Winterfell

Bran Stark sits alone in the Great Hall, save for Obara Sand on guard at the door. Theon Greyjoy enters on crutches.

"Your grace, more missives from the lords came today," he reports. "They want to know what you plan to do."

Bran sighs heavily, looking to his guardians for support. The truth about Jon's lineage had come as a shock to them both, Theon particularly. And now the Stark bannermen turn to the Prince of Winterfell to know what this means for their loyalty, and which throne their king means to sit upon. But in truth, for all his omniscience, Bran finds himself at a loss for answers.

"I cannot say what Jon will do. He does not yet know that the truth has been revealed. And when he does… only he can decide what happens next."

Daenerys's Camp

Daenerys watches angrily as Lord Edmure Tully and his bannermen disappear over the horizon. She turns to Jon, at her side.

"Why did you let them go?"

"These past years have been hell for the Riverlands. First the Lannisters, then the Dead. They're a broken people, scattered and afraid in winter. I cannot ask them to fight our war."

"How can we ask others to fight when you let your uncle's men go home?"

"He's not my uncle. Not really. But he is a good man who only wants the best for his people. We can trust him."

Daenerys glares at him. "You ought to be more careful with such idle talk. You never know who may be listening."

Jon, hurt, leaves to see to the sentries. Daenerys leaves to the small tent where their newest wards have been held. Meera Reed has been joined by a collection of children of the Riverlords, handed over to ensure loyalty. She can feel their fear as she enters, and it shames her. Her people should not be afraid.

Finally, a small boy speaks, tremoring.

"Are you going to feed us to the dragons?"

"No!" Daenerys is taken aback. "I would never… You are not prisoners. You are our honored guests, all of noble and loyal families, and you will have every comfort you desire."

"I'm cold," a small Vypren girl whimpers.

"Get her a blanket," Daenerys commands.

"I want to go home," another whispers. Daenerys hesitates.

"I promise, you will all go home soon."

"She's lying," Daenerys looks to see Meera Reed lurking in shadowy corner of the tent. "We're hostages. We only go free if she wins and our parents bend the knee. I wouldn't take her blankets if I were you. Or her food. No gift from a queen is without a price. And you can never trust a dragon."

Highgarden

In Missandei's dreams, she sees the castles in flames, melting stones and the screams of families. And then she sees the girl, the little lady of Darkdell, the flesh of her face melting and dripping away, pointing an accusatory finger as she bursts into flame.

Awakening with a shriek, Missandei finds Ser Argilac already in her room, and the sounds of commotion come in through the window.

"My lady, we must pack your things," the grim knight insists as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. "Here." He extends a fine travel gown to her, and awkwardly turns away as she dresses herself.

"What's happening? We were to present our proposal to the lords today." Her mind struggles to keep pace with the sudden change. They had been so close to making a real difference here, to seeing the type of change Daenerys had come to bring. What could have gotten in the way?

"Ser Bronn and our hosts are waiting," Argilac beckons and his white robes flit out the door. She stumbles along behind him, hurrying to put on shoes. They find a great assembly gathered in the lord's hall before Bronn. She rushes to where Art Hightower waits by his uncle and aunt – Ser Garth Hightower and Alysanne Ambrose, with her husband, Arthur.

"Deep Den has fallen," Alysanne whispers to her. "The Red Army marches on the capital. Our own men have been ordered to intercept them before they can besiege the city. You'll have to come with us. It's not safe for you alone, especially not now."

"But what about Highgarden?" Missandei is shocked. "What about our plan?"

"Your dreams will have to wait for now," Alysanne places a calming hand on the younger woman's shoulder and smiles. "Do not despair. Highgarden will not fade away overnight. We will return for these people, I swear. This story does not end today."

"Sister," Garth gruffly lurches forward. "We should inspect the supplies before we march."

"Of course," Alysanne turns back to Missandei a final time. "Make sure your things are ready. You will ride with us." She points to Argilac. "Don't let her out of your sight."

Gendry's Camp

Arya Stark storms out of the counsel tent, furious.

A challenge? The bannermen might as well have suggested Gendry dive off a cliff. Battle is one thing, but single combat quite another. And not even Davos had protested.

She thinks she hears the old smuggler calling after her, but storms on until she finds Sandor Clegane reclining beneath a tree.

"Do you know what their plan is?" she asks, disgusted.

"Let me guess. The little lordling will challenge the usurper to single combat?" He laughs, then grimaces from a pain in his leg. "Stormlords are so predictable. Their precious fucking honor…"

"You should go," Arya slumps down beside him and steals his flask of ale. "Gendry's just a boy. You're The Hound."

"My days as a champion are over, cub," Sandor sighs, shaking his hobbled leg. "And your little smith isn't a boy anymore. You've chosen a lord to be your lover. And this is what lords do."

Arya spits out the ale. "He's not my…"

"When'll you learn I'm not as dumb as I look?" Sandor wrestles his flask back and drinks the rest of it. "You love each other, anyone can see that. That shit makes you stupid. It ain't for me, that's for sure, but it looks good on you. Don't mess it up tryin' to protect him."

"But what if he dies?"

"Then you'll have a damn fine song to sing. But for now, ya' gotta believe in him."

Arya grits her teeth. She knows in her heart he's right. But it's so hard… "I guess I can try that." She shakes the last drops from the flask. "But I'll need a lot more of this."

Summerhall

The most complete of the renovated towers has been set aside for Lord Harlan Dondarrion and his company. Young Tywin has a room all to himself. He is pondering if Edric Dayne has to share his own quarters when Arstan Selmy arrives at his door. The kind, portly lord's face is still cut and bruised from the recent quarrels, but it is darkened still by something else.

"My lord," Arstan's voice cracks and the grief is clear. "Dark wings bring dark wards from Blackhaven. Your lady mother…"

He need not finish the words and Tywin is gone, shoving the lord aside and sprinting to the stairs, racing to his father's quarters at the top of the tower. He runs inside quicker than Ser Balerion can stop him.

He finds Harlan reclining at his table, reading, seemingly unmoved.

"You killed her!" he shouts as Balerion's huge hands finally grasp ahold of his shoulders.

"Whatever do you mean, boy?" Harlan barely looks up from his book.

"You killed my mother! You wanted to have the Dayne woman instead, you always did, but she was betrothed to Uncle Beric! Now he's dead and you've killed mother to marry her, just like you always wanted! Look at you, you're not even crying!"

Harlan only sighs. "My son, you have always known your mother and I shared little love. Ours was a union of duty. She was a sickly woman. And, sadly, sickly women and men die every day. She is at last free from her pain. You should take solace in that, not dream up mad conspiracies. I think I was wrong to bring you here. You're not well."

His rage only heightened, Tywin pulls free of Balerion's grasp and storms back out of the room, down to the yard, climbing the scaffolding onto the half-finished ramparts. As such, he is among the first to hear the shouts of the sentries and the first to see the banners appear over the horizon - The Vulture Queen has arrived.

The Gold Road

The taking of Deep Den had gone easily enough. Ser Steffon Swyft had resisted with a handful of men, but they had been swiftly cut down. Now Flement Brax is dragged before the counsel of the Dragon Queen as Varys retakes his place beside Crakehall and the Queen's Hand – Damion Lannister.

But the man who will accuse him is one the eunuch does not recognize at first, until he hears his voice – Ser Forley Prestor, freshly declared warrior-priest of R'Hllor.

"Flement Brax!" Prestor shouts. "You stand accused of defying and resisting the righteous path of the true queen, Daenerys Targaryen, conspiring against her and her allies and waging warfare against the soldiers of the one true god. How do you plead?"

Flement looks up in time to see his son, Robert, dragged into the room by Tybolt Crakehall. The sight seems to give strength to the beaten lord, and he stands.

"All these things are true," he declares. "I did my duty to the throne and the queen who sits upon it, Cersei Lannister. I do not recognize the authority of your false queen nor your god of smoke and mirrors!"

"Blasphamy!" Prestor strikes him across the mouth.

"Burn him!" Lord Crakehall thunders.

"I will take the Black!" Flement shouts as Prestor continues to beat him back to the ground. "Send me to the Wall!"

"Stop, priest!" Damion commands. He rises and approaches Flement. "The Wall is fallen, Lord Brax, and the White Walkers were slain by our queen herself. The Night's Watch is gone. If you wish, you may join the Fiery Hand. Dedicate yourself to the service of Rh'llor, be an example to your heir, and your life will be spared."

Flement takes a final look at his son before spitting a bloody tooth out at Damion's feet.

"I will never serve your god."

"A pity," Damion sighs. "I thought you wiser. Martyrdom is a fool's glory. Take him away. But there will be no burnings yet. We may have need of him later." With that, Prestor and two of his men, in the armor of the Fiery Hand, drag Flement from the room. As he passes Varys one last time, there is nothing in his eyes but a look of betrayal.

Summerhall

Tywin eyes the guests suspiciously. The fat young lord looks friendly enough. He remembers Sam Tarly vaguely from their youth. The boy had been kind. Not like his father. Randyll Tarly had always frightened Tywin. The dark-skinned, slender woman with the short hair was clever and witty as well. But this strange woman in the vulture mask unnerves him.

"When will your father be prepared to see us?" Arianne asks.

"I don't know," Tywin glares. "I am not speaking to him." The trio pass an inquisitive glance amongst themselves at that.

"Tell me Tywin, there are two lords in the Stormlands now, your father and Robert's bastard, this Gendry. Tell me, what do you know of him?"

"If you wish to ally with my father, then you're fools," the sullen boy declares. "I used to worship him, think he's a hero. But I'll tell you what I've learned. He's only the hero of his own story, where he makes the rules and frames the world to make it fit to him. He'll make you think you're doing what you want, when really it's all his plan. And you won't realize it until it's too late. And then you lose…" His rant breaks to tears. Sam instinctively tries to comfort him, but is pushed away.

"The bastard boy is naïve, I hear. He does what he's told. But you'll never even get to meet him. He's already lost. He started the game against my father. And my father always wins."

Summerhall

After all he had been through, Sam had hoped he would no longer be nervous. But here, before Harlan Dondarrion and his bannermen, he knows he still does not feel like a lord. The walls are lines with ominous Horpe knights, spectral watchers in the shadows. Sam shivers, bows politely, and lets Arianne do the talking.

"I'm thankful for this meeting, Lord Dondarrion," she is saying. "My allies and I…"

"There is no need for such pleasentries," Harlan silences her. "I know you all. Ser Daemon Peake, sent to march while your nephew vies to take Highgarden? What do you have to gain, I wonder? Lady Tarly's hand for your son? And Lord Fowler. I have my archers eyeing the skies for your hawk. I will have no witchcraft here. Sarella Sand, Mallora Hightower, both enigmas, I must allow. But I can see your fathers in you. More than I'd think either would admit." Now he's standing inches away from Sam, who tries desperately not to show fear.

"I remember you as a child, Tarly," Harlan's voice is cold and still as ice. "Your father's great disappointment. But also, I hear a man who can cure greyscale. The rest of your exploits, though, I fear are more troubling. It seems you've fled every oath you've ever taken, and left your homes in ruins behind you."

"And you," Harlan turns now to Arianne. "Duran's heir. Many thought you a lost cause, but I knew no child of Duran could be as brainless as you played at. But being Princess was not enough. You stand before me in the crown of a forgotten song and a mask to hide your true face. This is all still a game to you, isn't it? A game that ends with this… Jon Snow on the Iron Throne."

"I did not come here to recite family history or to be talked down to," Arianne snaps, stepping forward. The Horpes reach for arms, but are stilled. "I expect respect." She looks to Sam. "We all do."

"You brought Lord Dayne his family sword," Harlan continues, unfazed. "I take it this means you've killed the Darkstar?"

"With my own hands," Arianne answers, grimly.

"Most impressive. And wise to bring the sword. The boy insists now that I ally with you. I myself am not so inclined. But if I were, what would you have me do?"

"You know much about me and my friends, Harlan. But two can play this game. I know none of your men are friends of Cersei Lannister. She wants you to die on her battlefield, fighting a war she cannot win. A noble death. But a poor one. I, however, would have you only stay put. Wait until the war is won. And then join Lord Tarly and I in crowning the true king of Westeros. With the North, Reach, Dorne and Stormlands together, none will stand in our way."

"And yet there is the matter of the bastard," Harlan smirks. "The Stormlands are not united. We have our own little war on our hands."

Finally, Sam finds the nerve to speak. "Ally with us and we will ensure your new titles will remain unchallenged."

"Yes, my titles. You see, Tarly, while loyalty to you may be fluid, it is not to me. I swore an oath to the Throne. I could, perhaps, concede to this Gendry for a time. He could lead as he see fits, a bastard has no honor. But I fear the boy has already played his hand. A challenge to lead the stormlords. He is clearly noble to make such an offer. But he will lose. And when he does, I will be forced to deal with traitors as my oaths command."

Euron's Chambers

Qyburn steels his nerves as he approaches the king's door. He does not think Euron would dare strike him, but his braindead guards, Boros and Preston, amble along behind him, just in case. His birds have watched the room night and day. Many serving wenches have come and gone, but Lady Leyla Hightower has not departed.

His old hand wraps harshly thrice upon the heavy door. He waits for only a moment before he hears footsteps nearing. The door swings open to reveal his king, naked before him. Qyburn can see the bed behind him, the sheets rising and falling over Leyla Hightower's round gut.

"Whatoyawant…" Euron slurs, mind blurred by sleep and drink.

"Your grace, we have spoken before about your discretion in these matters. Your wife the queen is a jealous woman, and…"

"And she can take all the lovers she wants once my son comes," Euron seizes the Hand's collar, teeth clenched in a nightshade-colored sneer. "Leave the matters of my bed to me, old man!" At that, he slams the door shut.

Sighing, the Hand turns away. The night is still young, and he has many visits left to make.

White Sword Tower

It is late at night, but Lord Commander Balon Swann is not asleep. Instead, he sits in full armor, hunched over a table, reading the White Book by candlelight. He has stopped upon Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer's page unfinished. He hears the door creak open as Qyburn enters.

"What do you right of a man like him," he murmurs, without looking up.

"Whatever you please," the Hand answers. "You are the Lord Commander." This does not seem a comfort to Balon. "I am sure you know why I'm here."

"Stonehelm," Balon grumbles. "My father is dead and my brother is a traitor. Do not doubt my duty to the throne, Lord Hand. Were my brother himself to stand against me, I would strike him down without thinking to defend the queen."

"I fear she may not yet trust your honor as much as you proclaim it."

"There have, perhaps, been mistakes that have cost me her faith," Balon glares. "Trust that I will do whatever I must to redeem it."

Genna's Chambers

Genna Lannister is moments away from falling asleep when Qyburn intrudes upon her peace.

"What in the seven hells do you need of me at this hour?"

"I have concerns, my lady, that are best shared while the castle slumbers. I fear it may no longer be safe for you here in the city. The war draws nearer, and the queen's favor has turned against you."

"Where would I go?" Genna sighs, collapsing heavily into a chair. "My home is in the hands of the enemy. My husband and sons are dead. I have family left scattered about, but none that I care for. We are just two old souls, my friend, burning out sooner than later. Our place is here, to defend the realm, whatever tune my niece's mood may blow."

Reluctantly, Qyburn turns to leave, but stops once more.

"And the Golden Company? Before they left, I spoke to Harry Strickland. He has Aegon's sword. Blackfyre."

"You think Homeless Harry Stickland wants to take the throne?" Genna laughs and climbs into bed. "Perhaps it is you who should retire, Lord Hand. The Blackfyre line is dead. There are enough enemies at our gates. There is no need to conjure up ghosts."

Qyburn's Laboratory

At last, Qyburn returns to his laboratories, deep beneath the Keep. Since the burning of the Tower of the Hand, he has slept here, in a small chamber set aside for his simple needs. But first, young Alys is waiting with another of the "little birds" - Tom Blackbottom. Qyburn shakes his head, disappointed.

"Did you really think I wouldn't discover this, Tom? My own birds have been disappearing, abandoning my work and flittering off to gods know where. I know Cersei has been speaking with you."

"I ain't tellin' nothin'," the boy looks away. "Queen's order."

Alys' dagger jumps to her hand, and then to Tom's throat.

"If we're good at one thing, it's keepin' secrets," she hisses. "The queen doesn't need to know you told us. But we already know you're hiding something."

"Wildfire!" the boy spits out. "The queen wants as much as she had at the Blackwater, hidden all throughout the city."

"Damn it all," Qyburn turns away. "The mad king come again… Tom, Boros and Preston are going to take you to the cells now. If you wish to return, you will tell me everywhere you've hidden the wildfire."

As the two undead knights begin to drag the panicked boy away, he is already shouting out locations. But Qyburn only trudges haggardly away into his chamber.

"Alys, fetch me sweetwine, please," he sighs, removing his worn sandals and collapsing onto his musty bed. Finally, he allows his eyes to close and wishes that the drink will be enough to carry him off to sleep.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown, he thinks as he tears off his Hand pin and tosses it away. Whoever said that was a lying bastard. The crown is heavy. But it isn't the wearer who bears the weight.

The Black Cells

Ser Ilyn Payne had always looked half-dead. Now, in the white cloak and armor of the Queensguard, he looks more spectral than ever. But Cersei is here in the dungeons to see someone who is even less alive. By the slightest torchlight, she sees the huddled, gaunt form of Ellaria Sand, twisted away in a corner. Nearly a skeleton with eyes, skin pulled taught as gossamer over her bones, she barely looks up as Cersei enters. The decayed corpse of her daughter still rests against the opposing wall.

"Hello, my friend…" Cersei purrs, sinisterly. Ellaria turns to her with an animalistic hiss.

"Finally come to gloat?" her voice rasps, like the creaking of a rusty hinge.

"No," Cersei sits on a stool brought by Ser Ilyn, carefully out of reach of Ellaria's chains. "I have come to talk. There is no one I can trust, no one in this city. But I must talk to someone, or I'll go mad."

"You are mad!"

"No, no, no!" Cersei laughs. "I'm the sanest woman in Westeros. Just look at you. Look how far you've fallen. Some men once dared to say you were more beautiful than me. I want to see you like this now, to remember how I won."

""You win nothing," Ellaria smiles through rotted teeth. "The dragons will tear these walls down and I will laugh. Then I'll finally be free!" At that, she lunges. Shrieking, Cersei topples from the stool. Ser Ilyn rushes to her side as Ellaria collapses from the effort. He drags the queen from the cell, slamming the door on the hoarse laughter. But as they flee back up into the Keep, two eyes watch them go. And the Imp smiles.

The Gates of the Moon

Sansa stands before the door to Robin Arryn's chambers, alone. Two of the Order of Winged Knights had been at guard. The first had been lured away by Mycah to bet on a fight in the yard. The other had been pulled into bed by Wynafryd Manderly. And now, as she slides the door open, Sansa is alone with her cousin. She finds Robin awake, the shutters of his balcony upon, sitting atop the wall, his legs dangling out into nothing.

"Are you here to kill me, cousin?" he asks, without looking at her.

"No!" she gasps, treading forward more quickly, but more softly, until she can see his face, looking out over the mountains. "I only want to talk. As family. We can do that, can't we?"

"I miss the Moon Door," he whispers, not seeming to have heard her. "I wish I could throw all of the Red Men through it. That would put their god's fires out."

Sansa chuckles, though she knows she oughtn't.

"What are you going to do about Jon?" he suddenly asks, abruptly. This time, he notices her shock. "I may be weak, but I'm not stupid. You knew first, but Lord Royce is still my bannerman, no matter what he thinks of me. So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" Robin's eyebrow begins to twitch. "Our cousin is the true heir to the Iron Throne, and you don't know what to do about it?"

"Jon doesn't want to be king." Sansa sits beside him. "And he loves Daenerys."

"And what happens if she takes the throne? I've heard stories of what the red priests did in Gulltown to my men who refused to raise her banners."

"I believe she is good. She wants to bring change to Westeros, change that we need."

"I don't like change," Robin shakes, childishly. "I don't like fire. The dragons are in my dreams now. And in my dreams, I die, just like they always said I would."

"You don't really want to be a king, Robin," Sansa sighs. "You just want to be safe."

"Will you keep me safe, cousin? Will you keep the dragons away?"

Sansa has no answer.

The Red Keep

Qyburn watches carefully as Boros and Preston load his small trunks and field supplies onto a wagon. The unnatural guards would not travel well, he believed, so he had chosen six of his personal guard for his company. But one more member would join the party, and none more surprised by his inclusion than the man himself – Tyrion Lannister, at last stripped of his fool's motley, in real clothes once again.

"The queen will not like you taking him," Genna muses.

"She has other matters to worry about," Qyburn answers. "Even without his tongue, his mind is a powerful weapon. We will need our greatest minds at work together if we are to win this battle."

"You do not think the Golden Company will succeed?"

"I believe they will try. I believe they will do what damage they can. And my birds follow behind them to feed on their scraps. But no, I do not think they will win the war. I doubt they even want to, but you know of my concerns. Until Daenerys Targaryen and her followers are dead, we will not know peace."

"Then may the Seven be with you," Genna bows and turns to leave as Qyburn climbs into his carriage and Boros roughly throws Tyrion in with the trunks.

"I'm happy for your prayers," Qyburn calls back. "And if any other gods care to pass their favor on us, I promise it will not be rejected."

At that, the carriage is off, trundling down towards the gate to the Goldroad, already packed full of panicked smallfolk desparate for safety within the city walls. As he watches them clamor to get in, Qyburn shudders to think of the queen's wildfire.

If we do not succeed, he thinks, the city may be the least safe land in Westeros.

Daenerys' Camp

As Daenerys returns to her tent for the night, she is surprised to find Zatarra and Eres waiting for her with Jorah, darkness in their eyes.

"What is the matter?" she asks.

"I saw in a vision a hundred ravens carrying dark words across the land, spreading blood and fire in their wake," Zattara breathes ominously.

"What does that mean?"

"Today, we learned the vision came true," Eres answers. "Ser Osgood Grafton received word from Gulltown that a missive has been sent to all noble houses. We believed Jon Snow's secret was safe. We were wrong."

"The Princess Arianne Martell and Lord Samwell Tarly have pledged that they hold proof that Jon Snow is Aemon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and heir to the throne," Zatarra continues. "They call on all the land to acknowledge him as the true king."

"Does… does he know?" Daenerys stammers, thoughts racing like a hurricane in her head.

"What do you think?" Zatarra steps closer. "My queen, love is a treacherous thing. You were born into a glorious destiny, to bring freedom to this world. But the old ways do not die easily. Sacrifices must be made."

"No!" Daenerys pushes the priestess away. "Jon would never lie to me!" She storms from the tent, back out into the cold. The Queensguard on watch move to follow, but she bids them stay, sprinting across the camp to Jon's tent and rushing past the Northern guards. She finds him within, half-dressed, warming himself by a brazier.

"Is something wrong?" he rises quickly, seeing her distress.

"They know," she says simply, seizing his bare arms. He needs no further explanation.

"How?"

"A Dornish princess and a Tarly lord sent a missive across the kingdoms. I don't know how they know, but they do. And now everyone does."

"Sam…" Jon is stunned, collapsing onto his bed.

"You know him?" Daenerys slowly begins to back away, worrying that her worst fears may yet come true. If Jon knows this lord…

"He was my closest friend at the Wall. He left for the Citadel, and that was the last I heard from him. But he's a good man."

"I killed his family, Jon. They fought my armies and I had them killed. Now he wants revenge. The Dornish, too, they've never stopped hating dragons. They want to destroy me."

"No, Sam isn't like that. He's not vengeful…"

"Then what do you call this? He's destroyed my claim to the throne!"

"No," Jon suddenly rises. He gently places his hands on her shoulders and pulls her in. In a moment, all their fights and distrust seems to fade away as she looks into his eyes again. "No more war. The day we take the capital, we will marry. And that will be the end of it."

"Are you sure…" she hesitates. "You said you wanted…"

"You are what I want. I don't care who my father was. I lived my life defining myself by men who came before me. No more. I know who I am. I know what I want. And who I want to be with." He kisses her deeply. Enthralled in the moment, their legs give out beneath them and they topple together onto the bed. For only a moment, Jon pulls away to look into her eyes. She whispers into his ear.

"We'll rule together, it is meant to be. Our fathers left this world in ashes. We will grow a garden here. And it will be beautiful." Then his lips meet hers again, and she never wants to let go.

Summerhall

Arianne straightens her mask, feeling it slip from the slick mist coating her face. She sits beside Sam and their bannermen, beneath an awning. The center of Summerhall's ruined great keep has been cleared for the challenge, and a crowd has already gathered, despite the darkening sky.

"There's a storm coming," Sarella observes. "And a big one."

"A bad omen," Mallora Hightower mutters.

"Indeed," Arianne crosses her fingers, staring down intently at the crowd. "But for whom?" She watches carefully. Gendry Baratheon has been dressed in proud armor with his great antlered-helm. He certainly looks imposing by himself. But as he steps forward into the ring and Bonifer Hasty himself says a prayer, he is dwarfed by his opponent. A surprise to none, Lord Dondarrion has named Ser Balerion Horpe as his champion. Two heads taller than Gendry, he shuns armor for his unchanging, tattered white shroud, his massive sword in hand, as imposing a weapon as the legendary warhammer.

Then thunder roars, and the fight begins.

With the ringing of steel comes the rain. Light drops at first, then harder and faster as the field turns to mud. Arianne is not close enough to see the details of the fight, the blood and sweat she knows is being spilled, but she can see enough. The boy is holding admirably, even as an early blow removes an antler from his helm. But from the start, he is on the defensive against the larger knight.

This is no warrior Arianne thinks. The gods themselves would have to lay hands to give him a victory.

Hammer and sword slam into each other, then into the mud, as Gendry tries to escape the range of Balerion's blows while trying to land just one of his own. Arianne can see Sam's eyes bulging with tension, his white knuckles grasping at his knees.

"He has to win!" Sam shouts, jostling Mallora's shoulder.

Suddenly, Gendry lands a hit. The sword is gone from Balerion's hands! But the knight moves like a white blur, grabbing hold of the remaining antler and wrenching him down into the mud. On the ground, the hammer is useless, and the two men are wrestling, grasping at each other until Gendry pries himself free and stumbles to his feet. But Balerion rises faster, and hits the bastard on the back of the skull with his own helmet.

Cheers ring out as Gendry hits the mud and crawls desperately towards the hammer as Balerion goes for his sword. Limping from a blow to the knee, the great knight draws nearer and nearer, as Gendry's shaking hands wrap tight round the hammer. The sword comes down as its target rises to meet it with a deafening scream. But no man hears the scream, for instead they hear thunder and are blinded by a furious, brilliant burst of lighting shot down from the maddening sky!

When their vision clears, they see Balerion on his back, his white robes charred black, smoke rising. And Gendry Baratheon, hammer in hand, stands over him.

"The gods have spoken!" Ser Bonifer shouts. "He commands the storms!" The crowd erupts with shouts of terror and awe. Arianne cranes her neck to try and catch a glimpse of Harlan's reaction, but she cannot find him. She does, however, see Mallora Hightower. And, for a moment, she swears she sees smoke breathing from the madwoman's nose, and scorching around her eyes…

The Gates of the Moon

Brienne finds Sansa sitting in the godswood – a sparse maze of stone sculptures and sparse mountain flowers encircling a tiny, warped wierwood, stunted in the shallow soil. Behind it lies a breathtaking tableau of the mountains and the night sky beyond.

"I don't think I've ever seen so many stars," she murmurs in awe, taking a seat beside her lady. "You can't see any in the yard, the Grafton's fires burn too bright."

"They say the night is dark and full of terrors," Sansa answers. "But it's now that I feel at peace. I think I can hear them sometimes. My father's gods. But only whispers on the wind, I know not what they say." As she turns, the stars glisten off tears on her cheeks. "What must I do, Brienne? Mycah says to stay, but he wants to protect me. Wynafryd says to leave, but she wants to find her betrothed. What is right? How do I know? I ruled in Winterfell for a time, but this…this is the fate of all seven kingdoms. It's so… heavy."

"I cannot make that decision for you, my lady. That is your place. But, I must confess, I too have a secret. I have my own reasons to go south." Sansa is clearly confused. "Before Ser Jaime died, I made him a vow. I swore to save his child."

"His child…" Sansa is confused. "But that means Cersei…"

"I know," Brienne struggle to find words. "I know it sounds mad, but I made an oath. Daenerys and Jon will kill her the moment they reach the city!"

"I know Jon would never…"

"Do you? If we can reach her first, if we can get to Cersei, I can keep my vow and we can stop this fight before any more lives are lost!"

"It's impossible!"

"If we meet with these southern lords, who knows what may be? My father still holds great sway in their ranks!"

For a long moment, Sansa is silent. She looks up to the mountains, the stars and the moon. The wind caresses her skin. In an instant, she hears the voice of her father and mother. And for the first time in so long, she is not cold.

"Ready your things, Brienne," she commands at last. "It's time we end this war."

Daenerys Camp

Night has fallen in the camp of the dragons, though nothing so resembling to darkness ever penetrates the blazing torches the ever light these tents in the name of R'Hllor. All is quiet, save for the priestess Zatarra, walking slowly away, past the perimeter guard. Noticing her departure, Eres, the armor of the Fiery Hand laid over her robes.

"Where are you going?" she calls out, and Zatarra finally stops. The bald woman slowly turns around, red robes blowing in the night wind. Eres shivers in her armor, noticing how far she has been lead from the comforting torches.

The night is dark and full of terrors.

"I go to my destiny, dear one," Zatarra smiles. "The Lord has shown me. Tonight is the night I leave this earth."

"By whose hand?"

"You will see soon enough."

"We have to warn the queen!" Eres tries to drag the priestess back to the camp

"No. Our queen is the Lord's chosen. Azor Ahai must be tested by fire to take the throne and raise of the Empire of Dawn."

"But how?" Eres pleads. "R'Hllor does not speak to me as he does to you!"

"I have served my role in this song, dear girl. There are others, more powerful than I, that you must lead her to if she is to fulfill her destiny." Zatarra turns to leave again, but Eres grabs at her robes.

"No! You have to tell me more!" she shouts. Slowly, Zatarra turns back and shakes her head. And then, with a jolt, her mouth drops open, and a bloody quarrel emerges with a sickening thunk. Eres, losing her stoic nature, shrieks as the priestess drops to the ground, dead.

And then the night is alive with deafening warhorns.

In his tent, Jon leaps up in bed, Daenerys at his side. He scrambles to get dressed as his guards rush into the room along with Ser Jorah and two of the Queensguard.

"What's happening?" Daenerys demands, frantically.

"We're under attack," Jorah reports. "We know not by whom." As if on cue, the thundering horns are joined by a different sound – one known only by a few Westerosi.

"Elephants. The Golden Company," Black Spot murmurs.

"Fetch me my halberd!" Daenerys demands as she helps Jon into his armor. Dressed first, he does not wait, and sprints out of the tent, Longclaw drawn. He emerges to find the camp in chaos, men rushing to arms to take defenses against the sudden foes emerging from the night. He sees dark figures in the light of the scattered fires. A volley of burning arrows rains down from the sky, setting light to the tents, and he charges.

More men come in behind him to charge into the hazy smoke, feet crunching on ice. But as they near, weapons, ready, the face that emerges from the smoke is familiar - Grey Worm.

"Stop, stop!" Jon howls over the warhorns. "What's happening? Have you seen the enemy?"

"I saw men on horse in glistening armor!" Grey Worm points. "They were rushing the dragons!"

At once, Jon sprints off, with Grey Worm close behind. They run through the burning camp, trying to break up blind skirmishes, but with only one destination in mind. Soon, the dragons are in sight. Six bowmen surround them, weapons drawn. Jon attacks without hesitation, cutting down the first archer with a single blow. Grey Worm kills another just as quickly, and Jon a third, but then the fourth draws a sword.

Offguard, Jon slips on a patch of ice and hits the ground hard. His enemy turns to strike down, but slips as well, falling atop Jon's sword. But his gilded helm lands heavily on his face. He feels his nose crack and blood blinds his eyes. Grappling on the ground, he struggles to get his bearings. That's when he sees them, scattered on the earth – weirwood arrows. Looking up, he cannot see Grey Worm, but he can see the dragons. And before them, a boy, just a squire.

"Get back!" Jon shouts. But the boy turns and smiles. His white teeth glisten in the dark, and Jon can see his hair, dyed garish blue. He raises his arms and takes another step forward. As he does, Drogon and Rhaegal let out the most bloodcurdling roar Jon has ever heard from them. Not a roar of strength, but one of terror. And then the fire comes, burning out in heavy streams as the frenzied beasts take wing, ripping their great chains up out of the ground. Fire is everywhere, everywhere but where the boy stands. He smiles at Jon again, then disappears into the smoke.

But the dragons fly on, and Jon can only watch in horror as they descend over the camp. And then everything is flame.

"This is chaos," Jorah shouts as he and Daenerys finally emerge into the burning carnage. "The men are turning on each other, they cannot see the enemy. We have to leave the camp and find the archers!" Four of the Queensguard peel off at his command. As they leave, he turns back to his queen, only to see seven riders, flaming torches in hand, cutting a wide swath through the middle of the camp, straight towards her.

"Dany!" he shouts with all his breath, drawing Heartsbane. But she does not flee. Instead, she plants herself and, with a heavy swing of her halberd, dismounts one of the riders and buries its point in his neck before he can recover. Jorah moves to run to her, but the riders have turned around. In passing, a sword cuts down, hitting deep into his shoulder. He topples forward, but grabs hold of the rider's leg, pulling them both down together.

Icy blades of grass jab Jorah's face as he hits the earth. His enemy's sword lies before him, and the sight freezes him – Valyrian steel, with a dragon hilt and ruby eyes. Then a cold, metal boot kicks the side of his head and he rolls away to grab his own sword and face his foe – General Harry Strickland, in golden armor, Blackfyre in hand.

"For Daenerys!" Jorah shouts, and attacks. He has never felt Valyrian steel on Valyrian steel until this moment. The first strike seems to burst with dark power and a blinding shower of sparks erupts. For a moment, he is in awe – a moment of weakness. Strickland strikes, landing a quick blow to Jorah's side. And they duel, their legendary swords bursting with light at every clash, slowly circling, pacing back and forth. But Jorah's eyes are not on Strickland. He takes every chance to catch a glimpse of his queen, fighting on her own amidst the chaos, halberd burst into flames with a cry to R'Hllor.

And then a jabbing pain in his side. He looks down to see Blackfyre in his side. The sword pulls free and he stumbles. Strickland hits again, slicing across his back. Heartsbane drops to the ground and Jorah falls, face-first. Calmly, Strickland sheaths his own sword and picks up Jorah's, preparing to finish off the crippled knight. Then he hears Daenerys' scream.

At last she has seen them, and is running through the battle, two Queensguard and Eres at her side. And so Strickland turns, seizing the nearest horse to ride away, disappearing back into the night as quickly as his men had come. Daenerys does not give chase, dropping to her knees beside Jorah. The last thing he sees before the black comes are her blue eyes. A fire burns within them.

AN: Sorry these last few have been so long. Hope you've liked them, I just have a lot of ground to cover before the final battles.