Raventree Hall
"Lord Brynden, tell your fool of a brother to step aside before I am forced to do something we will all regret," Lord Jonos Bracken commands. He stands at the entry to the godswood, alongside Lord Edmure Tully and a dozen men-at-arms. In their path stands Hoster Blackwood with no armor, sword brandished, his sister Bethany crouched behind them. The tall lad has no business holding that sword, Edmure thinks, a lanky mess of bones and sinew, all angles. He'd be better off at the Citadel.
"Hos, please," Brynden steps forward. A man of twenty and two, but young all the same. Edmure can tell he does not yet believe himself a lord, even with news of his father's death. "Let them pass. There's nothing you can do!"
"That tree is our home!" Hos shouts. Surprising everyone, he swings clumsily at his brother. Brynden easily sidesteps and shoves his brother to the ground, the sword dropping into frozen dirt. Bethany, shrieking, rushes at Lord Bracken, but is seized by two guards as the enter the wood.
"I always found it a queer sigil anyway," Bracken sneers at the two sullen youths. "Your name is Blackwood and this… well it's anything but."
The guards march forward, advancing on the massive, long-dead weirwood at the heart of the wood, axes in hand. The flock of ravens perched in its branches begins to shriek deafeningly as the men approach. As the axes begin to strike, they scatter. Several, seemingly possessed by righteous fury, dive down at Bracken himself. He lashes out. By the time the ravens are gone, two lie dead at his feet.
"This is an honor," Bracken kicks aside the birds, stiffened and warped in their death throes. "The wood from your tree may at last be of use in service to the crown."
But as Bracken taunts his conquered rivals, Edmure can only here the heavy THWACK THWACK of the axes, cutting deep into the trunk. The tree's face, long dead yet now it's red sap eyes glare convicting outwards, into his soul. In the he sees the eyes of his fathers, his sisters, even Robb Stark.
THWACK. THWACK.
What have you done, Edmure? What have you done? And what will you do now?
Winterfell
Obara Sand finds the prince in his chambers, already dressed. His room is simple for a lad of his stature, even his bed is a lumpy straw mattress with rough-hewn wool sheets. Brandon Stark himself looks as if he has not slept in a week.
"Have you been well?" she asks as she helps him to his wheelchair.
"In body but not mind," Bran answers, sadly. "My rest is troubled."
"Ask and I'll find you a proper bed. This is not fit for a prince."
He shakes his head. "In my time beyond the Wall, I slept on rock and dirt. When so many of my people do the same, why should I require more? It is not my bed that troubles me. A new darkness is spreading across the land. The queen is destroying the weirwoods."
"To guard against you?"
"No, I don't think that's it," Bran's voice trails off as Theon Greyjoy appears before them, hobbling along on crutches.
"Your food has been prepared," he reports.
"I'll eat later. Take me to the crypts."
Obara must lift the prince from his chair and carry him down the steps into the crypt, Theon haltingly following. The workers have not yet arrived, leaving the trio alone with the unfinished marble of the newest stues. Bran runs his hands over the rough-hewn features of his father and eldest brother.
"A poor face," Theon looks at Robb's stone head. "It doesn't do him justice."
"It will," Bran insists. "Give them time. They ought to make one for Rickon, as well, or else I fear he'll be forgotten. He did not live to have his name writ to song. He deserved better."
"Indeed," Obara agrees, though she did not know the boy. "It will be done."
"I think I will break fast now," Bran decides. "And then tour the Winter's Town. The people should see us. We may be at war, but we must offer what peace we can." With a final look at the chiseled statues, Obara turns and carries the prince away. Theon lingers a moment longer, staring mournfully at the lifeless eyes of marble. At last, he follows Obara's fading footsteps away to dine.
The Neck
Grey Worm pries his foot free from the half-frozen muck. This was miserable terrain, unlike any he'd ever seen. The rest of the party sits hunched around a fire, slowly roasting a lizard-lion they had chased from its burrow. The meat was tough and chewy, like everything else they found in these swamps. And they had encountered no shortage of beasts here. But not a single crannogman, much less their elusive leader, Howland Reed.
All that changes as his party begins to tear into their meal. Ever alert, Grey Worm's eyes scan the group. Suddenly, he stops, mid-bite. Standing at the edge of the campsite is a girl, is dirty brown garb, spear in hand.
"You there!" he shouts, drawing the attention of the others. "Who are you?"
Sigorn, the wildling lord of Karhold, rises to confront the girl, but with a quick flick of her small spear, she knocks the huge warrior on his back. Grey Worm rises slowly, bidding the others to stay still.
"I am Meera Reed," the girl declares. "Daughter and heir to Lord Howland. You've bungled through our lands long enough. My father will come with you on one condition. You will take him directly to Jon Snow."
The Gates of the Moon
Returning here is a strange feeling for Sansa Stark. When she had left, she had never wanted to return, haunted by nightmares of Aunt Lysa. But compared to what came after, the Eyrie had been paradise, and Lysa a dream. Now the Eyrie looms ominously above them in the sky, closed off for the winter, as she comes before her cousin.
Sitting atop a rune-inscribed bronze throne, Lord Robin Arryn is flanked by eight knights in sky-blue capes with winged helmets, his Order of the Winged Kinights, he called them. He is a very different boy from when she last saw him. Still frail and pale, he is near a head taller and possessed with an unfamiliar intensity. And most telling of all, he is no longer playing to the whims of his advisors. Which, as Sansa is discovering, will prove to be a problem.
"Why should I bend the knee to this dragon queen?" the boy-lord complains. "What will she offer me? Queen Cersei stole my titles from me because of you and your bastard brother!"
"My lord," Sansa protests, "Do you think Cersei will care if you side with her now? If you pledge fealty, perhaps Queen Daenerys would…"
"I do not serve Cersei!" Robin shouts and begins to shake. The maester rushes to calm him, but is pushed away. "I am lord here! This is my kingdom! Everyone thinks I'm weak, all of you, you're just waiting for me to die! But I'm not! I will not die!"
"Robin…" Sansa tries to reason with the angry lad but Lord Grafton interrupts.
"Do you think you can defy the dragons? The Eyrie itself could not stand against them! Do you wish to burn alongside your kingdom, boy?"
"Burn? Like the ones you killed in Gulltown?" Robin shrieks. "Take him away!" The winged knights close in on Grafton, obscuring the short lord behind their blue cloaks. "I wish we had a moon door here! I'd throw you from it! No one threatens me, not you, not my cousin, not a dragon!" He turns angrily to Sansa, suddenly that scared, violent boy again. "There are four queens and two kings in the land now, I hear! I have my mountains, I have my knights. You tell them if they want to speak to me, they will speak to King Robin, King of the Mountain and Vale!" And at that, the blue cloaks and steel wings enclose around her, too.
Pyke
Yara Greyjoy sits upon the Seastone Chair, a dritwood crown in her hair, attended by Lord Rodrick Harlaw and Tarle the Thrice-Drowned. They are prepared to host audience, for the Targaryen fleet has arrived.
The doors swing open to reveal Lord Sebaston Farman, flanked by Humfrey Hightower and Sandro Qo, the Summer Islander. She can already read the disdain on Farman's face. His family's hatred for the Ironborn is legendary.
"We should make this quick, Lady Greyjoy," he snarls, his handsome blonde features turned vicious. "I don't want to spend longer on this cursed rock than I have to."
"That's Queen Yara, or your grace, Lord Farman," Yara corrects him, grinning. "And I assure you, I wish to keep your time in my presence as brief as possible."
Humfrey laughs at that, but is silenced with a glare from Lord Clifton.
"You received that crown in turn for an alliance with Queen Daenerys Targaryen. We have come to collect on that alliance. We need more ships."
"Our fleets are depleted," Lord Harlaw explains. "We have little to spare."
"Then give us what you have. My queen's patience grows thin. She has already waited far too long to claim her birthright."
Moat Cailin
Daenerys Targaryen pulls her heavy fur coat tighter around her, the cold air chilling even by the fire within the counsel tent. She stifles a yawn. It's been nigh impossible to sleep since Jon's revelation. She had hoped telling Jorah would lift the burden.
"Once he's had time to adjust, I'm sure Jon will come to an understanding," he muses. "All his life he's lived a story, a story that turned out to be a lie. Once he comes to terms with who he truly is, he'll return to you, and we can put this all behind us."
"And if he does not?"
"He will not oppose you. You could wed another Northman, Lord Cerwyn, perhaps, and secure their support."
"No. If Bran told him the truth, Jon would be first in line to the throne. Even if he doesn't want it, he will be a threat. His family has no love for me. If he has to choose between us, what will he do then?"
"Don't trouble yourself on such matters, your grace," Jorah places a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Focus on the war, that's where we need you. Ned Stark and Howland Reed kept this secret for twenty years. Let it stay that way."
A commotion can be heard outside and the priestess Zatarra steps into the tent, red robes dusted by snow.
"My queen, the party has returned. They've found the crannogman."
She leads Daenerys and Jorah to the edge of the camp, where Grey Worm, Sigorn and their scouts are welcomed back. She peers through the crowd to see whom they've brought. A hard-looking girl with long brown hair, carrying a three-pronged frogspear and a short man in bronze scales with stringy brown hair, tight face and dark eyes. Eyes that immediately find Daenerys and do not look away.
"It is him," Zatarra whispers.
"Bring him to my tower," she commands. "I will speak to him at once."
Hawthorne Hall
The armies of the West camp beneath Targaryen banners in the wide grassy fields around the old wood-and-stone keep of House Hawthorne. Ahead, the Goldroad winds down to disappear into the Western Hills, where their enemies lurk. Within the Hall, a war counsel is in session, presided over by Lord Damion Lannister, Hand to the Queen and Lord Roland Crakehall, Master of War.
It's as fine a counsel as he could ask for, Damion thinks. Lord Merryweather and Ser Carnegie Rowan have brought their armies from the Reach to join his own men and the Unsullied and Dothraki armies left under his command. He only wishes he could still claim a dragon. But against these mountains, they would be of little use.
Before them on the table is assembled a map of Deep Den, compiled from the information relayed by Varys.
"Thanks to the spider, we know the ways in and out of Deep Den," Damion explains. "And, more importantly, their water source. Let us see how long Lord Brax's men stay loyal when their throats go dry."
"Then what of the heir?" Ser Forley Prester asks, his mind on the captive Robert Brax.
"I say we burn him!" declares Lord Crakehall's son, Tybolt, as huge and brash as his father. "Let them see what becomes of those who defy their true queen and true god!"
"No," Damion silences that notion. "Robert is yet just a boy. It would harden their hearts against us to see him burn."
"Robb Stark was scarce two years older when he started the war that killed my brother," Lord Crakehall grumbles.
"We have many prisoners that would be more fitting sacrifices," Damion ends the discussion. "Prepare to march. Let us see what the spider's web will catch us."
Deep Den
Varys is dragged before the loyalist lords, bound and shrouded. As the sack over his head is removed, he sees many faces, lit by torch - some familiar, others not: Ser Steffon Swyft, Lady Serrett with peacock feathers in her hair, little Lord Lydden. But he has never met the man at the head of the long stone table. In mail under a purple surcoat, a gaunt man with long curls and a spotty beard stares at him with dull brown eyes. The unicorn on his garb means he must be Flement Brax, now a lord by his brother's death in White Harbor.
"Lord Varys, the great spider," his lips part in a thin smile.
"I don't believe we've met, my lord."
"No, father never took me to the city. I never cared for the crowds. And yet now here I am, caught in your web all the same."
"We should send his head to the lions!" a large man, hunched in these cramped quarters, shouts from the back of the room.
"Not yet, uncle," Flement remains calm. "Leave us be. I would question Lord Varys myself." The other lords and ladies slowly file out, save Steffon Swyft, who lingers only to be forcibly chased out with a withering glare from the lord.
"Please, have a seat," Flement undoes Varys' bindings and sits, drinking a cold glass of water. "What do they know?"
Varys hesitates for only a moment. "Everything, my lord. The hidden entrances. The defenses. The water supply." Flement winces at that final note. "I will say, you have been a pleasurable opponent, burning your own castle so your followers would not turn on you. But you are out of plays, I am afraid. End this, spare your people more loss."
Flement looks up, sadly. "What do you know of loss, spider? I have lost a father and two brothers. I've seen my home burned at my own hand. My eldest son taken captive. My wife, with child, fallen ill within these damp caves. You cannot know loss if you have not loved. And what have you ever loved?"
"I love this kingdom, my lord," Varys declares.
"On that we can agree," Flement sighs. "So tell me, how do we keep from losing it?"
The Gates of the Moon
Sansa is not sure how long she has been in the cells by the time Brienne and Ser Mycah arrive to free her by the command of Lord Andar Royce.
"Princess, I beg your forgiveness on behalf of the Vale," Andar professes, running along behind her as she storms out of the cells with her escorts. "Lord Arryn is a troubled boy, I am sure by tomorrow his mood will have improved."
"What of Lord Grafton?" she asks.
"I was unable to arrange his release."
"Perhaps that is for the best. Do what you can to console my cousin and see to it the other guests from Gulltown to not cause further trouble. And I will require knowledge of these Winged Knights of his. They are a wall around him. If he is to be reasoned with, they must be restrained."
"Of course, Princess," Lord Andar bows and departs as they arrive at Sansa's chambers. She still is uncomfortable being called a princess. But Jon is a king now, perhaps soon of all seven kingdoms. She must play the part whether she feels it or not. She leaves her guards by her door.
"If those fool knights try to seize you again, I'll knock their wings clean off," Mycah vows. Sansa laughs, but she knows he and Brienne will not hesitate to war against her cousin if need be. She prays it will not come to that. Inside her chambers, she finds Wynafryd Manderly waiting, reclining in a sheer blue nightgown, gingerly eating a pomegranate.
"No luck with little lord Robin," she almost mocks.
"First he wants his titles back, then he wants to be a king," Sansa collapses onto a lounge, reaching for wine. "Our dear lord Gyles decided to prophecy doom and dragonfire, and my beloved cousin had us both thrown in the cells."
"His sons shan't be happy about that," Wynafryd muses. "A pity, they are such fine knights. Ser Lucerys is quite dashing, don't you think?"
"Then why not marry him and save us all a lot of trouble?" Sansa drains her cup.
Wynafryd looks hurt. "Because I want the heir to Blackhaven, not the second son of Gulltown. My child's father will be Lord of the Stormlands and Warden of the East."
"When Daenerys wins, Robin Arryn and Gendry Baratheon will reclaim those titles. Do you not wish for our queen's victory?" Sansa chides, half-heartedly.
"I wish for power, Sansa. The same as you. I've seen what happens to those who don't have it. I want you to teach me to play the game of thrones. You learned from the best. From Littlefinger and from Cersei."
"No!" Sansa rises and storms to the window. "I'm not like them! How can you talk like this, after everything that's happened? We faced a night without end, an army of the dead, and it's as if it never happened. Are we so quick to forget that there are bigger things than these petty squabbles?"
"All the more reason to strike," Wynafryd spits out a seed at Sansa's feet. "Even the strong are weak. Those who want power will strike with no reluctance. The game plays on, the wheel keeps spinning. And I don't plan to be crushed. Do you?"
Queen Cersei's Chambers
"Are you well, my queen?" Qyburn asks, pouring a steaming herbed tea to soothe her stomach. Cersei sits shadowed in a corner.
"I do not require your potions, Qyburn," she answers, barely audible.
"Your handmaids said the child was troubling you."
"Then I shall require new handmaids. I cannot suffer idle chatter."
"I will leave it here all the same, in case your mind alters," Qyburn lights a small fire beneath the kettle, but does not turn to leave. "Is there anything you do require?"
"Why are you hear?" Cersei breaks the silence. "Is it about the boy? He did good work, but he failed in what I needed most. Such a slip of the mind is suspicious, is it not? There is no one in this city I can trust."
"Your grace, our counsel is only of those who wish the best for you," Qyburn is taken aback by the outburst. "I am your Hand. I am here to advise you. We have not had a moment to speak since my return from Oldtown. Much has transpired."
"When I require your counsel, I will summon you."
"Very well. The Small Counsel will meet today. I shall keep you informed of our every move. It is best you tend first to your own health."
"No!" Cersei shouts, struggling to rise from her chair. "I will be there. I am the queen."
Small Counsel Chamber
For the first time since the Hand and the king's return, the counsel has assembled. New to their number are Leyla Hightower, the red priest Moqorro, and Harry Strickland of the Golden Company.
The Imp in motley performs while they wait, with the king taking great pleasure in the mutilation and humiliation of the dwarf who took his eye. The others are less amused.
"Why do we wait?" Leyla whispers to Genna.
"Queen Cersei has commanded we conduct no business until she is present."
As if on cue, Cersei enters the room, nearly hobbling now under the weight of her pregnancy. She collapses into her chair and, taking in her surroundings, immediately becomes agitated.
"Who are you?" she jabs a finger at Leyla.
"Leyla Hightower, your grace, our Mistress of Coin," Qyburn answers.
"I did not send for a Mistress of Coin!" Cersei snaps.
"The king said…"
"I did not send for her!"
"We had an open seat," Euron interjects. "I felt it would display our gratitude to Oldtown for their loyalty." He can barely hide his lusty glances back to Leyla. "And after the tragic passing of young Arthur, I invited my trusted counsellor…"
"You did not have my leave!"
"Please, your grace," Qyburn tries to calm her. "Do not exert yourself, the child…"
"Out, out!" Cersei pushes him away. "All of you! If my counsel does not answer to me, I will find ones who will!"
"This meeting is adjorned," Qyburn sighs, beckoning the others to leave. Euron storms off, Leyla following quickly behind. The others exit more slowly. Genna steals a few final glances back at her fuming niece, and notices Tyrion lagging back, with murderous eyes. Seizing him by his motley, she drags him out of the chambers and sends him on his way. She finds Qyburn and Harry Strickland waiting.
"Is she… always like this?" Strickland asks.
"The queen's babe is near at hand," Qyburn asserts. "She is consumed with grief for her brother and concern for the realm. Have patience, and she will return to order soon enough." It is unclear is this answer satisfies the Captain-General, but he asks no more questions.
"Are your shipments of weirwood proving satisfactory?" Genna asks him. He nods. "Have you conferred with Ser Henry on battle strategy?"
"Never fear, my lady," Strickland bows, kissing Genna's hand with a wink. "When we strike, you will know, for the victory bells will be ringing." With that, he turns to leave.
"I think the Captain-General fancies you, my lady," Qyburn chuckles.
"Aye. But I despise flattery. Have your birds keep an eye on him. And my nephew as well. I fear he may soon outlive his usefulness."
"Of course," Qyburn bows. "And, if you would, summon the king to my laboratory. There is an arrival he will want to see."
Qyburn's Laboratory
Euron swaggers into the room, Leyla in tow, the heavy woman panting from the many stairs down into the depths of these cells. The "little birds" scatter from the king's path. He finds Qyburn hunched over a desk with a Myrish lens, examining a pile of crumbling scrolls and, in the middle of the table, a large, smooth and charred warhorn, carved with acane markings.
"Lord Dondarrion's maester had this delivered," the old man reports. "They were uncovered in the ruins of Summerhall." Euron's one good eye widens.
"Summerhall," Leyla muses, running her hand over the horn. "This is Old Valyrian."
Suddenly, Euron grabs her from behind, making her jump. He laughs. "You're a brave woman touching that. The legends say Aegon V brought his doom through sorcery, trying to wake dragons." Qyburn glares at the two as they examine the scrolls together. Clearly neither had heeded his warning.
"Your grace, is there any in your employ that could transcribe these scrolls?" he asks.
"I will send Moqorro to you," Euron smiles. "He has other gifts I think you will want to see."
Moat Cailin
So this is the famous Howland Reed, Jon Snow thinks, looking over the little man across the table from him. He seems unimpressed in the presence of royalty, though his daughter stands fiercely on edge. Jon moves to calm her.
"Meera, I must thank you for your services to my brother. He wouldn't be alive if not for you."
"It was only my duty," she answers bluntly. "To the Starks. And to the Old Gods." With a glare at Zatarra and Eres, she exits.
"Lord Reed," Daenerys begins. "I suppose you know by now that we seek your guidance through the Neck. But there is another, more sensitive matter at hand." Jon glances nervously at Ser Jorah and the Red Women. "They know," she tells him, but that only heightens his nerves.
"When my brother returned from the North," Jon explains, "he was changed."
"Oh, I know of the Three-Eyed Raven," Howland smiles, finally looking up at them. "Bran told you who you really are, didn't he?" Their surprise goes unhidden, and Howland laughs. "Ned and I kept that secret for your whole lifetime. He took it to his grave and I thought to take it to mine. That boy couldn't keep it for a more than a few moonturns."
"So it's true?" Daenerys snaps. "You were there?"
"Aye. We bested the Kingsguard at the Tower of Joy, just like the legends say. But we were too late," he points to Jon. "Lyanna lived to see her brother again but she died all the same, giving birth to you. The dragon's heir."
Daenerys turns away, out of anger or frustration, Jon cannot say. In his heart, he had already known it to be true, but to hear it confirmed like this… He cannot even say how he himself feels.
"About the Neck," he changes the subject. "Cersei's loyalists have fortified the Kingsroad. We need your help to pass through the swamps."
"I'm afraid I can't help you with that," Howland answers, flippantly, and rises to leave.
"That wasn't a request, Lord Reed!" Jon commands as Jorah blocks the man's exit. "You are my sworn bannerman. My armies need safe passage through your lands."
"Your armies?" Howland looks back and forth between the two rulers. "Or hers?"
"We speak with the same voice," Jon insists. "She is my queen."
"Are you betrothed?" the crannogman asks. Reluctantly, Jon shakes his head. "Has she conceded her claim to the North?" Daenerys shakes her own. "Then one of you rules here and the other is… something else."
"Don't bring trouble upon your people," Jorah declares. "Or your daughter. Remember your oaths, Lord Howland."
"I have sworn higher oaths. Your fires have no place in my swamps."
At that, before Jon can react, Eres and Jorah have seized him and begin to drag him back to the table. Zatarra turns to Daenerys..
"This man has dark magics in him, but I will extract the answers you seek." Grabbing a burning log from the fire, her hands unburnt, she stalks ominously towards Howland, who stares unflinching into the flame.
"Enough!" Jon shouts. "Let him go! Get him out of my sight!"
"My queen!" Zatarra protests. "We cannot free him!" At the sound of shouting, two northern guards rush into the tent. For a moment, Daenerys freezes. She does not seem to know what to do. At last, she speaks, without emotion.
"Zatarra, take him back where he came from. But keep his daughter with us, to ensure his men do not rise against our own." The priestess exits with a fury, and Jorah and Eres drag Howland out. Now she and Jon are alone.
"We don't need him," Jon explains, cautiously. "We can fly the dragons over the Neck and attack from behind. It's risky, but if we stay grounded out of fear, that only gives them more power. We'd be seen as cowards."
"You are wise," Daenerys stares, unmoving. "But that is not the problem. He has spoken our fears into truth, seen with his own eyes."
"It means nothing. I do not want the throne."
"That doesn't matter!" Daenerys shouts, a fury rising in her eyes Jon has never seen. "Do you think this secret will stay hidden forever? So long as there is a male heir, I cannot know peace. This land has gone to war before to keep a woman from the throne!"
"Times change," Jon tries to console her. "The people will follow you."
"The times do not change so quickly as you may wish them. We must make the change we want to see. But I cannot do that without you by my side." Jon approaches cautiously.
"I swear I will do whatever it takes to defend your claim. Until then, we have a war to win. Get sleep. We'll fly tomorrow." Slowly, Daenerys accepts his embrace and smiles as they kiss.
The Neck
Dusk is falling as Zatarra and Eres trudge through the sludge of the marsh, pulling along a bound, gagged and blind-folded Howland Reed. Finally, they stop at the edge of a large pond, frosted over. The crannogman attempts to speak through his gag, but is ignored.
"Let him go," Zatarra commands, the mud having stained the fringes of her red cloak, dark furs wrapped around her bald head. Eres, frost glistening on her dragon helm, cuts through his bonds with a dagger, but does not let him speak or see. "Now finish it."
The priestess turns away as Howland struggles to flee, but the dagger that freed him now plunges twice into his chest and he topples back, breaking through the ice into the water below. Now Zatarra turns and fire erupts from her hands, washing past Eres and down onto the pool below. The two women watch as it smolders and melts the ice, the water hissing and steaming. And at last it goes still again, without disturbance.
"It is finished," Zatarra smiles. "Let the frogman's secrets die with him."
Kingsgrave
In the Mangoody library, Samwell Tarly and Sarella Sand have laid out a pile of journals and transcriptions before Arianne Martell. Mallora Hightower and Lord Franklyn Fowler watch as Sarella translates the codes of the old septon of Skyreach, unearthing his secret history.
All those years ago, in the midst of Robert's Rebellion, the story had been told that Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark. But the journals of the septon tell a very different tale. They were in love, he says, and fled to the Tower of Joy in the Prince's Pass. And when word came of Elia Martell's death, the septon had married them, and confirmed that Lyanna was with child when Rhaegar left to march on the Trident, where he would die.
"The tower belonged to us," Lord Fowler remembers. "I still remember the first time I saw Rhaegar. He was everything the legends said, and his lady as beautiful as he. And then they were gone. Eddard Stark thought no one saw what happened, but I did, through my falcon's eyes. Lyanna Stark died, but her child lived."
"A trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen." The words slip hushed from Arianne's mouth. "The heir to the Iron Throne. And you think that this babe grew to be Jon Snow?"
"Yes," Sam declares. "It's clear to me. Ned Stark goes north with his sister's child and then arrives at Winterfell with a babe he claims is his own bastard? And now they say Jon is a dragonrider."
"I hear he's riding the dragon in more ways than one," Sarella smirks, to Sam's visible agitation. "This changes nothing, if he marries Daenerys."
"He doesn't know her!" Sam snaps. "He doesn't know what she's done. But I know him. If he knows the truth, he will do his duty. We need to tell him. We need to tell everyone. Let the kingdoms know that they don't have to choose between Daenerys and Cersei. Jon is the true king. We can join with him and end this war."
Arianne smiles. This is it. This is what her father and Marwyn had discovered. What they had planned for her all along.
"Let it be done," she declares. And that night, the ravens fly.
Winterfell
At Bran's private table, Theon saws away at a tough side of beef. A meager and small dinner by summer standards. But they are in the heart of winter now. He focuses on his food and ale as Bran and Ser Kyle Condon discuss matters of ruling with tonight's guests, another collection of smallfolk welcomed to the prince's table as he aims to refill the castle household and tend to the needs of his subjects.
Such matters, while certainly important, were never of much interest to Theon, nor Obara, and so they ate, registered the guests' names, situations, and loyalty, before returning to dinner. But as Theon struggles to chew through his steak, Ghost, curled at Bran's feet begins to howl.
The smallfolk startle from their seats and the prince himself slams back in his chair, eyes rolling back as the direwolf rushes to claw at the door.
"Everything's fine!" Ser Kyle tries to calm the guests as Theon and Obara rush to Bran's side. He is shaking violently, and Obara seizes his shoulders with her strong arms to still him.
"Bran, what's wrong?" Theon whispers as the prince slowly settles and his eyes clear. Throat dry, he rasps for air, and Obara fetches him a glass of water. He drinks it slowly before finally speaking.
"It's Jon. The game is over. They know who he is."
"Jon?" Theon is confused. "What do you mean?"
"The ravens are coming. We must be ready."
Special Guest Stars: Robert Carlyle as Howland Reed
Paul Ready as Flement Brax