The Kingswood

The barren branches of the great forest tremble as the massive army nears – the combined might of the Stormlands, Dorne and the Marches of the Reach. As they come to stop by a forest stream, Samwell Tarly topples down from his horse. He has never ridden this far for so long before. But he dare not take a carriage, fearing the scorn of his lordly peers.

"We'll make camp here," Princess Arianne commands.

"We're meant to march on the capital," Gendry Baratheon protests – the young lord is now ostensibly the leader of their number, after besting Harlan Dondarrion's champion in single combat.

"Unless you've devised a way to transport us three days journey overnight, that will not be happening today, my lord," Sarella smirks, leaping nimbly from her horse, bow in hand.

"Once we make camp, we will plan our next move," Arianne assures Gendry. "Until then, enjoy the peace. You've earned it."

Sarella departs to hunt, Arianne and Sam to find the other lords, leaving Gendry alone. Until Meraxes Horpe arrives on a pale, shaggy horse, carrying the banner of her house.

"We're making camp here," he commands.

"Watch yourself lordling," the woman's lips part in a snarl. "Whatever witchcraft you used to cripple my brother, my family is still sworn to Harlan Dondarrion, not to you. You'd be best to remember that."

Her boots spurn her horse away, and Gendry watches as white beast and rider blend into the snowy terrain. He shivers, and remounts. Winter has never felt so cold. He needs friendly faces to warm himself.

Tumbler's Falls

The Oldtown army has made camp around the small village where the Goldroad crosses the treacherous waters of the Blackwater Rush. The Hightower banners now fly high over the town square, where a small inn has been taken over by the lords as their command center.

In all her time since leaving Daenerys, Missandei of Naath has never felt so afraid. Everywhere she goes, she receives deathly glares from men and women who know it is her queen's army that burns a path across the countryside towards them. Ser Argilac has not left her side, and she is rarely out of the company of Lady Alysanne and Lord Arthur Ambrose. They are all together now, waiting to begin their plans for the battle to come.

Heavy footsteps mark Ser Garth Hightower's entrance. "The Queen's Hand has arrived!"

"Qyburn?" Missandei remembers the old man from her time in Oldtown. Making her way to the yard outside, Argilac close behind, she sees men unloading supplies, supervised by the Hand. Qyburn could easily be mistaken for a servant, she thinks, having traded the fine clothes he wore in the city for simple grey robes.

"Lady Missandei," he bows politely. "It is a great pleasure for our paths to cross again. So long, of course, you're on our side."

"I am in service of House Hightower, my lord."

"I'm glad to hear that." Qyburn steps forward to head inside, and it is then that Missandei sees a man she long thought dead. Tyrion Lannister hobbles down from the cart. With tears of joy, she runs to the little man, wrapping her arms around him in a warm embrace.

"I was sure they killed you!" she gasps, laughing. But he does not answer. She steps back, and sees darkness in his eyes, and tears. But no joy. His mouth opens, and only a hollow, empty rasp comes out, dropping him to his knees.

Missandei falls beside him as he desperately tries to force out creaking words. It is then that she sees the scars within his mouth, and the hole where a tongue should be. Gagging and recoiling, she turns back to Qyburn with a fury. The stories were true, after all.

"Not by my hand, I swear," he turns out his palms in supplication. "I have done my best to preserve him. A mind is a terrible thing to waste."

Picking himself to his feet, Tyrion lifts his hand. Slowly, Missandei takes it. And together they follow Qyburn in to counsel.

Red Army Camp

Lord Flement Brax is chained within a darkened tent among a handful of fellow noble prisoners, including his bitter old septon. He looks up as a sliver of light and rush of cold air declares the arrival of Varys. Flement wishes to rise to strike the eunuch, but has not the strength.

"You lied," he spits.

"My lord, I beg your pardon if you think I have deceived you," Varys bows.

"You said you would protect us if we surrendered," Flement gestures to his companions. "And yet here we are, in chains, waiting for the moment men in red will take us away to burn."

"I'm doing all I can," Varys protests weakly.

"You're afraid," Flement realizes. "You didn't flinch when my uncle had you in chains and wanted your head. Why now?"

At first, it does not seem that Varys will answer. Finally he speaks. "It was not like this, when I left. But this Red God, its fires have consumed them all. This is an army of zealots now. I cannot reason with such men, for they have abandoned sound logic for a voice from the flames. I heard that voice once, when I was just a boy. And the words it spoke have haunted me ever since. Now, I feel the heat on the back of my neck. I fear the voice has finally caught me. That is fear, my lord. No man. Something far worse."

For a long while, the two men only stare at each other, solemnly. Eventually, Flement speaks again. "Then at least let me see my son."

From the prisoner's tent to the Hand's housing in a commandeered farmhouse is a short but shivering walk for Varys. He finds Lord Damion Lannister speaking to young Robert Brax, with the Red Priest-Knight Forley Prestor watching.

"Beg pardon, my lord, I did not mean to intrude," he bows.

"No matter," Damion rises to greet him. "We're done here."

Prestor leads the lad away. As he passes, Varys sees deep shadows under his eyes and burns around the corners of his mouth and hands. The left side of his head has been shaved and branded with a crude emblem of flame.

"What have you done to him?" Varys stares wide-eyed at the man he once found so reasonable.

"Me?" Damion shrugs. "I've done nothing. I leave the work of the Lord to Prestor, Crakehall and their kind. They are… converting the lad, I believe they call it. He'll be loyal to our queen and god by the time they're done with him."

"Surely you can't think…"

"Lord Varys, I have not forgotten who you are. Dwell on your own actions before you cast stones at these priests."

"Of course," Varys nods, nervously. "We all serve the will of our queen and R'Hllor."

"Don't play games with me, eunuch. You are no more a religious man than I. We can be truthful, can't we?"

"Of course, my lord. I was only wondering, perhaps, if young Robert might be allowed to see his father. It may spark a change of heart."

"In Flement? We have his son, we have no use for him. He will burn with the rest. He'll see his son then, no sooner." Varys turns to leave. "Another moment! With all that has happened, have you been informed of the fate of Petyr Baelish. You knew him, did you not?"

"I heard he was executed by Sansa Stark on the walls of Winterfell."

"Indeed. In the end, all his schemes and wit could not save him. The world is changing. We must adapt to survive, or else we shall all lose our heads, one way or another."

As Varys exits, one of Damion's guards enters.

"Lord Hand, one of the prisoners wishes to speak to you."

"Send them in." Damion watches as the guards present the old septon of Hornvale, his fine white robes now stained and torn. The sight seems comedic to Damion, he had never cared for this kind.

"I pray, listen, my lord," the old priest begs. "I know you do not fear the Seven. And I shall never blaspheme their name. But I come to you with a bargain. Surely you would trade a heretic's life to burn a traitor in your midst?"

Daenerys' Camp

Ser Jorah Mormont lies half-asleep, surrounded by blazing braziers, his wounds tightly wrapped. Two of his Queensguard, Black Spot and Kimbo, stand guard over him. A burst of cold wind stirs him as Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow enter, followed closely by Eres and two more Queensguard.

"Will he live?" Jon asks.

"Yes, by the Lord's grace," Eres answers.

"And what of the army?" Daenerys is unwilling to look away from her stricken guardian.

"Near half our number slain or missing," Jon says, painfully. "Grey Worm and Lord Cerwyn among them. We fear they've been carried back the capital. The children are missing, too. And still no word from Sansa or Gendry."

"We will rendezvous with my Hand's armies as planned," Daenerys commands. "You will take Rhaegal, ensure that the fleet arrives on schedule. Then find your sister and the Baratheons and ensure they will be prepared."

"At once, my love," Jon begins to bow, but Daenerys stops him with a kiss. He turns to leave and Daenerys kneels beside Jorah. The others exit, one by one, until the queen and her guardian are alone.

"Last night I had a dream," she whispers in her ear. "I saw the walls of the city torn down and castles crumble. I dreamt of Drogon's fires raining down to melt the chains off a hundred thousand slaves. And from that molten iron rose a new throne, more glorious than Aegon's. A new kingdom, for a new world. And they chanted our names, mine and Jon's. The whole world, finally free in a summer that never ends."

"You used to dream of a small house with a red door," Jorah coughs, sadly. "And lemon trees. You could still have that. You don't have to lose anything else."

"I was selfish then," she places a warm hand on his bare, scarred chest. "I only dreamed of what I wanted. But now I've seen the truth. My destiny is to free these people, all people, from the bonds they cannot even see. And to do what is right requires sacrifice."

"But how much?" he grasps her hand with faint strength, his eyes and mind blurred. It seems as if he barely recognizes her.

"I love you," he whispers.

"I know," she replies, soft as a dove, as his head slips back onto his pillow.

"You used to dream. Of lemon trees…"

Near the Camp

Meera Reed leads the small band of lordlings and young ladies through the light layer of ice and snow covering the ground, taking care to cover their tracks as they creep along. There are two armies in these parts, and it will not do to be found by either of them. The oldest among them, lanky Hoster Blackwood, is little help keeping the smaller ones calm and quiet – he impaled his foot in the escape and has been moaning in pain all the way since.

Hearing a rustling in the briar ahead, Meera hisses at her ramshackle troupe for silence. Stolen spear in hand, she sneaks silently around the bushes until she comes up behind five children, as small as the ones following her.

Suddenly one turns, and sees her before she can duck to cover. In an instant, a knife is in the boy's hand, and he lets out a blood-curdling cry, charging her. Meera knocks him down with an easy swing of the spear's staff, but the others all have knives now, too.

"Who are you?" the leader, a muddy, dark-skinned boy yells, his voice cracking.

"Just a very lost crannogman," Meera cautiously slides the spearpoint back and forth, creating an invisible line between her and the devilish children.

"Do you know where the dragon queen's camp is?"

Meera hesitates. "What do you want with her?"

A girl, younger but taller than the boy steps up. "Fire and blood."

Looking back over her shoulder to where her own wards wait, Meera thinks for a little while, never taking her eyes off the daggers. It does not take long to make up her mind.

"I'll take you to her."

The Kingswood

For such a time of war, there is yet peace all throughout the Kingswood. All seems calm, save for the tent of Gendry Baratheon, where the young lord is in a heated argument with Arya Stark, as his sister and Davos look on helplessly.

"I don't need you to tell me what to do!" Gendry points an angry finger at Arya. "Every decision I make, you question!"

"That's because you're not making your own decisions!" Arya shouts back. "You just do whatever your bannermen tell you. They're manipulating you!"

"A good lord listens to his advisors," Davos interjects.

"A good lord listens to wisdom and then makes up his own mind! You've been pushed around from the moment we arrived in Storm's End."

"What do you know of being a lord anyway?" Gendry throws up his arms in frustration. "Who taught you how to lead? The Hound?"

"My father!" Arya feels the wolfblood boiling in her veins. Instinctively, she moves to strike him. Mya intervenes, throwing her back on the ground. Gendry stops the fight from going further, urging the others out of the tent. Exhausted, he seizes a large pitcher of ale and begins to sloppily pour it down his throat, the sour drink spilling down his face. Arya, dusting herself off, grabs the pitcher for herself.

"I'm sorry for fighting," she says, slowly calming. "It's embarrassing, like we're still just children."

Gendry collapses onto the soft bed they had carried with them from Storm's End. "We never got a chance to grow up. Not really."

"No," Arya sighs, putting down the pitcher. Her mood improved, she slides onto Gendry's lap and pulls his lips close, her hands pulling at the strings of his breeches. "But we can pretend for now."

"No!" He suddenly pushes her away. "You made a fool of me in front of everyone before the challenge! You told them all I couldn't win!"

"It was foolish!"

"You have to trust me!" Gendry stands, struggling to restring his laces.

"You could have died! This would have all been for nothing!"

"But I won!"

"Only because a fucking lightning bolt fell out of the sky onto that idiot knight!"

"Eloquently put, princess. And very true." They turn to realize that Princess Arianne has silently entered the tent and is watching them through her steel mask. Gendry gasps as his breeches drop to the floor. "And who do you think sent that lightning?"

"The…the…the gods, I suppose," Gendry stammers.

Arianne laughs. "You speak like Bonifer Hasty, boy, but you sound like Flea Bottom. I know you're cleverer than that. The gods did not answer your prayers. But there are others, with great powers…"

"The witch," Arya glared. "From Oldtown."

"You owe your life to Mallora Hightower," Arianne nods, as she takes a seat, pushing the reeking ale far away from her.

"Why?"

"Because I need your help to put the true king on the throne."

"Daenerys Targaryen is the true queen," Gendry protests.

"No," she shakes her head. "Have you not heard? You've been in the field so long... Aemon Targaryen, third-born son of Prince Rhaegar? You know him better as Jon Snow."

Arya gasps. "That's impossible! Jon's my brother."

"Oh it's very possible. And very true. And now that we've established what we owe each other, what are we going to do about it?"

The Frosted Fury

The waves softly rock beneath the hull of the small Manderly vessel as the coast of the Kingswood comes into sight. Sansa lays on her back beneath the stars, hand clasped around a necklace – a silver chain wrapped around a carved weirwood twig from the Gates of the Moon – and listens to the night. She hears steel boots thudding on the deck. Looking up, Mycah Manderly's face eclipses the moon.

"Can you not sleep, my lady?"

"I've never sailed for so long," she answers as he lies down beside her. "It's difficult."

"For you, maybe," his white teeth seem to sparkle in the moonlight. "But not for me. My father took me sailing even before I could walk. He would sing me the songs of the sea, how to navigate by the stars, and which stars marked the heroes of our ancestors."

He gently guides her hand to point at a small cluster of stars.

"That's Garth the Greenhand, He taught the First Men to farm. And that's Lord Winston, who led our family north after our exile."

Sansa laughs. "My mother told me that was the Fisher King, of Misty Isle." She sees Mycah's confusion. "Maybe that's what makes them so special. They can be whatever we want them to be." For a moment, there is silence, just the waves and wind.

"This is the furthest I've ever been from home," Mycah speaks. "After my mother died, I wanted to sail away to Essos. Everything in White Harbor reminded me of her. But father wouldn't let me. He wouldn't let any of us out of his sight. But that didn't save Mycroft."

"I'm sorry," Sansa takes ahold of his hand. She finds five small stars clustered together. "We can say that's him. Mycroft the Innocent."

Mycah smiles, and holds her hand tighter. "Then those can be us."

"Which ones?" she asks, but he does not answer, only softly pulling her head closer until they kiss.

The Red Keep

The queen sits alone atop the Iron Throne, the hair beneath her crown disheveled, her hands cut and bloody from the sharp blades beneath her, making her way into the seat grows more perilous with each day of her pregnancy. Her mind is lost in the past. But in this memory, it is not Robert on the throne, but her, young and perfect, her brother at her side. The doors swing open, and she sees the a white cloak.

"Jaime? Jaime!"

"No, you grace!" Ser Balon Swann shouts, rushing to stop Cersei from falling. "It's me!" She leans heavily on him, leaving bloody handprints on his white armor. "The Golden Company has returned! Have you not heard the bells?"

Cersei stops to listen. Slowly she recognizes the sound. How long had they been ringing?

"Is she dead? Have they slain the dragon queen and Ned Stark?"

"Ned Stark is long dead, your grace," Balon is confused as Cersei limps away. "I do not know of Daenerys' fate."

Slowly, she turns back to him, fury in her eyes.

"Do not speak that name in my presence, Lord Commander! I must have your trust, or I will replace you with another! With Ser Osmund, perhaps…" Osmund Kettleblack was dead as well, but Balon drops to his knees regardless, head cowed. Cersei approaches, curiously.

"Your grace…" he stammers. "I must make a confession. I have failed you."

The Black Cells

Once again, the light of a flickering torch blinds Ellaria Sand as Cersei Lannister sits before her in her cells. Ser Ilyn Payne stands, silent as ever, one foot in the pile of dust and bne that had once been her daughter.

"Are you really here?" she rasps out, her eyes struggling to focus through blurred vision.

"As real as any of us can be, witch. Do not strike me again, or else I will see you never get your wish of death. You may yet keep my company for an eternity." Cersei pauses. "Oh, you don't know… So much has changed since you've been away. The dead walk, the fires talk, anything is possible now. Anything, it seems, but loyalty to the queen."

"There is only one queen, and she is Daenerys Targ…" Ser Ilyn's boot silences her. For a moment, Cersei fears the blow has killed the frail woman, but as Ser Ilyn lifts Ellaria's face up to hers, she still breathes.

"I am the queen," Cersei sneers. "I will always be the queen, and I always have. And now I have to kill my aunt."

The Kingswood

The weight of a trident and the Valyrian blade Leviathan weigh heavily on Mycah's back as he trudges through the winter forest. But he has no intent of leading his love into danger unprepared. Sansa follows close behind on foot, shrouded in a dark green cloak, as their only donkey had been given over to his cousin, Wynafryd. Behind him marches Brienne of Tarth and two of the White Harbor guard – Horster and Broderick. At rear walk two knights of the Vale – Ser Ben Coldwater and Ser Lymond Lynderly.

Broderick is the first to see the movement through the barren, frosted branches.

"Men approaching!" the snub-nosed guard whispers.

Mycah takes his trident in hand as Brienne and the men draw their swords, circling around Sansa and Wynafryd as six men, in black leather ill-suited to this weather emerge. White skulls are painted on their dark skin. Recognizing them as Dornishmen, Sansa gently pushes between Mycah and Brienne and lowers her hood.

"Stand down. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. I have come to speak with Princess Arianne Martell on the matter of my brother."

Tumbler's Falls

The beginnings of a blizzard have begun to descend upon the small village as candles are lit in the sept. Ser Argilac kneels before a humble wooden carving of The Stranger. The other lords say their own prayers, as Missandei, Tyrion and Qyburn watch.

"We should go soon, my lady, before the weather worsens," Qyburn whispers in her ear.

"We?" Missandei turns, speaking louder than she'd meant.

"Yes. You will be coming with me."
"As your prisoner?"

"As my guest. You are no warrior. You do not belong on the battlefield."

"Do you not think they will win?" she points to the Hightowers. Qyburn does not answer, but both his eyes and Tyrion's betray uncertainty. "Those fires over the horizon belong to my queen's men. No matter who wins the battle, I will be protected here!"

"And how many of Damion Lannister's army know your face?" Qyburn shakes his head. "If the Hightowers lose, you will burn with them. You may bring your guardian if you like. But this is the only way."

She kneels to look Tyrion in the eye. He nods, and she silently concedes. Walking through the sept, she finds Arthur and Alysanne kneeling before The Mother. Her decision made, they share a final embrace. As they part, Alysanne places her own orange-gemmed pendant around Missandei's neck, in the shape of the Hightower.

"Dawn is only a horizon away," Alysanne smiles. "Never forget."

The Kingswood

A fine dinner has been presented before the assembled lords and ladies in what had once been King Robert's own hunting lodge. Arianne eyes all the guests from her seat at the head of the room, where Gendry Baratheon sits in the seat his father held not so long ago. At her side are Sarella and Sam Tarly. To Gendry's left sits his sister, Davos and Lord Dondarrion. But Arya Stark instead sits at the table directly before them, reunited with the guest Arianne is most interested in – Sansa Stark.

"Do you think she wishes to wed Lord Gendry?" Sam whispers.

"Not by the way that Manderly knight is at her side," Sarella smirks. "The lady wouldn't know what to do with a stag like him anyway."

"Dear cousin, I thought you wanted Garin," Arianne chuckles into her wine.

"My father never kept to one lover," Sarella pours another glass. "I see no reason to break family tradition, not when the kingdoms have unveiled so many eligible men at such an incredible rate."

"You're starting to sound like me."

"I spent ten years pretending to be a boy surrounded by horrid old men," Sarella leans back in her chair. "I think I've earned some allowance for lust."

As the servants present desert, Arianne notes the Evenstar's daughter, the great brute of a woman in plate, grow nervous. Finally, she stands, but few note her as the festivities carry on.

"Quiet!" Davos shouts, suddenly. "The Lady Brienne of Tarth would speak!"

"Lord, ladies," Brienne begins, clearly unused to addressing such a crowd. "Some of you may know that Ser Jaime Lannister died in the North, fighting the Army of the Dead."

"And good riddance!" someone yells. "Kingslayer!"

"He made mistakes, that's true," Brienne struggles to continue. "And he had many flaws. But he tried to be a good man, and he died saving many. So I made him a vow. Cersei Lannister sits on the throne, pregnant. With his child."

"An abomination!" Bonifer Hasty thunders.

"An innocent child, that will be born any day!" Brienne shouts back. "And I vowed to defend it. I request permission to lead a team into the capital, to capture Cersei and end this war before it claims any more lives. Once the child is born, you may dispense what justice upon its mother you will."

"You speak nobly," Harlan Dondarrion rises. "But such a mission is surely impossible."

"No, it's not," Arya rises. "I'll go with her."

"And I," the Hound rises. "If you want Cersei, you'll have to go through my brother, first." Slowly, more champions rise to take of Brienne's challenge, each volunteer bringing the slightest smile to Brienne's face.

"Mallora says that Daenerys' army has been delayed," Sam says, hushed. "If we can end the war before she reaches the capital..."

"Dorne supports this plan!" Arianne declares, rising.

"As does The Reach," Sam follows suit. All eyes turn to Gendry. He looks to the Stark girls, then to Harlan Dondarrion, then to Davos and his sister.

"I agree. If there is a chance to end the war without more loss of life, we must take it."

Red Army Camp

Damion Lannister marches out of his farmhouse and into the blinding snow, a blizzard of the like he has never seen. Even beneath the massive fires lit by the red priests, Damion can barely see a few feet in front of his path. Holding a gloved hand up to guard his eyes, he follows Forley Prestor's burning sword to the front line, where a long line of stakes and pyres have been erected. The whole of their army stands at attention, despite the very real risk of being blown off their feet. He takes his place at the head of the assembly, beside Varys, Lord Crakehall, Malakho and Robert Brax as Prestor begins to speak.

"R'hllor!" he howls to the heavens as his sword burns brighter. "We call upon your mighty name to quench the winter winds of the enemy and give us victory in battle. We hand over to you these unbelievers who would keep your people in chains."

On cue, the guards bring out the prisoners and bind them to the stakes, one by one. The last is Flement Brax, staring hopelessly at his son, who barely seems to recognize him. But one empty pyre remains.

"Purify us, our lord!" Prestor continues. "Purge the faults from our armor and expose our weakness, so we can be made anew!"

Under the wind, Varys does not hear the Unsullied behind them until they seize his arms. But at their touch, he looks to Damion with a crippling dawn of realization.

"We must be pure." Damion does not turn. "It seems you've run out of web to spin." The eunuch shouts a protest, but is silenced as the wind screams louder and harsher. The blizzard even obscures the pyres now, lit only by Prestor's sword, and Varys is dragged away into the white.

He is tied to the stake beside Flement. They see Prestor begin to walk towards them.

"Tell me," Flement resigns himself. "What did the voice in the fire say to you?"

Varys turns to him with a look of pure despair. "It sang to me. It sang of a summer without end, of a sun fired by a million souls. It told me I would open the door. And I have. I have…"

And the flames are upon them.

Even the eunuch is screaming, Damion thinks. In the end, they're all alike.

Daenerys' Camp

They look so helpless when she sees them – Yet more lost orphans begging in the path of the advancing army, hoping perhaps for a blanket or some bread. Daenerys cannot ignore them.

"My queen, we don't have time…" Ser Osgood whispers as she stops.

"These are my people," she insists. "All my time is their's."

Osgood and Sharp Fang stand by nervously as she kneels to greet the children.

"What's your name?" Daenerys asks the leader, a small boy with dark skin, holding hands with a pale girl. They do not answer. And then she sees the knives drop out from their sleeves.

Before she can scream, the boy's blade is in her shoulder. Then the scream comes. Sharp Fang is the first to her, but the girl's knife slips between the plate at his ankle. He drops to the ground and two children are upon him. Red blood sullies his white cloak. Daenerys tries to shove the children away as feels the cuts again and again. Falling back, she crawls across the frozen earth. But hearing Ser Osgood draw his sword, she turns back.

"Stop! Stop! They're only children!"

But her words barely make a sound.

The shouts from outside draw Jorah's men away from their place at his side. He hears shouts of the queen. Panicking, he struggles to rise, but the pain is crippling. It's then that he sees Meera Reed standing over him.

"A slaver too craven for the Wall," the girl glares, fondling the spear in her hand. "My father never liked you. It's no surprise to see you with her."

"I don't know what Howland told you, girl," Jorah reaches for a sword, but there is none in reach. "But Daenerys is not your enemy. She is here to break chains."

"You don't even know what she is. No one knows. But my father remembered the truth of the savior that comes in fire. That's why you killed him."

"We let your father go!"

"He's dead. If he lived, he'd have taken me from your hands by night without breaking a sweat."

"You don't know what you're doing…" Jorah protests, but in a blur the spear is in him. He clutches desperately at the blood flowing from new wounds. Feeling bile and blood pooling up in his throat, he calls out.

"Daenerys!" But she is not there to hear. And Meera Reed is gone.

The Goldroad

It is a battle of ice and fire. The Red Army had appeared, rising up out of the blizzard, heralded by great flaming rocks flung down from the sky onto the battlefield, their blades ablaze, each its own horrid flame. At the sight, the Oldtown lines had nearly faltered, but Ser Garth had rallied the men and led the charge. Now they war, blinded by smoke, snow and blood. Bodies break upon Unsullied shield walls and beneath the hooves and blades of the Dothraki. And tall above it all, in his bronzed armor and three-pronged helm, Garth swings Vigilance down upon his foes, a pile of bodies at his feet.

"Press on!" he yells to the men at his side, leading them towards the Unsullied line. His Valyrian steel breaks two spears and drives his way through the shields, hacking away at the soldiers in his path. "Onward, onward! For the Seven!" But as he charges on, he rises over another ridge and yet another volley of flaming rubble rains down from the sky. Before him stretches leagues of the brightest fires he has ever seen, shining harsher than the day even now, creating an orange, hellish haze as the snow traps the light.

"For the Lord!" He hears a shout. Leading an opposing charge he sees a man near as big as himself, flaming axe in hand, the tips of his beard smoldering – Lord Rolland Crakehall. Garth steadies his feet in the deep snow and says a silent prayer. Two Crakehall men overtake their lord, and fall quickly. Then Rolland's axe meets Vigilance with an explosion of embers.

Their duel is slow and unwieldy, the snow catching their feet and blurring their vision, but their blows are no less heavy, each strike sending sparks to smolder in the ice. One wrong turn and a brutal blow from the axe pierces the back of Garth's armor. He nearly falls, but swings around in time to strike Crakehall's right arm. The axe drops, but Garth still feels the heat – his back is on fire.

"Burn!" As the opposing lord roars a curse in defiance, Garth brings down his sword in a final thrust, through the man's neck and down, burying the tip into the earth before he collapses on his back letting the snow extinguish the flame.

How long he lies there, he cannot say, but he lies unmoving, unthinking until he sees a horse above him. And atop the horse, his brother. Gunthor. The younger knight has never seen battle before, and the terror shows in his eyes. Garth slowly picks himself to his feet.

"What do we do?" Gunthor shouts, all his bravado and arrogance washed away. It should make Garth smile. But not like this. He turns back to the inferno before him, to the screams of his dying men. And he knows. He lifts the heavy helmet from his brow and drops it into the snow.

"Run."

"What?"

"Run," he pulls Vigilance free from Lord Crakehall's body and hands it up to his brother. "Lead a retreat. Take what men remain and return to the Reach. They must not extinguish our light, brother."

"I can't…"

"You must," Garth stares at his brother until Gunthor gives in. His horse turns and disappears into the storm, without another look back. Kicking aside his helmet, Garth looks back to the battlefield. He can see another man, marked by the boar, running towards him, a dozen men at his back – Tybolt Crakehall, whose father lies dead at Garth's feet.

Breathing in a deep, cold breath, Garth lifts the dead man's axe, it's tip still smoldering, and stares defiantly before the flames. In these final moments, he calls out to those who remain. And, emerging as if ghosts from the snow, he hears the cry.

"We light the way!"

"We Light the Way!"

"We Light the Way!"