The Gates of the Moon
Flickering candlelight illuminates the noble chambers of Sansa Stark and Wynafryd Manderly. While Wynafryd undresses for the night, Sansa is hunched over a desk, examining notes regarding her cousin's Order of Winged Knights. She knows the knights' vices, their tendencies, anything that could be manipulated to get to young Robin. But what to do with him once they are alone?
"Just put me in his bed chambers for an evening and he will do whatever I say," Wynafryd smirks, adjusting her bodice flirtatiously. "A small price to pay to get us on our way."
"That wouldn't do," Sansa shakes her head, annoyed. "If my cousin becomes infatuated, there will be no prying you away from him." With that comes a sharp rap on the door. "Brienne, who is it?"
Brienne does not answer, but she does slowly swing the door open. In walks a shrouded figure - Bronze Yohn's son, Lord Andar Royce.
"Princess, this missive came in the night. By the gods' grace the maester brought it to me first." His dripping hand extends a small scroll to Sansa. It is stained by rain, but still legible. The message is short, and simple, signed by the seals of Tarly, Martell and Fowler. She gasps, stumbling backward onto the bed.
This… this can't be true. And yet…. I saw him on the dragon.
"What is it?" Wynafryd rushes to her side.
"It's Jon."
"Is something wrong? Were they attacked?"
"No… This message is from the south. It names him a king."
"He is a king." Wynafryd is confused. "The King in the North."
"No, not like that. They say here that he isn't Jon at all. They say his father wasn't my father, that his father, his true father, was Rhaegar Targaryen. All these years, he thought he was a bastard. I used to think he had brought shame on my father. But all along, he wasn't a Snow. He's Aemon Targaryen, the heir to the throne."
"What does that mean?"
"…. I don't know."
Blackhaven
The Daynes join the Dondarrions as they break fast. It is a happy meal, but Tywin picks at his food. His father spent all night in the study with the maesters after receiving a missive in the night. He knows this can only mean he'll depart for Summerhall today, and surely leave him behind. Finally, Lord Harlan makes his announcement.
"There have been new developments in the war. I will ride to camp before noon. Lord Edric, Tywin, you will come with me. Tywin's jaw drops.
"Harlan, must you go so soon?" Lady Penelope asks, sadly. "You've only just returned."
"My duties are elsewhere," Harlan answers without looking at his wife.
"What of me?" Ser Gerold blurts.
"You promised me an army, Darkstar," Harlan will not look at him, either. "Where is it?"
"I was betrayed!"
"You were a fool!" Harlan slams his fist on the table, rising. "And now you are a fool with nothing to offer me. If you want a place at my table, take your magic sword and reclaim what you promised. Until then, I don't wish to see you again!"
Furious, Darkstar storms out of the room. Harlan calms himself and looks back to his family.
"Tywin. Edric. Prepare for travel. Do not be late. The times change faster than our words. They will not wait upon us."
Deep Den
Even in his cell, Varys can hear it begin. Only a few minutes after the first screams, he is seized by the guards and hauled back before Lord Flement Brax, Lord Lydden, Ser Steffon Swyft and their counsel. On the stone table before them lie four scorched heads.
"They've found us," Flement declares. "These were found in the water basins. We cannot identify them, but it is clear who sent them." He pries open one of the charred mouth to reveal the flame of R'hllor branded on the dead man's tongue.
"We can still fight!" blusters his uncle, Ser Crassus.
"Not without water," Flement shakes his head.
"We have reserves, but with so many in the caves, it would only gain us a week or so," Lord Lydden reports. "We should count it a blessing they gave us this warning, rather than simply poison the supply."
"Then it's over." Flement rises solemnly.
"No!" Ser Steffon rises, angrily. "We cannot surrender! It is our duty to protect this pass! We cannot allow the traitors and their barbarian hordes to march on King's Landing!"
"And what of our people?" Flement raises his voice for the first time. "Tell me, Steffon, how do they weigh against our duties? ?"
"I clearly value my duty more than you! I'll lead the men myself, if I must. Craven!"
Steffon turns to storm out but Varys steps in his way.
"My lords, I pray you caution. Let me speak to the dragon queen's counsel on your behalf."
"You?" Steffon draws his sword. "You brought this upon us, spider! I should gut you right here!" As Flement and Crassus rush to restrain the raging knight, the door flies open and Maester Paxter rushes in. Grief is painted clearly in his eyes. Varys watches the blood drain from Flement's face as the report comes in.
"My lord… it's your son."
Highgarden
A sparrow flits down upon the railing a few inches from Missandei's hand. Ser Argilac moves as if to chase it away, but stops.
"Leave it be," Art Hightower murmurs from behind his easel, paint palette in one hand and a brush gripped tightly in the other as he smooths out the colors of Missandei's form taking shape on the canvas. The young lordling had learned to paint from his father. It was his passion, a refuge from stress.
"I rode into the town today," he said. "They still haven't recovered from the attacks of the dead, and this winter shows no signs of improving. But their lords don't care. They've abandoned them to bicker over who gets this damned castle."
"It's a beautiful place, though," Missandei sighs, scanning her surroundings without moving her body. "Though peace for them would be more beautiful still." From her place upon the railing, she can see children playing in the hedge maze below.
"It's a shame. No matter who wins, nothing will change for them," Alysanne Ambrose enters. Art nods welcome to his aunt and keeps painting. "They may have won a seat at the table, but in the end, it will only be another line of lords and ladies they must pray will be just."
"Unless there's another way," Missandei finally breaks her pose. "In the Free Cities, across the sea, there are other ways to rule. There are votes, and power is shared."
"What you speak of would completely alter the systems of Westeros." Alysanne is reluctant. "And we are at war. Such a vision is pleasing, but it may be folly to attempt such change in the midst of chaos."
"There is no better time for change!" Art blurts out. "When those in power have stability, they'll never let go. But this war has leveled the board. No one has an advantage. We'll never get another chance like this to change."
"You are here to speak with the voice of your father," Alysanne eyes him carefully. "Is this what you believe he would want?" For a moment, Art thinks, looking at the two women.
"Yes. For too long our voice has been silent. We've sat and studied and learned in Oldtown, dreaming of a better tomorrow. But now we will be heard."
Blackhaven
Darkstar stalks fuming through the fortress halls in full armor, clanking as he goes. The nerve of Lord Dondarrion, he thinks, after everything he sacrificed, to toss him aside like a common catspaw. He could have gone straight to King's Landing to claim his white cloak, but no, he had stayed behind to play the game, to keep Dorne loyal. And now what? Left behind by a fool and his honor. That was when he had realized that there was yet one boon he could grant Harlan Dondarrion. He had delivered the lord his own aunt, Allyria Dayne. But Harlan could not act on his desires so long as his own wife yet lived. But if he could wed again, surely he would be grateful to the man who brought him Allyria…
With Maester Otto gone at Summerhall, it had been no great task to access the potions in his chambers. Only slightly more challenging to slip them into the sick woman's tea. Now, he only had to get away. But a guard bars his path.
"Ser Gerold!" Ormund Storm calls to him. "Where are you going?" Instinctively, Darkstar reaches for Dawn at his side, but calms. Slowly, he turns and adapts a grim expression.
"Dire news from the Prince's Pass. I must warn Lord Harlan. We must take your fastest horses if we are to reach him in time!" The bastard obeys without question. Darkstar and the riders are far beyond the walls of Blackhaven before the septas cry out – Lady Penelope Dondarrion is dead.
Cersei's Chambers
"A glass candle?" the queen sneers incredulously. "And what will you do with that?"
Euron gapes incredulously, as if he cannot believe her disinterest.
"With such sorcery our reach will be unmatched! I shall watch our enemies move from afar, direct our armies into their path and lay waste to them. I shall be the horror that haunts their dreams, the…"
"Enough!" Cersei silences him. "You and your priest may tinker with mysticism all you want. I tried my hand at the magics of fire and blood and they failed me. I shall only place my trust in what I know."
Furious, Euron hurls a flagon of wine against the wall and storms out, cursing violently and shoving Qyburn out of the way as he passes. The Queen's Hand timidly enters the room, carefully stepping over the spilled wine.
"My queen, I fear you ought not anger the man so."
"He talks of madness."
"Nary a moon past all learned men would call me mad to say the dead could walk. Magic has reawakened in a way unseen since the Age of Heroes. We must use all means possible if we are to win this war. And we cannot afford to lose King Euron's favor."
"King Euron," Cersei spits out the title. "He has no power but that granted to him by sharing my bed. I am queen. I sit the throne."
"Your grace, you must realize how small your garrison is," Qyburn tries to explain calmly. "Most were slain or scattered in the Reach. Those left in the West follow Ser Damion now. What men remain sworn to you here in the city are horribly outnumbered by those who answer first to Euron!"
"He's lost the Iron Islands to his niece!"
"Yes, but his men here do not waver in loyalty. And the people of the city follow him, not you. We cannot even count assured the City Watch!"
"Then let him do what he wishes," Cersei sighs, dismissively. "Give him what he wills to keep him happy. But I do not want his magic near me. I will wage wars with weapons I can hold in hand. True steel I can trust. That is the only ultimate power in this land. Like my Golden Company. Arranging them was my finest moment."
"Your grace, it was Lady Genna who bargained with the Company."
"No! Do not speak of her! She thinks she's so clever! She raised me, it must drive her mad to see her brother's little girl grow far wiser and more beautiful than she."
Suddenly, Qyburn begins to feel decidedly cold. "Of course, your grace," he stammers. "But I assure you, your aunt wants only what is best for the realm."
"I don't care about the realm, I care about me!" Cersei topples forward in her fury and Qyburn helps her back onto her bed, cradling her pregnant stomach. She groans. "And I can trust no one to defend me. Not Genna, not Balon Swann, not Euron. Only you. And sometimes I'm not so sure." Qyburn desperately searches for words as the queen eyes him ominously.
"My queen, there is another matter, one that may play to our advantage. A missive arrived from Kingsgrave..."
"I am weary!" she cuts him off. "Find Harry Strickland. Tell him to march. I want this war ended before my child arrives."
Harry Strickland's Mance
Tyrion Lannister has heard tales of the raucous party that has consumed Dragonstone ever since the Golden Company landed. But here in the Captain-General's home in the capital, the atmosphere is serene. Musicians play on the harp and lute as the small, weary man cuts away at a simple meal. Tyrion eyes the gilded skulls hanging on the wall behind Harry's chair and scratches at his itchy fool's motley. His mind screams to speak and he feels a drop of blood on the stump that once was his tongue.
"I prefer my fools to be witty," Strickland grumbles, grinding a piece of gristle between his teeth. "The hell am I to do with you, the tongueless lion? Yes, I've heard about you. A terrible crime, I must say, to cut off a mind like yours from the use of words." He follows Tyrion's eyes to the skull. "I see you've noticed my predecessors. Surely a learned man as yourself knows the history of my company. Generations of exiles, back to Bittersteel himself. All sworn to one day return to Westeros. And Homeless Harry did it. I've brought them home. Not that it'll do them any good."
He motions for his squire, a handsome young lad with dyed blue hair. Tyrion watches the boy carefully as he pours two glasses of wine, and does not take the cup offered him.
"Thank you, Grif," Strickland sends the boy on his way. "Your eyes are quick, Imp. Don't think I don't see through this charade. If I had any secrets from your sister, I'd sooner die than speak them to the simple, silent fool. I'm a learned man like yourself, after all. The quiet ones have the most devious ears. But there is something I will show you"
At that, he rises, and crosses the room to an elaborate, golden chest set against the opposite wall. Slowly, he opens the lid. Tyrion lets out a choked gasp as Strickland reaches in and raises a sword. A sword with dragon hilts and a blood-red pommel.
Blackfyre.
The Valyrian steel blade of the Targaryens. Wielded by every king until Bittersteel took it across the Narrow Sea and nary seen in the century since. Strickland chuckles to see Tyrion's shocked recognition.
"Captain-General!" They turn, startled, to see Qyburn in the doorway with four of his personal guard.
"I'm sorry, my lord," Grif bows, panicked, before stepping aside.
"No matter, boy," Strickland smiles. "I welcome the Lord Hand."
"Perhaps unwisely," Qyburn draws near to examine the sword, which the general presents with a grin. "The rabble are quick to forget their past. But we are not rabble. Your army was born of exiles, cast out for backing a bastard's line, a false dragon's claim to the throne. And now you return, with so many pretenders already in our midst. And we welcome you with parades? What Bittersteel could not do with blades, you've done with a smile."
Strickland laughs dismissively. "In the end, my lord, this is just a sword. All know the Blackfyre line ended decades past, at the hands of Ser Barristan Selmy himself."
"Nonetheless, I want you on your way. Your men will march tomorrow. You have made great promises, Harry Strickland. See that you keep them."
Deep Den
"Walder had always been a sickly boy," Flement Brax whispers, head in his hands. He is alone in his chambers, save for Varys. "When we fled into the caves, the maesters feared the effects. But it was the only way." Heavy tears roll down through the stubble on his cheeks. "And now he's gone."
"My lord!" The septon of Hornvale bursts in – Carmile, a sour-toothed old man, clearly distraught. "The say you mean to surrender."
"I do, Carmile," Flement's eyes harden. "What, do the Seven wish to chastise me?"
"My lord, I fear it would invite their wrath to let the armies of the Red God defile this place and march upon the capital!"
"Their wrath?" He stands angrily. Varys tries to calm him, but is pushed away. "The wrath that took my son away?" He seizes the septon by his white robes. "Twas not a year past you told me Daenerys Targaryen was chosen by the gods to punish the godless Cersei Lannister. Now you tell me Cersei is their champion against the heathen dragon? No!" He throws Carmile to the floor. "I know the holy books, father. I know my prayers. And I will protect my people! If that is a sin, then let the gods damn me. But I will fight no more."
Struggling to his feet, the holy man hobbles out of the room. When Flement turns back to Varys, the tears have come again and he falls into his seat.
"Tell me, spider, am I right? I do not know anymore. I was never meant to lead, I'm a third son. My Walder's dead and they'll surely kill Robert now. And then my own third son will be left in my place. What have I done?"
"My lord, I promise no harm will befall your son," Varys offers a smile, sitting beside the grief-stricken man.
"Why?" Flement's dull eyes rise to meet Varys. "Why do you help me? I know who you are. If you merely wanted me to lose, I would be dead by now. And yet here we are. I think… I think your new queen has lost your heart. But why?"
"I still believe in Daenerys Targaryen," Varys says sternly. "Cersei and Euron must be torn down, for the good of us all. But I fear this Red God most of all. I am a creature of the night. And an eternal summer has no place for the likes of me."
"Then perhaps you should have this," Flement presses a missive into Varys' palm. "It came from Kingsgrave. I have told no one else."
"What…"
"A secret that slipped through even your web."
Before Varys can pry more, the door flings open. Septon Carmile, clearly listening at the door, is pushed aside by Ser Crassus Brax, ducking in such small chambers.
"Lord Lydden and his household are descending into the lower levels. There are safe places there that the barbarians will never find. Come with us."
"No," Flement rises, shaking his head. "Take the children, Crassus. Take my wife. But not me. If I am not taken, they will search for me until you are all dead. Either way, I've lost my family. I'd sooner they remember me as honorable than a craven." He turns back to Varys. "Take me to them. Let us end this game once and for all."
The Twins
A cold rain turns snow to slush as Edmure Tully rides along the swollen riverbank towards the bridge and towers just ahead. The old stronghold of the Freys now flies a half dozen banners – Lannister, Bracken, Vypren, Erenford. Beside him rides young Lord Brynden Blackwood. Both follow behind Lord Jonos Bracken, who spurs his horse furiously on through the downpour.
At last they arrive within the gates of the Twins. Stableboys hurry to assist them as the lords and their accompanying knights rush in out of the storm. Inside, they are met by a steward bearing the Nayland hellbender arms.
"Is there news from the Neck, boy?" Bracken shouts, rainwater shaking off him. The lad freezes, stuttering. Bracken slaps him across the face, leaving a wet, red mark. "I said speak!"
"T…t…the dragons, m'lord. The dragons came upon the men from behind in the dark of the night. It was over in minutes they say, most turned cloak and fled."
"The damned fools!" Bracken thunders, storming deeper into the building. The steward rushes to keep pace and Edmure and Brynden follow. "Where is Ser Harwyn Plumm?"
"Dead, m'lord, burned in dragonfire by all accounts."
"Idiot Lannister dogs! He thought he could command these forces better than me?" He swings wide open the doors of the Great Hall. "I was right all along. If you want something done, do it yourself."
"By the gods, Jonos, it's over!" Brynden protests.
"So speaks the son of a traitor!" Bracken silences him, but at long last Edmure has had enough. He stomps his foot.
"He's right. I will not bring further bloodshed upon my lands."
"I though as much," Bracken's eyes darken. "Barbara, come in!"
Edmure turns slowly as Bracken's eldest daughter enters the hall. His blood stops when he sees who is with her – his lady wife, Roslin, holding their son Robb.
"Jonos, why are they here?" he asks, cautiously.
"Why, they are my guests," Bracken smiles. "And yours as well. I have found that the presence of loved ones helps a lord to remember his loyalties."
"You would not dare touch my child," Edmure struggles to keep his voice steady.
"I would dare do anything for the Crown," Jonos glares as Brynden draws his sword. "I am no traitor. And loyalty is rewarded. Barbara, bring me the boy!"
It feels as every muscle in his body is frozen in his body as Edmure stands still. Not again, he tells himself. I failed my sister, my uncle, my king. Not again. But he cannot move. Little Robb begins to cry and Roslin shrieks as Barbara, panicked, glances back and forth between the men. Impatient, her father turns to her.
"Listen to me, girl! This castle will belong to you when we are through! Or Riverrun, if you prefer. No harm need come to the boy so long as his coward father…" Suddenly, Jonos stops and chokes. He reaches down to find a dagger in his side. Edmure Tully's dagger.
"You fool," he gasps. "You've doomed us all." As Jonos falls to the ground, Barbara and Roslin shriek. Edmure rushes to calm his wife and child. His son in his arms, he turns back to Brynden.
"Lower the banners and vacate the garrison. The dragons are coming."
Summerhall
From the moment that the encampment surrounding the partially rebuilt ruins appears, Tywin can tell that something is wrong. The tents are in disarray, and several men are tearing down the lightning flash banners of House Dondarrion. As they reach the gatehouse, now near fully rebuilt, Lord Arstan Selmy stumbles towards them, face bloodied. He collapses against the leading horse.
"Arstan, what is the meaning of this?" Harlan leaps down into the mud. Ser Balerion follows, but Tywin and Edric Dayne remain nervously mounted.
"The bastard, my lord!" Selmy gasps. "They forded the River Slayne. He and his sister caught Prince Anders' forces beneath the walls of Stonehelm. A total route! They say Gendry Baratheon slew Prince Anders with his father's warhammer, just as King Robert slew Prince Rhaegar at the Trident!"
"Gendry Rivers!" Harlan slaps Selmy and shoves him into the mud. "A bastard cannot claim legitimacy from an illegitimate queen! Prince Anders has fallen, yes, but what is happening here?"
"It is a sign, Harlan!" All turn to the gateway, now blocked by a dozen knights with rainbow plumes of the Faith and seven crystals in their breastplates. Tywin recognizes them instantly, members of the famously pious company, the Holy Hundred. And the speaker is their leader – a withered stork of a man, Ser Bonifer Hasty
"A sign of what, Ser Bonifer?" Harlan shifts his heavy black cape to show the sword at his side. "A sign of treason?"
"I warned you it was folly to stand with Cersei. She seized the throne without a claim, destroyed the Great Sept, filled its ruins with the profane gods of her blasphemous king. The dragons have returned to rain righteous fire upon her and all who stand with her!"
Tywin is shocked to hear his father laugh. "Tell me, Ser Bonifer, how many septs have the red priests burned? How many pious men have they given over to the flame?" The holy knight has no answer for that. "If you will cease this madness, I will make it clear a path that will be fortuitous for us and the gods."
Confidently, he steps forward, but, foreseeing a threat, one of the knights lunges forward. Tywin cries out in fear but even before Harlan reacts, Ser Balerion's massive sword is in hand, twice the width of a normal blade. In an instant it has cleaved the side of the rogue knight. Bonifer is yelling something, but it is undiscernible as three more men attack, then another two. Two more of the Horpe knights riding behind them leap from their horses and into the fray, white rags flitting in between the cold, slow steel armor. But towering above them all is Ser Baelrion, raining down blow after blow with his blade. Here he shatters a spear in two, there he decapitates a head in a single stroke.
The duel is over near as soon as it has begun, the six armored knights dead on the ground. Bonifer's remaining guards flank around him, but Balerion shoves them aside to seize their leader and throw him facedown in the mud before Harlan, planting his heavy grey boot in the square of the man's back. Tywin watches his father draw his sword and place the tip between Bonifer's eyes.
"Your men are good fighters, ser, and surely blessed by the gods. But mine are better. Recant the folly of these dead fools and recommit your men to me."
Bonifer coughs at the heavy mud creeping into his throat as Balerion presses down harder at his back. Slowly, Harlan raises his sword…
"I yield!" Bonifer shouts.
"Good," Harlan smiles. Balerion frees the old knight, who is helped to his feet by two of his men, wiping the dirt from his sunken face.
"The Holy Hundred are at your service, my lord. May the Crone light your way and the Warrior give you strength."
"The Holy Ninety-Four, more-like," Harlan looks down at the dead men. "Take them away!" He then looks at the crowd of lords, knights and men-at-arms that have gathered around him. Tywin beams with pride as he watches them kneel in homage to his father.
"It is true, Anders Yronwood is fallen to the bastard boy of Flea Bottom!" Harlan declares. "But he is no true Baratheon. He does not know us! He will come here to meet his true lord. And we will break the antlers from his helm and show him a true storm!"
Stonehelm
As dusk falls, Arya Stark leaves behind Davos Seaworth and Sandor Clegane as they tend to the wounded outside the walls of House Swann's keep. She does not wish to spend any more time among the dead and dying. There is another she seeks. And he is very much alive.
She finds Gendry sitting alone atop a hill looking away from the castle towards the sun as it disappears over the horizon. He is still in his mail, the yellow and black of his surcoat fading together in the darkness. He is still clearly shaken. His father's warhammer lies beside him, buried in the dirt, still spattered with blood.
"You should clean that," she kicks him softly. But he doesn't laugh.
"I don't know how many men I killed today," he murmurs, barely a whisper. "They tell me one of them was the new Prince of Dorne."
"You were brilliant! No one would dare challenge your claim now. You're a warrior, just like your father." Arya smiles, but it is clear Gendry does not share her pride. "We won," she sits beside him. "Your army won."
"And what if we hadn't?" he turns to her, his face cloaked in dusky shadow, but she can see the glint of tears on his face. "I'm not supposed to be a lord. I was supposed to be a smith. Lords are supposed to be wise. Lords have to know what's right. I'm not a wise man. I can't look at all these dead men and say this was right. I've killed before, but only men in defense. I've never wanted to fight."
"If you want me to tell you it gets easier, I won't. You don't want it to get easy. That's the worst part. To not feel anything when it happens. You don't want to be like me." Gendry moves to protest but, on impulse, she silences him with a kiss. His eyes draw wide in shock. "I want you to be you. You're no lord. You're no warrior. You're Gendry. That's what your people need. And that's what I want. I don't know how you can still love me after all you've seen me do. After how I treated you. But it's who you are. And I like that. No, I love it." Gingerly, she reaches her hands within his mail and begin to remove the cold metal, exposing his hardened torso to the crisp evening air. "I'd forgotten what love felt like. But if this is love, I never want to stop feeling it."
She feels him slowly, carefully pull at the laces of her breeches and kisses him again as he lies onto his back. He gasps as she tugs at his own laces with far less patience. His eyes stare up past her to the sky.
"I've never seen so many stars..."
"Enough talk," she chides, playfully, his pants are half-off now. "I hope you're not too thick-headed to keep up, you bull." And then his eyes are only on her, as their bodies begin to move in tandem. The wars and the doubts can wait, at least for tonight. As willo'wisps flit about and mix with the stars above, there is only the teo young travelers, binding their journeys as one.
The Red Mountains
Darkstar's breath comes pounds heavily as he flees down a narrow forest path. He'd never seen the men coming. Were they bandits? He couldn't say. They'd killed two scouts and he'd abandoned Ormund Storm to their mercy. He would wait no longer to get to Summerhall. His lilac cape turns to grey in the shadow as it flows out behind his recklessly driven horse. Suddenly, the long fabric catches in a low branch, tearing the knight back. He pulls on the reigns to hold tight, but the sharp turn sends his mount stumbling in the dim gravel of the mountain pass. The air is hurled out of his lungs as he slams down onto the ground. He can hear footsteps coming towards him, and rushes to disentangle his cloak.
As he pulls, two men emerge from the darkness, spears in hand. The first charges, impaling the cape, and it at last tears free from the branch, sending Darkstar stumbling back. He has Dawn out of its scabbard and in hand in an instant, the white blade glistening in the dusk.
"You know not who you've challenged, fools," the knight sneers. But then the dim moon reflects off of white paint - smeared skulls across their faces. Not bandits. Manwoody men. It makes no difference, he tells himself, as they charge him. He sidesteps their thrusts and kills the most zealous one quickly. The other he must dodge and parry a few more times. Finally, a well-placed thrust sends him toppling over the edge of the cliff. Breathing heavily, but grinning all the same, Darkstar cleans the blood from Dawn. And then the hulking, shadowy form of Ser Rolland Storm rises up from the shadows, axe in hand.
"Is your whore princess with you, bastard?" he sneers. "I was going to kill you both later, but you've done me a great favor by meeting me to complete the deal."
"You havn't changed," Rolland shakes his head. "You're no true knight. And you'll never be worthy of that sword."
Enraged, Darkstar charges forward. Dawn swings down on the bastard's axe with a fury. Whooping a war cry, Rolland returns the attack. Axe and sword echo across the mountain ridge, blow upon blow ringing out. But what the larger man holds in strength, Darkstar claims in speed. He lands a slice to his foe's thigh, another to his back. Rolland does not cry in pain, but he slows yet further. Seeing victory, Darkstar swings down with his full strength. But Rolland steps out of the way, and Dawn comes cutting down into the heavy red stone of the mountain. And sticks.
Suddenly frantic, the knight tugs furiously at his family's ancient blade, yet it refuses to yield an inch. He knows he should run, but no, the sword is his! And then the axe is upon him. It hits directly between his plate, severing his sword arm clean at the shoulder. Screaming in pain, he topples away as Rolland collapses to the ground. He can hear more footsteps.
Now Darkstar runs – off of the path, remaining hand clenched tight over his wound, desperate to stop the bleeding. Dagger-sharp needles slash at his face as he trundles on blindly, feet unseen. He does he see the crevice until it has swallowed his left ankle. With a sickening crack he falls forward, head slamming on the rock. There is blood everywhere now, who knows from where. He chokes, gasping for breath.
I can recover. Jaime Lannister served without his hand. They think they've beaten me, the fools. Their deaths will only be the worse for this.
And then, silent as if on wings, a shadow in a black dress slips out from the trees. The moon is high now, and the light through the pines flickers off of a silver halfmask – the head of a vulture. Arianne Martell.
She treads softly near him until she is at his side, leaning inches away from his face. And he is helpless to kill her. She smells sickeningly sweet, perfume of the mountain flowers. He chokes on her smell and looks into her eyes. As beautiful as ever, he thinks. Until, slowly, she slips off the mask. Beneath it lie the scars – mangled flesh, twisted and torn. He laughs.
"The legendary beauty of Princess Arianne. You thought you could bring seven kingdoms to their knees by dropping to your own." He hacks up bloody spittle, which she wipes away without flinching. "At least I took that from you. Bitch!" Viciously, he headbutts her and begins to laugh hysterically. Instead she rises, her face smeared with the battered knight's blood. Without a word, she picks up a large, jagged stone and begins to walk back toward him.
"No. You took nothing from me. I am who I say I am. And I am Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne, Vulture Queen of the Red Mountains. And soon, queen of all Seven Kingdoms." She drops to her knees, straddling Darkstar's chest. He tries to move, but his strength is gone. She holds the stone high, blotting out the moon.
"And I remain – Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken."
The rock falls.
Highgarden
Missandei and Art's faces are carefully obscured by hoods as Ser Argilac leads them through the camp to the Tarly's tent. Ser Bronn had insisted the claimants remain quartered outside the walls. For his own safety, he said. And not without reason. Numerous attempts had already been made on the castellan's life.
Missandei is surprised to see another knight on guard with tattered white robes matching Argilac's. Her protector nods familiarly at the smaller, younger guard.
"Greetings uncle," Ser Daeron Horpe's hand twitches nervously at his hilt. His eyes dart to the two shrouded guests, widening as he recognizes Missandei. "My lady!"
Missandei gasps and pulls her shroud tighter as Argilac steps between them.
"Who do you serve, nephew?"
"The lady Tarly."
"Good. Then see to it that no one else hears of this meeting." Daeron nods affirmingly and slides open the tent flap. Finding young Talla Tarly reclining alone inside, they remove their hoods.
"What do you want?" Talla groans, tired. "I pray you aren't another suitor. Lord Titus said I needn't entertain them hear, yet they come all the same."
"No, my lady," Missandei takes a seat beside her. "We come on a far greater matter. The future of your home."
"Don't you serve the dragon queen?" Talla recoils when she recognizes Missandei, who only now remembers the stories of what Daenerys had done to this girl's family. Suddenly, she is at a loss for words.
"Lady Missandei serves the Hightower," Art extends a comforting hand. "She mourns the passing of your father and brother, as do we all." Talla looks cautiously into Missandei's eyes until something resembling trust appears. "She is very wise, and very kind, and she wants what we all want. Peace and justice in The Reach. But we need your help."
Only a few minutes later, the trio departs, to avoid suspicion. But the seeds have been planted. Young Talla is a pleasant girl, Missandei decides, unprepared for her status and role but genuinely interested in her people's welfare. And now she is an ally. Missandei beams with pride, clutching the Hand's pin within her cloak. Daenerys would be pleased. But as they slip away from the Tarly tent, a girl rides by, flanked by guards. Art stifles a gasp of horror at the sight. Barely 12, the young lady's face is half-hairless - warped and cracked, covered in horrendous burns.
"Bellany Vyrwel, Lady of Darkdell," Argilac reports, grimly. "Her whole family was slain by dragonfire. She is the last of her line."
In an instant, the girl is gone, Argilac has lifted Missandei onto her horse and they are riding back to the safety of the castle walls. But in her mind, the scars remain. And in the eyes, the dragon's flame.
The Twins
The cold winter air tears against Jon as he clings to Rhaegal's back, the dragon soaring down over the river. Daenerys is close behind on Drogon. The larger dragon is stronger, but Rhaegal is faster. And both are faster than their armies, left two days march behind.
As the towers of the Twins come into view, Jon sees at once that their banners have been torn down and replaced with the rainbow pennant of surrender. Assembling in the field in front of the bridge is a great crowd. The leaders stumble, pushed back by the wind as the two dragons swoop mightily down to land before them. At once, he recognizes his uncle Edmure at their head, a fair woman beside him, young babe in arms, with a young man in crimson armor at his right. He can tell Edmure is struggling to stay brave in sight of the dragons, the nostrils breathing heavy steam in the frigid air.
Both riders dismount. Jon and Daenerys walk to greet the lords together. As they near, all kneel.
"My king," Edmure says without looking up. "The Twins are yours. I beg you, show mercy to my people."
"Who is this man?" Daenerys looks down, confused.
"Lord Edmure Tully. My uncle, of sorts. It was at his wedding, at this keep, that my brother was murdered."
"And where the Stranger so graciously brought bloody vengeance upon House Frey!" Edmure interjects, still looking down. Jon shudders at that thought. That was not the Stranger. That was Arya.
"My king…" the lady Roslin stammers, holding up her boy with shaking hands. "We named him Robb."
At a loss for words, Jon gently lifts the silent child. He sees deep blue eyes and already a vibrant tangle of auburn hair. He can see Robb in the boy. His own Robb. His brother. But not truly. What were they now? Cousins? No. Whatever their blood, their bond was the same.
Jon hands the boy to Daenerys. It gurgles happily in her arms and she smiles. She has wont to smile too rarely these days, Jon thinks, and is happy himself, for a moment.
"Edmure Tully, to you swear the allegiance of you and your lands to me and to Daenerys Targaryen, true queen of the Seven Kingdoms?"
"I do."
"Then rise!" Jon commands, and the household stands. "But I do not want this place. It is accursed." Turning away he returns to Rhaegal. "Let the bridge remain. But no family shall ever again sit atop the Crossing!"
With just a thought, Rhaegal's wings launch them into the air. Jon grits his teeth in the icy wind as his dragon spins in the air, back towards the towers of House Frey. He can feel the heat building within Rhaegal's belly. He has spent so long fighting others' wars. But now – this is for him. For Robb. For father.
"Dracarys!"