The Ruins of the Red Keep
It looks as if hell has come to King's Landing. Rhaegal descends through the thick layer of smoke, flying low over the burning city. He can hear the screams of desperate people below, but he knows there is something he must do first. As the Red Keep comes into view, he tries to remember how he had imagined it as a child. Whatever it was then, though, is gone now. The legendary castle is half destroyed, its walls toppled and its towers aflame.
As he draws nearer, he sees a large dark shape lying on the ground. Rhaegal recognizes it first, and lets loose a great screech of grief. Jon cannot bear to look as his dragon comes to land beside the corpse of its fallen brother. But as Jon dismounts, his boots steaming on contact with the scorched ground, he must look.
He kicks through ash, following Drogon's body to the head. There he finds Daenerys, kneeling and weeping in the rubble – her head shaved and marked with red arcane symbols. Missandei stands nearby, with Ser Argilac Horpe on guard. It seems like a lifetime since Jon met them on Dragonstone. He struggles to find words to speak.
"Daenerys..." is all he can say, choking on soot as he breathes in.
She looks up, eyes stained by smoke and tears. "Jon… It's over. We won."
"No," Jon shakes his head as she rises to embrace him. "This is not the war that I fought."
Daenerys does not seem to have a reply, at first. He sees a stranger behind her eyes. But one who is all too familiar. Finally, she speaks.
"The people are free."
"The people are dead."
"They were slaves, and their chains have been melted away. Some may have died, but in death at least they will no longer face Cersei's cruelty."
She really believes it, Jon thinks. "Ser Argilac, find a cell still intact and take the queen there to await judgement," he commands. "I will be searching for survivors." Daenerys' jaw drops in a silent cry as the knight steps forward. She looks desperately to Jon, who turns away, unable to watch. She pulls her halberd from the ground, threatening the approaching knight.
"You are sworn to me!" she shouts.
"You swore me to the service of Lady Missandei."
Argilac and Daenerys both turn to look at Missandei. Silently, she nods, and Daenerys' grip on the halberd gives way. Argilac knocks it to the ground and, tearing a strip away from his ragged white cloak, gently binds her hands behind her back. As Jon walks to Rhaegal, the knight leads the queen away until they vanish into the ash and smoke.
The Kingswood
The destruction of the city is far removed from the peace of Gendry Baratheon's camp. By a quiet steam, Sam and Sarella watch Mallora Hightower teach Garin the ways of his Rhoynish ancestors' water magic. Young Edric Dayne serenades a young Horpe spearwoman. Gendry anxiously awaits the return of his lover. And in Sansa Stark's tent, Tywin Dondarrion slips inside to answer a secretive message.
Lying on Sansa's bed in a revealing turquoise gown, her long blonde hair let down, Wynafryd Manderly waits.
"My lady!" Tywin gasps and drops to his knees at the sight of his former betrothed.
"My lordling. Come here," Wynafryd laughs. Tywin awkwardly stumbles to the bedside, sheepishly trying to hide his attraction. "Why are you here?"
"I told my lord father I was pregnant," she smiles, seductively.
"Are you?"
"No," she pulls him down atop her, and soon feels her efforts have been successful. "But we can change that soon enough. We are to be married, remember? And our child will one day rule these lands."
"But the betrothal was a ruse!" Tywin protests nervously, even as Wynafryd pulls his face to her bosom. "And Lord Gendry has reclaimed his titles from my father."
"Oh, we can change all that," Wynafryd begins to tug at his laces. It is at that moment that the tent flap swings open once more, revealing Sansa and Arianne Martell. "My lady, beg your pardon!" She jumps up, pushing Tywin off the bed. "I did not expect your return so soon!"
"I need a space to speak," Sansa glares at the two young nobles. "In private."
Arianne smiles as the two interlopers flee the tent. "I remember when love was like that. Those were good days."
"Love is never so pure," Sansa shakes her head, pouring two glasses of wine. "And it is very rarely true." She notes her hand shaking as buried memories threaten to flood back.
"What happened to you?" Arianne asks. The question freezes Sansa's blood.
"What do you mean?"
"I saw your scars, when you bathed. Terrible things have been done to you. I should know," she removes the silver mask, revealing the shocking scars and mangled ear that it disguises. "I have felt such pain of men."
Sansa does not know what to say. After all this time, no one had ever asked her what had happened. Not even her family. Until now. She sits.
"Many things. Many men. I was just a girl, in love with a prince. And then a girl who only wanted to go home. But now I am a woman, and we cannot change the past."
"No, but we can change the future." Arianne takes her hand. "We can make a safe home for all the little girls of tomorrow."
Sansa smiles in return. But she has learned long ago, there is no room for friends in this game. "When the battle is done, what are your intentions with my brother?"
"Your cousin," she corrects her.
"He is my blood all the same," Sansa insists. "I love him no less. And I will defend him no less." She glares pointedly. "From any threat."
"I wish to see him on the throne, as is his birthright," Arianne drinks. "And if my… diminished features due not alarm him so, I would share his marriage bed, were he to have me," she presses her dress tightly over her curves, as if to display herself for approval. "I assure you while my face is marred, the rest of me works excellently."
"I fear King Jon is very much in love with Daenerys."
"Perhaps," Arianne demurs. "But nonetheless, I think it wise we become better acquainted. This is a hard world as we both know, and allies are hard to come by."
"Indeed," Sansa finishes her glass and is reaching for more wine when Mycah enters.
"My ladies," he bows. "Lady Brienne's party has returned."
Arianne readjusts her mask as she follows Sansa and Mycah out into the yard. There, Sansa runs to embrace Arya and commend Brienne. But she does not see looks of victory on their faces. In the midst of them stands Tyrion Lannister. Her former husband looks as if he's aged a decade or more since they parted. And in his arms, he clutches the tiniest of babes. But then Brienne steps forward, blocking her view.
"My lady, we must speak. Things have changed."
Winterfell
Bran wheels his chair clumsily through the godswood until he comes to rest at the foot of the weirwood. Theon Greyjoy follows close behind him. His face is hidden beneath his frosted steel wolf helm, but his nervousness is clear.
"You're troubled, Theon." Bran notes.
"Something's happened, hasn't it? Something you've felt. I can tell."
"Yes," Bran answers, pointing to a mound of dirt beside the pond. "Dig here."
Without question, Theon kneels by the water and begins to chip away at the frozen soil with a dagger as Bran watches. Slowly, the earth breaks away and his gloved hands tug free a heavy sack. Catching a glimpse inside, he sees a collection of some type of unearthly seed pod – white wooden veins wrapping around hardened blood-red sap. Theon holds one up to the weirwood above them, and there is no confusion about where it is from. As he hands the sack to Bran, he sees Obara Sand approaching with Ser Kyle Condon and Winterfell's surviving maesters – Henly and Medrick.
"Prince Bran, you should not have gone out to the Winter's Town today," Medrick chides his ward. "This cold is one of the worst on record, a lad of your condition…"
"My people need to see me," Bran cuts him off. "I lived through the long night of the dead, Maester Medrick. I think I can handle a small chill."
"What are those, your grace?" Henly points at the pods.
"Nothing of importance," Bran shrugs. "I would like a moment of peace to pray. Please leave me be. I will hold counsel later." Slowly, the others turn to leave. "You too, Theon. No one will harm me here."
Reluctantly, Theon concedes and at last Bran is alone. He holds the pods tightly in his lap, listening to the soft wind blow and feeling the cold on his face. He waits to hear something, anything. Instead, he notices a line of small footprints in the snow leading away from the tree. Leaning forward, he pushes his chair off the path and wheels determinedly through the snow, following the strange feet away into the shrubbery.
The Ruins of the Red Keep
As the sun sets, Jon stands alone in the throne room. The wall behind the Iron Throne has crumbled, torn away by dragonfire, letting white flakes float down onto the floor. Ash or snow, Jon cannot tell. Likely both, for it is frigid here, even as wildfire still burns across the city. The throne so many songs had been sung of sits before him – an ugly mess of twisted metal.
This is what they all fought for? He wishes he could melt it all away, this steely creature that had taken away both the parents who raised him and his true blood he never knew. And now it had taken Daenerys as well…
"Your grace," He turns to see Ser Argilac standing with a prisoner in the singed uniform of the City Watch. His face is scarred with fire, his cloak is gone, but the broach that sealed it remains, a blue beetle.
"Ser Jon Bettley," the burned knight kneels. "I am… I was Commander of the City Watch. Please, your grace, most of my men are dead or fled. But I have seen you in the rubble, freeing survivors. Let me pledge those swords I still command to help you save what lives that are left."
"I accept your pledge," Jon nods, cautiously. These are Lannister men. But they have no one left to serve. And the knight cowering before him will surely not cross a dragon.
"Thank you, your grace," Bettley scurries away, but Argilac remains.
"The queen wishes to see you."
"I do not wish to see her!" Jon yells, impulsively. Pausing, he calms himself down. "I'm sorry, ser. You have done good work. But I cannot speak to her. Not yet." Argilac silently bows and leaves him be, as Jon turns back to the throne and speaks to no one. "I do not know what to say…"
The Red Army Camp
The smoke in the distance nearly blots out the rising sun. Even now, the great city in the distance is still burning. Damion Lannister stands on a hill, examining the sight. It seems that his queen has chosen to win the war all by herself. This is no concern of Damion's, he has no lust for battle, nor glory. But it leaves him with the question of what to do. He had expected, once the attack was over, for Daenerys to fly Drogon to their camp. But night had passed now, and still she does not come. The armies grow restless.
Damion runs his hands through his thin gold hair as he turns back to his commanders - Ser Carnegie Rowan and Malakho, with his squire, the young Lord Robert Brax.
"Where is Ser Tybolt?" he asks, looking about.
"The bearded knight is in grief," Malakho answers. "He stays drunk and does not leave his tent." Damion does not like the sound of that. The heir to Crakehall was not taking his father's death well. He is a lord now, and ought to begin to act like it.
"Is the war over?" Robert asks, hopefully, shivering in his thin red robes.
"It appears so," Damion answers. "We will wait another day to hear from the queen. Then we will march."
"And what of the prisoners?" Ser Carnegie mentions. Damion had nearly forgotten their captives.
"The priests will be sorry to have nothing to offer burnings for," he shakes his head, thinking. "But execute them nonetheless, or they will prove a liability once we reach the city."
Ser Carnegie nods without question and marches off to do his bidding. Malakho rides away to pass the orders on to the Dothraki. Alone with his squire, Damion simply returns to his hill, to watch the horizon once more, eyes sharply watching for the sight of distant wings.
The Ruins of the Red Keep
Jon did not mean to sleep. But he finds himself awaking at the sound of Missandei's voice, slumped over on the steps of the throne.
"Your grace, they came in the early morning," she is saying.
"Who?" He hurries to his feet, the rush leaving him dizzy. She helps him steady himself. "Who is here? Our armies?"
"No. The Golden Company."
Jon remembers that name. He remembers the trumpets, the elephants, the flaming arrows and the gilded armor that had laid waste to his army. And he remembers the boy with the blue hair, who the dragons feared. They had started all of this. Gripping Longclaw at his side, he marches forward. "Take me to them."
Ser Argilac and Jon Bettley are waiting there already. There are only seven men and two elephants waiting at the ruins of the castle's walls, but Jon knows there are untold numbers just out of sight. He can tell by the golden rings looped around their arms that these must be sergeants and commanders. But there is one among them who stands out – the squire from before. He steps down to greet them.
"Halt!" a bowman shouts from atop an elephant.
"No, no, Balaq, it is fine," a short man with wispy hair commands. "This is the King in the North. Show him the respect he is due." He steps forward to bow courteously. "I am Harry Strickland, Captain-General of the Golden Company."
Jon is surprised and suspicious of the little man. He does not look a warrior. "You were aligned with Cersei not a day past. What do you want with me?"
"I am sure you know of our reputation," Strickland strolls amiably nearer, though Jon keeps his eyes on the squire and the archers. "We are, as you can see, without an employer. And a Golden Company with no gold is a sorry sight, I promise you. We wish to serve."
"Why should I trust you?"
"Because you are a king alone in a ruined city with only a rabble to defend you. Because your dragon queen is not here with you and you have been saving those she burned, meaning your allegiances are no longer aligned. Because you are surrounded on all sides by her armies, who I doubt will be pleased to find their queen locked up wherever you're keeping her. And," he leans close, whispering in Jon's ear now. "Because I know more about you than you know yourself."
Jon abruptly steps back. He wishes his advisors were here. But all around him are the faces of strangers. Sighing, he accepts Strickland's hand.
"I accept your service, General."
"We are honored to serve," Strickland declares, and the sergeants kneel. "Grif!" He calls back. The squire steps forward, in his hands he holds a black Valyrian blade, with a ruby-crusted dragon hilt. He looks about Jon's own age, and does not break eye contact. "I believe this is yours," the general hands over Blackfyre and joins his sergeants in kneeling. The sword feels hot in Jon's hand as the Golden Company speak in unison.
"Beneath the gold, the bitter steel."
The Harbor
The dragon's fleet waits in the harbor amidst the ruined wrecks of Euron's ships. Yara Greyjoy, livid and impatient, stalks the deck of her uncle's dreaded Silence. Lord Sebaston Farman and Humfrey Hightower approach.
"Still no sign of the Crow's Eye?" Humfrey asks.
"No!" Yara glares, angrily. "Nor has anyone seen Daenerys. The men grow restless."
"We ought not enter the city until we know it is safe," Lord Farman warns.
"You may wait as long as you like, lander," Yara spits. "But my men and I will not wait past noontide." Their attention is drawn away by shouts from men on the other ships.
"It looks like the wait is over!" Humfrey shouts, climbing onto the bow to get a better look – five armored battle elephants lumber heavily down towards the docks, led by a man in gilded armor on a horse.
"Who is that?" Farman is confused.
"Golden Company," Yara snarls, leaping over the edge to a waiting rowboat that swiftly carries them to shore.
"Where is Queen Daenerys?" she shouts as they reach land, pushing the others aside, and drawing her sword to confront Harry Strickland. Three arrows bury in the dirt at her feet.
"Calm yourself, sea queen," Strickland smiles. "We are not enemies."
At that, a dragon's roar splits open the sky.
"There she is!" Humfrey points up. But when Yara looks, the beast descending from the clouds is green, not black.
"That's not her," she murmurs.
Rhaegal lands with a crash in front of the elephants and Jon Snow can be seen on the dragon's back. He looks down at Yara.
"Where is Daenerys?" she calls to him.
"Daenerys Targaryen awaits judgement for her actions in the destruction of this city," Jon declares, coldly.
"By whose order?"
"By my own - Aemon Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne." Jon points a dark sword in Yara's direction. "Do not enter the city until you are ready to bend the knee."
With that, Rhaegal takes flight as quickly as he landed, leaving the elephants to stand guard. Yara turns away, furious, to find Humfrey and Lord Farman at a loss for words.
"W…what do we do know?" Farman stammers.
"We do what you love you much, Sebaston. Wait. We have three armies marching on King's Landing. Once they arrive, the bastard will see reason."
The Kingswood
The sounds of the departing army do not disturb Tyrion. He sits alone in a tent, holding the baby in his arms. A dwarf. A girl. Jaime's girl…
You will need a name, little one. But not a Lannister name. A new name, for a new era. Free of my father's shadow at last.
"Tyrion," Sansa enters quietly. "You should come with us. We are sailing to the capital, to meet my brother before the army arrives."
I only just now escaped that cursed place. He shakes his head and holds the child tighter.
"Unless you can give it milk, I fear a wetnurse will be of more value," Sansa gently pulls the baby into her own arms, smiling. "You were Daenerys' Hand. Your words would be dearly heard by us all."
Tyrion scowls, gesturing at his empty mouth.
"I'm sorry… But I can tell your mind is not gone." She takes his hand in hers. "We have to build a new world. We need your help."
A new world. He looks at the baby for a final time. For her. He nods, and follows Sansa out of the tent.
Highgarden
Disturbance is prevalent throughout the camps remaining around the castle walls. But only Ser Bronn of the Blackwater knows the truth. Rumors run rampant now. All will know soon enough, and then decisions must be made. He returns to his quarters to find Art Hightower and Talla Tarly waiting for him, as requested. These youths are the most rational nobles in the Reach, as far as Bronn can tell, and he will need their support for the days to come.
"There is news," he declares.
"Of the battle?" Art asks. "What of my uncles?"
"I do not know their fates," Bronn states, bluntly. "But one thing's for sure. They've lost. The dragon's army overran them and marches now upon the capital."
Talla lets out a muffled cry. Art grits his teeth.
"What does that mean?" Talla asks.
"It means soon, perhaps as we speak, the Targaryens will rule Westeros once again. So it's time I come clean." He tosses a scroll to each of them, sealed with the marks of their respective homes. They peel open the missives: alerts from their parents regarding Arianne Martell and Sam Tarly's revelation of the true heir.
"I didn't want this causing a fuss 'til it was necessary," Bronn explains. "Maester gave all the missives to me."
"What does this mean?" Art is lost. "What do we do?"
"Well," Bronn reaches for a sack and dumps it out on the table, revealing dozens more missives, to every visiting lord and lady, all with the same news. "That's for us to decide."
Beneath the Red Keep
They had spent so long searching the city, the men had only now begun to search the depths of the castle. That was when they found them and had summoned Jon to deal with the matter himself. The rubble had crushed the ancient dragon skulls, but untouched beside them, in a circle of blood stains and arcane etchings, sit Euron Greyjoy and the red priest Moqorro. With them lies a mangled body of a woman who Jon Bettley, after vomiting on the floor, had managed to identify as the lady Leyla Hightower.
Now Jon carefully examines the former king and his priest, who have not spoken a word all this time. Cautiously, he kneels to look Euron in his one good eye. He notes a trace of what looks like shining metal bleeding out from beneath his eyepatch. The pirate smiles, eerily.
"So you're Jon Snow. Or should I call you Aemon? I think we could be friends, you know."
"Take them away!" Jon commands, standing. The new prisoners do not resist, and they so no more. But as they are dragged away, Euron continues to watch him, smiling all the way. Jon shivers, and not from the cold.
Blackwater Bay
A fog has descended over the bay as the Frosted Fury cuts through the water, waves breaking over its white plaster hull. Mycah Manderly stands at the helm. Samwell Tarly, queasy, leans over the edge while Harlan Dondarrion stands at the bow, his long black cape flapping in the salty wind. Below deck, Tyrion and Arianne rest. Sansa has watched them all carefully. But for now her attention is only on her sister. She takes a seat beside Arya, who has brooded silently ever since they left.
"What's wrong?" she asks. "Did something happen in the city?"
"Cersei is dead. So's the Mountain and Ilyn Payne. And the baby is safe. We did what we went to do and only lost one man. A successful mission."
"Then why…"
"I should be with Gendry," Arya answers, bluntly. As they speak, the young lord is leading the combined forces of Dorne and the Stormlands in march on the capital. "He is surrounded by his enemies. And I'm on a boat."
"He has his sister," Sansa tries to reassure her. "Right now, Jon needs you more."
Arya looks up to her with sad eyes. "But that's not his name, is it? What if he's different now? He's not our brother anymore."
"No," Sansa hugs her. And, surprisingly, Arya returns the embrace. "He will always be Jon. He will always be family." It feels strange, to hold each other like this, after all these years. Like true sisters. It is a good feeling.
"There's something ahead!" Lord Dondarrion shouts from the bow. Mycah rushes forward, with Arya close behind.
"There should be no rocks in these waters," Davos calls from the rear of the boat.
"That's no rock," Arya murmurs as the silhouette of a much larger warship appears before them.
"Brace for impact!" Mycah shouts, but there is little time to respond, and most on the deck are knocked off their feet, Sansa among them. As she steadies herself, she looks up at the great three-decked galley with which they have collided.
"Who goes there?" A voice calls from above. Over the edge of the upper deck, several archers appear, bows notched. Between them appears a man in flashing black and gold armor, a golden cloak draped over his shoulders. His helm is lifted, to reveal ebony skin beneath – the lord of the Three Towers, "Black Tom" Costayne.
"We are lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms, come to see the true rulers of our land seated upon the throne!" Harlan answers. "Who do you serve, Costayne?"
"This is the Oldtown Fleet!" the captain answers. "And we serve the dragons, as do all honest men. These waters are treacherous. Come with us, and we will take you to the city."
Arya and Sansa exchange a nervous glance. More nobles and more armies means more spinning cogs in the days to come. And if the choice must be made, which dragon will the Voice of Oldtown speak for?
The Harbor
Jon drops down out of the sky on Rhaegal's back. He had been notified that a new fleet had arrived in the harbor. And with it – his sisters. He sees the new ships that have joined the Greyjoys and Farmans – flying banners of House Hightower, Costayne, Bulwer and Redwyne. The elephants continue to bar entrance to the city, and now his new men stand there at attention – at least two score of the Golden Company have assembled, with another score of ragtag City Watch. Rhaegal lands before them all.
Jon dismounts and approaches the nobles assembled before them, surrounded by their own knights and guardians. Some he has seen before. Now they are joined by new, strange faces. One of them waches him carefully, an elegant young woman with her face half hidden by a silver vulture mask. But his attention leads him straight to those he knows best – Arya, Sansa and Sam. Remembering his place, however, he remains formal and authoritative, addressing all the guests.
"Lord, ladies, welcome. I am sure you all have many questions…"
"Where is Queen Daenerys?" Yara shouts.
"She is safe and awaits judgement. I hope to have your counsel…"
"Judgement for what crimes?" Yara shoves an intervening Lord Farman aside to confront Jon. "She won the war! Why are you speaking to us and not her?"
"Mind your tongue, Lady Greyjoy!" Sansa shouts. "You are speaking to a king."
"I'm a queen myself, wolf-bitch," Yara snarls. Mycah, hand on his sword, tries to step between the women, but Yara pushes him back. "I'd kill you all save for the mercy you showed my brother."
"Aemon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne," Arianne steps forward. "What happens to Daenerys will be his choice to make." All eyes turn back to Jon.
"Please, put your swords away," Jon begs. If his words are not enough to convince even the most reckless Ironborn, the taught gilded bows and the dragon behind him are. "In the morning, I will host a counsel of lords and ladies. Until then, there are quarters prepared for each of you. My men will show you the way. And Lady Greyjoy?" He glares at Yara. "I hold your uncle as well. Threaten your peers in my presence again, and you will never get your vengeance."
Sansa and Sam both open their mouths to speak to him, but he turns back to Rhaegal once more. The newly arrived nobles can only watch as the dragon disappears back into the sky, across the burnt city towards the ruined castle where it comes to roost.
The Ruins of King's Landing
Tyrion rocks in the back of the rickety cart the men of the Golden Company have commandeered to haul the nobles to their housing. He can tell that the likes of Harlan Dondarrion and Tom Costayne recoil at such filthy means of travel. But he has known far worse in his day. As they enter the scorched ruins of the city, Tyrion cannot imagine anyone's mind will long linger on the cart.
Charred and hollow buildings still steam in the cold winter air. Charbroiled corpses litter the ground, some walls are marked by the outlines in ash of bodies that simply disintegrated from blasts of heat. Tyrion shudders and wraps his cloak tighter around him. He cannot bear to look longer, but seeing the horror on Sansa and Mycah's faces as they pass the carnage is no solace. And the utter indifference on the younger Stark girl's face is worse.
Not so long ago he had wished such a horrid death upon this city and its people. But he had changed, and when he returned, he had plead on their behalf. And what did that earn them? A few more months of life – of cold, poverty and undead horrors – until it was all burned away. He had brought the dragons here. In the end, the hell he promised had come for King's Landing all the same.
Winterfell
It has been far too long since anyone had last seen the young prince. Theon and Obara now prowl the godswood, looking for him. Fresh snow covers the ground, but the tracks of Bran's wheelchair are still clear enough for Theon to trace. They lead behind a tree, and he halts in his tracks. The chair is empty. Looking through the brush, he sees Bran lying on the ground, a shadowy creature standing over him. In an instant, Obara lunges with her spear, but Ghost leaps out of the bushes, sending snow flying. The huge direwolf knocks her to the ground.
"Stop!" Bran shouts. Ghost backs down and Obara picks herself back up. Theon rushes forward and gets a better look at the mysterious figure – a stunted childlike thing, with huge golden eyes and green and brown skin, like leaves and bark.
"The fuck is that?" Obara points her spear again.
"Frost, a child of the forest," Bran answers as the creature lifts him up and Ghost stalks back to his side, growling. "She will be our guide."
""Our guide?" Theon looks around. "To where?"
"We must leave," Bran answers, cryptically, as Frost helps him onto the direwolf's back.
"We cannot leave Winterfell," Obara insists. "The people here need you."
"I have done all I can here," Bran insists, straightening his back. He speaks like a prince now, Theon thinks. "The time has come that all men need me. They need us. And so we must go." Ghost begins to lumber away, back down the path, with Bran on its back. Frost follows close behind.
"Whatever that means," Obara grumbles, before shouting after him. "But where?"
"To where this all began," Bran answers without stopping. "To the Isle of Faces."
Daenery's Cell
"Mhysa."
Missandei's whisper is too faint to be heard. She stands outside the door, head pressed against the cold wood. She thinks, through the silence, she can hear her queen's heartbeat. It is familiar. So long had that beat given her comfort and shelter and freedom. But she does not know it anymore. Slowly, she turns away.
"My lady," Argilac is confused. "Will you not…" She shakes her head, silencing him, and slowly begins the long, dark walk away down the hall.
Alone within the cell, Daenerys sits in the center of the floor. She could feel her friend's presence, if not hear her. But she knows Missandei has gone now. And again, she is alone. Her guardians and advisors gone, the proudest of her children dead, and her lover thrown her away in a cell. All that is left is the god that brought her here, only to show defeat.
Desperate, she drags her finger through the dirt and soot on the floor, trying to form the markings she had seen Zatarra and Eres craft so many times and praying to see a spark. No flame comes. But, echoing as if from the cell beside her, a voice speaks.
"At last we meet." The voice laughs. Daenerys jumps upright, rushing to the wall.
"Who are you?"
"Ah, that is a harder question than you might think." The stones feel warm where she can hear the voice. "Let me tell you a story... Many, many years ago, there was a boy who lived on a rock in the sea. The boy was different. He could see far beyond his little rock, to a whole great world of mystery and wonder. He thought it was a dream. But it was so much more.
"One night a bird came to the boy. It promised it could teach him to fly. But the bird lied. It wanted to use the boy to fight a war. It showed the boy a door, with a great darkness beyond. But what was behind the door was so powerful, so beautiful that the boy could not look away. And so the bird robbed him of his gift and left him to rot on his rock.
"But the boy grew into a strong man, who left behind the weak-minded fools of his home to search the world for the door, to find the power. And there the sea spoke to him. It gave him a song of shadow and death to unleash upon the world. But in the end, the man saw the truth. The light vanquished the shadow and the man finally found what he searched for:
"The salt and the smoke. Azor Ahai."
"Damn you!" Daenerys shouts, pounding at the rock until her knuckles bleed. "I'm no savior! The Red God told me what to do and I was betrayed! I have nothing."
"No," the voice answers. "You know the prophecy. You must lose what is your own to open the door and save the world. Once you have nothing, you will have everything. And the eternal dawn will begin. Have faith, Daenerys Targaryen. Believe, and all will be well."
Daenerys sits back onto the ground as the voice fades. Far, far away, Euron Greyjoy sits in his own cell and smiles. A hole smolders in his eyepatch. He tears it away, revealing thin lines of silver and black dragonglass tracing his skin into the ball that now sits in his eye socket – all the colors of the glass candle swirling within, he can feel the fire burning in his skull and the blood magic in his veins. And he smiles, his teeth singed black.
"It's always summer under the sea."
The Iron Throne
When Jon awakes, Grif is waiting for him with Missandei and three of the children they call "little birds". They have found a fine black studded doublet, embroidered with a red wolf and dragon. A red cape is draped over his shoulders. And then, in Grif's hands, a crown – blunt, simple, black steel with no ornaments or gems.
"They worked through the night," the squire extends it to him. "A crude working that must be replaced in time, but it will serve for now, your grace."
Jon eyes the boy suspiciously, trying to find some sense of intent in the piercing blue eyes as he remembers Harry Strickland's cryptic words. But he finds no ill tidings there, and Missandei places the crown atop his head.
They follow him as he leaves his chambers and walks slowly down the long path to the throne room. It is empty now, save for Davos, who he had been deeply relieved to find among his sisters' party. The old smuggler and Missandei stand to the left and right of the throne.
Jon feels a foreigner here as he climbs the steps of Aegon the Conquerer's famed seat. His own blood runs in this steel, he thinks as he sits, feeling the cold sharp edges beneath him. He looks across the long hall to where Grif stands by the doors. He pictures those waiting on the outside – The sea queen who wants his head; his sisters, whom he dare not show favoritism to; and the man who was once his closest friend. Who had started this all. He grits his teeth. Had Sam not revealed the secret… But it will not do to dwell on what could have been.
"Send them in!" he commands. The doors swing open and the squire calls out.
"All hail King Aemon Targaryen, First of his name!"
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Oh, wow, so that was a wild ride. I hope that you found this journey for Jon and Daenerys to be a lot more fulfilling than it was in the show. There's one season left, with new reveals, deadly political maneuvers and a final battle to be had before our noble and ignoble characters can hope to build a new world from this ash left behind. Who will live to see spring? Stay tuned...
