink had yet to plague him.

“We’re early. Or they’re late.” he said, sitting on an overturned rowboat while the crew of Black Wind tittered like nervous serving girls, the captain included. Maybe it’s the questions they bring up, Theon wondered. If man-fish walk the bottom of the sea, why has not a single drowned priest ever mentioned them? Calling the ironborn children of the sea looked mighty foolish when they drowned the same as other men, after all. Maybe they throw into doubt everything we think we know about the nature of the gods. Or maybe it’s because they reek like week-old fish heads, carry spears and have big mouths full of teeth.

“D’you think they’ll bring mermaids?” Qarl the Maid asked him. Theon frowned.

“They seemed more amenable to size rather than looks, Maid. I never did get a proper close look at one but neither was I about to make a crude remark when I was surrounded by spears.”

“These are ironborn? They look like quivering dock whores to me.” The irate voice of the puckered man made Theon turn to the sea, the man himself emerging from the waves.

“Just you, then?” Theon asked, his eyes scanning the morning tide for big staring eyes or long curtains of hair. The man frowned. From the waves came a sudden mass of bodies, dozens of the man-fishes, their webbed feet slapping wetly against the sand. Theon hoped his countrymen could steel themselves. He was sorely disappointed.

“Just us.” the man grinned. Theon’s eyes swam as the reek hit and he heard the sound of a body hit the sand as someone fainted behind him.

“Not important enough for the lady to come herself?” he asked, hoping to stir the puckered man’s ire. “Or her handsome pet?” The man blinked, noticing the dice bag Theon wore around his neck.

“You still have those.” he said.

“Aye. Was hardly about to huck good dice when I need all the luck I can get. Why?”

“I hoped perhaps someone on the island might recognize them.” What?

A yelp from Asha made Theon look back out to the water where the sea-borne man stood.

“He’s not here.” Pucker said to him.

“If she says he’s here, he’s here.” the newcomer replied. His eyes were on the lights high above, the castle proper.

“If who is? Don’t mind us, lads, but as we’ve spent a deal of time up there maybe we could be of assistance.” Theon said. They seem very reluctant to involve us in their affairs, yet they’re clearly concerned with one of us.

“I gave you no dice,” the puckered man said, “in that pouch are finger bones.”

“One of Snow’s men, the one hard for the stormlands, he had the funny stubby fingers.” Hagen’s daughter said suddenly. The ironmen seemed too busy skirting away from one of the man-fish to offer any insight. The redheaded reaver was taking the blue-skinned man in and how, as was Asha. Oh gods, that’s all I need, Theon thought.

“We could go get him.” he offered. What do they care about some smuggler?

“No need.” The blue man said quickly. “Just give him that pouch and that will be the end of your involvement in that regard.”

“Alright, well, that I can certainly do. I just brought my sister down for a peek at your gilled friends as well as the first wave of loot for the morning.” He looked at Asha, who seemed about as willing to look away from the man as at one of his fishy friends. He elbowed her.

“Ow! Oh, er, yes. Loot.” she said, blinking and, most unlike Asha, blushing deeply. Bugger me with a swordfish, Theon thought. Besotted as a spring bride.

“I didn’t expect you to leave the lady’s side for a tedious hand-off.” The blue man turned to him.

“She can more than take care of herself. It isn’t for well-being she sent me forth.”

“My lord, more than treasure it seems the most welcome gift on Dragonstone is amity. We would be more than happy to attend a desire of the lady’s if it is within our ability, Seastone Chair or otherwise.” Theon noticed Asha had no hot-tempered retort regarding the black stone chair now those asking for it had come in so attractive a fashion.

“Very well. Off you go, then. The short-handed smuggler. We will wait.” he crossed his azure arms. Theon’s stomach sunk as he realized he was about to go back up those hellish stairs.

“See you in two days.” he told the crowd, trudging back up.

Banging on the King in the North’s door, Theon may will have woken up the whole castle but it didn’t much seem relevant at the time. Only when he saw Jon’s blinking grey eyes peek through the crack did he dare breathe.

“Your smuggler is needed on the beach, Your Grace.” he said, playing the dutiful messenger. The door flew open and a fist rang Theon’s head like a sept bell, knocking him to the ground. As the stars twinkled merrily, he heard Jon Snow’s low voice.

“That’s for all the northmen your slithering got killed.”

“Noted.” Theon replied as the world slowly stopped spinning. “Looks like the wildlings did away with the brooding little boy.”

“Wildlings and a few dead men trying to tear my face off.” Ah yes, the dead men.

“Speaking of mad things, a few right ornery fuckers on the beach want to talk to your smuggler. If you could rouse him and send him down, I’d be grateful.” he said, dizzily getting to his feet. A door two rooms to the left opened and the man came through, still in leathers. I’d forgotten that, Theon realized. Up there it’s best just to sleep without taking too much off.

“Consider me roused, my lord. Now, just what’s all this about? Everyone I knew here years ago is dead.” he said.

“To be true my lord, these folk aren’t from Dragonstone, just passing through and seem fixed on talking to you.” Theon told him. “By the way, we haven’t rightly been introduced. Theon Greyjoy.” he said.

“Davos Seaworth, an honor.” The man said. Jon looked wearily from one to the other.

“Those fucking stairs…” he muttered, going to dress. Once the king rejoined them they made their way back down, Theon’s legs screaming by the time his feet hit sand. If I have to climb those things one more time today I’m going to jump off halfway up, he resolved.

“Right then, it looks like dawn is coming and I don’t think they’re overfond of light and heat, so we best follow the shade around this bloody rock.” Theon said, looking around. He followed the mess of tracks that lay where he left the crowd, finding the man-fishes in the surf as coins washed out of the surf by the dozens. Ironborn gleefully gathered as many up as they could, Asha and Hagen’s daughter off in the shade of the rocks with the two men, if men they were. As they got closer one of the croakers quickly shuffled over. Jon seemed unshaken though quite taken aback as the thing excitedly gurgled at Theon. “As if I knew your tongue from the gasping of a hooked trout.” he replied, the man-fish responding by kneeing him in the fork of his legs. It became readily apparent that despite their spindly appearance the croakers could do unarmed what it took a strong man with a club to manage. Theon thanked the gods through the agony in his loins that there was nothing for the thing to pop nor pierce. The blow Jon had dealt him all too soon seemed a brotherly jest. The smuggler for his part made no reaction to the wholly incapacitating blow, continuing to advance on the puckered man and his blue friend. It took Theon a good few minutes to get breath back in his lungs and another few to get upright again. By then, the man had stopped in his tracks.

Up close Theon could see Davos Seaworth shared eyes not just with the puckered man, burns and all, but also with the mermaid’s pet.

“Hello, Father.” The puckered man bowed his head. Theon saw Jon’s eyes go wide, as did Asha’s. He himself was too busy trying not to scream to be surprised. Seaworth got nearer the man, looking at him as if he had sprung out of the rock itself.

“Matthos, you died on the Blackwater.” he said, bare maimed hand going up to the burned man’s face.

“My hair did, and my beard, as well as my pretty face, but the rest of me kept just fine.” The shortened hand came down and Seaworth threw himself at the man he called his son, wrapping him up tight as a kraken would a sloop.

“Does your mother know you’re alive?” he asked in a hushed whisper.

“It depends which mother you mean.” The man, Matthos, replied quietly. Seaworth looked utterly lost. He turned to the other man, the seaborne man. Where Matthos was middling, he was tall. Where Matthos had a common round face, his was sculpted and without flaw.

“Hello, Father.” he said. At this Theon heard Jon’s jaw drop and both Asha and her redheaded friend got dizzy looking from the old smuggler to the dream of every ironborn woman. Not the mermaid’s pet, Theon realized. Her son. Where Seaworth had seemed close to tears at the reappearance of his acknowledged son, he seemed visibly frightened by the other. He stared up into the eyes he’d given the creature before him. Jon had to grip him by the shoulder to get him speaking.

“Is your mother here?” he asked finally. The man turned and pointed to the waves, where his harem from the cave waited, as did their lady.

“She’s waited for you long enough, Davos Seaworth. Go to her now.” he said, in a voice that brooked no argument. Matthos took his father and gently guided him to the surf, the son of the sea following. After staring awkwardly at the others for a few moments, Theon followed them.

The smuggler and the mermaid looked at each other a long time. He seemed almost ashamed, while she seemed close to tears.

“You’re as beautiful as you were when last we met. Thirty years? More?” He finally asked in a dry croak. “Are your lives so long?”

“And you got old. Three of your meager decades. Are your lives so short?” she replied in a trembling gasp. She looks no more than twenty, Theon thought. It never occurred to him she might be older. “I remember the way you looked when I pulled you from the sea. I see that boy still sometimes, in the face of the son we share.” Seaworth seemed quite unable to make a reply. A girl in some ways then and quite a woman in others, Theon amended again.

“You have rather more friends than I remember.” Seaworth finally gasped out, nodding to her fellows.

“Our son is the only one of his kind in what you call the Narrow Sea. These are not his only admirers, just the closest.” Lucky fucker. All the world’s seas full of buxom beauties and he the only man, no wonder he’s never bothered to poke his head above the surface, Theon thought. He heard Asha’s crew grumbling off to the right in much the same vein. The other mermaids remained quite silent, not so much as looking anywhere other than the mermaid who was speaking. However it was determined who was in charge, it was clear the pink-tailed lady of the cave with long brown hair was owed much deference and more.

“I take it then you plucked Matthos in much the same way?” Seaworth asked.

“Much, but not the same. You gave me a son. I felt it fitting I return the woman you love’s son to her, if a bit late.” Her lip quivered. “You ought be with her now, not following one man or t’other off to fight yet another battle. You weren’t ever one for fighting, much less now you’ve gone to grey.” There were tears streaming down her face. One of the fish-men reverently approached and croaked. “Right, that’s that done. We eagerly the return of any seastone you should find.” she told Theon before disappearing back into the depths, her train following. The man-fishes followed in turn, leaving only a dozen or so witnesses to all that had occurred and a king’s ransom in flotsam to be collected.

Matthos Seaworth seemed unsure whether to stay or go. To Theon’s surprise, his elder half-brother was reluctant to leave him. Do they not have names beneath the waves? Theon thought.

“I didn’t know about you. I half thought…your mother was a drowning vision. I woke up on the banks of Crackclaw point, the only survivor of my very first voyage.” Davos told him.

“What’s done is done. I want for nothing and I’m followed by a throng of devoted sweet ones wherever I go. What king in this airy world can boast of that?” He seemed reluctant to look at his sire. The sea is his world, his mother his queen. He doesn’t belong up here any more than we do down there, Theon thought to himself. Finally he turned and began to walk into the waves.

“A seaborne ally would prove key to stopping the Others.” Jon Snow blurted suddenly. At this the man turned to them again.

“So they would. When you find such an ally, do treasure them. As for us, we will not bestir ourselves, empty our veins to save a world already bleeding to death. Sharks must eat, the same as dolphins. They will not pick a fight they know they cannot win.”

“Wait, what? What?” Jon shouted, stepping toward the waves himself. Theon had to grip him firmly by the back of his jerkin to stop him going any further.

“The days grow short and cold winds blow.” The seaborne replied. The lady for her part seemed unwilling to be parted from her son any longer and a ten foot wave coiled above his head. “As you get weaker, they get stronger.” he said, before disappearing into its grasp.

“Fuck!” Jon hissed, kicking a pile of coins toward the beach. He panted a moment before he turned to Seaworth. “I’ve been away too long, Ser Davos. I have to get home-”

“Remember why we came, Your Grace-”

“I don’t have time to play southern games while they mass just out of sight, waiting for their moment-”

“To go back empty-handed would be worse than not having come in the first place. Give it time. Give h-”

“There is no time, Ser Davos.”

“There is. There is always time. Your sister, Gendry and I are leaving today, as is everyone else. You need only let us come to you. A few short weeks, a month, so what? You have more important things to worry about than the Others anyway. All will be ready a month from now, and a month from then, we may all be racing each other to Winterfell. Go, I’m sure breakfast is on its way and besides, you don’t want a throng of Dothraki children gawking at you, do you?” he smiled. Jon blinked and made his way back up the stairs. Seaworth turned back to his son.

“You were right about Stannis.”

“You were right about Melisandre.” He took his son in once more.

“Will I see you after today?”

“I would give some spooky answer but the honest one is I don’t know.”

“Your mother will want to know you’re safe, of course. I’m headed for the stormlands, but I’m not sure I’ll have time to see her.”

“Whereas I have all the time in the world and more. She is not so far from the sea, either. I’ll tell her you love her.”

“Do that. Goodbye, Matthos.”

“Goodbye, Father.” The burned man sank out of sight.

Seaworth went up after Jon, but Asha and her reavers stayed on the beach, wide eyed and silent as children.

“Stiff stuff. Enough to make you old.” Theon told them. “I’ll almost be relieved when it’s just fighting for our lives and none of this heavy family drivel.”

“Speaking of family, that fishwife reminded me. When we leave Pyke we best take Mother with us and Uncle Rodrik, too. Even the Damphair, sodden old seal that he is.”

“Aye. I’ll wait on Black Wind while you say your farewells, I’d sooner have my cock in a man-fish’s mouth than climb those stairs again.”

“Not like it’d hurt.” Hagen’s daughter grinned.

“What’s your name, anyway?” Theon shot back. Before the redhead could reply, Asha shook her head.

“I’m not about to go up just to say goodbye. I have to get the Sands and that surly cunt with the bear on his jerkin, he said he was coming, too.” She turned for the stairs herself, her crew following. Theon contemplated how likely he was to die of cramps should he ascend again and flopped in the surf while there was nobody to see. I hate life, he thought, but I hate those stairs more. The softest nudge at his hip made him thrash around. Bugger off, crab. Only when he realized it came as the waves did, a steady rhythm, did he realize it was more likely a piece of driftwood. He sat up and looked. A tightly wrapped bundle lay like an abandoned babe at his side. Theon looked around uncertainly, looking for the man-fish who thought he was a funny fish but neither saw nor smelled a trace. It was clearly a sword but Theon felt a bit of trepidation at picking it up. Who knows what it might really be? Gingerly he scooped up the bundle. It was lighter than he might have expected. Hand-and-a-half, he estimated.

“How long were you down there, I wonder? Well, never mind.” he told the sword, making for the port town. Every so often he plucked a coin or three from the sand. When he finally reached dock his thighs chafed like all seven hells. He got aboard Black Wind and slipped the bundle under his hammock, wondering if he could find a smith to clean off the rust later. No point taking it out and having it fall to pieces. An hour or so later Asha returned with her crew, the northman introducing himself proper. He‘d spotted the man on the journey from Sunspear but never spoken to him directly.

“Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island.” he told Theon.

“At least you’re not Dornish.” Theon replied.

“No fault of his, Greyjoy.” Nymeria Sand said as she stepped off the gangplank, followed by the other Sands.

“Fuck me, what are you doing here?” he asked.

“You’re our ride on to Sunspear. The Naathi’s, too.”

Despite the considerable complement Asha’s half of the Iron Fleet was, Pyke was no quick jaunt from Dragonstone.

“When we see the crannogmen, we should tell them to flood the Green Fork and make a nice shortcut for us. Beats having to circle all the way around Westeros’ bottom half.

“Good idea. You find a bog devil without a serpent for a tongue or paralyzing spit or fucking bone hornets for blood and tell him just that.” Asha replied, pale at the mention of the Neck’s inhabitants. “Meanwhile I’ll stay out at sea where a woman can fill her lungs with sea air instead of bog-reek.” When Theon asked Mormont his opinion, the man shrugged.

“There’s a reason ferrymen on the Bite oft grow wealthy. No lone traveler with the wits the gods give geese dares go near it, much less through.”

“They’ve got the kingsroad though, don’t they? For going north?”

“A narrow muddy trail with the bogs on the left and the Bite on the right. Assuming they don’t set logs across it or run rivers over it, it takes near two weeks to traverse. Two weeks of poisonous plants, insects that could give a man nightmares, snakes and rainbow frogs of every color and lizard-lions big enough to pull down a mounted knight armor and all.” Mormont said as he easily outstripped Black Wind’s regular crew. He had little experience on a ship, that was clear, but the man was truly tireless and still hale when the ironborn had gone red-faced, gasping for breath. Days came and went as they neared the open water Theon saw the crew grow more reserved, even anxious. A short week later they had passed through the Stepstones and made the Summer Sea, yet Asha could not have looked less pleased. Their thoughts are on Ironspar, Theon remembered. Wondering if what came after it will come after us. The Sands seldom surfaced in a repeat of their attitude on the voyage north, except this time Asha could not be persuaded to join Ellaria below decks and Qarl was kept hard at the rigging. I hope they let the Naathi alone, Theon thought suddenly. She seemed uniquely ill-suited to traveling with randy she-serpents, drunken ironmen and a single surly Bear Islander. From what Asha had told him they seldom drank and never ate meat, a tricky thing to accommodate in the middle of the sea. Tyene Sand overhead him asking Asha about it as they neared the Water Gardens.

“Dried figs will keep her, I suppose. After husks like those, she’s like to burst into tears at the sight of the Water Gardens. There’s more life in one building than in the rest of Dorne put together.” she told them.

“Dorne sounds a lot like how other kingdoms picture hell. Sand, heat, vipers…oh, and poisonous snakes I suppose.” he replied. She blew him a kiss and went back below. “You need to get better taste. Those creatures would hop a cactus if it were hard enough, needles and all.” he told Asha grumpily.

“As if you’d not give them a tumble were you able.” she scoffed.

“I was tired of those jokes back when Ramsay was first making them. Everyone acts like a cut man can’t properly fuck a woman. Kingslayer’s missing his sword hand and that hasn’t stopped him fighting. Sure he can’t do what he used to but now he can catch swords, slap people witless as many times as he likes without it hurting, hell even if he meets a steak that’s too tough-” Theon slammed his palm on the railing three times.

Upon reaching the Water Gardens Theon and Mormont made sure to keep the ironborn from going ashore.

“If we let Asha back onto Dornish soil we are never going to leave.” Theon had told him. The Naathi tried to keep her composed air but as soon as she poked her head up into the hot Dornish air Theon could see she was beside herself with relief.

“It feels like Meereen.” she said, looking at the buildings. “Save for the lack of pyramids, it looks like the cities of the east as well.” Her happiness was palpable, almost infectious, so that when they set her on the dock, the Sands left with her.

“We’re near enough as is and Sunspear is nobody’s preference over the Water Gardens anyway.” Ellaria declared. At least Missandei of Naath is not set adrift to wander the Dornish court unsupervised, Theon thought. Though, leaving her in the charge of Ellaria Sand is probably a mistake. As is most any enterprise involving that woman or the other Sands. Once they put the Dornish ports to their rudder Theon relaxed, relieved to be shot of any allies of Daenerys’ that needed coddling. Heading west along the Dornish coast Black Wind’s crew kept quiet even when the sun was high overhead, much to Theon’s confusion. It takes more than a few corpses to scare Asha, he thought. Hopefully I never meet what turned Ironspar into a crypt ship.

“I don’t care if the Iron Islands sink along with the Seastone Chair, but I’d like to see Mother again.” Theon said. “The Reader, too. I’d like to see his face when a man-fish pops out of the surf on Dragonstone and shoves coin into his hands.” That comment made Asha snort in amusement.

“Or the Damphair when Seaworth’s seaborne son shows him up in every sphere.” she added.

“How is Mother? I didn’t see her when I first returned to the islands, I didn’t have time to visit Ten Towers…” Asha’s smile faded.

“She’s sinking, Theon. Taking on water, a bucketful at a time. By the time we return she may well have gone after Father. If not…she may be too far along to recognize us.”

“You mean to say House Greyjoy’s fortunes have slipped a bit and we’re putting all our sailors in one rowboat throwing in with Daenerys Targaryen? Do tell, Asha.” Theon replied.

Chapter Text

Jon

I might have said thank you like a normal person instead of doing something so heedless, Jon thought as he walked back to his room. He could hear Arya talking a mile a moment and Gendry’s calm curt responses. Getting ready for the voyage to Storm’s End, no doubt. He knocked once and immediately the door flew open, Arya beaming up at him. When they were children she would often come to him to cry or sulk, usually about Sansa. Much rarer were the times she was so happy she couldn’t focus on one thing for more than a few seconds at a time. At times like these Jon found her dizzying but Gendry Waters didn’t seem a bit fazed. A hummingbird flitting around a statue’s head.

“I wanted to catch you before you went down.” he told her. “I don’t want a dock goodbye with everyone watching.” Particularly when I’ve only just found you again.

“They’d be too busy looking at Nymeria to poke their noses in our business.” she replied, bright face marred by sudden sniffling.

“No tears. I’ll see you back home in a month’s time, maybe two.” She nodded, looking at something in her hand.

“I found it in the riverlands. It’s what got me to come here in the first place. To return it.” Arya held it up and Jon could see it was a flawless deep red ruby. His eyebrows went up.

“Near the Trident, hm?” he asked, while Gendry looked a bit uncomfortable. Right. “Well, nothing’s stopping you-”

“I think you should give it to her, Jon.” Arya’s words took him so by surprise he thought he misheard her at first.

“That may send the wrong message, Arya.” he told her.

“Better it comes from the King in the North than his tiny sister.” she replied, slipping it in his hand. Jon shivered. A single tiny stone may mean more to her than all the sunken treasure the sea can vomit up, he thought. “It’s not the Iron Throne but it’s a start at least.” Arya said, wrapping her arms around him. “I’d have liked to talk to her, ask her what it was like to fly but we don’t have time to swap stories. Maybe when we get home.” she said.

“Where’s your Needle?” he asked, realizing the skinny sword wasn’t in view. Her eyes went wide.

“Oh…I lost it, Jon. I forget where.” she looked at her feet.

“At least I didn’t lose you.” he said, his finger going under her chin to make her look up again.

“Gods, you remind me of Father…” she said. Whereas I wouldn’t know if you were my mother’s exact opposite or spitting image, Jon thought.

He saw her off down the stairs, Ser Davos and Nymeria joining them for the long trek down before going back inside. There’s always time, the smuggler had said. He lost his children to Stannis’ fanaticism and so took to keeping me out of trouble. Now that he’s got Matthos back he’ll be moving on. Not that the old man could possibly have much enjoyed his time in the north. Sam was leaving with Gilly and the old woman, Olenna Redwyne, and the Blackfish had left in the dead of night without so much as a fuck you all. Not that anyone seemed to much miss him. No wonder Ghost didn’t want to come, Nymeria won’t set foot in the castle’s black walls. Can she be blamed? Jon thought as he passed through the throne room. Now everyone’s moving off it makes this place seem positively deserted but for the horse lads and the toy soldiers. Just as he made it to the other side of the room, ready to go back to his northmen, Jon heard a voice.

“Jon Snow.” He turned to see the commander of the Unsullied standing by the door Daenerys Targaryen used when she held court. What was his name again? Valyrian sounded all tongue and no voice to Jon, even if he’d heard the man’s name a dozen times it wouldn’t have stuck. Name aside, he looked positively displeased when I carried the queen down from the dragon’s little nursery. I wouldn’t have had to if the rest of the island didn’t treat him like a literal child. He’s a dragon, not a babe.

“Yes?” Jon prompted.

“I would speak with you regarding the queen and your…conduct toward her.” And they say Daenerys has no brothers. Count the Dothraki, count the Unsullied, Jon thought. At least he didn’t see me kiss her. Or had she told him about it after?

“I had no time to waste waiting on Drogon’s whims to let me speak with Daenerys. Should I need to do so again, I will, his childishness and his temper notwithstanding.” Jon said.

“Just so. It appears after looking over the salvage thus far Her Grace went up to visit Drogon and it seems he’s not come around to the idea of letting her go.” Jon frowned.

“Are you asking me to steal her out from under him again?” The man’s mouth twitched irritably.

“Tyrion Lannister didn’t think it appropriate to ask you himself.”

At the base of the path up to Dragonmont’s heart Tyrion waited with his arms crossed, Littlefinger and the queen’s bald whisperer off talking between themselves.

“Hello, my lord.” Jon said when he got close enough to hear. “It seems only the Queen’s entourage and the northern contingent are left.”

“More or less. I’d wager more people passed through Dragonstone in the last week than the previous ten years.”

“Stannis didn’t strike me as a man with many visitors, aye.” He looked to the other two.

“Have they been behaving?”

“They’re professional liars, Jon Snow. You want them upset and out of sorts. Assuming it isn’t a mummery, of course.” Jon rolled his eyes.

“Right. I should be back down soon.”

“What if he kills you?” The dwarf asked. Jon thought about that.

“Well, be sure to send a raven to Sansa telling her I died doing something stupid. She won’t be sore with you.” Jon said, heading up the path. This is a deal easier than climbing through the razor rock, if less fun. The dragon may be watching the path anyway. His eyes found an inviting hollow between the unshaped rock of the mountain. The road less traveled it is, he thought with a smile. On the way up he wondered if a single Targaryen in all Dragonstone’s long history bothered to climb their way to their pets rather than just strut up the path as if they owned the flying fire-breathing armored creatures. The air got steadily warmer, thicker even as he neared the clearing where he knew the dragon sulked when not awing. Finally Jon reached the crown of spiked rock that surrounded the lair, cautiously poking his head up. The black dragon lay coiled even tighter than before, right in the center and head on a swivel so as to see any mother-stealers approach regardless of direction. The great nostrils sniffed suspiciously without pause, the snout prodding each stone and boulder that dared look untoward. He is so concerned for her, Jon thought wonderingly. Sometimes I rather think Ghost would just get a better seat were he to see the bastardy beat off me. He tossed a small rock far over the dragon’s coiled form and when it hit the far wall, Drogon answered after it with a tongue of black flame. His long neck craned near the noise, great head snorting and huffing irritably. A deafening shriek at the glowing wall illustrated how much patience Drogon was prepared to express. While the dragon threw his weight about intimidating the wall and any mother-thieves contained within or behind, Jon slunk down into the clearing from his position behind the dragon.

If I can winkle her out of his clutches without getting into a shouting match with a dragon, so much the better, Jon thought. The black scales were coiled into an impenetrable wall and Jon would not be able to lure the dragon into uncoiling by making him chase him in a world of dream. I can’t hear her, he realized. She should be trying to coax him into letting her out in High Valyrian, no? Of course, he could no better see through the coils than slip through them. I came up here at the behest of a Lannister after the queen. How much do I trust she’s actually up here and he’s not putting one over on me?  Jon thought suddenly. Without the queen to sneak out from under her huge pet, Jon suddenly felt rather spectacularly idiotic. Well, might as well see it through. He stood straight up.

“Where’s your mother, boy?” he said, sounding both unamused and unimpressed. Instantly the dragon’s snout was in his face, foul black smoke hissing from the nostrils, the huge red eyes regarding him. He could slivers of his reflection in the black pupils. A noxious gust nearly blew him over but he held his ground, amazing himself with how he was able to remain not just standing but unmoved.

“Well? Have you got her in there or not?” he asked in vocal irritation. “I’m no Essosi, boy. I’m not about to start spluttering in some oily tongue because I watched you chew up a goat. I know a wolf who could do the same thing given an hour.” he crossed his arms. The black teeth opened before Jon could brace himself and the shriek that issued from back past the tongue made the stones themselves rattle. Jon didn’t so much as flinch. “I thought not. Perhaps the dwarf will think better of trying to get me up here when you haven’t so much as a queen to talk to. Bah!” he waved his arm in the dragon’s face. Drogon’s furious scream made the teeth in Jon’s skull rattle. “Oh, bugger you. I don’t have to suffer your boorishness when I can be doing literally anything else. In fact, next time I’ll not bother with you. I’ll simply climb into your mother’s window and there’s not a single thing your oversized scaly behind can do about it.” The dragon may not have understood his precise words, but the tone was unmistakable. So too was the tone of the deafening scream Drogon gave in answer. He dares not roar in my face, Jon realized. He’ll shriek and scream and hiss and shower me in putrid smoke but he’s not got the stones to go an inch further. Jon thumbed his nose at the dragon and turned away back toward the path, only to see the queen waiting for him, staring at him openmouthed and looking quite a sight apart from her usual regal self. Accompanying her were Tyrion Lannister and the Unsullied commander as well as Littlefinger and his bald shadow, with like expressions to hers. “Oh, there you are.” Jon said unconcernedly as he strode for her. Behind him, Drogon let out a loud pained whine, trying to take his mother’s eyes off Jon and failing miserably.

While Drogon whined and flapped his wings, Jon joined the other as if the black dragon were a willful pup. Among the pack misbehavior is not acknowledged, he remembered. Those who were out of line got neither food nor water until they slunk like worms up to Ghost’s feet and showed their bellies. While I’m with her, I’ll ignore him utterly and when not, I’ll yank his chain until he’s so sore he whines like a babe when she does appear.

“What did you do to him?” The queen asked, voice higher than normal.

“Not a thing. I might have had words with him but no more than that.” Behind him Drogon lowed like a wounded bull. “Ignore him. He’s being insolent.”

“Dragons can’t be insolent-” Tyrion began but Jon interrupted him.

“Really? Looks mighty like it to me. Perhaps we ought fill a barrel with milk and give him suck until he decides to act a proper young dragon.” Jon waved his hand dismissively. He felt intense heat build in the dragon’s massive chest. “Loose an ember and I’ll tie your tail around your neck and roll you down the mountainside, boy.” Jon muttered over his shoulder. The heat vanished at once and Drogon gave another indignant pained whine. “He’s not even good at faking.” Jon snorted contemptuously as Daenerys looked ready to dash for her child’s side. Her lip quivered and she looked torn between amusement and anxiety, no doubt worried beside herself for her lone remaining dragon’s health. Finally she took a breath and exhaled slowly, not reacting to Drogon’s antics.

“Anyway, I hope you’ll forgive my clumsy attempt to get back at you for our first meeting and the...at least now I know you’ll happily sneak into a dragon’s nest to rescue me like a hero in a tale.” Her small smile became a smirk. Jon’s spirits shook a bit.

“Your Unsulllied told me it was Tyrion’s idea-”

“And it was mine to tell Tyrion to tell Grey Worm to tell you I was up here.” Her smirk made her face positively glow. Meanwhile, Jon blushed like a maiden. I’ve just been had by Daenerys Targaryen, he thought. “Come, Jon Snow. I would know just how else your northern bravery can come in handy.” She slipped her arm in his all while Drogon let out another earsplitting shriek. Apparently he would not suffer his mother paying attention to a stranger over him because his great wings soon had him aloft, flying out over the open sea, roaring and flaming every cloud in his path. A temper tantrum, no more, Jon thought.

On the way down, Jon tried to ignore the sudden upsurge in warmth when he realized it seemed to come from the woman beside him. It flows off her as if she were a lit hearth, he realized. Warmth, not heat. Whether or not Daenerys Targaryen noticed was an open question it seemed, as she made no comment one way or another. Certainly he did not see Tyrion, her Hand, look overwarm when he stood next to her during court.

“I do hope you aren’t angry about my thanks for rallying the southern kingdoms,“ he said feeling every bit the boy, “I’ve just been trying to ready the realms for winter for years.”

“Your thanks was pleasant enough, Jon Snow.” she said almost haughtily. “Although, I don’t much feel your heart was quite in it.” He gave an exasperated sigh. Suddenly the memory of Maester Aemon was thrown into sharp relief. A Targaryen alone is a terrible thing, Jon remembered.

“If it isn’t untoward to mention, Your Grace, you aren’t the first Targaryen I’ve met.” he said quietly. She stopped cold on the path, her mystical purple eyes going wide. “When I was at the Wall…I had the honor to know a certain maester who was once Aemon Targaryen, elder brother to Aegon the Unlikely.” he said heavily, hating the sight of tears forming at the corners of her big eyes.

“Aegon the Fifth was my great-grandfather. He died at Summerhall, where my brother Rhaegar was born.”

“Forgive me, Daenerys. I did not wish-”

“Please tell me about him. My great-grandfather’s brother.”

“When we’re in the castle. I don’t wish to upset you where prying eyes may see.” he said in a low voice. Once they reached her solar Jon pulled a seat for her and she called for wine.

“You were saying?” she prompted breathlessly.

“He was a maester when it came time to determine who would next be king. Before they settled on Aegon they offered the crown to his elder brother who but for his maester’s vows would logically have come first. Instead he took the black to prevent himself from being a danger to Aegon’s rule or a puppet for kingmakers. He was the wisest man I’ve ever known, even in his old age. Lord Commander Mormont once told me he was a hundred years old, if not more.”

“Mormont?” she asked suddenly.

“The same. I understand his son spent quite a bit of time with you on your Essosi progress.”

“Call it what it was, Jon Snow. Exile. My brother did not live to return to Westeros, but here I am, for what it’s worth.”

Jon frowned.

“You survived much and more that would have broken countless men. The maddening heat, to say nothing of all else.” Daenerys had to blink tears out of her eyes as the giggles came.

“Sometimes I forget there is more to the world than what my ancestors held. Valyria, then the Seven Kingdoms. Both enterprises ended with concerning and not coincidental finality, it would seem.” Jon didn’t know what to make of that so he just sipped the Arbor red, coughing a bit.

“Sweet enough to catch flies in…” he gasped. Again the queen giggled.

“Are northern wines not so…”

“Outrageously saccharine? No, Your Grace. Southerners call them bland. We call them wine.”

“My Dothraki usually tend to prefer blander wines as they develop palates, if you can be so generous. If a thing is too sweet, one can only taste the sweetness and not the thing itself.” Jon winced at the feeling of something poking him in the side. His eyes widened.

"Oh. Speaking of Rhaegar…” he slipped his hand in his pocket. “Arya found something during her time in the Riverlands, but it seems she was too shy to give it to you in person. If I know her and I do, she’s quite taken with you.” He opened his fist and showed her the ruby. Her hands came up to her mouth as she gazed at it, the red stone catching the sun outside to flash into her purple eyes. For just a moment Jon thought he saw miniscule emerald chips in the pools of amethyst, but when she blinked they were gone. “It isn’t everyone who would look past Gendry Waters’ father and make an ally of him.”

“Westeros needs peace just now, not war.” she looked in her lap. “Robert Baratheon was fighting to save a woman he loved. My brother hated him of course, hated the knives he imagined the Demon of the Trident sent after him, but could Robert be blamed for trying to rescue Lyanna Stark?” It took Jon a moment to think past the sad lovely sweetling before him and realize she’d brought up his aunt.

“Like most any war, in hindsight it seems less the deposition of a tyrant and more a collection of mishaps, mistakes, and lost chances. Of course, the chance to hold a grudge was never once passed up. Although I never heard my father speak of Rhaegar, not in all the years he raised me alongside his trueborn children.” Daenerys put her hand over his, the one that held the ruby. Jon could feel her warmth soak into the gem.

“Have you no inkling as to who your mother was?”

“None. He never told me about her either, just sent me to the Wall with the promise that we’d talk about her the next time we met. Well, Starks don’t do well in King’s Landing and it would appear he took her identity to the grave. You may not have my name, he told me, but you have my blood.” A drop fell on her hand and Jon realized he was tearing up. “Apologies, Your Grace. It isn’t often I’m in this position.” He wiped his eyes. When he looked up, Daenerys’ brow was furrowed and she seemed to wrestle with something.

“When I still had Ser Barristan Selmy at my side, he once told me of the Year of False Spring. He told me about the tourney at Harrenhal, where all had gone so wrong…and about Lady Ashara Dayne, whom he fancied from afar but only danced with Eddard Stark, not yet made a lord by my father’s madness.” She did not take her hand from his, even as he wiped the tear from it. Ashara Dayne, he thought wonderingly. “She flung herself from one of Starfall’s towers at war’s end, over a stillborn daughter if Ser Barristan could be believed. Perhaps were the gods kinder you’d have mother and sister both, Jon Snow.” she said quietly.

“Depends on who you ask. Were you to grant Lord Eddard’s lady wife her version of the gods being kind, I’d not be here at all. I was ever a thorn in her side, a living reminder that once her husband held a woman dearer in his heart than she. Besides, were I half Dornish I’d never feel so as I do about the north, about the land beyond the Wall.”

“Is it so enchanting?” Daenerys asked. Jon found the question hard to put an answer to.

“Most lords, and kings for that matter, assume the land they rule belongs to them. I have a rather different view. If anything, I belong to the North and to the Wild, not the other way around. Should we stop the Others and force them back into the icy void they marched from, I’ll go back beyond the Wall where I belong. With Ghost, the Free Folk, the giants…far from where ordinary men can bother them.” he sniffed and took a breath. She stared at him as if he’d started breathing fire himself.

“What about your people? They named you King in the North…”

“Aye, but what happens when the Others have gone and I’ve naught to do but sit around?”

“You could marry, have heirs…”

“I’m not the breed to sit thrones or wear crowns, Your Grace. I’m at least as much wildling as northman, certainly more Snow than Stark. Perhaps Sansa can keep Winterfell while I wander in the Haunted Forest and beyond, I’m only a raven away anyway. Besides, wargs belong where the animal is happiest and Ghost has a wild girl somewhere to feed, hopefully by the time I return he’ll have a half dozen furballs chasing their tails and sniffing everything that moves rampaging fluffily through Winterfell.” Silence fell and it suited him just fine, he felt sad and tired when only moments before he was as happy as he ever was.

“If it please you…I’ve been meaning to get off Dragonstone for some time. Not to march on King’s Landing without the others, just to visit a few castles in the crownlands and the riverlands. Perhaps try to ease their pain and soothe their hurts as best I can. I’m sure fresh air would do you good as well, and your party of northmen.” she said, almost shyly.

“So we’ll muck about in the green lands awhile waiting for the lords to show up?” he asked while she blushed. “Well, why not? Like as not your Dothraki are as eager to get where they can ride properly, field instead of beach. Can’t say how welcome Drogon will be, though.”

“Don’t worry about him. With you there to tell him off, he’s like to shadow my every step and try to steal me back from you every chance he gets. I plan to enjoy the coming test of wits very much, Jon Snow. We’ll see if the bastard reputation for double-dealing is warranted or if Drogon will simply snatch me from your company.” She’s smirking again, Jon realized. This might prove quite entertaining.

Chapter Text

Asha

Close as they were to the isles of home the crew of the Black Wind would normally be jesting, boasting, maybe discussing the best women to visit. Queer it is when ironmen fear the sea the same as any greenlander, she thought sulkily. Everything from whatever had cooked Ironspar and all her crew to those hellish croaking leggy fish infested the waters of her mind. She glanced down into the churning coal-colored waters of the Redwyne Straits, waters she now knew belonged to the Arbor only on maps. I might have thought they’d be rowdier in well-traveled waters, she mused. Instead the crew made no vulgar signs or words at Oldtown’s ships out of the Whispering Sound. She hated how white her knuckles were, taking to wearing gloves even in the relative heat of Westeros’ southwestern coast. Only Theon it seemed noticed her discomfort.

“I feel helpless as a babe, Theon.” she said through gritted teeth. “Where once I would have dared sail to the lands beyond the Sunset Sea, now I know I’d not make it much further than sight from shore.” Nerves do not suit me. Certainly the Crow’s Eye does not fear the sea…or else he is ignorant as to what could simply splash onto the deck of Silence and rip his head off should it choose.

“Do you know, I was thinking about them somewhat. The man-fishes. They were quick and strong but it doesn’t seem to me they’ll swim through a few hundred feet of open water just to massacre a ship far overhead. Certainly they can’t move the way a shark can or even a dolphin for that matter. I don’t think they’re everywhere, I think they need places to live just the same as us. Caves, reefs, the like. I’d bet these waters are deeper than the ones around Dragonstone, if those fishy fuckers are below they have better things to do than bother us.” he said, shrugging. Despite his logic Asha could not find it in her to untie the knot in her stomach. He’s not afraid, she realized then. Sword or sea monster you’re just as dead and death has lost its terror for Theon.

The thought that death could be some trivial thing to a sane man made Asha positively shiver. That is, assuming my brother’s got all his crew at the oars. The agonies visited on him by Bolton’s bastard, leaping off the walls of Winterfell or into the sea after a mermaid, what would he get up to next? Or worse, what would it be that finally put him in his grave? He looks out to the waves in eager hopes, not fear. He hopes he’ll get a glimpse of whatever has quite taken the sea back from men. With Westeros firmly to port and endless rolling grey-blue filling the western horizon, Asha rather felt she’d like nothing less than to attempt a voyage across the Sunset Sea. You can keep your endless lightless depths, she thought. Leave the sea winds and the coasts to us, you have little and less need for them anyway. With the sun high overhead it felt a bit silly to think they’d slink aboard with their huge eyes and glistening hides but the sun didn’t stay up forever. Even as allies so much as they are, they could sink the greatest fleet ever to sail without so much as a moment’s notice. Something Tristifer Botley had told her once crossed her mind. Trust an ironborn not to know the difference between swimming and drowning. Well, I feel like I’m drowning now. It seems the only people bold enough, strong enough to swim with monsters are the dragon and the wolf. Thinking of the dragon queen and the wolf king made Asha smirk despite herself. Crowns they may wear but they are children still. Younger than Theon even. Whether or not they would take to each other remained to be seen but regardless it appeared they would be the top of the wave for the foreseeable future. Both Winterfell and Dragonstone were far from the Iron Islands as well. All the better, I don’t want to worry about them when I have the Crow’s Eye to find and a sea full of man-fishes to appease. Not to mention whatever else is laughing at us down there. As the sun began to dip into the unknown west the crew went silent as if Asha had taken a leaf out of her uncle’s book.

We’ll smell them before we see them, aye, Asha thought as she lay in her hammock. Theon lay on a blanket on the hard floor, unable to take to a hammock after all the dungeons and frozen open ground. He did not snore but his mouth was open so wide Asha had to try hard not to laugh aloud when she first caught sight of him. He’ll have a terrible bark for a voice for a fortnight, she thought. I ought wake him and have him gargle seawater. Even when they were children, it had been Asha who paid the baby the most mind. Her brothers were brutes, her father a bitter old crab and her mother half-mad even in her heyday. It had been me who stopped his crying, me who bounced him on my knee until he giggled. I was mother and father both until Lord Balon tossed him out of Pyke like he was tossing away bones to sharks. Or rather, wolves. Now Father’s only living son is more Stark than Greyjoy. A hairless cut wolf can still hunt and bite but a kraken with no arms can only flop about. That thought distressed her terribly, made her sink into her hammock and pull the blanket up to her nose despite the hot night. Father was right. The Starks made him theirs. Lord Eddard could have put him to the sword at any moment and Robert Baratheon wouldn’t have so much as sent a raven in protest. Instead he was the father Lord Balon never would be, could be. In her dreams she was a little girl again. When she went to stop Theon’s crying he wasn’t a babe at all but a skinless sexless wolf pup, a mewling twitching thing missing toes from every limb and half his teeth. As she shrieked in horror the pup looked at her with wide pained eyes and began to grow in its cradle. Asha staggered backward as the pup grew into a two-legged wolf with blood streaming from between its empty legs and jaws, bared muscle and sinew glistening in the moonlight. Rather than whine in pain it began to laugh a horrid barking laugh, the kind a demon would on seeing kin slay kin. Its front paws became hands of sorts, the missing toes becoming empty knuckles. It started coming after her.

“Winter is Coming,” the ghastly wolf-Theon grinned, laughing as though it had blood enough to bleed to drown the world in.

When Asha woke, her eyes were streaming and a wetness between her legs told her all she needed know. At least no one’s around to see, she thought, though her cheeks burned in shame. The laughter echoed in her mind still. Show me the man who could look upon that thing, hear its laughter and keep his bladder. I’ll marry him on the spot, she thought to herself heatedly. She slipped out of her hammock and quickly discovered it wasn’t worth trying to save. Bugger it. She simply stripped and carried everything out onto the deck, tossing it over the side. I have clothes enough and Theon’s hammock lays empty. Only when the man grunted did she realize he was there, jumping out of her skin, all she wore in the moonlight.

“If you think you’re the first person to piss themselves during a nightmare, think again.” Mormont said, stolidly whetting his sword and looking away from her, naked as she was.

“How long have you been out here?” she hissed in annoyance, stepping behind the wheel to hide herself as best she could.

“Since the moon filled full as a silver coin.” he replied curtly, eyes locked on the sword. Northern chivalry. He won’t look at me but neither will he bother himself to get me garb, Asha thought dryly.

“What’s the moon got to do with bad dreams?” she asked, surprised by the oddity of his answer.

“No idea. Ever since that night in Oldtown they’ve been coming to me and coming strong. The full moon makes them worse, doubly so if there’s nothing between it and me when I sleep.”

“What monster is bad enough to scare a ice-hearted northman?” Asha half-taunted.

“When I dream, I’m the one chasing, not running. Of late it takes much and more to make me breathe twice much less tire me true. Even then, when I’m in the grip of sleep…I feel like I could put my fist through a castle wall and not feel it. I feel like a scorpion bolt would bounce off my nose. I feel unstoppable. I don’t like that feeling, Greyjoy. You might not like being chased by monsters but it’s worlds worse when you are the monster.” He went back to sharpening his sword, already sharp enough to shave with.

“The moon’s been giving men fits since time began. Sometimes a big light in the night sky makes men cluck like chickens or-”

“Or think they’re beasts. Maybe. I thought I knew who I was when I married my wife. Then I thought I found myself when I met Daenerys Targaryen. It seems my life’s been one long wait but if this is what for, color me disappointed.” he said. For an older man he’s not so old, Asha thought. His hair and beard were darker than they’d been only days before and his chest scarred as it was sported hair that would have made an ironman look a bare-assed babe.

It took her a moment to realize she was staring quite shamelessly.

“So you’re out of sorts because you’re getting a second wind. Most men would fight a giant for a drink from such a cup.” she said.

“It isn’t that. Watch this.” he took off a boot and pulled out a small pouch, emptying it aside him. Silver stags, Asha knew at once. Mormont took a long deep breath and picked one up. The hiss was so sudden Asha was ready to feel a viper’s fangs when she realized it was coming from Mormont’s flesh. Instantly his hair began to gray and the hair on his body wilted and fell off. The man breathed hard through his nose, obviously in pain, but it seemed to refocus him. He gave himself another few moments before dropping the stag to its herd.

“What the fuck was that?” Asha half whispered, half hissed.

“Silver makes it stop. Or at least, it makes it hurt enough to make the feeling go away. For awhile. It used to only take a touch. Now…” Asha watched in amazement as his grayed roots began recoloring it seemed before her eyes. The hair on his chest followed as if he’d never touched the coin.

“That’s why you want to go back to Bear Island.” she said suddenly, certain though she had no idea how.

“Last I checked silver didn’t burn me as though it were acid.” he replied almost casually. “Hopefully I find someone who knows what’s happening to me. Until then…” He picked up the lot of coins and Asha heard his flesh scream. He seemed to age ten years in ten seconds, several angry red coin-shaped brands puckering down his front. “That’s better…” he muttered in the hoarse voice of a tired old man. Not if you have to torture yourself to drive off whatever it is, Asha thought.

“Doesn’t that fucking hurt you?” she asked, going weak at the knees again.

“Of course it fucking hurts. But it keeps me focused, wary, awake. You don’t want whatever’s up here…” he tapped his temple “joining us in the flesh. Especially not on a longship a hundred miles and more from shore.”

That sobering thought brought Asha back to behind Black Wind’s wheel, naked and covered in goose prickles.

“They call Daenerys Targaryen the silver queen. Funny you should seek her out so when silver does you such great harm.” she commented.

“Wrong. It does me hurt but harm is another matter. These circles will fade and my hair will come back brown as ever in a matter of days if that. The full moon only makes it faster. Ale may not do it any longer but I can get drunker on moonlight than any normal man can on rum.” A small smile flickered on and off of Jorah Mormont’s face.

“Well, at any rate I feel better about those fish heads coming up for a word. Not like they’re going to tip their spears with silver. Assuming they have wood down there.” Asha laughed, returning to her cabin to dress. Only when she lay in the empty hammock did she think on Mormont’s words. He seemed fixed on the moon as much as averse to silver. Maybe he wasn’t after Daenerys so because she’s the silver queen but for another reason. She wasn’t able to puzzle it out though and it seemed in moments Theon was nudging her awake. “Fuck off…” she muttered, until the fish-reek hit her. She would have shot out of her hammock had Theon not put a hand over her mouth. He held a finger to his own and jerked his thumb to the cabin door. Asha slid out of the hammock, picking up her throwing axe and pulling her dirk from off her hip. She followed Theon to the door and he edged it open so she could see the deck. At least a dozen of the man-fishes were idling around, prodding barrels or the prone forms of her crew, croaking softly to each other. Most clutched spears but one had only a conch shell on one hand and a driftwood staff capped with a chunk of oily black stone in another. On closer inspection Asha could see its belly sagged ponderously, two ugly piss-yellow stripes trailing down the sides. Gods, they’re hard to look at. Asha could see no black stains on the deck despite the spears so she looked to Theon. He shrugged and threw open the door.

Immediately there was a tumult. Asha saw one of the fish heads knock Tris Botley’s head against the mast hard enough to make him collapse in a heap while most of the other ironborn were held where they woke by the tips of spears. The saggy one turned to peer at Asha with its huge bulging eyes. It seemed totally unbothered by the woken crew or its fellows quick sorting of them.

“Well, you have my attention.” Asha said shakily after a few minutes of silence. One of the stinking things croaked over its shoulder and a wriggling sack was brought forth. Its bearer shook it out without ceremony. A man’s head hit the deck, snapping and twitching as best it was able, its single bright blue eye staring around madly. Hagen’s daughter let out a shriek most unbefitting of an ironborn woman. The sagging fish head pointed to the head, then to the north, then opened its webbed hand and slowly brought its arm back down again.

“Looks like Jon had the right of it after all.” Theon said quietly. Asha stared at him. Is he so fearless this isn’t making him wet himself? she thought in disbelief. Theon went so far as to grab one of the man-fishes’ spears and prod the head, making it snap audibly anew. The conch-holder let out a loud succession of huffs and snorts, pointing north again.

“Yes, north. That much I can figure but unless you’ve got a mermaid on hand, I can’t help you.” Asha said, trying not to vomit. Saggy’s slimy hand fell to its side with a wet slap. Finally it pointed directly at Asha, taped the deck of Black Wind with its staff and pointed north yet again. “Oh, aye, now you’re talking sense. We’re on the way home just now. It’s north of here.” Asha pointed as well. The resulting chorus of croaks and gurgles was enough to make a man want to leap into the sea. One of the spearfish impaled the head and pointed it north in turn. Asha’s stomach tied in a knot when she realized what it was trying to get across. Dead men north of here, you air-sucking twat. The further north, the more there are. Asha frowned. “We’re not such helpless wriggling pink things as you imagine.” She hurled the dirk at the creature, sinking it into the mast a foot from its head. In response the yellow-belly’s eyes pointed in different directions and it blew on its tongue. Another of the creatures held out a sodden fur bundle, unwrapping it with a deal more care than Asha would have expected the thing capable of. In its fur-covered palm lay a dagger of sorts, hilt and blade both hewn it seemed from crystal. When the chill took her in the chest, she realized her error. Not crystal. Ice. The man-fish holding it neatly chopped her dirk in two before pulling the front half out of the mast and casually tossed the pieces over its shoulder. It rewrapped the icy dagger and waddled forward, shoving the bundle into Asha’s arms. The conch-holder suddenly put the shell to its fishy mouth and blew, the sound loud and jarring. In a few moments a shark’s fin tall as a man broke the black water and came up to port. The things began slipping over the side and when clear of the spears the crew rushed to get a look at the monster aside the ship, Asha and Theon included. That shark has to be fifty feet long, Asha thought in a sort of terrified wonder. Certainly it was at least as long as the ship itself. She could see the huge blank eyes, the wide mouth full of teeth the size of a man’s hand, but its continuous almost mindless rocking movement as it swam caught her eye the most. Left, right, without pause or change in pace or motion. Maybe it was charmed by the conch, she thought. Rumor has it the Crow’s Eye has a dragon horn, what stops the fish-men from doing the same with conches and sea monsters? The sagging fish head required its fellows aid to move unassisted by the water it seemed, and they carefully lowered it in a sort of net onto the back of the shark, the others quick to help get it aright. Once all were aboard as it were, the conch was sounded again and the shark sank out of sight. Silence fell as the crew looked uncertainly at each other.

“Well…” Qarl the Maid began, “nice of them to let us know what we’re in for.”

“No wonder nobody ever comes back from sailing into the Sunset Sea. Did you see that fucking thing?” Mormont said after they had gotten a few miles from where the fish-men had quit Black Wind.

“Teeth didn’t cook Ironspar’s crew or blast a hole in its hull, Mormont.” Asha replied. She’d given up trying to get her knees to stop shaking. It was all she could do to keep her hands on the railing to keep herself upright. “Let’s just get to the islands and find Mother and the rest of the Harlaws, assuming Euron hasn’t sent them on to raid the mainland.”

“Or to the bottom of the sea.” Theon added.

“Cheerful, ass.” Asha replied. The crew were groaning at having to start a few hours early but she knew they wanted to be quit of the Sunset Sea same as her. Maybe getting into a nice scrap will be a nice change of pace from fish heads simply popping out of the brine and scaring the piss out of us, she thought. At least she could fight Euron’s lickspittles. Maybe I don’t want to know what the croakers can get up to when the fighting starts, she realized suddenly. Let someone else sort them out if it’s sorting they need. When dawn came Tris let out a groan.

“They’ve been gone for hours and yet the stink’s not faded. Has it sunk into the deck?” Asha had a knot in her stomach at the thought of having to find a new ship when another possibility occurred to her. She left the railing and stuck her head in the hold below, looking around in the darkness. The stink made her eyes water. Suddenly the sound of something scrabbling around in the darkness made her bump her chin against the underside of the deck, making her bite her tongue and swear loudly. Right, she thought. She stuck half a fresh cod down the hole and when Theon asked what she was doing, she told him.

”Fishing.” she said and when something pulled on the fish she pulled right back, yanking the stowaway out into the sun and making it shriek. A two-foot man-fish hung onto the cod by its teeth, wriggling as it tried to work the food out of Asha’s grasp.

“Oh, fuck.” Theon groaned, grabbing it by the waist and sticking it in a barrel out of the sunlight. The creature chirped to itself curiously, tapping the inside of the barrel. Of course the entire crew had to have a look, crowding around despite the smell. Asha dropped it the rest of the fish and it ate it bones and all, looking up at them with bulging eyes, still squinting.

“Oi, let’s drop him over the side before those things realize they left a wee one behind.” One of the reavers said.

“You think they did it on accident?” Asha retorted. His face told her he had not thought of that possibility. “They could have been on the deck fucking around for hours before we spotted them. Mayhaps they wanted to dump a runt on us to see what we’d do, or just on a lark. At least now we have something to stick in the Damphair’s craw when we arrive, and I look forward to seeing his face when we do.” Asha said, smirking.

Chapter Text

Daenerys

It would seem everywhere we might visit has tasted the wrath of the dragonkings, Daenerys thought as she looked at the Painted Table. Perhaps we’ll start at Rook’s Rest and move on to Riverrun to see how Ser Brynden fared…assuming he made it that far in the first place. She drew her finger from Rook’s Rest to Maidenpool and from there to Riverrun. By then everyone ought be making the return trip to the crownlands and we can…her thoughts trailed off. That was weeks away though, she planned to make herself known to her subjects in the meantime and to show the smallfolk of Westeros they had nothing to fear from her, her armies, or her dragons. Dragon now, she reminded herself. Nobody’s seen Rhaegal or Viserion in months. Her eyes left the riverlands and shifted north. There is more land in the north than all the other kingdoms combined, and fewer than the next least populous by far. We’ve heard nothing from the north itself but for Jon Snow, perhaps they’ve gone where few men live to peep on them. Besides, the north had never felt dragon fire that she knew. At that thought her eyes moved south again to Harrenhal. Balerion burned the castle and all the souls inside. Barristan was wont to call it a cursed place despite the fertility of its expansive lands. Drogon’s fire was hot but when he tried stone it only glowed a dull angry red. Yet Balerion turned stone to tallow and steel to wax. She could see it in her mind. The Black Dread descending while those behind the walls braced for the end. It made her close her eyes and sniffle. I would be fierce, but never fearsome. I came here to liberate, not to conquer. Not that it was a possibility anyway, Drogon would no more take her up than Jon Snow was like to do. Suddenly Dany remembered. Jaime Lannister’s companion was stationed at Harrenhal for a time, perhaps he can tell me how the riverlands fare. She turned to one of the Unsullied stationed at he door.

“Bring me Ser Bonifer Hasty.” she said.

When the knight arrived Dany’s concentration had wavered somewhat and she was sleepily watching a spider crawl down the Dornish coast toward Sunspear. He cleared his throat to announce his presence.

“Your Grace.” he said. To Dany he sounded wooden. When she looked up she beheld the man standing stiffly before the Painted Table.

“Ser, I’ve not missed your manner since you arrived with Jaime Lannister. Who was it my father so wronged?” she asked kindly. It would seem I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing for his actions, mad or no. It took the man a long time to answer, as if he didn’t quite have the words.

“A gentle girl I knew once upon a time, Your Grace.” he said finally. Dany’s eyebrows went up.

“I’m sure many girls have been at the mercy of Targaryen princes over the centuries, ser. I’ve been dependent on the whims of capricious dangerous men myself. Believe me, were she here I could sympathize.” she told him softly. He smiled through his wet eyes.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but it was the gentle girl who was the Targaryen and a boy at her mercy.” Dany felt gooseprickles crawl up her arms. Ser Barristan spoke of something once, she remembered. A pious young knight who loved my mother dearly and hung his jousting lance up when she wed Father.

“Ser, will you answer me true as you can?” she asked him, coming closer. Tiny as she was Ser Bonifer stood head and shoulders taller, yet Dany got the impression it was a sad squire only in the splendid armor.

“As true as I can, Your Grace.” he answered without hesitation, his face gone quite white.

“Do I look like her?” He faltered. I thought not, Dany reasoned.

“Rhaella was a great beauty, Your Grace, there was no one like her in all the realm, not in all its history…but she was frail, as if denied the right to flourish all living things must surely possess. Marrying Prince Aerys did nothing to help her constitution, nor did the string of failed pregnancies and stillbirths that plagued her. The Seven forbid incest and it was seen by septons the realm over as a condemnation of House Targaryen…but I suspected always it was simply the end of a road trod by the royal family for three hundred years and more. That it was in Prince Aerys to sire a living son at all was a wonder.” Yet he makes no mention of me, Dany thought.

“Viserys never lost the hard haunted look some here remember Aerys having.” she said, felling as though she were floating.

“Whereas you I’m quite sure have never looked hard nor haunted.” Bonifer Hasty replied. Dany reached out and took his gauntlet-clad hands in hers, felt the scuffed steel with her fingers.

“I wouldn’t go so far as that, ser. I’ve been haunted by the memory of Aerys all my life.” She is free of Aerys as Viserys will never be, Mother said. “Even when Barristan the Bold came to me, he wanted to make sure I was free of the taint.”

“I’m quite certain you are. Aerys’s youth is remembered fondly, but in private he was a different beast, and I do mean beast. Ask your mother’s ghost how good a man he was. Their marriage was never a loving one and it waned still from the day they wed.”

“Yet I think she never stopped loving the boy from her youth, nor did he stop loving her when she exchanged her princess’ tiara for a queen’s crown.” Ser Bonifer Hasty looked at his feet, neck flushed but face pale. “Do you suppose I am angry with you, ser, whatever the truth between my mother and yourself? Whatever might have been, what might be?” she asked him. He looked up in resignation.

“Ser Jaime told me of his last moments with Princess Myrcella. The man is what he is, but he isn’t a liar. I’d hate to make the mistakes he has…keeping out of Myrcella’s life chief among them.”

“Do you trust him so?”

“He is a not untalented field commander and a proven leader. He kept the lion’s share of the smallfolk out of Cersei’s hands. I’ve know worse men, Your Grace.” he replied. “In short, he is a knight.” Dany smiled at that.

“When it came to ending slavery, driving the Masters of Slaver’s Bay away from the vile practice, I wasn’t doing it because I thought freedmen would make me queen. I…I thought I was doing it because it was the right thing to do. I don’t think Ser Barristan approved. Nor would you have.”

“You’re probably right. It sounds like the world you came from was a brutal grim world where blood flowed easy as wine if not easier and flesh was less valuable than the brick it hauled. Had you taken the peaceful path likely your throat would have been slit the first night it could be managed. Your Grace…This world is not the one you left. Westeros leaves much to be desired, its lands are in chaos and its people awash in confusion and still-bleeding wounds…but it is still perhaps the best place to be, even for the smallfolk.” Assuming I manage not to set it alight, Dany thought. Sometimes she forgot just what Drogon was, what he could do. He was her child, yes…but to the rest of the world he was the Black Dread come again. Well, to all but one. Dany felt a slight smirk creep across her face. “Your Grace?” Ser Bonifer asked. She quickly went up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek.

“Peace, ser. All is well. I suppose…I would be bothered were I Viserys, were I…” were I who Westeros thinks me to be, she finished in her head. “The night I landed I dreamed of her. Queen Rhaella. She said…she said I was free of Aerys as Viserys would never be. She wanted us to live without the throne weighing on our minds every moment, but Ser Willem Darry disobeyed her.” At this Ser Bonifer’s little returning color promptly vanished again. “I think perhaps, ser, that her last thing she remembered was not the agony of my birth, but the man who made it possible. Someone quite apart from the Mad King.”

She left the room with her arm in the knight’s, supporting him mail and all it seemed to her. The Unsullied stationed every dozen yards paid them no mind, their lot was not to judge. I hope they learn something of themselves as men, though, Dany thought sadly. They may win me the Seven Kingdoms but I would not want them to be soldiers the rest of their days. Her thoughts turned to Missandei of Naath. The goodbye had been painful but Dany knew Dorne was the best place for her sweet friend. Hot, remote and near Essos should she need to…to leave the Seven Kingdoms in a hurry. The only one I would make such preparations for, Daenerys realized. Is this all I have to show for an entire life? The crone had told her of a son yet to come, but Dany had learned the hard way that prophecy was a mirror best not looked in. Prophecy is the carrot that moves the donkey. It is for me to find where I belong. Tyrion mentioned wedding the North not for their support but to find a home for myself, my khalasar and my dragons. It seemed to Daenerys the best way to know the North and its view of her was to know its so-called king. He came up to Drogon’s lair for me, she thought. Would Drogo have? Would Daario? Spending time on a bit of a progress will show me what else sits behind that long northern face. If he is the man Tyrion seems to think he is…if the man who thanked me as he did would care for me as well…she felt her cheeks flush and she shook herself. I have time enough to learn of this Jon Snow and more. Just now I want to enjoy what time is vouchsafed me with the man who loved my mother. They made their way past the empty hall and found themselves at the threshold of the dining room. To Dany’s great surprise one of the Dothraki, a young man with a half dozen bells in his braid, was seated at the table straightbacked and attentive. Across from him sat the girl from White Harbor, Wynafryd Manderly. His name is Malakko, Dany remembered. He came ashore with Theon Greyjoy. What was more, he looked almost entranced.

“Once you make it through the Neck you hit the barrowlands. From there to the Wall, further even, it’s fields, moors, forests, mountains. Another way, another world, one further from the city-stink of corpses and filth than can be imagined.” For his part Malakko looked as if he couldn’t decide which he was harder for, the girl or the land she spoke of.

“Good day, Lady Manderly.” Daenerys greeted her. The girl blushed and stood as did Malakko, who seemed almost embarrassed to be caught out sitting at a table as a Westerosi might.

“Your Grace.“ she curtsied perfectly. Though Wynafryd Manderly looked a year or so older than Daenerys she had the face of a girl, not a woman, and the eyes of one as well. An innocent yet, even now when the rest of the country burns. Either she is lucky or her family cares for her a great deal. While introducing Ser Bonifer she wondered what that would be like, to be surrounded by a powerful family. One that would keep her safe and she could keep safe in turn. Tyrion called me a missing piece, but to what? What is so big it makes the Mother of Dragons look small?

“I’ve spoken with Jon Snow and he agrees that waiting on Dragonstone for the other envoys is not the best use of time. We mean to assist Edmure Tully in the retaking of Riverrun and the resettling of the riverlands.”

“If you seek the King, the only place I can guess he may be is his chambers, Your Grace.”

“Might you invite him to the throne room on my behalf? There are some small logistical matters I’d like to hammer out with him before we leave.” Lady Manderly curtsied again and left without a word while Malakko looked longingly after her.

“She is not for you.” Daenerys said in Dothraki. “Do you remember what I said?”

“That they are not the Lhazareen, Khaleesi, and so they aren’t. The place she calls home, with hairy elephants and men tall as trees astride them, it cannot exist but in the Night Lands-”

“Have you been to the Night Lands? Then you have little and less to say of what may be there.” Daenerys said crossly. Malakko frowned, then spoke the Common Tongue much to Dany’s surprise. Few of the Dothraki ever managed it and it seemed he’d spent a deal more time with Wynafryd Manderly than Daenerys had realized.

“I do not fear, Khaleesi. Any of your bloodriders would gladly follow you to this place, out away from the stone walls and the roads of men too weak to ride across tall grass.” he said.

“Keep your own counsel, Malakko. If your mind is on a far-off land it isn’t on the moment at hand.” she said, bidding him find something better to do than gossip with a northern girl.

Daenerys waited for Jon Snow seated on the granite throne, talking with Ser Bonifer. Finally the doors opened and the much-discussed man came in. My khalasar is already half mad for him, the man who returned from the Night Lands, who walked with those who came before. If he remembered any of it though, Dany had yet to hear.

“I’ve set the island garrison to prepare for the landing at Rook’s Rest.” she told him, hands in her lap. He nodded.

“As you like, Your Grace. I’ve only six people to look after so it’s rather easy to get a move on for our part.” he said, as if her words were a given. He glanced at Ser Bonifer Hasty, nodded, then put his gaze back on Daenerys. Then his brow furrowed. Those gray eyes that so made her breath hitch bounced between the knight and the queen. Does he see it? Daenerys asked herself.

“Is something wrong, Jon Snow?” she asked. Let us see how he will answer.

“Only that I seem to be taking time away from a man you should know rather better than you do, Your Grace.” he said after a long silence. She could see the stern northern mask melt into a face of utter confusion.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps it is my intention to know more of you before I let you lead me into a quagmire that sets people the country over shaking.” she replied coolly.

“The Neck? What about it?” he asked, sounding surprised.

“If what Lord Varys has told me of the north is accurate-”

“It isn’t. Lord Varys may know much and more of the Free Cities, of King’s Landing, of half-there cities made of burning brass out in the emptiness of forgotten deserts, but he does not know the north from a snowball in the face.” he said instantly, stolidly. Dany felt the ghost of a smile flicker across her face. She stood and stepped down to Jon Snow’s level. “Besides, I’m not about to cross the Neck myself if I don’t have to. It’s a wall all its own, not a bridge northmen cross as they will. There’s a reason the Andals never made it further north than the riverlands.” he elaborated.

“They are your people and yet they would harm you?” she asked, a bit aghast.

“No, but they do not command the bogs, the quicksands, the biting insects and the snapping lizard-lions. Nor do they rule the poisonous plants or the rainbow frogs, the rattletail and the fleshdigger locust.” Dany saw Ser Bonifer shudder out of the corner of her eye.

“If the place is so deadly, how can people live there?” she asked, brow furrowed.

“I haven’t the first idea, and I’m not about to trouble the crannogmen for an answer.” These little people, green men, bog devils as Asha Greyjoy once called them…the whole of Westeros fears them, fears even going near the land they call the Neck. It was like no other place Daenerys had ever been to or heard of. A proper jungle perhaps?

“If they are so dangerous, so unconquerable…how did it come to pass that they began to pay deference to the Starks of Winterfell?” she asked. Jon Snow shrugged.

“Tales of a King of Winter slaying a Marsh King are what I heard as a boy, but no outsider is slaying a fly in the Neck. More likely it was some set of circumstances lost to time. They were with us since before the first Dawn if stories can be believed.”

“Well, we’ll have to traverse it somehow-”

“Aye. Likely your ships will be too busy ferrying people from all over Westeros as well to pick us up. I hope you don’t mind getting dirty, Your Grace.”

“No more than you mind getting sooty, Jon Snow. Speaking of, there’s one more small matter I would see to before we leave.” Her smile waned as she turned to Ser Bonifer. This time he neither shook nor stammered.

“After everything else, a dragon is relatively simple. It is simply life, or it is simply death.”

The three of them stood at the threshold of the clearing, eyes on her remaining child.

“I had heard there were three…” Bonifer asked uncertainly.

“There were. Or are, I’m not sure anymore. They left not long after I landed.” Dany said sadly, stepping up to the onyx coils. “Sweet one,” she said in High Valyrian, “wake and see this. I would not disturb you if it were not important to me.” Drogon snorted most uncooperatively in response. He has not forgiven me for ignoring him in favor of Jon Snow. Nor for bringing him here for yet a third time. “Very well…” she said in mock sadness, making her way directly toward her northern guest. Almost immediately she felt the tip of Drogon’s tail loop around her leg, quite pinning her in place. She let him pull her into his stifling coiled body, looming over her as if she were a treasure like in a story. His great wings spread and stretched and he gave an almost bored yawn, the air in front of his snout shimmering. She lay against the hot coils, lazing like an indolent farmer’s daughter tired of picking berries. “Sleep now, my precious one.” she crooned, hand stroking his huge chest as her words stroked his comparably large ego. “He is small and you are great. Beneath your notice, beneath my desire.” Drogon snorted loudly, a geyser of black smoke that nearly engulfed Jon Snow and would surely have stung his eyes if not ruined his furs. Despite Dany’s words his head snaked out and he sniffed irritably after Jon Snow. He won’t stop sniffing, she observed. What so draws his notice? What so draws his ire? Jon Snow did not budge and indeed only removed his glove. Dany caught a glimpse of scarred burned skin on his hand, reaching for the scales on the edge of her child’s nose. “We are going to go soon, sweetling. We’re going to go with him and visit other places.” This notion Drogon cared for not a whit and his warble of annoyance drove his position home. “None of that,” she said, sterner, “if all goes well we will go somewhere you can fly dawn to dusk without catching a glimpse of men.” Were it Rhaegal she was trying to charm she knew he’d be sold, but Drogon only snorted again, coiling tightly around his mother. He let out a jealous rasping hiss, the horn spurs framing his head nudging her side affectionately. “If you’ll not come of your own accord, I’ll not try to make you.” she told him. “I’ll tell you afterward how it was, how he was.” she said casually. Drogon let out a sharp yelp. “I have to go, dear sweet boy. You can come if you like or you can stay and sleep, but I need to go to keep us safe.” The notion that something, anything could threaten the pair of them made Drogon snort in unquestionable derision, even disbelief. She let her child wrestle with himself while she slowly extricated herself, dodging his reclaiming tail snaking forth with renewed possessive tenacity.

She kept her eyes on Drogon’s tail, keeping out of the shadow of his wings as she made her way back to Jon Snow and Bonifer Hasty. The knight looked a bit shaken but stalwart as she had predicted, but as before Jon Snow had an inscrutable look on his face, torn between desire and uncertainty. He wasn’t looking at Drogon though, he had his eyes locked squarely on her. He held out his hand to her and she took it, letting him draw her back up to the solid stone edge of the clearing.

“We’ll leave tomorrow.” she said, trying to keep her thoughts on his intentions and off the rest of him, not altogether successfully.

“As you wish, Your Grace.” he replied without missing a beat. She turned to Ser Bonifer.

“Surely you are in great discomfort so near Drogon while in steel, ser. If I may trouble you to change into perhaps fresh garb and meet us in the dining hall for dinner?” she asked him. Ser Bonifer bowed.

“Your Grace.” he said, turning and making his way down the path. Dany waited until the sounds of his greaves faded away. Breathlessly she turned to Jon Snow.

“I have danced to this tune before, Jon Snow-” she began while he merely made to scoop her up. She wanted to want to scream, to pound her fist on his chest, to tell him to put her down at once but all it did was make her heart flutter and her cheeks blush. Remember Daario. Interested only in who I was beneath the blankets. Or Hizdahr. Interested only in how I could best profit he and his kin. Yes, his eyes were full of desire but they were empty of lust. Yes, his eyes were full of confidence but they were empty of ambition. Put me down, half of her screamed. Hold me tighter, the other howled. Her hand found his chest and she listened for the heart beneath the leather. The beat is strong and fast, she thought, but does it beat for home? For freedom? Or for me?

Chapter Text

Bran

Three days passed before the last of the crannogmen made it through Winterfell’s southern gate. I’ve seen things Maester Luwin wouldn’t believe, Bran thought, but this would top them all. The little green people were everywhere. At the base of the castle walls, climbing up sheer stone on what Bran had called frogfeet, even filling the ever-expanding tunnels beneath Winterfell. They moved this way and that always so that it was impossible to much keep track of them, let alone count them. Even the wildlings seemed wary. Men that had haunted Bran’s dreams as a boy, who wore scars instead of clothing and used stone instead of steel, were quick to cede space to the endless tide of crannogmen. They are so many, Bran thought, yet so quiet.

“You’d think the Other unsettling enough. Turns out a three day deluge of frogs is somehow more disturbing.” Harrold Arryn said one day, pale in the face. Howland and Meera introduced the other lords of the Neck such as they were to Bran and Sansa. Names like Fenn, Cray, and Blackmyre.

“No doubt they’re well worthy if so in your estimation, Lord Reed.” Sansa said of them. Ever the gracious lady, Bran thought.

“My lord, I hope you are ready to work. We’ve done what we can to fortify the castle but surely you know better than I.” Bran said, face a bit flushed. He felt proper foolish addressing Howland Reed as a mere vassal. After what Meera has done for me and for House Stark, after what we saw in the grotto below…the Neck belongs to him, not us, and we should honor him as such. Once formalities with the other inhabitants of Winterfell had been concluded Bran was startled by Howland Reed’s first request.

“I would take the measure of all you have here, Prince Brandon, save the other arrivals from the Neck.” It fell to Bran as Prince of Winterfell to show his father-by-law everything he could think of. The Knights of the Vale, the few grizzled stormlanders, the Free Folk as best he could, even the giants. Lord Howland took them to task in particular, asking them through wildling translators what they ate, how high they could lift their arms above their heads, how fast they could run, how high they could jump and so on. He seems not to need food nor rest, Bran thought. The sight of small Lord Howland talking to a wall of armored knights asking them how fast they could go at full tilt with and without barding made Bran smile. Before he even begins to address the castle, he would learn all he can of those manning it.

Finally once it seemed Howland Reed’s endless queries were at an end, he asked Bran to assemble the great lords and chieftains in the hall.
“Greywater Watch and Winterfell are different prospects. Greywater Watch has natural barriers a garrison may strike from at will as well as those that severely punish an army hoping to take it. We must recreate as best we can such circumstances that create a situation as advantageous as possible for us and as unfavorable as possible for the enemy. By so doing battle can be joined before an arrow is loosed or a spear is thrown. I’ve heard inklings of raised earthen walls around the castle to fend off the dead for as long as possible. With the aid of the giants such a thing can be done but it isn’t enough to simply erect obstacles. Were they hollow on our side, able to be manned by archers or spearmen, we could loose projectiles as needed at high-value targets.” Others, Bran thought while the hall stared at Lord Reed.

“My lord, nobody is questioning your defensive acumen. We outside the Neck, knights and wildlings, northmen and giants, are not used to such methods.” Lord Royce said simply, shrugging.

“Were your methods enough to stop the coming enemy I’d not have needed to leave the Neck.” Lord Reed replied. “To give battle on open ground against levies that neither tire nor hunger nor fear death is foolish. You must force such an enemy to come to you on your terms. A honeybee has neither bite nor speed and a bone hornet may tear apart a whole hive if caught in the open. The bees therefore wait until a lone scout attempts to penetrate their hive, ball around it in the order of hundreds, thousands, until the heat cooks it from within. From what I hear of our enemy, they are superior in every way. Nullifying their advantages will help our chances immeasurably and any who make it past all the barriers and into the castle proper will be so balled. A lone Other may kill many, but it cannot kill us all.” Bran shivered. The Neck is barrier enough, he thought, but this is how the crannogmen kept the North untouched since the first Dawn. They do not think of battle in terms of honor or boons, they want it on their own terms and over with as soon as possible. Meera sat by her mother, spending a great deal of time with her. Bran tried to learn all he could from his father-by-law, a man clearly a veteran of unconventional defensive tactics.

“Making Winterfell too costly to realistically take for the Others will bog them down. Fast enemies can be slowed and strong ones weakened. You’ve seen what dragonglass does to them, my lords. If the king is successful in the south he’ll bring more than enough north, not to mention Daenerys Targaryen’s army. Her dragons, too.” Sansa reminded them. To Bran’s surprise Lord Reed didn’t much react to the news that the last dragon had finally made landfall in Westeros. Although, it has been some time. Likely he knows already about Daenerys if not our intentions.

“Have you gotten any word from His Grace as to his progress?” Lord Reed asked her. Sansa turned pink and did not answer. “Very well. We will prepare as best we can with our present set of circumstances and when he returns hopefully we’ll be nearly ready for…official hostilities.”

Now to introduce the Singers, Bran thought after Howland Reed had finished with all those in the hall, asking them to get a count on the fighting-fit people under their respective commands. Meera’s parents stopped at the entrance to the crypts, gently taking each other’s hand.

“They spend most of their time down here out of sight of men. They don’t like being gawked at and they’re more comfortable under the earth now than atop it, thanks to the Others.” Meera explained. Indeed the crypts were barely that anymore, the Singers having shaped new tunnels to every end of Winterfell above. In addition, Bran could see many of the kings’ alcoves had been repurposed. Greenery covered each statue without exception and they seemed now for the express purpose of growing mushrooms and other plants he did not recognize. Lord and Lady Reed seemed younger in the soft greenish glow the Singers lit their tunnels with and when they reached Father’s statue Howland took a long breath.

“I had hoped we would meet again at some point, my lord.” he said. “Under better circumstances and without so little time to set things right.” Bran could see the boy in Meera’s story, the little frog who’d crawled out of the bogs to go with the Starks to the tourney at Harrenhal. Further down among the trees Howland Reed walked softly and reverently while Jyana waited at grotto’s edge. His face lit up at the sight of the pact on the wall, the green and grey figures.

“Your son knew what it would cost. As did you.” A soft voice sounded as Branch climbed down from a tree near Howland. Bran saw tears well in Meera’s eyes. Lord Reed turned to look the Singer in the eye. Did he know Jojen was going to die? Bran thought, feeling horribly guilty.

“There weren’t any others. Not after Jojen.” Lady Jyana said, coming into the grotto.

“Did you expect any?” Branch asked.

“I suppose not. Howland told me what would happen so…so I would be ready for it when it did.”

“Know then that he did not fail, a scion of your blood and your line. He was worthy of his name in life and sits unashamed among your ancestors. You need not be worried for him now.” Branch told her.

“Better still if he had a chance to see what comes at such a price.” she replied. No tears, Bran saw. She is beyond weeping for her only son.

“The same could be said for many others-” Branch began.

“Many others were not my child.” Jyana interrupted. She turned and left the grotto and the cavern without another word. Meera went after her while Lord Howland sniffled. “It is not enough for a tree to grow tall and strong. The ground in which it grows must be ever stronger and ready to hold it for its long life.” he said. Bran and Sansa looked at each other.

“You are not so old, my lord, and neither is your lady. It may be you have another coming just now.”

“I am the last. A line that stretches back before writing, before speech and I will see its last days. Yet it was my choice to let it end. It was never a choice for Jojen.” He brought his hands to his face and wept. Bran’s gut twisted and he wordlessly came up behind the crying man.

“Jojen told me of when you got word of my father’s murder. He said it was the only time he’d seen you cry. Father never spoke of you or of the days you shared in the south. Not once. All I know of it I know from a story Meera told me once. My lord, what happened at that tourney?” he asked.

“Much and more,” came the reply, “but it is not for me to tell.” he looked to Branch.

“The trees have slept many long centuries. We are waking them one by one but it is tiring and slow. Still, they should be ready when the time comes.” the Singer said. He turned to Bran and Sansa. “Go back up to the sun. He needs time to grieve and we have much to discuss as far as planning.” Wordlessly Sansa took Bran’s hand and dragged him from the cave.

Howland Reed lives in unending agony, Bran thought that night. What could have happened to him to cause him such pain?

“Before you ask, the answer is yes. Always Father was the curious sort, the kind to learn all he could of the Neck and how to keep southerners out of it and the North in turn. Always quiet and reserved as well, carrying some burden I could only guess at.” Meera said. Bran wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck.

“He needn’t feel so. You are his daughter and my wife-to-be, the result of his endless patient teaching. I can tell when he looks at you that you are the pearl of his world. Of mine as well, at that. You took a broken boy beyond the Wall and brought back a man. I never did truly learn to fly but that’s the Raven’s fault, not yours.” he smiled as he earned a giggle. His hand found the undeniable swell of her belly.

“I feel him sometimes. That is, when he isn’t making me feel wretched come morning.”

“He’s a he, then? After all that in the hall I’d feel a bit awkward going out there with Jyana Stark if no less proud.” Bran said, blushing.

“It’s a boy.” Meera said at once. “Nearly every night I dream of the Neck. The far rainy bogs where the bull lizard-lions’ harems gather around them, even atop them, for mating season.”

“It sounds like there are a deal more females, how do you know that relates to the babe?” Bran asked, brain itching.

“A splendid white bull three times the size of the largest others seems to me hint enough. Stark white and wondrous to behold.” she said, snuggling backward into him and making his breath hitch. Wondrous to behold. Her words made Bran feel like he could fly and never mind the Raven.

“He sounds the kind of man who comes once in a thousand years. I wouldn’t want to upset him.” Bran said hastily, breathlessly.

“He’s sleeping just now. If we’re slow and careful he’ll be none the wiser.” Meera replied.

After their slow passion Meera kissed him on the nose and rolled over, falling asleep almost instantly. Bran could not get his eyelids to flutter much less find sleep. If the gods are good he’ll be like Meera. Tall and strong, more Stark than I am. Somehow he doubted his Tully coloring had much chance against the Reed in Meera’s veins. If only it weren’t for the Others, he thought. Then again it was Ramsay Snow’s sack of Winterfell that brought Meera to him in the first place and their shared time beyond the Wall that had brought life back into his legs. Would they ever have met had the War of Five Kings not broken out? Would he have gotten the chance to stand again? No, he thought. Thinking on the past isn’t helpful, though. Winning the War of Five Kings for Robb on paper years afterward doesn’t help Jon win the coming war against the Others in the waking world. Howland Reed once recovered would begin fortifying Winterfell further and acclimating those within to fighting together cohesively and Prince Brandon Stark would need to be seen as instrumental in assisting however he could. Bran had every intention of doing just that. There’s no one left who remembers Bran the Broken, Bran the Boy, he thought. Sansa was right, the Old North has gone and it’s to us to make something of those that remain. The last Umber and Karstark had gone south with Jon even to see what they would of the world below the Neck. He supposed it was easy for them in a way. The only real worry they had was dying. Both houses had plenty of members when Robb rode south, he thought, and now they’re nearly gone before the Others so much as set foot below the Wall. He looped his arm back around his princess. I hope the last Targaryen is all she’s said to be. We’re going to need every friend, every soldier we can find.

The morning dawned cold enough to make Bran’s teeth chatter. Instinctively he pulled the blanket over himself and Meera who slept on despite the chill. Irritably he peeked out over the edge of the heavy fur, peering around, half expecting the owl to be perched somewhere. He heard neither hoot nor saw feather of the bird though and reluctantly left the bed to close the window and dress without waking his beloved. I’ll fetch her breakfast, he decided. She-wolves den down and its for the rest to bring them food when they’re expecting pups anyway. Smiling at that thought he headed for the kitchens, fetching her bacon and venison as well as fish fresh from one of the iced lakes. I’ve yet to hear of the direwolf that eats greens. Or the lizard-lion for that matter. Still, he got her some carrot soup as well. To his subtle joy he made it back to the room without dropping anything, balancing it all on the tray without a second thought. When he got inside he spotted quite another hint of Meera’s condition, one that wasn’t nearly so unpleasant a burden as morning stomach roils.

“Will we need new shirts made for you, Meera?” He asked casually, setting the tray on the table. She gave a blush.

“It’s not so enjoyable when they’re hanging off your ribs like a pair of overfilled waterskins.” she said.

“Never mind. Not like you’ll need to do much fighting just now anyway. The Wall still stands and the sun hasn’t yet failed to rise. You needn’t worry about doing everything for me, let me worry about doing it all for you.” He didn’t want to tempt fate further by setting the tray in her lap though, so he wrapped her in the fur and helped her to her feet, easing her into a sturdy high-backed chair she could lean up against. This is peace, Bran realized. Even as the breeze before the gale it is a taste of what can be should we stop the Others.

He helped her bathe, brushing her hair before returning the long-overdue favor of working the tension from her shoulders.

“I can’t imagine how odd it must feel…but I can’t begin to say how it feels to know you have House Stark well in hand.” he said quietly as she sat in the tub, the water hot thanks to the springs reawakened by the Singers. Her black curtain of hair flowed down one shoulder in a loose braid.

“I only wish Jojen made it here with us.” she replied in a small voice.

“Perhaps if Howland Stark’s not alone in there he could have.” Bran said. “If not…well, gods willing I can give you a Jojen of your own.”

“Jojen’s a funny name for a Stark.” she said.

“Starks have had odder names and besides, it’s nobody else’s business but our own. If you wish it, our next boy will be the first Jojen Stark.” Her hand came up and splayed over her shoulder for him to take. When he did she kissed his own.

“I never knew how close our houses were. Father only ever told me that the Starks of Winterfell were our liege lords, honorable and due our fealty. I’m sure he had no idea how far back we go, our shared history…but he could have told me of the man he followed south, whose death made him weep as he did yesterday in the grotto.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t have known what it meant, even if my father told me. Some things are just beyond understanding unless experienced in the moment. Like the wights or the cave. I only hope I’m Stark enough to deserve such a devoted beauty, the daughter of the staunchest of my family’s allies.” I have to do more than just give her Starks to carry, he thought. There’s something missing, something I can do for her. What it was however proved frustratingly unclear. There was a knock at the door.

“Bran? Meera? You weren’t at breakfast…” Sansa’s somewhat shy voice called. Not that she’s like to be disappointed. The more time we have alone the happier Sansa is like to be.

“I’m certainly not about to answer her.” Meera said, leaning her head back against the warm cloth cushioning her neck against the tub’s edge.

“Allow me, my Princess.” Bran grinned, stealing a kiss before cracking the door open. Sansa blinked at the sudden plume of heat.

“Oh good, you’ve got her hot water. I should hope she’ll have as much as she likes.” she said.

“She’ll want for nothing, I promise. I would think you have better things to do than fret about Meera and I, Sansa.” he said.

She turned pink.

“I’m a poor falconer and there isn’t much else for me to do, honestly. I feel I’d be of better use waiting on Meera than just fiddling with warging. I’m within sight of the Wall but that’s about as close as I can get without them knocking the bloody thing down. Nor am I going to drag him thousands of leagues to the west to cross a freezing river just to avoid the Wall.”

“Still no sign of the Others?”

“Not a one. I haven’t even got a glimpse of their lanky muscle since the first night, either I’m far behind the main column or they’re all avoiding me on purpose. Wouldn’t it be easier just to kill the spider and shut me out?” she asked.

“Maybe spiders are more to them than mounts and hunting dogs.” Bran suggested. “Maybe. I can scarcely ask. Even if I saw one, I’d guess their dialect of the True Tongue doesn’t include an ice spider’s shrieks and clicks.” She rubbed her forehead. Bran couldn’t help but give a little chuckle.

“I’ve been up to some pretty mad mischief, Sansa, but warging an ice spider to try spying on the Others is a river I’ve yet to ford.” His sister didn’t share his mirth.

“I keep looking, listening for the owl. For the…for whoever on their side is trying to get an eye in Winterfell.”

“You haven’t been warged since that night at least. Maybe they’ve given up.”

“I wouldn’t, were I them. Likely they’re trying something else just now. I’d still be wary come nightfall. The days are cold and it seems howling wind is at least as common as sunshine.” She hasn’t got her hair in braids, Bran saw. She’s letting it out as a wildling girl might. But that wasn’t quite right, even the women of the Free Folk didn’t have their hair so long as Sansa did. No…but someone beyond the Wall does, he thought, remembering the night with the owl.

“Try looking for a mantle when you go out next, Sansa. Maybe one of snow bear fur or…something similar. When I went in for you that’s how I found you. She was trying something with Mother’s body in the Green Fork.” She blinked.

“A mantle?” she asked doubtfully. Finally, she shrugged. “Whatever you think is best. You know them better than I do.” No, just the opposite, Bran thought. That’s the problem.

When Meera deigned to quit the bath Bran helped her dry and dress.

“You know, I quite like being your servant.” Bran said as he slowly drew a pair of leggings up her sides. She blushed a lovely shade of rose.

“If you’re so keen perhaps you could be of further help finding my boots. Sometimes my feet swell wretchedly and its all I can do to remain upright, let alone fit into proper footwear.”

“I’m sure you’ll be up and prancing about before too long, Meera.” he waved it off.

“I don’t prance, I’m not a deer.” she protested.

“Oh, believe me. I spent years rooted to the ground like a cabbage watching you bound about, sweetling. Not only do you prance, you disgrace the nimblest stag.” Her face went from pink to red.

“Not swollen like a tick, I don’t.” When it became quite obvious her boots were a poor choice for keeping her feet both warm and comfortable Bran had a pair of fur slippers brought to their room. Meera protested again, likely to Bran unwilling to be waited on but once they were on she let out a long sigh of satisfaction and when she tried to walk she neither winced nor hissed under her breath.

“That’s a good princess.” Bran smirked. Meera pulled on a long fur coat and murmured into the collar, gray eyes peering out at him.

“Maybe later.” Bran replied, utterly uncaring of what he’d just agreed to. Anything and everything, he thought, I would not trade her for anything. Not the dead, not my legs, not my life.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

He watched them walk the parapets of Dragonstone, the queen’s giggles reaching even the castle’s doors. Being that Daenerys was spending so much time with the King in the North and Missandei had gone on to Dorne, Grey Worm took to following Tyrion and Varys around.

“You could have found a pretext for getting the Dornishwomen to stay.” Bronn grumbled as yet another chilly gust cut through the window.

“Would you have preferred to go with them?” Tyrion replied, the black and white dots on the parapets never parting it seemed. So far, so good.

“Only a madman goes to Dorne on purpose.”

“Indeed. If memory serves the girl you’re so stiff for has tried to kill you a fair few times.” Probably not the best topic what with eunuchs making up half our little circle. He spotted Varys rolling his eyes. “Ah, well. The world is full of women and Dorne full of Dornishwomen who would happily poison you. Once the war is over-”

“Seems to me the war is over. None of the kings who started it are still alive. Your sister has the red castle and the dragon queen has the rest of the country. Not much of a war left to fight.” Bronn said grumpily. Grey Worm looked somewhat uncertain, as much as an Unsullied could look. He knows that keeping peace is harder than winning a war. Well, a normal war.

“When the Dothraki children were poking around the beaches they found a cave. It led into a much larger chamber full of a sharp glittery glass and…unsettling images on the walls. We’ve begun extracting it as best we can, the stuff is sharp as steel in places and can cut to bone.” He held up a hand where a thick ugly latticed scar had formed where the glass had cut him.

“Unsettling?” Varys asked.

“It seems Jon Snow’s notion of a protracted conflict with hostile elements from the furthest north has a historical basis.”

“Chilly lads driving dancing dead down south to have their way with us, eh?” Bronn asked. Grey Worm’s mouth tightened. He’ll not humor a single notion put forward by Jon Snow. He wants things to be as they were, the days in Essos where he and Missandei of Naath were a deal more important to Daenerys’ plans then now, waiting to depose Cersei assuming she doesn’t do it herself.

“Come, I’ll show you.” Tyrion told him.

Bronn whistled at the sight of the Dawn Age figures on the walls.

“Didn’t short us on the details, did they?” he said, looking around. Varys looked conflicted between interest and alarm and Grey Worm maintained his ever stony affect.

“I suppose Westeros took a proper beating until the dawn races figured out to use this.” Tyrion said, picking up a chip of red glass from the cave floor. “See, there are even bits of it on the ends of their spears and arrows in the wall.” The embedded shards of dragonglass glittered like stars in the torchlight.

“What is that thing supposed to be?” Bronn asked, pointing to one of the small green figures. The area around it was void of dead thanks to a red circle that seems to hold them off.

“A Child of the Forest I’d imagine. The Dothraki had another name for them, I suppose a similar race exists somewhere in the horselords’ tales.” When Grey Worm’s stern manner didn’t waver Tyrion explained further.

“Little green people who lived in trees. Animal hides and leaves, they weren’t fond of fire or bronze.”

“Well, whoever they were, those red circles seemed handy in the moment. Shame we haven’t got any left.” Bronn said, picking up whatever shards he found. “Mmm. A nice polished wood handle and you could kill a man good and easy with one of these. Light, too. Glass don’t rust.” No sellsword will turn down a free sharp edge, Tyrion thought while Varys peered around.

“What about the circles keeps the masses of dead away?” Varys wondered aloud, perring at the red barriers.

“I think you know the answer to that, my friend.” Tyrion repled, eyes finding the diamond set high in the far wall, the full moon alongside. “I’d guess it will take significant investment to blunt this newest threat.”

“Oh, aye. Too bad you highborn cunts’ve spent the better part of a decade killing each other off, your smallfolk too.” Bronn said dryly. Grey Worm had taken to filling his own helmet with shards as well.

“Yes. Well, hindsight and all that.” Tyrion replied.

“What about Essos?” Varys asked suddenly.

“What about it? Her Grace asked the same thing, I heard no stories of an icy race from the first days coming on a tide of living dead on the other side of the Narrow Sea.” Bronn clapped his hands together, the sound echoing in the cavern.

“So it’s one more trick to pull and then that’s it? We go back to fucking around and pretending the right person in an arse-polished chair can fix all the problems of the world?”

When they got back topside Tyrion first looked to the parapets but failed to spot the pair.

“Think they’re off fucking somewhere?” Bronn asked. Grey Worm looked ready to push him off the wall to the sand below.

“I think they got out of the rising icy winds.” Tyrion said in answer. His eyes flicked up to the clearing in the mountain’s side. I’ll have to tell Varys about that, he thought. Who knows, maybe he’s heard of a sweet creature with black hair and blue eyes somewhere in Essos. Wherever Tysha had gone after their marriage such as it was Tyrion felt fairly certain she had left Westeros. Countless silver stags and a golden dragon, coin enough to live and more. The memory of Jaime’s words came back to him and his heart sank. Even if I survive the next war, would it be kinder to not pursue her? It’s not like I can invite her back to the Rock…Father had the last laugh after all. Gods willing, Daenerys would find what she was looking for in the North. Bronn was like to chase his Sand skirt to Sunspear despite his distaste for Dorne. Jaime would manage to make it past Cersei somehow and be Lord of the Rock. What did that leave for him? A life whiled away trading barbs with Varys, he thought. Joy. Grey Worm quite their company almost immediately, evidently preferring that of his Unsullied. Or no one, Tyrion amended. Once the door closed behind him Tyrion turned to face Varys across the table. “Jaime told me my first wife wasn’t a whore after all. Rather than face the implications I went up to the dragon, I suppose now to die.” Tyrion told him. The Spider’s fist connected squarely with his right cheekbone and Tyrion saw stars as he toppled out of his chair while Bronn howled with laughter. Groaning, Tyrion grabbed dizzily at the air and blathered unintelligibly. All he had to do was knock one person cold and the court’s opinion of him in King’s Landing would have improved considerably, he finally thought. Just as he got to his knees he brought his head up and cracked it against the underside of the heavy wooden table, prompting a second storm of stars. Finally he got a hand on the rounded edge. “Help…” he groaned, feeling as though he’d woken from a particularly busy night. Bronn grabbed him by the back of his doublet and simply sat him back in his chair while Tyrion’s eyes rolled in his head. “Well, if you two could stop floating in opposite directions I wouldn’t have to follow you this way and that…” Tyrion grumbled, head pounding.

“Your attempts to slide back into your wine-soaked sty of self-pity are neither amusing nor constructive. As I recall you asked me something the day you loosed the two beneath the Great Pyramid. I’m happy to do it again should you continue attempting to seek your own end.” Varys said coolly.

Tyrion remembered the night he’d gone to the dragon nest.

“He didn’t kill me. Just like they didn’t. Rhaegal and Viserion.” he said. “You watched the whole thing, Varys. Surely you heard what I said to them.”

“And? It doesn’t make your foolishness any smarter. Had things gone badly one of them might have felt enterprising and tried to torch me where I stood at the top of the stair.” He doesn’t see, Tyrion thought, or perhaps he’s suspected the whole time content never to bring it up.

“Hold it, you let a pair of dragons off the chain and never told me? It sounds a proper song.” Bronn opined.

“Dragons it seems are not overfond of men aside from a…conspicuous few.” Tyrion told him.

“Aye, the ones they don’t roast into black ash.”

“The common agreement between the sages of the past, Barth and others, is that dragons take to those of Valyrian stock. Even if only a little. It seems they’re attached to the descendants of those few who first dared live near the Fourteen Flames.” Tyrion said, rubbing his eyes to get the last spots out of them.

“Barth also mentioned doors best left unopened.” Varys replied, his witty air replaced with a cold stare.

“Varys, it is good to have someone to tell you when the water gets too deep, but if we left every door closed we’d end up with men like Tywin Lannister, who fancy themselves near to gods as men can be. Sometimes a sharp slap, a sighting of a leviathan or a direwolf or a dragon is good. It reaffirms that we’re just another kind of bug beneath the great glass.”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Bronn asked, irritated he’d lost the thread of their conversation.

“Never mind. Better yet, forget I said anything.” Tyrion said.

That evening they stared at the Painted Table trying to work out where the dragons might have gone.

“The cinnamon lass with the fantastic tits, she went to Dorne, yeah? Seems to me the dragons might have gone the same way. South after the heat.” Bronn said from the southern end of the table.

“The world is much larger than Westeros, ser. Much. Dragons have wings and they know how to use them if the voyage from Meereen was any evidence. Plenty of ruined and forgotten places await an enterprising discoverer in Essos, man or dragon.” Varys replied.

“They probably haven’t gone that far…” Tyrion said, unable to stay in place more than a few moments at a time. “Besides, if one or both have gone one to Valyria of old or the Shadow past Asshai where the eggs supposedly came from we’re not about to get them back anyway.”

“Bloody fuck, how’s a man supposed to get from one end of the world to another?” Bronn grumbled.

“Some people think if you get across the Sunset Sea you’ll end up on the eastern coast of Essos. Others swear the sunset goes on and on until you hit the edge of the world.” Tyrion told him.

“Bully for the sailors. What about the rest of us?” Bronn asked. There’s only one place they could have gone where they might not be spotted immediately or if they are, word won’t travel quickly. Tyrion’s eyes rolled past the riverlands into the north.

“It’s too cold up there. Dragons like food just as men do, someone would have noticed a herd or a dozen missing by now.” Bronn saw where he was looking.

“Unless they’ve gone where men don’t go.” The voice of Jon Snow made all three of them turn to look at him. He had the queen at his side and both of their faces were red from the chilly stinging wind. She looked surprised at his comment.

“Are there such places in the north?” she asked.

“At least as many as places men frequent.” He stepped away from her, looking at the table in marked distaste. “The Wolfswood. Sea Dragon Point. Bear Island. A dragon could roost plenty of places without being spotted.”

“If they are, hopefully they’ll come back to investigate everyone converging on Winterfell.” Tyrion said.

“Or keep away still more.” the queen added sadly.

“Aren’t the Summer Islands way down here somewhere?” Bronn pointed to the far corner of the room, where the islands might have been if the table kept going. “Maybe they skirted Dorne and went still further.” Daenerys turned her head in mild interest after his finger. Grey Worm is a Summer Islander- or was before the slavers made an Unsullied of him, Tyrion remembered.

“I don’t think islands have food enough to support a dragon, let alone two. The Summer Islanders don’t raise cows and pigs as we do.” Tyrion said.

“Well, wherever they went, brooding over a piece of wood won’t bring them back.” Jon Snow said. He kissed the queen’s hand, turning her face red all over again. “Good night.” he said, leaving the room. A moment later Bronn realized he was again party to something he’d rather not be and smartly strode out as well, whistling “The Dornishman’s Wife”. Someone’s going to kill him someday, Tyrion thought, and what a pity that will be.

His dreams were maddeningly merry. Oberyn was whistling about the Dornishman’s wife as he buried his poisoned spear in the Mountain’s gut. Brandon Stark was no worse for wear after his fall, dashing about the parapets of Winterfell as he always had. Deep caverns full of diamonds and silver veins reflected a clutch of dragon eggs that glittered like gems. He heard the shrieks and cries of the ones already hatched and made to run toward the sound but slipped on the icy cave floor and the world swam as it had when Varys punched him. A curious chirp followed his low groaning and he made to rise but when he did he found himself in bed again, granite walls void of so much as a glint. His exuberant air, his joyous feeling faded quick as it had come. Like as not it wasn’t mine to begin with, Tyrion reflected. I’ve not had so much happiness in all my life. The Red Viper was dead and Bran Stark as well and dragons did not gleam like living treasure hoards. A mad fancy was all it was, he decided. Though he lay back down his mind was whirling and he knew it would be impossible to get back to sleep so he waddled to the window, staring out into the night. It was still too early for the man-fishes, whatever they were to make their dropoff, so Tyrion contented himself with trying to count the stars. Stars there are, but none so bright as to warrant a diamond shoved so high a man cannot reach, he thought. Maybe it’s only visible where the battle itself was fought, in some white waste beyond even Jon Snow’s experience. He pondered the boy he’d left at the Wall and the king he’d become. I suppose I’ll have to wait to see just how the north has fared under his rule. Tyrion spied the sliver the moon had shrunk to, queen of the night sky with suitors and servants beyond counting but no equal, even enfeebled. That cave star would make a fitting husband, I think. Maybe it did once, who knows how long ago when the diamond was stuck in the wall. He squinted and looked until his eyes ached but he could find no trace of it in the black heavens. Bugger it, he decided. It’s out there somewhere even if I can’t see it and who cares, anyway? Daenerys has found her winter star.

He knew he’d fallen asleep again when he spotted red hair flowing down to the person’s back in a long unbraided curtain. Sansa, he knew at once. He took an uneasy step, cautious of any icy ground, but he seemed within the halls of Winterfell if memory served. He was colder than he could ever remember being but that wasn’t unexpected either, winter was coming sure as taxes for Dragonstone so it made sense it was just about here in the north. He called for her, or tried to, but the words echoed and he sounded almost as if underwater. When she turned and looked at him the Tully eyes he expected were painfully bright and so blue they burned. Her eyebrows went up in surprise at the sight of him. He heard the hooting of an owl and the bird came into view a second later, landing neatly on her shoulder with eyes that matched its owner’s. Her surprise proved fleeting and her face settled into a mask of beautiful disinterest. Sansa’s hand came up and Tyrion half-expected her to strike him but when her hand came down she only pushed the tips of her gloved fingers across his face. Cold shot through his jaw. The disoriented feeling of flying uncontrollably through the air as if thrown from a catapult came next, quite taking his breath away. He lurched upright from the rug and tried hard not to vomit. I think I’m done with sleep tonight, he thought queasily. The last thing he needed was another nightmare of Sansa Stark. It may be Jon Snow thinks I forced myself on her during our sham of a marriage, he thought. Or had Sansa told Jon Snow the truth of it? Worse, did she wish she’d rather have lost her maidenhood to a dwarf than the man who’d taken it from her? What a truly awful prospect, Tyrion thought. He wondered what he’d say to Shae if it had been her instead in the dream. I’d have done better to let her stick me for a change, he thought. Steel instead of flesh.

When he opened the door to get some air he found Grey Worm waiting outside. “You were making noises. Men do not make noises if they are sleeping soundly.” he said.

“Naathi wisdom?”

“My own.”

“Well, Grey Worm, you might use that wisdom to ponder your future once the queen takes the throne.”

“The dragon kings had guardians in white cloaks. I remember the old man.”

“I suppose you see yourself as fit for such an occupation.” Tyrion said. Grey Worm’s eyes narrowed.

“You speak as if an Unsullied is not.” Tyrion shrugged.

“What are Unsullied? A race apart? Or just maimed boys raised to be fodder by canny slavers? It may be your spear-holding days are near their end. By death or otherwise.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if things are going as well in Dorne as they are here, like as not the Dornish have fallen hard for your Naathi friend. Summer Islanders much prefer Sunspear and the Water Gardens to King’s Landing as well, perhaps you’re not going to die on some battlefield at all but in the Tower of the Sun with your head in Missandei of Naath’s lap.”

“Who would protect Her Grace?”

“I think you know, if you’re as wise as you credit yourself.”

“Do you think her safer with him more than with Ser Barristan?” Grey Worm asked.

“Do you think her safer with him less than with Hizdahr zo Loraq?” Tyrion asked in turn.

“Loraq did not treat her-”

“As a king ought treat his queen? All the men around her can’t be eunuchs, dwarves or two-faced Ghiscari the rest of her life. For Missandei of Naath, either.” Grey Worm’s mouth tightened. “If you want to keep her you’d best do more than throw spears. Daenerys has little need now of one soldier more among thousands but perhaps you could be of better use in Dorne. Slowly acclimate them to the idea of the Unsullied being present. We’ll have to put the surviving members somewhere after the Others are seen to. Sunspear is Meereen except for the slavery, sour old masters, reek of corpses, blood-mortared stone, harpy statues-”

“and drunken dwarves.” Grey Worm finished. “It sounds nothing like Meereen.” he added.

“I make joke.” Tyrion grinned, holding up a cup in toast.

The next morning Grey Worm broached the topic with the queen at Tyrion’s suggestion. Her surprise was as great as if he’d said he hid the dragons in his pocket.

“I’ve not yet taken the throne, Torgo Nudho.” she said in stunned Valyrian.

“You do not need to, Your Grace. You’ve set your lords to assemble for you and this one can see there is no enemy left to fight, no war left to win. At least for now. Tyrion Lannister has showed me the caves.” He tapped a piece of purple dragonglass at his waist. “You do not need a Torgo Nudho to keep you safe or fight for you any longer. Missandei of Naath does. I would go to her so she will not be alone and to give you peace knowing she is safe.” Daenerys looked to Tyrion in shock. He shrugged.

“We’ve been lucky so far. Could be we get lucky again and they spring for him surely as they have for Missandei.” Tears welled in her purple eyes and she approached Grey Worm slowly.

“You helped me break the chains in Essos. Will you not stay and help me break them here?”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but the chains here are not made of iron. An Unsullied cannot break them.” She smiled at his words.

“She will be missing you terribly. Fair winds or foul, you will sail as soon as you are able, Torgo Nudho.” She put her hands around him in an embrace.

“Valar Morghulis.” he uttered.

“Yes, but time enough to live before then.” she whispered in reply. He strode from the empty throne room immediately after she released him. “Was this your idea?” she asked Tyrion immediately. Ser Bonifer Hasty hid a smirk and Varys shrugged in exasperation over her shoulder.

“I thought it better-” he began.

“You thought right. Never did I imagine the day would come that I did not need Missandei of Naath or Grey Worm. Less still did I imagine the day would come that they did not need me. Oh, I wish them here with all my heart, but Dragonstone is not a fit place for them any more than King‘s Landing. She is happier in Dorne I’m sure and he is happy where she is.” But where will Daenerys Targaryen be happy? Tyrion wondered.

Chapter Text

Arya

The first few days of the voyage to Storm’s End the sailors barely worked for all the staring they did at Nymeria. The direwolf contented herself with following the sun around the deck, sleeping her way south while Arya taught Gendry all she could recall of Septa Mordane’s lessons in court behavior. It hasn’t anything to do with birth, she determined. Gendry’s quiet yet powerful manner makes him fitter for lordship than he knows. He may look like Robert in his youth but my bull has nothing else in common with the sot who made Father his Hand. She didn’t fancy the prospect of getting in a dress herself but it was important for making the right first impression. Besides, if Jon can be a proper king, I can be a proper princess. Making it easier was the fact that she wasn’t being sold to a stranger like a mare ready to foal. She’d known Gendry since escaping King’s Landing a lifetime ago and he knew how hard life could be outside the castle walls most lords lived all their lives in. Nymeria twitched in her sleep, yelping softly and half the crew jumped out of their skins. Chasing deer in the riverlands, or keeping her Pack in line? Arya wondered as she looked to their new companion, the aged smuggler Gendry had explained served Stannis before helping him escape the red witch’s clutches. Ha ha, Arya thought acidly. Ser Davos noticed her glower and dutifully stepped forward.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been back in the stormlands.” he said, watching the great isle of Tarth sail past. Brienne of Tarth, Arya remembered. She dropped the Hound off a cliff and I left him to the whims of the gods. So many lords had gathered at Dragonstone and she hadn’t seen him in one person’s service or another. Not like anyone would take him on. With a rotted ear and a broken leg he’s likely right where I left him, anyway. Arya wondered if the burns would be evident on the Hound’s skull. Where had Stranger gone, though? Arya had looked for two days before giving up on Sandor Clegane’s huge black stallion and making for the coast.

“You didn’t have to rescue him.” Arya said finally when the silence had become unbearable. “The witch might have killed you.”

“I was trying to save a man who didn’t want to be saved. Gendry had little to do with it.” Ser Davos replied. She looked at him.

“Stannis?” he nodded.

“I didn’t realize I was trying to save the wrong person until it was too late.” he looked at a bit of charcoal in his hand.

Arya sensed it wasn’t a wound the knight wanted prodded so she changed the subject.

“Then how did you come to serve Jon?” she asked.

“Stannis sent me away from the camp when I should have stayed or left accompanied. When I made the Wall I fell in with the Brothers of the Watch loyal to your brother. Our favorite witch made an appearance and…our prospects improved considerably. Only afterward did I learn she’d taken a deal more from me than I first supposed. His Grace kicked her out of the North on pain of death but I’d give the rest of my shortened hand to see her fires put out proper.”

“I used to think along similar lines, ser.” Arya told him. “It does nobody any good to send people after the ones you’ve lost.” He blinked.

“Done much sending, have you?” he asked finally.

“More than most. The only way you lose that hurt is to find something new.” Like I found Gendry. “Like how you ended up helping Jon.”

“At times I’ve been too bloody cold to dwell much on the past, that’s true enough. Others I’ve been too anxious about some battle or other or finagling support out of your northern houses.” he put the bit of burnt wood away.

“Now you’ll be too busy helping Gendry win over the lords of the stormlands.” Arya said.

“I told the dragon queen and your brother both, he’s like to win them just by being. He can’t be anything other but Baratheon and he’s taller than near any man I’ve ever seen. Stronger, too.” Arya sensed he was trying to congratulate her somehow on being with Gendry but she would have none of it.

“I’ve seen men whose shadow could cover Gendry head to toe, ser. I don’t care about tall or strong.”

“Apologies, princess. It’s none of my business, after all.” I hated having to act a lady, she thought, and somehow I managed to end up a princess. That was Robb’s doing though, and Jon’s. What would Septa Mordane have to say looking at her now? What would Mother? Lady of Storm’s End. She went over it a dozen times in her mind. Despite her reluctance still to be treated as such, it wasn’t such an unendurable burden with Gendry. Maybe because he knows what it is to live close to the ground. Hand to mouth. Work or starve. Something neither Septa Mordane nor Catelyn Stark would ever have known. Me either, she thought. Not really. Even when I was Arry or Weasel or Nan or No One, I was still Arya Stark. I still had people, far though they were. Maybe that’s why the Waif hated me so much. She was far from the gutters of Braavos now, though. I wonder if Jaqen will follow me back across the Narrow Sea. She’d bested his pet but against a true Faceless Man…then she shook her head. There’s no point worrying. If Jon’s story is true there are worse things coming than a single assassin and coming for everybody, not just Arya Stark. The deck creaked and she heard Gendry step up behind her.

“Your turn to laugh, I think.” he said. When she turned around she saw he was in fresh garb, black with gold thread. Stuck quite speechless it took a moment for Arya to find the words.

“You’re fitter for lordly wear than I am a dress.” she said. Quick as she was, Gendry got the jump on her and was too close besides to dodge. Not that Arya would have. He scooped her up and sat her on a barrel.

“You’re not nervous?” he asked.

“Why would I be? I’ve got the biggest anvil-head beside me, how will anyone notice how ladylike I look?”

“I’ll notice. Seeing you in a dress is still funnier than any lark I’ve ever heard.” Instantly her cheeks turned pink.

“I’ll still beat you up.”

“All while I laugh loud enough to sound like thunder.” he grinned at her, the color in her cheeks rising further.

Rail began to fall just as they docked in a little village on the western banks of the Straits of Tarth.

“Shipbreaker Bay’s not known for its ports, princess.” Ser Davos told her. “We’ll have to ride on to Storm’s End.”

“Good. A chance for Nymeria to stretch her legs. Maybe find some food.” Arya replied, herself glad for the ride. The villagers stared as the direwolf nimbly trotted down the gangplank after her mistress. Then they saw Gendry and Arya’s eyebrows went up as they made a mad rush for him, a cheering shouting joyous mob. He froze like a deer staring down a hunter’s bow as they thronged around him, men welcoming him and women in tears, children shouting all manner of nonsense.

“He’s tall as the sky!”

“I bet he can open the gates of Storm’s End with one hand!”

“D’you think he blows the storms away from shore for fun?” Arya smiled at Gendry’s reddening face. Ser Davos shouldered through the mass of people, emerging with her bull firmly in hand.

“Well, so far so good, eh?” the old knight laughed as Gendry shakily got ahorse. Though there were mounts aplenty Arya briskly got on after him, getting comfortable while he held her with one hand and guided the horse with the other.

“I suppose he doesn’t mind only because you’re the size of a penny.” Gendry whispered in her ear.

“So? You’re the size of the ship we sailed here on, it all evens out. Balance, like.” she shot back, her face falling as she thought about her own words. Fair. Balance. It had been her and Clegane then, and Stranger too. And the dying man, of course. Her changed mood wasn’t lost on Gendry who contented himself with holding her close, not bothering her with small talk. The rain got worse, wind whipping off the water to their left, and one among their number tossed them a thick blanket. Gendry wrapped the pair of them up snug so that Arya was entirely hidden from the wind’s bite. Despite the storm the world was green and the land void of such devastation as she’d seen in the riverlands, the people no doubt used to such inclement weather. Nymeria seemed unperturbed, dashing to and fro in the foliage and between the trees, up and down the steep hills without a second thought. Their journey led west to the kingsroad, little more than a half-flooded muddy path, and down south toward Storm’s End proper.

“I’m sure neither of us will look particularly courtly after this deluge has had its way.” Gendry nearly had to shout in her ear.

“Bugger the deluge. Bugger court!” Arya screamed back, her smile returning.

Soon the sky was too dark to see and the rain further cut Arya’s vision to within a foot of her face. Even so, the vast stone curtain wall of a castle soon loomed out of the storm, a survivor of untold tempests and bulwark against the winds off the bay. Storm’s End stood at the edge of a great cliff and all Arya could think was what it might look like if she were to stand atop the wall and look out over the water or worse, down. No ports, only one real entrance…it’s as if Storm’s End was built for people who could fly, Arya thought dizzily. Gendry gave her hand a comforting squeeze. Even given her nerves, she felt perhaps a bit better knowing it was no ordinary castle, the pretty kind all the maidens in the songs lived in. This is no Andal pleasure palace. Storm’s End is brother to Winterfell, Arya remembered. Brandon the Builder helped with both. The massive castle gate stood closed and Arya could hear the cries of alarm a hundred feet up, squeaking in the gale. Nymeria, soaked to the bone like the rest of them, let out a long haunting howl, deeper and richer than any common wolf. That ought to get their attention, Arya thought. Finally it seemed the garrison had reached a consensus and the great gate slowly opened. Passing through the wall, Arya estimated it had to be forty feet thick if not thicker, the stones rounded and placed so that even Bran could find no way to climb them. Inside the walls the rain came down hard as ever but she was astonished to realize that the wind was quite shut out by the huge stone wall. The worst storms in Westeros and Storm’s End bats them away like a hand at a fly, Arya thought. The single tower shot up from the castle’s center into the air like a naked mast, daring lightning to strike it. There were people waiting for them, lots of people, but the rain was too heavy to make out nary a face or sigil. Nymeria stayed close but she got more than a few uncertain murmurs. “Get them inside!” someone called, and Gendry let one of the soldiers lead their horse into the base of the tower muddy hooves and all.

Someone gently plucked Arya from the saddle and set her down while Gendry flopped off the horse as gracefully as he could.

“Bugger…” he panted as he pulled off his rain-soaked cloak. He gently peeled the blanked off Arya, revealing her somewhat disgruntled looking face.

“I’ve fallen in rivers and been dryer than I am now.” she said sulkily. Nymeria’s nose twitched.

“Everybody down!” someone cried, but it was too late, the direwolf was shaking herself and soaking everyone in the room, newcomers and garrison alike. After Gendry tried to dry Arya’s head with the waterlogged blanket, Arya shrugged and followed her wolf’s lead. It didn’t work all that well but it got a laugh from several of Storm’s End’s men.

“Which is the wolf and which the princess?”

“To be sure, I’m both, but Nymeria is Queen of the Fords, not princess, and I’ll thank you not to bother with stupid questions.” Arya shot back without even looking at the speaker. The garrison roared with laughter at this for some reason, only stopping when she managed to drag Gendry into the center of the room. Immediately the laughter stopped. Lords and ladies, knights, soldiers, even the servants stared in amazement at Gendry Waters. Arya spotted Ser Davos looking almost relieved in a corner.

“What are you looking at?” Gendry said curtly to everyone and no one at once, turning away from them to take Arya’s measure. “You’re proper soaked, princess. We’d best get you out of that and into something dry and warm.” Instantly two serving girls dashed out of the room, no doubt to find Arya a fitting dress or pour her a bath or both. One lordling came forward, a sea turtle brooch on his shoulder. He looked about Gendry’s age but could have been as much as a head and a half shorter, not to mention a hundred pounds lighter.

“Alyn Estermont, Lord of Greenstone. Welcome to Storm’s End, my lord.” he said, still stunned. Gendry blinked.

“I’m no lord, just a blacksmith.” he replied.

“A blacksmith who happens to be Robert Baratheon’s son, truer born than any of Cersei’s foul brood.” Arya broke in. Nobody asked who she was. Only a blind man would need telling I’m a Stark and even then only if he ignored the smell of wet wolf.

Gendry didn’t seem much interested in explaining what they’d just rode through a storm for, so Arya got atop a table. She took a breath, wondering where to start.

“We were tasked by Daenerys Targaryen and the King in the North both to bring you news.” It looks as though half the stormlands is here, Arya thought. Everyone holed up here rather than be at the mercy of bandits, pirates, or roving barbarians from Essos. The land might be untouched but the lines of succession are a ruin, so many storm lords having died fighting for Renly or Stannis. Mention of the dragon queen got more than a few mutters. “She sends her best wishes and hopes that she can prove her good intentions by legitimizing Gendry.”

“He don’t need a dragon’s legitimizing and we don’t need someone dumping a new lord on us. We’ll take him ‘cos we want him, not ‘cos some dragon girl says so. He‘s a Baratheon by blood, not ‘cos some quacker’s get tapped him on the shoulder.” a scarred sergeant said, the hall murmuring in agreement, smallfolk and highborn alike.

“I don’t think she much has a mind to follow in the Conqueror’s footsteps. I barely caught a glimpse of the one dragon that lingered on the island and he seemed about as ready to breathe fire as I am now.”

“Well and good, my lady…or princess, whichever applies. I can’t quite work that bit out. Anyway, A Targaryen’s words and her actions are two different beasts. What else can be expected from her but a drive for the throne?”

“According to Jaime Lannister, the Landing’s basements, sewers and who knows where else is full of wildfire. A hundred dragons wouldn’t be any use taking the city. Daenerys didn’t seem particularly ready to discount his words. Even if he was lying, and I don’t think he was, she’s not about to try Cersei. Her request in fact was to rally you lot and bring you north.”

“To King’s Landing.” the lord said.

“To Winterfell.” Arya replied.

“Why the-”

“According to the King in the North, the Others are readying to march on the Wall. It seems to me they’ve found what they need to hop our fence and raid our berry bushes, so we’re here to let you know what’s to be done.”

Arya expected laughter or at least snorts of disbelief. Instead the people in the hall exchanged uncertain glances. When nobody spoke, Arya continued.

“Forgive me, I do not know you, my lord. What is your name?”

“I am Selwyn Tarth, of Evenfall Hall.” Arya blinked in realization. Lord Tarth was not a particularly tall man, but even aged as he was he had no bent back and his eyes were clear blue, unclouded by time.

“Lord Tarth, your daughter is up at Winterfell as we speak, at my sister Sansa’s side.” The man’s face shed a decade as several sudden happy gasps and slow applause broke the awkward silence.

“I had not heard from Brienne for two years. I feared the worst.” he said, looking relieved as a man could.

“If I may ask…I was expecting rather a different reaction to news of the Others than uncomfortable glances. Has something happened?” A round woman with the look of an innkeeper’s wife stepped forward.

“Lady Marya Seaworth, princess. Lately-”

“Your husband is in the corner.” Arya interrupted, pointing to where Ser Davos had craned his neck in sudden surprise. Immediately Lady Marya made for him, knocking a knight in armor out of the way as she wrapped her arms around her husband. “It seems people have assembled from all over the stormlands, the islands included.” Arya commented, turning back to Lord Tarth.

“So we have. Storm’s End fully garrisoned is much the superior option compared to all the castles with a handful of men each in them.”

“Then who rules Storm’s End? Before some wit points at Gendry, I mean as of the moment before we arrived.” she added, rolling her eyes. All she got were shrugs and indifferent comments.

“To be true, we haven’t really had an overlord since Stannis went north. Once we heard he’d died in battle we got smart right quick and assembled on Storm’s End to come up with a plan. That’s the bit we haven’t really worked out yet.” Alyn Estermont said as the room voiced their agreement. Daenerys sent us out from Dragonstone for another reason, too, Arya remembered.

“The other lords who left the queen’s council headed for lands without an overlord are to ask them to choose among themselves a new one as well.” she explained.

“Well, that bit’s done.” the sergeant said.

“As to the purported problem in the north…I’m sorry to say but we have very few men able and ready to fight, let alone make the journey to Winterfell first.” Lord Tarth said. “We’ve bled dry fighting for one king or another and without a breath of peace to try and stem the flow. I don’t mean to sound harsh, Princess Arya…but why should we leave a fully provisioned nigh-impregnable position to reinforce one a thousand miles to the north in an uncertain state?” he asked, hands up in ignorance. They are too tired to laugh, too aggrieved to snigger and too somber to jest. The prospect of another war has them weak at the knees. Arya couldn’t blame them.

“The autumn tempests are the worst anyone can remember and tales of sea-devils stalking the shores have us ready to wait out the storm.” Lady Marya said, speaking from her husband’s arms.

“What else can we do? We’ve no blood left to shed, no gold left to spend-” Estermont began.

“You have arrows left to loose and blades left to swing. You have breath left in your lungs and life left in your bodies. This is a slow death for you, my lords. A slow death for the stormlands and Storm’s End your tomb. I do not doubt this castle’s power, but Winterfell needs men just now. I wouldn’t have come in the first place if every man weren’t needed. This isn’t a fight to put some ass on a throne, as Jon Snow said more than once. I intend to go to north as soon as I’m able. Winterfell is Princess Arya’s home and it’s past time she was returned to it.” Gendry said, his voice a rich deep rumble that made Arya seem a squeaking mouse, and Lord Tarth too. The room as one turned to him, content just to stand there and listen to a Baratheon speak.

“There are a few tough lads left from Stannis’ campaign left up there.” Davos added. “I’m sure it’d be better to die with them in some great battle than fall off bit by bit behind stone walls.” Silence fell. Then a crossbowman cleared his throat.

“I was too young to go with Stannis when he went north, to me mum’s great relief. Me three brothers n’ me da went though, and not a one came back. Mum died o’ grief or sickness or both, what’s it matter, and now it’s just me, holding a crossbow n’ wearing half plate when I’d give anything to swing a hoe and wear stained farming rags. If it means I can finally put this fucking thing down, one way or another, I’ll follow you to hell, milord. I’m tired of fighting, but more am I tired of being a soldier when it’s a farmer what I am.” he shook his crossbow. That prospect brought about a marked change in the feeling of the rest of the room. They want to live, Arya saw, but more they want it to be over.

She sat in the bath glowering when there came a knock at the door. Gendry had been given the lord’s chambers at the top of the drum tower and the pair were left to their own devices for the remainder of the night. As if I don’t know what they’re thinking. Weary as they are they wouldn’t be lords without hoping for a bleeding baby, Arya thought crossly.

“Come in.” she said, and Gendry slipped in with his back to her.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Being courtly and all that.” he replied over his shoulder.

“Courtly would be bringing me a dry cloth or better yet, another bucket of hot water.” Arya informed him. To her great surprise he left at once and returned only when he had both. He loves me, she thought. True as a spring dawn. Did she love him so, though? Any girl with sense would try and help him rally the stormlands at Jon’s request. She supposed it would be something more like how much she wanted Gendry in her life. I’d snap Needle in twain myself if it meant saving him, she thought firmly. I’m going to go with him wherever he goes just as I’m sure he’ll follow me. If we live through whatever comes, I’ll support whatever he chooses to do. A blacksmith at Winterfell, a sellsword, Lord of Storm’s End, it makes no never mind to me. Her father hadn’t wanted her to be a courtier, he wanted her safe and warm and fed with someone who would care for her as he did for Catelyn Tully. Gendry would do that and something else, I would do it for him. Daenerys Targaryen was a queen, but she was no more lady than Arya. At least, the kind that prattles and dances and sews and sings. The kind that rides and leads and loves her lord, I could be that kind of lady, I think.

Chapter Text

Jaime

There were more gold cloaks than bakers, butchers, carpenters and fishermen in the city put together. King’s Landing rots like a corpse in the street and all Cersei’s bothered to do is put more swords around her. Jaime promptly summoned the captains of the city guard to put them to better use than either standing around waiting for the dragon queen’s attack or harassing the ever-shrinking civilian populace. “Pen up the animals, bury or burn the dead and get the piles of horseshit out of the street.” he’d ordered. A fair few of them were little more than brigands in yellow sheets and so it fell to Ilyn Payne to convince them to do something constructive. Cersei had complained when he reduced her “guard", of course.

“By all means, you may have them back, Your Grace. When the rats come and the plague with them, shall we get to cleaning up after ourselves then?”

“They’re fitter carrying shovels than swords anyway.” she had replied. Indeed the vermin were eating better than even Cersei and not a corpse didn’t have a leal host of retainers furred and feathered attending it.

“Aww, crows inn’t s’ bad. Bold thieves as any an’ kind enough t’ fly off when we come calling.” one pockmarked guardsman said. The rats were another story. Emboldened by their numbers and hunger it oft took a kick or a few mates splattered on the floor to get them moving and even then they quickly took to sinking their foul little teeth into the leather boots of the cloaks. Cersei wants plenty of guards but she’ll not give them steel. As if these brigands would stop the meanest part of the queen’s power, Jaime thought. The rats are braver than the men. Once he’d spotted one that looked the size of a cat. I wonder what Qyburn would think of that vicious fucker. Still, in time the corpses were interred or incinerated and the horse piles cleared away. Derelict buildings were torn down and any merchant who dealt in food was given a strict maximum price and an all-hours guard on his home both.

“Her Grace doesn’t mind what we charge, especially seeing as it’s pulling teeth to get flour and such into the city in the first place.” a baker said ruefully.

“I do. I’ll not have people starving because you want a dragon egg for a loaf of bread with sawdust in the flour.” Jaime replied. His somewhat bleak new laws were hardly the toast of the city but his job was to keep the people alive, not happy.

The weather worsened as the days slipped by. Cold gusts cut through peasant rags and noble silks alike and autumn’s first frost made the city glitter bizarrely at night. Jaime was walking on eggshells keeping the city’s smallfolk from outright rioting and stopping Cersei from bungling most every decision that came her way. Whoever sounded the strictest, the hardest, the most like Father usually got her support and Jaime had noticed it right away. After one (very) small council meeting, he turned to her.

“They may sound like Father all they like, but it’s one thing to sound like Tywin Lannister and quite another to be him.” he told her.

“Says the first among the imitators.” Cersei said haughtily, sounding bored and rolling her eyes. He saw her look at an unopened cask.

“You ought go easier, for the babe if nothing else.”

“Qyburn says it can cause no harm. Forgive my womanly foolishness but I’ll follow a maester’s advice over a knight’s when it comes to my health, and the health of the heir to the Iron Throne.” Cersei snapped. Jaime frowned. Qyburn’s smarter than most maesters. Surely he knows this much at least about bringing babes to term. Perhaps I’ll have a quick chat with him about it, Jaime thought. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about. The frost will have done for whatever crops were still growing in the crownlands, the city guards are too green or too grey or too brutish to be of use and now Qyburn can’t be relied upon to keep Cersei upright. Once her latest tirade had subsided and she dismissed him Jaime left without another word, intent on waiting in Qyburn’s unnatural laboratory for the man to appear. The walls were covered in shelves and several racks full of jars stood the far end of the room, each containing something Jaime would rather not look at. When he heard the door open Jaime spoke.

“Pardon the intrusion, I just had a bit of an inquiry.” He got no reply but the heavy sound of steel on stone. Either Qyburn has greaves on under his robe, or…Jaime turned to see Gregor Clegane advancing on him, Qyburn emerging from behind the enormous knight.

“Ser Jaime. What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Any midwife could tell you wine and pregnancy don’t mix, man. Yet Cersei tells me you’ve not raised such an objection.” Qyburn never lost his patronizing smile but Jaime saw a flicker in his eyes.

“You are quite correct, Ser Jaime. However, Ser Gregor has a pressing need just now and I’ll be happy to explain once the process is underway and does not require immediate attention.”

“Bugger that. I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s what, and in plain speech.” Qyburn shrugged.

“As you will. In fact, you might be of some middling use. Drag that wooden crate over, would you? Ignore the odor, there was a corpse in there when I arrived but I’ve seen to it. The Spider was up to no good in more ways than one it seems.” he said. Jaime wordlessly pulled the crate towards the tiny man and hulking monster and Ser Gregor promptly sat down, taller than Jaime even seated. “You see, despite what the smallfolk would tell you, our friend is very much alive.” Qyburn carefully removed the Mountain’s helm.

Well, that’s certainly something, Jaime thought. Gregor Clegane’s hairless head was spider webbed by blue-black veins and dried tarry blood ran from his ears, nose, and down his chin. Featureless black eyes locked on him, staring listlessly while Qyburn talked.

“Necromancy as people refer to it and what I’ve accomplished with Ser Gregor are two very different things. Assuming one had the supplies, funding and knowledge, anyone could do what I’ve done assuming their subject was as steadfast as our courageous knight. It is merely…stacking bricks one atop the other. Necromancy would be performing the same process hands-free, making the bricks stack themselves, free of any touch or exertion on the part of the builder.” Jaime let his words sink in.

“No magic, eh? And I’m no cripple.”

“Ser, you are no superstitious farmer’s son. Clearly a…” Qyburn stopped what he was doing, as if looking for the right word. “A revolutionary like yourself could understand the potential of the mundane world if properly researched.” He stuck a long needle into the Mountain’s neck, a sludgy black substance running from it into a metal tub.

“This is mundane, is it?” Jaime asked, trying not to gag.

“In the grand scheme of things, yes, actually. No more than stacking bricks. More bricks than is usual, perhaps. More than preferred, most certainly. To call it magic though is to mislabel it most fundamentally and create great confusion.” As would be to call that stinking bile blood, Jaime thought, looking at the tub. “It seems that because of Ser Gregor’s condition, blood is only…viable for a short amount of time. To leave it in too long would likely be a detriment to his health, hence the draining.”

“So what then? You find some poor guttersnipe, bash his head in and stick Clegane full of his blood?”

“Such a dramatic course is most unnecessary. Ser Gregor’s body produces blood just fine, there’s just the added wrinkle of having to remove it before it becomes too toxic to let fester in his veins.” Qyburn replied, sounding almost annoyed. “I thought you took me for a more enlightened man than that, if not a better one.”

“You have a needle buried in a half-dead giant’s neck, draining poison out a bucketful at a time. Forgive me, Qyburn, but you sound rather like I did when I told Daenerys Targaryen I meant her no harm. Handless knight or chainless maester, the…context paints a rather different picture.” His words seemed to rather impress Qyburn.

“As you say. By the way, did you tell her about the wildfire?”

“Aye. She seemed rather dispossessed of the notion to reclaim the throne for House Targaryen after that.” “

”Interesting.” Qyburn said. “Well, at least that’s one worry disposed of for now. Did you happen to see the dragons?”

“I was either in a cell or the court hall during my time on Dragonstone. I heard more than a bit about two of them missing, though.”

“Missing?”

“I suppose they got bored lazing on an island. I don’t know, I don’t care. If they’re far afield they’re unlikely to come to King’s Landing, that’s all that matters.” Qyburn had nothing to say to that.

“It seems then that the situation is well in hand, then. All we need do is address the food situation and everything will be accounted for.” Or you’re not about to say what’s on your mind with Clegane in the room, Jaime thought. Qyburn finished his work and replaced the Mountain’s helmet. “Well and good, ser. It’s time you got back to Her Grace.” The knight thundered off and Qyburn waited for the sound to fade before he turned back to Jaime. His voice had lost its softness. “A baby is not all that can cause a woman’s belly to swell, ser.”

Jaime’s eyebrows went up.

“Once Tyrion told me seeds could root in your stomach if you swallowed them. I went off fruit for a year.” Qyburn was not impressed. He pointed to one of the foul things in the jars behind Jaime. “A cow’s eye?” he asked.

“Through no little application of knowledge and a deal more than that of luck I managed to excise that from the innards of a merchant’s son who was suffering sharp belly pains. It was attached to his stomach not over the skin but within. Miraculously the boy lived and was none the worse for wear but for a truly striking scar. I resolved to learn more about such occurrences, finding more such objects in the bodies of men and women rich and poor, noble and common.” The rest of the jars Jaime realized had similar objects in them, floating in what looked like wine.

“I take it those excisions did not go so well.”

“Not so well. Others I found after the person was already dead. To my surprise I found them upon the womanly parts of women who appeared pregnant or even thought they were.” His words made Jaime go ice cold.

“Ah.”

“Ah indeed.” Qyburn replied.

“Are you able to do anything about it?”

“What little I know I learned from corpses which were quite incapable of dying over again. I got lucky once, ser. Children are miraculous healers and the…object was not so imbedded. Men survive far worse on the field of battle. To excise such a complication as faces us now would require hands surer than my own, a mind keener than my own and equipment that put quite simply does not exist.” It was Jaime’s turn to sit on the crate, head swimming. How often do people know they’re dying? Men march into battle hoping not to catch an arrow or a sword, but this is different. This is the Stranger playing a merry tune on Cersei’s innards. He leaned over and out came breakfast. Qyburn did not seem surprised by this and footed another bucket into place.

“Have you told her?’ Jaime gasped, trying to get the taste of bile out of his mouth.

“As you have no doubt seen, ser, her condition is particularly advanced. To tell her at this late stage would have repercussions, I think.” Repercussions, he says. As if I were too stupid to catch his meaning.

“So we’re fucked then, is that it?”

“Twenty thousand is not half a million, ser, but even dying as this city is, it is still home to many and more. I confess I did not think the circumstances regarding the Sept would be so eye-opening, nor such a harsh reality. I can see no eventuality where it benefits the world at large to reduce King’s Landing to a hundred-foot hole in the ground. Should such a possibility become more than that, consider me a staunch ally at so dark a time.” He opened the door and his soft affect returned at once.“I think that’s all, ser. It seems your arm has healed as well as its like to.” Jaime left in a daze, unable to keep all his thoughts from flying about like a child with a handful of glow bugs. Qyburn thinks it not a possibility but an inevitability, he realized. A man who butchers people and pulls poisonous half-organs from corpses has had his fill of Cersei. Keeping the throne regardless of the outcome might be her plan but it’s a step too far for Qyburn.

He found Ser Ilyn in his old chambers, the filthy rubbish-strewn ones he’d lived in when he still stood as the King’s Justice.

“I’d ready for it, ser.” The mute man turned and looked at Jaime at once. He knew, Jaime realized. Knew this was the end of the road all along, as I told him when we left. It must be nice to know anything, it’d be a real change for me. A clack made him shake his head. “Not yet. Nor tomorrow. But a week maybe, a month most probably. No more than two. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t caught pants-down when the time came.” Payne regarded him still as a dragon statue and then nodded. Hooray, Jaime thought. A handless knight, a chainless maester and a headsman protecting the city from itself, and from Cersei too it seems. He had a raven sent to Duskendale to tell the army to ready for movement rather than come back to King’s Landing as Cersei had ordered. Qyburn is her whisperer, he thought. Even if he finds out I’m keeping the army such as it is away, he’ll hardly object. I wonder if they’re even flying lion banners anymore or if they’ve got nice new dragon ones to wave. The next raven was to Casterly Rock, ordering whoever held it in Cersei’s name to call the banners of the west and await further instruction. Should I make it that far they’ll be nicely readied to head north, Jaime thought. With the words awing Jaime made for the throne room. Night had fallen and it was unlikely Cersei was going to hear any petitioners when there was wine to drink so Jaime took it upon himself to sort the mess out as best he could. Representatives from several guilds and crafting brotherhoods were waiting for news on incoming supplies but more they were anxious for any news at all, unsure whether to dig in and arm themselves or flee to the safety of the countryside. If Cersei sees the people keeping the Red Keep furnished and provisioned leaving like as not that will be it. The men got louder and louder until Jaime had to shout for quiet. “Right. Obviously we’re not going to get anywhere just now. You lot had best pick a place more conducive to discussing such matters. Maybe with good wine on hand.” That’s the one thing there’s plenty of in the city, Jaime thought. Cersei may eat like a bird but she drinks like a fish. The guildmasters looked at one another in confusion, evidently gobsmacked they were actually being attended to, and by the Kingslayer of all people. Then a vintner spoke up.

“Chataya’s is the only place where the girls are clean and the wine not cut with water, friends. Besides, I may owe her a favor or two…” the group gave a few laughs.

“Or ten.” someone cut in.

“A brothel?” Jaime asked. Not what I had in mind.

“That’s being a bit ungenerous, Ser Jaime. Seems to me any building where a woman will open her legs for coin can be a brothel, but there’s no place in all the kingdoms that’s like Chataya’s.” the vintner said, his colleagues agreeing.

“Very well. If you’d kindly gather there at midday I’ll call on you and we can bring whatever charters you want looked over current, as well as see what can be done as to supplies.”

More than a brothel indeed, Jaime thought as he crossed over the threshold the following evening. The rooms were spacious and clean and the air smelled of perfume and incense instead of sweat and wine. A very comely woman from the Summer Islands emerged from behind a screen, regarding Jaime with quick sharp eyes.

“Ser Jaime.” she greeted sultrily. “Welcome to my house. I’d offer you pick of my sweetlings but I understand you’re here for quite a different reason.”

“So I am. The guildmasters were due to arrive before me, are they upstairs?”

“It seems rather than being late, you are early, ser. The first to arrive but you are more than welcome to wait upstairs for the rest.”

“My thanks, Chataya. If you could, send them up when they appear. No need to let them wander off into the embrace of one of your girls, we’ll never get anything done that way. You and yours will be compensated for the use of your residence. In fact, it may prove useful to have you in the room.” Chataya nodded and promptly began unfastening her robe. “Oh, bugger me bloody, not like that, woman.” Jaime brought his hands to bear to stop her before he realized just how useful a golden hand would be at tying a knot. Just then the merry vintner strode in, whistling a merry tune. His eyes found Jaime with his hands all but on Chataya’s bosom. Oops, Jaime thought. The vintner slapped his palm to his chest.

“Chataya, I’m heartbroken. How can a poor vinemonger like me hope to compete with the storied Jaime Lannister?” Fuck. Jaime stepped back from the woman at once.

“My heart is big enough to love any man who walks through my door, Arlas.” she crooned to the vintner. “Come, the table is set upstairs for your negotiations.” She led them up a tight staircase to another open room, a table set up with teak chairs all around. Jaime’s eyes found the lone girl laying out plates of fruit and cheese. Myrcella, he thought in heart-stopping shock. Then he saw the girl was older, not yet thirty, and her face was withdrawn and icy where Myrcella’s was bright and warm. Pale gold hair fell to her waist and eyes green as stolen emeralds made Jaime’s brow furrow, though.

“Before you speak, ser, know I have no illusions. My name is Marei. Only Marei. Any other I will not answer to.” she said as she turned to face him. Message received. She’s too old to be Tyrion’s anyway, Jaime thought.

Arlas looked ready to ask after Chataya but Jaime pointedly sat and looked at him expectantly. Muttering grumpily the vintner joined him and in time the others appeared as well, crowding the table and calling for wine. Marei dutifully came with a tray of elegant wooden cups and did not look twice at Jaime though several of the guild masters looked quickly from him to her and back. Jaime made nothing of it though and they were content to let it lie. Another girl who could only have been Chataya’s daughter set fresh incense and once Chataya herself closed the door everyone in the room turned to Jaime, waiting for him to speak.

“Conditions in King’s Landing when I arrived were in a word, abhorrent. They’ve not improved by much-”

“Fewer feral dogs gnawing at corpses in the streets and people selling rats, though.” one of the traders said.

“-and things may get more complex as autumn comes to an end.” Jaime continued as if the man had not spoken.

“I’ve heard winter will come before the year is out.” Arlas said.

“Winter is a problem we’ll face down the road. For now you’re no doubt curious as to how the city will be feeding itself for the foreseeable future and anxious as to the army that’s just landed two doors down. That’s too much to take at once, friends. You just need to linger a bit longer. Then you can go to your homes in the country or abroad, it makes no never mind. I’ll try and secure what means I can for you to continue to do business but all I want you doing is making it to tomorrow.” His words were not what they were expecting, even Chataya.

“Ser Jaime, there’s precious little coming into the city as is.” a skinny man said, a silversmith by the white ring on his finger.

“Aye. There will be more than you’ve ever seen coming in after, as well.” Jaime replied.

“Has Her Grace secured some ally we’ve yet to hear of?” Chataya asked. “Surely she’d want such news broken to bring spirits up.” Jaime thought carefully before replying.

“Yes. Her Grace seems taken with the King in the North. If all goes well, they’ll relieve the city and you can go back to your normal lives.” He saw Marei’s eyes pop from her corner, near a wardrobe. Chataya sat back in her chair, looking thunderstruck. Jaime wondered if it was quite the best idea to let it slip in the company of traders and whores, always held in contempt by Tywin Lannister. His eyes found Marei again. He made use enough of both though, that much I’m sure of.

“What in seven hells-” Arlas began before the silversmith tapped him with his elbow.

“I know this is an awkward time to ask for your continued support but I’m not asking on behalf of House Lannister. It is for the good of the city that you remain and keep it standing…regardless of who holds the Red Keep and sits the Iron Throne.” Jaime added. Finally the vintner seemed to understand.

“Oh.” he said stupidly. He’s hard for Chataya, no wonder it’s so hard to get a though through his head. Jaime stood abruptly.
“I think that’s all. No need to go on about the particulars when I’m certain you’d rather be doing something else. Good evening.” he said, walking back downstairs and leaving the merchants in stunned silence. This is your last chance, Kingslayer. Best not muck it up.

Chapter Text

Sansa

Once the giants understood what Howland Reed’s plans required of them, they proved most able builders. Sansa watched from the parapets as the crannogmen did their bit softening the ground with whatever they were using before the giants used sharpened steel-tipped tree trunks to separate great frozen blocks of earth from out of the ground. Mammoths hauled them around on yet more trunks, moved from back to front by younger giants as the huge blocks moved. Thirty feet high, ten long and wide, Sansa knew from the measurements predetermined by Lord Howland. Slowly his first ring began taking shape perhaps a thousand paces from Winterfell itself, a hair closer or further as the hills demanded. Two more as well, closer and closer still, Sansa thought. She wondered if Jon would quite recognize the castle when he returned. Setting the giants to their task, Lord Howland next asked the Singers of any passages they’d found out of the castle.

“Several that have collapsed long ago, green lord, but we can clear away the fallen stones and create more warrens on request.” Branch told him.

“Are there none then that remain standing?”

“A single narrow passage out of the crypts. It runs longer by far than any others, we haven’t the time to see where it ends when the grotto and surrounding tunnels are still needing attention.”

“If it please you, I can try and find the end of the passage.” Sansa piped up. I’d rather be doing something than simply staring into the Haunted Forest through the eyes of a half-blind ice spider. “I’ve heard tell there are ways out of the castle that stand even today, perhaps your mysterious tunnel is such a one.” she said, cheeks turning pink. Sansa had lost her awe of the heroes in her childhood stories but she felt a stupid little girl all over again in the presence of the Lord of the Neck and the Singers of the Song of Earth. In the stories the heroes are always handsome knights and the monsters are just that. Nobody ever thought to write a song that had people like Howland Reed or Joffrey Baratheon in it.

Passing by several groups of men (and spearwives) digging trenches as best they could in the frozen ground Sansa approached Harrold Arryn as he and several other Vale lordlings scraped frost off their plate. “It will only get worse, my lords. Keep your horses warm and fed.” she said as she got near. Immediately Harry turned and bowed.

“Princess Sansa." he greeted her. “It seems we’ve problems more with them besides. Our destriers are splendid at full tilt but they eat more than twice what a garron does and they’re very skittish for their size.” And very stupid, Sansa thought. Perhaps she’d seen too much of Stranger or she’d spent too long among the ice spiders but horses had fast fallen in her estimation.

“Can we not…acclimate them to new kinds of fighting? The giants and the mammoths at least, we can’t have your horses panicking when battle joins. Likely it won’t be so clean as a single charge at a line of infantry like in the Battle of the Bastards.” Harry turned to the stables where the destriers had been quartered.

“Perhaps. It didn’t take much coaxing to take Bolton’s bastard in the…to pin them in for the giants to smash. I suppose being prey animals at the end of the day makes them nervous as a matter of course, regardless of experience or training. No matter the horse, the king’s wolf coming near would make it whinny. Most men would quake at the knees too, in fact.” Sansa smiled at his words.

“When Ghost reappears I’ll be sure to introduce you, Harry.” she said. The white direwolf had not reappeared to Sansa’s knowledge but she was sure he was somewhere in the north. Surely he must return when Jon does, she thought. Still, his absence was beginning to worry the Free Folk. To them, he is not Jon’s possession, he is part of him. As such, not knowing if Ghost was safe or even alive put the wildlings closest to Jon quite on edge.

Staring into the darkness of the hollow, Sansa gave a gulp.

“Pardon me, my princess, but I would feel better knowing you had someone to look after you.” Brienne of Tarth’s voice made her jump. Down in the dark with only torches burning she is almost comely, Sansa thought. “I hope you’ll forgive me but I saw you part company with Lord Arryn outside the yard and I wanted to make sure you were alright…” Sansa’s eyes widened.

“Oh. I’m alright, Brienne. I’ve known far worse men than Harrold Arryn and to be honest, he doesn’t much seem interested in me in that way.”

“A man may hide his desire, Sansa. Littlefinger is evidence enough of that.”

“With Jon King in the North, Bran Prince of Winterfell and their allies besides, fat chance Littlefinger will try something untoward, assuming he returns at all.” Brienne looked surprised. “Harry is not Robert. He has a powerful family around him and a seasoned commander in Lord Royce. Littlefinger has been pushed away from the North and the Vale both, the smart bet is that he stays below the Neck to stir up trouble he’s more comfortable with handling.”

“Somehow I don’t think anyone will much miss him.” Brienne replied as Sansa led her down the passage, Brienne’s torch showing a stone floor rather than loose earth.

“This is newer than the tunnels around the grotto…worked stone and sconces for torches.” Sansa said quietly. They passed several more out-of-the-way crypts and alcoves that she quickly saw to but the tunnel led steadily east away from the castle.

“My princess, ought we not go back?” Brienne asked after what felt like hours.

“Even the Singers haven’t yet come this way. I would see where this underground road ends.” Sansa replied. Father didn’t know about the grotto…maybe he knew there was a passage out but I doubt he ever walked its breadth. Slowly the floor trailed up on an incline and the smaller off-chambers ended. Sansa could hear Brienne panting hard. Meanwhile, I’m not even winded. Rather than linger on that troubling thought, Sansa gave a gasp as she heard the sound of water rushing some distance away. “We’re nearly there…it must let out into an underground river!” she whispered breathlessly, dashing off ahead before Brienne could reply.

Out of the distracting flickering of the torch Sansa could see the exquisitely laid stone on the floor of the passage, the sconces still standing after who knew how long. Only then did she realize that she had quite left the light behind and was standing in total darkness, yet she could see as well as ever. She gulped. That doesn’t seem good. It would have been a great help escaping King’s Landing, though. Brienne’s calls for her were lost in the rising sound of the water but it was another hundred yards before Sansa came upon a sort of cave mouth, wide and spacious, hidden perfectly behind a beautiful cascading waterfall. Secret passages indeed…but when winter comes, surely the water will freeze? Unless Winterfell’s hidden heart stops the falls from freezing where they flow. Sansa was certain nobody had come all this way in years, more, miles away from the castle it felt like. Past the water she could see a beautiful sheltered grassy plain hidden on both sides by razor rock, the far edge likely a steep drop or a long climb through more of the sharp treacherous stones. A hidden sanctuary, one unassailable where the Kings of Winter could retire to in times of peace or war as needed. Huffing and puffing, the heavy step of greaves on stone advertised Brienne of Tarth’s arrival.

“San…sa…” she gasped, before catching her breath, standing up straight and promptly gasping again at the sight before her.

“Yes, quite.” Sansa agreed, not turning around. She heard Brienne sit on a rock.

“Do you know, they remind me of Tarth.” At this Sansa did turn.

“Do you miss it?”

“More than words can say, my princess. I miss the valleys, the mountains, the falls, the waters…but most of all I miss my father.”

“You are his only heir, yes? His only child? Why then would you ever leave?” Sansa asked, unable to pick out the reason herself. Brienne looked at her feet.

“Renly Baratheon visited Tarth on his coming-of-age tour. When he put on his crown in the years to come I answered his summons without a second thought. I saw him wed Margaery Tyrell…and I saw his death, as did your lady mother.” Mother, Sansa thought.

“What happened?” she asked, but her companion looked reticent to talk. “Brienne, keep in mind I’ve had to look at my own father’s tarred head on a spike above the Red Keep. I’ve had Ramsay Snow on me, in me. I can’t imagine-”

“A shadow cast by Stannis Baratheon with the help of a red witch stabbed him as he readied for bed.” Brienne blurted out. Sansa expected to feel horror, expected to feel terror. Instead she felt only contempt, to her own very great surprise.

“Red puppets that dance on a demon’s strings. They have no place here, where wood and stone and ice and bone reign still.” Her tone was ice, her voice razor crystal. Brienne looked up with a start at her uncharacteristic severity. The feeling passed as soon as it had come and Sansa stood there like a lackwit sheep until she thought of something to say. “Anyway, you put an end to Stannis Baratheon and the king forbade the witch from returning to the north.”

“She’s still out there though, I’m certain of it. Free to make mischief as she will-”

“Free as fetters. What power she can work is borrowed only, bought in blood. True magic comes from within, not some vile patron. From the self, not some bloody bargain. Ask any warg. Ask a Singer. Ask the Other.” Sansa said the last without thinking, the contempt bubbling up again. Brienne’s blue eyes went wide.

“Yes, my princess.” was her only reply.

Sansa found her disdain for the workings of the red demon again subsiding like bad blood draining from a bleeding. Ser Davos would see every follower of the red god sunk to the bottom of the sea. No doubt the Singers have little and less good to say of a fire demon, likely the trees hate him worse than the Others must. Silence fell and Sansa was again stuck trying to think of something to say.

“Why declare for Renly instead of Stannis, though? Stannis was the elder brother, Storm’s End aside. Surely Lord Selwyn knew Renly was not nearly the commander Stannis was.” Brienne turned red.

“I thought Renly the better man. Since I left Tarth I’ve had to do more than my share of learning that handsome men scarcely know up from down, let alone how to rule.”

“I wish that was all I had to learn.” Sansa replied.

“You are a great beauty with a great name, princess-”

“I’m tired of hearing about how beautiful I am. I’d sooner have none and a father than all the beauty in the world and be an orphan, Brienne. I’m tired also of hearing what a name I have. Jon has become something altogether more than a Snow, altogether more than a Stark. Bran and his princess have an heir on the way. I can’t put into words how excited I am, relieved that I won’t see the last days of House Stark after all…now I’m much less attractive as a bride and I can focus on assisting my brothers. Should someone approach me, it won’t be because I’m a beauty or because I’m heir to Winterfell but because he loves me.” Sansa felt a small smile spread across her face. Brienne’s blue eyes went big again but in much a different manner. “Have you met someone like that, Brienne? Someone brave, gentle and strong, as my father once put it?”

“I think if you asked him, he’d say I was the braver, the gentler, the stronger.” Brienne had a smile of her own.

“Is he honorable?”

“He tries, princess. By the Seven, he tries.” Her earnestness surprised Sansa.

“I had no idea you were so taken with anyone. May I know his name?”

“Perhaps when he arrives, if he arrives. It’s a long road still to properly reinforcing and garrisoning Winterfell, anything could happen but he’s not one to run from a fight.”

“He sounds a proper knight.”

“A proper knight.” Brienne agreed. “A proper man as well.”

The walk back to the upper crypts took it seemed half the time. They didn’t stop to see to any bones and they knew the way so Sansa had lost her wariness of anything leaping out at them. Even if something were down here with us, she thought, I would see it. By the time they made the crypts and then the surface proper the sky had emptied of clouds and filled with stars.

“Isn’t it strange? Seeing all this change come to your home?” Brienne asked.

“To be sure, Winterfell is more than the seat of House Stark. What’s needed is a place where all who seek to oppose the Others can come and ready for them. House Stark itself has changed from what it was when I was a girl, why shouldn‘t Winterfell? Why shouldn‘t the North?” Sansa asked in turn.

“You sound like Lady Catelyn.” Brienne said, following Sansa into the castle. Sansa watched her try to fight off a sudden shiver.

“Why don’t I have you brought some hot water for a bath, Brienne? Courtesy of the hot springs. Then an early night perhaps. I think I’ve had my fill of adventure for the day…and I know I need a bath as well.” After returning to her own room alone she sank into a hot bath up to her nose, dress in the hands of a laundress maid. Then she got an idea. I wonder what will happen if I try it while hot like this? Or rather, what would happen if my mysterious interloper came in mid-bath? She took a long breath and closed her eyes. Assuming she’s still got Uncle Benjen, I can still bring the spider closer to the Wall. After a few tense moments though, Sansa felt as though she were looking into an empty hole. Had the spider died from its injuries? Was it killed by its fellows? She frowned. It wasn’t an ice spider that heralded my white shadow, she remembered. Trying again, she strained her hears for the hoot of an owl. Hearing one she leapt out at it in excitement and promptly found herself sitting on a pine branch somewhere in a forest. Several giants were leaving the wood with tree trunks slung over their shoulders, returning to the safety of Winterfell after a day of logging. Confused, she slowly realized her error. A common wood owl. Brilliant, Sansa. After she calmed the irate bird’s nerves she went out again, listening harder. It was a terrific struggle sifting through all the common owls of the wolfswood and the North beyond, it sounded as if every owl ever to hunt above the Neck were hooting in her ear. Shrill shrieks and sharp calls but nothing like the haunting song she’d heard returning from first meeting the giants with Jon. Finally she caught a note of the white owl’s song. There you are. When she next opened her eyes she was looking down at a snow-covered pine forest, so like the wolfswood and yet wilder. Beyond the Wall.

She was further north than the spider had been. The trees were taller, thicker, and there were no patches where men had been at them with axes. Now, time to see what I will see. The owl was no more capable of telling Sansa what she wanted to know than the spider had been though, so she had to sink into the world of needles and hope she could find something worth peeping on. To her surprise a lone wight was stiffly chopping a long-fallen tree into manageable piles of hearth logs. Or that’s what it seems like. I doubt building a fire much interests a wight, much less an Other. Sansa glided closer, landing on a branch just above the dead man’s head. A hut stood nearby with a pile of logs set to one side. A lone woodsman? A hermit? Likely he had no warning when the Others came, Sansa thought sadly. A dead logger hadn’t been the one playing cat-and-mouse with her in her sleep, though. A sound from beyond the small clearing caught Sansa’s attention. Unlike anything she’d ever heard before she promptly flew towards it, her heart stopping in her chest when she came upon the noise’s origin. Two Others stood on a hill in the trees, each outfitted in the legendary shifting icy armor and carrying a razor crystal sword. Immediately they caught sight of her and she almost fainted until she realized that in the body of the owl she could not have come across as much of a threat, to say nothing of an enemy. Still their eyes narrowed and through the owl’s own Sansa could not miss the marked shift from idleness to readiness in their bone-white faces. And I thought Loras Tyrell beautiful. Both were less clean-shaven and more devoid of a single hair aside from the long white tresses that fell to their waists, tucked behind their oddly long ears. I doubt an Other can grow a beard anyway. When she glided closer to her surprise they immediately drew back off the hill into the trees. Could they tell something was looking at them from who knew how far south? One of them turned and made the noise again, over its shoulder. It was less ice cracking underfoot to Sansa’s ears though, more the sound of ice beneath a lake. A tongue of eerie beauty just as the beings that spoke it. From out of a hole in the hill Sansa had at first missed a third Other appeared, slow and utterly unrushed. The cold one was female, of that Sansa was certain. Her face had the flawless cheekbones the males Others had but it was a perfect lovely oval. Her eyes shined so bright they burned as her attendants’ did but they were void of wariness. Her form was hidden by a heavy mantle, a dazzling thing woven perhaps of silk but with the same strange property as the armor of the warriors. It shifted as she moved in all hues of white, blue, grey and black. What hair that showed was even longer than her company’s, coming down in two long silver-white strands to where her knees must have been Sansa’s estimation. A slender white hand emerged from beneath the silk and Sansa flew directly toward her, stunned beyond words at the beauty of the woman. She would drive a man to blubbering tears with just a gaze, Sansa thought. She’d heard tales of famous beauties whom wars were fought over, her aunt Lyanna being one, but they could not be more than pebbles before a pearl compared to this being from the Land of Always Winter.

Her talons gently gripped the silk and the arm concealed beneath it, the she-Other holding her with perfect poise. And the highborn of the Seven Kingdoms hunt with common hawks, Sansa thought. Even falcons and eagles seemed crude if not repugnant in comparison. The icy beauty’s light touch trailed down the side of the owl’s face, bringing Sansa back from her thoughts. I’m in an owl’s body in the arms of a she-Other. Why is it I feel more at ease here than standing next to Joffrey or Ramsay or even Littlefinger? The woman was speaking then, in the haunting tongue of ice and wind and Sansa could no more divine meaning from it than reply in kind. What I wouldn’t give to be able to talk to her, she thought. Ask how, ask why. Why she and her kind have so resolved to bring unimaginable death to Westeros, to the world…why I’m of such interest to her in particular. While Sansa wrestled with her thoughts the owl snatched its chance and quickly kicked her out. As her senses returned she realized she was no longer in the bird’s body nor in any body truly but in the glamor perhaps of a red-furred direwolf. Suddenly it was all she could do to remain upright much less think, feeling as if she’d run miles in moments. The she-Other, her owl and her glade began to blur together. Wait, Sansa thought. You know me and yet I don’t know you. Howling wind whistled in her ears and she heard her wolf-self let out a weary whine before she came to in the bath, the water frozen solid. Panicking at the thought of being frozen in place and left to suffocate without anyone hearing her, Sansa burst out of the ice, out of the tub like a cat out of a bag. Chips and blocks scattered across the floor of her room and the wind coated the walls in frost, yet she felt unlike she ever had before. Only then did she realize a servant girl was standing in her doorway, holding her freshly cleaned dress, staring openmouthed. Sansa took a few short gasps.

“You may leave the dress.” she said finally, and the girl shot off. The wind, she discovered, wasn’t so much in the room as in her mind, fading only slowly. Branch said the Others speak the True Tongue, or a close variant. The True Tongue is made up of sounds of the world, the language of the world. She sat in a chair, naked and shaking from excitement. Perhaps she asked my name and in response, I showed her a red wolf. When I asked hers, she answered only with howling wind. Then Sansa leaned back, her hands behind her head. She said it aloud.

“Howling Wind.”

Chapter Text

Samwell

The voyage from Dragonstone had been a bit nerve-wracking. The sailors were quite on edge watching the horizon for Euron Greyjoy’s reavers when they crossed Blackwater Bay and it had been only though Olenna Redwyne’s bottomless purse strings that they managed to secure further transport through the kingswood, down the Wendwater.

“The captain will be expecting us back.” the first mate had told them on reaching the end of the river.

“Thank you for taking us this far.” Sam replied, acquiring a cart from one of the nameless villages near the water. It was clear that Lady Olenna had little experience with such poor accommodations and by the time they got across the kingswood her attitude had not improved.

“Hang this skulking about like outlaws. We’d make better time jaunting up to the roseroad and going to Highgarden by land.”

“We can’t be sure Cersei’s eyes aren’t watching the roseroad, my lady.” Sam explained patiently. Her guardsmen were partial to going overland as well. The water seemed to unnerve them. Big they may have been but Sam doubted if they could swim across a puddle. “Besides, we can get a nice comfortable boat at Fawnton. Then it’s just one long pleasure cruise southwest to Highgarden.” The “comfortable boat” had ended up being a leaky cog no merchant captain dared touch so it had fallen to them to take it off the dock. “At least we got it cheap.” Sam told Lady Olenna, shrugging.

“Full pockets mean little when they’re dragging you to river’s bottom, Tarly. I swear, every time I think you might be smarter than a pork roast your head opens and your father’s words spew out.” she replied in high irritation.

“You’d best put on a happier face for the lords of the Reach. We-”

“Elwood Meadows was barely fit to hold a barn, let alone a town keep. Grassy Vale and Grassfield Keep have likely been taken by the peasants who live there. I can try to winkle support out of Orton Merryweather at Longtable but he’s likely too busy riding his Myrish mare to care much about trying to be Lord of Highgarden. The red apples, the Fossoways of Cider Hall, they’ll be much stiffer competition for your father.” The old woman said, half as much to herself as Sam. Gilly had kept very quiet since they left the island and when the batty Queen of Thorns had asked if she’d lost her tongue Gilly told her she wanted to learn everything she could about the Reach and the men who led it.

“I suppose you call it the Reach because you’re always reaching up into the trees for fruit, or else reaching to pick flowers growing everywhere you look.” she said one day. At this Olenna Redwyne laughed so hard tears fell from her crinkled eyes.

“More like because every daft lord and cheese-brained lady is ever reaching for whatever they can, girl.”

Grassy Vale was just as Olenna had said, not much more than a fortified town. When one of few soldiers present in town asked where Lord Meadows was it fell to Sam to tell him Elwood had fallen in his support of Stannis.

“Bugger Elwood and bugger Stannis.” Olenna snapped impatiently. “We’re heading to Highgarden to confer with all the Lords of the Reach, we haven’t time to nurse one village back to its feet. Kindly pass word along that any knights or soldiers in the area ought to make their way to Highgarden as well, if they wish to be present for the choosing of a new overlord.” It didn’t take the man long to realize who he was talking to.

“As you order, Lady Olenna.” he said, running off. That put a smile on her face at least, Sam observed. They continued downriver, the huge twin guardsmen scowling at the water as if to shoo off any man-fishes lurking below.

“I don’t think you need bother, serlords.” Gilly said, making them both look at her. “They looked like they belonged at the bottom of the sea, not some wee river men fish in all the time.” she turned to Olenna. “I thought you weren’t in charge anymore, when it came to…” she thought for a moment. “…to the people over here.”

“With my son and grandchildren dead I may not have a claim to Highgarden but by anyone’s measure I’m a Redwyne of the Arbor. I can order the smallfolk around all I like.”

“I hope you can split the difference and hound Lord Merryweather into joining our little troupe. If nothing else it would be nice to have a bit of company for you-” Sam began as they made their way toward Longtable.

“Myrish and Dornish sound too similar to these deaf ears. After my time at Sunspear I’ve rather lost my patience for randy brazen sluts.” Olenna interrupted grumpily. The seat of House Merryweather had a proper dock unlike Grassy Vale and their cog was brought in by professional dockworkers instead of idle farmers’ sons. A contingent of guardsmen came down from Longtable, each with a horn of plenty on their shields. Immediately Sam spotted Lord Merry weather’s “Myrish mare” as well as a boy of around ten who could only have been her son. There was nobody Sam could readily identify as Lord Orton. Maybe he’s gone on to Highgarden already, or he’s part of some army…or he’s dead, Sam thought. When they got nearer, the Myrish woman curtsied to Olenna.

“My lady. I am Taena Merryweather and this is Russell, my son, Lord of Longtable.” she said in a sweet exotic voice.

“Where is Lord Orton?” the old woman asked in reply.

“My husband died of a fever three months ago. It has just been Russell and I since.”

“Fret not, Lady Merryweather. One does get used to being a widow and it suits you in particular. It is to you now to raise your son as best you can.” Olenna said, in a voice much less irritated than Sam was expecting. The talk of widowhood made Gilly squeeze Sam’s hand.

“Of course. Pray, might your visit today relate to all the strange rumors pouring from Dragonstone? Giant wolves, walking fish, dragons…”

“Indeed it does. Daenerys Targaryen has seen fit to let the Reach choose its own overlord rather than pick the one who can lick her pretty feet the cleanest. As your husband is dead and your son in his minority, perhaps you’d like to speak for House Merryweather at Highgarden.” Her son cannot hope to get Highgarden, Sam thought, but it would be something to see a woman and a person foreign-born both sit next to Randyll Tarly in a council. He smiled.

“I think Lady Olenna brings up a very good point. Surely as Lord Russell’s regent it is only fitting you should come to Highgarden with us, Lady Merryweather.” Sam said, nodding to the boy who blushed shyly.

Though Lady Merryweather agreed to join them in going downriver, they and their little entourage elected to stay on a caravel belonging to Longtable rather than join Lady Olenna on the leaky cog. Though it isn’t so leaky as it looks. In fact, it’s faster than it looks and hasn’t quit on us yet, Sam thought, tapping the railing almost fondly. He was less optimistic about how his lord father would react to seeing him again. At least he hadn’t lost Heartsbane. I suppose I should think of a reason I made off with it in the middle of the night. It would be of far greater use in the hands of someone in the North than hanging on a wall at Horn Hill. Once he might have quaked in fear at the thought of confronting his father over the sword but as it stood, Sam couldn’t have cared less what Lord Randyll thought of him. The maesters were no wiser than he, in the end. It really does take a wight trying to tear your face off to make you see sense. He hoped his mother and Talla would be at Highgarden as well, a chance to see them again so soon would more than make up for as much unpleasantness as Lord Randyll could bring to bear. Not like he has much cause to complain. Like as not I’m about to drop Highgarden in his lap. On reaching Cider Hall they found the place a regular warren full of Fossoways, the red apples locked in a struggle of their own trying to work out just who was actually lord. Thank the gods the lot from Dragonstone aren’t here, Sam thought. Jon and the dragon queen both would be worse than useless. Sam had to stand on a table and shout everyone down to get things quiet enough for Lady Olenna to speak. News that Highgarden had become open saw the frontrunners for Cider Hall suddenly lose interest in their ancestral home. Shameless, Sam thought. Soon the cog was leading a train of larger faster ships down the Mander, the sight making smallfolk on both shores look on uncertainly. We may well inspire one of those absurd children’s stories. A duck that broods on dragon eggs. They began to spot columns of soldiers on the shore flying the golden rose of House Tyrell which made Lady Olenna grow sullen and withdrawn.

“Why would they be doing that?” Sam asked her.

“Either they didn’t believe the raven I sent from Sunspear or they’re just keeping the peace as best they can. I suppose I’m just not ready to stop seeing those daft flowers after all. To think of all the times I complained about golden roses.” she replied. There were endlings aplenty at Dragonstone but at least they had their lives ahead of them. I imagine it must be worse for those too old to try and make something new. Like Maester Aemon.

“At least you’re still in the thick of things where you belong, Lady Olenna. The last Targaryen died forgotten by the world with only a bookish boy to hear his last words.” When it comes to a family name or a family proper it seems Daenerys has chosen and chosen wisely, Sam thought.

The towers of Highgarden peeked over the horizon soon after and the tumult made Cider Hall look a quiet library. There were people everywhere, people who could claim the barest relation to someone vying to be Lord Paramount of the Reach. Unsurprisingly to Sam there were at least as many men wearing Lord Randyll’s huntsman as there were wearing golden roses but there was no sign of the Tarlys of Horn Hill.

“Right.” Lady Olenna said, looking pale. “Let’s get us where the mischief making’s at.” Sam duly pulled a herald’s trumpet from his grip and gave it a go, making everyone cry out in alarm or cover their ears, the guardsmen all turning their heads in surprise. Everyone seemed to freeze, looking at Sam.

“Where’s Lord Randyll?” he asked the gathering of lords and ladies. His voice echoing off the castle’s white walls made Gilly giggle, Little Sam giggling in turn.

“Well? We’re waiting!” Lady Olenna snapped from Sam’s elbow. To his surprise few gazes left him for the surely recognizable mother of Lord Mace Tyrell. The old woman seemed to notice and her next words sounded a combination of annoyed and amused. “We’re fresh from Dragonstone and quite keen on speaking with Lord Tarly. If one of you could bear the terrible burden of being marginally useful, I’d appreciate it.” Her guardsmen, never a pair to turn down scowling, made each other proud doing just that. Finally, mercifully, a girl with a grape-bunch brooch broke from the throng.

“Desmera Redwyne, my lady grandmother.” she introduced herself. The name took Sam back to his time at the Arbor. The girl Father hoped I’d wed. Not that Gilly ever need know. She was as unlike Gilly as it was possible to be. Beautiful with a skin like cream and long hair the color of dark cinnamon, with a splendid bosom and bright green eyes and in a purple dress to make a queen jealous. Sam turned to Gilly.

“See the grapes? Redwynes of the Arbor.” he whispered. Gilly’s tongue went between her teeth as she committed it to memory.

“So you are and in purple as well to do our sigil honor. Flowers and grapes…I’ve sat on with wolves and dragons, krakens and lions. Perhaps we ought find some splendidly fierce plants from Sothoryos to take for sigils and not seem so green in comparison.” Lady Olenna muttered to Desmera. The girl giggled to Sam’s surprise.

“I’d think there are fiercer things by far in Sothoryos than toothtraps and crawling vines.” she said, before leading them from Highgarden’s public hall into the lord’s solar. Only then did Sam remember he still had the trumpet in his fist. Oh well. I can always give it back later. The man didn’t look about to ask for it back anyway. At the table sat Paxter Redwyne, a handsome aging knight with a tower on his surcoat, some red-apple Fossoway gone ahead of his kin and Lord Randyll Tarly. The four men looked to be talking in circles as to who would upset the balance of power least in the Reach by becoming Lord of Highgarden. House Redwyne has all the riches of the Arbor, House Hightower has Oldtown and House Fossoway has a cadet branch at New Barrel and family enough to marry everyone else twice over, Sam thought. I would think the answer is clear.

“Where’s my sword?” Lord Randyll asked at once, standing and knocking the papers in front of him quite askew.

“In a trunk on the cog I came here on.” Sam replied, shrugging. “I’d hoped to find you Lord of Highgarden already, but you seem to be stuck in the morass as it were.” Lady Olenna filed into the room after Sam with her guardsmen and Gilly, talking with her about House Redwyne’s history. As a boy Sam had never thought he would make his father’s jaw drop. Then again, I never thought I’d kill a dead man, either.

Sam thought how best to put everything.

“Right, short version. The dragon queen wants the Reach to choose a new lord paramount from among its own lords.” Immediately the four men began to speak and Sam drowned them out with his trumpet. He thought again about what to say next. “Right, short version. The Others are marching on the wall and the new Lord of Highgarden is supposed to marshal the Reach’s remaining power and head north.” Before the objections could be voiced, Sam blew the trumpet again. He could hear Olenna snickering and snorting aside him, trying not to burst out laughing. “You see, my lords, the situation is such that I haven’t got much time at all to wipe your noses and soothe your prides. What I have got is a trumpet and a newfound desire to sound it as oft as I can. Should you say anything that disinterests me, I’ll happily indulge myself.”

“Why did the ironborn attacks on Oldtown cease? One moment they were at our doorstep and the next they were one.” The tower knight asked.

“Who are you?” Sam asked in turn.

“Baelor Hightower, Lord Lyonel’s heir.”

“Oh, the one stuck up in the Hightower the last ten years. Well, the smart man’s guess is the man-fishes have started pushing Euron Greyjoy’s reavers away from the mainland. With spears or stink or both I can’t say but that would be my theory.”

“What?” Lord Randyll asked in turn, too confused to be angry about Heartsbane it seemed.

“Greyjoy’s not our problem anymore.” Sam repeated.

“I don’t think he means that part, Samwell.” Lord Redwyne said. “He meant the part about the…”

“Man-fishes. Or have your ears gone, nephew?” Olenna said. Redwyne paled.

“Is this not the first you’ve heard of them, Lord Paxter?” Sam asked. The man’s lip quivered.

“I…surely they had to be drunken sailors’ stories. Rumors that one of the ironborn longships had been found cracked like a spring nut and its crew boiled to the bone…I didn’t think the dragons were so near.”

“Dragons breathe fire, you ass.” Olenna told him. “Regardless, the fish heads seem happy to dog the reavers clear across the Sunset Sea so what care is it of ours? Should one of the Arbor’s ships see them, just keep course and pass them by. Running into whatever’s cooking whole longships at a time, well now that’s different. Just don’t stay too far into the Summer Sea and all should be well.” She seems entirely too pleased that she can unsettle these seasoned men with just a few words, Sam thought.

“If you could finish your deliberations, my lords, and get moving on the roseroad, Her Grace would much appreciate it.”

“Who are you to speak for Daenerys Targaryen? If memory serves, you took the black-” Fossoway began but Sam quieted him with a tap of his fingers on the trumpet.

“Aye, and the purpose of the Night’s Watch is to stop the Others from adding the Seven Kingdoms to the Land of Always Winter. I’d say that’s what I’m doing just now. What you’re doing, my lords, remains to be seen.”

The awkward silence that fell next put Sam ill at ease.

“Where’s your wife, my lord?” Gilly asked Lord Randyll, speaking for the first time.

“Who are you?” Fossoway broke in.

“A wildling fled her homeland. Lordly lords are poor company but wights are still worse.”

“What’s a wight?” Lord Redwyne asked in turn.

“The Others can string the dead along, puppet-like. One is bad enough but they tend to come in droves. Still, even your daughter could sort one out if she had a brick and an hour. A burning torch, only a few moments. I don’t fancy dragons any more than I imagine you kneelers do but what’s coming needs seeing to quick and proper. Dragonbreath would cut through an army of wights in minutes.” Gilly said, speaking more in a few breaths than Sam had heard in the previous week.

“Hold on, nobody’s whined about their blood claim to Highgarden yet. Where are those dreadful Florents?” Lady Olenna asked. The lords of the Reach looked at each other while Randyll kept his eyes on Sam.

“Aren’t they the fox ones? There were a lot of them with Stannis at the Wall, they were his wife’s family.” Gilly replied.

“Most like they all died. If any are left they’d be at Winterfell.” Sam added. His eyebrows went up. “Oooh, Father, today looks like your day. Mother’s a Florent by birth, that gets you Brightwater Keep at the least.” Talla may get a castle of her own. The other lords seemed either unwilling or unable to rise. The iron certainty of their world dashed to pieces by a few croakers from the bottom of the sea, some dead men and a girl with silver hair, Sam thought. Lord Randyll seemed actually incapable of thinking through what he’d been told. “Just call what banners remain, Father. You can be acting Lord Paramount of the Reach until Her Grace comes down to make it official…or you meet her on the road and save her the trip.” He turned to the others. “Lord Redwyne, the same goes for your fleet. I suspect your ships will be doing a lot of ferrying in the coming months, so just worry about getting them lined up for now. No sense worrying about the game when the board’s yet to be set.” With that he turned and left, Gilly following close behind.

For the first time in his life Sam found people stepping quickly out of his way when he moved through the hall. Likely there was a proper brawl to see who got to listen at the keyhole, he thought. Gilly then asked a question that gave even Sam pause.

“How come your families are the ones that hold the castles? Grapes and hunters and apples and the rest?”

“According to legend a king during the Age of Heroes is the ancestor of nearly every highborn person in the Reach. Garth Greenhand, his name was.”

“Why does being his great-to-the-stars-and-back-grandson make the people who live in fields and huts have to listen to you, though?”

“It doesn’t. We just like to think it does. There are Garths the realm over. Lann the Clever, Brandon the Builder, Durran Godsgrief, the Grey King, every kingdom has its god-ancestor if you want to call them such. Anyway, the Others came and put an end to the Age of Heroes with the Long Night.” Sam told her. Gilly pursed her lips.

“I don’t think you’ve got much god in you, Sam. Just Sam. Your mother and father and whatever you picked up on your own.”

“More’s the pity, I could make gillyflowers grow everywhere if I had Garth Greenhand’s powers.”

“It isn’t gillyflowers we need. It’s people who can put down all those pretty banners, this family or that one and put steel and dragonglass between us and the cold ones. They say the dragon queen has three of them, dragons, but I only ever heard the one. Even with three and riders for each they can’t protect everywhere all at once by themselves. Kneelers need to learn to follow people who know how best to win, not how best to wed.”

“Yet it seems that one means the other when all is said and done. Jon and the dragon queen together, that’s near everyone in Westeros from Thenn to the Stepstones. That’s a lot of people, Gilly. Surely that will count when the time comes.”

“The Others have had ten thousand years to make a new plan. It’s been a week since we left Dragonstone. Even if everyone gets where they need to go…how do you stop something like winter, Sam?”

Chapter Text

Jon

He watched the small portion of the massive army Daenerys Targaryen had brought to Westeros pool on the sands of Crackclaw Point. Rook’s Rest stood off to the left, no doubt buggering itself in fear of the black dragon that circled ahead, shrieking occasionally to the silver figure on her chestnut mare below to advertise his unhappiness. He wants her where he can hide her away, Jon reasoned. Dragonstone is little more than a ring of razor rock around him in his mind, in matter as well. The perfect place to stash his mother. Drogon’s presence had shaken the horses to the core, even the Dothraki mounts which had spent no little time in the presence of the great creatures. Horses are prey, he remembered. They were never calm around Ghost either. Unless they were dead. No wonder Drogon has a poor opinion of them. His eyes moved to the queen, overseeing the crates of fish they’d brought with them. The port town had fish to spare but little coin so when Daenerys offered to buy their surplus at twice and a half what it was worth, all smiles, the people had taken her up at once. And now they’re wealthier than they’ve ever been, Jon thought, and we have salted fish enough to distribute to any towns we might pass. He’d rather have been nearer to her, talking to her, but he understood she had to keep her riders disciplined and her Unsullied coordinated. For his northerners’ parts, they kept any opinions they may have had to themselves but Jon sensed nothing less than approval. Tormund had been jesting about how there were five spearwives to every wildling lad back home. Only men had marched with Stannis and he got them all killed, so likely Tormund was all for bringing the Dothraki north for the wild girls. Alys and Sigorn were too busy being besotted to much care what a few riders got up to and Wyn Manderly seemed quite taken with one of them in particular. Ned Umber held his tongue, still the shy boy in truth, and Littlefinger was as like to reveal how he felt as he was to fly and breathe fire himself. He lingered in the rear with Tyrion and the bald spider, sounding like their little love triangle of plots and scheming was truly endless. Thank the gods I’m above that. Or below it as it stands, otherwise they might ask I join them, Jon thought.

At the gate of Rook’s Rest, Jon watched Daenerys talk with the men on the low ramparts. The castle was barely that, a bit too large to be called a keep but with the Stauntons wiped out in the recent wars the castle went undeclared for anybody. Another man appeared on the ramparts.

“I am Ser Ien Waters, castellan of Rook’s Rest by leave of Lord Staunton.” he announced himself.

“Well met, Ser Ien. I trust your stores are sorely pressed, if not empty in the first place. We’ve got some salted fish to give you before we move on.” Daenerys replied promptly. One of the Dothraki flung a cod up to the ramparts. It hit a crossbowman in the face and he cried out in alarm but Jon heard the stampede of smallfolk behind the walls fighting for the fish.

“What would you have of us?” The knight demanded shakily, his façade fallen in the face of an abundance of food.

“Nothing at all, Ser Ien. If anything, I might recommend you join us as far as Maidenpool, your people as well. Rook’s Rest is not near so easily supplied as Maidenpool and with winter well and truly on its way you might find it better to spend the cold months there than in your tiny hall.” A cart of fish was left in front of the gate and Daenerys led her army off. If an army it is any longer, Jon thought. Once they were moving at a good pace he steeled himself and brought his horse aside hers.

“Good idea.” he said. Her happy glow was gone, replaced with a worried countenance. “Food will buy the smallfolk’s love like nothing else and those people were not safe at Rook’s Rest. One of the Dothraki children could build a better sand castle….and one harder to take as well.” Jon replied, making her giggle despite her somber air.

"Food was far too dear in Essos to allow for such largesse. Often the Unsullied had to forcibly take corpses from the Meerenese to stop them eating their dead. I did all I could, Jon Snow, but the Masters put their livestock to the slaughter and burned all the crops when I came upon the horizon…there was precious little left to feed the city with.”

“It wasn’t you who let the people starve, Daenerys. It fell to you to clean up after men who were so proud they thought they could own other men. No wonder your tenure as Queen of Meereen wasn’t pleasant, you were trying to keep its inhabitants from burning it down.” Jon told her. The world over knows Daenerys Targaryen as a tireless breaker of chains. Slavery was the way of the world across the Narrow Sea. I wonder if one of the Free Folk could even comprehend it.

The further they rode, the happier Jon felt. The fields they rode through were no true wilderness though and the hills they found were scarcely that. In due time Jon saw that the army proper was quickly outpacing the complement from Rook’s Rest.

“We ought slow down. Your Dothraki could ride until the skies fell and the Unsullied seem tireless but the Westerosi are not used to…” Jon struggled to find the words.

“Moving about? I spotted that as well. Perhaps you were right, both setting them to reinforcing Maidenpool and keeping them safe there is a good notion.” the queen replied. Once word got to the column that they were to slow Jon saw the copper-skinned riders get restless. They see any pace but breakneck as standing still. He smiled at the thought. Perhaps they love the dragon more than for his fiery breath. Whenever Drogon passed overhead the Dothraki let out whoops of delight and his roars of reply displayed an enthusiasm for their admiration.

“It’s hard to imagine you got them to sit still for so long as all your time in Slaver’s Bay.”

“They were potted plants compared to the dragons. They were much smaller then, before I took Meereen, but even scarcely big as horses they itched to fly off at every opportunity and get into mischief. I…penned the missing two up, Rhaegal and Viserion, beneath the pyramid.” That surprised Jon.

“Were they so wild?”

“A herdsman brought a sack of burnt bones belonging to his daughter before me while I held court one morning. Word that Drogon had taken a child’s life forced my hand but he flew off rather than be led into captivity. Small wonder his brothers have taken their leave of me.” Her purple eyes welled with tears she worked to hide from her followers. Jon watched Drogon circle around the bloodriders, roaring at them as if to spur them on, then glide low over the Dothraki who could not fight, the old and the young. Their shrieks of glee made Jon frown.

“He may have been after the flock she was watching. These Masters sound as if they valued the people around them less than the bricks they walked on. Maybe they did it, to turn your freedmen away from you.”

“The shepherd waited until the hall was empty before he came forward. Surely if it was their doing, he’d have made a show to inflame passions.”

“Who says he was privy to their plot? Had they simply seized the girl and her flock, slit their throats, burned the bodies and left the mess for the shepherd to find, surely he’d have plenty of reason to blame a dragon.”

“Jon…he told me he saw Drogon descend on her.”

“What if I told you I saw him fly down and moo like a cow? No doubt your desire to keep children safe had spread in the east. Perhaps the shepherd was just a good mummer. Or maybe, maybe, Drogon did kill a child. Do you know what that tells me, Daenerys?”

“That he’s beyond sense?”

“That he doesn’t belong anywhere near a city. I’m not talking about Targaryens and madness and wildfire, Dany. He’s a huge flying predator that breathes fire and is provably easy to bore. Were it me behind those red eyes, I’d want nothing less than to perch atop a pyramid with you between my feet or laze in a hole while you live shut up in some red building for that matter. Dragons don’t belong near cities, near great teeming masses of men any more than direwolves do.” Jon surprised himself, he of famously few words. He felt his cheeks go pink and he shut his mouth. I sound like Ygritte, he thought. Come frolic beyond the Wall with me, dragon queen. Toss the thing you’ve chased across the world over your shoulder and be my wild dragon. Jon cursed himself for acting a proper ass. Ghost’s fur would fall out if he saw me now.

As the sun set the column stopped for the night, setting the horsehide tents up or else getting about making dinner. Jon went out to catch something himself and returned with a doe over his shoulders. I’m glad at least that Ygritte’s archery rubbed off along with her wildness, Jon thought. At night the black dragon was a different kind of terror, a formless shadow with huge red eyes that roved over the countless cookfires with a ravenous light. Likely he’s famished. There aren’t the herds to support one dragon now we’re in the riverlands though, let alone three. Jon tried to think where the other two had gone. Someplace with food, far from men. At least the kind who panic at the sight of dragons. The only answer Jon could reach was the North, where there were miles of open moor between even the meanest holdfasts and a man on a fast horse could ride dawn to dusk to dawn again without seeing another living thing. Space enough and more but there’s no food. Either they’ve found a secret island full of sheep or they’re eating something besides herd beasts. Despite the prospect of dinner the queen’s mood had not shifted and Jon could tell she brooded still on the fate of the Meerenese girl. I know what will keep her mind on the task at hand. He strode into her tent, still holding the doe, and simply dropped it at her feet as she brooded in the darkness. She was not amused.

“It’s Drogon you should be plying with food, not me.”

“Oh, we’re not going to eat this, just clean it.” Jon said tactfully.

“Clean it? As in-”

“Men are not dragons who need only fire to make meat fit for eating. Nor can men stomach innards and bones as a dragon can. It will do you good to learn how to do this, that way you can do it for your lordly husband when you marry.” he smirked. To his delight he saw her cheeks flush a lovely rose color in the torchlight.

“You presume to talk of things you have no business speaking of.” she said, her mouth a thin severe line. Or it would have been, had her lips not been so plush and full.

“A free man will talk of whatever he pleases. If it displeases a certain dragon queen to hear him talk so, she is welcome to take her leave of him.”

“This is my tent-”

“So it is, and a nice wide space to work with.” Jon sat beside the doe and looked at her expectantly. When she did not come, he patted the ground next to him.

“I am not a wolf pup that leaps into your lap whenever you bid, Jon Snow. Dragons do not come when they are called, they come when they please.”

“So do kittens, Daenerys Targaryen.” Her blush deepened into a royal scarlet worthy of her house. Maybe I do know something after all.

Finally she sat beside him, arms crossed and face a pout.

“I’m hungry.” she said childishly. Too childishly to be real.

“So is everyone else in the world. A skinny man is hungry because he hasn’t got enough food, a fat man is hungry because he never stops eating. Beyond the Wall, it’s a person’s only care. Others removed, of course. I look forward to seeing the wild country again, one way or another.” Daenerys’ eyes widened.

“What do you mean?”

“I told you, I’m not going to sit in Winterfell should we win. I’m going back where I belong, where Ghost belongs, and where the Free Folk belong.”

“Not that. What do you mean, one way…or another?” Oh.

“Well…I scarcely picture what comes after as Winterfell but packed full of dead Starks.”

“You don’t remember any of it?”

“Not a thing. One moment I was being murdered, the next Ser Davos was holding me aloft and shaking me like a dog would a rat.” Her lips pursed at that.

“Often I was too afraid of assassins or Viserys to be afraid of dying. The Valyrians took their gods with them in the Doom and I never paid much heed to the whims of any gods in Essos, only to their priests I had to appease. I wonder what will happen when I die, a girl of no true country, nor true faith.” She is upset, Jon realized. More than that, she is close to tears.

“Well, there’s little one must do in the North that concerns the gods. We have small rites for marriage, funerals…but there are no priests waiting to pick your pocket or grope your breast. There are no huge buildings full of scented candles, no high windows of colored glass. A godswood is merely a heart tree and its ordinary fellows. Anyway, I would think the gods have better things to do than stare at us as we stare at ants.”

“Are there any in the south? Godswoods?”

“Perhaps, but nothing like up north. Except perhaps on the Isle of Faces, south over the God’s Eye from Harrenhal.”

“I should like to see it.”

“Really?” Jon was surprised. “Well, I suppose we can stop at Harrenhal after Maidenpool. No doubt Ser Bonifer would like to know what became of the castle and in the meantime we can find a little boat and visit the Isle of Faces.” To Jon’s further surprise, shock even, Daenerys lay her head on his shoulder, staring down at the doe sadly. He pressed no further, cleaning it with haste, speaking only to point out something important in regard to the meat. Two bloodriders came to make sure the queen’s dinner cooked evenly and Jon took it upon himself to dispose of the entrails. At the edge of the camp he began digging a small hole to bury them in when he heard a familiar swoop overhead.

“Your mother needs you more than I, boy-” Jon stopped on seeing what Drogon was doing. Or rather, not doing. The black dragon stared into the darkness of the trees, not moving and making no sound, red eyes alert and focused on something Jon could not see.

Likely the entrails will have brought something eager for an easy dinner. A shadowcat perhaps, or maybe a stray dog. Jon was about to toss the refuse into the trees when the eyes began appearing from the undergrowth. He lost count almost immediately but he could tell they ran in the dozens, if not more. Slowly he placed the entrails on the ground in front of him, waiting to see what they would do next. One of the timber wolves, a shiny burned bastard with scarcely any real fur left stepped out of the trees and trotted directly for Jon, followed by another poor fellow with the Seven’s star burned into his muzzle, taking the left flank. Their eyes were locked on Drogon. I wonder… Jon thought. Timidly he reached for the black dragon, with his mind instead of his hand, intent on seeing what he saw. It feels as though I’m trying to sneak into a room without anyone noticing. Drogon’s mind was acutely trained on the trees in front of him and Jon took a breath, half-warged as he was, before putting his eyes behind the dragon’s own. Instantly he observed that Drogon saw not only in terms of light, as he himself did, but also in terms of heat. The bodies of the wolves were stars enough to rival the ones in the heavens both in brightness and in number. Jon sensed Drogon’s mounting uncertainty but he doubted whether the dragon considered them a true threat. Then again, even one could gobble Daenerys up if he were to miss it with his fire. Certainly he cares not that they seem intent on surrounding us. He pulled away from Drogon as quietly as he’d come. Then he began walking toward them, the dragon huffing uneasily. Ghost would not be afraid, Jon thought. They followed Nymeria and he’s far the larger. He stopped ten feet from the two who’d come out. Rather than soothe them with the Old Tongue as Daenerys had used Valyrian to calm Drogon, Jon simply copied Ghost as best he could, letting out a howl. Not too deep, not too hard, Jon told himself. Ghost does not low like a wounded bull moose nor bellow like a snow bear. Either his wolfsong was better than he judged or Ghost’s sound was one they liked because the pack immediately joined in, a chorus of calls that set the Dothraki to shouting and cursing trying to keep their horses from bolting. Jon heard countless bodies leave the safety of the forest’s edge, felt the air grow warm as they circled around him, still howling. This music is old, he thought. Older than any put to paper. It took him a good moment to comport himself, tearing away from the sight before him to turn back toward the camp and promptly beheld a wall of copper faces staring at him mouths agape. Wolves were everywhere, sauntering between the strange-smelling men without a second look. They know men are no great threat, Jon thought. They remember hunting them with Nymeria. Jon walked past one of the blood riders and saw the man quaking in his hide boots. Whether from fear or awe Jon could not determine. Then again, both would be good when it comes to dealing with Dothraki.

When he returned Daenerys was standing pink-cheeked in the chilly night with Ser Bonifer watching the pack get comfortable in the midst of her khalasar.

“More a cat person?” Jon asked her. Her mouth opened but no sound came out, too taken by the wolves to reply. She is not afraid, Jon saw. Overawed, stunned speechless without a doubt, but I can see no fear in those purple eyes. What else is in there, I wonder?

“Are you alright?” he asked, putting on a concerned face, acting as if everything were normal. Drogon had coiled in on himself, long neck snaking after the countless bodies moving past him.

“Where did they all come from?” she finally found her voice, whisper that it was.

“Nymeria’s had years to call every wolf in the riverlands to her and plenty from neighboring kingdoms as well. It’s no wonder they number so many.”

“But this many wolves…”

“My brother Robb spent his time as King in the North as King of the Rivers, in truth. He rarely left the riverlands once he came here and they proved to be his end. Anyway, much of the fiercest fighting in the War of Five Kings as they call it happened in the riverlands and so it stands to reason there are plenty of unburied corpses strewn the countryside over to gorge on. Small wonder then that the wolves do not fear men.” Jon said, shrugging.

“This near Maidenpool…either they are starving or rabid.” Ser Bonifer replied, steadily placing himself between Daenerys and the pack. You’d need three brothers of uncommon size to block them off completely, ser. Jon thought.

“Or Maidenpool’s become a larder for them.” Ser Ien broke in, jogging over. “It’s been sacked by every king and band of outlaws you can dream of. Lord William Mootoon stayed shut up in his castle each time…last we heard at Rook’s Rest all his sons had perished in the fighting and he was down to a single daughter, Eleanor. Whatever the case, I can’t think we’ll find Maidenpool in much condition to winter in.”

“Even if it were razed to the ground, we’re waiting on whole kingdoms’ worth of armies to shuffle about Westeros, ser. We have time enough to get the walls up and the gate working at least.” Daenerys told him. Pity. A few giants would be more than equal to the task, Jon thought.

They made Maidenpool an hour after dawn the next day. Jon went ahead to scout and his ranger’s could smell bodies left to rot but he saw no smoke on the horizon. Death, but not recent. Had there been a raid loose fires would burn still into the next day. The walls showed. He took it upon himself on his return to go in first but several of the Dothraki immediately insisted they join the northmen and Daenerys commanded a half-dozen of the spike-caps to augment. Ser Ien Waters volunteered to go as well.

“Malakko knows. Creeping men hide in broken stone and stab you from the corpse piles. It was so across the poison water in the cities of the winged woman.” This is not the first ruined city the army of Daenerys Targaryen has come across, Jon remembered. I must ask her about the others. Indeed the blood riders adopted a very unusual formation as they followed Jon, most wielding bows rather than their arakhs for openers. “Is for shooting the creeping men. Arakhs are not good when used against hidden arrows.” Malakko told him as they neared the walls of Maidenpool. Jon saw a few soot-stained white banners with a red fish on them.

“Red fish, black fish, man-fish.” he heard one of the Unsullied say.

“Quiet now.” Jon said as they went through the gate. Corpses lie in piles and strew about where they fell both, some scarcely more than skeletons. Flies attended every one and ravens by the murder flocked on the burnt and broken rooftops. In addition he saw wolf prints enough to advertise that the pack had indeed made a home of sorts in the ruined town, scavenging with their buzzing and cawing fellows.

“What happened here?” Ser Ien muttered. “Did the pack tear them down to the last?”

“White Shrike is thinking wolves do not throw spears or swing swords.” the Unsullied about the fish said.

“Or pile loot in carts.” Tormund pointed to several wooden oxcarts full of loose baubles.

“They act like we’re interrupting a wedding.” Sigorn said, looking to the crows who looked positively annoyed.

“Eat.” one of them cawed loudly.

“Go.” another added. Jon saw Malakko jump out of his skin, swearing loudly and he shook his head. There goes any surprise.

Jon found no fault with the castle itself save that the gates were half-open and still more bodies lay about it.

“You said Lord Mooton could not find it in himself to save his smallfolk.” Jon asked Ser Ien.

“Aye. Looks like they had enough of him and the castle guard were overcome.”

“Why was word never spread?”

“Crows don’t talk, Jon Snow. At least, not usually. Most like the ravens were loosed as the fighting was happening and rather than fly they simply perched and waited for the bodies to fall. Still, we’d best look for any survivors. The castle looks livable and that’s the point, anyway.” They forced the doors the rest of the way open and Jon’s eyes watered at the reek.

“This one finds it hard to believe any red fish live here still.” White Shrike said.

“More like to find a dragon egg in here than anybody alive.” Jon heard Sigorn agree from across the hall, flipping a table to find several still forms prone beneath it. Children, Jon saw. The mob showed no mercy. They kept on, heading up a spiral stair to the lord’s solar. A corpse in lordly garb had been tethered to an upright table, several bloodstained heavy objects scattered at its feet.

“Looks like they stoned him. Bricks instead of stones, though.” Jon said. Ser Ien spat on the corpse.

“Too quick.” he replied. “Any trace of the lady?”

“Nothing.” Tormund called from one of the other rooms in the tower.

“Just a few rats.” someone else added from still another.

“Jon Snow.” Malakko called heavily. Jon found him at the threshold of a small bedroom. Inside a corpse in a red dress swung from the rafters, the canopy of the bed around her neck. Not younger than ten, Jon estimated. Not older than fifteen.

“Did they get her, too?” Tormund said, coming up behind them.

“Her hands are not tied.” Jon told the pair. “Most like she saw them storm the gate and took matters into her own hands. They wouldn’t have given her such a quick end at any rate.” He pulled the white bedcover embroidered with Mooton red fish off the bed and lay it beneath the body before cutting it down. He carried Lady Eleanor as gently as he could manage past the others.

“Just a foul pool choked with rotting flesh and rats- gods be good..." Ser Ien came into view, gasping at the sight.

“Come, ser. We have bodies to burn.” Jon told him. It took all day to reap the harvest of Maidenpool’s dead. Daenerys proposed they build a great pyre but to Jon’s surprise it was Ser Ien who refused her.

“Men with swords used them on each other and their families, people they’d known all their lives.” He turned to Jon. “Your wolves need to eat too, Jon Snow. Better we put these creatures to use than give them honor in death they didn’t have in life.” he kicked one of the corpses.

“Very well. Perhaps we can build a pyre in the pool of just the victims, then. Those without fault.” Jon said. As if we could tell one from the other. Eventually they settled on the women and children and the men who died in their defense for the pool, the rest were left to the pack. Amidst the sounds of crunching bones and scattered wolf-calls Daenerys slipped a torch into the pool, empty of water but full of leaves, sticks and death.

“In Essos, plenty of former noblemen tried to sell themselves into comfortable slavery rather than toil as their former slaves had. In Essos, a person did not need freedom so long as he had life, could not be free if he wasn’t alive. Lady Eleanor is proof that the opposite value is held true in Westeros. So are the Free Folk, so are the northmen and so are you, Jon Snow.” she said quietly to Jon as they watched the flames consume the dead.

Chapter Text

Daenerys

Her Hand knew better than to ask the particulars of what she’d seen at Maidenpool. Despite her silence though, word spread among the Dothraki quickly as ever. Bloodriders they may be but they gossip worse than any ladies in waiting, she thought dryly. She looked to the rear of the great mass of people, spotting Varys quickly due to his bald head. It seemed he never broke conversation with the soft-spoken man who had accompanied Jon from the north. Petyr Baelish, commonly called Littlefinger. Everyone’s best friend and worst enemy. Yet he had yet to introduce himself to Daenerys Targaryen. Well, Tyrion calls him shrewd. Maybe this mockingbird is smart enough not to sing perched on a dragon’s snout. Drogon’s shadow passed overhead once more as her army moved east through the riverlands and she couldn’t help but smile. Men who pride themselves on secret-stealing adopt the bravery of rats as well, over time. She looked to her left, to the man who’d tweaked Drogon’s nose and lived, who’d sung to wolves and all but had them following his tune. Indeed the pack did all they could to keep pace with Jon Snow, off in the trees whenever possible to keep themselves hidden. The Dothraki gossip about him, too. On Dragonstone, they’d dismayed at the thought of her marrying someone like Hizdahr, someone who lived in a stone house. Meanwhile, Jon Snow forgoes even a horsehide tent at night. It made Daenerys smile to think there were people even the Dothraki thought wild. Not that it diminishes him in their eyes. To the khalasar, a man who needs less is a man who is worth more. Drogon’s shriek broke her from her reverie, the dragon sweeping so low overhead a tossed stone could have bounced off his chest. It set her hair flying as well, making her giggle. I don’t have Missandei of Naath with me to fix it up every night, she remembered, smile fading as she felt a deep sense of loss for her friend. I hope she’s happy in Dorne, or at least safe for now. Jon Snow’s tales of the Others painted them as creatures of ice, it was hard for Daenerys to imagine them getting as far south as Sunspear, let alone fighting in the desert. Then again, it was always believed to be impossible to get the Dothraki onto the sea, she thought.

Despite the devastation at Maidenpool, House Mooton’s lands remained to be addressed. No people, Dany saw. It seems everyone in the riverlands has fled to safety behind high stone walls. Also, due to the presence of Drogon and the pack any birds and beasts that might have crossed their path had long vanished from sight or hearing on their approach. The world has become empty, but for trees and rivers. And us, she thought. The absence of any living thing outside the army wasn’t lost on the others, who slowly took on nervous or stony expressions. I hope Harrenhal is inhabited. Not just by squatters, either. If only to give Ser Bonifer some peace. The knight kept company with Ser Ien and was seldom far from Daenerys but neither did he ride aside her, as Ser Jorah had done in years past. He does not presume. The same could not be said of my bear in Essos… Meanwhile, the man at her side just then scarcely looked at her twice. What is he looking for? He could at least show me a brooding face, she thought sulkily.

“What out there has so caught your eye, Jon Snow?” she said finally, unable to stand his silence any longer. When he didn’t reply she bit her lip and leaned over, trying to look as though she were just working feeling back into her legs. The grey eyes she was so taken with were oddly listless, flickering to and fro without seeing. Daenerys’ heart stopped for a moment. Drogo looked much the same in his last days. Then she saw his brow twitch minutely, something Drogo in his state of mindless life had never done. His eyes shut and reopened and the eyes were clear again, widening in surprise at how close Dany had gotten. Relief washed over her yet she felt irritated with herself and him both. So he sees fit to scare me out of my wits. Quickly she put on a face of irritated suspicion, lips in a moody purse. “I thought you might have died. I know northmen are close-mouthed by nature, you in particular, but you might have been a corpse stiff upright in the saddle.” She prodded his shoulder to make sure.

“I’m alive…” he replied, rubbing his arm. “I was just taking a look ahead.” His words only further confused Dany.

“Some men have better eyes than others…” she began.

“Not with my eyes. Uhm…well, it’s part of being a warg. There are a few in the north, where the Old Gods are strong…we can see through the eyes of beasts, move their bodies as if they were our own, even.” he explained quietly. It was Dany’s turn to go wide-eyed.

“No wonder the wolves follow you like ducklings.”

“They don’t follow me, they aren’t mine. I just…Ghost is quite the unique creature, I suppose his scent is enough to bring any common wolf to heel.”

“Warg or no, it wasn’t a ghost I saw howling at them, howling with them.” The memory made Dany shiver. It was, though. The grey eyed ghost who stole me from Drogon.

Another pass from her child left what braids remained her quite in ruin. The Dothraki take great pride in their braids, and in the bells that tinkle in them. Her hand came up to her hair, giving it an anxious pat. “You’d do better to simply let it fly, Your Grace.” Jon Snow opined, his own dark hair unbound.

“Braids are how the Dothraki judge merit.” Daenerys protested.

“Yes, those long jingly things that trail from the backs of their heads. Handy for a wight to grab, and bells in a man’s hair will set any spearwife to laughing until she drops.”

“If a man were to grab my braid, I’d kill him.” Malakko called indignantly from his horse behind them.

“You do that. Take your curved blade to a dead man’s flesh, foul the blade on his unfeeling bones and all the while he’ll strangle you with your own hair.” Jon Snow replied steadily. “Wights feel not fear nor pain nor tiredness. They need no steel to be deadly. You want to kill a wight, put down the arakh and pick up a torch. By the fiery end if you must.” Daenerys saw his hand squeeze the reins a bit tighter. She sensed Malakko’s temper rising but heard no curse nor challenge. They act as if he is a khal.

“You make them sound invincible.” she said, in a voice that was almost a reproach.

“Far from it, Your Grace. A single ember can turn a wight into a pile of black ash inside a minute.” His eyes flicked up to Drogon. “Dragonfire could take the Others’ entire horde from them.”

“If they’re as dangerous as you believe, surely they have…surely a corpse parade is not their only trick.” Dany said. “There were…other things on the cave walls beneath Dragonstone besides Others and their fodder.”

“The old stories say they had great ice spiders as well, instead of hunting dogs or horses. We’ve yet to see one, perhaps they all died in the first Dawn or the Others have lost track of them.”

“Or they’re saving them for true pitched battle.”

“Or they’re saving them for true pitched battle.” he agreed with her wearily.

When the state of her hair made the stoic Jon Snow grin, Dany knew it was time to give the braids up. Ornela came up from the rear where the cart of the Dosh Khaleen trundled and gently cut them apart, working Dany’s hair free of itself until it flew from her head in a silver curtain carried by the wind. She heard the Dothraki nearby mumbling discontentedly but something like euphoria bloomed in her chest. I’ll not wear braids unless I have Missandei to maintain them, she resolved to herself. The next time Jon Snow looked at her, his grin vanished and his grey eyes did not leave her. He spoke true when he named himself a wildling, Dany thought. Her giggle brought him to his senses and he shook himself, making the same Dothraki who’d grumbled laugh aloud. Jon Snow’s cheeks went red. Only then did Ser Bonifer approach.

“Queen Rhaella was fond of wearing her hair unbound, though it was not so long as yours, Your Grace.” he said.

“I have no need to appear a queen nor a khaleesi just now, Ser Bonifer. It pleases me to honor her memory as best I can.” Even Mother would have liked my hair. I wonder if she would have liked me. Thinking about Mother made her sad though, so she devoted herself to trying to catch Jon Snow looking at her. He seems a deal more interested now. Maybe he’s just like that. Some men like short hair, some like styled, some like braided, some like it long. No, not long…wild. Wild and free. She spurred her horse on and rejoined Jon Snow before she fell behind too far. “Any better?” she asked in a disinterested voice.

“Yes.” he replied simply, smirking as her cheeks grew pink. Surely he has more to say than that! She turned away from him with a “Hmph!” loud enough for him alone to hear. Drogon’s snort of irritation was a deal louder than Dany’s grumble though, and mutters broke out behind them. Looking up, she could see his gaze was locked on something in the distance to the southwest.

“Drogon sees something.” she said to Jon Snow. He’s a northman, what does he know of the riverlands? Dany scolded herself, feeling foolish.

“Perhaps it’s the kingsroad. We’ll cross it on the way to Harrenhal. In fact, the kingsroad is much nearer there than Maidenpool. We’re almost there.” Ser Bonifer said.

Daenerys’ stomach turned when she saw the castle proper. That Harrenhal was cursed was a superstition she could well believe. It’s true, the towers look like melting candles. The Black Dread could turn mortared stone to running wax. As Drogon approached there was a great outcry from within the walls that made her heart break, that made her want to dismount and run to the castle gates, shouting that there was no danger but Jon Snow sensed her dismay and took her hand while Drogon circled over the ruined towers, for once quite silent. Can he tell? Does the Dread’s scent linger here even after three hundred years? Or does he recognize the twisted stone, remember something like it from his time in the outskirts of Valyria? He made no move to land within the walls of Harrenhal though, possibly the only castle whose yard could hold him, and Jon Snow had only to take a single look at the place before succinctly expressing his feelings.

“No.” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Dany asked.

“I’d rather spend a night in an ice spider’s web than in that place. The God’s Eye isn’t more than a few hours’ ride from here, if the Painted Table had it right. I’m going to go have a look at the Isle of Faces. I’ll return in the morning.”

“Surely you don’t mean you’re going off alone?”

“That’s how rangers work, Your Grace.”

“You’re not a ranger, Jon Snow. You’re-” Only then did she stop herself.

“A stubborn mule of a northman?” he offered.

“That, and small consolation it would be if I had to deliver news to Winterfell that you were killed by bandits or some such lowly end.” Her heart hammered in her chest. The rest of the column came upon the castle and the northmen scarcely looked at it before dismissing it as a shelter out of hand. Still, the southern Westerosi could use a night out of the cold air. The Unsullied too, who walk when the Dothraki ride. The Dosh Khaleen, not fond of stone walls in the first place, would likewise not hear of taking shelter in Harrenhal for the night.

“Is bad.” one of the crones muttered in the Common Tongue. “Bad for mothers to be, mothers that are and mothers that were, all.” she said, shooting Daenerys a look. Of course, once her words were heard by the khalasar at large, it would never do to have their khaleesi dwell in such an evil place.

“Is bad.” they echoed, blooded screamers parroting the crone’s words. The wildling with red hair gave rather a more colorful opinion.

“I wouldn’t piss on it to put it out.” The young Lord Umber’s eyes had gone round as plates, both at the castle’s scale and that of its ruin. Ser Bonifer seemed rather surprised by the vehemence behind their words, but Dany put a hand on his arm.

“Never mind, Ser. Why don’t you take the Unsullied in with Ser Ien and the riverlanders? Lord Tyrion too, and Lord Baelish and Lord Varys.” It seemed that with Jon Snow around, she’d quite forgotten her Hand. Then again, he may not mind that so much.

Dany dismounted and found Jon Snow talking with his people, northmen and wildling both. Is there a difference anymore? she wondered. When he spotted her, he came over to explain.

“The Isle of Faces sits at the center of the God’s Eye. It’s the last place in the south where the old gods are said to linger still. I’m going to spend the night there, my people as well.”

“You forget, Jon Snow, that I want to visit this Isle of Faces as well.” Daenerys reminded him. Something like reluctance flashed across his face. Only then did Daenerys wonder if that was such a good idea. An isle of holy trees, what could they love less than fire? “I’ll have Drogon stay on the shore. There’s no need for him to protect me from trees.” she said.

“As you please. Will your entire horde be accompanying you?”

“Certainly not. They’re going to stay on the shore as well. They’re grown men, I
needn’t be their mother duck. If only for a night.” Jon Snow looked like he might argue but Daenerys only looked at him icily as she dared. Finally he shrugged and led her to the water’s edge, where she spotted the northmen staring out over it as if they’d cast out fishing lines.

“Well? Have you found a boat?” Jon Snow asked them.

“Umber says he saw something out there.” Sigorn replied, the tall bald one with the scars. Lord Umber began to splutter and Daenerys watched Jon Snow wait patiently for the nerves to pass.

“I only caught a glimpse. Far away it was and shrouded by fog, but… for just the moment it was as there as you are here, Your Grace.” the boy said.

“What did it look like?” Jon Snow asked. Lord Umber pursed his lips and his eyes flickered to Dany.

“Gods save me, but it looked like a dragon. At least, one going for a swim. Head poked up and peering about on a long neck. Not big like a proper dragon, though.” His words made Dany’s heart leap for just a precious moment until they brought her crashing back to earth again.

“Never mind, Lord Umber. If something out there is about its business, well, so are we.” Jon Snow clapped him on the shoulder and went to find a boat. Ornela joined Daenerys at the water’s edge.

“What has happened, khaleesi?” she asked in Dothraki.

“One of the northmen thinks he saw something in the water. Like a dragon, but smaller.” Ornela’s almond-shaped eyes widened.

“Perhaps Drogon will scare it off. Or bring it closer?” she asked hopefully. Daenerys blinked.

“Even if it was something, there aren’t any dragons left in Westeros. Drogon and his brothers aside.” The Lhazareen girl was quiet for a time.

“Do dragons need dragons, khaleesi?” Her question made Daenerys’ eyes cross and Ornela giggled.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Horses can go with donkeys to get mules, it is known. In Meereen before we sailed, I saw a merchant showing the bones of a great cat he said was the child of a lion and a tiger. On the eastern fringes of the Dothraki Sea, near the slaving cities, red wolves sometimes go with yellow jackals to make splendid gold-colored thieves bolder and more cunning than any that walk and talk and steal even from hrakkar.” While Ornela gushed hopefully, Dany looked to Drogon. He’d landed at last, coiled in loops of onyx and surrounded by wolves. He’d scream and snort and roar if they were men, she noted. He does not care for rings of steel, but seas of teeth…

Jon Snow returned soon after, tugging a rowboat from further up shore.

“Alright, who’s in the first boat?” he asked.

“Why don’t you go first, Snow? That way when something pops up to have a bite o’ white wolf we’ll know not to follow.” Tormund Giantsbane laughed.

“Fine. Anybody else care to risk Ned’s monster?”

“Nothing will attack you if you are with me. Drogon will come if he senses I am in danger.” Daenerys said briskly, sitting in the boat beside the Bastard of Winterfell. Turning for another look at Drogon, Dany saw he was fast asleep, the wolves closed around him to keep warm. She looked up expectantly at the people on the shore, but none of them were looking at her. Their gazes were on the dragon and the countless wolves around him. They turned to each other, lips pursed or brows raised, yet nobody said a word. Dany’s cheeks grew pink as the silence dragged on yet not one person moved to be a third wing. Finally Ornela simply put her foot on the boat and pushed off, sending Dany out onto the water with naught but Jon Snow to accompany her.

“Never mind, we’ll go look for another.” Tormund Giantsbane said promptly and everyone started moving every which way, talking amongst themselves. Only when the people on the shore disappeared into the fog did Dany turn to look at Jon, whose face made her cover her mouth to stop a fit of giggles.

“I’ll bet there was nothing to see.” he finally said in a surly tone.

“What do you mean?”

“A lake monster? Likely it was something one of them or other cooked up while we were riding, once we were free of the southern Westerosi. It just fell to Ned Umber to bait the hook, poor lad.”

“Wait, you mean-”

“This is a scheme to get us alone together, aye.” The simplicity of it, the sheer audacity of her khalasar to play matchmaker made her cross her arms and “Hmph!” loud enough for it to carry across the water, or so she hoped.

“Hmph.” Jon Snow agreed, rowing in steady fluid motions.

Despite her temper, Dany kept an eye on the water always. Just in case, she thought. When she looked back to Jon Snow, she caught him eyeing something off to his right. In the back of the boat as she was, facing forward, she couldn’t catch a glimpse of what had caught his gaze.

“Nothing.” he answered her question before she could ask it. Your face and pace say otherwise, Jon Snow. Indeed his rowing had picked up and his eyes flicked off to the right every so often, occasionally spurring him on faster.

“What is it?” Dany whispered, trying to keep calm.

“Nothing that need concern you, sweetling.” Dany could feel gooseprickles form on her arms. Sweetling, he called me. He is trying to keep me calm. A few moments later he broke into breathless pants, their little boat moving at no little speed. “Keep quiet, keep still.” he told her in a quick whisper, breathing as loudly as he seemed to dare. Dany peered into the fog but for all her furious squinting could see no more than a wall of swirling gray. He sees something I do not.

“Jon Snow, what is it?” He didn’t reply, only speeding up yet again until his forehead shined with sweat.

“Come on, just a little far- oh, gods…” he muttered after a quick peek up. Dany’s nerves felt quite frayed after that, and when he declined to tell her any more, she couldn’t help herself.

“Jon Snow, I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and if you don’t tell me what’s out there right now, I am going to slap you with an oar!” He pulled the oars in at once and gently pulled Dany into his arms, his back to their pursuer.

“Don’t scream.” he whispered to her, holding her as never she‘d been held. Dany held her breath, closed her eyes, braced for the attack.

“What is it, Jon Snow?” she whispered.

“Nothing.” he whispered back. Dany was so confused, so beside herself with nerves that she couldn’t work out what he meant. When she looked up he was biting his lip and had tears in his eyes. No… she thought. When she pulled away he did not stop her, leaning over the side of the boat.

"No…” she said aloud, her eyes wide, mouth a perfect “O”. He burst out laughing, his gloved hand slapping the side of the boat. His brooding northern face had gone red with mirth and shiny with tears. The King in the North curled up in his seat, laughing loud enough to wake the dead. Daenerys let out a little scream and pounced on him, her fists raining down blows that bounced harmlessly off his back as she swore at him in every tongue she knew. “Some king you are! To scare me out of my wits and plot with my khalasar to get me out on a boat somewhere!” In the Common Tongue, in Valyrian, in Dothraki, it made no difference. Her words could no more stem the wolf’s laughter than her hands could. It seemed her fury only heightened his mirth and soon he was breathless from the sight she’d become, hair flying and face flushed red as her standard. When he did not stop she retook her seat, facing away from him. I shall never speak to him again, she resolved. Finally it sounded like he’d regained his breath.

“I plotted no mischief. I’m as blameless in this as you are, Daenerys.”

“Blameless!” she cried despite her solemn vow, in a high voice just short of a scream.

“Just so. I only saw the perfect opportunity. Forgive me if I did not let it pass.”

“When Drogon gets here I shall have him flip the boat with you still in it!” She heard no wings though, nor the dragon’s roar.

“If your cross your arms any tighter I fear your shoulders may touch.” he said, stifling a snigger.

“Hmph! I’ll do as I please!” she fired back, remaining rooted in place.

Dany felt the boat slow to a stop.

“Well? Aren’t you coming?” she heard Jon ask.

“I’ll go nowhere with you, Jon Snow. I am a queen and you are a petty thief and a wildling and a mischief-maker.”

“Well, it would be a shame to let you drift back out and need me to rescue you.” he said casually.

“Hmph! Say rather that I’ve half a mind to float out and order you to come and carry me back to shore. Soaking you as you scared me, it’s only fair.”

“Aye, you could order me to come get you and I would. But what’s stopping me from simply dropping you once the water got shallow enough?” At once she turned to him, temper flaring.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You called me a wildling. Wildlings will dare things even Dothraki will not, Dany.” Her eyebrow arched.

“You may not call me that. Ever.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

“Alright, Dany.”

“Hmph!” she fumed. After the moments became minutes and he did not move to pluck her from the boat, she burst out in a dramatic sigh. “I tire of bobbing about. You may pull the boat to shore so that I can remain dry with no room for mischief from a common queen-stealing raider like you.” Dutifully Jon came into the water up to his waist, wading out until he was beside her.

“Common raiders steal horses, apples, logger’s axes. It’s the great raiders, the ones they write songs about a thousand years after, that steal queens.” he told her.

“Good. Go find one and tell him I await his pleasure.”

“Do you? There may be one around, I’ll let him know.” With that he scooped her from the boat and curled up as she was, no part of her got wet. All the way to shore, Dany fumed and fumed. “Red-faced like that, I shouldn’t be surprised if smoke starts billowing from your nostrils.” Jon opined with a grin.

“It’s not smoke I’d douse you in.” she said in sharp reply.

“Ah, well. How does the song go? The one about the two madmen from Dorne?” Dany’s temper quite vanished as Jon’s voice filled the air. There was scarcely a song less fit for a northman to sing, Jon Snow least among them than “The Dornishman’s Wife”, yet he sang as if he were born to it. Only when he finished did Dany realize they were quite quit of the water and had moved into the trees. The world had gone completely silent. We could be the only two people in the world, Dany thought. The only two creatures. Two gods in a world we’ve yet to finish making. The trees were white, she saw, and all had faces carved into them. They watched her pass it seemed with judging eyes, and Dany imagined their deep red pits squinting in anger. Why does our son bring the fire-bride here? She stinks of ash and arrogance, with hair like milk and skin like glass and eyes the color of poison and falsehood. Only when she moved her face from Jon Snow’s shoulder did she see that the faces in her mind and the ones that looked at her in the waking world were of two opposite opinions.

“They’re watching us.” she whispered.

“I’m sure they are.” he whispered in reply.

Deeper in the fog cleared and the light of the full moon shone almost bright as day.

“Well… now that I can see, you may put me down.” Dany said, trying to keep her regal air. A modicum of dignity, thank you. Jon set her down slowly, even reluctantly it seemed to Dany. Finally his hands left her and he contented to look at her, illuminated by the moon. It’s warm here, she realized. I can’t see our breath. Her hands twitched, and she brought them up to close around his arms. He’s warm, too. Jon did not pull away. She reached into her pocket and pulled out Rhaegar’s ruby, gleaming like a red star in her palm. It would seem the bleeding star has come to rest at last. Is my heart done bleeding, too?

“Dany.” his voice had gone hoarse, shaky.

“There is no wrong in it, Jon.”

“I am no lord, no highborn heir to a great castle and a great name. Others call me King in the North, but I’ll always be the Bastard of Winterfell. Snow, my name and my shame.”

“There are no bastards north of the Wall, nor among the khalasar. If men too weak to leave their stone houses question it, they’re welcome to. Earlier I was wondering if there was much difference between wildlings and northmen. There’s still less between the Free Folk and the Dothraki. Between wolves and dragons. Between you and I. We go where we will, do what we wish, love who we may.” Her hand found his face, thumb trailing down the faded scars that might have cost him one of his beautiful grey eyes. He is not ice, no more than I am fire. He is flesh and blood as I am. No less, as if we could be made so. No more, as if we could be wanting. Dany felt his arms coming up her back.

“What about our people? What about our honor?”

“What about them?” she asked breathlessly. “They’re probably dicing off over whether we have a boy or girl first. Well, we can corner that wager and assuage your honor both. I happen to be barren.” She saw the uncertainty in his eyes recede. He does not care. “If I cannot take the throne, what need have I for heirs? If you refuse to keep your crown, what need have you for heirs?” She felt her temper rising again as Jon Snow did no more than look at her. “I came halfway around the world to reclaim the Iron Throne. Since you arrived on Dragonstone, I‘ve scarce thought of aught else but you. It’s time you shed that bastard’s pall, it fits you ill as silk would.” She turned and put a hand to the nearest weirwood. “The witch that turned my womb to stone told me I’d never again feel love until my sun-and-stars came back to me. Are you that man, Jon Snow? Are you my sun-and-stars returned? Are you a king or aren’t you?” In a blur of movement he had her in his arms again. His eyes met her own and she saw no fear in them. Daenerys heard him panting, felt his breath on her cheeks, felt his hand on her breast.

“I was given back my life but only now have I been given my back my soul.” he said. “I hope you’ll take my love in trade.” Then he kissed her without a second’s more delay. Only if you’ll take mine in kind, she thought.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

“You’ve yet to lose your touch, it seems.” Varys’ voice carried across the solar of Harrenhal while Tyrion stared up at the night sky.

“I did nothing untoward.” he replied.

“Precisely. You managed to get the queen and the King in the North alone together, free of northern foolishness and southern flattery both.” Tyrion turned and saw the eunuch regard him with a rare genuine smile. “Well played, my lord Hand.” It had been easy to fade into the rear and ask the Dosh Khaleen through Ornela whether it was appropriate to proceed. Easier still to have Ned Umber overhear Tyrion spin a yarn about lake monsters. Besides, Daenerys and Jon Snow were much too preoccupied with each other to notice. As soon as the boat touched off shore, the Dothraki had sent a lad back to Harrenhal to let their khaleesi’s pet dwarf know.

“Everything else has been bashing my head against a brick wall. Good to see a plan of mine working for a change.” He couldn’t express his relief at the prospect of uniting Daenerys and the northman. Too big, too wild, and never held by an outsider. People speak of Dornish fire. It is a puppy, the North a howling direwolf. “Perhaps my managing to catch by accident a fish Lord Baelish has tried to hook with every dirty trick has him so out of sorts.” Tyrion shot Littlefinger a look while he stewed by the hearth.

“You needn’t watch your back for knives with mockingbirds on them, dwarf. Enough people the country over would see you dead without me getting in line.” Baelish replied, it appeared not really listening.

“You know, we’ve been out of Westeros for some time and quite missed just how events concerning Winterfell unfolded. If what I’ve heard on Dragonstone is true, you’re the one responsible for putting Sansa Stark firmly in the clutches of Roose Bolton and his vicious bastard.” Littlefinger’s muttered curses at the cold night stopped.

“I thought-”

“My northern birds have sung song after song of the depravity perpetrated by this Ramsay Snow on his father’s lands. Scarce else came down from that dreary realm during Robert’s reign, in fact. You are as good at the game as I, my lord. If not better. To say you didn’t know who you were hand-feeding the last known Stark to would be as bald-faced a lie as ever a man has told.” Varys said flatly. “Of course, there is the slight possibility you legitimately didn’t know, making you less fit to rule the North than Tyrion is. My lord, how is such a travesty remotely within the scope of possibility?” the eunuch asked. Tyrion poured a bit of wine.

“There is also a third possibility. One so underhanded it would take a schemer beyond compare to pull. Were a man in possession of Sansa Stark fully aware of both the Bolton propensity for cruelty and the speed at which the rest of the North would turn against them and have a cadre of young knights bursting to get in the saddle hidden up his sleeve…well, such a man could swoop in like a hero in a tale to rescue a doe-eyed maiden from the monster. Only in this tale, the hero’s no hero, the maiden’s no maiden and the monster exists only by the hero’s devising.” Tyrion said steadily. Varys sat back in his seat, regarding Littlefinger with a combination of disgust and regard.

“Oh, there was a hero, all right.” Littlefinger replied coldly. “One out of a tale all his own. Resurrected, or so they say, by a red priestess’ efforts. It was all there, for anyone with half a brain to see. Had events gone as they ought have, I’d be at Winterfell right now with nothing further to disrupt me. Instead Jon Snow turned up ready to oust his fellow bastard and rescue his little trueborn brother both. The boy died as he was more than like to do, but the small matter of a column of giants mounted on fucking mammoths stopped Snow- the Stark one, mind- from dying on a Bolton lance as he was supposed to. They call it the Battle of The Bastards. Have you ever seen a giant fight, Lord Lannister? Suffice it to say they made the Knights of the Vale look positively redundant. Because they were. To call the whole mess a battle would do it far more honor than it’s due.” Tyrion frowned. Remarkably shameless and remarkably open. The former had been most like Littlefinger, the latter…

“There’s still the matter of working out your future, Lord Baelish. Once you were lord of the very castle that hosts us, if only on paper. You will never have the North and you will never have Sansa Stark, no more than I will. A return to Winterfell is I think most unwise for a man of your sordid reputation. There are queries in the Free Cities that must needs be made though and some small duties left outstanding from the Bay of Dragons-”

“If you think I’m going to spend the back half of my life shoveling your shits in Essos, dwarf-”

“A better end than you deserve, I’m sure, my lord. Unless you’d rather be present when events get stranger still. If giants smashing shield walls and castle gates to wood pulp is enough to turn your stomach, how might you react to something worse?” Tyrion acted as though he hadn’t been interrupted. Varys leaned in.

“You have considerable financial investment in Essos, my lord. Surely it would prove fruitful to get closer to your sources of income? Perhaps it would be wise to let the people of Westeros forget about you for a few years. The important ones, anyway. The wolves and the dragons, the lions and the falcons.” For a moment Littlefinger’s face was a blank mask. Then he smiled, from ear to ear. That is truly terrifying, Tyrion thought.

“The wolves and the dragons, the lions and the falcons, the game…they don’t matter anymore, my lords. It’s a new game now. One in which we’re pieces like all the rest. One where scheming and plots mean nothing and less. At least not when something out of myth can come along and upend the game table when it loses interest. I thought starting a war or two proved me clever. Getting the Starks and the Lannisters at one another like dogs and cats or rather, wolves and lions, cleverer still. Then I saw what cleverness was worth when a hairy unicorn, a story come to life, smashed two dozen men in pink into paste.” He stood. “A new game,” he repeated, “with new rules. One I don’t much care to play.” Moving to the door, he put a hand on the molding and started to chuckle aloud. “You think getting this dragon queen and a dull bastard together will fix all ills? That either is remotely suited to sitting the Iron Throne, that everything will be whores and honeyed wine if you can just manage to get rid of Cersei?” When neither dwarf nor eunuch answered, he continued. “When I told Sansa that life was not a song, I was both right and wrong. In the south, the songs are all noble heroes and virtuous maidens and slain monsters. In the north, the songs are different, dour. Monsters that slay heroes, maidens that are monsters, all the rest. Life may be a song after all, but one of the northern sort. In life and song alike, the monsters win.” Petyr Baelish turned to face the pair a final time, smirking at their confounded faces. “You still don’t understand.” he shook his head, chuckling. “You will.” Then he left.

Tyrion’s innards had gone cold at Littlefinger’s words. The man who with a plan for everything has just folded. Dwarf, it’s time to up your game or follow him to Essos. He turned wearily to Varys, whose face had frozen in an impassive and unreadable stare. “Well, that was cheerful.” he said numbly to which the eunuch gave no reply. “You’re a good friend and all, Varys, but sometimes you fucking exhaust me.” He poured himself a second cup.

“I have watched Littlefinger work toward a certain end for years, Tyrion. It is not like him to let a prize go unclaimed nor a fruit go unplucked. The only way to divert Petyr Baelish from his course is to destroy that course, wholly, for once and all. If what he suspects about the North proves true, I can find no purpose for us joining Daenerys on her journey there.” Tyrion’s eyebrows went up. Ah, the old wound. Magic and monsters go hand in hand and Littlefinger’s mention of the latter brought up bad memories of the former.

“This isn’t Lys, my friend. Nobody is chopping bits off to talk to demons at Winterfell.”

“Long and hard I have thought about that night from every conceivable perspective, my lord. Lately it’s occurred to me that whatever its nature, to give an answer the voice on the other end of the flames had to have a reason, a motive, had to care about the goings-on of the world we live in, and more than fleetingly. I shudder to think of something worse, but it’s readily apparent. Worse than something that cares too much for our intrigues and our games is something that doesn’t care, that’s about its own business and resents intrusions.”

“A jolly fellow like you, it’s a wonder you’re not big at taverns.” Tyrion replied. The Spider has lost his stomach, too.

“I simply fear that things will soon go beyond our ability to control.” Varys said, letting the mask fall. At this, Tyrion laughed aloud.

“You were worried about that when you first brought up Daenerys to me, back when we were readying for Stannis. It pains me to say but I rather think we’ve been flung from the table since then.” he said, smiling weakly. “Dragons fly overhead and wolves run in packs of hundreds. What purpose do we have now, let alone at Winterfell?”

“I suppose I’m just weary of so much change. The North has gone off quite on its own, not just a realm apart but a world apart. Where tooth and claw have replaced rule of law. I remember talking circles around Ned Stark, the unfortunate. Now his bastard is enamored of Daenerys Targaryen and the North is unassailable, one daughter is set to become Lady of Storm’s End and the other has reached safety at last. Meanwhile Lord Tywin rots alongside his catspaws in Roose Bolton and Walder Frey and Cersei perches most precariously on a throne nobody seems much to care about anymore. It’s like a riddle. Who really won the game?”

Tyrion rubbed his temples, head pounding. After only two cups? I must have waited too long to start drinking again. That or Varys’ blasted words are doing my head in.

“You speak as though we’ve won already. I would have thought a man with your experience would know that nobody wins at all. If you happen to be the one in power at the end you just get to mind this shitfield of a country and try to stave off famines so bad that we’re eating each other. Hardly something to see as the ceiling yet it’s the best anyone has ever done. Littlefinger is right. Even if we depose Cersei, what then? Daenerys is no less mortal than the rest of us and it will be quite the task to keep her on the throne, away from so tempting a desire as Jon Snow. Say she takes the throne, say she reigns a hundred years. She’s barren. One day near or far the world will find itself without her and all will start again.” Besides, she belongs where the dragons do. Not behind stone walls or on an iron chair. But if not Daenerys Targaryen then who? They talked in circles for the next hour until Tyrion’s head was throbbing and he had to piss a river, the wine jug emptied twice over. “A riddle with no answer.” he declared finally, slamming his hands on the table while his eyes swam with drink. “The kingdoms over are full of lords who know their lands, know their peoples, but simply aren’t fit for anything more than their modest holdings. Those lords above them and they above them have names to sing of and vast resources but are too far removed from the smallfolk either by ignorance or conscious choice or both to care much what becomes of them. Since the Conquest a king has sat the Iron Throne to keep it all standing from the top, keep the lords in check and the smallfolk farming or else we’d all of us starve. What’s needed is someone who’s lived as a peasant and had a prince’s raising both, who knows everything all of us know and lacks all of our individual flaws. You labor to find the person who can rule Westeros, Varys, but it’s abundantly clear that nobody can. Who sees eye to eye with the northmen and the Dornish both? Who can understand the ironborn sea-lust and traverse the Mountains of the Moon as well? All that’s needed cannot be learned, felt, done in a single lifetime.” He felt his gorge rise and dashed to the hearth, putting out their fire with the wine in his belly. Damn. We’ll never get it going again, he thought as his head swam and the room spun.

A torrent of water brought him back to consciousness, spluttering and writhing. Varys stood over him holding a bucket, looking annoyed.
“You get positively nonsensical when you drink too much. May I remind you that the last time you told me everything was going to be fine we ended up with the slavers’ army at the gates of Meereen. The time before that you killed the Hand of the King shortly thereafter and the prized pair of us had to flee to Pentos. The time before that, Stannis attacked King’s Landing and you made the Blackwater run green with wildfire. When there is no plan, no focus, no person to hold power, chaos reigns. Nothing is possible in a state of chaos. Littlefinger was one who thought just enough disorder to twist to one’s own advantage was just the solution. Anarchy meant opportunity, the more the better. In this he was a fool.”

“Yet we’re the ones remaining behind to fly with dragons and run with wolves.”

“I didn’t say we weren’t fools too. Just braver ones.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Tyrion said, his grin making the throbbing worse. The cup Varys handed him was full of water. Better than blood or piss, I suppose, he mused as he downed it. When he got to his feet it was all he could do to stop from collapsing again so he bid Varys goodnight and staggered to an empty bedchamber. Varys would like nothing less than to meet the sorcerer’s guest that night in Lys, he thought slumping on the bed. Fear undoes a man, even one such as he. Perhaps it would do him good to come face to face with what has haunted him since his days as a Lyseni alley thief. It seemed no more than moments but upon waking Tyrion realized he had been asleep a few hours at the least. And yet my head pounds like a battle drum. He made to get out of bed but succeeded only in tangling with the blanket, landing face first on the wooden floor. He heard a curse a few rooms down the hall. “Unnhh…” Tyrion groaned as he gradually got to his feet, wobbling and swaying. His stomach twisted but he managed to comport himself, muttering a prayer to the god of drunkards. He waddled over to the window and looked up at the night sky, trying to ignore the feeling of his heartbeat making his skull thrum. Well, I’ll not get any sleep it seems. Best scheme. In one of the drawers at the widow he found parchment and lit a candle to warm the accompanying ink. Tyrion liked to write in broad script when knocking his head against the wall rather than the minute circling nonsense Varys preferred, the sort used by spies. We’ll be at Riverrun before long. I should ascertain the whereabouts of any Lannisters gone missing in the western riverlands. It wasn’t so important now to announce the return of Daenerys Targaryen and wave a dragon banner but Tyrion would still have liked to know the river lords’ dispositions. Assuming any are left. The lands we’ve passed through have been void of people. Smart bet is that’s what we’ll find as we proceed west. He looked at his shorthand. Riverlands fucked was all that lay on the parchment. “Concise.” he said flatly to himself.

When dawn came and the castle awoke anxiously awaiting the return of Her Grace and Jon Snow, Tyrion took it upon himself to see just what Varys had gotten up to.

“Littlefinger has sadly left our company.” the eunuch said in the solar, slowly eating from a small plate of grapes and cheese. Tyrion slapped a hand over his heart in mock anguish, even getting to a knee.

“Such anguish it is to lose a man so true.”

“Taking up mummery?”

“Was I that good?” Varys rolled his eyes. He’s anxious and impatient, but for more than marching orders. “What is it now?”

“Imagine for a moment how much stronger all this would be but for a single Lhazareen hedge witch.”

“Women need no witches to go barren. A difficult birth to a twisted babe can do damage enough without a blood-curse to accompany. Damage enough to kill, even.” Varys looked for once quite abashed.

“I apologize, my lord. Truly, it was not my intention to raise such a specter.” Tyrion waved his arm impatiently.

“As if Cersei hasn’t spend decades giving me far worse. It’s as if simply being in Harrenhal is enough to make a man feel like a skin of warm piss. Once we’re off all will be well.”

“Well until we reach Tully lands and see Frey corpses littering every field and swinging from every tree.” Varys cautioned. “Still better, Lord Edmure’s wife is a Frey by birth, her son half Frey himself.”

“That’s no fault of his. What could a boy of what, not quite four, know of the Red Wedding?” Varys’ face pursed.

“What could a babe in swaddling or a girl with a kitten know of Robert’s Rebellion? Yet Aegon and Rhaenys died all the same.” The headache is returning.

“Let’s just get there. Then you can spout all the doom you like and when we find Edmure Tully waiting to spring a splendid feast on us I can jape at you all during the night.” Not that he’s like to welcome a Lannister, or their pet spider. Or a Targaryen or Catelyn Tully’s husband’s bastard. Or a horde of Dothraki, or a pack of wolves, or a fucking dragon. Tyrion prayed Ser Ien Waters knew Brynden Tully better than he did.

Tyrion needed Varys’ steadying hand on his shoulder to make it out into the yard without losing a few teeth on the floor in front of him. No matter, dwarf teeth are lucky, Tyrion thought. A gold dragon apiece. The bolder among their number who’d spent the night on the shores of the God’s Eye returned in better spirits by far, massing a few hundred feet from the western gate and so those who’d spent the night in Harrenhal were forced to join them. The Dothraki guffawed at his stumbling and groaning.

“Tron is having too much wine.”

“Not I. I just happened to catch sight of my reflection and promptly challenged him to a drinking contest. The bastard didn’t say a word but he matched me drop for drop and I don’t much remember anything more!” Tyrion declared, making the bloodriders howl with laughter. The queen’s giggling was a sound so unexpected Tyrion thought he might have imagined it at first. When he looked to the center of their little wandering troupe he saw Jon Snow tuck a wildflower crown on her head. She immediately blushed bright pink and buried her face in her hands, several of the younger Dosh Khaleen giggling themselves. At least someone is having fun, Tyrion thought. Old as they were, the crones among the Dothraki were eager to be quit of Harrenhal and its evil humors and so off they went, thought it took the better part of the afternoon for the melted towers of the castle to disappear into the distance. As the trees grew closer and the land hillier the pack began to break off into smaller groups, wolves running every which way and making the horses whinny. They don’t need to follow us in this, they could find us in moments if they had to. Drogon for his part snorted as the column slipped out of his view, hidden by boughs even autumn-balding as they were. I suspect he’ll start screeching soon. Perhaps we should have got a barrel of milk for him, as Jon Snow suggested. He’s as needy as a babe still at the breast. Once they reached the outskirts of House Blackwood’s lands the rains began. The rolling hills became muddy slopes and any inkling Tyrion had of calling on Raventree Hall was snuffed out by the deluge. Perhaps Drogon can see the castle from on high, even through the rain. Or perhaps he’s too busy worrying about his mother.

The rain kept up even days later and the column had become sodden and sullen. It was impossible to get out of the downpour, much less find dry ground to sleep on, so Tyrion made do with simply flipping his cloak over his head. The water dripped through the cloth regardless but it bested being truly pissed on by some laughing god. Just as he managed to drift off he heard a shriek and slipped in the mud so fast did he try to rise. Wiping the muck off his face he hurried fast as he dared toward the noise, finding Alys Karstark in the arms of her wildling.

“Corpses enough to make another army of wights, and no burning them in this.” he grunted when he saw the dwarf approach.

“Drogon could do for them rain or no rain.” Tyrion replied, but the black dragon looked singularly unaccommodating coiled as he was with a wing over his mother, her head tucked into Jon Snow’s coat. As dry as any of us can be. At least she won’t die from a chill. Tyrion footed the dead man who’d frightened Lady Karstark, flipping him onto his back to reveal the red stallion of House Bracken. A footman from Stone Hedge. “The wars raged here worse than anyplace else in the Seven Kingdoms. I’ll hazard for every corpse we find there’s ten we don’t.”

“No wonder the wolves aren’t afraid of us. Like as not they’ve had more of men than they have of anything on four legs.” They pressed on, the countless rivulets of the riverlands flowing at full bore and more, faster and wider than Tyrion remembered.

“It’s this fucking rain.” he heard Ser Ien say to Ser Bonifer. “The ground can’t take it any longer, the Red Fork’s going to be a nightmare.” One man was leaning on a tree, looking northward, and when Tyrion go closer he saw drenched red hair.

“Tormund Giantsbane. Best not wander off, we’d never find you again.”

“Dead men we can’t burn, rain that won’t stop. Water turns to ice once the time comes, Lannyman. It isn’t drowning I’m worried about.” Ah, them again.

“Surely this would be as much a hindrance to any enemy.”

“Once water’s froze the Others do what they like with it. They leave no prints in snow and are footed on ice sure as a bighorn ram strutting up a mountainside. We best finish whatever it is we’re doing here so we can get home again. I feel it in my bones, Lannyman. The ache the gods give old people to let them know the cold is coming.”

“You’re not that old.”

“Old enough. It’s good Snow’s finally got his head in the right place again but we’ve spent too much time down here already. The Others won’t wait for us to be ready, every minute pissed away talking to this one or that one is a minute more the Others have to play with. They’ve had ten thousand years so far. How much more time can we afford to give them?”

They reached the Red Fork the next day, the river raging westward toward where the seat of House Tully lay. If it hasn’t been washed away completely. Tyrion heard Ser Ien muttering in some confusion, Ser Bonifer wiping his face out of habit, the rain quickly making his efforts fruitless.

“We ought have hit the river road before the Red Fork. They don’t meet until Riverrun.” Hasty said. Her Grace joined them then, coming out of the shelter of Drogon’s wing as he whined.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, her hair falling down her face like a silver veil.

“By rights we ought have hit road before the Fork, Your Grace. It’s as if we’ve skipped a good league or two.”

“We haven’t skipped a step, ser.” Jon Snow said, looking out at the water rushing past. “No doubt the river road is right where it ought be. Right in front of us.” His meaning made Ser Ien’s eyes pop.

“The Red Fork isn’t that wide, nothing in the riverlands is.”

“Nor this vicious I’d imagine, but with the rain I’d bet there’s less lands and more river every passing minute. I suppose we’ve just got to keep going west until we see something that looks like a castle.” Once his words filtered to the queen’s bloodriders they began muttering nervously. In his gut, Tyrion agreed.

“The maesters can talk about once-in-a-generation all they like, this deluge can’t be natural.” he told Varys quietly.

“I doubt they’ve ever seen anything like the riverlands to begin with. To say nothing of the rivers themselves growing seemingly at will.” Fucking magic, Tyrion thought. Who ever heard of raining an enemy to death? Yet the trick is proving potent. Had we meant to besiege Riverrun we’d have found it impossible. Close as they were to the water the ground had become even more treacherous and so the Dothraki sought to lead their horses on foot rather than risk laming them. The horses were made calmer too by the pack’s thorough refusal to approach the river’s edge. A few of the lads were even bold enough to try and fill their waterskins, the trunks of trees laid low by the rains floating about. Tyrion recognized one of the boys. Dhokko. His father died in the attack on Meereen. He had his head turned toward his friends yelling in his native tongue when he froze. Tyrion turned to see what Dhokko was looking at and found Drogon with his eyes locked on the river. On the trunks. Before Tyrion could put ink to parchment in his mind something exploded from the water in a shower of mud and teeth. Two huge jaws caught Dhokko’s horse around the chest and pulled the screaming animal to ground, sliding backward into the water where two other trunks promptly latched on as well, the horse disappearing in a tide of thrashing scaled bodies. Dhokko himself hadn’t even had time to turn around, so quick was the attack. Tyrion stood dumbfounded as the animals fed, quickly becoming almost identical to logs as they resumed their idle floating. That’s what it is. They keep in place. A real log hasn’t the power to fight the river’s flow, he thought detachedly. Turning back toward the trees the column had come from, Tyrion saw the pack watching impassively.

“What in fuck was that?!” he heard someone bellow. Dhokko had begun to sob, for his horse or from the shock or both. Other Dothraki made to swarm the area but before they could turn it into a feast of horse and man both Drogon spread his wings and screamed.

“It was a lizard-lion. Not less than ten feet long. Wide as a barrel at the middle.” Tyrion told the queen after, when emotions had calmed. The Dothraki for their part mourned the loss of a good horse. “I suppose without an enemy to fight it’s easy to forget that the world can still be dangerous.”

“Lizard-lions live in the Neck, hundreds of miles from here. One would be a fantasy story to scare children. Three?” Ser Ien said dismissively.

“That we saw. They’re astoundingly good at pretending to be logs. Logs can’t float against a current, though, that’s how you spot the animals. As for how they got down here…maybe the northern riverlands are in even worse shape than what we’ve seen.” As if the rains and rivers wish to wash House Frey from the world. “If they’ll go for a healthy horse they’ll go for a healthy man, or a dead one waiting to be gulped down.” Tyrion continued. “It seems they’ve taken advantage of the war and the weather both.”

“Worse? The only way they could be worse is if they’re completely underwater.” Ser Ien said, looking pale. We could all drown tomorrow and Cersei would be no nearer to getting the North back in thrall to the Iron Throne. Not with the riverlands flooding itself and lizard-lions with a fondness for the flesh of men in the water.

“Just so. I’d like to make Riverrun sooner rather than later, Your Grace. There is nothing more that can be done here until the rains stop, which seems a fool’s hope.” Daenerys’ lip quivered. Soaked as she was, Tyrion could see the girl beneath the queen, one that yearned to help people as best she could. Well, all the people here are either ghosts or corpses.

“We need to address King’s Landing before going north. Ser Jaime must be allowed to set the westerlands to rights.” she said finally, the King in the North having gone off to see what he could of the lizard-lions, if they’d follow them in the water or overland, gods forbid.

“Then it’s Riverrun. I only pray it hasn’t sunk into the Red Fork.” Ser Bonifer said wearily.

Chapter Text

Catelyn

Once, she’d loved the sunshine above all else. Of late the rains had become a thing of great beauty, the rivers rising steadily as the days became weeks. Rather than continue into the Neck as had been her original play, Catelyn Stark had taken to washing the towers of Frey out of the memory of the riverlands. River-shades had marched forth on tides and currents to soothe Seagard and Pinkmaiden of their Frey rashes, Catelyn ignoring the shouts of the Mallisters and the Pipers in turn as the guests of the Red Wedding ignored any arrows loosed or swords swung their way. Show me the arrow that can pierce water, show me the blade that can cut it true, she thought as she watched a river galley fill of Frey retainers capsize in the surging Red Fork. Those dead of drowning began to outnumber those killed in the incessant battles. Catelyn was standing at the bottom of a bend when she saw the first of them, gliding overhead as gracefully as a swan in flight. A lizard-lion, she thought, watching the thing swim on the current, letting the water carry its bulk on to the easy meals. As if they truly were flying. I wonder what a whale looks like from below… Soon they came near as heavy as the rains, eager to gorge on the bounty the famously fertile House Frey offered. Live men, dead men, horses, all fed the armor-clad animals as they rampaged down from the north. From the Neck. Despite their circumstances Catelyn saw Talisa go wide-eyed at the sight of a particularly large individual leap out of the water as if loosed from a scorpion to pull down a Frey knight, horse and all, and promptly drag both into the waiting jaws of another half-dozen of its fellows.

“We hear Essos is full of wonderful creatures and fierce monsters both.” she said, her voice a hollow rasp.

“Wonderful creatures and fierce monsters both, and both would quick enough feed these Westerosi water-tigers of yours.” came Talisa’s wary reply. Can they know the depth of my sadness? Or is it rage that drives them, that pushes them out as fingers on the hand of Howland Reed?

Not only the castles of the riverlands but the countryside too, required a thorough seeing to. Westermen infect House Tully’s lands like plague rats. More than one village had been razed by raiders in red during the War of Five Kings, particularly near the border where the riverlands became the westerlands and so the rivers ran through them, sweeping away burnt fields and ruined peasant hovels.

“They seem to like westermen as well as Freys.” Talisa observed when one night the Red Fork simply flooded its banks, catching a force of Lannister soldiers in the mud and rising water. The lizard-lions took no issue even with plate, content to drown their prey first before tearing them asunder. Catelyn saw the river-shade of Ser Wendel Manderly pull a man with shaggy golden hair and beard into the depths of the fork. His gilded chain proved no defense. The Lannisters can keep their gold. Once they fall, it sinks to river’s bottom and there it will remain until the sun itself goes out. In due time those who had not been swept aside by the driving rains and rising rivers fled into the mountains. Up into thin air and solid rock where no rivers ran and Catelyn could not be bothered to pursue them. “How far do you think they go?” Talisa asked, watching the rains pour down as tirelessly as ever.

“Gods willing, as far as is needed. From the western mountains to where the Trident becomes the Forks, from the edge of the Neck to the furthermost tips of the Blackwater Rush.” Despite, or perhaps because of the sudden severity of the rains and the rivers rising seemingly of their own accord, in short order Catelyn found the riverlands void of people. Good, she thought. Let revenants and river-shades haunt my son’s unmarked grave and woe betide any who would trespass here.

It became difficult to much care about days passing, much less keep proper track of them. With nothing left to do, no one left to chase, Catelyn and Talisa took to wandering aimlessly, occasionally picking up a river-shade far-flung from the Red Wedding. All the while, logs floated by innocently on the swollen rivers. Now the riverlands belong to the lizard-lions, she thought. Better them than the Iron Throne and its catspaws. Still, even with the rains she half-expected someone from the Neck to announce themselves to her. All their beasts out and about and they make no point to follow them. Instead once they’d found stretches of river to their liking the animals became quite solitary and intolerant of each other, hissing and giving low raspy grunts. “You’d think with food and space aplenty they’d get to filling the gaps in the river.” Talisa said, watching one float motionlessly in a pond waiting for something to draw near. At first Catelyn had not the first idea what she meant but on reflection, she realized. They spend only as much time in each other’s company as is necessary to hunt. Not a second more. Perhaps the rains are interfering with their desire to pair up. Or we are. If either woman got close to one the animal would turn its head toward them but neither give chase nor warn them off with a hiss. It is the same for our fellow wedding-goers, loyal even beyond death.

“Perhaps going on to Riverrun is not so bad an idea after all.” Catelyn said reluctantly. I have no wish to cross the threshold a dripping horror. Better, though, than leaving it in uncertain hands. Those soldiers said Edmure had retaken the castle. They could have been wrong. I shall see for myself. For an army that marched overland it would have taken months to make the seat of House Tully. For Catelyn and her waterborne trail of ducklings on river’s bottom, it took two days. No way to get lost, no way to be diverted, no obstacles in our path. Just follow the Red Fork as far west as you can, she thought. By the time the red sandstone towers became visible, Catelyn had tied a strip of sodden cloth around her neck. But for the water I could be alive, she thought dryly. The same could not be said for Talisa Maegyr. Her wound is deep and cruel and it would take a maester’s robes to hide it. When asked if she’d like something like an apron, Talisa merely pulled the cloth from Catelyn’s neck.

“Of late I helped you wash away the very men whose wounds I bound. Just now the last thing on my mind is appearing comely.”

Catelyn stared at the drawbridge from the Red Fork’s forested southern bank. A dozen bodies hung from the parapets, lizard-lions gathered indolently under each. Waiting for dinner to drop.

“How do you want to go in?” Talisa asked, gently as she could.

“Without giving my brother’s soldiers the scare of a lifetime.” Catelyn answered. “You’ll have to do the talking, I can scarcely hear myself let alone shout up to the ramparts.”

“Well, we’ll not need the shades, then.” She saw one of them fade into mist, scattered by the rain. Meanwhile, Talisa looked uncertainly at the ramparts of Riverrun. “They’re not going to hear me, either. This deluge probably has them off the walls and under stone wherever possible.” Catelyn sighed. Always the water. She waded into the Fork, letting it flow into her face and then over her head. Talisa pointed to something off in the distance and Catelyn saw a school of trout dart past, nimble dancers in silver costumes. While on land they flop about. Rather like me. It was a simple thing to walk across river’s bottom to the base of the castle and to Catelyn’s small amusement the pair of them could pass under the Water Gate. How odd to look straight up at a portcullis. Then it was like being at the bottom of a well, or so she imagined. Surrounded by red stone. Just like when I was a girl. The rains kept the water’s surface roiling, a mirror that could no sooner smooth itself than warp somewhere else. Slowly Catelyn ascended, careful to break the surface off to the side where she was unlikely to be seen. She spotted clusters of guardsmen packed into alcoves and lingering in doorways, muttering lowly to each other. We’ll need to slip out during the changing of the guard, Catelyn realized. But how long was that? Dark and raining as it was, she had no idea how long she and Talisa lingered by the rowboats waiting for a chance to emerge from the water. Eventually she realized that the last of the mutters had died away. Seven save me, they’ve fallen asleep. I’m waiting for a statue to blink… she thought, shaking her head as she silently pulled herself up onto the red stones of the lower bailey. She passed the sleeping men and made for the stair up to Riverrun proper. I need not worry about leaving a trail, she thought. The castle is soaked to the stones. Wordlessly she passed through the home of her girlhood, the rains kept out only by sodden curtains and shut windows. She saw no trace of Edmure, nor of anyone else. This is not my home. The home Catelyn Tully knew has gone with her parents, the home Catelyn Stark knew has gone with her children. Talisa kept her moving, a steady hand on her shoulder to keep her upright. Finally she found herself standing at the base of the spiral stair up to the solar. Father’s solar, we were not to climb the steps. She remembered Lysa had not been bold enough to so much as sit on the bottom step. When Petyr Baelish had gone halfway up a young Catelyn Tully had gone still further and kissed the door to Lord Tully’s private chamber.

She put a sodden hand to the same door a giggling little girl had once beheld with all the wonder in the world. Now what’s left of her returns, the missing bits filled in with water and moonlight. The door gave when she pushed it, swinging slowly and soundlessly open to reveal a dark room with a pitiable fire sputtering in the hearth, a young woman anxiously bent over it. Sitting at her side was a little boy, a babe in truth, with wide Tully eyes locked on Catelyn. His little mouth hung open. In the dim light she could see his crop of red hair. A little Edmure. Evidently he had recently been fussing because the girl tending the fire looked to him.

“See? Nothing to be scared off, just the…rain.” She looked to her son, started at the look on his face, and slowly turned to the door of the solar. Promptly she copied the babe’s expression. The most attractive of Lord Walder’s brood, more Rosby than Frey. Catelyn could feel her torn throat twist.

“It’s as you say, Roslin.” her voice came out a hiss. She began moving closer, the girl frozen in place. “Just…the…rain.” Roslin Frey swayed and sank into a chair, making odd choking sounds.

“Ma!” Her son gave a loud cry, rushing to her side with all the speed the babe could muster. The door to the bedroom opened and Catelyn could see a man standing on the threshold, swaying from drink. “Can’t you keep him quiet for five minutes?” he groaned. Catelyn saw the matted hair and unkempt beard, the stained jerkin that might have been slashed red and blue.

“Edmure.” she rasped at him. He’s a greater ruin than I am. I may be a horror but least I’m sober. As she was wondering if it were possible to get drunk in her current state, the man flopped onto the floor in a faint. Maybe waiting until morning would have been a better idea, she thought.

“Da!” She heard the boy cry, toddling over. He took a pudgy little hand and gently prodded Edmure’s shoulder but Catelyn could hear his snores.
“Best flip him so he doesn’t drown in his own vomit.” Talisa said, passing Roslin shuddering and mute to slip a foot under the Lord of Riverrun’s prone form and flip him onto his back. Dragging him to the fire, Talisa muttered under her breath in a tongue Catelyn didn’t know. Finally she got him sitting up next the hearth.

“Right. Now I just need a bucket of cold water.”

“The fuck’s going on up there?” Catelyn heard a half-remembered voice coming up the spiral stair. Talisa waited for its owner to appear before quickly heading him off just as he got into the solar.

“Ser Brynden.” she said, as if they were still in Robb’s command tent. I pray his heart does not burst, he is not a young man, Catelyn thought as her uncle’s eyes flitted stonily from her to Talisa, from opened throat to split belly. To her great surprise there was no outcry, no drawn sword. The Blackfish merely rubbed his face wearily. He looks so old, Catelyn thought. The Blackfish’s scales are lighter gray than I remember.

“When they arrive I’ll have to say something.” he finally said shortly. “This is starting to get out of hand.”

Catelyn sat with Talisa as the Blackfish spun a tale even madder than their own. Dragons and wolves. Mermaids and man-fishes. Dead men coming for the living.

“Hm, the northmen have got Ned’s bastard as their king up there. A few of the Night’s Watch didn’t like him making common cause with wildlings so they put their knives in him. He got over it and quick.” The Blackfish looked to be struggling to remember it all. “The dragon queen has the Kingslayer trying to keep his bitch sister from burning King’s Landing down. Uh, and your girls are alive.” The last point was almost an aside, said as gently as possible. As if he doesn’t want my heart to burst, Catelyn thought dizzily.

“Where are they now?” she barely got it out.

“According to Snow, Sansa’s safe at Winterfell. They gave the Boltons a proper squashing. Arya’s at Storm’s End with a bastard of Robert’s, she’s mad for him.” I haven’t seen Arya since Ned took her to King’s Landing. Everyone the country over was looking for her, wherever did she hide all those years? Would Arya even recognize her mother through the wounds and the water? Then Catelyn thought it through. Would she recognize Arya? Not in a dress, and not without a layer of dirt on her face and her hair a mousy tangle. All else seemed to fall away. My daughters are alive. She didn’t know what to do. One moment she was ready to try going to Winterfell again, te next she was ready to walk to Storm’s End along the bottom of the Narrow Sea. A straight shot, the shortest way. Then she took in the sight of her uncle, aging it seemed before her eyes, and her snoring brother in the care of Talisa Maegyr. Roslin had scooped up her son and held him close, behind her chair and in obvious terror despite Brynden’s nonchalance. They need me more than the girls do. Family, Duty, Honor. The thought of not going to her daughters made Catelyn feel terrible but if they were safe and out of harm’s way, what good would she do them?

“Blackfish!” A sentry’s voice rang from the stairwell. The selfsame man heaved a sigh, rolled his eyes and went off to see what was wrong. Promptly the sound of quick steps presaged his almost immediate reappearance, face having gone red.

“Uhh…they’re coming down the Red Fork.”

“Who is?” Catelyn asked, startled by his rapid shift in mood, he of the infamously steeled affect.

“Them. Uh, the dragon queen. Daenerys and her pet lords. Might be Jon Snow is with her too.”

The thought of him, the Bastard of Winterfell, did not lighten Catelyn’s mood. Ever did he look more like Ned than Robb. She looked into her hands, where the assassin’s Valyrian steel dagger had tasted her palms. Would I have done the same were it Jon lying in the bed? Or would I have let the killer rid me of Jon Snow? Her hand came to her forehead. Perhaps I can feel pain after all. In her anguish she turned away from her uncle and found herself facing Talisa. She knows, Catelyn thought. I told her about what kind of mother I proved to be to the child that was not mine. Yet she saw no judgement in the olive drop eyes. Indeed, the Volantene seemed off in her own thoughts.

“She doesn’t look like you, does she?” Catelyn’s insides felt like ice.

“Have you seen her? Before I found you at the Twins?” Talisa looked uncertain.

“It’s all a fog. I don’t remember much further than when you turned up, my lady.” Catelyn knew the feeling all too well. Years have passed since Robb died. Nobody much remembers the Young Wolf anymore, not now with dragon queens about and rains pounding day and night. Brynden leaned in when the silence got awkward.

“What are we going to do?” he asked. Everyone conscious looked from each to the other.

“I don’t think…we make the best first impression.” Talisa said finally.

“Yes…perhaps it’s better we let them know you’re here before you leap out at Snow hissing like an alley cat.” Brynden said, looking at Catelyn. “Perhaps you should wait in the godswood while we…inform Her Grace that you’re here. Maybe scrape Edmure off the floor, too.” He shot his nephew a disgusted look. All the while, Roslin only wrapped her arms tighter around her son, looking like she was trying to shrink into the far wall. Catelyn could think of nothing to say to the girl, so she merely took Talisa’s hand and led her from the solar. We ought to give the guards a proper scare at least. Keep them from falling asleep as soon as they can get out of the rain. Every so often she glimpsed a face she half-remembered, an archer from Oxcross or a knight who might have been at the Whispering Wood. They seemed to recognize the pair of them straightaway, their reactions running the gamut from freezing in place as Roslin had done to wetting themselves to running back the way they’d come, screaming. She ignored them, even when they called her name.

Riverrun’s godswood had been a delight to behold in years past. Birds nested in the boughs overhead and little pink and yellow flowers bloomed everywhere one looked. No longer, Catelyn thought. The rain had flooded the grass that had once tickled her feet and the bushy boughs slumped from their branches like limbs hanging out of a sawbones’ cart. No wonder Roslin is terrified of her own shadow. Edmure must think himself cursed, the Red Wedding was his own and his son was conceived that same night.

“It wouldn’t be half so bad, perhaps, but for the wounds.” Talisa said, looking at her own stomach. “I can scarcely be expected to suture it shut. Nor am I about to reach in and empty it just to go flat again.” Catelyn shuddered. The thought that not two of them but three might be present was too ghastly to fully realize. “The river-shades don’t have flesh, they aren’t corpses that go around attacking people. Why then are we trapped in what remains of our bodies? Why can we think and feel and reason, if not remember quite clearly?” Are all Essosi so bizarre? It seemed to Catelyn that with the brief respite granted them from aimless wandering Talisa Maegyr was trying to work out just what was going on. A sound like rolling thunder mixed with a wolf’s yelp made louder a hundredfold made both of them look to the east. A dragon, Catelyn thought. For a moment she forgot where she was, what she was. For a moment she was on her father’s lap, listening to tales of the creatures that had made Valyria master of the world. Then she was sitting on a bench in the godswood again, soaked through with limp hair stuck to her face no matter how many times she tried to brush it away. She strained her ears trying to hear the sound again. Instead she heard a chorus of hisses. “Who’s got the bathtub full of snakes?” Talisa asked, sounding rather annoyed. It got closer and soon she heard the guardsmen muttering fearfully to one another. Something landed just outside the walls of Riverrun, lowing and crooning to itself while a girl’s voice giggled and called to it in reply. “High Valyrian.” Talisa said at once.

They did not leave the godswood. I’m sure everyone in the castle has flocked to the walls to see the dragon, fear notwithstanding. We will wait for our visitors to come to us, as Uncle Brynden advised. Catelyn whiled away the wait pondering the nature of the deluge. If it continues, the whole of the riverlands will disappear as the Forks meet and merge. What had caused it, though? What had caused them? Surely they were related, the rising water had washed away the perpetrators of the Red Wedding and replaced what death had taken from Catelyn and Talisa both. Well, almost. I’ve still got an opened throat I have to rasp through. Speaking of water… She got up and made for the pool that had formed where once quaint streams had trickled. Enough to rain away even the gods. She found herself wading into it and when she looked into the water’s surface, she almost screamed aloud. Her own face looked back at her but the hair was red as it had been in life, true life, the eyes were Tully blue instead of muted and milky and there was no trace of the rend in her throat. It has no age, she thought. The face was not a girl’s nor a maiden's, nor was it as old as she had been when she had died. Ageless. Timeless. Transfixed, she moved closer to the water’s surface until she found herself sinking to the bottom. Suffused with the water the heart tree had supped on, water tasted by Ned’s own gods, Catelyn found her thoughts wandering. The Freys had killed her but what was she? Flesh is fleeting, here and gone. Rains fall and rivers flow strong as they have since the gods first made the world, and will when every person alive now has gone to them. When Catelyn made to try and rise the corpse she had been trapped in fell away. She watched it sink out of sight. She remembered the face that had stared out from the pool. With time and patience she felt the water around her, that was her take shape and form. Does the water shape me? Or am I shaping it? Or are we one? A face, a head that wore the face, a body that bore the head, limbs that moved the body. Slowly she stood on new-made legs, hands going down her face, her neck. Nothing. No trace of any injury, nor will there ever be. Had this been the gods’ doing? No matter, she decided. The corpse was only a walking stick and now I am ready to run. Voices from above made her look up and she could see people at water’s edge. One of them made her heart jump. Ned, she thought, rising quickly, effortlessly, through thought alone. Perhaps I left the living world behind after all, she wondered as she ascended. I could not have been more ready. Her head broke the surface and she filled her lungs with air. Someone caught her wrists and pulled Catelyn from the pool, helping her stand. Ned, she thought again, blinking the sun out of her eyes. The world came into focus a moment later and she beheld not her lost lord but Jon Snow, grey Stark eyes wide and dark Stark hair matted to his head. The rain has stopped, she realized.

Chapter Text

Theon

The man-fish made the last leg of the voyage pass by quickly if nothing else. It had taken to flopping after people this way and that, croaking loudly when it wanted food or so those aboard Black Wind guessed. Watching it eat fish is a bit off. I couldn’t imagine eating a monkey, Theon thought. They tried it on dried beef next. The stinking little bastard did a lot of sniffing but when it sank its needle teeth into the meat it didn’t go to swallow, instead spending hours with a strip of beef hanging from its mouth.

“No cows on the bottom of the sea. Can’t imagine it tastes particularly good dried, as well.” Theon told whoever had come up beside him.

“It’ll have to do. We can’t well sink fishing lines down so deep your Drowned God could see them, can we?” Mormont’s curt voice provided the reply. The man-fish avoided the full brunt of the sun as well, quickly waddling under a stair or hiding in a barrel whenever it stood high overhead. Doesn’t seem to mind our stares, though. If it even realizes we’re staring.

“I wonder if he’ll take wine.” Theon mused. Of course once that notion got around the ship there was nothing for it but to gather ‘round the creature and present it with a jug of sweet rum. Its bulging eyes slid blankly from face to face. Theon spotted Asha miming drinking, even taking a bit to drive the point home. The man-fish looked at the jug uncomprehendingly for a minute before Theon simply picked it up and turned it over on the little fry’s head. Its lipless mouth twitched and the thing gurgled woozily, staggering off to hide yet again. No wine then, either. Then again it doesn’t look like they do much tasting, just eating. Or chewing for that matter. “They’re not so bad when they’re half-size and don’t have you four or five to one out on the open ocean.” Theon told Asha once she’d ordered the crew back to their duties.

“Eh. Still creepy.” she replied as its eyes stared out at them from beneath the deck steps.

“A bit. But only a bit.” Something else is on her mind.

“I’m sure Mother is…well, right where you left her. If I know her she’s hale as ever, her sister and the Reader, too. Thank the gods for Harlaw blood.”

“Aye.” A small smile flitted across her face.

“If we can drag the Damphair out of harm’s way as well so much the better but Euron may have killed him just for being a Greyjoy.”

“The Crow’s Eye can’t kill him. At least not brazenly. No drowned priest is so favored by our god as Aeron Greyjoy, or so the ironborn say.”

“Yet Euron tossed Father from the bridge between Pyke’s towers. Who knows, maybe he did for Victarion as well.”

“Father’s war was lost and his captains knew it. They were sick of the North and dying to hold his fledgling conquests there. When he died it meant they could come home and follow an altogether more fitting Greyjoy to warmer waters free of trees, wolves and bog devils. Victarion went down in a storm when Euron sent him off to reave in the Reach, a boring end for a boring man.” No ironman is as fond of wine as lizard-lions are of ironmen. Small wonder nobody complained when Father was murdered, he thought. He had them sinking into the Neck when the Crow’s Eye offered the sweetness of the Reach. Theon heard a sharp hiss and caught a whiff of cooking meat. He turned to order the ass who’d lit a fire on deck to put it out but saw only Jorah Mormont sitting on a crate, fist closed tight enough to open his palm on his fingernails. “Leave him. He seems to think it’s something naught to do with us and so it is.” Asha said quietly when she saw Theon looking. “Focus on what we’re going to do about our uncles, Harlaw and Greyjoy both.”

Passing out of the waters of the Reach and into those of the westerlands, Theon couldn’t help but have bleak thoughts. With the Old Lion dead, the westermen will be looking inward and not to the sea. Their luck Crow’s Eye has deigned to pick the meat from Cersei’s bones and so his reavers haven’t set the hills aflame yet. It made sense then that they were the only ones on the sea but it didn’t make it feel any less off-putting. The sea as it truly is, the Sunset Sea in particular. No ironmen around boasting and raiding, just the sound of waves and blue horizons. Yet again his gaze fell to the west, where the sea rose and fell same as every other way he looked. Whatever’s out there hasn’t seen fit to come to dinner. Maybe they haven’t got ships to reach us or maybe they don’t much feel the need to meet the Westerosi. To the north, the Frozen Shore and beyond it trackless frozen emptiness, to the east the coasts of the westerlands, to the south the Arbor and beyond it the Summer Islands… Ironborn are creatures of habit. Raiding the same shores for generations and Euron Greyjoy is no less iron than the rest of us. His crew of mutes might seem eerie but what if he does it to hide the truth? If he has been half the places he claims, I’ll eat my boot. He turned and almost tripped over the wee fish, standing right beside him. How did I miss the stink? Quickly he realized the thing hadn’t moved and looking down further saw its arms at its sides, staring up at him with singularly uncharacteristic focus. Normally it can’t stop twitching and burbling…

“Uh…are you hungry?” The thing gave no answer, only staring unblinkingly with those damned fist-sized yellow-white eyes. You ought to have more than seawater soaking the Damphair’s robes in short order. Wordlessly he moved off toward the bow where Asha had taken up, talking with Mormont. “Right, not to interrupt but our stowaway is giving me murder-eyes and I’d like to stop shuddering for a moment.” he said, interrupting whatever the surly knight was about to say. Asha looked over his shoulder.

“Murder-eyes, you say?” she said with a grin. When Theon looked, one of the men had an oar aloft, the fish hanging from the flat head by its teeth, wriggling and twitching as was habit. Hagen’s daughter gave a shudder when the man brought it near her, the fish warbling loudly. Maybe it just didn’t like me looking west so much. Then again, what do babes care about much of anything? Assuming it’s a babe after all… Falling to the deck it promptly made for under the stairs, making all manner of vaguely grotesque noises to the amusement of the crew. Laugh now. One day it’s going to get big enough to thrust a spear through those step spaces and someone on them is going to lose a foot.

By then half the crew seemed ready to quit the open sea for the comforts of Lannisport, even Asha. They had been at the ropes of Black Wind a long time and Theon knew his sister fretted over the condition of her mast but he kept her on course.

“No telling if the west’s been sorted. We’re doing the Iron Islands no good impounded in port or in Lannister dungeons. Best press on home, maybe sleep in your own beds and fuck your wives instead of poxy whores tonight, lads.”

“Who says their wives aren’t just as poxy?” Qarl the Maid grinned from his post near the stern. “No wonder they don’t fancy going back, half of them are married to fatted sea cows and the other half are married to screeching gulls.” Theon gave a grin at his words but he could see the nerves in the Maid’s eyes. He doesn’t want to stop so much as not go where we’re headed. Man-fishes and snapping rotted heads…Theon found he couldn’t much blame Qarl the Maid, who lived to irritate the landed families on the Iron Islands and entertain Asha on the rare occasions she felt like having a man. He’s not the kind suited to going further. Ironborn may ride the seas of the waking world but in the waters of the mind they’re green as any mainlander. Certainly the world they knew was sliding down the privy pipes but Theon suspected that might not be so bad. The dragon queen had said it in the pyramid. The Old Way is no more. Not just because she’d returned to Westeros, either. Man-fishes it seemed filled the waters on either side and things that cooked reavers by the shipful swam in the Summer Sea. Lord Balon Greyjoy had thought himself a kraken with many grasping arms and the right to hold all he could reach. The kraken’s grasp proved feeble after the lizard-lions chewed all those fearsome arms off. I wonder how many ironborn sons sank into the Neck before their fathers realized Balon’s folly? We’ll have to figure something else out. Something better.

“Thinking about having another go with the mermaids?” Asha’s voice broke him from his reverie.

“Thinking on Father.” Theon replied absently.

“No use wasting thought on him. Better to wonder how we’re going to answer for his pigheadedness or better yet, deal with the Crow’s Eye.”

“If he hasn’t already been dealt with. Asha, what becomes of us when all this is done? Assume Jon Snow has the right of it and the Land of Always Winter is about to empty itself onto our heads. If the ironborn are still alive when the storm has run its course we’ll be a kingdom of windswept rocks wedged between the Sunset Sea, a Westeros made whole again and whatever remains in the far north.” Asha frowned.

“At the kingsmoot, I tried to get through to them. To make them understand. We can take the north from the wolves and the westerlands from the lions no easier than we can take the stars from the sky. Better we should be their allies and give the islands a respite from the constant wars we seem to get up to.”

“A toe in shallow water, Asha. We’ve still got to toss the Seastone Chair into the waves. Had I children, I’d want them to grow up far from the Iron Islands. Maybe we could start anew along the coasts. We’d still have the sea but…we’d have the rest of it as well.” I’m not making any sense, I suppose. Then again, Asha’s got a deal of Father in her and the man could scarcely read. He’d be lost for words if he could see his children now.

It took two more days of full sail before they came upon another ship.

“Sail to starboard!” Theon heard the man atop the mast cry, pointing frantically as if that would help. Everyone, even Mormont, flocked to the rail to strain their eyes to the east. A telltale squishing and a whiff of rancid fish advertised the wee fish’s presence as well, though he could not see over the rail and instead peered up at the crew of Black Wind looking perhaps as nervous as a fish-man could look.

“Mormont?” Theon heard Asha ask.

“I’ve got a bear for a sigil, not a falcon.” the northman grunted back. An islander he may be but he could not be further from your average ironborn, Theon thought. Finally something came over the horizon, something that wasn’t yet another grey-blue wave. Immediately Theon knew there was no need to look for sigils. White sails. Farmans of Faircastle.

“Slow down but don’t stop. Let them come to us as if we were waiting for them.” he whispered to his sister.

“The Farmans have been fighting off ironborn raids forever. I doubt they’re looking to have words with a longship in Fair Isle’s waters!” she answered.

“If there’s going to be a fight no need to tire out on rowing when their three-master has the wind and will catch us anyhow.” At least it’s not a swan ship. Theon’s notion to let themselves be caught got a pretty gale of curses from Asha’s crew. The fish-man had gone all rigid again, staring at Theon with those damned bug eyes but there was no time to indulge Black Wind’s newest and smelliest crew member. He simply dunked it back into its customary barrel and closed the lid, the creature making no move or sound of protest. We’ve been dealing with the stink for days and we still haven’t gone nose-blind to it. We’re like to bring tears to the eyes of the westermen when they come upon us. Their tapering pace only seemed to spur the other ship onward towards them and Theon could hear the crew murmuring nervously, some clutching axes. I ought to have a blade as well. I’m not like to kill a dead man empty-handed. Good thing I have just the one, a ruin in steel for a ruin in flesh. He slipped into the darkness of Asha’s cabin in the rear of the ship, blindly feeling for the bundle. I left it under my hammock, come on… He lost his balance then and pressed his hand to the floor. He heard the fur of his glove rip, heard the stones he’d shoved into the last two fingers scatter all about. Fuck, I’ll never find them all in here…! he thought before what just happened full became apparent. In the light afforded by the open door Theon looked at his hand. As if I’d taken a cleaver to my last two fingers. Well, the ones I rigged after Ramsay had taken the real ones. “Rude…” he muttered as he looked down at the sword. The bundle of rags had dried out since Theon plucked it from the surf on Dragonstone but he only had eyes for where what lay beneath, what had come through when he accidentally pressed down on it. The barest glimpse of steel whorled in crimson glinted out from the rags. Gingerly, trembling, he pulled the bundle apart, keen not to lose any more fingers, real or mock. Eventually he managed it and the sword clattered to the floor. The blade was almost black, run through with crimson splashes made no doubt to look like blood. Dragon heads with ruby eyes roared out of either side of the cross guard, black rings in a seamless line served as the hilt and a ruby the size of a chicken egg capped the pommel. Shit like this keeps happening and I don’t understand why. Something is wrong with me, Theon thought. Then he began to laugh. Mormont’s shadow filled the room.

“They’ll be on us in minutes!” the surly hiss came. When he strode forward to shake the sense back into Theon, he found him short two fingers, laughing riotously and pointing to what could only have been a Valyrian steel sword lying in a pile of rags.

Theon only laughed harder when Mormont’s jaw hit the floor at the sight before him. Asha turned up next and Theon could only put his forehead to the knight’s shoulder and drum his fist on the man’s chest, still beside himself.

“What’s…the…” she said, looking from Theon drunk on glee to Mormont still as a statue to the sword on the floor of her cabin. Finally Theon filled his lungs and blinked the tears from his eyes. He ran his hands down his face, wiping away the tears, still sniggering.

“I came in here looking for a blade I plucked from the waves on Dragonstone, thinking a rusted chopper had found its way to me. Instead it seems I plucked that.” He pointed to the smoky treasure gleaming innocently up at them. “Mormont, you’re the only one on board who knows how to use a sword like that. Why don’t you hold onto it for now?” Theon suggested as if it were a shirt that might have fit another better. “Careful, though. The black bastard is wickedly sharp. Then again without silver on the edge it’s not like to matter, is it?” He stooped and picked the sword up before holding it out to Mormont. Once the northman got a shaking hand around the hilt Theon moved past him, past Asha, out to greet their visitors. I must seem properly mad to them, he thought. Prone to wicked bouts of howling laughter and leaping out to sea when I catch a glimpse of a mermaid. Well, I have to measure up against Euron somehow, don’t I? He spent the next quarter hour trying to keep a straight face, making sure not to seem too off-rudder when the ship from Fair Isle got closer. How can I possibly? From Daenerys to Asha, Jon Snow to the Crow’s Eye, it’s all too funny not to just howl at. The three-master came in hailing distance moments later.

“Swiftbird!” called out the man in Black Wind’s crow’s nest. It was no ship Theon knew but the alternative was highly unlikely. Mormont and Asha took so long in the cabin that Theon was ready to go back in with a bucket of seawater when they emerged at last, the black sword in Ser Jorah Mormont’s hand. For his part the man acted as though nothing odd had happened despite the stares the blade he held got from the ironborn. Finally Swiftbird came upon them, close enough that Theon could see the three white ships of House Farman worked into the sails.

“Well met. I am Asha Greyjoy, rightful Queen of the Iron Islands.” She sounds stiff. This might be the first time an ironborn has tried talking to a Farman ship instead of just attacking it.

“Stevyn Shull, out of Fair Isle. Your catch has gone off.” the man standing at the prow of the ship replied, his nose wrinkling. “Have your kind been reduced to hocking fish to starving villages?” Asha’s face darkened.

“Who does Faircastle pay homage to?” Theon broke in suddenly before she could do something rash. Like hurl an insult. Or an axe. The captain turned to Theon.

“If she’s the famed Kraken’s Daughter, you must be the bits of Theon Greyjoy that survived this long. As for our overlord…Fair Isle rules itself as it did before the lions conquered us. Casterly Rock’s mines are dry and its strength spent to the last, there’s no need to kneel to them any longer.” Theon smiled, evidently to the captain’s surprise.

“The Kingslayer has gone forth from Dragonstone to help topple his sister before settling the westerlands to rights. I can tell you right now he has no interest in spilling blood to keep his family’s ancestral lands. If Lord Farman is set on stepping out of House Lannister’s shadow, tell him nobody is going to stop him.” Theon’s words made the crew of Swiftbird murmur up a storm.

“Who are you to speak for Ser Jaime Lannister?” the captain demanded. Theon thought a bit before answering.

“Well, good man, in truth we’re all about the same thing.”

“Aiding Daenerys Targaryen in reconquering the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Rallying as many people as possible before proceeding north.”

“The last Fair Isle has heard of the north was when Roose Bolton left the riverlands after the Red Wedding.”

“House Bolton has been wiped out. House Stark has reclaimed Winterfell and the north with it. With the help of wildlings and giants, or so I hear. They’re readying the castle for an attack, just not from the dragon queen.” At this Asha gingerly unwrapped the furs at her hip, the emerging sliver of razor ice cold enough to make the men on the other ship shiver. “Apparently the Others are making their last preparations to move on the Seven Kingdoms. It is the King in the North’s position that getting into fortifiable positions will pay off once they manage to deal with the Wall.” The men on Swiftbird’s faces went from disbelief to uncomprehending vague uncertainty on sight of the razor ice in Asha’s thickly fur-clad grip. “Go back to Fair Isle, fair captain. Tell Lord Farman to stand behind the Rock, if not the Lannisters…if just for now. We need no further infighting to make the Others’ job easier. If you feel he’ll want proof, only look north from whence these damned icy gales blow more and more frequently.”

“Proof aside, he is a proud man who will bristle at following the lead of another. He will ask who this king is to spread such a tale, who this dragon queen is to assume primacy over the same westerlands that put a period to the Mad King’s rule.” Theon pursed his lips.

“Were we on the Iron Islands, you might know what it is when one man speaks to the virtues of another. I was raised up in the north and torn asunder there as well and still I consider myself a reasonably practical person. Certainly nicer than most ironborn. That said, I’m not fond of many people. I sure as shit don’t trust them on the whole. Where I’m standing all I want to do is live life and be along, as most people in Westeros might like as well to do. I can’t do that with wars springing up like weeds and up to now the ironborn have been singularly successful at starting such wars as well as pushing those green realms nearest the islands away. As a result we’re reduced to bloodflies following open wounds. With Jon Snow and with Daenerys Targaryen…other avenues are possible. Sea Dragon Point. The Stony Shore. Who knows?” However the westermen had expected the encounter to go, Theon could plainly see the situation could not have gone more differently. He couldn’t well turn and see what the crew of Black Wind were doing but he could imagine similar looks on their faces. “Keep to the shallows in the days to come, good captain. When the days grow colder perhaps outfit your ships in preparation for ferrying the forces that marshal in the west to the Rills. Not for lions or dragons or wolves, for the people who work the land and fish the waters and until recently labored in the mines of the westerlands.”

As Swiftbird sailed out of sight short a few barrels of food but considerably richer in terms of coin Black Wind resumed its course north toward Pyke.

“We didn’t have to give him that much gold.” Asha said grudgingly.

“No, but I was getting sick of salted fish and whatever we catch out here. Beef and pork will do the crew good. Besides, Stevyn Shull will have a story no other Fair Islander has ever had. ‘One day, a longship appeared and a madman aboard told me the world was ending. Then he gave me a chest full of loot for a barrel each of middling beef and pork and I got out of there before things got any odder.’” Theon grinned at his sister’s reluctance to part with even the least part of the treasure they had taken with them from the shores of Dragonstone.

“Good thing they didn’t get close enough to see Mormont’s sword.” she muttered.

“Yes, no doubt Euron will fancy it matches his suit of Valyrian steel armor most perfectly.”

“He’s free to try and take it from me.” Mormont said, looking the sword over for the dozenth time. “Then you’ll be rid of this irritating uncle.”

“Sooner rather than later, too. We should make Pyke before day’s end, if I’ve got our bearings right.” Theon shook the ache from his shoulders. If the winds are kind we’ll beat Euron there and I can see Mother once more before the seas rise to swallow the lot of us. Asha’s take on her had not been hopeful. Sinking. As if Alannys Harlaw were a hulk adrift at sea and bereft of crew, time and tide opening her planks enough to let the water in. Theon tried to keep himself occupied by feeding their pet fish-head but after only a few bites it got right back to staring blankly at him, arms limp at its sides. This time though, Theon’s head suddenly felt like to burst and when he came to his senses he was lying in his hammock, a gag in his mouth. Have I been captured? he wondered groggily, unceremoniously flopping to the floor. The door was shut but the weak heat of the day had gone. Night. Maybe I hit my head. Or I seized up- M’har. Immediately Theon threw up but gagged as he was, it had nowhere to go but into his cheeks. Shuddering, trying not to think too much about what had happened, he pulled the gag away and emptied his mouth into a bucket. What the fuck was that? As a boy he’d heard Maester Luwin say that head injuries made the rest of the body go mad. Vomiting was common with loss of balance and disorientation, such as when a man’s head was struck in a melee. Common with seizures, too- M’har. He promptly vomited again, head feeling like to burst, as if it were being pressed in on all sides with unfathomable force. As if I were standing at the bottom of the sea, he thought weakly as he rolled onto his side. Then he realized his lips were moving, quite of their own accord. He grunted bestially, trying to force words through the nonsense. “Urh h’l fhlajja oz roh’m, hlugh ug jajja z’j M’har.” He clapped his hand to his mouth to stem the tide. A wave of utmost revulsion washed over him then, so absolute he wished only that Ramsay had freed him from the skin that remained. After he’d shivered away the last of the disgust he stood again on shaking legs, waiting for the feeling to return. When it did not he gingerly picked up the bucket and headed for the door, anxious to empty it into the sea and to let whatever had just occurred sink likewise but into the forgotten waters of his mind.

The wind was more than welcome in his lungs, the chilly breeze tousling his hair as Ros had a lifetime ago. He got the bucket over the side and heard the splash of his tribute below. When he turned he found Black Wind’s crew staring at him, to a man looking less wary, more terrified. Even Asha. “What happened? Did I show you all what’s left between my legs?” he asked, trying to make light. It was only a seizure after all. Finally Mormont brought a barrel over and bade him sit whole Asha got the others working again. Theon was startled to see tears on Hagen’s daughter’s cheeks.

“Theon, what do you remember?” Asha asked him quietly.

“I was feeding the fish…then my head hurt like the morning after a feast and the next thing I woke up in your cabin. At least I didn’t fill my pants.” The way they looked at him made him swallow. It seemed Asha was lost for words so Mormont cleared his throat.

“You did more than just drop. You held your hands up and started…gurgling.”

“Nonsense brought on by the seizing.” Mormont took a breath. Then he shook his head.

“No, Greyjoy. I’ve spent time in the company of all manner of men, learned a bit of every tongue spoken from here to Qarth, heard drunks ramble in every last one of those tongues. What came out of your mouth was neither nonsense nor gibberish. I don’t know what it was and I don’t want to know. Fuck me, I don’t want to know. I just want to make sure you’re not going to do it again.” The sound of Hagen’s daughter openly weeping shook Theon to the bone.

“Is that why I woke up gagged?”

“Theon, it was that or throw you overboard.” Asha said gravely. He took a breath.

“Well, I don’t feel out of sorts. In fact, for having had a splitting headache a moment ago, I feel rather chipper.” He stood. “No need to worry about my nonsense when we’ve still to reach Pyke and see what we will see.” He walked up the steps to the prow, where the fish-head was waiting for him. Now I know why they left it behind, he thought. They wanted to give whatever takes hold of it and makes it go all rigid a set of eyes above the waves. Maybe see how things will play out on Pyke, find out if they ought just send the spears. “As if I didn’t have enough problems.” he said glumly, turning to the wee fish. “You’re a right cunt.” he told it.

Chapter Text

Bran

Cold as the days had gotten, keeping warm was the furthest thing from Bran’s mind as he woke one morning. He could not remember feeling so nervous, not ever, not even with wights chasing him out of the Raven’s hollow hill. I was in good hands then, hands that do not fail. Meera murmured in her sleep beside him and he slid a hand down her front, kissing her cheek. It could be any day and yet she sleeps sound as a babe. Things at Winterfell had been beyond chaotic the last few months. Preparations to the castle and the lands around it went apace and the continued arrival of refugees from the countryside kept everyone from much thinking about anything else. With Meera as far along as she was, though, Bran thought it unwise to wait any longer. I will make her my princess for true. He kissed her on the cheek again, making her whisper his name in reply before he slipped out from beneath the heavy fur blanket and got dressed. The castle yard was visible from their window and so Bran could see people hurrying this way and that, people of all kinds. Including his secret favorites, the soft-spoken eerily beautiful crannogmen. Their contributions to Winterfell had not stopped at spears and arrows. Strange structures clung to the castle stone everywhere, some small and others large enough to hold several crannogmen, like tower turrets that could be stuck wherever their builders cared to put them. It’s easier to make hide and wood behave than stone. Whether it would be enough fell to Jon to judge when he returned. Hopefully to a new sister-by-law and a nephew if all goes well. He could have watched the crannogmen plant their funny movable fortifications all morning but there was one among their number he had particularly significant business with that morning. I hope he’ll do me the honor, Bran thought. I cannot think of the man more fit to do it than he.

The Reeds had taken a place at the base of the very tower Bran and Meera occupied. Bran’s smile vanished as he got near the door. He could hear them, Lady Jyana at least, even through the oak. Her hissing voice met his ears before he could leave and avoid overhearing.

“She’s days from it, as you well know. We’ve forded this river before. What if something goes wrong, like last time?” Bran’s spirits sank. That must be why there were no more after Jojen. Childbirth was not so simple as picking fruit from a tree, he knew that much, but this was the first he could remember hearing of complications severe enough to put the mother’s life in jeopardy.

“There will be no more of that, my lady.” Lord Howland’s gentle yet inexorable voice sang out from the wood. “All will be well. She has her husband to keep her comfortable, Singers to keep away the fever and the two of us, as she’s had since her first breath.” There was silence for a moment.

“I remember your face when you first held her, rocking her to life. I remember the years we spent preparing her for a burden Jojen could never begin to carry. Our Meera, tall and swift, proud and strong, dutiful and beautiful. We made her, Howland. You and I.” Bran couldn’t find it in himself to force his limbs to move. Bad memories, he thought dryly.

“We did.” Lord Reed replied distantly, sounding mired in the past. Bran rapped on the door before he heard anything more. That was not for me, he thought sternly to himself. The Reeds’ worries are their own. If I need to know of them, they will make them known to me. The door opened and Bran beheld Howland Reed, giving him a ready gaze. “Good morning, Prince Brandon.”

“Can I trouble you for a brief inquiry, my lord?”

“By all means, please come in.” Bran passed the smaller man and stood self-consciously by the wall. Lady Jyana was nearer the room’s little hearth, wiping her face with a cloth. Of course they’re reluctant to let go of their last child. Perhaps they even intended her to inherit Greywater Watch. The Neck was a world set apart from the rest of the North, after all. Men and women alike learned how to fight, how to hunt, how to pass through the marshes unimpeded.

“So far as I know, Meera could give birth at any time. Before she does, I’d like to make her Princess of Winterfell, officially. The godswood has not seen a wholesome wedding in quite some time, I’d hoped you would do us the honor of performing the rite.” His words seemed to free Lady Jyana from her somber mood. She looked to her husband, hand over the hearth as she caught her breath. Bran felt Howland’s hands over his and he looked from wife to husband. The relieved smile on his face made Bran’s butterflies fade some.

“I should be honored, my prince. Perhaps you should go tell Princess Sansa what you intend as well. No doubt she’ll want to be present when she gets a new sister.”

Scaling a wall or two, Bran felt half a boy again. He slipped into a window and made his way to Sansa’s room, gently tapping on her door. I hope she’s alone in there. Meera doesn’t need any more unannounced visits from whatever’s been watching Sansa from afar. Quite in contrast to the vigilant Reeds, his sister opened her door yawning and bleary-eyed, her waist-length red hair running down her head in knots and wild tangles.

“Bran? It’s terribly early…” her blue Tully eyes shot open. “She hasn’t had the baby already?!”

“No, Sansa. I want us to be married before she does, though, and I think it’s best to do so now when she can still walk to the godswood.” The last dregs of drowsiness melted away from Sansa’s face like frost off a heart tree’s white bark. She even looks like one, pale as she is with her red hair.

“As in…today?” she whispered.

“Well, no time like now, is there? Especially these days…”

“Of course, Bran! Poor Meera must have been waiting for this for months!” Bran doubted that. Together he and Meera learned the value of patience and the strength of waiting. We spent years in that hole with only Leaf and her kin. The Raven too, but he was hardly good company. Whoever he had been before he came to the hollow hill, the Raven had never ceased to frustrate Bran with his half-answers and maddening riddlespeak. Someone who must have liked sounding a sphinx even when he was a mortal man. He was gone, though. Gone with all he knew thanks to the Night King. Leaf’s notion that a man stuck with dragonglass would stop the First Men proved spectacularly bad. As if the Others needed any help. Sansa’s boundless cheer brought him back to earth as she pulled a deep grey dress out of a trunk. “If only Jon had returned in time. Ghost, too. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to meet his nephew though, even as a burbling babe instead of a swaddling newborn.” Bran felt another pang at the thought of Jon. We can go walking beyond the Wall, if you’re not afraid. Well, Bran could walk just fine these days and he was fairly certain he’d gone further even than Jon during his time in the Night’s Watch.

“No need to think too far ahead. Just come to the godswood when you’re ready, Sansa. It will be nice and quiet, just the way the crannogmen like it.”

The godswood wasn’t filled with people but Bran spotted Wyman Manderly and his retinue, Harrold Arryn (called ‘Harryn’ by many of the wildlings to save breath), his Waynwood relations and the principal Knights of the Vale as well as a few dozy chieftains among the Free Folk. There were others of course but the wood had filled with mist that morning and Bran only had eyes for the slight man standing by the heart tree.

“Jyana is fetching Meera, along with a few other notable women among our people.” What voices could be heard were low and reverent, even among those who did not keep to the old gods. If Jon’s time of it is anything like mine, I can’t begrudge him a few pleasant months. We’ll all be cold to the bones soon enough. It was hard to fathom Jon with a favored lady, let alone besotted. Ever had he been the distant one. Theon chased any skirt that he could catch sight of, while Jon never looked twice at even the prettiest of them. Maybe he didn’t want to give the name Snow to a child of his own. Neither do I, at that. His heartbeat quickened as the quiet conversations began to fade. She must have come into the godswood. Faceless figures shifted aside to clear the way to the tree and in moments Meera stepped out of the mist, pearly tendrils sinking down her legs to disappear into the godswood floor, followed by Sansa. She’s crying, he saw at once. No doubt she wishes Jojen were here. Her mother gently helped her move across from Bran, Meera breathing heavily with a hand on her rounded front. As form-fitting leather made poor attire for a pregnant woman, Meera had on a soft moss-green dress and a sort of cloak ’round her shoulders that made Bran smile. Lizard-lion hide. Shortly to be joined by something warmer. Lord Howland took a breath on seeing his daughter. Brides may dress in white but Reeds are green. “I am Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch. Here are a man and woman who would be joined in the eyes of the gods.” He turned to Meera.
“Who would take this woman?”

“I. Brandon Stark, Prince of Winterfell.” Bran said, keeping his voice from cracking too badly. Howland looked at him in turn.

“Who would take this man?”

“I. Meera Reed of Greywater Watch.” Her voice made Bran’s spine tingle.

“Then be so joined.” Howland moved aside so they could pray before the heart tree together. She can no more kneel now than Bran the Broken could, Bran thought. Improvising slightly he instead knelt before her, taking her hand in his as she looked down with wide gray eyes. He shut his own. Jojen, would that you were here. Father, Mother, Robb, Rickon, Arya, Jon. He missed them all terribly. They’re not here now though, Brandon Stark. You have a family of your own now. He stood and took the gray bride’s cloak from Sansa. When he turned back to Meera, another idea came to him. Ever will she be her father’s daughter. With a small smile he simply slipped the bride’s cloak over her maiden’s cloak, leaving the Reed green under the Stark grey. She gave a gasp of surprise only he could hear and he say Howland Reed smile unabashedly over her shoulder. Not a person spoke a word. To think one could supplant the other is foolish. We are one, Reed and Stark.

Winterfell’s Great Hall by comparison was so loud Bran could scarcely hear the others at the high table. Meera was seated beside him, occasionally sipping from a cup of water and blushing prettily whenever someone or other stepped up to the table to offer congratulations. It seemed the opportunity to name her princess was one no few southerners took advantage of. Princess Meera Stark. Sansa for her part was beside herself with excitement, dancing with any man bold enough to ask. She has no small occasion to celebrate. I can’t imagine how she felt in King’s Landing, thinking she was the last of the direwolves. Since then the roses that surrounded her had withered and the lions that had lapped her blood had torn themselves down. The falcons had flown north to pick pink bones clean alongside the remaining wolves and the dragons had come from the furthest east. A changed world. Changed enough to stop the Others when they come, though? His thoughts lingered on the Others but briefly though. There was too much call to be joyous, to be gleeful, to forget the cold winds that even then whipped against the earthen walls rising day by day around the castle. Once the babe is born we need only Jon to return to be whole once again. He smiled and pointed Harry Arryn out to Meera. The Lord of the Vale was looking wide-eyed as Sansa pulled him onto his feet, the other knights cheering him on with boisterous calls. A mountain too high, too far, too cold even for the boldest falcon, Bran thought. Sansa was not often the giggling girl, far more often the solemn woman and for all his muster Harry struck Bran as very much the boy. At least alongside Sansa, accustomed to the hospitality of Joffrey Baratheon and Ramsay Snow. For bad and worse, her life from Father’s murder to returning to Jon’s side had killed the girl she was and installed a mysterious woman in her place. Due to her long red hair Sansa was impossible to lose track of even as the floor cleared to allow for more dancing, the food thusly laid out on the tables on either side of the hall. To Bran’s surprise a very hairy hulking wildling with the face of a shaven boar proved just as graceful as the Lord of the Vale when dancing with Sansa. Bran knew a warg when he saw one, but did Sansa? Or can she feel it? Certainly the Sansa he had known in boyhood would have run screaming from such a man. No more. She knows the real monsters from the stories by now. Perhaps the brute would be the one to run if he ever came face to face with the creeping thing Sansa had taken for her own beyond the Wall somewhere.

Once Meera began to show signs of fatigue, Bran helped her to their room, leaving the wedding feast to the revelers. Off came the cloaks, Meera sighing in relief as he laid them over a chair.

“A first I think, north or south.” she said, laughing softly.

“How could you do better than the protection of your lord father? I would never take that from you.” Bran replied, easing her into her nightgown and from there into bed. Meera let him pull the heavy fur blanket up to her chin, giggling when he kissed her on the nose. “You’re not nervous?” He asked, feeling terribly so.

“No. Perhaps I’m anxious but more like I’d be if I had a day of learning with my father ahead of me.”

“Is growing up in the Neck so trying?”

“It was for me, sometimes. We never really left Greywater Watch and when Jojen came…he wasn’t the kind to go off on his own into the marshes as I was. I used to worry my parents sick when I did that but I was little and didn’t know any better.” Her eyes flickered. “I suppose I just felt a bit tried by the closeness of it all. At least when I was small. Then I had Jojen to look after and I forgot the things that bothered me when I was half a babe.”

“Did your lord father not host his bannermen at feasts?”

“There are no feasts in the Neck, Bran. There’s not enough food, for one, and the people are different from the rest of Westeros. Closeness does not bother them, some can swim before they can walk…” she trailed off. 

“I should like to see you among your people one day, Meera. Once this is over with, we can go visit.”

“Maybe. The Neck is not a forgiving place for outsiders, even Starks of Winterfell. All manner of things live there, each with a worse bite or sting than the last. Even the plants can be dangerous, the water as well.”

“Of course it is, with lizard-lions swimming in it.” Bran said, confused.

“No. Drunk by those from outside the Neck it can cause sickness worse than any sting, any bite.”

“Worse than a lizard-lion bite?”

“Would you rather be bitten in half and die immediately or linger for days as the blue death bleeds you of every drop of fluid in your flesh?” Bran shuddered. “That’s what I thought.”

“Did you ever get it? The blue death?”

“Only people from outside the Neck get it, usually from water undiluted by outside rivers coming in. In so many words, the further in you go the worse it gets.” No wonder nobody’s ever conquered the Neck, Bran thought. The bogs themselves resist invasion. To say nothing of the crannogmen… But the little people that filled Winterfell seemed the furthest thing from dangerous. Numerous no doubt but stories of whole armies marching into the Neck and vanishing without a trace were well-told Westeros over. Meera’s soft even breathing told Bran his princess had dozed off, laying on her side as usual. He slid his arm around her, hand upon her belly, hoping to feel the baby inside kick. It was hard to imagine Meera at home in such a place as the Neck. Lord Howland without a doubt, Jojen as well with his father’s coloring and his mother’s face.

Bran’s dreams were troubled by splendid columns of knights with towers on their breasts riding into a world of lush green leaves and deep grey water. He watched them proceed north almost carelessly, their voices unconcerned. Then men began to disappear, not returning from a piss or going after a missing friend. Still there was no trace of an enemy. Then the buzzing started. That night, an endless deluge of biting flies plagued the column, unimpeded by the knights’ armor. In the chaos Bran spotted small dark shapes shadowing the stragglers among the Frey column of the past, darts and arrows bringing them down as they ran from nowhere to nowhere. The next glimpse Bran got was days later, full of groaning men with blue skin who flowed freely from every opening. Even when hit by spears they did not bleed, writhing on the ground. He woke with the sky still dark and a frigid wind whistling against the window and instinctively pulled the fur cover over the both of their heads. The Neck itself has teeth, he thought. Its people are not helpless and should not be looked down upon. But then, why was a Reed allowed to go south with Father for the tourney at Harrenhal? When Meera had first told him the story he’d hoped the Knight of the Laughing Tree had been the little crannogman bullied by the squires. Now having seen the people of the Neck firsthand, Bran could not think one among them suited for horseback. They don’t need horses to run invaders down. Besides, horses would only be a liability in the bogs. Had it been Father, the quiet wolf in Meera’s story? It would explain Lord Howland’s devotion to him… Did it really matter, though? The only one present for the tourney who was living still showed no sign of wanting to discuss a painful past. Well, Uncle Benjen too, maybe, if Sansa has it right. If he even remembers that far back. I should have Sansa bring him sooner rather than later, before the Others find him out there. Not for the first time, Bran wondered what Father would have made of the goings on at Winterfell of late. What would he have said on seeing a giant? Would King Robert have tried to hunt a rhonok as he did wild boar? The idea made Bran snort. No boar spear would stop a charging rhonok. You’d need a scorpion. A soft gasp from the bed made Bran turn and freeze at the sight of a half-dozen crannogmen fresh through the window, it seemed. They were without the gentle smiles they showed the rest of the castle and their steeled faces paired with big green eyes produced a mildly terrifying effect. Or they would have, had Bran not been Bran. Meera gave another soft pant and her eyes shot open.

“It’s time. I require Lord and Lady Reed, as well as my sister.” Bran said shortly. Immediately the crannogmen shot for the window, hopping out as if it were just another door. Bran went to the window and looked out, seeing them creep down the icy stone of Winterfell without missing so much as a single step. The sight made his eyes spin for a moment until his princess gave another gasp.

“Bran…” she whispered.

“Your parents are on their way, Meera.” he said breathlessly, pulling the blanket off her and putting it over the window to keep the room warm as it was like to be before he returned to her side. As getting back into bed seemed an idiot’s notion he pulled a chair up to the head of the bed and sat to her left, one hand in hers and the other dabbing at her forehead with his cuff.

The Reeds arrived not two minutes later, Howland looking every bit as nervous as Bran felt while Jyana could not have looked more ready. Meera’s gasps became a bit louder and Bran felt her father’s hand on his shoulder.

“We are here, my princess.” The man sounded almost beside himself with tears.

“As are we.” Branch’s musical voice contrasted with Sansa’s hard breathing as the two of them came into the room next. Meera’s chest hitched with yet another labored gasp. She’s in pain, he thought. It was not in Meera Reed to show distress, though. Even when Jojen died.

“What’s happening? Can I do anything?” he asked, feeling positively helpless. Lady Jyana was too busy with her hands on Meera’s legs, slowly easing them apart and murmuring under her breath. Sansa seemed ready to dash off after whatever she was told to fetch and Howland Reed had gone still as stone, evidently lost in his own mind. The sight got Bran thinking and his eyes met Branch’s gold ones. Then he got an idea. He closed his eyes, blocked out everything but Meera’s breathing, and reached out for her. When he opened them, he was in the grotto, the heart of Winterfell, with Meera laying beside him.

“Bran?” she asked in a near yelp.

“Everything is fine,” he answered before she asked. “I just wanted to help you with the pain.” He could feel it, red vines of a different sort losing themselves in the vastness of the grotto godswood, the world of heart trees. Dimly he was aware that time was passing and quickly but he couldn’t find it in him to care for anything but his princess and her babe. “I think your mother wants you to push.” Bran said, hearing echoes of the woman. She sounded far away.

“I hear her, too.” Meera grimaced and did as she was bid. He helped her lean up against a tree, only afterward noticing it was the same one they’d found the ancient Reed beneath months earlier. How many of my forebears were born in this grotto? Of ours? This place is older than the Stark name, older than the castle above it and the name it bears. Could their ancestors see them? The figures on the walls, the ones who’d stopped the Others, could they sense, wherever they were, that the old enemy had come again? Suddenly Meera gave a deep shuddering inhale, her eyes wide and catching the strange golden light that seemed to fill the grotto. Her hand squeezed Bran’s so hard he thought he’d lose it. No matter, he thought. I have another anyway, and in time I’d gladly give it for a little Meera.

“Bran.” Sansa’s voice sounded far away, or as if he were underwater. Maybe we’re supposed to go back now. He had Meera’s head in his lap and her breathing had regulated some.

“How do you feel?”

“Like a bumped elbow but all over. I doubt I could stand, even here.”

“Are you ready to go back?” She gulped.

“I hope it doesn’t hurt.”

“They wouldn’t be calling us back if it would. I think we might have been here a bit longer than it feels…” Meera swallowed.

“Alright, let’s go back.” Bran came to his senses staring at his knees, neck frightfully stiff. I must not have moved for hours. He blinked out the last of the grotto’s lights, looking around. His heart jumped in his chest at the sight of Meera, sitting up and looking down into a small grey bundle in her arms. He stood with difficulty, looking down himself. A pair of dark eyes peered out of the blankets, locked on Meera’s face. Our son. Hers and mine. Bran’s throat felt dry. Movement momentarily distracted him and he saw Lady Jyana sitting in a chair by the wall, panting as if she’d just run to Greywater Watch and back. Howland had his arms around her while a gaggle of maidservants silently tended to her, dabbing at her head and bringing her water. All I did was loll in my chair. She looks ready to faint. Twelve hours, fourteen hours, however long it’s been… He spotted the setting sun through the window, the fur pulled away to let a bit of the heat out. A soft cooing pulled his eyes back to the bed, Meera moving the babe to her breast. She bit her lip, cheeks red as she looked at him.

“Well, if nothing else, you helped with the pain.” she said almost bashfully.

“Bully for me. Meanwhile you had a babe come along.” His hands came up. “One a bit more demanding than the other.”

“Why don’t you go fetch Sansa? She’s been waiting for him near as long as we have.” Him. Howland Stark, Bran thought. It felt so strange. He expected to be elated, to have so many thoughts his head hurt. Instead he was quite focused, singularly attuned to the woman in the bed and her feeding babe. A loud snore caught both of them off guard. Bran turned and saw Lady Jyana all but unconscious in her chair, snoring in her husband’s arms.

“You’d best get her in bed herself, my lord. The babe is here and if you are needed, you will know of it straightaway. I’m certain your lady needs no little rest, just as my princess does.” He helped get her to their room while the countless whispering maidservants drew a bath. Howland still looked lost, trapped in some marsh deep within. “Once Meera’s fed him and they’ve had a sleep, I want you to hold him. The man he owes his name to.” Finally Lord Reed seemed to lose whatever chased him.

“Go to her. Her side is where you ought be just now. Your sister as well.” His voice was hoarse, so quiet Bran strained to hear. Who else can he be thinking about but Father? Howland gave him a gentle nudge and Bran was off on climber’s legs, fast as ever he’d been as he went to find Sansa.

Chapter Text

Asha

She had to blink back tears of joy when she heard the helmsman cried out sight of land. Finally. Pyke grew as they approached, Saltcliffe coming over the horizon off to the west. Another week west, more, you find the Lonely Light and the Farwynds. Asha shuddered at the thought. Maybe once Lord Gylbert and his three sons got a good look at Black Wind’s croaking crewman they’d think twice about squatting on a far-flung windswept rock too bleak even for normal ironmen. She spotted the other ships they’d left Dragonstone with, some of them, and tensed up. Could be they went over to Euron. Could be he’s here now. She couldn’t see Silence’s sails among the throng though and Theon didn’t seem worried by the specter of their uncle. Just because he may not be here in the flesh doesn’t mean the islands are like to be friendly. For the first time she couldn’t help but wish the fish-heads would make an appearance. Sooner rather than later. They brought Black Wind into port, acting as though nothing much was awry. The gangplank came down and Asha found herself setting foot on the docks of Pyke, looking out to the castle clinging to the island proper thanks to a handful of rope bridges. Home. She heard a good bit of murmuring when Mormont followed her off her ship, the smallfolk working the docks recognizing the northman straightaway. The sword Theon had found was safe in a scabbard on Mormont’s back, wholly unremarkable with its glittering handle wrapped in cloth. In his arms he held the barrel their pet was in, mercifully quiet. Maybe he knows what we’re about just now. Or he’s asleep. Do fish-heads sleep? Asha hailed the dock-master over.

“You ought not be here.” He told her after he limped over.

“Are my uncles here?” she asked tersely, the man blinking blearily at her.

“King’s orders, aye. If you were to turn up, we was supposed to capture you and all that.” Slow, aren’t we?

“No need, I’ve quite come to see him myself. Now, are they here?” The dock-master turned and peered down the beach to the west, mumbling to himself.

“The Damphair used to come down from Pyke every morning to bathe in the tides. Lately no one’s seen him, best guess is he’s still in the castle somewhere." Aye, Euron’s prisoner. Greyjoy blood is far too dangerous to let wander off.

“We’ll kip behind stone walls tonight, lads.” she said. Her crew kept looking around nervously, as if the Crow’s Eye was like to just pop out from behind a crate, shout “Aha!” and start throwing pies at them. Then murder them. I don’t see any dead men here. At least, not the kind that walk. Maybe Saggy was talking further north than us, telling me the storm was on its way. If that’s the case, there’s not a lot of time. She led them up the hill to the body of the island, making straight for the curtain wall that kept Pyke clear of the island’s smallfolk.

At least the gates are open to us, Asha thought as she passed through. Still, the closer she got to the castle of her birth, the more uneasy she felt. No telling what state the Damphair’s in. He was mad to begin with, after all. A low gurgling came from behind and for a moment Asha feared Theon was having another mad moment when she realized it was coming from the barrel.

“Maybe he’s sick of stale seawater?” Qarl shrugged.

“Or he can tell we’re getting further from the sea.” Further from the water the ground was hard and patched with frost, what grass that could find purchase on Pyke already wilted. The farmers aren’t up to much, then. Pyke’s heavy doors slid open on Asha’s approach and the damp stone walls of home closed around her. Cozy. She turned to one of the servingwomen lugging some dried driftwood, no doubt to keep the braziers by the walls lit.

“Is the Damphair here?” she asked, voice echoing off the salt-stained stones. The girl stared at her with wide eyes and kept her mouth tightly shut. She’s no ironborn. Likely some lass taken when Euron’s pets raided the Reach. Rolling her eyes, Asha strode past the thrall. “If Aeron is here, find him.” she ordered, hearing the sounds of men scattering to search the lofty ruin generously termed ‘castle’. Mormont stayed near as she made for the dungeons, unwilling to wander in an unfamiliar place.

“Do you think he’s alive?” the northman asked.

“Who knows? In the clutches of the Crow’s Eye we’re unlikely to find him eating strawberries at the least.” Euron isn’t really the type to keep prisoners. Playthings, maybe but nobody who could come against him in the future. Good thing Mother is on Harlaw with Uncle Rodrik. Batty as she was, Alannys Harlaw could not be counted among the ironborn loyal to Euron. Even half-mad she saw right through Father’s death immediately. She felt a reluctant smile creep across her face. Maybe there’s life left in her yet. Someone handed her a torch and she began passing by the cells, squinting into the dark and gritting her teeth.

“Have you gone blind?” Mormont asked irritably.

“Not all of us have northern nonsense coursing through our bodies, Mormont.” Asha replied, just as grumpily. Another burble from the barrel made the hairy knight pop the lid off and upend it. Out plopped the fish-head, peering about with those awful yellow eyes. It let out a curious gulp as it got to its webbed feet, idly poking the floor and walls. “Lead on, Greyjoy. At least, as well as someone with a sack over her head can.” Mormont grunted. Asha hated the idea of being the blind one. Man-fishes and northmen going wild need no light, it seems we’re on the losing end whether we stay on the seas or head north.

I hope he isn’t stowed on the Silence, Asha thought worriedly. We’ll never get near him. Then again, Euron could not have possibly anticipated the brazen return of his troublesomely alive niece and nephew. No more than we could have guessed what lay at sea’s bottom. They had to pull the creature out half a dozen times when he got his head stuck between the rusted iron bars. Each row was irregular and made to fit the spaces in the rock rather than bars of a length with each other, as with square cells.

“Damphair?” Asha called into the darkness. When she didn’t get a response, her stomach sank. Maybe the fish-head’s stink is hiding the stench of death down here. I might walk past his corpse and never spot it. A hoarse croak from further on made her dash off blindly- and run straight into a dead coral-covered wall. Asha felt the crumbling shells dig into her face and shoulder before she reeled back, dropping her torch and crying out.

“Dolt.” Mormont said, pressing a cloth to her face. “At least you managed not to poke your own eye out.” he elaborated as she bit her lip to keep from whimpering. Evidently he could see the tears in her eyes, as he left her the cloth to gasp into. The northman handed back her torch and Asha blinked out the sudden close light to behold a man in the last cell, naked and murmuring to himself. She caught a whiff of filth and seaweed, leaning in for a closer look.

“No godless man may sit the Seastone Chair…” she heard the prisoner murmur.

“No man at all it seems, Uncle.” Asha said, louder than she’d meant. Her voice carried through the dark tunnel and the fish-head croaked uncertainly. She tried the door but wonder of wonders, it was locked.

“Mormont.” she said.

“If I’m truthful, I’ve been waiting to try this for awhile.” Even in the dim light Asha could see the wide smile on the man’s face. He looks half a boy again. He simply put a hand around the bars and pulled. The door came off its hinges as if he were pulling petals from a wildflower. “Excellent.” Mormont muttered while Asha advanced on her uncle.

“Up, Damphair. We’ve much to do before you drown for good.” She flipped him with her foot. Aeron Greyjoy’s beard had grown even longer and more wild. Without seawater weighing it and keeping it smooth, the man looked as if he had a small bush for a head. He’ll need to weave fresh seaweed into that mess as well. Up close, Asha was reminded of something her people oft forgot. Though ironborn great and small took his word as the will of the Drowned God, the Damphair had yet to see his fortieth year. Beards make men forget the boys beneath them and Aeron’s done more forgetting than most any man alive. She pulled him to his feet, still mumbling under his breath and marched him out of the cell. Stick thin as he is, I’d wager he weighs less than I do.

Blessed by the Drowned God the old codfish might have been but Asha knew her uncle could no more see in the dark than she could. It fell to Mormont to lead them back to light, their fishy friend quiet for once- though his reek let Asha know he was close behind. Indeed, he let out a whine when the darkness lifted and she heard him slap his hands over his eyes. When she puzzled it out, she could have kicked herself for not getting it earlier. No doubt it’s pitch dark at the sea bottom. Seeing in blackness would be handy down there but any light more and he’s not a happy fry. Asha filled her lungs with fresh (if briny) air as she stepped back into the yard of the Great Keep. Theon had not yet reappeared, likely still looking for the very lout she’d pulled from below. At once she could see that the castle guard had mobilized, making her suck her teeth in rapt appraisal. “You should not be here. You were turned away at the kingsmoot and a godless kinslayer reigns.” Aeron’s cheery words broke her reverie.

“Turn around, Uncle, and see what Euron’s rule is worth to those who truly own the sea.” she said, not so much as turning to him. When the fish-head gingerly emerged from the dungeon corridor there was an uproar worthy of battle. She smiled. Always fun to watch men try not to wet themselves. For its part the thing paid them no great mind, tapping one of their steel-greaved shins in apparent interest.

“Hands to yourselves lads, or you’re like to lose them.” Mormont said, unceremoniously grabbed one of the guards’ spears and poked the back end near the fish-head’s mouth. Immediately and with astonishing speed it sank its teeth into the wood, a loud crack cutting through their shouts and blustering. It did not release, even when Mormont leveled the spear and brough the creature off the ground.

“There are hundreds of them. More. In the Narrow Sea and the Sunset Sea both, and they have little patience for those what go where they don’t belong.” Asha said. “This one’s a whelp left behind when they surged aboard Black Wind.” She relayed her journey as best she could. “Daenerys Targaryen sees fit to let us rule ourselves so long as we keep off the green lands. If trading with weaker peoples is a lesson Dothraki of all men can learn, so can we.”

“The Iron Islands belong to the ironborn-”

“-so long as our fishy friends can’t be bothered to scour us from these shores like barnacles from a hulk’s hull. So long as the dragons deem us harmless to the lives of the sheep that feed them.” By then the guards of Pyke had cone a cross-section of pale and green.

“She has them, then? Dragons?” One asked.

“Oh, aye. Cream-and-gold, green-and-bronze, and a huge black monster with eyes like red hellfire that sent a dozen ships to the bottom of Slaver’s Bay.” Two might be gone from the world for all we know, but when it comes to dragons and the lack thereof, one may as well be a thousand while none is still none.

Despite the uproar, Asha saw no trace of Euron nor any of Silence’s crew of mutes. Maybe I just got lucky for once. While the men circled around the man-fish muttering uncertainly, Asha gave Aeron a few slaps about the face.

“I need you sensate, or as sensate as you’re like to get, Uncle. When the croakers got on my ship they did more than dump some fingerling on my boots. They showed me a man’s head, snapping away despite his missing body and pointed north. According to the King in the North something in the furthest north has got around to sending a proper army’s worth of dead men after us. I suppose since nobody on the mainland is like to notice if the Iron Islands are attacked.” The Damphair looked adrift as ever though, and Asha took an impatient breath. I doubt he even realizes that stink isn’t him.

“Wife.” The word cut through the low chatter in the yard and Asha turned to see an immensely heavy old man approach in a creaking chair with wheels that threatened to split in twain.

“Erik Anvil-Breaker. As stout as I remember. As graceful, too.” she smirked. The old man in the chair bristled.

“The Crow’s Eye granted me your hand in return for agreeing to be his castellan-”

“-no doubt in the hopes that you’d die soon and your sons would quarrel over the title and me both, weakening House Ironmaker. All my uncle gives, he gives with reason.” she said, looking back toward the circle of guards.

“Hang his reasons. I have sons aplenty and so do they, but I’ve no son with kraken blood.”

“Then by all means, roll yourself into Ironman’s Bay. You’ll sink fast enough to meet a kraken before you drown, I think.” The old man’s cheeks turned red. He remembers the kingsmoot. I bid him stand up after all his blustery and he could no more stand than fly. “Actually, you may yet be of use, Ironbottom. Has my uncle Rodrik returned to Harlaw since the moot?” Asha asked.

“It’s no concern of mine what the Reader does. Proper ironborn reave. He looks at papers and pretends it makes him cunning.”

“Whereas you look at your hammer and pretend you can still swing it.” she replied. Rodrik the Reader was no man’s idea of an ironborn captain, much less a Harlaw, but it rankled Asha to hear a walrus like Erik the Ungainly belittle a man who used his head more than his stomach. It seems I’m off to Harlaw next, she thought. When she turned to leave, the whale blubber in the chair made a noise of protest.

“You’re to remain and await the Crow’s Eye’s return!” Erik barked.

“You’re free to take me captive, husband. Any man who can’t rise to give me chase is a man who’s lived entirely too long.” Asha replied over her shoulder as she strode back outside.

As soon as she was quit of the castle she heard the shouts coming from the beach. Oh hell, what now? She dashed for the docks, half-expecting to see the Crow’s Eye standing over Theon’s corpse. Instead she saw the smallfolk of Pyke clustered together in tight bunches, the few reavers lingering about the docks beaten bloody and lying in the sand. Asha braced for the stink she knew would come and yet it wasn’t enough to stop her from retching loudly, shuddering. The fingerling immediately started gurgling in its nauseating tongue, waddling as fast as its webbed feet could carry it to where dozens of its adult fellows stood, croaking idly to each other. Asha spotted the saggy one with the bloated gut and yellow stripes running down its sides, squatting in a tide pool with its legs sticking out to either side.

“That’s you, my lady. Before you came out of your cabin that night, any question put to them was answered with the butt of a spear.” Tris Botley said quietly over her shoulder. Gingerly she approached with her crew, the spear-toters poking her men back as soon as they got near. Curiously, Hagen’s daughter received no such prickly greeting and indeed remained at Asha’s side right up to the saggy-bodied fish-head’s little pool. Immediately its gills trembled and a sound rose in its throat before it let out a sort of indolent bellow-belch.

“Hello to you too.” Her tepid reaction to the creature got looks of incredulity from the smallfolk, compounded when a blonde head popped up out of the pool, smiling coquettishly. “Oh, good. I thought I’d have to put up with figuring out what all the croaking meant.” Asha said, feeling relieved at the appearance of the mermaid. She didn’t resemble the fishwife from Dragonstone but as Pyke was on the other side of Westeros, that only made sense. Another flurry of croaks.

“The object we want lies within that place.” The mermaid pointed to the castle.

“Aye. If you want to go fetch it, you’re more than welcome. It’s too heavy for ten men to move, let alone bring down to you.” The mermaid started screeching and hissing in Saggy’s face. The jowls flapped in an irate spray of salt and slime. Asha thought it out. Do they really care if it keeps its shape, I wonder? Or do they just want the bloody stone? “I suppose we could just push it out a window and watch it fall into the sea.” she shrugged. She heard a feeble mumbling from behind her as the mermaid translated. Almost as soon as she decided to turn and look at Aeron there was a chorus of croaks from the fish-heads, sounding rather excited. I guess it’s like gold. Once you have it you can sort of go from there.

As the creatures hoisted their fellow out of the pool, Asha noticed that they croaked loudly at each other while refraining from getting salty with Saggy, even as it poked at them with its seastone-capped staff. What was going on there Asha couldn’t begin to guess but it itched at her all the same. The bloated fish-head gave another bark.

“We will take possession of the object now. You will remain here while one among your males lead mine to its location.” The mermaid said, sounding bored. What? Then she thought about it. Of bloody fucking course, what else makes a body go round about as a pearl?

“They aren’t mine. Look at them, they’re about as desirable as an urchin in the face.” Asha replied irritably.

“I know that. It’s a bit hard to make them understand, though. We’re, uh, closer to your kind than theirs.” No shit. A dozen fish-heads hefting spears began waddling past, headed for the castle.

“Hang on.” Asha put up a hand. Immediately the creatures froze. “Not that I’m not pleased to be rid of the fucking thing, but I’d like to know just why you want it so. Also, when it comes to trade it’s common practice above the waves for each party to know the name of the other.” Asha wasn’t certain why she was holding them up. Maybe she was just tired of being nervous out on the open water, afraid the things would abandon their benign air and just poke she and her crew full of holes. The mermaid frowned, likely at the aspect of translating such abstract concepts to a creature who seemed to see the world rather more simply. Finally she let out a single loud shriek, making Asha jump. Saggy was silent for rather a long time, staring at Asha with those damned unreadable yellow bug-eyes. Finally it- she- gave a gurgle.

“You don’t want to know why we want all the seastone. I am Ooloolp.” the blonde mermaid dutifully translated. I shouldn’t have asked.

“And yours?” Asha asked her. Her face darkened.

“Are you going to let them up or not?” When Asha made no further move to stop them, the spear-wielders waddled past her, Theon tagging along as if such rampant madness happened all the time. Maybe he’s just as scared as the rest of us. Part of it is just playing it off. A half an hour later heard a loud splash. Immediately Ooloolp and her fellows began moving toward the water, the mermaid sinking back into the pool. Halfway to the waves she stopped moving and gasped loudly. Oh fuck, I hope she doesn’t do anything right on the beach… Asha thought before she remembered their own pet fingerling.

“Wait! You forgot one!” she said, grabbing the thing around the waist and running after the retreating man-fishes. Ooloolp began to move again, disappearing into the water without so much as a croak. The fry burbled to itself, evidently somewhat enjoying being carried even under one arm. Asha held her arms out, the fish looking at her expectantly. Close up as she was, she spotted a pair of barely visible stripes running down the sides of the thing’s belly. “Well, maybe they’ll be more interested when you get bigger.” Asha muttered. No woman may rule, my ass. How can it be so when it’s women who rule below the waves?

Eastbound to Harlaw, Asha shook the uneasiness that stuck to her like mud. Here I am hopping from island to island and nobody’s yet attacked me. You’d think the Crow’s Eye would set a stiffer castellan than Erik the Ancient at Pyke, one that wouldn’t let me snatch Uncle Aeron from a cell. No ships pursued her though and Black Wind blew straight and true toward Ten Towers and her favorite uncle. Well, the one I’d least like to kick in the teeth. Qarl and Tris Botley had gotten into another spat about just how good time they were making, each a strutting cock eager to outshine the other in front of their captain. Asha grinned. Perhaps Ooloolp has it right. Who needs just one? Hagen’s daughter had yet after everything to make her given name known to the crew, so Theon simply deemed her Hagen to save the crew some breath. Mormont thought that terribly funny for some reason. Thinking on the hairy knight made Asha’s eyes go wide, Ooloolp gone from her thoughts.

“Oh, fuck. I’ve still got the Glover whelps at Ten Towers with Mother and Gwynesse.”

“Isn’t that good? You can take them north to Deepwood Motte when the time comes to scurry north.” Theon asked, closing the lid on a fresh barrel for the fish-head.

“Were I to sail within a hundred miles of that place I’m sure I’d have Glovers chasing me forever.”

“Bear Island is just north of Deepwood Motte. I can take the Glover babes home, save you the trouble. And the arrows loosed at your face.” Mormont grunted, subconsciously tapping the sword on his back. Making sure it’s still there. Just how Theon had found the blade Asha could scarcely believe and yet no little amount of booty had appeared on Dragonstone’s shores every morning. I suppose it’s no surprise, really. Ships have been back and forth across the Narrow Sea forever, it stands to reason at least one would sink carrying Valyrian steel. Their new friends had tossed it ashore along with the mundane booty, the coins and pretty baubles. Had they even realized it was a weapon?

“Not like a fish-head would get attached to a weapon what can’t be used underwater.” Asha muttered to herself as Ten Towers poked up out of the horizon. A truer home than Pyke could ever be. There was no shouting or alarm raised when they drew up near the dock, a development Asha was just as glad to see as previously. The scythe of Harlaw was splashed on several of the ships in port and Asha could see the Reader’s Sea Song on a dock all its own, several guards around its gangplank. She refrained from having Theon stick their fishwaif back in a barrel, letting it- her- wander the deck at will and follow them onto the dock.

She kept Aeron moving, letting him mutter and mumble like a madman while the rest of Black Wind’s crew began to dissipate, eager perhaps to call on some woman or other somewhere in the port town or Ten Towers proper. Theon stayed near as did Mormont, keeping a casual air to fend off any panicked smallfolk trying to bash their fishwaif with an oar. Once they crossed the castle’s threshold without being attacked, Asha let out a long breath.

“No doubt he’s in the Book Tower. He’s not called Reader for nothing.” Theon said, looking around as a Harlaw thrall stared at them.

“Tell Lord Rodrik his sister’s children have arrived.” Asha told her.

“Arrive you have and with a bear and a fish in tow.” Three-Tooth, the castle’s ancient steward said as she slowly shuffled into the room. Asha grinned at the crone.

“We need an audience with the Reader. Also…we’d like  to drop in on our mother if we could.” She could see Theon shift uncomfortably. Unless I’m wrong, he hasn’t seen Mother since he was nine. Three-Tooth clicked her jaw in thought.

“Right. I’ll go see what the widows are up to. Nobody’s fighting to see Lord Harlaw so you can go right in, so long as you don’t-”

“-knock over any books.” Asha and Theon said in unison, Asha rolling her eyes. “Keep them out of trouble.” she told Mormont, pointing to Aeron and the fishwaif. I ought have asked the maid what our friend’s name is. If she even has one. Mormont grunted in acknowledgement, frowning down at the fingerling.

“The Damphair’s not like to move but the fish-head’s like to scurry off under a table. What’s the bet Mormont loses track of it by the time we return?” Theon asked as they moved toward the Book Tower.

“Her, not it.”

“Sorry?”

“You can tell by the piss-yellow stripes down the belly. Only she-fish have them.”

“Ah. Going to teach her how to throw an axe?” Theon sniggered.

“You can’t throw an axe underwater.” Asha said absently, coming on the double doors to Lord Rodrik’s expansive library. Bookshelves covered every wall and at first made it hard to spot the unassuming figure of Rodrik the Reader, Lord of Ten Towers. A mop of graying brown hair coupled with a thin grey beard kept short stuck out from the polished wooden shelves and when Asha called out he looked up so sharply she giggled. The sight of both of them made the Reader squint in disbelief through his Myrish lens. “Fret not, Uncle. You needn’t worry about getting a new piece of glass. It’s us well and true.” she said.

As Rodrik Harlaw was ever a lord among the ironborn with the ability to think beyond the coming week, Asha skimped on no details as she walked him through her adventures since leaving the kingsmoot and slipping out of Euron’s clutches. Her telling of Ironspar’s fate raised the Reader’s eyebrow. “…and now the greenlanders are making to go north and head off whatever’s about to come down on us.” she finished, breathing hard. A lot to rattle off in only a breath.

“And the Crow’s Eye is ignorant of all this?”

“He certainly didn’t make an appearance on Dragonstone.” Asha said, shrugging. “The last I heard, his reavers were being thrown back into the sea. They ought not have made the Shield Islands their seats with all the Reach itching to have a go at them. If any of our people remain there, they are prisoners.” That news made Rodrik frown.

“Anyone with sense could have told you attacking the Reach was the idea of a madman. I have…or had a younger cousin among the longships that made for the Shield Islands. Harras Harlaw of Grey Garden. My heir, if you care to sift through family trees.”

“Likely the Crow’s Eye just wanted to rid himself of those ironborn who would question his rule. Hence the leaving of them on a few islands where the reachmen could surround them in a day.” It makes sense, Asha thought. Uncle Rodrik undercut the Crow’s Eye at the moot and now Euron wants to ascertain that House Harlaw goes extinct thanks to the reachmen or infighting over Ten Towers when Rodrik dies. It seemed the man had thought of everything…except the sea disgorging a tide of croaking man-fishes or the arrival of a dragon queen. Asha smirked. No planning for when a wave shakes the ship and sends the game pieces rolling around the deck. Rodrik turned to Theon.

“I’ve heard more of you than I have of the dreaded Crow’s Eye, if that’s possible. That the Bastard of the Dreadfort tore a few pieces off you, that you died in the east, that you jumped overboard in a storm…”

“It’s not been an easy road. Nice to see you too, by the way.” Theon said dully, poking through a shelf of books.

“Lanny is expecting you to come back through her door the same as when you left.”

“I didn’t leave, I was given away. Not that it matters now, the man who did the giving and the man who did the taking are both dead.” He turned to Asha. “The Imp would give all the gold in Casterly Rock to get in here.”

“Any gold the lions had they pissed away keeping Cersei’s sons on the Iron Throne.” Asha replied dismissively. “Come on, Uncle. It’s been too long since we’ve seen Mother. Aunt Gwynesse too, if she’s not insensate.” Rodrik swallowed uncomfortably.

“Very well. Follow me.” He set the book he had in hand down and led them out of the spiraling library.

Asha could sense Theon’s discomfiture growing as they moved through the castle and ascended the Widow’s Tower. Originally named for a single Harlaw widow it now contained two thanks to Euron’s murder of Lord Balon. Rodrik stopped outside one of the rooms and knocked. Immediately the door swung open and a somewhat haggard woman stared out at him.

“Rodrik. I am seven years your elder, Ten-”

“-Towers ought be yours, yes, you tell me often, Gwynny.” Rodrik said, gently taking her aside while Asha stepped into the room, pulling Theon after her. Alannys Harlaw sat by the fire at the room’s other end, bundled tightly to keep out the chill. Opposite her sat a small boy with a babe in his arms. The Glover whelps. When Asha got near the woman turned and looked at her.

“Asha. Have you found him? Have you brought..” she trailed off at the sight of Theon. Mother stood up and closed the distance between herself and her son quicker than Asha could have thought. Not so frail, she wondered shakily.

“You are not the boy they took.” Mother said.

“No.” Theon said, as if all he’d suffered could be told in a word. She reached out and prodded his arm, then his chest. “I’m not the man that boy became either, just what’s left of him.” Mother let go of his elbow.

“I’m sure by know Asha’s told you that Euron murdered your father.” “Might have heard it on the way somewhere or other.” Neither mourns for him one bit. Her lip quivered, as if she didn’t know what else to say. “You ought dress warmer, the gusts coming down from the north have been a blight the islands over.” she said, picking at his threadbare coat.

“I will, Mother. Just now we wanted to make sure to get you out of the Crow’s Eye’s clutches. There’s something going on beyond the Wall, something worse than Euron and a few pet reavers. Asha and I, we’re going to help put a stop to it, but we want you somewhere we know you’re not in danger. You too, Reader.” Theon said over his shoulder. “The Damphair is downstairs. We can be on Black Wind on our way to Dragonstone before the sun sets.” Aye, and quit of these bleak, bloody islands for good, Asha thought. Euron wants them, he can have them. We’ve tossed the Seastone Chair, our business here is done. On her return to her ship and the taking on of provisions leaving nothing for Euron’s pets, Asha reflected on how easy it was to toss the thing back from whence it came. After all, she thought, it was only a chair.

Chapter Text

Jon

He couldn’t get the words out. Immediately on his entry into Riverrun’s godswood he heard the splashing and dashed to it without a thought, supposing a woman had been swept into the rising pool by the rains. On pulling her from the water he instead beheld Lady Stark, more vibrant than his oldest memories. His mouth didn’t even move. He just stood there stunned as another woman followed Lady Stark out of the pool. It seemed his lord father’s wife was equally as reticent to speak, only giving him a long look he thought he’d seen the last of. Finally a thought strung itself together in his mind. Thank the gods I came in here alone. Daenerys had stayed with the others, seeking Lord Tully and to sort out just who was ruling the riverlands. Meanwhile Jon watched the currents of water flowing up and down Catelyn’s unclad body, the trees behind her visible through her. Evidently his discomfort was visible, as the two of them rippled like the surface of a pond and they went from bare to dressed- or at least, less defined from the neck down. I wonder if this sort of thing will ever stop happening. Lately it’s been getting out of control, Jon thought numbly.

“Well met, Lady Stark.” he said stiffly, voice high and weak.

“You look like him.” she replied, not taking her eyes off his face. “You were a brooding boy when Benjen took you north.” she approached and his stomach flipped. Up close, Jon’s first impression was confirmed. There’s not a line on her face. Not a scar, not a pit. “You’re someone else now, I think. Something else.”

“Perhaps. But I have never stopped being Lord Stark’s son.” Her hand came up and she ran a finger down the faded scar around his eye. Her touch felt like cold water, not flesh, but he did not pull away nor remove her hand himself. Once she moved her hand away, a cool bead running down Jon’s cheek he turned to the other woman, one he did not recognize. She’s not Westerosi, he knew at once. How did she come to be here? How did any of this come to pass? “Is…Robb here, too? In one way or another?” he asked.

“No.” they said together, voices mute and colorless. While they seemed quite unmoved by the situation, Jon was still quite on edge.

“Uh…if I may say so, you quite look like something else now as well.” She looked down at herself. It was a moment before she spoke.

“Perhaps. But I have never stopped being Lord Stark’s wife.”

“Speaking of wives. I am…” she paused, as if to reassure herself that she indeed was. “I am Talisa Stark, formerly Talisa Maegyr, wife to Robb, King in the North.” Her words only further confused Jon, whose mind had become a mess of questions to make even Sam weep. He heard Drogon roar outside Riverrun’s walls, snorting and shrieking. No doubt at the lizard-lions. His patience shrinks as he grows.

“I…have to go. Dragon and all. Will you…be here when I return?”

“Here, or in Lord Edmure’s solar.” Catelyn answered.

“Or we could go with you and see the beast for ourselves.” Talisa said, walking purposefully past Jon. Robb married her. In his mind Robb was still the one he left in Winterfell’s yard on the way to the Wall. We were boys both. We had no idea what waited for us once we joined the wider world. Catelyn followed Robb’s widow and Jon moved stiffly after them, lost for words.

Though the deluge had stopped, water ran down every wall and slicked every floor. It seemed the two women ahead of him were unbothered by it but Jon’s boots were soaked through and he was drenched to the bone and beyond. Then he remembered why he’d come through an ocean of rain to Riverrun.

“My lady.” he said slowly, coming to a halt. Catelyn turned to look at him. He breathed. “Your daughters are alive.” Her blue Tully eyes did not leave him. Blue like Sansa’s.

“I know. Brynden told me when I arrived. So far as I know they’re out of harm’s way.” Jon nodded quickly, before Catelyn could do or say anything she might regret when her composure returned.

“Sansa is safe at Winterfell and Arya is at Storm’s End with Lord Gendry Baratheon. So far as I know, it is their desire and intent to marry.” He took her hands in his and felt cold water soak into his gloves all over again. “Perhaps you should spend a bit of time in private. We will talk when you’re ready, I’m not going anywhere.” His voice was steadier than he felt, knees past knocking and on to locking. Her mouth opened and closed, it seemed she wasn’t aware whatever she was trying to say wasn’t making it past her lips. Talisa gently tucked her arm in Catelyn’s and led her off, no doubt to find an empty room. Once they were gone from sight Jon let out a gasp and collapsed against a wall, sliding to the sodden ground. Oh well, I’m not like to get any muddier. His thoughts were such a whirl, his face was in his hands and for the first time he forgot the wet chill that had plagued the column since it had first passed into the riverlands. Maybe I should have brought Sansa after all.

“I thought a castle choked full of corpses was bad. This one is full of a different kind of walking dead- SNOW!!!” Jon heard Tormund Giantsbane’s muttering become a bellow as the wildling dashed down the corridor and hauled him to his feet. “Were you stuck!?” he yelled, shaking Jon bodily.

“No.” Jon replied, now two kinds of dizzy. “I just…met someone I thought I was well quit of.” At once Tormund released him, looking annoyed.

“What kneeler is fierce enough to put the King-Beyond-the-Wall on his bastard arse?” he asked.

“My father’s wife.” Jon replied, feeling only then returning to his limbs. Tormund’s brow furrowed.

“Eh? Aye, that could get sticky. Certainly can north of the Wall.” Jon gave a violent shiver and the wildling put a hand on his shoulder. “Wolves may love cold well as they love the moon but you’re not about to shake yourself dry. At least you might find a fire to sit in front of now the fucking rain’s stopped.” he said cheerfully, steering Jon back into Riverrun.

By the time they reached the castle’s hall Jon was holding his jerkin in a bunched bundle under one arm. Only when he saw a guard’s eyes go wide at the sight of him did he curse himself. I forgot about the scars. Well, no sense hiding them now. Besides, I’m not putting this on again. Pushing the door open, Jon found a man stinking of wine with a curtain of red Tully hair running down into his face seated at the head of the table, the lord’s place. At his right sat the Blackfish, speaking insistently in a quiet stream of whispered curses. On seeing Jon he got to his feet.

“Jon Snow, this boned trout has the gall to claim to be my nephew Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun.”

“I’ve yet to claim to be so much as a stablehand.” the seated man replied listlessly.

“Well, you reek of wine and shit well enough. Perhaps stall-mucking would be more fitting for a lout like you.”

“That’s enough, Ser Brynden.” Jon said. He took the place across from the Blackfish, looking at Lord Edmure. “I can’t imagine the man Robb knew and the one that sits before me now are have much in common.” he said.

“We don’t. I’m married, that man wasn’t.” Edmure muttered.

“You also have a son. That man didn’t. You have life left in you yet, Edmure Tully. To drown yourself in wine and self-pity and leave your wife and child to fate is worse the insult to Robb’s memory by far than fretting over the circumstances of your wedding.” He stood. “There’s no call to waste good wine on a useless man. If you cannot find the fire in yourself, simply step off the castle ramparts and if the fall doesn’t kill you, the lizard-lions will.” Edmure blinked.

“What are you talking about?” Is he ignorant of all that goes on outside his walls?

“You are aware my lord, of the rains that have all but turned the riverlands into a river with bits of land in it? Lizard-lions it seems have been coming down from the Neck following the wider, deeper rivers…and to clear away the corpses left by the War of Five Kings.” Lord Tully brushed his hair out of his face, slowly rising.

“Are there so many?”

“Enough to spook the wolves that followed us here. One of the horse-lads lost his horse to one.” Tormund said from the door.

“You’d know yourself how striking they are if you saw fit to leave your lordly chambers, Edmure. Perhaps have that red curtain tied back or cut. A bath and new garb would do you good as well.” Jon said, returning to the corridor. “You have a castle full of people looking to you, waiting for you to bestir yourself. A wife and son chief among them.”

“You’ll find lodgings near the base of the spiral stair.” the Blackfish called from behind him.

“Many thanks, ser.”

“Eerie that you sound like Robb.” Edmure’s voice was lost in thought. “Even more, you sound like Catelyn.” Jon felt faint all over again.

“Someone should, my lord.” he replied. Then he left.

I need to find Dany. I ought tell her about everything before she runs into Catelyn by chance. He found her in the solar making small talk with a girl a scant year older. A small boy sat in her lap, burbling curiously with his eyes on Dany’s hair. Edmure’s son, Jon knew at once. On Jon’s approach Daenerys stood up, a small smile on her face. Before was not a lark. It truly is like a field of warmth follows her wherever she goes. He smiled back. If no one else realizes it, that’s their problem.

“Jon. This is Lady Roslin Tully and her son Hoster.” Named for Catelyn and Edmure’s father. He nodded to the girl who turned pink and looked in her lap.

“I had the honor of meeting your husband just now, my lady. He seems…revived, if just a bit.” At once her big guileless eyes were back on him. “Just so. No doubt you’d be of more assistance to him in finding clothing than Ser Brynden.” With that she was off, scooping up her son in her rush to return to her husband’s side.

“A moment ago she was afraid for his life. She swore that within the month they’d have found Lord Tully dead of drink.” Daenerys said quietly once they were alone, Tormund having the sense not to follow Jon up the spiral stair to the solar.

“More than a month. Less than half a year, though.”

“What did you say to him?” she asked, coming closer and bringing her blessed warmth with her.

“I told him Robb wouldn’t want this of his uncle, that the living are a better reason to live than the dead are to die.” He cursed himself again when her eyes went big at the sight of his chest. Damn. Gently his hand eased her chin up until her eyes found his. “Never mind the scars. They’re not about to hurt you.”

“They look as if they hurt you. That is enough to hurt me as well.” she whispered.

“Nonsense. Any more of this and you’re like to go big-eyed at just the sight of me and that will never do.” She hiccupped through tears that threatened to fall.

“I’m sorry. Just…everything Lady Tully said, about her husband being forsworn and her son haunted by the circumstances of his birth…”

“At least he’s trueborn, hm? No need to have a bastard’s name follow him the rest of his days. Instead of inheriting a one-room hovel, he’ll inherit Riverrun. That is, if the Others are driven off and all that.”

“Still. She painted rather a bleak picture.”

“If enough people who remember the Red Wedding make it through what’s coming that will be the kindest the gods have ever been, Dany. Ever. I doubt those dead years now will much bother us. Unless they rise as wights.” He led her to one of the rooms ready for highborn visitors. “You should rest, Dany. We won’t linger here, there’s still King’s Landing to sort out and then the journey north.” The journey home. Daenerys gave him a long look, as if she were about to ask if he would join her. Rather than stand there awkwardly, Jon softly kissed her hand and she blushed all over again, even giggling a bit before she took her leave of him. As he lay in bed half-awake he wondered vaguely how the others were doing. Arya, Sam, Theon, even Daenerys’ Naathi friend in Dorne. I suppose we’ll find out in the next few weeks.

Ghost was as known to Jon as his own limbs. The white wolf was running through a wood, a golden glint visible off to the west. I know this place, Jon thought. The horse farmer’s hovel. Ygritte and I parted ways here. What Ghost could want here Jon could not begin to guess but the direwolf’s nose twitched as he caught a sudden scent. His mind it seemed was on Jon and the spearwife kissed-by-fire, making Jon all the sadder. You are sniffing after true ghosts, boy. She’s long gone and I’m all that remains of the boy that was. Jon caught a glimpse of the Wall before he woke up with a gasp. Booted again. He must not approve of what I’m up to. The least he could have done is show me his wild girl… His sullen mood vanished when he realized he had an arm around someone, under a heavy blanket he didn’t remember pulling over himself. A curtain of silver hair fell across his face as the other person murmured sleepily.

“Dany…what have you done?” he whispered tersely, color flooding his face. She made a soft cooing sound.

“You are trapped beneath a blanket and queens go where they will, Jon Snow.” she said sleepily, not budging. Does she think this all a game? He answered himself. Well Jon Snow, you did hope for this to prove entertaining.

“Kings, too.” he grumbled, moving to slide away from her. Immediately she rolled over and threw an arm around his blanket-covered form, her face inches from his, eyes closed in unbothered repose.

“Not when they’re captive. I have captured you. You have to do what I say and I say you can’t go anywhere until I’m done sleeping.” She accentuated with a long fake snore, snuggling into his front. “See? Still sleeping.” Despite himself he put an arm around her in turn, making her smile. He blew the haze of silver out of her face as well, winning another giggle. “Only a little longer and I’ll be able to do the same to you.”

“Dany, we have to talk to the Tullys, have them rally whoever is left in the riverlands and move toward King’s Landing.”

“We have to stay right here and sleep some more.” she replied, giving an exaggeratedly lazy yawn. Jon sighed and slid out from under the blanket, out of bed and to his feet. “Hmph!” Dany pouted and rolled back over, disappearing beneath the blanket.

“Would Her Grace join the waking world for a bit of breakfast?” Jon asked, rolling his eyes as a reluctant smile crept over his face. A perfect pouty mouth appeared from out of the heavy covers.

“No, but she commands that you bring her breakfast anyway.”

“In Westeros it’s considered poor manners if a guest does not join her host for meals.” The mouth stuck its tongue out at him.

“Mlhhh.” she said.

“Mlhhh, yourself. I’ll go see what’s what with the Tullys while you play the dozy kitten.”

The sound of vomiting made Jon rethink his decision to confer with Edmure Tully just then. Jon found him seated where he’d left him, only his chair was facing the wall so he could lean over and fill a bucket every so often. The Blackfish was there as well, looking a truly odd mix of relieved and nauseated.

“He’s eating at least. Now it’s to see if he can keep it down.” the knight said, edging away from the bucket.

“It’s no fault of the cooks. I shouldn’t have tried a trout fillet straightaway is all.” Edmure replied, sounding none the worse for his situation. The color has returned to his face. On seeing Jon he waved him in. “Feel free to join us, Jon Snow. My apologies for before, in looking to the past I was blinded to the present.”

“A great many men go grey-haired before they learn that lesson, if at all.” Jon replied.

“I can bloody well attest to that.” Blackfish grumbled before he poured a cup of water and set it before Edmure.

“Has Lady Catelyn made an appearance yet?” Jon asked.

“No, likely she’ll be out of sorts awhile yet. If what she said of your father is true, you’re him come again and she spent the entirety of her time in Robb’s camp pining for Lord Eddard whenever she got a moment.” Wonderful. This is the very last thing I have time for. After all they still had to settle King’s Landing and get north, preferably before winter started and definitely before the Others decided it had been a long enough wait. After a short meal in which Edmure managed to keep down a whole mouthful of chicken Jon took his leave, intent on getting Catelyn to her feet in the same vein as Edmure. After I drop off a plate for Daenerys of course. He felt foolish knocking on his own door but the gods only knew what went through Daenerys’ head when she was in a mischievous mood. Her own door two down opened at once and she looked out, dressed in a fresh if drab gown. Evidently Roslin Tully and she had got to finding her clean garb while Jon was fetching food.

“Good morning, Jon Snow.” she said, pulling new gloves on without looking at him twice. His stomach tightened. Did I do something wrong?

“I thought you might be hungry.” he said, putting on the dour brooding face she so loved to mock. Ygritte, too. Maybe they have a point after all.

“Famished. You may leave the tray on the end table.” she said. He blinked. “If I thought you would agree to help me pick a dress, I’d have asked, Jon Snow. As it happened you were beside yourself to even lie in the same bed and that beneath a blanket. Perhaps next time, or when you’re not feeling so shy.” She kissed him on the cheek and moved past him down the hall while he blushed scarlet all over again.

Following the still-sodden patches of floor, Jon made his way back down through Riverrun to the gate above the water. She must be near. That or the river is about to flood again. He found the pair of them talking in an empty guardroom, Lady Catelyn seated on a sodden bench while the Essosi girl leaned against the wall. There was no offer to join them when they saw Jon, not that he expected one.

“I seem to remember you going to the Wall to join the Night’s Watch.” Catelyn said finally in a flat tone. Wearily Jon explained as well as he could, again pulling up his jerkin to show the truth of his words. The Night’s Watch hasn’t the men to chase deserters anyway, he thought grimly. “So you come back and Robb stays dead, is that it?” she asked.

“Aye. At least as far as I can see.” Jon’s voice held every bit the warmth Catelyn’s did. “I might say the same of you. The gods saw fit to send you back into my life when they might have sent my mother instead.” Whoever she was. To his great surprise the ageless face that regarded him softened.

“Lady Stark talked about you a lot.” Talisa cut in suddenly. Both Jon and Catelyn turned to her. “She is not the godliest woman who has ever lived but then, neither am I.”

“What are you talking about?” Jon asked, confused.

“When you were a little boy. You got the pox, remember?” Catelyn said tonelessly. Jon was taken aback.

“I don’t remember that.”

“I’m not surprised. You were only four or five, feverish and entirely insensate.” She looked in her lap. “You looked like my husband even then. I saw another woman’s son playing with my own and it made my heart ache.” She looked at him. “I asked the gods to take you away, for you to die. Only when I heard your poxy wheezes did I pray again, for you to stay. I promised the Seven I would be the mother yours could not be. It was a promise I’m sure you know I did not keep.” Jon could not remember any of it but then again, he hadn’t been streaming from the eyes when he came into the guardroom. Now I’m King In the North and her beloved trueborn sons are ghosts. His mouth moved but he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Did Lord Stark ever tell you who Jon’s mother was?” The soft voice made Jon jump out of his skin, whirling to see Daenerys looking at the three of them, her face quiet and somber.

“He didn’t have to. The only time I ever roused my lord and love to anger was when I guessed that very thing and his tone confirmed what I already suspected.” Catelyn seemed unperturbed by the dragon queen’s appearance. Finally Jon found his voice.

“Who was she?” Jon asked, voice trembling. Catelyn approached, rippling like a face in the surface of a pond. She cannot hold her form, she must be upset.

“It seems whenever the tournament during the Year of False Spring comes up, someone has to mention Ashara Dayne.” Jon felt as though his heart had stopped. Dany was right. He could feel her hand slip into his. “The most beautiful woman who ever lived, if the bards tell it true. She must have been or singers born after her death would not be singing of her still.”

“Ser Barristan told me Ashara Dayne jumped from one of Starfall’s towers in grief for the Sword of the Morning and a stillborn daughter.” Daenerys replied.

“That I cannot speak to. Perhaps she bore a dead daughter twin to a living son, only Ned could have told you for certain. The gods are cruel as they are capricious, perhaps it amused them to keep father and son in this living world so full of woe and hold mother and daughter in the world to come.” Jon could stand to hear no more. He turned on his heel and walked out of the guardroom, out to anywhere but there.

The next thing he knew, Dany was sitting next to him on a stone bench in the godswood. No wonder Lord Stark never spoke of her. It was not in him to father a bastard but it was in him to love. Had Aerys not murdered Uncle Brandon and Father married Ashara… I would be Jon Stark. Perhaps I’d even have a sister, too. Catelyn’s venom could not hurt him after that, he’d grown immune to it if only by exposure during his childhood.

“I suppose were I who I thought I was growing up, I could legitimize you right here and now.” Dany said, sounding a thousand leagues away. Jon Snow, he thought. But if I was born at Starfall, I would be Jon Sand. A lifetime’s worth of faces floated past, all those who’d known his name. He tried to imagine explaining to Ygritte that she’d have to call him Jon Sand from now on. “What kneeler would rather be sand than snow, Jon Snow?” she would answer. I can’t imagine the rest of the Free Folk would be much for switching either. “It is not so bad. You can call the Sword of the Morning uncle, who else in the Seven Kingdoms can say that, Daynes aside?” Dany wondered aloud. If there are any left.

“Had things gone differently, I could have been born legitimate.” Jon replied dully. “Without tarnishing Lord Stark’s honor.”

“Had things gone differently, I might have been born with Hasty coloring only. Bonnie Waters, brown of hair and green of eye, doted on by her father and always wondering who her mother was. Perhaps Jon Stark would have taken a liking to this girl, even loved her in time.”

“Meantime Jon Snow has taken a liking to this girl and he’s had time enough to know he loves her.” Jon said, pulling her into his lap as she squeaked in mock distress.

“Certainly it’s not every man who would go so far as to rescue an imperiled princess from a dragon.” she giggled.

“Or steal a dragon’s mother out from under him. Speaking of, should we go see what your swaddled babe is up to? I don’t hear him roaring or people gushing over him.” Dany went from nestled in the crook of his shoulder to jumping out of his lap immediately, her eyes wide and lip trembling. “Never fear. He’s not going to leave you all alone, much less in the company of a shameless mother-thief.” he coughed into his fist and put his hands on his hips, making her hiccup between amusement and anxiety. He offered his arm, she took it, and they walked out a postern gate to find the dragon.

“Uhh…what in seven hells is he doing?” Jon asked. Drogon was laid out almost flat on his belly, wings outstretched as if to cover as much ground with his body as possible. It was a simple matter of the dragon’s legs being too long to allow both for the odd behavior and a stable stance, one that made Jon laugh despite his mood. Drogon paid them absolutely no mind. That’s odd. Usually he takes every opportunity to scoop her up straightaway and blow smoke in my face. The great red eyes were on the water though, logs floating lazily by. Two lizard-lions of truly fearsome size twelve and fourteen feet to Jon’s ranger’s eyes lay in the muddied mess between river and shore, staring straight back at the dragon with their own beady dark eyes. Were they of a size Drogon would have not a prayer. Dragons, it seemed to Jon, were made for flight. On land they were quite awkward, even ungainly. An animal without wings, such as a lizard-lion, could thus be heavier, much heavier, without necessarily sacrificing speed. Their heads were huge and they were thick-bodied powerful animals, their short stubby limbs perfect for moving through waterlogged ground. Add to that hide that could catch a scorpion bolt. It seems House Reed could not have picked a better sigil. Despite himself Jon inched closer, Dany sticking close to Drogon’s side. Scars ran over the beasts from snout to tail and their backs gleamed with spearheads and the tips of swords. Crannogmen use no steel. I wonder what unlucky Freys managed only to decorate you two. Jon stopped perhaps twenty feet away. He had no idea how they were overland but if they proved as adept as in the water, he wanted at least a respectable head start. Only then did he see that they were eyeing each other the same way they were eyeing Drogon. Not a two-on-one, a three-man duel. A sort of low hiss-grunt echoed out of each lizard-lion almost without pause. Slowly Jon put the pieces together. Man is right. Close as he was to the water Jon could see the steel bits glinting out of the backs of the other logs save for the smallest. Nowhere was there evidence of a great “denning down” as wolves and bears were wont to do. He made his way back to Dany backward, always facing the two animals bold enough it seemed to puff their chests out at Drogon. “They’re all males. That’s why they’re congregating at river’s edge, to try and claim stretches of it for themselves.” he reported. Dany frowned.

“Nothing comes from nothing.”

“Maybe the cows stayed in familiar ground once breeding was over. Certainly it’s unlikely they’d just go wading all over the riverlands if they were bloated with eggs.” On further inspection Jon could see how the lizard-lions arranged themselves, the smaller and lighter forced out of the small delta formed by Riverrun until only the two great bulls he’d originally espied remained. Drogon is throwing them off. They’re trying to show down. Size against strength, age against stamina. “Animals will forget about everything, even food, when it comes to breeding.” he said quietly.

“What are you talking about?”

“See how they arrange themselves? Bigger is better and the bigger ones force the smaller ones out until eventually only one bull remains. Here, anyway. Splendid as they are maybe they’re only fighting for runner-up.” He heard Dany gulp and shrink closer to her child. Somewhere in the Neck is a bull lizard-lion large enough, strong enough to give these lads the boot. If I can manage to never meet him, I will count myself a happy man.

Chapter Text

Arya

Despite his size, Gendry had a lighter touch than Septa Mordane. Arya listened to his breathing as he slept, of no mind to leave his arms. Slow and steady. Measured. Maybe that comes from years at the forge. In the days after their arrival he’d gotten bored of the stormlanders fawning over him and sought out the hammer and anvil, quickly proving his mettle. Looking down the arm around her, Arya could see new burns and pink patches seared hairless by heat. Perhaps battle will suit him as it suited Robert Baratheon. Then she thought about it a bit more. No. It will suit him, but in a very different way. Robert Baratheon had bored faster than he breathed and likely battle was his truest love simply because it was mindless, furious action. Gendry’s manner in battle will be the same as at the forge. Calm as still water. She caught sight of herself in the mirror on the far wall, big grey eyes staring out at her. Still the cat, the weasel, the nameless girl. The person Arya saw didn’t look like a lady, much less a princess. At least, one from a stupid story. We’ll have new stories soon I think, with new ladies in them. The thought made her grin, wide and unabashed. Nymeria whimpered on the floor near the hearth, her huge body quite hiding the fire from view. Arya’s smile went as quick as it had come and she reached for the direwolf, taking a breath to steady herself against whatever was worrying Nymeria. It wasn’t in her pack to follow her down the coast to Storm’s End from Dragonstone but Arya found the timber wolves of the riverlands were the furthest thing from Nymeria’s mind. The forest was sprawling, monstrous even, and not a tree that grew in it had ever known the touch of an axe. The cold made Arya’s stomach feel like a brick pressing down on the rest of her insides. Her wolf was nervous, unsure and the body Arya wore through her was noticeably more robust. A sudden staggering urge to run after a whiff of hot fleeing prey overwhelmed Nymeria’s fear and Arya’s uncertainty both and off they went after the unseen quarry. This isn’t warging, Arya thought dizzily. This is clinging onto a horse that’s trying to buck me off. Their unwitting guide hurtled along, wolf and warg both lost in the tumult until suddenly the mad dash ended with a leap out of the brush. Arya caught a glimpse of a goat with a funny horn before she brought it down, tearing into the tough meat ravenously as Nymeria never did. A pleased grunt made the animal whose skin they saw though look up at once. Instead of grey eyes, blue ones half-remembered stared out from a bush.

“Arya. Arya.” Gendry’s voice was calm but stern, quiet but insistent. She woke up sitting upright in his lap, the heat of the room a contrast to the cold in her bones. She blinked away the blue eyes that lingered in her mind. “Are you alright?” he asked, looking her over. At first she was too confused to speak, much less answer. Then she got to thinking. That wasn’t worse than the Red Wedding or the Waif.

“Sorry, Gendry. I guess I just had a bad dream.”

“You both did.” he replied, Nymeria’s massive head slipping into Arya’s lap with a confused whimper.

“It wasn’t mine.” she realized, correcting herself. “Nymeria was twitching in her sleep and I wanted to make sure she wasn’t sick or hurt. There was a funny goat, big like a pony with a horn…she ate it. We ate it. The thing Nymeria was peeping in on ate it, bones and all.” her lip quivered. When she looked up at Gendry though, his face was untroubled.

“Direwolves eat meat. If a funny-goat or a horn-pony looked appetizing enough, I’m sure Nymeria would bring it down. So what if it happened somewhere else?” he shrugged. “Maybe beyond the Wall. There are supposed to be wild direwolves up there.” That didn’t sound right to Arya, though.

“Jon made no mention of creatures like the one we mauled- we saw get mauled.”

“Has Jon been everywhere there is to be, seen everything there is to see up there? The wildlings brought no shadow cats or snow bears with them but it’s known that they live up there, too. Might be your odd ponies don’t take to men well.” He’s rocking me, she realized. Slow, to let me catch my breath. “Or they heard there was a wolf princess with the hands of a blacksmith and an anvil for a head and decided they didn’t want to come.” he added, looking thoughtful. Aray felt the color rise in her face at once, the animal forgotten.

“You’re the blacksmith.”

“Aye, and you’re the anvil-head.” he replied cheerfully, getting up and setting her on the bed. Without a thought she leapt on his back and he took her legs in his arms without complaint, carrying her as he moved about the room without a word against it. “Maybe I’ll find a merchant in need of a good anvil. Too bad there’s some girl attached, that bit would never sell.”

“Maybe I’ll find some ram in need of something to butt. Might be he’ll crack his poor horns against your stupid chest but at least you’ll be of some use.” Arya said, burying her face in his shoulder. Far as it was from the forge when Gendry smithed, the heat seemed to her to linger even there, trapped beneath the bull’s skin. Daenerys the Unburnt. Let’s see Daenerys pound steel into dough and fold it like Hot Pie folds a pie crust. Though she loved to imagine him at his trade, thinking of Gendry in a battle proper made Arya’s stomach twist and her head hurt. He needn’t fight any stupid battles with stupid dead men. Despite her reservations she doubted the storm lords would see things in the same light. “I’m hungry.” she said suddenly, sounding as petulant as a child.

“Let me find a shirt and we’ll go to the hall for breakfast. It’ll be slim pickings, we’ve got to leave soon if we want to meet up with the others around King’s Landing.” Arya bit her lip as she slid off Gendry’s back. The place where Father was murdered. So much of her didn’t want to go, didn’t want to leave the funny land of rainy woods that grew up mountainsides instead of across vast moors as in the north but more important was stopping whatever was going on beyond the Wall than her urge to hide under the bed. Jon’s bed, she remembered. When I hid, it was ever under Jon’s bed. Then she turned to see how Gendry was faring. She pursed her lips, eyes roving down every corded muscle and forge-burn.

“Gendry?” she asked. He looked at her nonplussed, bare from the waist up. “Forget the shirt.” This time it was her bull’s turn to go red.

It seemed to Arya that the storm lords barely ever left the Round Hall. The man with the sea turtle on his breast, Estermont, in particular looked ready to slump forward into his porridge. Despite Arya’s advice Gendry wore a black doublet slashed with gold, fetching in its way despite a conspicuous lack of muscles. Ah, well. I can always visit him when he works. Of course ‘my lord’s flew at Gendry from every corner of the room but other than a nod or a raised mug he did nothing to bask in the attention. Exactly how his father wouldn’t have done. Not for the first time Arya felt a pang of sadness in regard to his mother. Some poor girl from the gutter King Robert gave a tumble.

“My lord, perhaps you get rest enough to warrant a woken sea turtle as your sigil. Otherwise you’d best change it to one cooped up in its shell, fast asleep. Or with a bowl of porridge upended on its head.” Arya told Lord Estermont as she strode toward him, pulling him out of his slump.

“Cross-country is mad enough to try without blinking sleep out of your eyes, my lords. I’d like to leave within the week but only if we can reach King’s Landing without stumbling off into the Kingswood or the Wendwater.” As usual, the small talk in the Round Hall died away at once when Gendry spoke. The stormlanders love the Baratheons as the northmen love the Starks, Arya saw. Elsewise Gendry would not be Lord of Storm’s End any more than Jon would be King in the North. Men who earned their places with more than blood, more than birth. She smiled, proud of Gendry and Jon both. Who needs a claim by birth when one can claim by deed? As the castle was soon to be quit for the open road what stores remained in the larder were turned out as they would be over the next few days, that morning providing a slice of ham for all those in the hall regardless of title. Though Nymeria does, Arya thought with a scratch behind the direwolf’s ears. Queen of the Fords. Funny that you never crossed paths with Robb and Grey Wind during the war. Once breakfast had concluded Gendry stole a kiss from Arya making her cheeks blush and the hall cheer before he whispered in her ear. “I think the smuggler wants to talk to you. I’ll be a distraction, go!” With that he quickly took his place in the center of the hall, good-naturedly humoring the storm lords while Arya’s eyes found Ser Davos and his wife lingering by the door. She seized her chance and slunk out of the hall without another moment wasted.

“I did a good amount of thinking after we spoke on the way here, princess.” Ser Davos said, his wife for all her roundness keeping pace without so much as a winded breath. “I knew another princess once, spirited like you. Fond of books, stories about monsters and smugglers…” his shortened hand gripped the bit of charcoal tight. Arya didn’t have to ask what had become of her, whoever she was. Certainly Davos Seaworth looked unable to so much as speak her name. She’d taken a deal more from me than I first supposed, Arya remembered his words. What did charcoal have to do with it? She realized they were getting near the castle’s center, where the godswood lay. In short order Arya found herself face-to-face with a solemn-faced heart tree, one that looked as though all it had to lose, it had.

“Perhaps it’s me but I see more than a little of your face in the tree’s, Ser Davos.” she said quietly.

“Well, it’s a weepy old greyhair. So am I.”

“You’re not all grey, sweetheart. You have some brown yet behind your ears.” Lady Marya said fondly, brushing her husband’s shoulder.

“Yes, fire enough to impress the northmen at Jon’s accession.” Arya added.

“Impress? Princess, I had to down a bottle of whitebitter wine in one go and even then it was another two weeks before any of them would talk to me.”

“Like I said, fire enough to impress.” Arya reiterated while Lady Marya laughed until her eyes ran. While Ser Davos flustered uncertainly Arya turned back to the tree, running a hand down the face. Hello there, she thought. Been awhile since I met one of you.

“Once I had to help the red woman pass beneath the castle wall, a sort of dock hidden in a cavern. She claimed she couldn’t work her mischief from the safety of Stannis’ camp, that old spells lingered in the stones. It seems the place is taking to you as well as you are to it, princess.” Ser Davos said. A pity I have to leave it so soon. Time is short enough to deal with King’s Landing though, let alone getting back to Winterfell and readying for…them. Arya still didn’t know what to think regarding Jon’s words. She had seen all manner of things but walking dead? Beings from the utmost north? It sounded honestly like something dragons and giants were more fit to sort out than bickering lords. Arya’s thoughts wandered further afield until she arrived at Nymeria’s dream that morning. She shuddered and shook it away. I have worries enough to tend to without anything else nosing in. Let’s get to King’s Landing at least before I let all this get to me.

They waited a few more days for the few far-flung men in the stormlands to congregate before Gendry gave the long-awaited marching order. Nymeria predictably bounded ahead and quickly vanished from sight while Arya kept her spot ahorse next to Gendry. She’d have preferred to ride with him of course but it was Gendry himself who opined against it.

“We aren’t married yet, princess.” he had reminded her solemnly. “I’d rather you ride in your own right, anyway.” He doesn’t want to offend Jon, she realized. He cares more about the opinion of his fellow bastard than all the lords of Westeros. Likely Jon would approve of his waiting anyway. Few men could wait the way Jon could, and Gendry was one among them. I should know. I ran off to Braavos rather than stay in the riverlands. They stopped at Bronzegate to rest the night before starting through the Kingswood, Lord Ralph Buckler every bit as delighted as the other stormlords to find a Baratheon of Storm’s End to follow. The man’s eyes practically popped out of his head as Nymeria appeared, a pheasant in her teeth.

“Worse things in this world can leap out of the bushes at you, Lord Buckler. Boltons and Freys among others.” Ser Davos said offhandedly, eyes at the sea of trees waiting for them. No Boltons in there, ser. Only deer, more pheasants and the occasional hermit. Arya’s thoughts were filled by the old man she and the Hound had found once upon a time. No balance anymore. Those three words made her shiver quite apart from the chilly night and Gendry pulled her closer as they ate dinner in Bronzegate’s hall.

“This time tomorrow you should be able to see your brother again. Besides, Nymeria likes the woods.” He means well, she thought, but he wasn’t there. He didn’t hear the farmer’s words. Once they retired for the night Arya found herself gazing at the waxing moon out of the tower window. Hello again. You led me back to Nymeria, or her back to me, I don’t know and I don’t care. When she heard the direwolf trot up next to her Arya was surprised to see Nymeria gazing at the moon as raptly as she had. “We’d best sleep, Arya.” Gendry said from across the bed. “The next few days are like to be as tiring as any proper battle.” Wordlessly she clambered into bed next to him, murmuring some stubbornness. “No, you.” he replied, smiling, as she laid her head on his chest and fell asleep to his heartbeat.

Early next morning Arya found herself singularly grumpy as they rode on into the Kingswood. Regardless of Gendry’s red-faced objections she placed herself squarely in his arms once he’d got ahorse, her own following behind.

“This way I won’t fall out of the saddle if I fall asleep.” she explained. “Just now I don’t feel like guiding a horse either.”

“You’re stubborn as an old mule.”

“That’s right. If you want to get me to move, you’d best give me a carrot.”

“I’ve not got a carrot.”

“Well, then, I’ll settle for you.” she said, a smile creeping across her face. It was several hours’ ride and Arya nodded off half a dozen times before Gendry spoke next.

“Maybe you’ll marry a carrot.” he said.

“Maybe I will!” she declared, beaming.

“Then I’ll marry a turnip. Turnips are better than carrots, anyway.”

“They are not-” Arya’s fiery retort was cut short when Gendry kissed her neck and made her break out in a fit of screaming giggles. The column stopped at a bridge over a chilly-looking river.

“The Wendwater.” Lord Buckler announced. “Where exactly are we meeting whoever it is we’re meeting, my lord?” he asked Gendry. It was Ser Davos who answered.

“The stretch of forest east of Tumbleton, my lord. Within sight of the city but outside its own.” Like a wolf stalking a lion. Then Arya remembered what else was part of Daenerys Targaryen’s retinue. Do dragons stalk? Do they have to? Or do they just fall out of the sky burping flames?

“We’ll like as not be the first ones there. Then we just camp and wait for the others. Probably the reachmen before the rest.” she said, remembering the funny table on Dragonstone. Lord Buckler swallowed.

“What if the queen sends a sortie from King’s Landing?”

“She hasn’t got the men to throw away like that, my lord. Were she to allow the city’s swords to ride out they would sooner join us than fight.” Arya replied.

“All the same, we’ll dig trenches and the rest. Practice for when we have to do it for real.” Gendry said, stretching his huge arms behind his back. Arya could see the stormlords committing every word to memory. Unfortunately once over the Wendwater a cold squall slowed their progress and they were forced to camp. Arya took great glee in how baffled all the gathered high lords were that she and Gendry were perfectly able to sleep out in the open, having found a splendid ash tree. Arya wanted to sleep in the tree but Gendry could climb no better than Nymeria could and so on the ground she stayed.

“Lords knight men who do them great service.” she said.

“That’s how it seems to be.” Arya gazed up the great ash’s trunk.

“Perhaps you ought knight our tree. It’s keeping you and your lady dry…ish, and it’s one of your bannermen as well, a true stormlander.”

“Perhaps. Sir Ash of the Kingswood. He doesn’t move so well but after all, he’s getting on in years.”

“He doesn’t waver even in the fiercest storm, either.” Arya added, snickering. Their banter kept up for awhile until it seemed she shut her eyes and opened them to a different world, one so cold her stomach hurt. Someone was poking her hard in the chest and she got a glimpse of a face. The right eye was white, dead, gazing into nothingness, the left one brown and taking her in intently. A white stripe ran down the face’s left side and when the mouth opened Arya could see blackened teeth. You’re no stormlander, she thought numbly.

The next thing she knew night had fallen and the rain had slowed to a cold patter. Gendry was fast asleep sitting against the tree so Arya seized the chance to piss without having to wait for a bloody castle. The face lingered in her mind even as she wandered, one she definitely would have remembered meeting. It was most like Jon’s bald wildling but even then a world apart. After she took care of business she tried heading back to the ash before she realized she’d gone further than she meant to.

“A girl it seems is lost, much as she was when a man first met her.” The voice made Arya go a different kind of cold. If he wanted me dead I would be already, she reasoned.

“A girl isn’t lost. She’s just looking for a tree.” she replied, seeing no one in the trees.

“Looking and not finding.” Arya frowned. He’s not talking about the tree.

“I’ve found plenty since I left you in that hall. Bloody more than I ever found working out your riddles and doing your bidding in Braavos.” An archer stepped out from behind one of the countless trees wearing Baratheon livery. “The Kingswood is a long way from the House of Black and White.” she said.

“It is.” The archer spoke not with Jaqen H’ghar’s silky lilt but a Westerosi peasant’s typical sulky grumble.

“Why are you here?” As if he’d ever give an honest answer.

“A man is here because he wants to be.” Arya’s eyes went wide. “A man sees many swords and spears are gathering, teeth as well, to take a single life. If a man were to ask for a name, would a girl give one?” Arya’s breath caught in her chest and her mouth moved before she could think, only stopping as sound threatened to escape her lips. She stood there with the name burned into her mind. How many nights had it topped her list? Then the old fire burned away, faster than it ever had, leaving her just feeling sad.

“A girl has given a man enough names. Taken enough as well.” To her surprise the archer smiled.

“A girl has many names on her list, has walked among them as a wolf would walk among sheep.”

“A wolf kills only when she is hungry. A man kills whenever he is paid.”

“This from a girl who had anger enough to take name after name.”

“No more. Her hate broke when Needle did.” Arya felt weary, her patience at an end. She looked around listlessly before deciding to reach for Nymeria, the wolf beside herself dashing through the Kingswood looking for her mistress. The rain has her nose running in circles. “If you won’t help me I’ll just have my wolf take me back.” Arya told the archer.

“Did a man say he would not help? A man asked for a name only and a girl would not give one.”

“Nor will she.” Up came the archer’s hand and away came the archer’s face.

“A girl took away one of the Many-Faced God’s servants. A death He did not seek, a life He was not owed.” Jaqen H’ghar of Lorath said. Three names for the three that should have died, Arya remembered.

“So what, instead of a death, he’s owed a life?” How can you owe a life?

“Just so, clever girl. A man has come these long leagues to hear a name, one and one only, to ensure the Many-Faced God pays back the coin he did not earn.” Good thing I didn’t give him one yet then, Arya thought grimly. Who could she think of that was most in need of Jaqen H’ghar, who wasn’t surrounded by countless swords, who could need her more than someone could need Jon or the dragon queen or the witty imp or any of the lords of Westeros?

“I give you a name and you keep that person safe, is that it?” she asked finally.

“As safe as Jaqen H’ghar can keep them, lovely girl.” That has to count for something, even against dead men and Others. Her mind whirled, she’d met so many commoners on both sides of the Narrow Sea who none of the lords knew about. If only Lady Crane yet lived, she thought. Then the answer came to her, simple as could be.

“A girl has a name to give.”

“Ungiven, a man can only wait and wonder.”

“Jaqen H’ghar.” Arya smiled at the look Jaqen gave then.

“Gods are not mocked. A girl knows this.”

“A girl is not mocking. A man asked for a name and a girl gave one.”

“One among many, a man need only change his face and a girl’s choice would be for nothing.”

“Nothing but for the coin the Many-Faced God holds he seeks to lose.” Her smile grew wider. “A man has given a girl many riddles. It is time she gave him one in turn.”

“The only way then for the God to pay what he owes is for a man to be Jaqen H’ghar for the rest of his days.”

“How awful. To live for yourself and not for the whims of others.” Arya said, walking toward Nymeria when she came bounding through the bushes.

When she found the ash again Gendry was where she had left him, seated against the trunk as the storm lords fretted over where she’d gone.

“There you are, my lords. I told you, she’ll find her way back and so she has.” Arya ran to him and jumped into his arms, dizzy from his kiss and from the twirl she got.

“Whoever heard of a Stark so flighty? Whoever heard of a Tully so stormy? Perhaps it’s fate I end my days a Baratheon.” she said as the stormlords gave a whoop. Nobody gave Jaqen a second look as Arya knew they wouldn’t. They see only an archer, perhaps a sellbow who survived the Blackwater. As they moved on, Arya was surprised to see Jaqen shiver in the chilly breezes along with the rest of them.

“A face is not a fur coat, a man is cold regardless of a girl’s cheating.” he said, in black a mood as Arya had seen him.

“I didn’t cheat. A man was given the name Jaqen H’ghar, a name he must keep until he meets the God, faces-to-faces.” She gave a giggle as he mumbled something in an Essosi tongue and moved on. When they reached the stretch of forest that bulged out of the Kingswood like a too-large nose they made camp again, this time leaving plenty of space for the rest of the arrivals to spread out when they came. As she’d predicted it was the reachmen who arrived first, the scouts to the west calling out at the sight of a great dust cloud coming slowly up the roseroad.

“If they stay on the road they have a day’s march through the Kingswood before they get to us.” Ser Davos said as the stormlands gazed out from the hidden safety of the trees. All this going on and Cersei can no more see us than hear us. She turned to Jaqen.

“These are not lands they know. I would have them come to us sooner than later and skip the getting lost.” He nodded and rode out toward the cloud.

“Knew he looked familiar.” Gendry said when they were alone in their tent. At that Arya laughed until she cried.

“Trust an anvil-head like you to think a Faceless Man looks familiar.” she gasped, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Trust an anvil-head like you to trust an anvil-head like me.” he replied, slipping into his cot. She looked at her own before promptly stepping towards him.

“Move over.”

“No.”

“I am a Princess of Winterfell and you a lowly Lord of Storm’s End.”

“Boo hoo.” She stamped her foot.

“I said move over!”

“I won’t.” Gendry replied, spreading out to take up what little space remained.

“Fine! While you sleep on your stupid cot, I’ll just sleep on you!” she declared, getting comfortable as he spluttered and flailed with her atop him.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

I may never be dry again. The jaunt south from Riverrun had been nothing short of nightmarish, with the rains replaced by winds of cutting cold that made even Drogon scream in irritation. The procession waded through a flooded world of mud that had the ever-present threat of an overnight frost hanging over them like a murder of carrion crows. Finally, blissfully, mercifully, Tyrion felt the ground slowly firm up as the leagues went by.

“The kingsroad won’t help us, we’d have to go through the capital to get to the others.” Ser Bonifer brought up one night as they sat around a bonfire under the stars. The tents were just as muddy as the rest of them and so they had been left behind, along with anything else that they couldn’t be bothered with hauling south.

“There’s a bridge over the Blackwater Rush to the south of us though, it’s part of the gold road. Besides, we’ve begun to leave the flooding behind. My feet even stay in place when I stand still, and we’ve stopped sliding down mud banks or into ditches.” Tyrion had replied. The faces looking at him, northern or southern, Westerosi or Essosi, were indistinguishable from each other so filthy were they. Except for Catelyn and her son’s widow, Tyrion amended. It seemed they never so much as missed a step, let alone actually slipped in the mud. Meanwhile, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had to be helped out of half a dozen muddy pits a day. At least Drogon keeps her warm and dry every night. The Dothraki were of a particularly black disposition, forced to walk and lead their horses by hand rather than risk mounting up and the poor beasts slipping. That, and they eyed every creek and stream with a reverence previously reserved for Drogon. Now they fear fresh water as well as salt. Tyrion saw no logs though and paid the waters no further mind. Upon reaching the bridge and finding it intact, he thanked every god he could think of. Especially the one that looks out for dwarfs, shit job though he usually does.

“Are we in the westerlands?” Daenerys asked when she made it over the bridge.

“Depends on who you ask. I’d answer yes but Lord Tully might say no. The borders of the kingdoms are not so rigid as on a map and the people who live and work the land care not which lord owns it at any given moment.” Tyrion answered, an odd feeling in his stomach. My homeland. I’ve not been here in a long time. Somewhat self-consciously he stooped and scooped up a handful of dirt and dust, sticking it in his pocket. When I die, I will have the westerlands on my person. More troubling was the ground’s hard cold state. A last quick plant and harvest had been a topic of some debate at the last few fires, but Tyrion saw it for what it was, a lackwit’s dream. More than once Jon Snow had voiced concern as to the condition of Westeros’ supplies after the War of Five Kings. Truthfully, Tyrion maintained similar concerns privately with Varys. They had no little birds, no mice to tell them which castle had laid by what and so just how they’d feed themselves come winter, quite apart from an attack by the Others, was a problem of no little import. Best not look too far ahead lest you slip on what’s in front of you. They had still to meet the others and devise a purposed course of action, something better than throwing everyone at the walls and praying someone got to Cersei before she got to her pyromancers. Or Jaime. Surely she’d never allow him to live if she thought herself lost. The possibility that his brother’s life likely hung in the balance atop everything else made Tyrion’s growing headache truly blossom. A very grim reality he’d yet to truly face reared its head then. Tyrion felt his stomach fill his boots, the hollowness in his gut exactly as if he’d been kneed by someone wearing greaves. I’m as likely to walk away with both in hand as I am to fly. His apprehension only grew as the ground finally returned to normal a few leagues south of the crossing, their pace quickening as riding became a most welcome option. The fields were flat and easily crossed in only a few days, the horizon filling with green as the Kingswood’s northwestern edge came into view.

“Shall we take care on our approach?” Jon Snow asked, the lot of them on horseback as they beheld the trees.

“We don’t even know if there’s anyone in there.” Lord Tully replied. Still the muttonhead, Tyrion thought. “To be fair, onlookers aren’t supposed to know anyone is in there. The Kingswood isn’t the Neck, it wouldn’t take a genius to hide an army in it.” Meanwhile, Daenerys smiled at them with a patient look on her face and Varys sighed, his manner long-suffering.

“My lords forgive me, but I must remind you that the black dragon is rather hard to miss. If an army awaits us in the forest surely they’ll have seen him by now.” Tyrion pursed his lips and apologized to Tully in his mind. Muttonheads all. Quite apart from the merry folly unfolding on the ground, Drogon seemed uncharacteristically silent and subdued, lingering off to the right. He sees us giving the city a wide berth, Tyrion supposed. Whether the dragon understood the finer points of their predicament he could not say but Tyrion was positive Drogon and his brothers were capable of more than hunger and wroth. Certainly, they know their mother from other women and Drogon for all his smoke and shrieking lets Jon Snow get away with things no other man in the world could. Tyrion watched the dragon sink slowly out of the sky without a sound, disappearing into the treeline and making the boughs dance. They reached the Kingswood piecemeal, the King in the North leading their best scouts to find wherever the waiting army had got itself to while the rest of them waited in a cluster of clearings that once might have been a logging camp.

“I wonder how much longer it will be before I have a proper wash.” Tyrion said conversationally when Varys came on him sitting on a moss-covered maple stump.

“Maybe never. Snow will fall soon instead of rain and there’s no guarantee a man will see his next sunrise, let alone his next full tub.”

“My lord, if only you’d be so blunt with others as you are with me. Your reputation may well flourish, especially in the north.” The very prospect made Varys shudder.

“I only wish I’d gotten to see Littlefinger try to play his games with pieces too stubborn and obtuse to move where he directed them.”

“It wasn’t just that, though. You said yourself, a few frozen northmen would never dissuade Petyr Baelish from his course. Whatever he saw during the Battle of the Bastards must have been quite the display.” Drogon ambled past, snapping at a few Dothraki when they didn’t move out of the way fast enough. Quite apart from coiling up around Daenerys as was his wont, he instead coiled around himself and promptly went to sleep, smoke billowing from his nostrils. A new game, with new rules. Tyrion shivered on remembering Baelish’s words.

When Varys became embroiled in one of his sulking moods Tyrion decided it was time for a piss. He waddled away from the clearing only half-watching where he was going, deciding he was running out of chances to piss on a tree with proper leaves on it instead of needles. To his delight he found an oak starved of sunlight by its taller fellows. A kindred soul, Tyrion thought dryly. Quite after he’d paid his homage the sound of sprinkling continued and Tyrion looked down in a combination of confusion and alarm, one impossible thing after the next running through his head. Then he realized someone had taken up directly across the trunk from him and he looked around it to see a man with a green apple on his breast who promptly spun to his own right midstream with a muttered curse. He might well have got me in the eye, Tyrion thought. Green-apple Fossoways from New Barrel, sworn to Highgarden. So the reachmen made it here, at least.

“Just who the fuck are you?” the man cried in a high voice. Not a man at all, just a lanky lad.

“How many dwarves have you heard of?” Tyrion shot back. His words it seemed sunk in and the young man became a blubbering mess. At once Tyrion waved his arm impatiently. “Right, fascinating. Why don’t you get to leading me to where the Fossoways proper have set up or failing that whoever’s taken it on himself to marshal the Reach?” The lad only spluttered on some more so Tyrion just led him back to where the column had sprawled out, prompting a new fit of stammering when the Fossoway lad-at-arms laid eyes on a mess of rivermen, Dothraki and all the rest. The stammering only stopped when he caught sight of Drogon, the glittering mass of onyx scales. Tyrion heard the telltale pop of a jaw dropping, much as he’d heard time and again in Essos. See a dragon in flight and be content to farm the rest of your life, Tyrion remembered. “Don’t worry. If he can sleep through this lot raising seven hells around him, he won’t wake for one knock-kneed boy from the Reach.” he told the lad. Just then Drogon gave a snort and a jet of smoke shot forth from his snout, scaring the wits out of a passing cohort of Blackwood archers and the doubly-green lad besides. To Tyrion’s surprise the queen didn’t immediately appear and take Drogon’s huge head in her arms, trying to soothe him. Probably off giggling over something Jon Snow’s just said. He couldn’t put his finger on what made him uneasy about that but if her last dragon quit the column they’d have even less leverage to resolve the King’s Landing knot as quickly as possible. Then again, learning to stand on her own removed from the dragons entirely might only help Daenerys.

Accompanied by his new friend Tyrion found quite a sight waiting for him around the fire, readied as the sun began to dip beneath the trees. Daenerys was indeed smiling as Jon Snow talked quietly, her purple eyes studying his solemn northerner’s face while he waxed on about the different kinds of trees. The fat Tarly boy had his wildling girl and their son seated on a log with him as he stripped the leaves off several sizeable branches.

“So our new logs don’t make as much smoke when we burn them. Leaves burn fast but they don’t last.” He told the little boy who listened with a raptness Tyrion knew was unpossessed of most grown men. His lord grandfather for one. Meanwhile Lord Tarly himself and his younger son both seemed split between gawking at Drogon with the rest of the reachmen and muttering darkly while watching Alys Karstark get comfortable in Sigorn of the Thenns’ arms. Yet, they likely won’t question Robert’s bastard or give him a second glance. Well, a third glance. Truly the blacksmith boy was a giant even out of armor, he had to be six and a half feet at minimum. Robert Baratheon didn’t spend his youth hammering on hot steel, either. Tyrion ticked the kingdoms off in his head. Counting my sorry self as speaking for the westerlands we lack only the Vale, the Iron Islands and Dorne, and it seems the Vale has made common cause with the North in helping to put an end to the flayed man. He spotted Lord Edmure and his own wife and son sharing a handful of berries and waddled over for lack of anything better to do.

“My lord Tully.” He announced himself.

“Lords Tully. Hos and I both, my lord Lannister.” Tully said, amiably enough. Tyrion dutifully nodded at the small boy, making him giggle, blush and bury his face in his mother’s side.

“Where might your sister and her young friend have gone?”

“They’re nearby, never fear, my lord. They just don’t like being gawked at.”

“Has it occurred to you that once the stormlanders appear, Princess Arya will be among them?” Tyrion asked. Tully shrugged.

“What of it?” A muttonhead to sing of. Then his blue eyes went wide.

“Oh.”

“Oh, and then some. If I were you, I’d seek your sister out and ready her for her daughter’s arrival.” Lady Tully turned pale at the prospect.

“Stay here with Hoster, Roslin-”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight again as long as I live.” The girl said flatly.

“Stay or go, it’d be best if Lady Catelyn had as much time as possible.” Tyrion said, ushering them on. That’s a reunion nobody needs to see but family, he thought wearily. Much like how I imagine Cersei will react when I walk into the throne room and announce her reign is at an end. The course of action came to him like a beam of sunlight through a summer rain, but as soon as he had it in his grasp, he could not find it in himself to let it go. Cersei’s not going to go quietly. When it comes to that, better me than anyone here. Certainly, better me than Jaime.

After a life spent talking to people who hated him for something he could not help, Tyrion found addressing a group among whom the lion’s share loathed him for something wholly his responsibility altogether harder. Perhaps if they lived the life I had they’d not judge so harshly. Bugger them, they don’t decide who goes where once we leave this world.

“I’ve given it a terrific amount of thought, my lords-”

“I’d say you’ve given a terrific amount of things a terrific amount of thought. Say what’s in that twisted head and waste not the air the gods have sent for decent folk.” Seven hells, even Olenna Redwyne is here? Tyrion swore under his breath.

“We’ll need to get in contact with my brother at some point-” Just then the bushes burst apart as a wolf the size of a warhorse bounded into the firelight, paying the yells, curses, screams and cries not the first bit of mind. She immediately went to Jon Snow’s side, sniffing Daenerys curiously in mild recognition before promptly sinking her teeth into Jon’s fur-clad arm. The northman burst into quiet laughter.

“Not now, girl. Where’s Arya?” he asked. Through the gap the wolf had made men wearing the badges of the various lords of the stormlands came next, the towering bastard striding slowly after them with Jon Snow’s sister on his massive shoulder.

“Oh, bugger. Are we late?” he asked, looking suddenly embarrassed at the sight of the King in the North. Meekly he set Princess Arya back on solid ground, a development she made no secret of disliking.

“If you think that’s the last time you’re doing that-” she began. He interrupted with a timely fake snore that made even Drogon shift slightly, the rest of the gathered lords laughing variously as the princess went red as one of Cersei’s gowns. “Anvil-head.” she hissed at him.

“No, you.” he replied serenely, grabbing Nymeria’s head when she returned to her mistress’ side and giving her a good hard scratch behind the ear, making the direwolf’s eye close lazily. As they took up near Jon Snow and the queen, Tyrion resumed.

“Ah, right. Back to the problem at hand. I don’t think Cersei is going to take being dethroned particularly well, my lords. If you recall, the last time someone tried to strip away her power she responded rather dramatically."

“Aye. She sent the Great Sept sky high with my liege lord and all his kin inside.” Randyll Tarly cut in curtly. Tyrion caught a glimpse of Daenerys closing her eyes in silent anguish. You have little and less to fear from Aerys now, sweetling, he thought, ready to burst into tears himself.

“So she did. Rather than hand her the lot of us on a platter as the Tyrells so prettily did, I propose we send someone- only one, mind you- we’re entirely able to lose. Once King’s Landing has been joined to the rest of this…” Great Council? Around a bonfire in the woods somewhere? “...has joined the rest of us, I can’t much see what use I can be once we start moving north. Except to drink, make stupid jokes and irk the rest of you with my very presence.” Predictably the wood exploded in a torrent of a hundred different voices, but Tyrion Lannister only had to watch the faces of the men and women present. He saw plenty of loathing courtesy of people who’d hated the lions of Lannister long before the last few years, of course. Few people need the excuse of patricide to hate you, dwarf. Even westermen who might have looked no further than the lion on your chest in the past will happily see you tossed into boiling oil now. The thought that his last moments in the land of his birth were spent skirting the border like a brigand fleeing the rope made him sad. Add it to the list, he thought.

The only face he saw that showed anything resembling sadness belonged to Varys. You pulled me from a cell through Jaime and snatched me from certain death, taking me with you across the Narrow Sea. That the man who did so much for Tyrion and House Targaryen both would never end up in a book, much less a song, seemed to him a great injustice. Maybe he’ll get lucky and someone will do it for him. Apart from Varys though, nobody tried to talk him out of it or dissuade him from his course. Daenerys and Jon Snow know it’s no use. They know I know Cersei and what I say of her is true. Still, it would be much appreciated.

"Very well. Once you’ve done your part though, what happens after?” someone behind Lord Tully asked, one of the Blackwoods. The question everyone wants answered, and like as not everyone has a different answer to. Tyrion made an automatic turn toward where he’d left the queen but she was gone, as was the King in the North. Well, that’s certainly demonstrative of interest if nothing else. Too bad we don’t need a besotted girl anymore; we need a Queen.

“What happens after is we go back north where all these swords and spears and horses belong.” The red-haired wildling said, standing suddenly and cutting quite through the lords’ talk.

“Who are you?” Tyrion heard an obnoxious voice ask.

“Someone who’s gone eye to eye with what plans to lance your Seven Kingdoms like a leaking boil. They don’t come in numbers, but their dead men have no number. They don’t rest or flee or rout, neither. Dead men don’t whine about pay or food or this cloth picture or that. All you kneely lot need to stop bleeding each other dry over an iron shitter and stop right now, that’s what Jon Snow spends his time telling anyone who will listen. Because it’s true. The Others don’t care about this family name or that any more than their wights do. They’ll happily kill all of you and send your bones at your families, friends, and enemies alike. Be one or be made one.” Men and women aren’t born into position beyond the Wall, Tyrion remembered. Those who lead up there do so because they are cut of the dearest cloth. Even so, he could see the wildling’s words weren’t sinking in. They have a dragon and a direwolf respectively sitting not a hundred feet away. Anything that threatens their position, their station, their privilege, and they’ll deny it across the Narrow Sea. Or into the furthest reaches of the northern wastes and build a wall to keep those elements out. Well, it seemed to Tyrion those same elements were back with a vengeance, fully intent on reducing the world they inhabited to rubble.

The voices grew louder and more heated. Tyrion left the fire, not wanting to be around when Drogon woke in a towering temper and put an end to their squabbles with a roar. Bugger this. I cherish my hearing too highly. He visited one of the Redwyne tents for a skin of Arbor red, wandering away and snorting humorlessly when he heard the black dragon silence the lords’ voices with his own.

“I don’t think you’re on the proper course, my lord.” A soft voice came from out of the trees.

“None of us are.” Tyrion replied, sitting on a fallen tree.

“And that skin is going to put you on yours, is it?” Varys ask, appearing as if from thin air.

“Better than listening to our new friends quarrel.”

“Then don’t listen to them. You are Daenerys’ Hand, make them listen to you.”

“As you well saw, that didn’t exactly work.”

“You tried to meet them on their terms, Tyrion. It didn’t work in Meereen, why would it work here? Meet them on your own.” The eunuch turned and walked back to the fire. Just what I don’t need, another bloody riddle. He heard the telltale sound of Drogon’s great body rising off the forest floor and the fearful nattering of the lords nearby. Tyrion found himself walking toward him, the air going from chilly to steamy to eyewatering as he got closer, Drogon’s great red eyes locking on him. He has no more patience for their squalling like babes than I do. The great head came down and Tyrion ran a hand underneath it, dragging his fingers over the frills jutting out from the jaw. His brothers’ frills were nubs in the darkness below the pyramid. I wonder why they have them. When he looked up again one red eye was locked on him, examining him closely. It closed, reopening fixated on something behind Tyrion. He turned and found himself staring at the lot of them, silent to a man. He saw no loathing, no dismissal, no derision then. Drogon gave a low rumbling bellow and Tyrion felt the furnace in the dragon’s belly light. A blistering yawn later and Tyrion saw his shadow on the forest floor quite envelop all the others. A large shadow indeed, he thought. Power resides where they believe it does.

“My lords,” he began. “it matters not what you think of me, or Her Grace, or the King in the North. We aren’t here to take your lands or set your enemies above you. The Dothraki didn’t sail across the Narrow Sea to sweep through Westeros, just to follow the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. The Free Folk didn’t come down from Beyond the Wall to despoil and sack, just to follow the King in the North. It’s not a question of wanting. We must do this. Not for kings and queens but for ourselves. We are the lords of Westeros, it is fully in our power to collect taxes and keep the peace and protect the smallfolk without going to war every few decades. Dragons and direwolves can’t settle our disputes and clean our spills and wipe our asses, nor should they, nor ought they. That’s not what they’re for. That is not what they are for.” The silence stretched until Randyll Tarly loosed his rusty jaw.

“Pray tell, my lord, just what they are for, then.” Tyrion answered at once.

“For things we cannot handle, could not in a thousand years. Fish-men traipsing up and down the beaches, mermaids swimming in the bays and inlets. Giants and their mammoths…Others and their dead men. To make Westeros allies where they can and protect it when they cannot. There are circumstances in this world of ours, my lords, that simply are beyond us. Laws at work that cannot be bent and will not suffer transgression.” He caught sight of Catelyn Stark and her young protégé. As House Frey can attest. “Old gods or new, they do not ask much of us at the end of the day. Guest right. Defense of those who cannot defend themselves. No kinslaying. Not unendurable burdens, not for us who call ourselves lords of these lands. Their Graces ask no more than we can deliver either. If we cannot do what our station is supposed to, perform our function as the laws of gods and men intend, support them in times of battle as the smallfolk do us, just what the fuck are we for?”

To Tyrion’s unending astonishment he saw glimmers of understanding in their faces, glimpses of illumination if not enlightenment. He was speaking to all of them, yes, but mostly those who’d never had to worry about their next meal, who’d known the comfort of a bed and the safety of a castle bedroom. These and all the rest you can keep, my lords. For yourselves, your children, and theirs still to come. Those you call savages, bastards and smallfolk are readying to bleed. We must be ready to bleed with them. Tully stood, awkwardly stepping past a crowd from Cider Hall.

“Uhh, I am Lord Edmure Tully of Riverrun. In truth, I owe my title to my sister who by rights should hold it instead of me.” He gestured to Catelyn. “I am not a smart man, I can neither ride nor shoot nor swing a sword half as well as plenty of your own kin can. When I called the river levies though, they answered. Exhausted, bloodied, starving as they were, when it came time to head here from Riverrun, they joined the column by the hundreds. I spent the war that cost them so much blundering the Young Wolf’s successes away or rotting in a cell at the Twins. I would be worthy of the loyalty shown my house in these past few weeks, my lords. I would be worthy to claim shared blood with the Blackfish and my father. Gods be good, I even have a wife and a trueborn son. I can ask no more of this world, apart from an end fitting for a Tully.” He said before turning to Tyrion. “I don’t understand the wider world, but I do understand my duty. As a lord to his vassals and as a vassal to his liege. Be that your dragon queen or the council itself, my lord Hand. Tell me what to do and I will do it.” Tully’s face showed resignation to his fate, but readiness to meet that fate as well. Jon Snow’s friend Samwell Tarly stood next.

“I’m smarter than the rest of your put together, I suppose. Save the Hand and his bald friend. But I’m hopeless with a sword, useless with a spear and I’m more like to skin my own arm with an arrow than hit an enemy with one as I’m sure the lords of the Reach at least are well aware. In short I make a jolly awful Tarly. I suppose that’s why I ended up at the Wall. In due course we went out on the Great Ranging and I beheld wildlings with my own eyes. I saw a house full of frightened girls and tired old women. These were the bloodthirsty raiders of the books I read in boyhood? I met more of them of course, proper raiders with no love for soft southern lords who wore silk instead of fur, drank wine instead of ale. They were a rough sort of men, simpler in the tongue and quicker with a fist, but they were men. My lords, our ancestors didn’t build a wall of ice seven hundred feet high stretching from one end of the Seven Kingdoms to the other to keep out men. Then as I fled a mutiny with Gilly and our son in tow, I crossed paths with an Other.” It seemed to take him a moment to put his thoughts into words.

“I’ve been to Oldtown and seen its library, watched a direwolf bring down a moose and saw a dragon take wing. To this day, I’ve yet to see a thing as beautiful, as breathtaking, as terrifying as an Other. The sight will never leave me, my lords. Not if I live to a hundred and more, as Aemon Targaryen did, and my eyes and senses both took leave of me. Once all the rest had gone, even my Gilly’s face, I would remember the Other and die with the word on my lips.” Tarly let his words sink in. Certainly, he’s a better orator than he opines. “They are not men, my lords. They are not a tribe of cannibals to be ridden down on horseback, nor an errant vassal to be crushed at will. They are altogether more than we are. They are faster, stronger, purposed and unyielding. They do not squabble among themselves, they do not war with one another. A race, in short, of superior beings in perfect unity that seeks to end our own.” Silence fell again, this time uncertain and tinged with fear.

“Well, that was certainly worthy of a poet, Samwell. Just what the fuck are we supposed to do, then?” Lord Redwyne asked.

“Go to Winterfell, with all strength and all speed. The King in the North seems to think the Others will try for places well-populated but not of our concern to start.”

“Like Dorne.” Tarly’s wildling girl said. Every pair of eyes found her. “I don’t see any of them here. Any of the saily kind, neither. I hope they’re already on their way.” she observed. She’s right, Tyrion saw. Nobody from Dorne, no one from the Iron Islands.

“If we could get a few birds each to Sunspear and Pyke, let them know we’ve gone ahead without them?” Tyrion asked the council at large.

“Won’t that upset them?” Robert’s bastard asked.

“It’s Dorne and the Iron Islands, my lord. They’ll get upset no matter what we do.” Tyrion replied, getting a genuine laugh. Seeing that it was finally sinking in, Tyrion headed for the first tent he saw. Hang wildness. I’ll sleep with a roof over my head tonight, thank you. Even if it is made of cloth. In the midst of choosing a tent among the Estermont camp he found one blessedly empty and wriggled inside it. The tents near me are going to get a lovely surprise tomorrow. It seemed he was asleep only moments when Varys was shaking him awake, more urgently and effectively than Tyrion could have believed. “No, I’ll have the seaweed, thank you…” Tyrion heard himself gurgle groggily.

“Tyrion.” Varys’ voice was low and wary. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and saw it was still night.

“Varys, either you’re going to tell me the best thing I’ve ever heard or I’m going to kick you in the balls.” he said.

“Daenerys went on to the capital, Tyrion.” Instantly he was wide awake and a headache that could have split rock was raging in his head.

“What!?”

“She’s gone on to King’s Landing with Ser Bonifer.”

“But Drogon-”

“-is right where we left him. Whatever she intends, it appears she intends to do it on foot.”

“How could Jon Snow have let her go off on her own!?”

“Tyrion, he went after her.” Another voice, Princess Arya.

“Who’s brilliant fucking idea was it to send one crowned head after another?”

“….Jon’s.” she said, sounding almost apologetic. Damn that bastard! As honorable as his father, and as stupid!

Chapter Text

Sansa

When she emerged from her hollow the males had gone. The night sky was void of stars, the moon had shrunk to a silver sliver and the once-agonizing pain in her face had receded to a dull throb. The perfect time to move, Sansa thought. The ice spider’s mind was utterly unlike Ramsay’s girls, slow and measured instead of dashing after every smell and sound. Lady she is not. Yet when Sansa had first reached out for her direwolf, the seven-legged ice spider was what she’d found. She heard feeble struggling at the bottom of the hollow and neatly pulled up a twitching mess of ranger blacks and frigid web. Benjen Stark’s face was the sort of pale only corpses wore, frost had formed across his forehead and cheeks but his grey eyes still flitted this way and that groaning to himself. Just how I’m going to pass the Wall I suppose I’ll work out later. Were it so simple as to scale it atop their ice spiders surely the Others would have done so already. She began to drag her captive, causing him to groan as he bounced along the ground. Inwardly Sansa rolled her eyes. It’s not like you can hurt, uncle. She wondered just how Jon would react to seeing Uncle Benjen again, no less in the state she’d found him. Well, Jon has less reason than most to fear someone in our uncle’s boots. As she cantered through the trees Sansa found the spider making a low whistling sound like a finger on a wine glass. The creature’s own base uncertainty enveloped Sansa like a too-tight bodice. She’s afraid. She’s used to being with others of her kind. Suddenly the thought of trying to calm the creature with petting popped into Sansa’s head. Had I a mouth I might have giggled. Perhaps it was odd she felt elated in such circumstances but Sansa’s appreciation for the odd had quite grown in recent weeks. Maybe the baby will be waiting for me whenever I get back. If I get back, she thought. Passing through the last of the trees she beheld what could only have been the Wall itself. There was no uncertainty, no sudden apprehension from the spider, Sansa noticed. Closer to the sea she could see the dead men standing on the sand, as if waiting for a ship. Even when she spotted the Other Sansa remained calm. Certainly, the spider doesn’t mind them. Still, dumping Uncle Benjen in the sea in full view of the Other seemed unwise. Maybe he can pass for another of the dead men, though. Mercifully Benjen had ceased to struggle or mutter darkly in true northern fashion so she got as close as she dared. The wights didn’t so much as look at her, staring resolutely out to sea. Men, women, children. Mostly Free Folk, a Brother of the Watch here and there. Jon told it true, everyone the Others kill rises again, one more in an army that has no number.

There was movement off to her left, yet another mass of walking dead coming out of the Haunted Forest of Old Nan’s tales. Sansa froze within the spider. Among the throng was a wight taller than any other, one she knew despite the torn face and gore-stained front. Hodor, she thought, despairing. Aside him stepped a direwolf with blood still frozen in its fur, icy blue eyes staring straight on as they never would in a living wolf. Summer. Someone else came out then, someone with all the time in the world. Small icy horns ringed the thing’s head and it carried a funny sort of glaive, shortened to allow for close fighting perhaps. Hodor and Summer did not join the rest of the wights as they reinforced their fellows, remaining with what could only have been the Night King from Jon’s account. When she felt no recognition from the spider, no force compelling her to go to him, Sansa inwardly frowned. You’re no Howling Wind. Indeed, the Other massing wights on the beach paid the so-called Night King no more mind than he did the dead under his command. Nearer as she’d gotten Sansa recognized him. One of the Others from the hollow hill. Yet there was no sign of Howling Wind. Probably because she’s off causing mischief behind my face at Winterfell, Sansa thought grimly. Best get back quick as I can and boot her out. Then her original idea came to mind, one that made her feel cold, truly cold, for the first time in weeks. If she’s borrowing me…maybe I can borrow her. Before she tried anything, she left Benjen to work his own way free, stiffly and with purposeful inefficiency. Sansa took a long breath in her mind’s eye and reached out from the spider, looking for an emptiness hidden in the trees. At once seven limbs became four and they were clothed instead of bare. That was easy. She wiggled her fingers, toes, feeling five of each on either hand or foot. Then she opened her eyes. It had been obvious that the Others could see just fine in the dark but the detail… Leaving the hollow hill, Sansa could see the needles on hundred-foot trees a hundred feet off. Despite her nerves the body she inhabited was removed from such a petty thing as worry and so her movements were unrushed. So this is the world as the Others see it. Given time to examine the mantle in which she was clad, Sansa recognized it as made from ice spider silk. On her exit from the trees a weak chittering greeted her and she got a look at the spider she had been warging. Sansa couldn’t help but worry for the creature. Several of its blue eyes had been punctured and its face was lined with deep angry black lines, the legacy of pouncing on a dragonglass-armed Uncle Benjen. My fault, she thought apologetically. Almost on instinct she raised a hand and from her fingertips came a gentle trickle of water cold enough to cut bone. She used it to rinse the last of the glass from the spider’s many wounds. Even free of the lingering pain it seemed as though the injuries were proofed from healing. Formidable the Others may be, but there is no weapon that can harm ordinary men so. Small wonder Jon wants all the dragonglass he can get. Ears that could hear a feather fall alerted Sansa to the approach of Howling Wind’s other guard, one perhaps privileged to remain with her instead of stuck minding wights. Through Howling Wind’s eyes it’s easier to tell them apart. He was older than the other guard, a man among his race where the one minding the wights was yet unproven. The selfsame Other had turned towards her at once when she left the cover of the trees, resolutely ignoring both the wights and the Night King. Fiery lads eager to impress live even in the Land of Always Winter. She passed her elder guard without a word, the Other following at a distance without having to be told. Perhaps silence is out of character for Howling Wind. Yet she was not addressed nor impeded by her white shadow in any fashion. Though the she-Other’s eyes saw far, Sansa got closer to the Night King to allay a suspicion. Even to the dimmest man the differences between the Night King and Howling Wind’s race were immediately apparent. There are White Walkers, imitations of the Others by the Singers meant to keep men in hand, Then there are the Others themselves. For whatever reason it seemed as though the Singers’ great miscalculation had thrown in with the race native to the Land of Always Winter. That was ill done. They hardly need the help.

From out of the lip of the bay Sansa spotted several ships and for a moment her heart raced. They had no sails and each looked a proper shambles, barely able to stay afloat. How are they even moving? Then she spotted the mismatched oars sticking out of the sides. Of course, wights don’t tire. It stands to reason they’d make ideal oarsmen. Once they got closer the wights on the beach waded out into the freezing water taking Uncle Benjen with them, the great mass of dead enough of a platform for those atop it to clamber up the sides of the ships or pull others onto the decks. In the tumult Sansa lost track of her uncle even with Howling Wind’s eyes. Quicker than rowing them out a dozen at a time and certainly more striking, Sansa thought. Yet the younger guard made no move to stay with his countless charges. Once the corpse-ships were full they moved off and Sansa saw another one waiting at the mouth of the bay. It was longer by far than any ship made by men and a deck higher besides, carved perhaps from an iceberg. The ice-ship lingered in her considerable view for only a moment before heading back out to sea, a cold mother to dead ducklings. But where are they going? The Free Cities? All the way across the Shivering Sea to bloody Ib? A voyage to rival the one undertaken by Daenerys Targaryen when she came west…all the ships of Meereen wouldn’t matter if battle was joined in a sky-splitting storm, though. To say nothing of a blizzard out at sea. An ice-ship would have no need of sails with an army of wights to move it at the least. Nor need of arming when it could just ram anything in its way. Tearing her gaze away from the sea she found her new friends lingering rather close by. The elder Other had an air of quiet vigilance, an individual familiar with guard duty. The younger looked at her every so often only to look away when his gaze was returned while the Night King’s stare never broke. He never so much as blinked. Sansa was wondering how best to handle the situation when a sudden frigid gale blew from the north, tree branches snapping and the trunks groaning with the weight of the wind. Like when she told me her name. Someone is calling her. She fretted a bit on how best to respond when almost accidentally she found herself answering with a gale of her own, carried on a gale of her own. Not flight, she thought. Merely riding the wind. At least her name is fitting. The Haunted Forest passed in a blink and she found herself standing on a mountaintop ringed in great ice sheets. Up from the stone rose other spires of ice with graceful subtle arches linking them to each other. So awed was she by the sight that she missed the movement at first, only to spot it again when she saw something steadily scaling the opposite peak, one untamed by worked ice. White and hairy it was, perhaps nine or ten feet tall, but not one of the gangly brutes she’d spotted before. It reminded her somewhat of a monkey save for its lack of tail. When it turned to survey the dizzying abyss of sky and snow behind it, Sansa beheld a bestial squashed face under a heavy brow but the eyes were not hostile nor the large teeth bared. It peered across the gap at her for a moment, lost interest, and disappeared into the peak’s recesses. This is not a world void of life, she surmised. It is a world all its own, hidden by the harshness of a winter that never ends. When she looked south, the Wall had disappeared. Yet I’m not so far north as I might be. She watched the mountains trail away out of sight. This world of white stretches further yet. There was a sound of cracking ice and she watched the tower nearest her open at the base. I suppose that means ‘come in’.

Immediately Sansa saw that the interior of the icy spire was void of wights. The Others don’t seem keen to have wights milling about where they live. Besides, they couldn’t reach these spires anyway. There were Others in the halls of course, going one way or the other and studiously refraining from looking Sansa’s way. Is Howling Wind a pariah, as I was in King’s Landing? The rooms off the halls were bare of anything that might have provided insight into their occupants’ lives or mindsets, much to Sansa’s disappointment. This far south, likely this is no more than a battle tent or a quickly built fort. A place to gather far from the wights…and from the Others making do in the Haunted Forest as well. If this is a command tent, perhaps I’ll catch sight of what they plan to do! Eventually she found her way up, not a stair but a long path raising slowly off the inside of the spire like a great looping staircase. On reaching the top she found herself in a solar of sorts, a room containing a circle of ice raised out of the floor to act as a table while several figures gathered around it. Sansa’s trepidation grew when she took them each in turn. One of the Others was clad in plate-ice, another almost eight feet tall and bald but skinny as a spear tapped long fingers down whatever was on the table and still another, a she-Other like Howling Wind, was clad in a splendid spidersilk gown. Her face was hidden by a white veil. Yet another woman had a sort of triple-hook at her belt, a head void of hair and her eyes locked on another section of the table. Sansa drew closer, trying not to make herself too noticeable. Her heart was racing and she was afraid but more she was fascinated. The nobility, or at least the leaders as they were, of the Land of Always Winter! On reaching the table she looked down, not surprised to find Westeros laid out upon it. Movement to her elbow made her want to scream but luckily the body she was borrowing was made of less excitable stuff. At her side was a very short she-Other, no taller than five feet, with several cat-sized ice spiders crawling about her person and countless diminutive ones swarming from her sleeves and out from under her hem, crawling up her dress. Her eyes are strange, Sansa noticed despite the gooseprickles that plagued her mind’s eye. They were a bit longer, slimmer, almost slits. She seemed excited to see Sansa, or at least to see Howling Wind, because she alone spoke. The True Tongue was a tongue of nature, not men and so it could not be reconstructed in words of the Common Tongue but Sansa understood regardless. She misses Howling Wind. I suppose they’re close friends. Sansa could not remember the last time she’d had a friend. Brienne of Tarth was a sworn shield, that was different. Perhaps Jeyne Poole. Cersei had men take her from my room after Father was arrested. No doubt she’s dead now. Her sadness must have reached Howling Wind’s face because the spider-binder muttered concernedly and every head in the room snapped to look at Sansa immediately. An older male with windswept hair and a greatsword on his back, an ever ready-looking male archer with a spidersilk-strung bow… Not all of them are soldiers though, she thought, looking to yet another male with his hair bound out of his eyes in a silver ring, nicks and scars uncharacteristic of his race tarnishing the typically perfect face and neck. At least, they don’t need weapons to be dangerous. Her for one. The spider-binder may have been fond of Howling Wind but Sansa did not like the look in the dainty she-Other’s strange eyes.

Eventually her silence seemed to assure them she was untroubled because they began talking among themselves. The archer and the greatsword-bearer were concerned with wights digging while the scarred man and the bald woman seemed at odds over whether something would work or not. She ran a hand over his grizzled face, her thumb going over the pockmarks tenderly. The very tall Other shared the unsettling look the spider-binder did, but he seemed vested only in the veiled she-Other, talking about ‘better ways’. She never replied, only turned her head toward him when he spoke. The True Tongue spoken by Others and heard by Other ears is enchanting, Sansa thought. But for us they seem unconcerned with places where snow doesn’t fall. What drives them to try and kill us all? Someone came up behind her and for a moment Sansa saw the ice-plate wearer turn toward the newcomer only to resume staring at the northern half of the table map. Another flurry of True Tongue and in seconds Sansa’s heart was pounding. She called me her winter rose. I may fool Howling Wind’s friend but her mother is another matter. Resignedly she turned. The woman before her was tall and clad in spidersilk as was typical but that was where the mundane ended. Her hair was done up in an elegant white bun behind her head, her shoulders were clad in an intricate mantle of icicles and more of the same made up the hem of her dress, making her shimmer like crystal in the sun as she moved. A sash of hand-sized diamond links looped elegantly around her waist, twin finger-length icicles dangling from her ears. No. Those are diamonds too, but the stone, not the shape, Sansa corrected herself numbly. In her hair were more diamonds, tiny stones frozen to a ring of winter roses. A crown. Howling Wind isn’t a pariah, she’s a princess. The sight of the woman swept any other thoughts from Sansa’s mind entirely. Dimly memories of another queen popped up. A blonde hill-ape content to guzzle wine and farrow like a sow. That Cersei Lannister could hope to claim a rank in common with Howling Wind’s mother seemed to Sansa so vulgar, so unabideable that she shuddered, gagging behind a delicate hand. When she stilled her stomach and looked back up, the Others looked in turns alarmed and mystified, as if they never had cause to lose their composure. Then Sansa saw her reflection in the wall. Blue eyes, she saw, but not Other-blue like Howling Wind’s. Tully-blue like mine. Slowly she took the queen’s hand. Eyes full of every affection a second ago were unreadable walls of glass. She is afraid for her daughter. Slowly she backed away from the table and the Lords of the Long Night that surrounded it. Remember, the True Tongue.

“When you’ve had enough, toss up powder snow.” Sansa said. What came out was a whirl of gentle air. Then the room disappeared in a radiant swirl of shimmering ice.

She came to lying on her face, in the dirt and the dark. Every bit of her was sore and when she tried to move she was so stiff she heard something pop. Where did she run me off to? I can only imagine the mischief she’s caused… Gingerly she got up, noticing only then that she was quite without clothing. Gods, did she just get up out of a bath and go on her merry way!? Sansa looked around in a mild panic, slowly getting her bearings. I’m in the kennel, where Ramsay died. Why would Howling Wind come here? Then she noticed that the frozen ground had been scraped away, bit by bit, and her fingers ached. I’m not hurt, though. Just tired. She looked in the hole. The girls must have buried whatever was left of Ramsay. In went her hand almost of its own accord. When it came out it clutched a skull, gnawed and pitted with the teeth of a pack of hunting hounds. Sansa looked into its hollow sockets for a long time, quite forgetting her predicament. Hello, husband. A low snuffling behind her advertised the presence of the pack, the big black hound chief among them. With only a look from Sansa they were on their bellies, patiently awaiting her next command. It seems your hounds would rather follow a wolf than a man after all. The black bitch seldom left Sansa’s side when she roamed the castle at large and wasn’t shy about growling off strangers who got too close. Sansa stood, skull in hand, and walked past the waiting pack. At once they trotted after her. Loyal beasts, indeed. The night was cold and quiet but for the gusts she could hear blowing against the castle wall and around the yard. She felt no chill and her breath made no cloud. Quite alone, Sansa mused that the castle’s other inhabitants must be abed or sleepily standing guard elsewhere. Pitch dark but for the torches and I see clear as day. Frost that grew like mold from water seeped into the cracks and spaces between the stones that made up Winterfell…splashes of rust that shone like dried blood…and a gleam of white perched on one of the stone direwolves. Howling Wind’s owl stared balefully at her, gliding away on Sansa’s approach. No, come back, she called out to it, trying to pass the words into the bird’s mind, but it disappeared into the godswood before she could do aught else. The wood was warmer in its way but no less cold all the same. The Seven have little and less place here, Sansa thought. I am with the Old Gods now. A soft hoot caught her attention and on reaching the heart tree, the magnificent weir, Sansa found herself looking transfixed at a white feather fluttering down from the branches, its owner nowhere to be seen. There were raven feathers everywhere as well and Sansa gathered the best of them, long and straight, thinking on the ways of the world. The true ways, the ones that matter, away from torchlight and hymns and warm septs with eyes of glass. On finding a walnut branch, Sansa spent the next several hours snapping its unneeded shoots off to make of it a proper walking stick. So that you may be with me always, husband, and carry me wherever I may go. She then stuck the skull atop the walnut branch. Using strands of her own hair, she tied the feathers, raven and owl both, just underneath it. Enough to be getting on with, she thought, looking at her handiwork. Room though, for more. The sound of leaves crunching under a half dozen hounds’ paws did not break her from her reverie, but a woman’s voice did.

“Princess Sansa?” it was strong but shaky, measured but meek. Fear, Sansa thought. Looking back toward the entryway to the godswood, she saw Brienne of Tarth staring at her looking equal parts dismayed and confused. Sansa made no move to hide herself nor what she held. Steadfast, but of the south. Stalwart, but of the Seven. Sansa passed her without a word, the hounds in tow.

Wolkan had taken up in Maester Luwin’s old chambers, just down the hall from the library. While the hounds sniffed after rats that crawled in the darkness, Sansa rapped on the thick wooden door. The round face that appeared from behind it looked utterly befuddled, likely just woken from sound sleep. When he took in the sight before him his cheeks, pink from cold, went pale.

“You did not have it in you to defy Ramsay, perhaps, but you did not have it in you to desecrate a corpse in your care.” Sansa said. Her voice sounded far-off, almost echoing to her ears but if Wolkan heard her thus he gave no sign. There was a deal of blubbering, but his eyes never left her face. As if I would strike him dead were he to look elsewhere. Flesh is flesh, that is all. I learned how sacred flesh is in the tender hands of Ramsay Snow.

“He…ordered me not to waste her. The dogs needed feeding, he said…”

“…and yet, you did not do it.”

“I only left her to them until their interest waned, princess. Hungry they may have been but perhaps they had never been at a corpse before, or they…disliked the…” Sansa saw his face go green.

“Once you got her away from them, then, where did you put her?”

“Gods save me, Princess, what does it matter? I put her where I should have in the first place and never mind what Lord Bolton ordered. He slew his own father, you know.”

“The hounds have been at her. If I must, I’ll have them dig her up. Or you can tell me where she is and save her that indignity.”

“She…she was a vicious creature, there’s no doubting it, Princess, but she’s gone beyond reprisals now. What good would it do to behead or hang a corpse?”

“None. Neither, in fact, would a corpse itself.” Despite her words, Wolkan spoke nothing of the location of Myranda’s body. After a moment more of silence, him withering before her gaze, she relented. “You are not so timid as your reputation, Wolkan. Nor so skittish. Go back to bed and know you do your order more honor than they are due.” she told him, reaching for the black bitch. You tasted her flesh, you and your sisters. Find her. The pack was off like a loosed quarrel and when Sansa caught up with them they were sniffing about outside the gatehouse, paws unable to break the frozen earth. No matter, Sansa thought. Her heart was pounding in her chest. I feel no cold and I see night as day. I wonder… Slowly her arm came up, hand extended and reaching out. Wake, she thought. Open those green eyes, move that supple archer’s body Ramsay hated to love. Her fingertips came together. Never tire. Never hunger. Never feel. Never fear. She felt the frozen dirt beneath her feet tremble, heard the muffled crack of stiff limbs. After a quarter of an hour a pale hand robbed of its little finger, no doubt by a gnawing hound, broke through the hard crust of frozen dirt. Sharp nails chipped and cracked by teeth and cold clawed with slow purpose until Sansa caught sight of a green eye peering out of the ground. A woman’s head forced itself up next, half her dark hair gone. Even stiff, even molding, even dead a year and more, Myranda still rose from the shallow grave with just a hint of the grace she’d had in life. Immediately her dead chin was taken in Sansa’s living fingers. They tore away her cheek. No matter, so long as her eyes remain. Nobody wants a blind archer. The green eyes were glassy and unblinking but neither did they burn the legendary ice-blue. Just as well. I am not an Other, she is not their chattel. There was dim recognition in Myranda’s dead eyes but they were void of the viciousness Sansa remembered. She reacted neither to Sansa’s bareness nor to the walking stick in her hand, only stumbling out of the hole and working the last of death’s hold from her limbs. On the way back to her room, cradling the walnut branch with Myranda plodding behind her, Sansa felt the warmth of living people coming from the Great Hall, the roar of the crowd celebrating the birth of Howland Stark. Bran, she remembered. Meera. A feeling she’d forgotten bled into her heart then. Jon. My family. My pack. The path she found, if she continued down it, would be a path without them. Her hand went to the door to the hall. I need only go in and they will move at once to help me. They’ll put Myranda to the torch and the Singers will work out how to break this bond with Howling Wind. But then, how will we know what the Others are up to? Sansa stood on the threshold, frost forming on the door, her tears turning to frigid powder. If they help me, I can’t help them.

The Hungry Wolf’s alcove was pitch-dark and maddeningly cold besides, but darkness and cold had lost their foreboding for Sansa. She beheld the Other in all his ruined glory, the last of his hair gone and his missing limbs no longer sporting icy replacements. He was motionless but Sansa could hear the beat of his wintery heart, no more than two or three times a minute. A face once beautiful had gone sallow and Sansa knew from experience the sight of a closed mouth missing teeth.

“Look at me.” she called to him. Wherever he’d gone behind that near-translucent brow, it was obvious he was beyond her words. She reached for him. Just long enough to speak, not long enough to freeze in the blizzard that raged eternally in his mind. Look at me. His eyes shot open but he moved not a jot. He is not injured, or crippled, she surmised. He was all those things when Bran and Meera first showed him off. This is death, long and slow and painful. His eyes were still the burning blue, but sputtering candles instead of raging bonfires. Still they widened on seeing what she held in each of her hands. Sansa looked in the bucket, seeing the face of someone else staring out of the water within, a grinning skull alongside. A wildling shaman, she thought wonderingly. A woods witch. To her surprise she was neither repulsed nor horrified. I wanted to be of use, she remembered. I wanted to do my part for my Pack and my House. She took her bucket in two hands. On the floor before the Other the dragonglass dust glittered everywhere, but dust was all it was, easily washed away. I will prove nothing by killing a dying enemy. I would know what I can do, what use I am against an Other in its prime. Either I kill him, or he kills me. Sansa leaned back, felt the weight of the water carry the bucket still further back. When I swore my oath, I meant it. I would do anything to keep this family safe. I would do anything to keep this family whole. She swung the bucket forth, water pushing the glittering glass dust to the sides of the crypt- and soaking the Other from head to toe. Sansa heard his deep breath, saw beautiful white hair sail down from his head like a falling curtain. From behind them she saw the eyes flare to icy life. I would do anything…

Chapter Text

Jaime

The first time he saw the dragon he was on the ramparts above the Mud Gate. There was no mistaking him for a flock of birds or a plume of smoke wafting up from the trees. Even from a distance his scales shone like polished onyx in the fading sunlight and his wings took Jaime’s breath away. There are three, he remembered, feeling ill. And she doesn’t know where the other two are. Freglyn was with him and had gone a wretched white, stuttering like a halfwit.

“Be at ease, lad.” Jaime said, the words coming only slowly. “He’s not even looking this way.” Indeed, the black dragon had merely circled sluggishly over the kingswood before dipping out of sight again. Bored, Jaime guessed. Only stretching before heading back to sleep. On Dragonstone even he’d not caught a glimpse, hearing from Tyrion that but for Daenerys’ visits all the dragon did was sleep. Whoever heard of a lazy dragon? Only, that wasn’t quite right. Tyrion had told him also of the dragon’s wroth at Jon Snow’s interest in the beast’s “mother”. To hear it told, he’s sent black fire the way of any man who even farts around her. Yet he only snarls and sneers at this bastard from the north. Ned Stark would be proud. What was that old rumor about the mother, something about a fisherman’s daughter? Jaime shook his head. The wench must have died giving the sullen boy life. Thank her for that much, Snow. Had she lived you might have grown up a Rivers instead, learning to ply a rudder instead of swing a sword. But then, maybe the lad would have preferred a mother instead of Catelyn Stark. When it became obvious Jaime’s mind had left the wyrm hidden in the trees to the south, Freglyn jostled him.

“We’d best get inside, milord. It’s going to be another cold one, with the winds.”

“Fuck.” Jaime replied immediately, almost reflexively. The cold, when it had made itself comfortable, was bad enough but of late they’d gotten winds to make it all the worse and whip through the wider streets of King’s Landing like a slaver’s scourge. The sky looked fouler by the day as well.

“It won’t be some soft teasing kiss. Our first snow’s going to come hard and fast, a crossbow quarrel to the chest.” The lad was saying. Or in the cock, Jaime thought. Freglyn had good instincts though, probably from making a living at the mercy of the weather as much as luck at avoiding patrols in the kingswood. Whenever he thought the coming night would be bad, he almost always proved right. And while our knees knock and our teeth chatter, Daenerys Targaryen has a black dragon to keep her warm. That or a white wolf.

After a sleepless night of constant wind Jaime found himself talking down the guildmasters for what seemed like the thousandth time. He could pretend he hadn’t seen the dragon himself but once the gold cloaks had spotted him there could be no quashing the rumors that spread through King’s Landing.

“Ser Jaime, there can be no doubt that the dragon queen intends to take the city any day-”

“Just now she seems content to laze in the kingswood with her savages-” Jaime began before Arlas interrupted him.

“Aye, them and the small matter of a bloody fucking dragon. Have you all seen him? Black like coal with wings the color of raw meat-”

“-and he’s about as likely to spread them over King’s Landing as sit the Iron Throne himself. Steel yourselves, lads. You’ll need stiffer spines than those I’m seeing if you wish to impress the queen into giving you better charters.” Jaime finished firmly.

“Who cares about charters when dragons and Dothraki are knocking on our door?” one of the silversmiths asked.

“I’ve yet to hear them knock. They want to moon about in the forest, so be it. Cersei’s not about to go on a boar hunt so what care is it of ours if the kingswood is occupied?” They stared at him.

“Ser Jaime, perhaps you simply do not see it from our friends’ positions. Or mine, in fact. We have no castle to flee to in case the city is attacked. At your request we remained in the city to put on a charade, a farce that the city flourishes as ever when even the rats have trouble finding bones to pick. We have nowhere to flee to, nowhere to take refuge as a consequence. If these good men have concerns, they cannot be so easily dismissed as you seem to think.” Chataya said in her soothing summer lilt. Jaime dared not say any more simply for their sakes. It’s not like I can bloody tell them Daenerys might just move on once Cersei’s been dealt with.

“You’ve no need to flee nor hide. Dothraki are men, as we are. They drink and swear and wonder if it will rain the same as we do. Certainly, anyone who’s seen Ser Gregor Clegane at work has little and less to fear from a lad ahorse with bells in his hair.” he said, shrugging. You’d think a Lannister quite at ease would settle them. As far as they know Daenerys is as much after me as Cersei. His words did little to soothe them he saw so he concluded their meeting shortly after. As the cups and tankards were cleared away, Jaime noticed the blonde-haired green-eyed Marei among the working girls, trying hard to stay out of his sight. “These are going to be a trying few days-”

“So you’ve said, my lord. No doubt you’re entertaining thoughts that neither you nor the queen will survive them. Forgive me but what business, what care is that of mine? Do you fancy that if I went to Casterly Rock in your stead its castellan would see me and obey out of hand? I was born in this building, raised on the Street of Silks. My life, my family, my world is here. As long as King’s Landing is in danger you may count me an ally but do not tap me on the shoulder and presume it will turn me into someone I am not.” He only looked at her, feeling amused and crestfallen both.

“What a shame his only child worth a copper got shoved out of sight.” he replied.

“Your father held a poor view of commoners like my mother. She was less a person, more a tool to him. Small wonder her child was beneath his notice, to say nothing of his affection.” She fetched the last of the dishes and followed her sisters back downstairs. Truly, a Tywin in the making. I pity the husband she takes, if she lives so long.

Any other man might have simply stayed at Chataya’s for the night, but Jaime could not so much as abide the thought let alone use an empty room. I need no rumors reaching Cersei. Chataya herself seemed to notice Jaime’s fatigue and discomfort both, coming near. He felt too weary to tell her off. Besides, there’s nobody here to see just now.

“Ser Jaime, I think it’s time you made your way back to the castle, yes?” she asked quietly, almost inaudibly.

“Assuming I don’t fall off my horse on the ride up the hill, yes.”

“Well then, allow me to entertain your fantasies in one way, if not the other.” She gave a shy smile, one Jaime would not have believed such a wanton-acting creature capable of. She led him to a wardrobe, sliding it open and moving the back away to reveal a ladder down. At once his eyebrows went up and he somewhat sheepishly peered down into the darkness. “Are you capable of any other magic, Chataya?” he asked. She laughed.

“Only the kind that helps. Never that harms.”

“Be that as it may, give me a torch and I’ll happily follow this little tunnel wherever it goes.”

“A stable on Rhaenys’ Hill, near the Dragonpit if I’m not mistaken, ser. From there you can borrow a horse from some generous city guardsman for an easier ride back to the Red Keep.” Chataya advised.

“Truly, if anyone deserves the favor of the gods it is you and your fetching daughter, my lady.” Jaime said, finding the boy he had once been excited at the prospect of an adventure despite his tired body.

“Your favor would be blessing enough, my lord.” Chataya replied, handing him a torch from under a bed. He took it as she gave him space to disappear down the ladder, closing him into darkness when his feet hit earthen floor. The tunnel in which he found himself was roughly hewn but perhaps just high enough to stand in, just wide enough to stretch his arms out. Nothing to be afraid of, he told himself. Just like when the two of us jumped off that cliff. Jaime slowly made his way forward, feeling the ground rise under his feet. Up we go. He had walked for perhaps a half hour when he heard something off in the darkness. A rat no doubt. This must be their Street of Silk.

“Jaime.” The whisper came so unexpectedly Jaime promptly hurled the torch forward into the darkness. Immediately there was a yelp and a hiss as something dived out of the way, landing with a grunt while Jaime brandished his steel hand. I’ll give you a cracked skull as a goodbye gift at least, he resolved before seeing Tyrion wearily getting to his feet. His mind wheeled from one scenario to the next, gaping like a fish as his little brother groaned, rubbing his elbow. “Ass…” he muttered.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jaime hissed. Tyrion’s sullen indignation melted into terse irritation.

“I can’t exactly skip down the Street of Silk, can I? Or has Cersei rescinded her pledge of a keep to the man who brings her my head?”

“A keep and a lordship.”

“Ah, good. And I was thinking maybe Cersei didn’t hate me so much as I thought.”

“Tyrion, why are you here? Sneaking your way up to the castle rathole by rathole to implore Cersei-”

“Cersei’s a lost cause and has been since I can remember.” His words hit Jaime like Honor’s hoof. This from the Imp trying to make peace between his house and the dragon queen on the other side of the world. Tyrion wrestled with something for a moment, evidently most distraught. “Jaime…I’m not here for Cersei.” He doesn’t know about Marei or he’d have brought her up before now. Then another possibility reared its head.

“Tyrion, did you lose the dragon queen?” he asked quietly.

“I didn’t lose her, she made off while the rest of us were babbling ‘round the bonfire!” Tyrion protested, his voice higher than normal.

“So much for the White Wolf and his precious ranging. How did he react when he found out some mewling kitten wandered off on his watch?” This time Tyrion looked positively unwell. Like he hasn’t shit in a week.

“He came in after her. Jaime, he fucking came in after her.” Jaime took a long breath. These fucking children.

Tyrion needed no torch to lead the way.

“I’ve used this tunnel enough times and walking forward is not so great a task when I’ve such a short way to fall.” he explained as they moved upward.

“I don’t suppose you told them about all these pet passages before they fucked off?”

“Never did get the chance.”

“So they’re somewhere in this stinking city one looking for the other and only us stopping Cersei’s knives from finding them by accident?”

“Cersei’s luckier than most when it comes to people she wants dead actually dying. Myself excepted.” Tyrion said.

“And the Dornish wenches. And Sansa Stark. And Daenerys. And Jon Snow.” Jaime added. He could only see the back of his brother’s head but Jaime knew when Tyrion was wont to roll his mismatched eyes. “Even if we find them, we’ll have to work out how to get them out before Cersei notices I’m missing. Granted, with the two of us we have the advantage. Instead of a century to search King’s Landing we can split the work and meet up in fifty years.”

“Perhaps you should let me do the thinking.”

“The last time I left you to your own devices, Father ended up dead.” Tyrion turned to him, lips pursed and eyes wide. “It wasn’t just Father. I made my way to Meereen and back on a trail of farce and folly that would make a statue weep with laughter. Perhaps of late I’ve overestimated myself.”

“Knowing you’re stupid is the first step toward being a smart person.” yet another voice called from the darkness. Arya Stark was seated primly on a rock at the base of a ladder. Chataya told it true. Everything but the wolf princess waiting for us.

“Tyrion, you’re not to be left alone with royalty anymore!” Jaime said tersely, hearing his own voice go high and echo up the ladder.

“Don’t fault him. He was no more able to stop us coming than was to stop Jon leaving or the dragon queen before him.”

“Us?”

“Oh, fuck. You missed some things while you were nannying King’s Landing.” Tyrion said, remembering something or other.

“Nevermind just now. We have to get moving.” Stark said, quickly scaling the ladder. Jaime stared at it for a moment before he worked out just how best to ascend, by using his right arm as a hook while his left gripped the ladder. A low rattling reached them from far up the ladder, one that quickly worsened into a true cacophony. As if all this wasn’t enough. Now I have to do it soaked, Jaime thought. Coming up off the ladder was itself comical, with Tyrion and Arya grabbing Jaime just as he lost his grip, stopping him from tumbling back down the hole. Was that good luck or bad? he mused, decided it was better not to much think on. Rain pounded the roof of the stables and Jaime could see the ground outside quickly turn into a river of mud. That will please the people. Freezing rain on top of all their other woes. Best just give us snow and be done with it. He sighed and moved to the doors, flipping his cloak over his head. Not that it will help. Nobody will recognize me in this deluge, hood or no. They were half walking, half wading toward Aegon’s High Hill, the streets deserted down to the last rat.

“I imagine if it carries on long enough it will soak the ground through. Anything to drive out the vermin.” Jaime muttered, thought he was sure the others could not hear him.

On reaching the drawbridge Jaime mused on how he’d get the guards on the gate to lower it. Most like they aren’t even at their posts. They’d not hear my calls anyway, even if they were the most stalwart worthies ever to man a gate. The rains in the riverlands seemed a babe’s tears compared to the ocean the sky was loosing upon the capital just then. Jaime could see the moat around the castle slowly begin to fill despite the secret drains that no doubt fed water back to the bay. Then he almost pissed himself when a pale hand came up from the moat, grabbing the smooth rain-slicked bricks sure as if they had handles. Slowly a young woman pulled herself into view, one Tyrion and Stark made no move to help. On closer inspection Jaime could see why. The lass had a pretty enough face but the rain caused it to ripple like a reflection in a pond, her unblinking gaze locked on him despite the drops that made her eyes flicker in and out of being.

“Don’t worry, it gets worse.” she told him sullenly, though she seemed pleased at the bad shock she’d given him.

“Jaime, this is Talisa Maegyr, formerly Talisa Stark, Queen in the North.” Tyrion intoned in a small, polite voice. If his words were supposed to calm Jaime or garner recognition, they failed in both respects. Where do you find these people, brother?

“I’m the Young Wolf’s widow. The Freys murdered me at the Red Wedding. Me, my husband, and our child.” she elaborated rather crossly. Oh. Then Jaime began remembering.

“Are these rains of your making? Were you the one pissing on us when we were moving through the riverlands?” Talisa smiled. “Do you want to go inside or not?” she asked teasingly. Stark giggled.

“Less than anything I could possibly want, but I have to.” he told her, the woman’s smile disappearing. All the while the rains fell, water steadily rising in the moat.

“Wait here.” she said, simply falling apart into a gush that ran every which way before joining the rest. A few minutes later the drawbridge came down, the loud slam lost in the driving rain. “Best hurry.” Talisa advised from across the way. “If you slip off, you’ll be in Blackwater Bay before you can blink.” She needn’t wait for me to slip. She could knock me off at any moment, Jaime thought as he gingerly made his way across the soaked wood. Tyrion and Stark coming up behind him just as carefully. On reaching solid stone he sent a quick prayer the way of whatever gods had their eye on him. Thus far, anyway.

“I don’t suppose you two have forgotten your way around this place.” Jaime said to his (living) companions.

“What places I haven’t been I can work out without much trouble.” Stark replied, her eyes going dull. Tyrion smartly caught her before she could crash to the floor, but it took Jaime picking her up to get her out of her fit. “He’s on his way.” she stated.

“Good. How long until-” From out of the corner of his eye Jaime spotted an ancient black tomcat, once the bane of Tommen’s existence, slink out of the shadows with a haughty rasping yowl.

“That toothless old bastard? He’s not exactly going to take care of Clegane for us-”

“He knows the Red Keep better than anyone who’s ever lived. Every passage, every corridor, every hiding place.” Stark interrupted him. With that she promptly turned and followed the cat, every bit as nimble. Every bit as like to scratch, too. Talisa followed after her at once, leaving a water-slick trail behind her. I wonder what the fishfolk would make of her. Jaime hadn’t seen one up close, but he heard little else from the guards and gaolers on Dragonstone.

“We need to drop in on Qyburn first. At least, I do. I have to let him know what’s going on.” If we disarm Cersei it will make no matter that Daenerys has gone one ahead, nor Jon Snow. It will be merely a matter of finding them then. After which I’ll roar at them loud enough to shake the Red Keep.

“Who?” Stark asked. Jaime swore he could hear Tyrion’s brow furrow.

“The one the Citadel tossed out on his aging ass?”

“He’s no spring sprig but that hasn’t stopped him being useful to Cersei.” Jaime replied.

“Are we killing him, then?” Talisa asked, seeming untroubled by the idea. A blushing girl you are not. You’re as much river as woman and rivers drown people every day.

“He’s going to help us stop Cersei from burning King’s Landing down. There’s caches of wildfire scattered beneath the city, a lasting legacy of Aerys’. Knowing Cersei, she’s had more made after the Blackwater and the Sept thinking it makes any problem go away.” Jaime said the words so easily he took himself aback. As much wildfire as woman and wildfire kills thousands unless it’s stopped. To his great surprise the tomcat proved quite worthy of Stark’s hard-earned praise, avoiding any patrols that might have been on duty and Clegane himself, wherever he stalked. “Down here.” Jaime whispered, knocking briskly on the door of the laboratory. A few moments became more than a few and he realized he was holding his breath. Open the door, please. After there was no reply, a voice at Jaime’s side almost made him scream aloud.

“Nobody home…” Tyrion whispered. Jaime’s mind whirled with every possible eventuality, each worse than the last. Qyburn’s turned on me, Qyburn’s been found out and killed, Qyburn’s- The door slowly opened, revealing the stolidly grim face of Ilyn Payne.

“Thank the gods. Where the fuck have you been?” Jaime hissed, elbowing past him and leading the rest of them inside. Perhaps it was Qyburn’s reputation as a torturer, graverobber and necromancer, but Jaime heard nobody approach the laboratory while they took stock.

“Right, Qyburn was supposed to help me neutralize Cersei before she could toss the torch, so to speak but as he’s disappeared it will have to be you lucky cunts.” he said, nerves fraying by the second. “Clegane’s nowhere to be found so he’s likely in the throne room with Cersei. Someone will need to get him away from her or she’ll have time enough to realize she’s lost. Time we cannot let her have, a realization she can’t be allowed to reach.” He meant to add ‘until afterward’ but somehow his mouth left it out. A brisk knock made his stomach leap, but Stark only shrugged. Briskly she opened the door without a word from Jaime and in came Varys and a red-haired man with an odd lock of white.

“Oh, now who are you?” he asked, slapping a hand to his head.

“Jaqen H’ghar of Lorath.” The man replied serenely in a lilting accent. Lost, Jaime could only look to Stark.

“He’s one of us.” She said at once. Jolly good, but just what are we? he thought, a breath from hysteria. Taking as long as he dared to still the spinning going on in his head, he got the lot of them around one of Qyburn’s crates, planning as he went. Bronn would not approve. In fact, if Tyrion’s expression was any sign, he didn’t like their course any better. Scarcely time to talk it out over maps of the castle, brother. Jaime exhaled and began to talk.

“Right. Since there are enough of us to put a few fires out at once, so to speak, I figure we’ll have to split up. We have to keep reinforcements from coming into the castle so the rains will need to hold at least that long.” Talisa gave a wry smile. “Now, the castle’s got wildfire beneath it the same as the rest of King’s Landing. To stop the stuff from seeping out of the floors and walls, whatever cisterns or drains the Red Keep’s got have to be at full flow.”

“Chances are they’re shut in the first place on Cersei’s orders to stop me from creeping my way in. She never lost an opportunity to mock me for minding Casterly Rock’s innards in my youth. I’ll need to take Varys with me, though, to negotiate whatever passages lead there quickest.” Tyrion said, eyes alight at the chance to solve a unique riddle.

“Then it’s just the tiny wrinkle of the eight-foot giant that never leaves Cersei’s side.” Stark surmised.

“One you’ll have no part in smoothing. You’re to follow the cat straight out of the castle as soon as we’re done here.” Jaime said flatly. Stark’s mouth tightened but to his great surprise there was no sassy retort. “You brought us this far, princess. That you came at all is a testament to your bravery and your stupidity both.” Jaime told her, not unkindly. “If anything, you’re your father’s daughter.”

“Jon’s still somewhere in the city-”

“-and no more harm will come to him than you, if we manage to piss in Cersei’s pudding.” Her glower didn’t budge but Jaime had other concerns. He turned to Payne, who stared at him with the unknowable eyes of a killer. But can he fight? Can he last, if only long enough?

“Ser, it seems the pleasure of drawing Clegane off Cersei is yours. Luckily, I’ve got something to even the odds in your favor, if only a little.” Payne gave no sign that he had heard, no hint that he assented but his silence was a tongue Jaime had long since learned.

“Their loss.” Stark told her Lorathi friend. “One mute executioner isn’t going to stop Gregor Clegane.” At this Payne clacked in what might have been indignation.

“Valar Morghulis.” The Lorathi replied, nodding. After a moment of uneasy silence Tyrion spoke up.

“Once the cyvasse pieces are laid it’s bad luck to have second thoughts. Come, Lord Varys.” he said, heading out.

“That sounded like something he made up on the spot.” Jaime muttered doubtfully.

“It was.” Varys replied before following Tyrion. Talisa it seemed needed no particular place to do what needed doing.

“It’s easiest if I can see the sky is all. I’ll head out to the walls, no one will come to Cersei’s rescue tonight.” she said, leaving them without a second look. Jaime could feel Stark’s eyes on him.

“Before you leave,” he told her, “there’s something I need to give you.”

His chambers were just as Jaime had left them, as he knew they would be. Cersei would never suspect me of having secrets from her. She doesn’t think me smart enough. From a trunk at the foot of his bed he pulled Widow’s Wail snug in its scabbard and the doll that could only have been Sansa Stark’s, a gift from Lord Eddard.

“It seems to me I owe you a sword. For Harrenhal.” Stark didn’t answer. He held it out to her hilt-first, that she might draw it. Her hand trembled something fierce as it closed around the grip, drawing it only with a look of greatest trepidation. Widow’s Wail gleamed as handsomely as ever, the sword’s smoky red blade rippling with black. “Ice had steel enough for two blades, my father claimed. Widow’s Wail is one of them. The other-”

“Oathkeeper, with Brienne of Tarth.” Stark cut in, eyes on the blade. “When I asked her how she learned to wield a sword, she told me her father had taught her.”

“If she’s gone to Sansa as I hear, each of Ned Stark’s daughters got one of Ice’s, then.” I wonder what honorable Eddard Stark would make of me now, Jaime mused. Or grieving Lady Catelyn. Stark took Jaime in for a long moment then left in turn when the cat rubbed up against her leg, the Lorathi silently trailing behind. Only Payne and Jaime himself remained. “I hope your fearsome reputation holds.” He told the mute knight. The sword presented to Ilyn Payne to replace Ice was not Valyrian steel, but its reach was long. Hopefully steeled enough to withstand a few of Clegane’s blows. Jaime’s stomach roiled unpleasantly and his legs had turned stiff as stone, but eventually the doors of the throne room came into view, as did the woman who stood before them. Had I a cup of wine to steady my nerves I might have pissed myself just now. It had been years since he’d looked upon the woman, but he’d know Catelyn Stark anywhere. Her hair was just as Tully red and her eyes were just as Tully blue, but she’d gone watery the way Talisa Maegyr had. The Freys gave them to the river and the river gave them back.

“Where is my daughter?”

“Gone out of the castle, her Lorathi close behind. She’ll come to no harm, my lady.”

“As long as your sister sits on the Iron Throne, propped up by countless wildfire caches, Arya is no safer than the poorest orphan girl. Cersei is a danger not only to her and to you, ser, but all who live. If it means keeping the throne, she will gladly send not only King’s Landing but the world entire the way of the Sept of Baelor. Including a very precious pair lost somewhere in the streets below. I scarce hear else of Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen than that they came into this world to safeguard it. Just now it seems you’ve come into this world to safeguard them. Winter is coming, Ser Jaime. Without them, I fear there can be no spring.”

“I am a knight of the Kingsguard, Lady Catelyn. It is my duty to keep Cersei alive, if not in power.” Jaime’s words sounded hollow. Listen to me, all but pleading on her behalf.

“You are a knight before a Kingsguard. It is your duty to protect the people, as I recall.” Catelyn Stark put her hands to the door handles and pulled. “Come, ser, and do your duty.”

All that death had given Catelyn, life had taken from Cersei. His sister’s face had lost its soft sensual beauty, replaced by something steelier, determined. I imagine we look quite alike just now. She only had eyes for him as he came into the throne room, paying no mind to Ilyn Payne nor to who the rivers had made of a woman she might have shared grandchildren with. She sat the throne as if it was part of her, straight-backed and imperious. Ever the mummer, sister. I see the lines under your eyes, the stains under your arms, the stiffness in your knees. Getting closer, Jaime saw she had Joff’s crossbow in her lap, the quarrels treated with some ungodly tarry substance. Aside her stood Gregor Clegane, massive as ever, and Qyburn with his harmless half-smile. At his feet lay the bucket he’d drained the ooze that swam through Clegane’s veins into. No doubt she thinks herself invulnerable. Well, Kingslayer, nobody ever said talking her down would be easy.

“Your Grace.” he called, his voice echoing through the empty throne room. For a moment he wondered if Cersei’s hearing had gone.

“Her Grace would like to know how two usurpers managed to breach the capital’s walls.” Qyburn asked, polite as ever. Jaime felt as though he’d been kneed between the legs.

“Feel free to answer honestly, Lord Commander. The current Master of Whisperers is a marked improvement over his predecessor. Both because he is loyal, and because he’s better at the job.” Cersei said, voice void of any warmth. Jaime stopped moving at the bottom of the stair, looking past the monster and his maker at the woman on the throne.

“There’s been an…unexpected development, Your Grace.”

“Which development is that, Lord Commander? That the Mad King’s daughter has given Casterly Rock to the walking curse that murdered our father and furthermore named him Warden of the West? That her missives and envoys have reached lords high and low the realm over in a clear bid to isolate me? That she’s pregnant with a nameless bastard’s whelp? Tyrion was ever eager to claim your rights out from under you, ser. The realms are a lattice of traitors and turncoats. When a girl has it in her head to call herself a queen, she opens her legs for any passing lout that takes her fancy. These are the workings of the world, ser. No one competent could call them unexpected.” Tyrion’s as likely to claim the Rock as the Iron Throne itself. As for Daenerys, she is a queen, and the only man who’s like to share her bed is one she loves. The same could not be said of Cersei.

“No, Your Grace. Word has reached me of an enemy massing beyond the Wall.”

“The wildlings have made common cause with Jon Snow, or are you ignorant of that as well?”

“Not the wildlings, Your Grace.” Cersei’s lips, once full and plush, disappeared into an incensed line.

“The Others are a story, ser. Told over and over until the northerners believed it, the same as with the Children of the Forest.”

“You knew Ned Stark, Your Grace. His bastard is cut of the same cloth. He is not the sort to lie. Even if he were, one cunning bastard would not be enough to bring the wildlings under the same banner as the northmen. Something else is making them.”

“Promises of southern riches, wines, and women, no doubt. A man will do most anything for those, be he peasant or king.” Jon Snow is a king, and he could not want any of them less. Nor could I, for that matter. The same could not be said of Cersei.

“The snows will fall soon, Your Grace. This city’s granaries are empty and its people are ready to riot-”

“We know how to handle a few angry smallfolk, ser.” Cersei said, gesturing to Clegane.

“Why handle them at all? Let someone else go mad trying to fix King’s Landing. The westerlands are nearly untouched but for Robb Stark’s brief excursions and we have kin there besides. Casterly Rock is our place-”

“Casterly Rock is your place, as ever it has been, despite your dodging the responsibility. I have found my place, and I will keep it, wolves and dragons notwithstanding.” Her words stunned him.

“Casterly Rock and King’s Landing are on the opposite ends of Westeros.” he said, feeling as though another were moving his mouth for him.

“That’s what the maps suggest.” Cersei said, rolling her eyes. Apart. One without the other. Once, the thought would have distressed her to fits and tears. Finally, he regained the use of his voice.

“I will not be parted from you, Cersei.”

“You will be whatever your queen commands you be, ser.”

“I would sooner give my only hand than see you unhappy. I would sooner die than leave your side.”

“So handless, you’d be of even less use than you are now. A knight without a hand, a Hand without a title, a queen without a throne, a king without a name. It seems the lot of you deserve each other.” She will not listen, he knew. Worse, she will not leave. He could only shrug his shoulders.

“What then would you have me do?”

“Scour this city top to bottom and do not stop until you can return to me with a dragon’s heart in your hand and a wolf’s head under your arm.”

“What of the army fully ready to lay the city low if they are not returned untouched?”

“The traitors will be the ones laid low if they should try to take my throne.”

“Your throne is already lost, Cersei. There is no food to be had in the entirety of King’s Landing, what few people remain have done so only to give it the barest hint of life, and to be honest I’d gladly give up a hundred Iron Thrones if it meant your safety.”

“You are a Kingsguard, ser. My safety is your purpose.”

“A Kingsguard is first a knight, and a knight’s purpose is the people. Should the two come to cross-purposes you need only remember I am called ‘Kingslayer’ to know which I will choose.” That he was conscious after their exchange, let alone upright was a wonder to Jaime. Cersei for her part seemed almost stunned.

“Was that a threat?”

“No, that was a reminder.” Hear Me Roar. Our words, sister. Now hear this. “If you try to burn down King’s Landing, I am going to kill you. That was a threat. See the difference?”

Something struck him squarely in the belly. Jaime had to fall to the ground, had to hear the quarrel snap against the hard floor to realize he had been shot. At least she missed my cock ran through his mind before the agony seeped out through him, a rose with thorns for petals. Blood pounded in his ears but even through it he could hear the sound of steel on steel. Swords, he thought, trying to block out pain that made his phantom hand seem a friendly tickle. Jaime took a breath and got to his knees, the color seeping out of the world. Two figures, one large and looming and the other grim and bald, were squaring up on the steps to the throne. Payne, trying to kill Qyburn’s monster. Cersei was on her feet, the crossbow in her arms down a quarrel. Jaime tried to rise but the effort made the world spin and he ended up on his back, Qyburn’s face above him. The rippling figure of Catelyn advancing on Cersei barely kept Jaime conscious and it was a moment before he realized Qyburn was speaking.

“I dulled the quarrels myself, ser, and dipped them in milk of the poppy. You have perhaps thirty seconds to do what must be done.” Then he was off, needle full of sludge in hand. Burying it in the chain between the plates that covered his huge chest and tree-trunk leg. At once an arm like a tree-trunk wrapped in plate lashed out and Qyburn lay unmoving in a fast-growing pool of blood ten feet away. Jaime heard the thrum of the crossbow, the sound of water splashing. Again, a thrum. This time he saw the quarrel lance through Catelyn’s face. She did not so much as flinch. Jaime could see blue eyes alive with purpose looking into green ones dead of fear.

“Once, you were a queen. Your husband was a king, you had two brothers to hold you up and three children to carry on your line.” Catelyn’s words were void of venom, empty of malice but Jaime could feel the power in them. Power that dulled his pain and sharpened his wits. “Where is your husband now? Where are your brothers? Where are your children? Who now calls you queen? Once a wife, now a widow. Once a mother, mother now only to death.” As Jaime regained his feet, he saw Catelyn was heading back toward the main doors, toward a slim figure with a black fuzz in its arms. Before she left, she turned back to the throne room and took it in. “For now we see what all a chair is worth. These southron woes will keep me warm up north.” The figures disappeared and with them went the last of Jaime’s pain, if not his numbness. He staggered past the knights, did not turn to look as Clegane fell to all fours, black bile seeping from between the plates. Neither did he gape as Ser Ilyn Payne drew up his silver-runed sword, pommel a grinning skull, and brought it down to send the giant’s head bouncing down the polished steps. In Jaime’s haste to get to Cersei he managed to knock her backward, falling against her. He heard her gasp as the torturous thing opened up her arms, her thighs, her legs. She made to shove him off but by then his hand, the one she had so little regard for, was at her throat. Every time she tried to rise, he squeezed. Only when she stopped fighting him did Jaime realize what that meant. Oh. You’re dead. Before it could hit him, before it could catch him and split him as the womb had done, he was staggering through the halls of the Red Keep with her in his arms. He found himself in Cersei’s room, rushing past her great table. He managed to reach the balcony before the pain returned, driving him to his knees and knocking away the stone railing. Together they lingered there, caught between worlds when the stars began to circle and wheel. Dancing across shimmering sea and deep blue sky both it looked quite as though it had begun to snow sapphires. You see, Cersei? Nothing to be afraid of.

Chapter Text

Daenerys

This city reeks of corpses and pig shit. The city of Viserys’ dreams, the one he talked of until the archons and princes of the Free Cities could stand him no more, the city her mother had grown up in. After everything she’d done to get here, everything she’d suffered, King’s Landing was just another city. One that reeked of corpses and pig shit. Dany slowly kept pace with Ser Bonifer, her hand in his as he led her along with a rag tied around her eyes and the threadbare hood of a silent sister hiding her silver hair. Though she supposed she looked as though she were blind, Dany saw through the rag without much difficulty and what she saw did not fill her with what she thought she’d feel when finally she reached her life’s destination. Dimly she wondered at the man who led her through the gates and down this rubbish-choked alley, that nightsoil-clogged gulley. With a shiver of revulsion, she felt a bold rat run across her bare feet under the smock she wore to complete the ruse. Ser Barristan would not have brought me here. He would have insisted I stay on Dragonstone while others win my war for me. Thinking on the old knight as he’d been during her reign in Meereen made her eyes water. Ser Jorah would have bid me come but by no means pass the city gates until he and the Unsullied and the Dothraki had made it safe beforehand. Thinking on her bear as he’d been during her time as Drogo’s khaleesi made her heart ache. Both lived with wounds that never ceased to hurt nor bleed, but neither knew my mother a tenth so well as Bonifer Hasty. And neither is my father. Once ascertaining that there was nothing in Flea Bottom worth looking at half so much as the man before her, her gaze never left him. A man who loved my mother, a man my mother loved. In each the other could forget the world at large, a moment of passion all too brief I owe everything. Had Viserys ever suspected? Despite his ill-use of her without respite, Dany didn’t think so. Viserys held the memory of Aerys higher than any god. He would never have suspected Aerys’ queen to look elsewhere for what she so wanted, so needed. Had Robert Baratheon known, would he have bothered to send knives after her? She’d never so much as met the man but from what she heard of him from others, she didn’t think so. He would not have bestirred himself knowing that as a bastard I had little and less business coming to Westeros, much less King’s Landing. But then, why am I here now?

Once out of the squalor of Flea Bottom’s back alleys, Dany found Ser Bonifer leading her up a rather wider street if no less wretched. She could smell scent burning in the air as well, a noble but futile attempt to stave off the pervasive stink the city wore like a skin brand. To her disappointment Ser Bonifer did not lead her toward the source, perhaps the only half-tidy building in all the capital but through the doors of a seedy-looking brothel two doors down. How this brothel, why this one Dany had no notion, but she held her tongue as befit a silent sister. She watched the building’s minder, a woman just past her prime make a sign that Bonifer returned. Once they were alone in a room upstairs, he took a long breath.

“True servants of the Seven must sometimes speak through symbols and scratches on walls. More fit for smugglers than stout hearts, perhaps…” he sounded almost apologetic. Dany’s eyes only widened behind the rag. Whatever had been on the brothel’s front, whatever hidden sign of sanctuary, she’d missed it completely.

“Do not feel unworthy, ser. If it pleases the Seven that their faithful should keep safe then secret signs are hardly sinful.” A knight of the realm, one famed for his virtue, forced to dive beneath the rubbish to keep me safe and out of the hands of Cersei’s hired swords. It made her want to cry. Common brutes wear the cloaks true men once did and make further mockery of the city the dragons began. After a moment though, Dany reconsidered. The dragons lived and died on Aegon’s High Hill, descending into the common world only when they desired. The smallfolk they looked down upon from the parapets of the Red Keep built this city and made it thrive, not the Targaryens. It had been the same in Meereen. Slaves had laid the bricks, not the masters. Slaves had tended the orchards and the herds, not the masters. Here though, it seemed the masters had worn the chains and let them wring the lift out of the creatures who’d raised them high to begin with. How a king could forget a dragon for anything else, Dany had no inkling. Perhaps I’ll learn when I stand in the throne room for the first time. If I live so long. There was a knock at the door and a faint voice calling that dinner had been brought. Dany had not a copper to pay for food with but Bonifer dutifully opened the door and one of the brothel’s girls carried in a tray of bony fish and cheese. Her face made Dany flinch visibly, the girl’s eyes resolutely glued to the floor regardless. Of all the places to find a northern girl Daenerys could hardly guess a less likely place than a brothel in King’s Landing. Without thinking she pulled away the rag, blinking to make sure who she saw was truly who stood before her. The girl’s jaw dropped with a predictable pop. “You are northern.” Dany said, the poor girl’s brown eyes only going wider at her words. Her mouth quivered and in an instant Dany took the sweetling in her arms, a hand on her back. For his part Bonifer made no move to impede her, only quietly closing the door behind the girl while Dany took her in hand. At a touch the girl jarred badly. No doubt she’s been ill-used. The world is not kind to orphaned girls.

Thoughts of aught else had gone from Daenerys’ mind as she sat the girl down, making a small dish for her off the tray she’d brought. It does no good to starve whores, but I doubt she’s had her fill to eat in a long time. Of the few northern houses she was familiar with Dany could think of none missing a daughter. The Blackfish mentioned his sister’s daughter when he joined me. If Tully had told me her name, I might ask just now. Anyway, she’s supposed to be safe at Winterfell. Purported to be the spitting image of Lady Catelyn, Dany had a brief image of a waterfall of red hair and blue eyes peering out from behind it in her mind’s eye before the girl stirred and brought her back to earth.

“What’s your name? I know the King in the North well, surely he’d be pleased to take you home.”

“Robb was murdered by the Boltons and the Freys.” The girl replied sullenly looking in her lap. Dany swallowed. Might bringing up Jon Snow offend her?

“Not Robb Stark. Jon Snow, the White Wolf.”

“Sansa should get the north, she’s a trueborn daughter of Lord Eddard Stark.” The girl replied automatically. Her words surprised Dany. Someone close to the Starks, or at least to Princess Sansa.

“Sansa Stark may not be a queen but as sister to kings living and dead both she is just as much a princess as her sister.”

“Arya Horseface? She’s no princess, just a filthy troublesome runt. She always tried to ruin Sansa’s day when we were little. I daubed the oats off Sansa’s face when Arya flung them at her the night Lord Stark feasted King Robert.” Dany got the distinct sense it had been the most the girl had talked perhaps in years. Face to face with the Mother of Dragons and the battered sweetling could only think of Sansa Stark. Would Missandei speak in my defense with such fire? Dany was certain she would but thinking on her Naathi friend made her sad anew, so she tried focusing on the girl. After dabbing away a haze of tears, she hiccupped. “When I came to this city, my name was Jeyne Poole. I was the daughter of Lord Eddard’s steward, Vayon. After the grand tournament King Robert was killed by a boar and the Lannisters turned on us. Father was killed, Lord Eddard captured, and I was set to working in whichever brothel had the least selection as it were on any given night. Brothels owned by Littlefinger, if the men who took me told it true when they complained about price.”

“Men like to talk when they’re happy.” Daenerys replied, almost without thinking. The girl, Jeyne Poole, looked at her.

“They like to talk when they’re annoyed, too.” Perhaps, if one has had that much experience. If the men must pay for such, as well.

“You should have a bath, Jeyne. You look the way I used to after a day of riding across the Dothraki Sea. Although I reeked of horse, not men.”

“Men smell worse.” came the reply, Jeyne poking listlessly at the small lump of cheese as Bonifer called for hot water. The woman who ran the brothel brought it up herself, huffing and red in the face.

“Dusk comes, ser. The gold cloaks will begin dropping by in mere moments. You’d do best to remain in here until dawn at the least, you and the girls. That way you won’t be disturbed.” She speaks as if Bonifer were just another customer for the sake of listening ears. The knight sniffed.

“I’ve no wish to mix with the scum-called-city guard. There’s a silver stag in it for you should they be kept out of my sight.” He tried to sound like just another brute, another common sword with a knight’s name, but even in farce Bonifer Hasty didn’t have it in him to play the villain. Just as the woman said, the floor below soon filled with irate voices and impatient shouts. There was little else for Dany to do except help Jeyne Poole with her bath, pulling a threadbare blanket over herself afterward in an attempt at sleep. If the gods are so kind, she thought. Tomorrow is like to be taxing to say the least.

Daenerys knew she was dreaming when the gusts that cut through the brothel faded into balmy warmth, finding herself a child no older than five or six. She stood on the threshold of a building she’d dreamed of since the day it had been closed to her and Viserys, the red door leaping out from the white stone around it like the eyes and mouth of a heart tree. Her heart fluttered at the sight of the door and her hand yearned to reach for the crimson wood, but she was not the child she appeared to be. I know much of falsehoods and glamours, of prophecies and dreams. No doubt if I open that something horrible will chase me down the street. The lemon tree grew straight and tall to her left, no doubt fertile and healthy but Dany turned her eyes away. I know what the tree looks like. No doubt it’s just as lovely as I remember, more so than it could possibly have been in life. Whoever heard of lemon trees in Braavos, anyway? As she grumbled darkly to herself, amused at the voice of the girl she’d been if nothing else, the red door swung inward with slow purpose. At once she froze, ready to run and nevermind a childhood home that had only ever been hers just to be snatched away.

“Hmph!” Dany sulked, turning her back on the threshold with her arms crossed and lip puffed out. No doubt yet another attempt to get me to run heedlessly toward happiness. Whose, I do not know, but I’ll not fall for it again. She remembered Pyat Pree, Xaro Xhoan Daxos, the great bloodbath her attempt at civilizing Slaver’s Bay had been. The chittering chirp that came next tugged at her very being. I am not a moth to be burned in a nightlamp. The dragons are grown now, not chirping hatchlings- Then her eyes opened. They led me through the House of the Undying. They kept me out of Pree’s grasp. Despite every bit of her screaming not to, she wearily turned toward the open door and went inside. To her confusion it seemed the building had no inside, a single step taking her to a garden of sorts. A gate, then. A wall of seamlessly mortared white bricks stood at the garden’s far end and a narrow stream to her left separated her from a much-maligned garden patch, one torn and dusty. At first it seemed grass stretched to the opposite wall, but on closer inspection Dany could see the deep divide halfway between her and the far white bricks. Lilypads and cattails burst from the seam, an impenetrable barrier between the warm green grass on which she stood and the snow-dusted stretch beyond. The mire even bled southward a bit, the sodden ground full of wiggling lizards. Daenerys stared uncertainly at the puzzle before her. I’ve seen such impossible things in the company of the blue-lipped wizards. A trap to lure me in. Another chirp met her ears and she spotted a good deal of movement in the strip of dense marsh, yet another sounding from a cluster of razor rocks that jutted out from the frozen pool sleeping flush to the wall, above the narrow stream.

She was just wondering if it were worth stepping into the muck to try and find the source of the chirping when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Dany jerked awake, her eyes shooting open and at once moaning in dismay as the light of dawn filled filled them. She pulled the blanket over her head, muttering to herself.

“It’s morning, sweetling. Best get up…” The voice of Bonifer Hasty made her stop her childishness. Sweetling. She idly shrugged beneath the blanket. He can scarcely call me ‘Daenerys’ or ‘Your Grace’ with Cersei’s lickspittles downstairs. She sat up wearily, stretching and spotting Jeyne asleep in a chair near the hearth. Her dreamscape lingered in her mind’s eye, a sprawling garden that certainly existed nowhere in the waking world. At least nothing attacked me. Then again, if I find myself there again something might. She got to her feet and donned her silent sister’s garb, Jeyne likewise taking up the ruse.

“I could be a septa…” she had suggested.

“These are dark days. A septa cannot walk freely in King’s Landing with Cersei’s feelings on the Seven’s faithful abundantly clear. No one will look twice at those who tend the dead, though. Particularly in this city.” The sadness in his voice shone through most unhelpfully and Daenerys could only pray it went unheard by anyone downstairs. Bonifer thanked the madame and as simple as that the three of them were back out on the streets, morning doing nothing to improve King’s Landing’s odor. Dany followed dutifully, even when a glint of red off to the left caught her eye. Her breath hitched in her chest at the sight of the Red Keep in the morning light, even far away. I am close, she thought. So close. Close to where the Targaryens lived, reigned, died, for three centuries. Where I might have been born but for Rhaegar’s kidnapping of Lyanna. Where I might have been wedded to Viserys by Mother to save my own life. The thought made her skin crawl. Jon Snow and his wildlings have it right. To be alive, you must be free, not the other way around. Gently, Bonifer Hasty took her hand. Daenerys turned away from the red building in the distance and followed him. As they walked Dany noticed that even in the dying city there were very few people around. She was about to ask where they were going when she remembered that silent sisters spoke not at all. They ascended a hill and abruptly Daenerys found herself staring into a hole that ran a hundred feet down. The mirror of a Meerenese pyramid, only round. Rubble and looters’ rubbish littered the great hole and the city grounds around it. Dany had never heard of such a rubbish pit from Viserys but only when she saw through her rag that Bonifer was weeping did she realize that this must have been the Great Sept of Baelor she’d been told of. Or rather, what’s left after the wildfire had its way. So, this is what Aerys sought for his city before it could be taken from him. So much the better his twisted fire was put out. She never heard anyone speak good of Aerys Targaryen anyway, Viserys aside. If only Rhaegar had triumphed at the Trident, I might have grown up a knight’s cherished natural daughter instead of a miserable trueborn princess.

They were taking the long way back toward the Red Keep at Daenerys’ request, Bonifer dutifully guiding them on without a second look at anyone they passed. I hope Jon Snow at least will understand. I waited all my life for this moment, to stand where my ancestors stood… Her Hand’s attitude would likely be a deal less forgiving she knew, but somehow Dany felt it hard to imagine the King in the North angry with her. He may well be, now I’ve put myself in such danger. If he loves me as I pray he does, he’s not like to wait for me to emerge, he’ll come in after me. Only then did Dany’s eyes widen in realization. Who was she fooling? Of course Jon Snow would come in after her, honor and affection both spurring him on and damn the risks. Like the fact that Cersei would like nothing more than to finish House Stark for good, even surer than she would House Targaryen. Dany felt foolish to her bones as she pondered her blunder. If Jaime Lannister spoke true, she may light the wildfire if only to erase the last of her hated enemies from the world. She hadn’t meant to risk Jon, risk the North’s pride and joy, risk the last man of House Stark. I would have done better to slide under his blanket with him and spend all day sleeping while we waited Cersei out. At the sound of thunder, she looked up to see a true tempest roll in overhead like a khalasar galloping across the Dothraki Sea. A moment later it seemed and she was drenched, the rain pouring down harder than Dany could believe.

“We make for the castle,” she said, hardly needing to play the silent sister any longer. “Nobody will object to a knight intent on joining Cersei nor to two more hands meant to dispose of corpses.” A walk that should have taken less than an hour took it seemed all day, made worse when the water ran down Aegon’s High Hill and turned the street into a slew of mud. All the while the rains fell on. In time Dany could see a greenish tar bubble up from the city’s drains, wells, even the seams in the streets themselves. Water enough to flush King’s Landing of the wildfire beneath it. Where the rains had come from, she could only guess but they were nothing like the tears shed over the riverlands. They were concise, precise, aimed…soaking the city to the foundation stones and below, glutting the ground until it forced the explosive poison malingering in its bowels to bubble up and flow down into Blackwater Bay. Well, that addresses that at least. Nobody’s like to light a torch in such an ungodly squall. Finally, the outline of the castle loomed large even in the rain, as different from Dany’s childhood idea of home as day from night.

“The drawbridge is down.” Bonifer said, his voice alert and wary.

“Is that unusual?” Dany asked, feeling utterly ignorant.

“Cersei hasn’t been very hospitable of late. Apart from guard shifts or what supplies can be found, the Red Keep stays cut off even from the rest of the city. Elsewise Cersei would be dragged out and beheaded over the edge of the hole that was once the Great Sept of Baelor.” Jeyne Poole said, peering into the darkness that was the castle’s moat.

“Well, we can at least get dry…” Dany made a halfhearted attempt to cross the drawbridge. Even before she slipped on the slick wood Ser Bonifer’s arm was out to scoop her from thin air and steal her back to safety. The Red Keep tried to eat me, she thought dizzily.

“Perhaps you ought to follow me, Your Grace.” Ser Bonifer said, breathing hard and speaking tersely through gritted teeth.

“Yes, Ser Bonifer.” she said meekly, blushing crimson and feeling the freezing rain grow warm on her cheeks. At least it’s not steaming, she thought embarrassedly. Once they’d crossed and Dany felt the red bricks beneath her feet her pounding heart would allow her to go no further until she got what was on her mind out. “Ser Bonifer-”

“It was merely my duty, Your Grace.” he interrupted, most unlike his normal soft-spoken self. No doubt these halls have only painful memories for him, memories of a happy youth given to abject sorrow. Small wonder he wants this over and done with, as surely as I do.

“Father.” She called, the word echoing off the castle’s dark halls. The knight froze, Jeyne Poole looking on without a word, brown eyes wide. It seemed as though Bonifer Hasty had become locked in time. “Father.” Dany called again, trying not to sound the pleading girl. Trying and failing. When he turned to look at her the years it seemed had fled him, the fading light showing Dany the boy who had loved her mother fiercely enough to share a single night of freedom with her and risk a madman’s wrath. I may well die today, if things go ill. I would stem his bleeding as he stemmed Mother’s. “I spent my entire youth in the last Targaryen’s company and only a few short months in yours.” She took a breath. “Your pardon, but I’d rather be your daughter than his heir.” Her voice shook but she steeled herself to remain standing, ignoring Jeyne Poole’s gaping. Impressed at last. Bonifer only stared at her. What little light the sconces afforded glinted off the rivulets running down his cheeks. Slowly he stepped toward her. I wonder how much of Mother he sees in me. How much of himself he does. When he drew his sword Dany neither blinked nor shied away. Instead, she gracefully got to a knee. Gently he set the blade upon her shoulder.

“What is your name?” he asked, an airy whisper the best he could manage.

“Daenerys Waters.” Dany replied without shame or scorn.

“No,” came the countermand. “Not Daenerys Waters. From this day, until the day you marry, you are Daenerys Hasty, daughter of Ser Bonifer Hasty.” Dany shut her eyes. Only now do I see what Mother meant. Free of Aerys, free of his awful shadow. No more shame, no more House Targaryen.

“You honor me,” she began, “I swear, I will uphold your name and your tradition. I will be worthy of you, Father. Worthy of your trust, worthy of your love. I promise.”

The great doors were open, though the light was too poor to much see what was going on in the throne room. Nevertheless, Daenerys strode in alive as she had never been, aglow as she could ever be. Even in the dim light she could see it at the other end of the huge room, the black shape a curled fist or perhaps a bentbacked leper wheezing out his last. There was a shadow in the gallery and her father’s sword was back in hand, calling out to whoever it was to show themselves. Out of the blackness came a bald older man, his face ashen and exhausted but grinning ear to ear. In one hand he carried a truly massive greatsword. In the other he held a man’s head, impossibly huge and dripping some hellish black tar. More of the stuff pooled at the man’s feet and only then did Daenerys realize the man was hurt. His mouth opened to laugh but only more blood came out, spilling down his stained jerkin. His mute clacks echoed off the pillars right up until he collapsed forward, his nose crunching flat against the stone. Dany just managed to avoid slipping in the pool when someone bearing a torch brushed past her, accompanied by the reek of open sewer. The bleeding man was flipped with the squirting sound of a deep wound and a barely held scream. Tyrion, she realized wonderingly.

“Where are they, you murderous bald bastard?” he shouted…no, bellowed, louder than Dany thought him possibly able, right into the man’s face. The sight of the dwarf made him break out in a new bout of clacks, just as loud. His spasming left hand came up and closed harmlessly around the dwarf’s throat, at least until he lost the power to move it, then it just fell into his lap. Realizing what he held, Tyrion stepped backward in disbelief. He’s dying, Dany thought despairingly, of a man she’d never known and never would, given his muteness and the scale of his wounds. In the light given by the torch his features were thrown into sharp relief- at least until he spat a glob of phlegm in Dany’s face. With an unholy death rattle and a last gleeful clack, he went slack against the ground. It fell to Ser Bonifer to gently dab at Dany’s face with a purple kerchief.

“Who was he?” she asked, too stunned to say any more.

“Ser Ilyn Payne. Captain of my father’s household guard, until Mad Aerys had his tongue torn out for saying it was truly my father who ruled the realm. He was the King’s Justice for nearly twenty years but it seems he’s no more fond of the Targaryens than he was then.”

“Had he lasted a moment longer I could have told him the Targaryens died when Viserys did.” Dany said, Tyrion looking to her in confusion. “I have no wish to live a lie, my Lord Hand. It is Daenerys Hasty who stands before you now, with no more claim to the Iron Throne than you. No less, either.” She smiled through watering eyes. Tyrion gaped at her.

“Your Grace, I don’t understand. You are all that can hold the realms together, all that keeps the peace-”

“-and that peace will last until the very moment I die, be it in an hour or a hundred years from now. I can have no children, Tyrion. What good is it for me to sit a throne if I can pass it to no one after me? What good is peace now when it can only mean war later?” Her answer did not stop his gaping. “Ah, you took a leaf from Jorah’s book, then? Coming through the sewers?”

“I doubt your surly bear has so much as read a page worth of writing in all his life.” Tyrion sniffed, promptly gagging on his own stench. “Varys and I were fucking about with the drains, making sure the wildfire the city over would be pushed to the surface by the endless rainwater.”

“I suppose I know who to thank for that.”

“Just so. They’re rather devilishly useful, if moody.”

“Can you blame them? They’ve suffered much.”

“So have you, to reach this point.” He turned to look at it, evidently troubled by the absence of his siblings.

“I have, and I’m in no rush.” Dany said, sitting on the steps up to the throne and patting the space beside her. “We can wait right here for the others to arrive.” I waited all my life for what sits behind me. It can bloody well wait for me.

It was dawn before people began milling into the room, looking in turns exhausted or red-faced. Reachmen, rivermen, stormlanders, Dany even spotted the small cadre of worthies from the North and Beyond the Wall. Yet, she saw no sigh of the King in the North. Her heart stopped. Where is he? She craned her neck and stood on her toes, resolutely ignoring the curious murmurs from the gathered lords. If he’s gotten lost, it could be ages until he’s found. Unless Cersei’s gold cloaks got to him…then he may never be found. She tried hard not to call out for him even as the gallery filled, the dead mute and his ghastly prize cleared away for the floor to fill in turn. Even Arya is among them, so where is he? Only when the room grew full to the rafters did Dany relent and address the room at large.

“My lords,” she began, the lot of them quieting at once. At least there were no battles, no sieges, no Fields of Fire. Who would have guessed? “I wish I could tell you our troubles are over. I wish with all my heart I could tell you that you are free to return to your lands and settle in for winter. Unfortunately, fate has not been so kind. We have but blunted the dagger at our backs, now we must see to the broadsword swinging at our faces. The King in the North only came this far south to warn me, warn us, of another threat, a greater one, marshalling beyond the Wall. Our first goal was to oust Cersei and free the capital for use as a port. We have. Now it should be our aim to get to Winterfell or the castles around it with all speed, so as to be ready when the enemy comes.” An enemy none of you have seen, one you scarcely believe in if at all, and this after years of war that have spoiled your harvests and left not one family tree among the lot of you unbloodied. Those who were unfamiliar with the sight of Lady Catelyn and Talisa Maegyr looked at them uncertainly. Perhaps they lend credence to Jon Snow’s words. They and Drogon both. Not Tyrion, though. He has no need to be persuaded. Indeed, her Hand mouthed words at the pair of them, shrugging questioningly. He got only sad looks in reply.

“Be that as it may, Your Grace,” Lord Tarly’s sharp voice cut through the heavy silence of the room despite the countless people in it. “There’s still a matter outstanding that’s yet to be attended to.” Oh, that again. Daenerys thought hard before she next spoke.

“Before I say anything more, know these orders are for the good of King’s Landing and ought not be left undone simply to spite me.” More confused murmuring. “Clearly you saw the state of things on your way up here. The city is starving and bankrupt, both.”

“Aye, and Jaime Lannister said you’d compensate us for keeping the farce going under his bitch sister.” A man she didn’t recognize said sharply, prompting a deal of reprimanding. Daenerys was pleased to see what Unsullied and Dothraki were visible made no move to interfere, letting words come and go between the room and their queen like leaves in autumn.

“He spoke truly. Ships laden with currency of any desired denomination as well as salted fish can be set on their way as soon as the raven is sent to Dragonstone. Truly, there is no shortage. You will find no fault with your recompense for your noble efforts to keep King’s Landing alive.” Dany only smiled as she looked out at them. She made no move toward what sat behind her. Finally, someone got the message and runners were sent to get the ravens out. “Thank you, my lords. Now, allow me to tell you a story.”

“Once there was a handsome young knight. He lacked a name you’d know offhand but he proved able in the lists, even winning a tourney or two. On one such occasion he was granted a princess’ favor and defeated all who rode against him to name her his queen of love and beauty. This was no courtly affection though, you see. He loved her and she loved him. Sadly, it was not to be. He was a lowly knight, after all, and she a princess. Her marriage to an altogether different sort of man saw him hang up his tourney lance and spurs for good, seeking what solace he could find in the Faith of the Seven. That may well have been the end of the tale but for a knight of the Kingsguard looking the other way. A night was all they were afforded, a night that had to last a lifetime, but they shared it all the same. Not as knight and queen, but man and woman. Her husband could never find out, for he was vicious as he was unpredictable. When her womb quickened, her husband did not question the child’s paternity despite his own inability to sire anything but stillborns by then.” Dany kept talking, wanting to finish before the room exploded. “Unfortunately for the queen, she died in childbirth bringing a daughter into the world. A daughter that wore her husband’s name and her own, that carried their claim with her when she was smuggled east. Recently she has come into her own, finding what solace she can in the arms of a father she never knew she had. In truth, I am no more Targaryen than any of you. I have the blood, else the dragons would not have hatched for me, but blood is all I have, my lords. No name, no claim...until Ser Bonifer had the grace to give me his.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I do not deal in false coin, my lords, and I will not deceive you any further. I am Daenerys Hasty without reservation or remorse, and I cannot say how glad I am the shadow that has followed me all my life has been lifted from my shoulders at last.” She expected the shouting to start as soon as she finished. Instead, she could hear sand fall in an hourglass. The first to speak was Edmure Tully, much to his own disbelief it seemed.

“You say you’re not the Mad King’s daughter.”

“His niece, Lord Tully, and not a drop of blood closer.” To her confusion they did not seem much moved by her words, only muttering to one another. Lord Edmure only grew more red-faced as more and more gazes found him.

“What are you all looking at me for? It’s all I can do to keep my pants dry. Fuck it, let’s keep her. Dragons are dragons, their names do not matter.” King Robert’s own bastard spoke next.

“If Robert’s blood is enough to make me Lord of Storm’s End, it would seem pretty scummy of me to take that away from one above me. So she’s not Aerys’ daughter. She’s Queen Rhaella’s, and that’s good enough for me.” Silence fell, but only for a minute.

“I thought I was going to be alone on this, but it seems we’re much in agreement, my lords. I know well a certain bastard the north was enamored enough with to crown and it’s served them fairly well thus far.” Samwell Tarly, Jon Snow’s well-read and well-round friend.

“You are sworn to the Night’s Watch, you have no right to speak for the Reach-” Lord Randyll cut in.

“-and you no mind nor wit nor voice to, Father. Lucky for you I’m here just now.” There was a goodly amount of laughter. Meanwhile, Daenerys was mystified. I have no right…gods, is this how Jon Snow felt at his accession?

“I can bear no children, my lords. Once I die you’d be right back at each other’s throats-”

“True, a dimmer collection of blockheads you will never find. Luckily some of us need not worry too much about what the future brings.” Lady Olenna called from the back waving her stick, spurring still more laughter among those in their grey hairs.

“Have we heard nothing from either Dorne or the ironborn?” someone asked. The Queen of Thorns snorted.

“Like as not they’re sunning themselves in the Water Gardens or else locked in the Tower of the Sun. Someone may have to go get them out but I’ll dive headfirst down the dragon’s gullet before I set foot in Dorne again.” she said crossly, prompting another wave of laughter to course through the room.

“Someone will need to reach the westerlands as well. It seems my siblings have disappeared, and I can no more claim Casterly Rock than Winterfell, having killed Lord Tywin.” Tyrion interjected. There was more talk but none of it was directed at Dany. Indeed, she was almost forgotten about as the lords began to go about their business.

“But don’t you understand?” her voice echoed off the walls, prompting silence again. She pointed behind her. “It isn’t mine.”

“It is now, Your Grace. If you’d be so kind as to sit it, we’ll have the matter neatly settled.” Lord Tully said, shrugging. “You’re the only one with the blood. You’re the only one with a dragon. It seems the way cannot be clearer.” They want me, Daenerys realized. As the northmen wanted Jon. Numbly she turned to finally face what had been her heart’s deepest wish, in Viserys a desire so fierce it wore away at him until only a grasping skeleton in skin remained. The Iron Throne was indeed made of swords, twisted and bent like tailor’s ribbon this way and that, a stair in the blades winding up to the seat. Where the Conqueror sat, when he should scarce have ever left the Black Dread’s back. Had Drogo seen the thing, he would never have let Rhaego near it. Dutifully she climbed the stone steps, up to where the throne proper sat. I am not ten feet away. Not five. Not three, she thought as it came closer and closer. Finally, she could move no further without walking into it, yet her arm seemed content at her side. I was more eager in the vision the Undying showed me. My hand came up, and just before I touched it- Drogon’s roar shook the throne room and made the assembly such as it was quickly leave the floor, going flush to the back wall. There was a crunch as he landed on the roof, a snuffling as Dany heard his nostrils sniff for her. With a final irate scream, he simply smashed his way in, stones bouncing off the bloodstained floor as he brought his bulk to bear. Until then the others had seen Drogon only in his lazy sleepy mood or else from far away. It was plain to Dany that up close, the lords of Westeros thought the dragon, smoking from the nostrils and red eyes wide and staring in a word completely terrifying. Not the Dothraki, though. Their whooping at Drogon’s arrival and the Free Folk’s slack-jawed stares could not have been more alight with joy. They may want me, Daenerys thought, but they do not want him. No more than they want the Dothraki or the Unsullied or the freedmen.

She turned back to the throne as she felt a furnace ignite behind her, Drogon’s head snaking forward. Can he smell the Dread on it? Or just the blood of every king to open their arms on its blades? Or is it the dead dragons of the Dragonpit he smells? Or is it just the iron he hates? Iron, the stuff of chains. Iron, that Aegon used to chain his descendants to the top of the pyramid of Westeros in an attempt to ensure perpetual peace. Iron, that those descendants, my ancestors, thought worth fighting for, worth killing for, worth dying for. Iron, that I would not choose over Missandei’s little finger. The Targaryens were no less chained than the meanest slave. I do not wear chains, I break them. Daenerys did not need to look to see that Drogon’s mouth had opened. Again she held her hand out, half expecting Drogon to scream in protest, but instead she felt something sharp shoot up her arm. For a moment she thought she’d cut herself, only then realizing it had come from above. She looked up into the sky just as the feeling exploded against her cheek and again in her hand.  Soft as silk, weightless as a loving whisper. The white flakes sprinkled down without end, making her gasp whenever they touched her. She put her hand to her cheek, the stuff warmer than any fire she’d ever felt. Snow, she thought in wonder. Drogon gave a sudden irritable snort and Dany felt a strong arm close snugly around her waist, another coming up to take her hand. She gave the softest sob, one she knew only he could hear.

“I don’t want to be the Queen,” she whispered. “I want to be your queen.” He turned her to face him, his captivating grey stealing ghost’s eyes that had stolen her heart when first she saw them staring into hers. You are a wild creature, she thought despairingly. Wild and free, wandering where you will. Wild, too, must be your mate. Free, too, must be your queen. She turned to the great coiled chain that stretched out to manacle her. “Dracarys.” she said without a second’s delay. Instantly there was a rumble as Drogon pulled the wind into his lungs, the fire in his chest building by the moment. At the last moment Jon Snow snatched her to safety and Drogon let out a torrent of his black fire, the snow-chilled throne making an earsplitting sound as it cracked at once, the flaws growing longer, thicker. Red, orange, yellow, white. Her child showed no mercy, not stopping until the swords that stuck out of the horrid mass began to curl like leaves in a firepit. He filled his broad chest again, giving the other side his second volley. The white flaws that cut across the iron grew broader in turn, the metal slowly turning to wax. All the while Jon Snow carried her away from the inferno, the others having long fled. No, don’t take me yet, she thought, curled up in his arms. I want to watch. Drogo had ever said a king needed only a mount, that thrones were foolish things. I once asked what man could rival Drogo, who died with his hair uncut and rode through the Night Lands…in answer, the gods sent me a man who may well have rode with Drogo in the hereafter and returned. Drogon minds no one but him, that may well be why. There was a wet pop, a dry crack and in an instant the throne’s form twisted in on itself, running across the floor like spilled grease. The air grew colder as they left the Red Keep and he held her all the closer, rocking her as best as he could through her faint sobs. There was an earsplitting roar and Drogon erupted from within the castle, bursting free of the roof and into the sky. Dany tried to keep track of him through her tears but in moments he was lost in the endless expanse of dark gray sky. I am free of the Iron Throne, and he is free of me.

Chapter Text

Jon

The snow did not stop. Not when he carried the queen down the steps into the streets of King’s Landing, nor when they reached the docks to board a ship back to Dragonstone. He heard the lords and ladies of the south make noises at his back but he had no more patience for them than Drogon had, soaring into the western horizon. They’ll figure it out. Dense as they are, the path has all but been laid out for them. Go north. Hopefully they’ll board their ships as well and not go plodding through the Neck. A rather obliging merchant and his family made his home near the waterfront available for the pair of them while they waited for the queen’s fleet to become ordered. Close as they were to the bay the cold winds were if anything sharper and more frenetic, drawing shivers aplenty from Daenerys. Jon promptly raided a trunk and two closets, finding a thick blanket he could wrap her in.

“Thank you…” she murmured from her woolen sanctuary, peering out with those perpetually heartbroken eyes. One of the servants took it upon themselves to provide a small tray of food, mostly salted fish and what Jon suspected was the last bit of cheese.

“Won’t they go hungry?’ Dany muttered, though it was clear she was famished and eyed the simple fare as Tormund had the feast at White Harbor.

“I wouldn’t think so. If the catch is in at Dragonstone surely it is in Blackwater Bay as well, besides the good people who live here may well end up accompanying one fleet or another rather than stay behind. Eat, sweetling. It’ll do no good for you to topple over faint from hunger.”

“I’ll topple as I please, Jon Snow.” She said, the ghost of her old haughtiness creeping into her voice.

“Then by all means, don’t touch a bit. In fact, better you didn’t.” he smiled.

“Hmph!” she replied. At once she was on it like a starving she-wolf, simply to contradict him with her actions if not her words. Good, he thought, relieved. He had no doubt that once her head hit pillow she would sleep like the dead, so Jon supposed the more she ate before then the better. After she had licked her fingers clean, silence fell again until her voice sounded, high-pitched and grieving. “Do you think he will do well in the wild?”

“Tyrion? He could bore a deer to death with talking, then cook the meat thus besides.” Jon said offhandedly as he built a fire as best he could. These southrons have quite a lesson coming. A fire in a hearth this size won’t warm the tip of a nose, even one as sweet as Dany’s.

“You know bloody well who I mean.” came the queen’s reply. Her short words and heated tone only made him smile wider.

“Did he not flourish on the Dothraki Sea?”

“Ser Jorah and I spotted him flitting about some ruins on the outskirts of Valyria. Drogon is the least of our worries thus far.” Tyrion Lannister’s voice slurred worse than ever Jon had heard it and when he turned to face the dwarf in the stairwell Jon could see his face was red from drink as well as cold. “Varys is dead.” He said glumly.

After he finished vomiting off the balcony, Tyrion took the rag Jon offered him.

“We got separated beneath the Red Keep. It fell to us to drain the wildfire out, pus from a boil if you like, but there were tunnels upon tunnels down there. We couldn’t accomplish our goal without splitting up. By the time I had made much progress the water was up to my thighs. At least I could piss myself without the Lady Talisa noticing- or maybe she would have right away, I don’t know.” He shrugged, wavering perilously close to balcony’s edge until Jon picked him up and sat him on a barrel stolidly on the other side of the room. “The rains fell harder than Maegor’s masons ever accounted for, though. In short order I found myself running from a wall of water as fast as my dwarf’s legs could carry me. When I reached the surface, I waited for him to likewise appear but Lady Catelyn alone pooled up from the stones. As Varys to my knowledge quite lacks such showmanship, his fate was easily enough surmised.” Tyrion said, swaying on his barrel. Even in grief, wordier than the worst maester. Jon had not known the bald man well but his travelling with the queen showed him what a friend Varys the Spider had been to Tyrion Lannister. He was in Essos with him. Likely I’d want to get just as drunk.

“We are sorry for your loss, my lord.” Dany said measuredly, her own troubles quite forgotten. “You may of course wait with us for the ships to arrive. Some days on Dragonstone to make sure everything is aright, and then forward on to White Harbor.” The mere mention of the northern port made Jon’s heart skip a beat. Not just White Harbor. The North. Home.

“I suppose I’ll be expected to keep sober.”

“Only when we land. There will be no call to maintain good form on Dragonstone nor aboard a ship full of sailors.” Dany replied, while Jon tried his hardest not to snort aloud with laughter. Tyrion blinked.

“I wonder, will there be charred gristle available as well?” he asked, the ghost of a chortle escaping his lips. Evidently gristle wasn’t very appetizing because immediately after his jape the dwarf heaved forward, and Dany gracefully pulled his head down to empty into a bucket. She acts a queen and looks a goddess yet has no qualms about getting elbow-deep in muck. Jon had heard stories of eating a stallion’s heart, of gnawing on the bones of Drogon’s kills. Absurdly, he wondered just how dragon-cooked meat might taste. I’m surprised Tormund hasn’t asked already. In time the little man’s stomach emptied and he slid off the barrel, muttering to himself. “Alright, let’s get along now…” he said, slapping himself before he scooped a handful of snow off a windowsill and held it to his forehead. At once his eyes bulged and he collapsed backward, thrashing about. Jon had just enough time to spot Lady Catelyn arrive next. She took the two of them in, stared at Tyrion while he reeled, and promptly withdrew back down the stairs without a word. Lovely. This is sure to be a long voyage.

In time Tyrion simply began snoring where he lay, and Jon spotted Dany hide a yawn behind her dainty hand.

“That may fool a blind man but not a seasoned ranger, Dany.”

“Hmph!” came the prompt rebuke, accompanied by a childish stomping of her foot. Jon’s snigger made her cheeks go pink, but he knew when she was being mischievous simply to stoke him.

“Is there nothing we can do to make the queen come along and be good?”

“Perhaps.” She said airily. “It’s entirely too cold for me to sleep out from under the warm comfort of a dragon’s wing.”

“That may be, but the dragons have gone who knows where, their wings included.”

“I’ll settle for a crow’s.” It was Jon’s turn to go pink in the cheeks.

“You’ve run out of excuses, Jon Snow. I have no reason to appear stately for my lords, they aren’t my lords any longer. They never were.”

“Only after a bath. You may look glorious, but you smell of smoke, sweat and forge-stink.”

“You no less. A bath it is, for each of us.” Jon’s pink cheeks went red and she blew a wisp of hair out of her face. “To assuage your honor, we’ll have a screen between us. A screen, and nothing more.” With that she led him down the hall to where a single copper tub stood. Bugger. "Oh, bother. It appears we’ll have no screen after all, Jon Snow.” Dany chirped, giggling. Bleed this quivering like a maiden at her bedding. She’s a girl, not a snarling shadowcat.

“A screen will do nothing to keep the water warm, anyway. Us, either.” Jon said, pulling off his heavy coat much to Daenerys’ evident amazement. She thinks she can tease me like a kitten playing with a ball of yarn. He called for water to be brought.

“Shouldn’t we boil it, so it comes hot?” Daenerys asked, eyes torn between the door and Jon tossing his shirt in the corner. Predictably her breath hitched at the sight of his scars. Dark scarlet as ever. He suspected they would stay thus, never fading.

“As you please. By then I’ll be done anyway.” Jon said, shrugging as he disrobed. He ignored the maidservants as they arrived with the water, filling the tub and making themselves scarce. Without a word he sank into the tub, bringing the cold water to his face. A little taste of home. Cold may make a Lannister lock up but it is no more than a mother’s kiss to a Stark. Even one born on the wrong side of the blanket. When he looked up to tease Daenerys again, he found her wearing only moonlight, her endless silver locks bound up by snowflakes. Let southerners and Essosi both make their noises about perfumes and foolish silks.

“There’s precious little room as is with a wolf in my bath.” She said, playing cross. “Won’t somebody think of me?” Jon held out a hand to her, making her cross her arms in such a way that he quite appreciated, accompanied by a predictable “Hmph!”

“If you stand there much longer, Dany, you’ll find yourself having a bath whether you like it or no.” Jon said idly. Her eyes went wide.

“You’re not half so bold, Jon Snow.”

“As I recall, I climbed a wall of razor rock, stole a Targaryen out from under her mount and even managed to steal a kiss or two for my trouble. Bastard I may be but I’m nothing if not bold.” He said genially, flicking some water across her thigh, making her gasp.

“Making a knight’s daughter shiver in the cold!” she admonished.

“Come in then, and warm as well as you can manage.”

“Hmph! I will, despite your base ways!” she declared, slipping in across from him.

“Comfortable?”

“You know full well the water is entirely too cold for my tastes. The company as well.” She huffed, looking off to the side haughtily.

“Wait until you meet an Other.” Jon said, his merry mood cooling at the thought.

Daenerys became quiet, looking at her knees.

“Jon, about the…the Others. There’s a cave on Dragonstone, it has all sorts of funny pictures drawn on its walls. When we land there, I must show you.” Any thought of further pillow games vanished from Jon’s mind.

“Tell me about it.”

“I would, but surely the pictures of the First Men will prove more helpful to their living son than a girl’s interpretation of them.” She does not feel she will be received well in the North.

“The First Men live still, Dany. In the same caves, mountains, moors and forests as they did when that cave was still bare. The giants as well, astride their mammoths as they were since the beginning.” Her lip quivered. Ass. That’s not what she wants to hear.

“I thought the Ghiscari a hard circle to break into. The same people, the same families, doing the same thing the same way since anyone can remember…but Grazdan the Great’s oldest ancestor lived thousands of years after the last survivor of the Long Night died. I can’t think a foreign girl unused to cold would make a fit match for the White Wolf in their eyes.” He took her into his lap.

“No more of that. You’re bringing armies, navies, not to mention all the barrels of wine Cersei Lannister squirreled away. Northmen have no quarrel with anyone seeking to ply them with drink, less still with someone seeking to get an army of spearwives out of their beards.” At her puzzled expression Jon smiled. “The Dothraki might need time to acclimate to cold but a wild lass would pick one over a lord’s son any day. Wild in their own way, the Free Folk of Essos. Even if the northmen don’t take to you, the wildlings will. Name or no, claim or no, throne or no.”

“All that may be, but there is one I must please above all others.” For the life of him, Jon could not think of someone in whom he set such store. Sansa? It was her idea to pair us in the first place. Evidently his confusion showed because her fist came down against his chest. “Was there ever so witless a king as you? It’s clear to me that Nymeria is more than Princess Arya’s pet, more than a prized hunting hound. The wolf is part of the princess as much as the princess is part of the wolf. You yourself told me you are a warg, to such a creature as can throw you bodily out of himself when he so chooses.” Her meaning hit home.

“Well, Drogon is none too fond of me-”

“It’s not the same, Jon. You of all people know. Drogon and I do not have the same bond, we are not part of one another. Mother and child, not warg and beast…” She’s worried about Ghost. That he won’t approve. That the wild part of me won’t approve. Certainly, the direwolf was none too fond of Ygritte, no more than he’d been of Val in more recent years. She-wolves followed him in packs of their own beyond the Wall, but he would have no more of them than Nymeria would of the timber wolves in the riverlands. Direwolves will lead their lesser cousins without reservation but under no circumstances will they mate with them. Who could look on Daenerys and say she was not his equal, though? Who was mad enough to pooh-pooh the Mother of Dragons?

“Put it this way. If Ghost doesn’t approve of you, he won’t approve of anyone.” Jon said, affecting his best glum brooding face. Dany broke into a fit of giggles so strong and clear he saw tears fall. “We should finish up here and get some sleep. You can’t oversee preparations on Dragonstone from your bedchamber.”

“Can’t I? I’ll sleep as oft and long as I wish, Jon Snow, and nobody will tell me no.” She lay her head on his shoulder and promptly proved her threat had teeth. Jon gave her a playful jostle, astounded when she seemed to truly have fallen asleep. Well, she’s had quite the day. Just how will I get her dry and abed without waking her?

The bed was comfortable, Jon supposed as morning light intruded on the pair of them, but the silk-robed queen in his arms did what not the heaviest blanket nor the softest bedding ever could.

“Dany. It’s dawn, we’d best be off.” He whispered in her ear.

“Hmph…” came the sleepy murmur.

“Suppose we go, and you find the hot springs beneath Winterfell. Endless hot baths without the need for maidservants to see to you.”

“Hmmm?” she mumbled in mild interest.

“Come, you’ve slept more than enough.”

“Hmph!” she hogged the blankets, hugging them to her chest.

“Must I carry you to the docks, you in your nightgown and me in nothing at all?”

“Mmhmm.” She answered. Jon could see half her lovely mouth smiling from the sea of blankets.

“Well, I feel uncomfortably warm. I think I’ll open a window and let the morning chill in.” At once her nose was not an inch from his.

“You’ll not let the least bit of heat escape, Jon Snow.”

“Will you not get up?”

“I am sleeping. They can wait on my pleasure.” She said, her head sinking back into her pillow indolently, insolently. Jon shrugged, standing despite her murmured protests. He stepped to the window, tongue between his teeth as he got hold of her blankets. With a single movement he threw the windows open and yanked the blanket off the beauty in the bed. Daenerys gave a dismayed shriek, thrashing about in a flurry of silk and silver hair while Jon laughed. If not the carrot… Eventually her squirming won her the blankets back and they were pulled up to her nose instantly, a pair of wide purple eyes eyeing him reproachfully. Then they shrunk into suspicious slits. Jon stuck his tongue out at her and began dressing out of the merchant’s closet, thankful for once that he wasn’t an especially tall man. Downstairs he found the other members of the northern party had quite evicted the southern lords, Tormund snoring in a chair while Ned Umber dozed on a bench. Wyn was likely elsewhere, perhaps with her Dothraki friend, while Sigorn gently rocked Alys Karstark near a hearth of their own. The girl wasn’t especially tall, nor robust, yet she had by far the biggest belly Jon had ever seen.

“How does this morning find you, Lady Karstark?” he asked, liking little the sounds of her short difficult breaths.

“Round as a tick full of mammoth blood, with feet swollen enough to leave prints to pass for a mammoth’s as well.” she replied, cheerful despite her frequent winces and hissing breaths. Her making light of such discomfort did little to assuage Jon’s concern.

“There is no need to be hasty-”

“Hang that. The North needs its king, and I don’t need my bottom wiped every time the babe gives me a kick. I have this bald nursemaid babying me already.” Fearless, even in the face of childbirth.

“It’s not your spirit I doubt, my lady. Any fool knows taking a woman nearing her time on a ship is rank madness.”

“Madder still to give the Others ever more time to mess about.” she said firmly.

“There’s no sense arguing with her, Jon Snow. She may be kin of yours but surely the Karstarks were chipped from granite, so stubborn are they.” Sigorn added, shrugging helplessly.

“I’m the only Karstark left!” Alys remarked.

“Aye, and you’ve a harder head than any ram who’s ever lived.” He gently rapped her on the temple. She bit his hand in reply, making him chuckle. “See, Snow? You’d do better to argue with a wooden post. At least it might come around.” Jon left them to their lovers’ spat, gently shaking Little Ned Umber awake.

“Guh.” he groaned. “Is it time to go, then?”

“Nearly, my lord. I’d shake off sleep sooner rather than later, you don’t want to be drowsy on the deck of a ship. Much less in bad weather.” He gulped, nodded, and got about getting up. Maybe Ghost will meet me at White Harbor, Jon thought. How I miss him. Dany of anyone would understand, her doubts aside.

A few deftly tossed snowballs later and the queen was on her feet, fuming and red-faced.

“There, now you’re up.” Jon remarked mildly.

“Hmph!” She began to wander the room, looking for her clothes.

“Never mind. Anything worn near a dragon when it breathes fire is ruined, you’ll have to pick from the closet.” he told her.

“I don’t want to leave the poor woman with nothing to wear for the voyage. Help me pick.” Dany said, poking about in the closet.

“Oh, gods, can I not manage to get you out of this room?!” Jon cried, making Daenerys giggle.

“Not until you help me dress.”

“Fine!” he strode over and grabbed the first thing he saw, tossing it over her head and making her squeak.

“Dark green doesn’t look good on me…” she muttered doubtfully, muffled by the dress.

“It may bring out the Hasty in your eyes.”

“You’re just saying that because this was the first dress you could reach!”

“So? I’m going to go make sure the others are up and ready to go. If Alys Karstark can resist the urge to be a slugabed, so can you.”

“Hmph!”

“If you’re not downstairs in five minutes, I’m coming back up here with more snowballs.” At that Dany sulkily began to dress. If slowly, just to tease me. He left to remove that particular obstacle. Downstairs the others were seeing Alys onto a horse, Sigorn leading the animal by the hand and soft utterances in the Old Tongue. The words may be strange to a southern horse, but his meaning is easy enough to glean. At long last Jon managed to get them all aboard, even Dany in her pouty playful sulk. Tormund shot him a knowing grin, but Jon only shook his head. Venturing into the cabin he was surprised by the sight of Wynafryd Manderly idly stretching. Dressed for a voyage and a cold one at that. Malakko swayed nervously in a hammock on the other side of the room, mumbling nervously in Dothraki.

“When a man sleeps, he should not sway like grass in the wind.” he murmured.

“Up you get, they’re finally here.” Wyn turned to Jon. “What kept you, Your Grace? We’ve been waiting since yesterday evening.” She sounded almost apologetic.

“I thought a last night ashore where hearths were plentiful would do us good. Had I known you were here, my lady, I would have of course sent for you. You must be freezing.” She blushed.

“It’s not so bad if the door stays shut all night.” Ah. Jon turned to Malakko, delicately extracting himself from the hammock.

“Like when I got out of the little boat with the red flea and the madman with the yellow braids on his shirt.” He dizzily made his way over. Yellow braids? He was with Theon, unless I have them jumbled.

“Those weren’t braids, they were arms-” Jon began before he saw Wyn shoot him a warning look, one he doubted the willowy Manderly girl capable of until then.

“Arms? What can have so many arms?” Malakko asked, confused.

“Nothing. Dothraki fear the sea, so it stands to reason you haven’t heard that sometimes loops of hair, rope, even chain are sometimes called ‘arms’ when used in a business or shipping sense. My father’s merchant captains talk about them often.” None of that made the least bit of sense to Jon, but he didn’t feel the need to press the issue. Only when he realized that the horselords would likely react poorly to talk of krakens did he understand.

“You’ll tell him the rest about arms when we get to White Harbor, then?” he asked, as if she’d left something trivial unsaid.

“If only to ensure he comes along.” Wyn replied, giving Malakko a fond look while he stared at her, mystified.

The snow was joined by wind that bit ever deeper as they made their way east. Tormund was all smiles of course, elated at the feeling of “a sharp slap across the face” as he called it, but Jon could see the mounting concern on the faces of those unfamiliar with cold, from the Essosi sailors to Daenerys herself. He looped an arm around her waist and was surprised when she turned toward him, laying her head on his shoulder for all to see.

“We’ll have you a coat proper made when we reach Winterfell. The Free Folk may have brought some moosehide.”

“In Essos I wore a hrakkar pelt, a big white lion. Drogo hunted one on the Dothraki Sea and gifted its hide to me. Tyrion opined it might have sent a rather savage message to the lords of Westeros when it came time to woo them.”

“Shows what I know.” The dwarf said from Jon’s elbow.

“How long have you been there?” Jon asked.

“I could have come up banging pots and you’d not have looked away from Her Grace, Jon Snow.” Tyrion replied, making those nearby laugh. Trying to stop the color from rising in his cheeks, Jon looked out behind the ship to make sure the ones following were still there.

“There’s not enough room for everyone on Dragonstone and the fleet is far too large to much coordinate who leaves when. We’ve yet to hear from Dorne or the Iron Islands, either.”

“Or the westerlands.” Dany murmured from her burrow in Jon’s shoulder.

“I’ve sent ravens to every castle I can think of, some two or three times over. The message will have reached somebody, it’s just a matter of who ends up landing my countrymen on the Rills.” A sudden gust cut across the deck and Tyrion Lannister shrunk into his little fur cape. “Seven bloody fucking hells…”

“We’ve still got Massey’s Hook protecting us from the worst of it. Wait until we’re sailing up the Narrow Sea proper.” Jon said grimly.

“It wasn’t so bad when I was up north last time.”

“Last time it was summer, we weren’t out on the open water and the Others were that many more years away from whatever it is they’re about to do.”

“I hate them already.” Tyrion grumbled. The cold winds gave no quarter, spurring all manner of swearing from the ship’s crew. As it was a hodgepodge of every tongue in the east Jon had not a prayer of understanding it, but he caught Dany giggling or turning pink once or twice. As the light began to fade, Dany took the captain’s report.

“We’re less than halfway, if only just. Such weather cannot be a just god’s work.” he said, looking dismayed.

“As long as we get there. No need to crack a mast or split a sail getting to Dragonstone a few hours sooner.” she told him, looking content if cold in Jon’s arms.

It took Jon looking through a seagull’s eyes to get a first glimpse of Dragonstone, little more than a lump of rock looming out of the chilly fog. Of course, no telling how much closer the gull is than we are, Jon thought gloomily. As he feared, it was another day before they made landfall, the fog around the island a chilly overcoat that weighed on every pair of shoulders. He heard the Dothraki muttering ruefully as they were allowed to disembark first, along with the horses that could fit on the lead ship.

“Now we have to go up the stairs again. This time they’ll be covered in a lovely dusting of snow. Best not slip, it’s a long way down.” Ned Umber mumbled, what horselords who understood the Common Tongue groaning in affirmation.

“Not if we don’t want to.” Dany replied, smirking, her face full of mischief.

“Is there another way up?” Tormund asked.

“Oh, we’re not going up to the castle at all. There’s plenty of space in the mountain as well as atop it.”

“What about the lords following us?” Jon was uncertain as to how they’d take to sleeping in caves.

“They can impose on the port town. The fisherfolk have gotten rich enough off the salvage, they’ll not begrudge me quartering the mainlanders there.” The dock was well-trod even in bad weather, Jon was pleased to see. If the catch is in there’s no stopping these people wetting their lines. They remember well the famine under Stannis. All the better to appreciate the feast under Daenerys. The walk up the beach was anything but pleasant, Jon and Sigorn together working to stave the gusts off the water from discomfiting Alys. “It’s very hard to spot…particularly with snow falling and everything gone white…” Dany murmured, a hand on the jutting rock at the mountain’s base. By then two Dothraki had brought up the rear of Alys’ little shieldwall, making her mumble ruefully about knowing how cold felt.

“Nevermind, my lady. It’s best to take this slow anyhow, or we’ll surely miss it.” Tyrion said, likewise carefully peering into what looked like very solid rock. Ghost would spot whatever it is right away, Jon thought. No snowfall could beguile the white wolf’s red eyes. “Ah, here!” he heard Tyrion call up ahead. “For once it’s nice to stand ass-high.” he told them when they found him half-hidden in the stones. Dany happily vanished after him while the Dothraki, much taller and broader than dwarf or queen by far, filed in awkwardly grumbling about space. Jon brought up the rear, finding to his astonishment a nearly impassable but very much present jagged path weaving into solid stone.

“It’s more than coincidence, my lord.” Jon said, a suspicion mounting. “This path was made for people who stand only so high.”

“Ifequevron.” One of the horselords muttered as they worked their way through.

“What the hell does that mean?” Jon asked.

“The Dothraki have some folk memory of a race that dwelt in a great forest to the north of the Great Grass Sea. Ornela’s described them at length and they sound remarkably similar to the Children of the Forest in our own Westerosi tales for children.”

“The Others are real enough and survive to this day. Mayhaps our little friends from the Dawn Age have proved so hardy.” Jon was neither especially tall nor broad and still it took him a good while. They may not have wanted this place found, whoever they were.

From the light of the torch to the darkness of the cave, Jon could only blink the glare out and wait until his eyes adjusted. Ygritte showed me a cave once, he remembered. It was smaller though, much more easily reached. There were traces of animals passing. There’s not a hint of anyone having been here before. Then he saw the marks on the walls. His heart skipped a beat on seeing the wolves, common or otherwise, running with red figures holding sticks. The First Men, he thought reverently. Before there were Starks or Umbers or Karstarks…before wildlings and northmen. From the noises ahead he could tell his countrymen were just as taken, regardless of the side of the Wall they’d been born on.

“Mance would have given all he had to see this…” Tormund said, sounding choked up. Jon squeezed his shoulder. “Snow, this is as men as they ought be. No walls, no roads, no crowns, no thrones.” He brought a hand up but held it from the stone, seemingly afraid he’d smudge the pigment.

“No cows, no pigs, no chickens either.” Little Ned Umber pointed out. Instead it seemed the First Men had hunted moose and boar. Every so often there was even a dire boar, like the one Borroq had, standing higher at the shoulder than a man stood tall. Mammoths were prominent of course but it seemed the giants kept men off them with demonstrated efficiency. Jon remembered well the battle beneath the Wall, the line of mammoths that had trampled the Bolton cavalry. At the sight of mounted giants, the Dothraki were given pause.

“Don’t worry. Don’t bother them or their mammoths and they’re happy to do the same.”

“Is not real.” One of the younger horselords insisted. He pointed to one of the figures, a giant on a mammoth charging through at least two dozen armed men. “Roggo is seeing these in the Land Across the Water. They are big, but not so big, and not covered in hair. And there is no man big enough to look one in the eye.”

“I heard much the same talk from the Night’s Watch about the Others. As it stands the Watch likely has less than a hundred members left, not a tenth of them highborn, while the Others and their wights get closer by the hour.”

“Are those unicorns?” Alys asked, curious even through her pained panting. Jon squinted in the darkness at the shape to which she pointed.

“No, my lady, those are unicorns.” Smaller grey goat-horses ran in a herd off to the left, each possessed of a single horn. The great brown shape that grazed among the mammoths was built more like a bull. A bull with a mammoth’s shaggy coat and two horns to a unicorn’s one. “I don’t know what those are. Lions stalk in these drawings as well, perhaps they’re a beast that died out during the Dawn.”

“This one has seen beasts of a kind as these.” An Unsullied’s voice. “Green Maggot remembers from patrol duty in Meereen. It was small and gray, with only a single nub for a horn. It looked very like a common foal, but men bid for it until there were threats made and blades drawn. Green Maggot had to step in to keep the queen’s peace.”

“Like as not the horn was what they wanted, not the animal. Man sees something he never has before, it must be magic. Oh, this will cure any disease, that will make you hard at ninety as you were at nine-and-ten…no shortage the world over of fools who will line up and pay what they must.” Tyrion grumbled.

Jon was walking on air until they moved past the Dawn Races into another part of the cavern, one that circled ‘round above them in a dome. The Long Night, he knew at once. Others with their countless dead and what looked like ice spiders besides.

“We saw no spiders even in the Frostfangs.” Sigorn called.

“Maybe they’re gone, too.” Little Ned Umber guessed, face pale in the light of his torch. Jon’s eyes were elsewhere, surprised at the depiction of the Others themselves. There are not so many of them, even in the darkest winter. Enough to cause great harm, no doubt, but there were fewer Others than giants or Children or men by themselves. Without their chattel it’s an uphill climb. Glittering whorls of diamond dust spun and wove in the skies above the fighting, though. No doubt numbers mean little when they can bring freezing gales with a whistle, with a whisper. Red circles in the stone caught his eye next, held up by little green figures here and there. The dead crumbled on surging against them, but a single warder was quickly overcome.

“Well, Jon Snow, it would seem this is all we’re going to get in terms of aid from your ancestors.” Tyrion said, stooping to carefully scoop up the glittering stones at his feet. Then Jon realized what he was staring at. Were Daenerys not there to catch him or Tormund to hold him up, he’d have gone off his feet. Dragonglass, he thought ecstatically. The stuff flowered out of the floor, sprung from splits in the walls, hung in perilously beautiful spikes from the ceiling. Stannis told it true. Black, red, green, even purple.

“It’s almost a pity to take it from here…” he mumbled. Dany pointed back to the wall, to the Long Night. Jon saw the Dawn Races tip their spears, arrows, clubs with it, the dragonglass chips in the wall glittering like stars. On taking this step they finally began to push the Others back. They can lose all the wights ever raised but they themselves haven’t the numbers to countermand dragonglass brought to bear on a large scale. Torchlight reflected off something high overhead. A full moon shone over some far cold plain, the Singers’ red circles amplified when held in tandem. Dead were brushed aside wholesale, as surely as with dragonfire. It was the only scene Jon could see where the Others took even middling casualties, yet the white shapes were undoubtedly fleeing off into the glittering whorls of freezing wind where the Dawn Races could not pursue. The Land of Always Winter.

“There’s no Wall.” Tormund said, pulling Jon out of his wandering.

“No, I suppose it went up after they were sure the Others weren’t coming back right away.”

“Why part themselves, though?” Dany asked. Jon looked at her. “Why leave the giants, the Children of the Forest, a good deal of the First Men out in the cold?”

“Maybe the Wall wasn’t built right away. Maybe halfway through, some of them decided they’d rather live beyond some safe haven if it meant they wouldn’t be interfered with.” Jon replied. He approached the final drawing.

“They held the full moon dear. It is not so large as that.” Tyrion called from behind him.

“Not down here, anyway.” Jon said in turn. “I don’t know what star that is, though. Certainly, there was nothing like that when I was in the Far North.” He pointed to the fist-sized diamond that glittered down from its seat next to the moon.

“This must have happened further north than you went, then.” Dany’s voice was right behind him.

“Or that star’s gone out since the Dawn War. It’s been ten thousand years, after all.”

“Don’t say that.” The emotion in her voice surprised him and he turned to her at once. “You went out, Jon Snow. Yet here you shine, as bright as ever.” He felt his face go red.

“I’m no star.”

“You are what I say you are. If I claim you are my North Star and I your Full Moon, so we are.” she said, crossing her arms with finality while Tormund roared with laughter.

Alys gave a gasp, sounding so much like a man dealt a wound Jon’s first thought was of Sam and his studies. At once Sigorn picked her up but she gave another gasp, high and sharp and full of pain and the big Thenn’s eyes went wide as barrel lids.

“Oh.” he said. Jon’s mind went from fogged with thoughts of the past to tethered sharply to the present. Quickly spotting space on the cave floor relatively free of glittering glassdust, he pulled off his cloak and laid it down.

“Dany, you don’t by chance know how to bring a babe, do you?” he asked over Lady Karstark’s worsening whimpers and winces. Wide purple eyes told him all he needed to know.

“I’ll go find a midwife.” Ned Umber said, dashing off. I hope he doesn’t get lost in here, Jon thought doubtfully. Tormund seemed rather unaffected by their plight, only cheerfully setting little pitfires in the far bends of the rounded cavern, bringing light without need for torches. Jon figured it would be best not to put too much on Sigorn, Tyrion smartly taking him in hand and sitting him down next to Alys.

“Just keep hold of her. We’ll get someone able to take care of things.” he said steadily. Jon was ready for her to bring the babe along presently but in the hours that followed she only continued to make little pained noises. At long last Ned Umber returned, a young woman in tow.

“I got lost…” he said sheepishly.

“On the way out or in?” Alys asked, tongue between her teeth.

“Both.” The woman went to her knees in front of Alys, face tense but not unsure.

“Lady Poole.” Dany said in greeting. The girl ignored her, easing Alys’ legs apart and looking under her dress. Poole? It was a name half-remembered, one that made Jon think of Sansa as the girl she was when he left Winterfell for the Wall. The young woman daubed at Lady Karstark’s forehead as tenderly as a girl who’d had her hair and eyes once wiped oats flung by Arya off Sansa’s cheek. Vayon’s daughter, Jon realized. Jeyne, that was her name. Is her name. She didn’t give him so much as a glance, though Jon was sure she remembered him in turn. Or rather, remembers Sansa’s bastard half-brother. Where had she been all this time? How had Dany met her?

“Alright, I’ll need some room here. You can all go ready for the voyage or get a cup of wine or jump in the sea, whatever takes your fancy.” Jeyne Poole said, waving the rest of them off without looking up. Ned Umber was gone immediately, likely heading back to the cave mouth to let those in the port town know just where the King in the North and the silver queen had got to. Uneasily Jon let Dany take him in hand.

“We’ll see you after, Lady Karstark. May the gods watch over you.”

“Look where I’m laid out, Jon Snow. If nothing else, our forefathers are watching. I’d rather the babe come here than anywhere save perhaps Karhold’s godswood.” She smiled through her labor. Though he wanted to stay, if only to give Alys someone to focus on, he let Dany lead him from the cave.

“I thought you said we weren’t going up to the castle?” Jon asked as he found himself led to the landing of Dragonstone’s accursed stair.

“We aren’t.” Dany replied, smiling as she began the long climb. Sighing wearily, Jon followed a few steps behind. More than once he found his gaze drawn to the queen as she ascended, cheeks red again if for a different reason. I’ll be too sore or cramped up to do more than talk anyway, once these damnable stairs have had their say. Finally, they made the gates of Dragonstone, Jon breathing hard and rubbing his calves to keep the cramps away. When he looked back to Dany, he saw her eyes were big and full of tears. “I fought so hard to come here, so hard, and all to find I needn’t have bothered.”

“A silly southern girl’s words. You grew up in the east and came into your own on the Great Grass Sea. Such kneeliness doesn’t suit you.” His curt words made her giggle and put a hand to her mouth.

“I suppose not. Others may call me Valyrian, may call me Targaryen, but in truth I know the least about how they lived when they were in their prime. In truth, I’m just Daenerys.”

“Aye. You’re nothing special, hardly worth the trip south, but at least I stole a kiss or two.” Jon said, looking out over the water. He felt her fist pound against his chest. “As lethal as you were at the God’s Eye.”

“More lethal than your stupid lake monster!” she shot back, trying hard not to giggle. Her merry expression died when she looked back to the castle.

“Shall I give you a moment?” he asked her in a soft voice.

“You’ll be here when I get back?”

“I’ll stand here until I turn to stone if I must. Or maybe I’ll run off and hide.”

“For me to find, no doubt.”

“I’m a seasoned ranger. I could hide right in front of you and you’d never see me.”

“Hmph! Perhaps I’ll do the hiding then, Jon Snow!” At this Jon laughed aloud.

“Dany, a blind one-legged falcon could track you through one of Lady Catelyn’s rains.”

“It could not!”

“Could so.”

“Hmph! Fine, then! While you make mean of my storied ancestors and mock me to the bone, I’ll pay solemn respects to those who came before me. Feel free to caper like a randy wolf who’s just found a she-wolf’s den.” She declared, marching off in a darling huff. A lovely girl, if you can stand the heat.

He turned away from the black walls, idly moving up the path to where Drogon had once lazed, keeping his mother all to himself. I put an end to that, Jon thought. I took her out from underwing and all but plucked her off a throne. It made him feel oddly guilty. Selfish. Would it have been kinder to let Daenerys go, let her rule below the Neck without fear of having to woo the north? No, he could hear Sansa say. The south would have ruined her with its constant scheming. No, he could hear Val say. Kings go with queens, and I am not one of those. No matter how much I wish I were. No, he could hear Ygritte say. You stole her right proper, as a man ought steal a woman. Thinking on Ygritte made his heart ache. He remembered her red hair, her blue eyes, but her face had begun to fade the day he first came to Dragonstone. That so hurt him tears began to fall. No doubt Dany grieves to this day for her khal. She carried his son and gave him up to save his father. Jon walked past blackened bones of goats and sheep, looking out over the Narrow Sea from Drogon’s lair in the razor rock. Lair. A pit to brood on Dany in, no true lair for a proper dragon. Maybe he’ll find one out in the wild somewhere, someplace men will never reach. The stars had just begun to twinkle when he heard Dany come up the path.

“I thought I might find Drogon here, waiting for me.” she said in a small voice.

“No dragon up here.” Jon replied, smiling sadly. She made her way to him, never looking away. He slipped his arms around her when she reached him.

“You’ll do.” she whispered, shrugging off her green coat. There was nothing more to shrug off beneath it. Jon’s breath hitched. “There is no harm in it, in us, Jon. My womb’s as like to bear a child as the one we’re nestled in.” she said, red in her cheeks. From cold or nerves or both, Jon could only guess. At once he had her in his arms, hands upon her back.

“We can’t well have you freezing to death…” he murmured in her ear.

“A little cold never hurt.” she whispered back, the newly fallen flakes sliding through her hair and off her shoulders. His reluctance came again when she made to lose her leggings, but only for a moment. It dwindled still when he found himself tossing his own clothes aside.

“Like on the Isle,” he said, “just you and I.” It was as if the gods had seen fit to stop with them, as if even in their limitless power could do no better. Thoughts of her children, thoughts of his people, even the Others fell away. In short order the snowflakes on their bodies were melting down their sides, Jon’s world the amethyst eyes flecked with emeralds that only he could see.

Chapter Text

The Wall

The nights had begun to run longer than the days. There was no Sam on hand, let alone a proper maester, but Edd only had to look at the empty boxes to know for sure. Going through candles near as quick as we are firewood. They scarcely needed bother- what fires the Night’s Watch could light were meager flickering things that no wood nor oil could coax to burn any brighter. Or any hotter.

“Lord Commander.” Satin’s voice made him turn from the much-diminished storeroom to his squire.

“How many today?”

“That’s generous of you, my lord.”

“Sun sees fit to pop its brow over the horizon a scant few hours, it’s day in my book.” Edd’s words made Satin smile humorlessly.

“Seven men, all on sentry duty or atop the Wall. Found frozen to death this morning.” Fuck. That leaves us at what, five-and-eighty?

“Eighty-three, Lord Commander. Including our brothers from the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch.” Satin said, as if reading Edd’s mind. “We might be eighty-seven if you saw fit to let our…guests join the rest of us.”

“That one with the red knot, he’s of the same faith as the red witch was. I’m not sure I want him wandering around the castle.”

“She did ah, assist Lord Commander Snow.”

“Only because it served her purposes, or supposed it served her god’s. To count her an ally is to count fire an ally. Fire burns living flesh as well as dead.” Satin gulped in response. “Don’t suppose we’ve got anything good for dinner?”

“Not unless you want to try squirrel again.” Edd made a face.

“We’ll skip dinner, then.” he said, a phrase that had all but become the motto of the Watch. “Cheer up. At least there aren’t so many of us to feed.” he told Satin as they left the chambers that had been Jon Snow’s before Edd’s and the Old Bear before him. If only he’d stayed around, this would be his mess and he’d see us through it.

They were halfway across the yard, headed for the ice cells, when a snort had Edd ready to catch a charging bull’s horns. Instead a massive stallion was milling about in the tiny lichyard aside the keep, primly sniffing at the frostbitten grasses that poked up from the stones.

“Oi! Away from there, you!” Satin cried, waving a hand at the horse. A braver man than I, Sat, Edd thought as the stallion regarded them. He bared his teeth but made no further move to aggress, continuing to move through the overgrown stones and small cairns.

“Never mind, Satin. He likes the company of the dead so much, he’ll have all he can handle before much longer.”

“Where did he come from?”

“No idea. I’ve never seen him before, I’d remember a horse like that.” Edd said as they slowly descended into the cells beneath the castle. No matter how many times he tried to light the sconces, the flames spluttered like a nervous suitor before going out.

“I suppose you know what that means.” A flat voice called out from the darkness, making Satin jump. Edd stared into the cell until his eyes adjusted, spotting a man with a rag over one eye and a ghastly pallor leaning on the far wall.

“Aye, I have some idea. It was like this at Hardhome.”

“Where they were feet from you instead of leagues. More now, and dearly mightier. Were I you, I’d keep the last of your flock off the Wall when night comes. It might keep them out a bit longer, but a man doesn’t need their meddling to freeze to death.”

“Are you going to let us out of here or not?” Another voice, younger, brasher.

“Leave it, Anguy. The Lord Commander will do with us as he sees fit.” Still a third voice, rough but warm. The red priest.

“Where’s the fourth?” Edd asked.

“In the corner. He doesn’t talk much.” Anguy said, pointing to a huge shadow.

“Not many of us left topside. Those that are remember Stannis and his red witch, they have no love for followers of Red Rahloo.” Edd explained.

“Hang R’hllor. I’m cold and hungry. If you can keep me fed and warm I’ll send arrows at anything and anyone.”

“Well, you’re where you belong then. You can call the Night’s Watch many things, but ‘fed’ and ‘warm’ aren’t on the list.” In reply Anguy cursed and laid back out on his bench.

“Bleed this. Lord Commander, we’d do better to recruit the horse, at least he dresses to fit the Watch.”

“What horse?” A fourth voice, gravelly and short but entirely engaged. The shadow moved and a great burned brute stepped into view, eyes locked on Edd.

“Seven save us, you got him to talk!” Anguy congratulated Edd.

“Some hellwhelp just escaped from the hereafter.” Anguy’s smirk disappeared.

“Hang on.” He turned to the shadow. “You were riding such a beast at the Hand’s tourney, and after when we sent you on your way.” A huge hand slapped the bars of the cell.

“Don’t let him leave.” The burned man said.

“We’ve not got any sugar cubes to tempt him with-” Satin began, interrupted by the sounding of the horn atop the Wall. At the first sounding, Edd waited only for the second. The Watch had no one left in the Haunted Forest. At the second sounding, Edd’s ears strained. Had a few wildlings not followed Jon Snow south? At the third sounding he heard chaos break out in the castle above, steel being readied and prayers muttered.

“I think now would be a good time to let us out, Lord Commander.” Eyepatch said evenly.

The world ends around him and all he cares for is his horse, Edd thought on watching the burned man bull toward the lichyard. On spotting the stallion his nostrils flared and he broke into a run. Let the fiend kick some sense in that seared skull of his. Though they had no want of arrows or swords, there was a dear lack of men loose or swing them. They aren’t dragonglass, either. Edd was joined in the lift by loyal Satin as well as Eyepatch, his pet priest and their butt boy Anguy. The winds got worse the higher they got until Edd could see tears beading in Satins eyes, but neither of the other men gave any sign they were cold.

“Piss from up here and it’s like to freeze solid on the way down.”

“It’ll freeze before you loose in full, lad. Try explaining that to the next girl you have in bed.” Edd said without looking at him, making the priest chortle. The lift’s tickings creaked and ground to a halt when they made the top, Edd stepping out and turning toward the Haunted Forest at once. There was no sign anything was amiss.

“Don’t be fooled. They’re out there, sure as death and taxes.”

“Oi. You’ve died a half-dozen times and haven’t paid a copper in taxes since you turned outlaw, my lord.” Anguy said indignantly. Eyepatch’s remaining eye went wide in surprise and even Satin gave a snicker.

“Say rather, sure as snow in winter then.” Edd said. The Haunted Forest looked just as it had the last time he’d gone atop the wall. Cold, dark, thoroughly miserable. And all in daylight. The sun, firing up first light shortly before he’d skipped dinner, was already sliding out of sight. “Lazy bastard.” Edd swore over prayers to the red god. He was about to give it up when the trees moved. Hundred-foot pines, shaking and swaying like wheat. They were too far away, too high up to hear much beside the wind and their shouts to each other but Edd knew the forest floor must be rumbling, shaking as something enormous moved through it. All the wights ever to rise couldn’t do that. He held his breath. Then something stepped out of the tree line, a sliver of white in an ocean of dark green.

I thought it’d be bigger, he thought numbly. Through a Myrish tube with a cracked glass he beheld something man-sized, shrouded in mist and cloaked in a fog that seemed to cling to it regardless of its movements. Straining, he could just make out the figure hidden in the glamor, even the blue eyes that stared out of the squall. He’s looking right at me, Edd realized. The sun did not impede or forestall it in the least, though Edd wondered detachedly if that was because of the piddling show Day had become. More figures emerged from the womb of the woods, some armored and others clad in sweeping cloaks. One stepped up to the first, a she-Other wrapped in diamonds and ice, slipping her hand into the storm to perhaps take its bearer’s hand. Still another in a mantle with an owl in her arms let the bird fly, heading straight for them. So fixed was Edd on the bird that the others’ curses and cries were lost in the wind, yet when the owl reached them it contented itself with perching on a barrel and observing them uninterestedly. It hooted.

“Uhh…do we kill it?” Anguy said uncertainly. The sun disappeared a moment later, the last light fading before it had time to be missed. Something is about to happen. A sound that stirred Edd’s memories of Hardhome carried even over the gusts and cries. He sucked in a frigid chestful of breath. Oh, fuck. A star he’d never seen before broke through the cloud cover, bringing queer light to the night. At its appearance a chorus of terrible beauty hit his ears. They’re talking. To each other, to us, to the big lads they found who-knows-where. The giants that emerged were no wights, but neither were they the kind the Free Folk held in such high esteem. They had flesh like ivory, hair like snow or straw, and must have stood a dwarf taller than the giants he’d seen before. Horned helms, mammoth pelts and full beards were their raiment, some braided with silver rings. One giant even wore skulls in his waist-length beard. They held huge greataxes or mauls chipped from blocks of ice for the most part, though some few held only wooden staves. These were attended in middling number by another cast of giant, Edd supposed, nine foot tall and lanky to a one. A pebble to the smallest giant, a boulder to the tallest man. The giants certainly didn’t seem to give them much due, shoving them aside or simply laying into them with maul or axe if they moved a hair too slow.

A giant with something slung over his shoulder strode into view. Again, the owl hooted. More insistently, to Edd’s ears. He’s got a horn, he realized. His insides, long turned to ice, felt like they were going to split though his skin. The horn-bearer brushed his long blonde locks out of his eyes and set the horn down, longer and curved at the bottom than a common warhorn. The Others’ icy chatter died away and the other giants watched raptly. A staff-wielder with a head as bald as an egg but a beard to his bare feet shrugged off the white fur he wore, standing in only a loincloth. He held his stick to the sky, calling in a voice that rumbled like a stormfront and carried straight to the top of the Wall without the slightest issue. The Old Tongue was unmistakable. He was answered by his kin, short martial grunts. Overhead, thunder rumbled. The owl hooted once more and flew off to rejoin its mistress. Edd was rooted to the spot, watching the goings-on with a struck-dumb fascination. At the sound of the giants’ voices, runes etched into the huge horn began to twinkle.

“So that’s how they’ll do it…” he said, though he could not hear his own words. Another invocation from the elder giant. Another chorus from his kin. The runes grew brighter. Edd turned to the others, watching just as fascinatedly. “The lift.” he said curtly, pointing behind them. They piled in, descending as speedily as they dared. The giants’ voices carried past the Wall and in Edd’s mind he could see the horn’s runes glow still brighter. I hope we make it to the bottom before they’re ready, he thought. On the lift touching down he was off. “Get away from the Wall!” he cried, the sky overhead going still blacker. Some stared in stunned awe as the sky shook and lightning began to lance down but Edd kept as many men moving clear of the Wall, of Castle Black as he possibly could. Desertion, hell, he thought. You can’t desert a post that’s about to come down.

The Haunted Forest

He watched the horn glow brighter until it looked fit to sit as stars in the sky. The storm-singer’s tempest continued to build, lightning searing the empty earth between them and their obstacle as well as the ground behind it. The past few days, months, years had been the hardest of a life that made the Enemy’s seem meager. He had done what none among his race had ever done before, making common cause with allies worthy of the name, bringing beasts to bear against which his Enemy would have no recourse. They feared one who was once of their own, yet he was as insignificant as the race that had borne him, as impotent as the one that had made him. They feared their own dead, when they were the least of what was coming for them. Finally the invocation stopped, though the storm overhead rumbled and crackled in ill-bound fury. The storm-speaker was of a long line though, and his get’s get had the horn well in hand. The bald head nodded and his grandling filled his lungs with holy air. He put his mouth to the great horn and the sound that surged forth made the ice before them shake. The invocation resumed, this time sending its ordinance barreling into the icy face and sending great cracks running down its length like the web of a treasured mount. Steps were taken to make sure it did not simply collapse, of course, for he sought to turn the Enemy’s great shield against it surely as he did their dead. He braced himself to hold the coming tide, as did his treasured partner and worthy get. The next lance blew a great piece off of the obstacle, one he shaped from a falling whole to a flurry of flakes. In this manner, all across its breadth, his kind would reshape the pieces as they fell into an obstacle of their own, a blizzard that spanned the breadth of the land. The Enemy had built their great bulwark out of ice. Whose notion had that been? Ice held up his flesh, ran through his veins, beat in his chest. He was ice, he and his kind. Piece by piece, the obstacle began to shrink, until at long last it was gone from sight and his view of the lands beyond it was unmarred since the last given such precedence as he enjoyed had reigned. His armies were assembled, his fleets already sent to every coast his get could observe. There was nothing now to stop him.

He was King in the North.
He was King-Beyond-the-Wall.
He was King of Always Winter, and winter had come at last.