1. The Twins

The dungeons still stank of death.

As if imprisonment were not enough, Lord Walder Frey had made him suffer the ignominy of smelling him die. There were no torches here – deliberately, he knew – which meant Ser Edmure Tully did not see the captive in the cell in front of him. Neither could he speak with him – the prisoner was well gagged, unable to utter a syllable. Or were there two? He would never know.

They died within days of capture. This was possibly years ago. No one bothered clearing out their corpses, perhaps on Lord Walder's commands himself. Despite the time that had passed, the stench of death had never disappeared. Edmure was grateful for that. Every breath he took was a reminder on the vengeance he owed his friends of Frey.

He knew he was kept alive for Tully name alone, although it had been years since he stopped asking what would happen next. Edmure was numb to it. His long wavy hair was a tangled mess, dancing on his shoulder blades, while a massive beard covered his face, making him unrecognizable. All he could do was wait – wait for his moment, wait to exact revenge on all those who wronged his family.

The door opened and Edmure's heart skipped a beat. He had lost all track of time here, yet knew it was too soon for supper. The man held a lantern and the fire was in Edmure's eyes, yet he recognized the voice as soon as it spoke.

"Still alive, heh?"

Edmure felt his fists clench, albeit weakly. He wants me to beg, he said to himself. I will not give him the satisfaction. He could see Lord Walder's face clearer now, thin, droopy eyes, a leering smile, the flab underneath his chin. "Heh, I see you now. It must be you. There is no one else in the dungeons, see."

Edmure moved closer to the bars of the cell, looking right into Frey's grey eyes, promising himself never to flinch. Lord Walder hardly noticed his grit. He went on. "Awful, was it not… the Red Wedding? Do you remember it? Do you remember the death of your sister, of your king?"

"Yes." Tully's reply was hoarse. He had not spoken for days.

There was an edge to Lord Walder's voice now, it uncharacteristically rang across the dungeons. "You are the last of them. What can you do, heh? Can you dare fight those who did this to you?"

Edmure was past diplomacy. If I die, so be it. Better die begging for vengeance than for mercy. "Dare set me free," he said, "and I will rain seven hells upon your family with as much as a tourney sword. Starting with you, my Lord. How does slicing your throat ear to ear sound, if it please you?"

"Sounds good," Frey said, unmasking himself. "But I've already done the second bit for you," the girl underneath added. "You'd best get onto the first."

There was a click, and Edmure's cell swung open.

2. The Sunset Sea

Night had fallen, but the fires lit up the chambers well enough for Daenerys Targaryen to see her allies. Lady Olenna, the last surviving Tyrell, sat at the far end of the table, exhausted enough to sleep any moment. Beside her sat Elara Sand, very much awake, with slits for eyes. Theon and Yara Greyjoy sat opposite the pair, looking the least seasick of the Dragon Council. Beside them was Varys the Spider, papers in his hand, eager to disclose their contents. Grey Worm guarded the door. Closest to Dany was her handmaiden Missandei and her Hand the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. The rocking ship had quenched his lust for wine. For now.

Before Varys could speak, Yara interjected. "We are almost approaching the Iron Islands, Your Grace. I thank you for holding your end of the bargain."

Daenerys could hear the blood pumping through her. This would be her first test in Westeros, the measure on which her legacy would be judged. Dany found herself more impatient than nervous, and she knew the reason why. They were the three giant-winged creatures sailing above the ship, hungry for fire, hungry for blood. She was the Mother of Dragons, but no Westerosi outside those in this chamber knew that. They would find out soon enough… starting with the ironborn.

She turned to Grey Worm. "Have arrangements been made for battle?"

Before Grey Worm answered, it was the Spider's turn to interject. "They have not, Your Grace."

Dany's eyes narrowed. "Not?"

"It is why I called for the Dragon Council. I have heard news that Euron Greyjoy has left Pyke with his ships. The islands are unarmed, defenseless and ripe for capture."

Yara was surprised. "Why would Euron do such a thing? Why does he not wish to fight for his people?"

Tyrion Lannister chuckled. "My sweet sister Cersei does it again. This war will be easier than I thought."

Varys chimed in. "Tyrion is quite right, Your Grace. Euron has openly sided with Cersei Lannister and, for tactical reasons, moved his men to another location, before your dragons could lay waste to them. I do not know where for certain."

Dany was puzzled. "But where could they go?"

Tyrion's eyes locked hers. "Oh, I have a pretty good guess."

3. King's Landing

"This is madness."

Jaime Lannister and his twin were in the throne room, waiting for court to assemble. Jaime knew it was imperative to change her mind before they did. "Do you actually mean to fight the inevitable? Face facts, Cersei. We lost the gold of Highgarden when you blew Mace and Margaery Tyrell to ashes. Dorne has never been our friend. Winterfell has been captured by another bastard and this one's not our ally. You are proclaimed Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, of which, at best, you rule three. And amidst this are rumors of a Targaryen wench sailing to Westeros with a three-headed dragon. Gossip, I grant you-"

"It's not a three-headed dragon," Cersei retorted, scarce batting an eyelid. "Her name is Daenerys and she has three dragons, hungry to conquer the Crownlands. And I don't mean to fight – I mean to win."

Jaime was incredulous. He used a different tact. "We are surrounded with enemies taking turns to fight for the Iron Throne. King's Landing is on the verge of riot. Even if we surrender, we'll be lucky enough to leave this debacle with our necks intact. This is worse than the War of the Five Kings, without the addition of a Dragon Queen, which I still find hard to believe…"

"Better believe it, Jaime. Qyburn has confirmed the tales."

Jaime was still skeptical, but there were other things to talk about. He had dreaded approaching the subject, but if it would save his sweet sister from suicide, it was worth a try. "We never talked about Tommen," he said. "I know his death has come as a huge shock, but surely you can separate emotion from…"

"You think this stems from our son's death?" Cersei's tone was bitter now, less a lion and more a snake. "Like it or not, war will be upon us. If you wish, you can run off to Casterly Rock, tail between your legs, desperate for peace. Or we can fight our enemies together and make a ballad the bards will sing of for a thousand years. I intend to finish Father's work, whether you join me or not. I suggest you do, before you get your other hand sliced off by some hedge knight."

The slight angered Jaime. "If I leave," he ventured, "who would you even have at your side to survive? Our own kingdom hates us. We have no allies, Cersei!"

"We might," Cersei said, as doors opened and members of the court came flooding in, taking their places. As Jaime took his place as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, his eyes scoured the courtroom, looking for hints of Cersei's cryptic statement. All the faces were familiar, spare one, a grizzly, barbarian of a man, eyes blacker than ravens. He smelled of salt.

"The crown recognizes its ally Euron Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands," Qyburn trotted beside his queen. Jaime's eyes widened.

"Hardly a lord of the Iron Islands if I've left it," Euron grumbled unsmilingly, looking up at the Iron Throne. "Queen Cersei, arrangements have been made. The bulk of the naval forces have moved from Pyke to Dragonstone."

"Good to hear," Cersei said. "I trust you still recall it was your choice to abandon your lands?"

"I'm not like to forget it. Once the war is over, I'll be sure to reclaim the islands from any pretender that may hold it… as long as our plans for marriage remain intact."

"A Lannister always pays their debts," Cersei said. Jaime could scarce believe his ears. She kept me in the dark on this. I have to say something. "And why should we trust you?" he heard himself say. "You've been exiled for years, after attacking Lannisport, no less. You left your own people. For what?"

Euron's gaze stayed on Cersei's. He grinned. "In my exile, I've travelled to places even Oldtown never knew existed. I am the captain of the greatest armada Westeros has ever seen. I refuse to squander all that for nothing more than rocks and bird shit."

"Still, humor me. Why would you fight for us when the going gets tough?" Jaime persisted.

Euron's eyes shifted to Jaime's. "Can the going get any tougher for you?"

4. Beyond the Wall

Wintry winds hit them hard, yet all Brandon Stark saw was fire. Lords, ladies, common men writhed into ashes in front of him as the waters lashed the shore with unrelenting ferocity. He saw grasslands filled with flames, heard the screech of beasts and the dying howl of summer, the dream of summer, summer that would never arrive.

He saw Old Nan, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes. She was knitting. "Fear is for the winter, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep." Bran did not hear her. He was too aghast watching her eyes fall off their sockets, even though Old Nan barely noticed them.

Then Meera was there, slapping him all over his face, begging for him to wake up. She looked paler than ever. "You were asleep again," she said, when Bran woke up. "Where had you gone?"

"I- I don't know," Bran said. It did not take him long to realize the tears in his eyes, as if someone had just sliced an onion. His heart was throbbing, composure was alien to him. "It's… it's these visions, Meera. I cannot control them. Every time I sleep, I don't know where I will wake – if I will wake." He could not recognize the snowy woods around him. They must have travelled a fair distance while he was under. "How long was I… asleep?"

"A day, maybe two. It is hard to keep track of hours. The sun has not shown itself for a long time." Meera still seemed shaken. "Listen to me, Bran – these dreams, they have to be the norm. You're the Three-Eyed Raven now-"

"I know I am!" Bran retorted. "But I didn't ask for any of this." More tears were falling down his cheeks.

"I know you did not," Meera said, afraid she had said the wrong thing. "Jojen used to have the same kind of visions you did. I know it is a lot to take in. I know it may be hard to control them. All I'm saying is… I'm here to help."

"Th- thank you." Bran was shaking, he realized, and not all of it was down to the cold. He regretted his outburst. "How far away are we, anyway?" he said.

"Not a lot," Meera said, her countenance lightening, now that Bran had changed the subject. "Do you see the gleam in front of us?"

Amongst the darkness it was very faint but visible enough. It did not seem far away, but in this weather, Bran knew the journey would take them more than a couple of days. "What is it?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

"The Wall," Meera replied eagerly. "Castle Black."

5. Winterfell

Jon Snow knew this was coming.

The lords of the north in front of him were in disorder. Ser Davos Seaworth stood in a corner, brooding. Beside Jon sat Sansa Stark, patient for calm to reign. Jon tried to emulate her. I must listen to what they say. I must be a better king than I was Lord Commander.

"Wildlings… to the Wall?" Lord Manderly exclaimed. He could have stood in surprise, but hardly did.

"I pray you see the problem here, Your Grace," Lord Glover added, trying to be calmer. "The wildlings have been fighting the Night's Watch for thousands of years. You know this better than anyone. This will be a travesty of traditions. The men in black will not take it well."

Tormund Giantsbane could not hold in his rage. "If we're closer to the dead than you, why are you lot shitting yourselves?"

Jon could hold it no longer. "My lords," he said, and the crowd silenced. "What we are faced with… it begs breaking tradition. This is not a battle between kings, not between clans. There are no wildlings, nor are there men in black. There are men… and then there are monsters. We cannot let the monsters prevail. For that to happen, we must do whatever it takes, no matter the cost."

Lord Petyr Baelish, silent all this while, chimed in. "He happens to be right," he said. "Besides, the wildlings know the Land of Always Winter better than we do. They have fought these creatures longer than we have. The Wall craves their knowledge, their expertise. If we do not unite, there may be no Winterfell to speak of."

Jon was surprised to see Littlefinger stand up for him, after what Sansa had told him about the man. Murmurs of assent followed Petyr's words. Finally, Lyanna Mormont, Lady of the Bear Islands, spoke. "Your Grace has seen things beyond the Wall we once never imagined to be real. Only you know best. If it is the will of the king, Bear Island stands with him."

After Littlefinger and Lyanna, the rest of the bannermen quickly gave their assent. Jon was relieved, but not altogether satisfied. After the Battle of the Bastards, not even five hundred wildlings were alive… and all of them were going to be sent to the Wall. If Jon had to fight another battle, his friends would be far away. He would have to count on the support of his bannermen. They named me their king, Jon thought, but if I ask them to march to their deaths, they may unname me as quickly.

6. Winterfell

Sansa Stark's eyes had never left Littlefinger. Her ears perked when he had gone to the support of Jon. If we do not unite, there may be no Winterfell, he had said to the bannermen. Sansa knew Littlefinger to be a man of cunning, but why would he support sending barely a fraction of Jon's army to the north? Surely, if he courted war with the king, his army would easily be defeated by Jon's bannermen. Baelish could have disagreed with Jon and created more confusion, but he didn't.

But did Littlefinger court war with Jon? "I've declared for House Stark for all to hear," he had told her, that day beside the weirwood tree. "The past is gone for good." Baelish wanted the Iron Throne, Sansa knew, but he could not hope to get it without the support of the Starks. Maybe that was why he agreed with Jon Snow?

Jon was a good man, Sansa knew, but she did not want to bother him with the politics of Winterfell, not when he had an army of the undead on his hands. She wanted to speak with someone she could trust, someone who would not spill her secrets in the ears of northern lords.

Sansa found Brienne of Tarth in the courtyard dueling with young Podrick Payne. The lad was holding a steel sword and Brienne wooden, yet poor Podrick looked like he could hardly stand. The moment he saw Sansa walking towards them, he dropped his blade and tried to shy away.

"No, Podrick, stay," said Sansa, slightly amused. Podrick was always scurrying away whenever he saw her. Sansa looked around – the courtyard was not exactly empty, there were people carrying sacks of grain or swords and shields, but the whistling wind meant she would not be overheard. She turned to Lady Brienne. "My lady," she said, her voice low, "I know you do not trust Lord Baelish, but at the council today, did it puzzle you that he agreed with Jon? Why do you think he said that?"

Lady Brienne's normally stern face softened, but before she could speak, Podrick intervened. "Beg pardon, m'lady, I mean, my ma'am," he stuttered, "but Lord Baelish is very popular, I mean, he has a lot of respect, in the way…"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, just the other day, I overheard Lord Manderly… he was saying something to Lord Cerwyn, it was about Lord Littlefinger… I mean, Lord Petyr. You know, I did not mean to hear what he said, but sometimes-"

"What was it?" Sansa's stern query cut through Podrick's stammers like piss through snow.

Podrick was looking at Sansa's feet, clearly regretting entering the conversation, but his speech was improving now. "It was something like… I mean… the long and short of it is, I think the lords like him. As in, respect. They respect Lord Petyr. They value him."

Sansa was puzzled: Littlefinger was lowborn, Lord of the Vale, an outsider. Why would the northern lords care for him? Her puzzlement seemed to show, for Brienne quelled it. "He saved their lives, Lady Sansa," she said simply. "They owe him the north as much as they owe it to you, or your brother."

Of course. No wonder the lords of the north fell in line after Baelish gave his assent. Littlefinger could have the ear of most of Winterfell, which seemed frightening. "But if so," she said, "why not use it to his advantage? Why agree with Jon?"

"If I may, my Lady," said Brienne, who seemed equally lost in thought. "Lord Baelish, whatever we may think of him, is helping Winterfell with his forces. His army may help us in the Long Night. He agreed with your brother's commands when he was free not to." She paused, as if it was not her place to say what she wanted. "Sometimes… sometimes there are people you think you know, but you may not have known them at all. Sometimes what you know of a person is different from what others wish upon them."

Sansa was sharp. "You seem to be talking from experience."

7. King's Landing

"When I was made Commander of the City Watch, I thought I'd have more respect on the streets," Bronn said, still massaging the scar on his cheek.

"I did not call you for that," Jaime said curtly. "We pay you well. That should be all the honor you need."

"Never cared for more," said Bronn with a nasty grin, "though it would be nice to lay with a whore not trying to kill me."

Jaime sighed. Not more than a few days ago, Bronn entered a brothel to repose from the growing chill winter brought. Unfortunately, his coin was wasted on a wench who, in the thick of it, drew a dagger and tried to slay him. Bronn escaped with a slash on his cheek, but the girl was not so lucky herself. Jaime wondered what Ser Gregor Clegane was doing with her now.

"That whore," Jaime said. "Didn't she say she worked with the Righteous Saviors of the Seven?"

Bronn nodded. "That rebel faith, yes. I hear they steal the ashes of the Sept of Baelor and scatter them over the corpse of a gold cloak. I have already lost nine-and-twenty cloaks to the cunts. Sounds like a shit way to die."

"That's why I called you," Jaime said. "Cersei… our queen wants you to escort Septa Unella to the ruins of Baelor. Take as many men as you need."

"Unella?" Bronn could not hide his interest. "The people worshipped the Faith Militant. If they see Unella in the state that madman has left her in, there will be riots. I'd have to stop going to brothels."

"Do as you are told."

8. The Riverlands

Escaping the Twins for Arya Stark was easy. The hard part was to come next.

"A girl is Arya Stark, and she is heading for Winterfell."

Arya Stark could not forget her purpose. She wanted to go back to Winterfell, as she remembered telling Jaqen H'ghar in the Hall of Many Faces. But she knew the Faceless Men would not let her leave that easily. Arya Stark remembered Jaqen's words: "A girl cannot leave for Winterfell yet. A girl is needed. She is expected to give gifts to the Many-Faced God… and only she can give these particular gifts."

At the time, the girl named Arya Stark remembered asking, "Who is it? Who expects me to give these gifts?"

"No one," Jaqen had said simply.

Arya Stark knew the names of the people she was told to kill. She had killed some of them already. She remembered slicing the throat of Lord Walder Frey, after she had cooked his children in the pie. Three names for the Many-Faced God. But that's not all.

A girl could not kill more people than she was told to, but that did not stop the girl named Arya to free Ser Edmure. It was justice, she knew, justice for the Red Wedding, justice for her mother, justice for Robb. The little girl in Arya Stark wanted to kill the queen, kill Ser Ilyn, kill all of them and head back to Winterfell… but she couldn't. A girl had gifts to give, and only after that would she be free.

Arya Stark headed west.

9. King's Landing

A horde of angry faces stared Cersei Lannister, but none dared move a muscle. Cersei had chosen the battlefield, and she chose it well. Standing on the ruins of Baelor with her gold cloaks, she reminded everyone who she was, what she had done. I am Lord Tywin Lannister's daughter. Not too long ago they hurled trash at her and called her a whore as she walked past them, naked to the bone. Today, Ser Gregor Clegane's visage was warning enough.

Amongst the crowd, Cersei's sight caught many wearing patched grey garbs: Qyburn had said that was the color of the Righteous Saviors. Good. I want them to know. Let them see what I think of their faith.

"Before you," she said, motioning to the bloody, naked form of Septa Unella, "stands a member of the Faith Militant." She savored the shock and horror on their faces. "For months, she locked me in a dark cell and starved me to her pleasure."

She pointed to the eight-foot man beside her. "This is Ser Gregor Clegane. For weeks, he has tortured, raped and forced her to stay alive on my command… even after she begged for mercy. But I am a merciful woman." She snapped her fingers.

Ser Gregor's hand clamped the head of Septa Unella. While the septa screamed, begging to break free, only Ser Gregor's fingers tightened, while he stood as still as a mountain. Blood began to flow from her nose, from her ears, her mouth. One of the smallfolk covered her eyes. A gold cloak punched her in the stomach.

"I command you to watch," said Cersei to the crowd. Unella's throat was too choked with blood for her to scream. It was not long until they heard the splat. Ser Gregor's fingers finally met. As he held up the lifeless figure, Cersei said, "I did not like Septa Unella. She wasted my time. Now, I have a war to win, kingdoms to end and a legacy to sustain."

Ser Gregor flung the corpse among the crowd. The people were too afraid to move away from it.

"Do not waste my time."