Winterfell
The three new members of the Queensguard rise, white cloaks draped over black-and-red armor – Black Spot, a fierce Unsullied, wielding a morningstar; Bors, a dim-witted and savage but truly loyal warrior of Skagos; and Ser Osgood Grafton, a knight of the Vale who had pledged his sword despite kis kingdom's neutrality. All had distinguished themselves of valor and honor in the Battle for the Dawn.
They bow before taking their place at attention, guarding the Lord's Table at the head of the great hall. With much of their armies already departed to White Harbor in the east and Bear Island in the West, King Jon Snow and Queen Daenerys Targaryen hold court. There is still work to do before they can move south.
Jon sits uncomfortable, glancing nervously at Daenerys beside him. Ever since the night in the godswood, he has slept little and his mind has thought of little else. Could what Bran have said be true? It has to be, he knows his brother's powers. But what can that mean? For him? And for the woman he loves…
"King Jon!" Daenerys' voice snaps him back to attention. He turns back to see Munda standing before them, Tormund's surviving daughter. For a moment, his words catch in his throat, remembering his old friend and wishing he could have said farewell one last time.
"Lady Munda, your father served me well. He was a man of loyalty and valor. I wish I could have bestowed such honors upon him while he lived. But you have proved you carry his finest virtues. With the extinction of the Umber line, I bequeath to you the lands and titles of Last Hearth, as the first member of House Giantsbane."
Munda is clearly shocked and humbled by the declaration. Jon smiles as she stammers out thanks. There is more left to do. Bear Island passes to Alysanne Mormont and Morgan Liddle. A new Captain of the Guards is chosen, to replace brave Pod. This is good work, he thinks. If only this was all a king need do.
And then the court is over. And the march must begin. Daenerys kisses him on the cheek as she leaves to ready the dragons. And Jon is left alone with his thoughts and his brother's words flaying his brain. The name of an old man he had loved. A name now Bran says is his own.
Aemon Targaryen. Aemon Targaryen. Heir to the Throne
Castlery Rock
The Dragon Queen's small counsel stands assembled around the jeweled war table, examining the map. It feels so strange, Varys thinks, to return to planning war so soon after such a nightmarish ordeal. The Long Night already seems so much like a dream, if not for the many dead they have buried and mourned. And yet the wheel turns on.
"The time to strike is now!" Lord Crakehall roars. The addition of flames to the boar of his sigil is not unnoticed. He and his whole household have converted to follow the Lord of Light. His burning axe had cut down many wights in the War for the Dawn.
"Undoubtedly," Lord Damion Lannister, Hand of the Queen. "Queen Daenerys marches South. We must be ready to meet her to take the capital. Brax's armies control the roads and passes, but their armies will be unprepared."
"Perhaps we ought to wait," Varys dissents. Breanna Lantell, Mistress of Coin, nods with him. "We are still recovering. It would tax the people too far to return to war. And we do not yet know the nature of the loyalist defenses."
"That is true," Damion looks down to the map, where amethyst unicorns, emerald peacocks and onyx badgers lurk in the hills. "Lord Varys, all here know your reputation. Do you wish to serve your queen?"
"Of course, my lord."
"Then you will be escorted to the Western Hills. Through whatever deceits befit you, find their leaders and learn their secrets. Be our eyes and ears. And when we know the nature of their defenses, we shall strike them down."
Skyreach
Atop the mountain fortress, in Lord Fowler's chambers, Ser Gerold "Darkstar" Dayne waits impatiently with his aunt, Lady Allyria. At his side hangs Dawn, their family's legendary great-sword. A caged falcon watches the brooding knight with a hunter's eyes.
"Where is the old man?" he grumbles.
"Old men learn patience," Allyria chides him. "You would do well to learn some yourself." But it is at that moment that Lord Franklyn Fowler steps through the door, cloaked in a silver half-cape over a pale blue woolen doublet, a colorful, long-beaked bee-eater perched on his shoulder. He calmly returns the bird to a bronze cage before greeting his guests.
"Ser Gerold, Lady Allyria, welcome to Skyreach. I hope you found your travels peaceful, given the circumstances."
"Thank the Seven the sun has returned," Allyria bows courteously, but Darkstar remains unmoved. ""We come to seek your men and your passage."
"I am blessed by your presence, my lady," Franklyn smiles, lighting a small fire beneath a kettle of tea. "But under whose authority do you demand my armies? The Pass has enjoyed many years of peace, ever since Robert's Rebellion claimed my father, wife and brothers. You would have me send the fathers and brothers of my people to battle. For whom would you have them die?"
"For Prince Anders Yronwood, Lord Paramount of Dorne," Darkstar insists.
"House Martell rules Dorne. And I have yet to hear of the death of Princess Arianne."
"Princess Arianne engaged in treason against the Queen and was deemed unworthy by the Seven in trial by combat. I slew her champion myself. Would you follow your treachery, if you are truly so concerned for peace?"
"Either option you present will mean war. I must only choose for whom I am fighting. And House Yronwood has never been a friend to my family. " He looks to Lady Allyria. "Do you speak for House Dayne, my lady, or only for this usurper?"
Angered, Darkstar stands, hand on the hilt of his legendary sword. "Have you ever seen Dawn, my lord?"
"I have, long ago, when it was wielded by Ser Arthur Dayne, the last Sword of the Morning. Do you now claim that title, Ser Gerold?"
"No!" Darkstar draws Dawn in anger, the glistening white blade sparkling in the light. Allyria shrieks along with Franklyn's birds, the tea kettle whistle blows shrilly and guards come rushing in. But the man does not attack. "I am so much more than that." He sheathes the sword. "Join me, or the night will fall again upon your people."
"So I see," Franklyn nods calmly, pouring a cup of tea for his guests as his guards relax. "We will march on, to Kingsgrave."
The Prince's Pass
A band of outriders, bearing the banners of Dayne and Yronwood, ride far ahead of Darkstar's army to declare their approach to House Manwoody of Kingsgrave. But as they near the castle, they find a merchant and a small girl blocking their path with a cart.
"Make way!" their leader shouts, but the cart does not move. Instead, the two traders approach – Garin and Elia Sand, unrecognized by the patrol.
"Good sers, please, if I may only spare a moment of your time," Garin bows deeply. "We have fine wares here, just what weary travelers like yourself would long for."
"We long for nothing but to be on our way," the leader leaps down, a huge man brandishing a heavy warhammer. "Ser Archibald Yronwood, nephew to Prince Anders. I have business at Kingsgrave."
"Ah, but you are so dusty, ser," Elia says without looking up from the ground, gesturing to the cart. "Surely you would wear finer clothes to go before Lord Manwoody."
"Armor is all the kit a knight needs," Archibald pushes her away.
"And even less in bed, I wager, less your steel poke your lover where she wants not to be poked." Garin wraps his arm around the knight, his gold tooth glistening as he grins. "But I heard you say Prince Anders. Has something befallen the Princess Arianne? I pray pardon the ignorance of a simple merchant, I have been in these valleys so long…"
"The Martell brat was a traitor," Archibald growls. "She fled to hide in these very mountains, we hear."
"These very mountains?" Garin backs away, looking about in feigned nervousness. "And what, perchance, would happen if you found her?"
"Then I'd bring her head to Prince Anders myself!" At that, the big man moves to push the cart out of the way. But he never gets the chance. Ser Rolland Storm emerges from beneath the fabrics, axe in hand, and slays the knight with a single blow. In an instant, Garin and Elia turn on the other three shocked riders.
The fight is over quickly and, as Rolland cleans the blood from his axe, Princess Arianne emerges in black robes, her Vulture's crown upon her head.
"Princess," Rolland kneels. "The Darkstar and his armies cannot be far behind."
"Then it is good we have acquired new horses." Elia eagerly helps her climb atop the finest mount. "But I am not a princess anymore, Rolland. I am a queen."
White Harbor
Sansa waits outside the bedchambers of Lord Wyman Manderly, within the walls of his island keep. The fat old lord had never recovered from his plunge into the icy waters of the White Knife, when the undead dragon had attacked. She can hear weeping inside. And all her thoughts dwell upon that day when she had wished death upon this man. For all his faults, he had given up so much to stay loyal to Winterfell. And now he is dying.
The door creaks open and slowly the members of House Manderly step out. Ser Wilys stops by her, his huge bulk crammed into dark-blue mourning clothes, his drooping mustache more unkempt than usual.
"My father wishes to see you, Lady Stark."
She is surprised at that, but does not let it show, placing a comforting hand on Wylis' shoulder as the big knight takes her seat. She slips silently into the chamber. Beneath a heavy wool blanket, decorated with mermen and leviathans, Lord Wyman's vast stomach rises and lowers slowly with each labored breath. Despite his girth, the old lord's face is gaunt, and he squints to see her even in the bright candlelight.
"Lady Sansa… How like your mother you look." It is clear each word is a struggle. "Thank you for staying. I only wish I could repay you… for everything." He begins to cough horrendously and Sansa rushes to fetch him water. He guzzles it down, but most of it splashes on his cheeks and pillow.
"Do not trouble yourself, my lord, I hold nothing against you."
"You should!" he coughs, the water turned to dark spittle. "I failed you, deceived you and caused untold suffering. All for my damned pride. Marlon was right."
"No, no," Sansa remains haunted by her past decisions. Let the man die unknowing, she thinks. But no, he must know the truth. "Before the wedding, my lord, you should know. I sent Littlefinger to kill you."
"Good!" he laughs, a laugh that hurts but makes him smile all the same. Sansa steps back, confused. "Traitors cannot be abided, all the more in a time of war. And yet if Baelish had been captured, his reputation would place the blame all on him, not you. A wise decision. Oh, how wrong I was about you…" Weakly, he holds out his hand. Reluctantly, Sansa takes it, her small hand disappearing within his meaty fingers.
"When you came back, I saw you as weak, a pretty little bird of the summer, of the south, with no place in Winterfell. And in my arrogance, I thought to exploit you. But I want you to know, Mycah had naught to do with it. He's a good man. He will serve you well, however you would have him." Another burst of coughing and he pulls her nearer. "You are a true wolf of the North, Sansa Stark. Winter has come, and we will need you more than ever. I only wish… I only wish I could live to serve you. But I pledge to you my men, my boats, my gold and my family. Take them, and lead us to spring."
With a final shudder, his thick fingers loosen and fall back to the blanket. His head settles back down into his pillow, his lungs expelling the salty breath of the sea. And so passes Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed.
Highgarden
Even in winter, the ancient seat of House Tyrell smells like spring. This is the first thought on Missandei's mind as the white walls of the castle come into view. This must be the most beautiful building in the world, she thinks. But marring the picture is the massive maze of encamped armies surrounding the fortress – the armies of Oldtown, mixed with every other corner of the Reach. Their banners, Missandei does not know, but Lady Alyssane explains them each as they pass.
According to legend, Highgarden was built by Garth the Greenhand, who taught man to farm. All the great houses of the Reach trace their ancestry back to his children. And now they have all come to press their claim on his castle – Redwyne, by Gilbert of the Vines; Bulwer, by Bors the Breaker; Beesbury, by Ellyn Eversweet; Oakheart by John the Oak; Crane by Rose of Red Lake; and, most formidable of all, Florent, by Florys the Fox.
But for now, Highgarden is ruled by one man, its castellan - Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. Their party finds him in the Lord's Hall, in the Lord's seat. A hard-featured man, Missandei thinks, ill-suited to the soft green-and-silver garb he has chosen for this counsel.
"The Lady Alysanne Ambrose, Arthur Hightower, heir to Oldtown, and Lady Missandei of Naath!" Ser Argilac presents them. Bronn looks the new guests up and down.
"More seekers for this damned chair, aye?" he chuckles. "I ain't never heard of Naath before. Though if all their women are as lovely as you, my lady, perhaps I should become better acquainted with it."
"No, Ser Bronn, we are only here to help you settle out the matter of succession," Alysanne curtsies. "Bring the claimants before us, and we shall weigh their claims against precedent as an outside party. House Hightower has no need of Highgarden."
The door opens behind them. Missandei's heart stops at the voice she hears next.
"Oh, I don't know about that, dear sister…" Turning, they see the new arrivals, flanked by guards bearing a quartered banner of the Hightower tower and Florent fox: Ser Gunthor Hightower and his new wife, the widow of his late father: Rhea Florent. "I think this castle suits me quite well, don't you?"
Horn Hill
In her small chambers, Sarella Sand sits hunched over a pile of books, reading by faint candlelight. Far away from the Citadel, she no longer needs to disguise her name or gender, but after so many years, she still prefers the green shirt and breeches of Alleras the acolyte.
She has spent her time here poring over Marwyn's texts, trying to make sense of what the murdered archmaester had been planning. The tomes of magic and ancient history, she understands. He had used them to reforge the Hightower's Valyrian sword, to disguise the canals that connected the Honeywine to the Mander, allowing the Oldtown Army to reach Highgarden during the Night of the Dead. But she cannot begin to fathom why he kept these ancient genealogies and the private journals of the old septon of Skyreach.
There were sections here that were written in code. She had spent weeks now trying to unlock them. Why would a low-leveled septon see the need to encrypt his personal journal? But now, through blurred and tired eyes, four exchanged letters form a word, and then another, and another. And as line after line, page after page falls into place, Sarella realizes why Marwyn kept these books, what he had been killed to keep hidden. Something that will change everything…
The Silence
The great ship rocks calmly over slight waves, a welcome respite from the storms of the past months. Clear seas and clear skies make for a fine night to study the stars. Qyburn has presented a new far-eye, freshly claimed from the Citadel, to teach Alys the wonders of the night sky. The little bird would sooner practice knife tricks than memorize constellations, but even her eyes widen in awe beneath the endless expanse of the heavens.
Calm weather only sours the mood of King Euron Greyjoy, however, as he stalks away below deck, intent to get drunk on Nightshade and sleep the night away. But, reaching his quarters, he senses another's presence.
"Moqorro, by the gods, if you are lurking again I swear I'll throw ye' overboard, Red God be damned!" But as his lantern sparks to life he sees someone very different, lying on his bed, beneath a striped zebra pelt, lips already blue from Nightshade – Lady Leyla Hightower.
"That's not a blanket," he grumbles, pulling the pelt away, and realizes that his guest is wearing nothing beneath it. The lamplight glistens off of her olive skin, her plump body sprawled out across the bed he had stolen from a prince of the Summer Isles.
"I was cold in my chambers," she purrs, alluringly. "I thought perhaps, my king, we may share some warmth on this winter sea..."
For a moment, Euron pauses. The woman is twice the size of his own queen, he thinks. But Cersei had pulled out his teeth and bid him stay put like a dog. And she could not abide Nightshade, nor could most women Euron had met, nor men, for that matter. Yet this Hightower woman had drained half a bottle already.
Part out of spite for Cersei, part out of sheer boredom and part out of an unmistakable, enticing curiosity, he begins to remove his clothes and slides onto the bed, his rough hands slowly starting to massage her round body. The zebra pelt lies discarded on the floor. He knows better ways to keep warm.
White Harbor
Everyone in the North knows of the Manderlys' great appetites, Sansa thinks, but it seems that grief makes them grow even greater. She sits at their table in the Great Hall. Lord Wyman lies in the Sept, the grievers have paid their respect, and now the funeral dinner has begun in earnest. And it has lasted on and on and on.
Ser Marlan, even more morose than usual, picks at his food, but the rest of his family seems to be intent on eating the whole of the feast themselves. Sansa almost feels guilty, thinking of the cold winter that has only just begun, but she cannot begrudge the mourners this comfort tonight. She can, however, begrudge her own stomach, which now feels painfully full.
The eastern armies dispatched from Winterfell arrived in time for the funeral. Arya sits with the newly dubbed Baratheons, seeming more at home than she ever had with Sansa. Then there is Davos, Brienne, and the leaders of the Vale knights - Ser Albar Royce and Ser Wallace Waynwood, awaiting their return home. She knows she is meant to go with them.
And then there is Mycah. Ser Mycah now, knighted by Lord Wyman on his deathbed. She has been reluctant to speak to him since his return. When they had parted, neither had expected to see the other again. Now, here he was a hero, and passing a seemingly never-ending stream of lemon-cakes in her direction.
Unwilling to broker conversation with him or to eat another lemon-cake at the risk of bursting her corset, she excuses herself from the table and steps outside. She wonders the halls, trying to find fresh air, for Newcastle is a maze of passages. Rounding a corner, she finally finds an open window and, framed in its rectangle of light, Wynafryd Manderly, still in her mourning dress, nibbling on a purloined fruit pie.
"Lady Stark, I've been meaning to speak to you. Would you care for some pie?" Stifling a hiccup, Sansa declines. "Ah, well, more for me then." Wynafryd takes a large bite, red jelly smearing across her face, a chunk of berry dropping onto her chest.
"I wish to travel south with you, when you leave." This could not surprise Sansa more.
"I have not yet decided if I will go."
"You king brother commands it. You will sail soon enough. And I wish to be with you."
"Even if I am to leave, White Harbor has peace. To the south is war."
"Tywin Dondarrion is to the south," Wynafryd's voice drops to a whisper as Sansa remembers the tale of their arranged marriage. "My grandfather, may the Stranger guide his soul, promised to make me heir to the North and the East. My sister could have had the West. And he threw it all away for the sake of your family. My father and Wylla can wither away, happy in the North, all they want. But I want my husband. I want my kingdom. Would you deny me that?"
Sansa looks away, her spine stiffening at such disloyal talk. But she cannot help but hear something familiar in the young woman's voice. A longing she once knew all too well. And a strength she wished she had known back then.
"Perhaps," she allows. "But I surely doubt your lord father will approve."
"Oh, I don't know," Wynafryd grins slyly, placing her hands over her stomach. "Once the truth of it all comes out, he may be more willing to be rid of me…"
Horn Hill
In the Horned Hall, Sam attempts to quiet the assembled Marcher Lords, to little success. His mother, his sister and Gilly are at his side, but their bannermen yell back in forth, ignorant of his stammering attempts at assertion.
"Silence!" He turns to see Mallora Hightower glowering in the corner, in pale grey robes that almost blend into the castle walls. "Lord Tarly wishes to speak!"
"Lord Tarly is dead!" Lord Titus Peake retorts as the other lords and ladies quiet. A brash man of five-and-thirty, with sharp black hair and a sharper chin, Lord Peake is the dominant force in the room. His desires to reclaim his house's lost glory are a secret to no one. His nephew, Ser Perceon, has been one of Talla Tarly's most pernicious suitors.
He continues. "As is his heir, may the Stranger guide their souls. Samwell Tarly rejected his lands and titles to join the Night's Watch, or has my memory so soon failed me?"
"The Wall has fallen, or have you forgotten the dead men who so recently stormed our gates?" Mallora snipes back, without moving from the shadows. "The Night's Watch died with it, as did the vows of its sworn brothers."
"Such a matter ought to be decided by the High Septon or the queen herself, not an Oldtown witch," Ser Bors Varner barks from the back of the room. But at last, Lady Melessa has had enough and stands.
"We shall have no more bickering!" Sam's mother declares, calmly and peaceably, but with strength to bring order to the riotous room. "The realm is in turmoil. The Reach is in turmoil. You are sworn to House Tarly. Sam speaks of the same mind as me and Lady Talla."
When no one else offers a challenge, Sam at last can speak. "All Houses of the Reach with a claim to Highgarden have been summoned. We have no need of another castle, but Lady Talla will travel there to represent us."
"I will escort her myself, if I may have the honor," Lord Peake bows. Sam glances nervously at his family, but Melessa nods approval.
"Then you have my thanks, Lord Peake. But I will require Ser Percy's services myself."
The lord is not happy at that, Sam notes. But he knows he will do nothing offhand at Highgarden if his heir is not with him.
"Very well." The lord of Starpike's eye twitches angrily. "But what is your own plan, Lord Samwell?" He spits out the title with disdain.
"I will march through the pass to Kingsgrave," Sam declares to surprised murmurs from the crowd. "The Dornish armies are massing behind this Darkstar of House Dayne. I will ensure that he poses no threat to our lands and, if not, how we may assist him in defending against the Targaryen invaders."
This seems to placate the lords, and soon the meeting is over. Sam bids farewell to Talla as she leaves to pack her things. He thanks his mother, and turns to thank Mallora, but the strange woman is already gone. Instead, Sarella stands waiting.
"I heard your plan, Tarly. It's a good one. That Peake is up to no good, though. They never are. But it's good that you are headed to Dorne," she extends the old septon's journals to Sam. It takes him a moment to recognize them.
"Did you solve the code?"
"Yes. We will have quite the fascinating story to share at this parlay."
Winterfell
The clamor of the army preparing to depart can be heard even within the fortress walls, all the way here in the war room, where Jon finds Bran with Ghost curled up by his feet, examining the discarded markers.
"Would you not come to see us off?" he asks.
"I knew you would find me here." Bran doesn't look up.
"I've been to see Theon. They say he will walk again soon enough, but until then, you'll need a new guardian."
"Yes, I suppose a cripple would be of little help to guard a cripple."
"I've entrusted your care to Obara Sand." Jon waits for some signal of thanks or a fond farewell. But Bran only spins the markers over and over in his hands. He turns to leave.
Finally, Bran speaks. "Just little pieces of wood. But each one represents so many lives... It can be easy to forget that. Especially for kings, I think."
"I have not forgotten my people, if that's what you suggest." Jon's sadness is quickly replaced by indignation. "Would you have the kingdoms suffer under two mad tyrants, when the throne is Daenerys' by right?"
"But it isn't, is it?"
"Even if that's true, I don't want it! Whoever fathered me, I was raised by the same man as you. Ned Stark taught me honor and justice. Stay behind and do what you will, but that is what I seek!" Jon storms out of the room to answer the sound of the warhorns. Ghost whimpers as he leaves, but he does not turn back. There is no place for direwolves in the south. And he has a dragon now. But as he leaves, he cannot shake the final words of Alliser Thorne.
You'll be fighting their battles forever.
The Red Keep
The dinner in the Great Hall is festive, but you could not tell it by the look on the queen's face. Cersei looks ever more miserable and ill by the day, made all the more alarming by the fullness of her pregnancy. She is flanked at each side by Melisandre and Arthur Waters. Each their own breed of monster, Genna Lannister thinks.
She looks to Tyrion, dressed in motley before the lords and ladies, a fool in red-and-gold. He looks perhaps more miserable than his sister, but his watchful eyes have paid their fruit. The witch's weakness is in her hands now, Genna knows, and just in time. But alas it means little to Tyrion.
"Dance, Imp!" young Arthur shouts from his seat. "Dance for the queen!" When Tyrion does not move, Arthur signals to Boros and Preston. The mindless guards lurch forwards and, terror in his eyes, Tyrion Lannister begins to dance a spiteful jig, hopping from leg to leg, making the bells on his cap ring. And as they ring, his eyes turn from fear to hatred. If a mind alone could kill, Genna thinks as the crowd laughs, they would all be dead.
Kingsgrave
At the heart of the Prince's Pass, where the valleys from Dorne and the Reach meet, lies a great canyon, made labyrinthine by a maze of rocky pillars, plateaus and outcroppings. Atop these rock formations, whittled away by an ancient river and millennia of wind, sits Kingsgrave. Not one keep, but dozens of towers and strongholds tied together by bridges of stone or rope, a whole world high above the heads of all those who seek passage through their domain.
It was here a band of rogues and bandits fashioned themselves as House Mangoody, Kings of the Red Mountains, amassing great power and wealth through centuries of war. They had not worn a crown since Princess Nymeria conquered Dorne, but their ferocity and pride have never diminished.
Atop the largest of the plateaus sits the main castle, built from the same red rock as the mountains. Now, before the main keep, lined with archers and scorpions, waits the western army of Dorne. At the head, Darkstar, Lord Fowler and Lady Allyria looks up to the great iron-skulled gates. Lord Dagos Manwoody looks back down at him, a short, broad-shouldered bald man in black and gold tunic. His archers stand by, arrows notched. Beneath their black pointed helmets, their cracked war paint can be seen, fashioning each face into a skull.
"In the name of Queen Cersei, First of Her Name, I command you, let us pass!" Darkstar calls out. But he gets no response from the stoic lord. "Where is Ser Archibald Yronwood?"
"There is no man by that name here!" Dagos shouts back down. For the first time, he notices the shrouded woman beside the lord. "Have you misplaced one of your knights, Darkstar? Perhaps I may loan you one of my own?"
"Nonsense! I sent him here to ensure our passage. And yet I find your gates lowered and your arrows drawn. What is the meaning of this?"
"In whose name did you claim to march, ser?"
"Queen Cersei Lannister, the one true queen."
"For you and the rest of the kingdoms, perhaps, but I know of another queen. A Dornish queen."
Darkstar laughs. "There is no queen in Dorne!"
"But there is!" The shrouded woman speaks, and he recognizes the voice at once. Her cloak slips away and Arianne Martell steps forward in an elaborate yellow, red and black battle dress. Atop her head is a crown, and beneath it a silver vulture mask covers the scarred half of her face.
"Men of Dorne!" she shouts, "Listen to me! For millennia, our people lived free. We did not kneel to the Conqueror, we shot his queen from the sky and survived the dragon's wrath! When we joined to the Iron Throne, we signed a pact to the Targaryens. And they are defeated. Today, we are faced with a choice. Return to submission with this false knight or rise up under the wings of the vulture and remain Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken!"
At the sound of the Martell words, the army begins to cheer. Darkstar whirls about to see Lord Fowler and his daughters leading the chant.
"Unbowed! Unbent! Unbroken!"
His Yronwood guards raise their arms and are immediately cut down by arrows. Cursing Kingsgrave, cursing the Fowlers, cursing Arianne and above all cursing himself for not killing her in Sunspear, he seizes Lady Allyria and takes to his horse. Lord Fowler draws his crossbow, but cannot get a clear shot.
"You can still end this, Gerold," he says calmly. "Join us and you may yet earn that sword at your side. Flee and you will die a coward."
"You fools," Darkstar spits at the old lord. "When the Lannisters feast on your corpses, who will be the vulture then?" With that, he flicks his reigns and rides off into the mountains. Already the wheels of his mind turn. He will have revenge.
The Tower of the Hand
The lady Melisandre stares into her fireplace. For so long, R'Hllor had been silent to her. Perhaps, she thought, a punishment for backing Stannis. But she had been so sure. For some time she had cursed her god for misleading her and then forsaking her, but there must be some reason, she thinks. After all, the Lord of Light had granted her the power to show the truth to the queen and defend the capital from the wights.
Now, if the Northmen were to believed, the Night King was dead, their eternal enemy vanquished. It must be true what they say in Volantis. This Daenerys Targaryen must surely be Azor Ahai. Now, all Melisandre of Asshai needed was to wait, and the savior she had chased for so long would come to her.
Something stirs in the flames, a fraction of a visions, a dragon with three heads. Could it be so? Could the silence finally be broken? And then she hears the clanking of steel behind her. Turning, she sees the Imp standing in the shadows. And with him, Genna Lannister and Lord Commander Balon Swann, morningstar in hand.
"I did not hear my guards announce you," she glares, dismissively.
"We did not come by their way," Genna smiles. "Did not your god warn you of our coming?" Melisandre's eyes darken as Ser Balon steps forward, the sweat of fear running down his brow to his square jaw.
"Melisandre of Asshai, you are under arrest for conspiracy against the realm and coercion of the Queen."
"The queen will never consent to my arrest!" Melisandre protests.
"We know." Genna smiles. At that, Balon lunges forward, swinging. A single blow from his morningstar shatters the table by her. She gestures to the fireplace and the flames roar forth. Balon jumps back, but she is cornered. The fire is quickly burning out of control, spreading across the chamber and up to the roof. She can hear shouts from outside.
Seizing the distraction, she runs through the fire untouched, but in her flight, overlooks Tyrion, who slashes at her ankle with a dagger. She drops to the ground and the dwarf is upon her, fire catching at the fringes of his fool's motley. But daggers are nothing to her, and she throws him aside, the strength of R'Hllor within her.
But as she rises, something is wrong. She grasps at her neck. The amulet is gone. She looks back to see the Imp holding it in his hands. He tosses it into the flame as her beauty and youth escape her, her body sagging, bones becoming brittle and skin drooping. And then the dagger in the back. And this time, oh, how it stings.
Genna Lannister stabs again and again, to take no chances. But Melisandre knew from the first blow, it's over. Through grey, clouded eyes, she looks a last time at Genna and laughs.
"You think you can save her? Your beloved queen? The battle is already lost. She will die in your arms, your realm crumbling around you, turned to ash in your mouth, fuel for a summer that never ends."
And then, laughing, her legs give out and she falls backwards onto the fire. She feels the light begin to consume her, to fill her as the flames consume the tower itself. Soon she will see her Lord's face she thinks. They all will soon. All these fools, just more embers to rise into the night.
Guest Star Clifton Collins Jr. as Franklyn Fowler