Ten Towers

The Tower of Feasts is full to its brim of every living Harlaw, it seems, along with a wide range of their closest allies. The chatter is so loud, Yara can barely hear herself think. Lord Rodrik Harlaw, however, remains crouched over a book, barely looking up. Yara surveys the hall. Some of those gathered here she recognizes. Others are strangers. Of her uncles' bannermen, only the Myres were absent. That had been no mistake. "Pinchface Jon" Myre had been one of Euron's earliest backers.

She pays special attention to the haggard old man, sitting quiet and alone in the back of the room. Tarle the Thrice-Drowned, they called him, a priest of the Drowned God, the most successful and renowned, save for her uncle Aeron.

"Quiet! Quiet!" Hotho Harlaw shouts from his family's table, but little heed is paid to the hunch-backed man. From across the room, Boremund Harlaw stands from his family's table

"Silence!" Boremund bellows. "You heard the man! Let Lord Harlaw speak!"

Worried her uncle has not paid attention, Yara turns to jar him from his reading, but he is already closing his book, tucking away his Myrish lens and standing.

"Firstly, I would like to thank you all for blessing the towers with your presence tonight, my friends. We have emerged from the dark horrors of night into the light of the sun once more," the little man smiles, his trim grey beard twitching. After a moment for cheers and applause, his expression turns grim. "But now the Iron Islands face a grave reality. Our king, a kinslayer, a madman and a blasphemer has abandoned us to take all power onto himself! We stand in crisis. We must ask ourselves – What will we do about it?"

"A kingsmoot!" Hotho shouts, and this time every man hears him.

"We cannot just name a new king," Lord Stonetree protests. "Euron was chosen by rights. So long as he lives, he rules!"

"Euron's crown was granted by the Drowned God," Rodrick declares, calmly, as if a maester lecturing children. "But he has forsaken that right. Hotho can attest to this, as can my niece. What the Drowned God gives he can take away. Is that not so, Tarle?"

All eyes turn to the back of the room. Yara stares intently, watching the old man as he slowly raises his head from his meager plate, as if only now recognizing the conversation.

"If these accusations are true, they are grave indeed." The priest's words creak like a rusty gate. "When the sun died, I saw despair. I stood on the shores for days, praying, humbling myself before the Drowned God. I did not know why he had forsaken us. But I held faith, and the day was born again. We have been given a chance to repent. If the folly of our king's godlessness could bring such terror, I shudder at the thought of what more he could bring upon us. I will go with you to Pyke. I will summon the priests. We must make this right."

Solemn affirmation echoes throughout the room. And Yara smiles. Could Euron truly have blotted out the sun? It doesn't matter. The judgement has fallen from the Thrice-Drowned's lips. Praise be.

The Red Keep

"Bring me Arthur Waters!" Queen Cersei rages at Ser Henrik Mooton, the Queensguard with the unlucky duty to inform her that the Tower of the Hand had burned down in the night and that Melisandre of Asshai was presumed dead in its ashes.

The knight marches back across the drawbridge, white cloak flowing behind him, past Lord Commander Balon Swann, who watches him go, nervously. After last night, he had thoroughly checked every inch of his own cloak to ensure it had not been singed or scorched as he, the Imp and Lady Genna had fled the burning tower.

Balon's brain still wrestles with guilt. The Red Woman had been dangerous, no doubt, a threat to the queen, her expected heir and the whole realm. Yet it still felt a grievous dishonor to be party to the murder of his queen's confidant. As Ser Henrik returns with young Arthur Waters, still in his bedclothes, Balon dashes such thoughts from his mind. He must have a clear brain to protect the realm in such trying times.

Arthur is presented to the queen on the walk overlooking the moat of Maeogr's holdfast. Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Ilyn Payne, freshly dressed in Queensguard white, are with her. They rarely leave Cersei's side these days.

"Your grace, what is it you require of me?" he bows, his robe flopping clumsily over his head. The queen is not amused.

"Must you truly ask?" she points to the smoke still rising from the ashes of the Tower of the Hand, her eyes burning with a fury hotter than the fire. "Your guards stood watch over the tower! And yet now it has burned to the ground, with my priestess inside it! And you stand there in your bedclothes!"

"What would you have me do? The red woman was known for her fiery magic, it is most likely a spell burnt out of control. Regardless, I am investigating every possibility…"

"No." Cersei slaps him. "That's not good enough. I am surrounded by enemies, even within these walls. I cannot suffer failure. And you are one of many."

"What do you mean?" Arthur begins to back away, but Ser Ilyn blocks his path.

"Tell me, who among your little birds is most prepared to lead?" the queen asks.

"Rodge of the Hill, perhaps," he stammers. "Or Tom Blackbottom."

"I see." She nods. "Ser Gregor, we are done here."

In a moment, all of Arthur Waters' pretension falls away and he is only what he is – a boy, eyes suddenly wide with terror as the Mountain's huge hands lift him from the ground.

"Boros! Preston!" he calls, but his mindless guards are not here. There is only the Mountain. And the queen. Without hesitation, the undead Queensguard hurls him over the edge, his horrid final scream only stopped by the spikes below. Cersei does not bother to look at the body, walking away, across the moat to Ser Balon.

"Take me to the laboratories. I have arrangements to make."

White Harbor – The Wolf's Den

Ser Marlon Manderly sits in the yards of the Wolf's Den, the ancient castle that now serves as White Harbor's prison. These crumbling walls belong to him now. A fresh snow graces the ground, the pristine white muddied by his daughter Melody and her cousin Wylla, as they play with the guards' daughters. Some days Melody still asked about her twin. He still knows naught what to tell her. Better to let the septas give the girl answers while he weeps again for his dead son. Whatever gods had cursed his line knew that he had no answers to give her.

It was still a shock that old Wyman had died before him. He'd been near ten years older, for certain, but still…

Another life gone, and I am left to bear witness.

"Father!" He hears the sound of Mycah's voice and turns to see his heir approaching, looking every inch the knight in his mail and green surcoat. In his hands he carries the greatsword Leviathan.

"What do you mean, lugging that great thing about in the snow?"

"It is your blade, father. It belongs in the Wolf's Den."

"And what have I ever done with it?" Marlon pushes the blade back to his son, his attention returning to the children at play. "In my hands, Leviathan was only ever bloodied by common criminals. It has slain a White Walker now. It would be ill-fit as a headsman's blade."

"What would you do with it?" Mycah is confused.

"My son, my son…" Marlon smiles, sadly. "It is yours now. You have won your place with it in the songs, and it has carried you back to me alive. You will leave it by your side. We have won the city peace for, a time. Let us see if we can keep it."

Rising, Marlon rolls a ball of heavy snow. With a light throw, it explodes against young Wylla's dyed green hair. She shrieks, and rushes with her cousin to their own snow defenses. Laughing, Marlon gives chase. His time of war is done.

White Harbor - Newcastle

Sansa lies awake in her bed, unable to sleep. She gingerly massages her feet, bandages still tightly wrapped where she had lost three toes to frostbite that knight on the White Tooth. There is wine and lemoncakes on her dais, but it has done no good.

Ser Wylis, no, Lord Wylis now, had not taken the news well. The maesters could not confirm Wynafryd's claims of pregnancy, but her declarations were enough to despoil her father's sense of honor. Wylis had demanded she take moon tea to end it, but it was then Sansa had intervened. She remained his princess, and he had left it at that, gone off to entertain guests from the Iron Bank. Word of White Harbor's dragon corpse has already reached them, and now they flocked like vultures.

Sansa would have to go now, she knew. For certain, she could send Wynafryd south with an escort. But how craven would she look then? No, it was decided. Her time of peace is finished as soon as it has begun.

She hears Brienne at guard by her door, blocking someone… Mycah.

"Brienne, let him in!" she calls. The door slides open and Mycah trods softly in. He has traded his mail for a soft turquoise doublet, embroidered with a merman.

"I hope I have not disturbed you, princess…"

"No, have a seat," Sansa beckons. "Have some wine, if you like."

He takes the seat, but no wine. "I hear you have decided to sail with the Vale knights on the morn, with my cousin as well."

"You hear true."

"It is a brave and noble thing," he smiles, timidly.

"I do not feel brave," Sansa confesses, nibbling on a lemoncake for comfort. But she finds herself taking more comfort from his eyes. Blue-green, like the sea.

"You are in the company of knights!" His voice is encouraging. "They have all sworn their vows, just as I have. No harm will befall you in the Eyrie."

"Knights and their valor and their love," Sansa sighs. "I believed all that, long ago. But I've learned new things. I've been told that love is poison, that there are no true knights."

"You know that isn't true! Brienne is the truest knight I know!" Mycah protests.

"Brienne is no knight."

"Were you to make her one this very knight, no one would stand in your way."

"No," she shakes her head sadly. "Would that it were so simple. It's not Brienne. It's not me, or Lord Wylis or you. It's our world. It's so broken. We survived the wrath of gods, defeated an army of the dead, but it never stops. People just keep hating, scheming, warring for more. Why can't we just have peace?"

She looks out the window at the moon, hanging low over the sea. "They all called me a little bird. I wish I was. I wish I could fly away to the moon and never return. See how peaceful it looks, all alone out there."

"My grace, if you willed it, I would build a ladder to the heavens and take you there myself, I swear."

Sansa laughs. But when she turns back from the moon, she sees no jest in his face. She can see the moon reflected in those sea-green eyes. Slowly, she leans forward until their faces are inches apart. She can feel his breath, warm and salty. Just for an instant, her lips touch his. And for the first time, she does not feel fear at the touch. This is what a kiss should feel like, she thinks.

"You're a good man, Ser Mycah." She clasps his hand in hers and slowly, her head drifts to her pillow. She floats off to sleep, but her hand never lets go. Nor does Mycah, even as his own eyes tremor shut, still sitting upright beside her bed. Together, they dream of a morning far away. But not so far as before.

Moat Cailin

"No," Daenerys Targaryn insists, jabbing a finger at the frightened Manderly steward who had delivered the missive from White Harbor. "No man shall touch Viserion. I will not let him be chopped into pieces and shipped across the sea for gold!"

They had been camped two days at this ancient ruin of a fort when word of the Iron Bank's offer had arrived. They would back her claim for the throne. But they wanted the body of Viserion, which the Manderly fools had dragged to their city without telling her. Her Viserion, her son, on display in a market, ready to be sold. Never.

"Your grace," Lord Glover interjects, "It's like they will take Cersei's side otherwise. The worth of a dragon is enough to wage a war over. If they could claim all three…"

"No!" she slams both fists on the table. "The usurpers will never slay my dragons. They will all burn and die before us if they will not yield to their rightful queen! And the fools of the Bank will burn as well, if they seek to claim Viserion!"

The Northerners all turn to Jon now – Glover, Cerwyn, Stout, Ryswell, Sigorn the Wilding, even Lady Stane of Skagos and Myles Wull. At this counsel, only Grey Worm, Zatarra and Jorah answer to her.

"The queen has spoken, and I am of her mind," Jon insists, though he is unwilling to lock eyes with her. "Enough talk of this, there are larger matters at hand."

"We hold Moat Cailin, strong as ever," one-armed Harwood Stout reports. "But it is not our end of the passage that is the problem. The loyalists have fortified the south of the pass. We outnumber them, but they have the high-ground, the battlements and scorpions."

Daenerys shudders to recall what those machines had done to her dragons on the Roseroad. "Is there no other way through the neck?"

"Let us find a way," Sigorn barks, with Lady Stane nodding agreement. "A little muck is nothing to fear!"

"You'd all be dead within a day," Stout shakes his head. "If we want to bypass the Kingsroad, we will need the Crannogmen. We will need Howland Reed."

"Then find him!" Daenerys commands. That ends the meeting. She waits as the others leave and night falls, hoping to speak with Jon. But he slips away without notice. Soon she is alone with Eres, the eastern warrior now dressed in dark armor befitting a guard of the Fiery Hand. The woman accompanies her out of the counsel's tent.

How much further south must we go before we escape this damned cold? she thinks, wrapping her white fur coat tighter around her as she walks against the wind towards her quarters in the Gatehouse Tower. Even her Red companion seems to feel the chill. It is clear she and Zatarra fear these swamps, though they will nary admit it. At last, the reach the tower's entrance.

"You may leave me be now," she tells Eres.

"You are not safe here, your grace. These swamps run deep with the power of the old gods, and these Northmen are not to be trusted. Cannot you see it in their eyes?"

"I see soldiers who will do the bidding of Jon Snow."

"And do you trust Jon Snow, my grace?"

The question takes Daenerys aback. "With my life." At that, she closes the door in Eres' face and treads quietly up the steps to the bedchamber shared by her and Jon. He already lies naked beneath the fur blankets. She should ask him now, she thinks. Their betrothal cannot come soon enough. That much she can indeed see in the Northmen's eyes.

"Awake, my wolf," she whispers in his ear, but he only turns over.

"The day is long, I tire of talking," his muffled voice rises from beneath the covers.

"Then we will not talk." She silently slips out of her heavy coats and into the bed, pressing her body against his. But he is cold. "Come now, you're frigid," she laughs, hands reaching around his chest and thighs, lips at his ear. But he does not respond, in body or spirit.

After a moment of silence, she rolls away, left to stare at the stones above her head. Something is wrong. And it is not only these swamps.

Blackhaven

It would be yet some time before his bannermen arrived in the council chambers, but Lord Harlan Dondarrion was already on his way. Some lords had a fashion of making their attendants wait for them. Such vanity had no root in Harlan.

Behind him follow his son Tywin, in matching, if ill-fitted black garb, and his ward, Lord Edric Dayne, in silver-and-lilac silk. Further back still follows Ser Balerion Horpe, Harlon's sworn sword, a massive man, outsized in Westeros only by the Mountain, his tattered white robes flowing in an unfelt wind.

At last they have reached the door to the chamber. Balerion steps ahead swiftly to open it for his lord and young Edric. But before Tywin can enter, Harlan stops him.

"No, boy, you will wait here."

"But, the meeting…"

"Is for my lords and commanders," Harlan insists, firmly.

"I sat at the Lord's Table," Tywin's assertion falters under his father's withering glare.

"To dine with me is one thing, boy. To plan war is quite another. After hearing of the debacle at White Harbor, it is clear you have much to learn before you can join my counsel." Harlan turns away. Tywin wants to shout that he can never learn out here alone in the hallway, but he says nothing. Ser Balerion closes the door in his face.

The sound of clattering metal comes approaching down the hall. Rounding the corner, wooden sword and dining platter in hand, a pot for a helm, charges his brother, Barristan, a boy of nine, his sister Elenei running close behind.

"Ty, come play with us!" Barristan swats at his brother's shins. "I'm King Argilac! You can be the Gardner King!"

"I'm sure you can be someone else, if you don't want to die," Elenei smirks.

"No, I can't play, I have important things to do, Tywin insists. "Lord's things." His siblings offer no question, and off they run, as quickly as they came. He feels like falling to the floor, slouched against the wall. He feels like crying. But he cannot. And so he stands straight, eyes front, awaiting his father's return.

The Red Mountains

Ser Gerold Dayne sits upon a broken red rock in a hidden mountain valley, polishing the white blade of Dawn, the sword, legend holds, forged from the heart of a fallen star and passed down by the greatest warriors of House Dayne. Beside him, his aunt, Lady Allyria Dayne, toils over a fledgling fire.

"It should only be a few days ride to Blackhaven, by my readings," Darkstar mutters.

"To Blackhaven?" Allyria is surprised. "Lord Beric is passed without a doubt, if the Northmen are to be believed. A dead man has little need for his betrothed."

"Not Beric, perhaps. But now Harlan is Lord of Blackhaven and all the Stormlands, and Warden of the East as well."

"What of him?"

"He still wants you. As he has since the day his brother took your hand, I suppose."

"All this I know. Yet is not Lady Penelope still living?" Harlan may be mad for her, she knew, but the lord was far too stern in honor to ever break his vows.

"I do not question his intent. But I know what men want.""What do you want from all this, Gerold? What is your plan in all this?"

The knight does not look away from his reflection in Dawn. "I will take their heads, all of them. Fowler, Mangoody, every last traitor down to Arianne and her cock-loving guardian. Once I have bested them, I will reclaim my army, march them to King's Landing and lay the villains' skulls at Cersei's feet!" His violet eyes burn. "Then I will take up Dawn and don my white cloak and do what Arthur Dayne never could – End the line of Eddard Stark."

"You will never be Ser Arthur," Allyria shakes her head. At that, Darkstar lashes out with his closed, armored fist, catching Allyria above her eye. It immediately begins to swell and bleed.

"Start the damn fire before we both freeze to death!" he snaps. And then, as if nothing has happened, his attention returns to Dawn. As the first star of the evening catches in its reflection, he smiles.

Pyke

Erik Ironmaker sits atop the Seastone Chair. Whether the massive old man is awake or asleep is hard to say. At his left, his fabled war-hammer is presented by his grandson, Thormor. At his right, Aeron Damphair stands. And as the party from Harlaw arrives, it is clear to Yara who has the real power here.

With her are Rodrick, Hotho, Lord Volmark, Lord Stonetree and the Thrice-Drowned, with two dozen men-at-arms in tow. They had faced little resistance, and it had been dealt with swiftly enough.

"Anvil-Breaker!" Yara shouts and throws her axe, burying it in the stone at the foot of the throne. Old Erik startles awake. "We would have words with you."

"We know why you have come, traitor," Aeorn hisses, salty spittle flying from his mouth. "There will be no kingsmoot, the Islands already have a king."

"A false king!" Tarle steps forward to face his fellow priest. "A blasphemous king who has betrayed the sea for a red god of fire! I will not sit idly by while he brings down curses upon our heads." He pushes Aeron aside to face Erik directly. "Will you, Ironmaker?"

Erik coughs horrendously as the room grows silent, all eyes on him.

"I, er, um…. I will summon the lords to Old Wyk. We shall decide this matter before the Drowned God!"

White Harbor

As Brienne of Tarth rides through the city, down to the docks, she feels the weight of two swords upon her back, two swords re-forged from Ice, the ancient blade of House Stark. One is hers, Oathkeeper, a gift from Jaime Lannister. The other was his own, Widow's Wail. Now Jaime's bones are marched back to the Rock, but his sword remains with her.

Pod would deserve such a blade, she thinks, but he is dead, too. She had found his torn body beneath a pile of a dozen wights at the gates of Winterfell. True and brave to the last. And the Starks had a new blade now, wielded by their king – Longclaw. She knows naught what to do with Widow's Wail. It only rests heavy on her person, a reminder of her final oath to the man she loved. And now, as she follows her lady Sansa aboard the Frosted Fury, she takes another step closer to having to choose.

He made me vow, she remembers, holding his hand as he slipped away into the night. I vowed to save his child. To save his heir means to save Cersei...

She snaps out of her thoughts as her horse reaches the gangplank to board. Sansa is waiting, with Mycah and Wynafryd Manderly. And gingerly she spurs ahead, out onto the water, carrying her on to destiny.

King's Landing

The city is alive with festivities, for the king has returned. Qyburn noted it odd that the queen had not come to meet The Silence when it docked. But the king had spurned the Red Keep regardless. Instead, Euron had led Leyla Hightower straight into his camp in the ruins of the Sept. The bizarre circus of priests, mummers, singers and followers had only grown since they left, and now the priest Moqorro, with a flourish of mystic fire takes to the great stage beneath the Maiden's ruined statue.

As he boasts in grandiose terms of the victory the great Euron Greyjoy had won against the dead in Oldtown, Qyburn waits in the wings with the king and his new lady. He has no time for this, he must see the queen, but first…

"But mine own humble words could not do this part justice," an actor's voice can be heard. "No, please, today we have been truly graced. Today in this new tale, the role of our king will be played by King Euron himself!"

Euron bursts onto the stage to a mad rush of cheers. He wears his finest black and gold garb, a flowing red cape behind him, a ruby embedded in his eye-patch and the steel crown of the lion-headed kraken atop his tangled black hair. Leyla, dressed equally fabulously, turns to leave, but Qyburn seizes her plump arm and turns her back to him.

"My lady, I beg you not forget, there are eyes everywhere in this city." He looks to her neck. The king's own jewels, he recognizes, and hurriedly pulls them off the confused woman. "There is naught that happens here I do not see or hear. Do not give me cause to distrust you. Or I cannot protect you from the queen."

With that, he disappears into the crowd, leaving behind Leyla, now slightly less glamoured, to join the crowd pressing to see King Euron recount his latest daring deeds.

The Western Hills

Varys leads his donkey down a narrow path, along a steep ravine in the heart of the mountains, famous for their great mines and now the hideaway of the last Lannister loyalists. Ahead he knows is the entrance to Deep Den, the great subterranean keep of House Liddle, which guards the Goldroad's passage through this place.

The eunuch is dressed in tattered robes of a poor traveler, his donkey laid with a meager load of vegetables, but hopefully enough to win passage into the mines. As he nears the entrance, he sees the long line of smallfolk, eager to take shelter in the mines from the war outside, from the dragon's wroth. From the wicked spider, too, Varys thinks.

He feels the eyes of guards, bearing the markings of purple Brax unicorns, green Serret peacocks, but mostly yellow Liddle badgers. But if they note him, they say nothing. And just like that, Varys and his donkey disappear into the throng clamoring down, down into the earth. What does it mean for them if I succeed, he thinks? Will they descend into these depths to find safe haven, only to find their hell instead? He shudders, and presses on.

Moat Cailin

Jon finds Daenerys on a balcony overlooking the ruins of the ancient keep. She does not turn to see him approach.

"Good morning, my queen," he says quietly. "They have prepared us a fine meal in the solar."

"No," Daenerys answers, plainly, without looking to him. "First we must talk."

"We can talk over biscuits," Jon shivers from the cold. "What need you speak of?"

"Our betrothal," she says, and Jon's heart drops. "Do not think I do not know where the Northern armies hold loyalty. Or the loyalties of your brother and sisters. Who do you think Sansa plans to bring the Vale to follow? They do not love me. They do not march for me. They wait upon your word alone. And a divided army cannot stand."

"I don't know if that is necessary," Jon tries to wrap his arm around her, but no warmth is returned. "I follow you. Our armies march as one."

"No, they do not," At last she turns to him. There are dark circles around her eyes, marked with tears. "Your armies see mine own as invaders. They tremble at my name and cheer at yours. We cannot retake my throne like this. Say the word, and we will put an end to it."

But Jon says nothing.

"Was not this always the plan? Ever since I left Dragonstone, my thoughts were of you. You swore to me you were the same!" her voice cracks. "You said we were in love! And I know I love you, but if you do not…" She turns, looking out over the sea of tent encampments. "I will find another."

"I do…" Jon stammers. "I do love you, but…"

"But what?" She slaps him, and immediately regrets it. "I'm so sorry!"

"I'm not who you think I am," Jon whispers as Daenerys reaches to gently touch his cheek, stinging red.

"What do you mean?"

"Bran told me, before we left," Just to retell it feels like tearing my soul apart. "All my life, I wondered who my mother was. But now… Bran says it was all a lie, all of it, from the very beginning. He says he saw when I was born, he saw through the trees. He saw who my parents were. My mother was Lyanna Stark. My father was Rhaegar Targaryen."

Daenerys' jaw drops. She slowly backs away. "And you believe him?"

"He has powers beyond my understanding. But he would not lie to me."

"Wouldn't he? Can you not see it, Bran? His powers come from the same place as the White Walkers! He has distrusted me from the moment we met!"

"No. It's true. I know Bran."

"Do you? Do you really? You knew a boy named Brandon Stark, who fell from a window and still slept when you left for the Wall! He is not that boy anymore, he would be the first to tell you, himself." Jon cannot answer. He knows that is true, but cannot speak it to words. "If this is true, that means you are before me in line to the throne."

"I don't want the throne."

"Then marry me, now, and none of this will matter! You say you love me!"

"You're my aunt!" Jon shouts, then retreats within the chambers, fearing a guard below may hear. Daenerys follows.

"For centuries the Targaryens married siblings, to keep our blood pure! If you are my nephew, that is nothing to me!"

Jon will not look at her. "I spent my whole life thinking I was Ned Stark's son. I no longer know who I am."

"You are a man who loves me and the man that I love. That is all that matters." He does not answer. "Who else knows. Is there anyone alive who could confirm Bran's tale?"

"Howland Reed."

"Then let us pray even more that this Reed can be found."

Old Wyk

Atop Nagga's hill, Yara stands alongside Rodrik and Tarle Thrice-Drowned before the assembled lords of the islands and the priests of the Drowned God. She nervously eyes them. The last time she stood here, they had betrayed her inheritance to name Euron king. That cannot happen again, she tells herself. She will not survive if it does.

"It was not so long ago that we stood here and named Euron Greyjoy our king," Tarle is preaching. "The Drowned God blessed him, and he led us to victory and the Iron Throne! But he has forgotten who gave him his claim! Who gifted him his power! He has forsaken the ways of the sea, and follows the god of fire and light and summer. Those who grasp that hand will burn and blister, their victories will turn to ash in their lungs and they will drown, not in the sea but in smoke!"

"We have already seen the wrath his heresy brought upon us, the night without end! The dead that rose! By our god's grace, we have been given a second chance. A chance to make this right before Euron's fires consume us all! We must choose a new king!"

"And who would you have us choose, Thrice-Drowned?" Erik Ironmaker bellows.

"Yara Greyjoy!" Now Rodrick speaks. "King Balon's heir! She has always spoken for the sake of our people. She will never abandon us to chase a mainland throne, she is Ironborn, through and through. She bears the allegiance of the dragons! She will not fail us!"

"What?" Aeron shouts. "A woman cannot sit the Seastone Chair! All your reading has driven you mad, Harlaw!" Many of the lords shout agreement, but Tarle silences them all.

"Better a woman than a heretic!" he shouts back. "Yara Greyjoy is more Ironborn than you, or any coward that follows the follies of the Crow's Eye! Do not think he can protect you from the wrath of the Drowned God!"

"Aye! Give us Yara!" Lord Drumm shouts, and Hotho begins to rally the other lords in chanting her name. "Yara! Yara!" Farwynd, Goodbrother, Orkwood, even Jon Myre. Finally, Rodrick turns to Erik Ironmaker himself.

"Two of your grandsons died in Oldtown, following Euron. How many more sons must die for his madness?"

Erik only dwells on the Reader's words for a moment before adding his voice to the chorus shouting for Yara. But where is Aeron? It is then she feels him behind her, bony but strong hands seizing her arm, dragging her to the edge of the water.

"You want Yara? You want a woman to lead you?" he shouts. "Let the Drowned God decide!" With that, he pushes her out and over, but her hands are quicker than his. Catching the priest's tunic, she pulls him down beneath the waves with her.

And then the salt water is rushing into her, down her throat, her nose, her ears. The water is cold, colder than anything else she has felt before. And dark, too dark. Aeron is beneath her, or above her, as she twists and turns. His skeletal hands pull her down, but no, there are too many, too many hands to be his alone. She is falling down, down. A silent scream only lets more bitter, cold water in as she reaches desperately to where she knows light should be, if she could only see it.

And then she can see, but what she sees she knows cannot be. The tentacles of the kraken write around her, each tentacle bearing a screaming head, the heads that had called her name moments before. She turns, but beneath her the horror is worse. Aeron floats, dead, eels streaming from his mouth, his face eaten away to naught but a skeleton. And behind him an army, only faces in the dark, fish-headed men with razor-teeth. She turns and swims desperately away, but something is wrong. She is going deeper. She turns, but now behind her stands Euron. He is the heart of the kraken, the shadowy tentacles spiraling out from him. Dark wings sprout from his back and he breathes fire. But it is all lies, she tells herself and kicks, harder and harder, up and up.

And then she breaks the surface. Aeron is gone. There is only Tarle, waiting with a driftwood crown, and Rodrick, a great smile upon his face, and the crowd of her people, chanting her name.