Highgarden
"Lord Peake and my aunt Rhea are getting suspicious," Talla Tarly mentions as she follows Art Tarly along the castle ramparts. "I… I told them that you were courting me."
"Well, if it will get them to stop asking questions we aren't ready to answer…" Art slices a piece off a pear and offers it to Talla. She accepts, gratefully.
"My aunt seemed proud. And Lord Peake… well, I don't think he has much hope his nephew can compete with you. And without a betrothal, he has no interest in me."
"A shame," Art smiles. "You are quite interesting, after all."
"Where are you going, young ones?" a faint voice calls. They turn. It is old Lady Oakheart, with two of her guards. "Ser Gunthor is nearly returned from battle. Will you not be at the gates to great him?"
Art nervously glances to Talla. His uncle has made good time. They had not expected his arrival so soon. They walk, ever so slowly, behind the small, toddling woman until they arrive at the inner gate. From the sound of cheers, the arrivals must have already reached the outer walls.
"Such festivities for defeated men," Art mutters. He can trace the Florent and Hightower banners as they weave through the hedge mazes that surround the castle. Before long, the inner gates swing open. Ser Gunthor Hightower is the first to enter, and he looks as if he has nary seen a battle, much less defeat. - pale white skin unblemished, bright blonde hair perfectly coifed, and his shining bronzed armor covered in a surcoat – his personal arms, quartered fox and tower.
His wife, and former stepmother, Lady Rhea is the first to rush to him, showering the returned knight with kisses and altogether ignoring her brother, Lord Alekyne Florent, who appears no less splendid. Eventually, Gunthor and Rhea make their way to where Art and Talla wait.
"Welcome home, uncle," Art smiles with as much sincerity as he can muster. "We mourn for Garth, Alysanne and all the others."
"Of course, that is only proper. I too have mourned for them," Gunthor flashes his wide smile. "But I do hope you haven't let the place get too dreary. After all we've been through, my lady wife and I are ready for our new home. Highgarden truly is lovely, even in winter, don't you think?"
Maegor's Holdfast
The bridge to the holdfast lies destroyed along with half of the once-great "castle-within-the-castle", its outer walls tumbled down atop the spiked moat. But such obstacles are no match for a dragon. And so Rhaegal rests atop the ruined holdfast as the sun rises over the city and its master rests inside.
This is the only place that Jon can find peace. His bed is cold, and he has not tried to warm it. Sometimes he thinks he sees Daenerys standing just out of view, in the corner of the room or behind a curtain. But it is nothing. It is only her words that haunt him. He can't help shaking the thought that she is right. What is he doing, trying to rule without her?
His muscles tense as he pulls his clothes on. The scars burn with a special fire today. He walks slowly out to where Rhaegal waits. He wishes he could simply fly away across the sea, take his love with him and never return. But he does not have that liberty. He must face the schemers, their clinging hands grasping for influence and favor. Even his own family, he fears. And so he places the crown on his head, takes a deep breath, and begins the day as king.
Chataya's Brothel
Ser Carnegie Rowan kicks aside a piece of scorched fallen lumber, clearing a path for Lord Damion Lannister as he marches through the city streets. The red priest-knight Forley Prestor and Malaqo follow closely behind, as does Damion's squire, Robert Brax.
"Are you sure this is the place?" Carnegie grimaces as they reach the entrance to the luxuriant brothel, lucky to be one of the finest buildings largely untouched by the destruction.
"Indeed," Damion steps in. "If you are so chaste, Carnegie, you are free to stay outside." The knight hesitates, but ultimately follows the others. The halls and winding rooms are full of soldiers, servants and whores alike. Damion has little interest in any of them. Beneath a grand staircase, he finds the remaining knights of Daenerys' Queensguard. Save Ser Merlon Crakehall, they are all strangers to him, as is the bald, eastern woman in red armor and robes, waiting at the top of the stairs.
"Welcome, Lord Damion," Eres smiles. "We have been awaiting you."
"Stay here," he commands his companions, and rises slowly, step by step. Eres leads him to the largest chamber, a vibrantly colored room decorated with fine eastern treasures. Behind the colorful curtains in the center, Yara Greyjoy reclines, her rough-hewn leather vest pulled apart, enjoying the caresses of two petite women from the Summer Isles. Mya Baratheon reclines with a handsome man in the corner, while Gendry stands uncomfortably to the side with Sebaston Farman.
"You've found a pleasant home for yourself, I see," Damion stops at the foot of the bed.
"What, does it scorch the soles of your feet to walk in a brothel, old man?" Yara mocks.
"I pass no judgements upon how others find pleasure in life," Damion removes a glove to wrap his hand in the colorful silks. "The young ought to enjoy what luxury they find, while it is still free to them." He declines an offer of wine from one of the women. "My stomach is weak."
The woman returns to the bed with the sea queen, who finishes the wine herself. Damion had hoped the whores would leave them. But if this is how Yara will do business, so be it.
"Who in the city may we still count loyal to our queen?" he asks.
"Our queen's armies, of course. And the Baratheons," Yara muses, gesturing to Gendry, who bows anxiously. "Ser Bennard Brune's men from Cracklaw Point. A few loyalists in the Crownlands. Some of the Northern tribes. And Gulltown."
"Is that all?" Damion knew their situation was perilous. But these allies are more pitiful than even his eternal pessimism expected.
"Our queen lies in chains, her dragon dead and her nephew on the throne." Yara finally rises, disregarding her exposed body, to Gendry's further discomfort. "None of these are things known to inspire loyalty. But I know Daenerys. She is strong. And she gave me a vow, to let my people live free. So I will not rest until she has what belongs to her. Can I trust the same from you, lion?"
"Of course, your grace," Damion points to his Hand's pin. "My queen may be in chains, but I remain hers. Tell me of your plans, and let us bring order once again."
The Stark Quarters
These walls are far too thin, Sansa thinks as she breaks fast with Sam Tarly and Mycah Manderly. Arya and Gendry had only shortly been reunited before they had dragged each other into bed to make up for time spent apart. No amount of wine could drown out that noise. Yet her sister's violent and piercing passions are not what has kept Sansa up all this long night.
Both Baratheon's had left early with the sunrise. To meet with Yara Greyjoy, she fears. Whatever love Gendry has for Arya, it has not extended to Jon. She looks up as her sister, disheveled, stumbles in, clearly aching from too much drink and too little sleep.
"Have some eggs," Sam offers. Arya grabs a handful and wonders off. "At least someone's having a good time," he grumbles.
"What's the matter?" Mycah asks.
"Jon's barely spoken to me since we arrived. He seems so different now."
"He's barely spoken to me, either," Sansa murmurs, reaching for more eggs. "He doesn't speak to anyone, save for his Hand and his guards."
"I think he blames me for this," Sam murmurs.
"For the city?" Mycah chokes, incredulously. "How?"
"For telling the world who he was. If I hadn't, who knows what would have happened."
"It's no good to dwell on that," Sansa insists. "If I spent my time dreaming of what could have been, I'd never leave bed. What matters is the future. And if Jon will not listen to us, then we will make him listen."
The Dragonpit
Seats and tables covered by tents have been erected in the old ruins, arranged before a grand dais, where Jon presides. Tensions have never been more high. Beside the king sit Missandei, Harry Strickland and Davos, the two man Kingsguard standing nearby. Jon counts the representatives of the North, the Marches, Dorne and the Stormlands. But the Dothraki and Unsullied are nowhere to be seen, nor the Ironborn and Westerners.
Jon hears Rhaegal growl from his perch behind him. His own mood has soured as well. A king ought not be made to wait. Finally, he rises.
"Only half your number are assembled!" he calls out. "Where are the others?"
"They will not be attending, your grace," Gendry stands.
"What do you mean?" Jon steps forward. Rhaegal rises to follow, the dragon's long neck stretching out to look down at the nervous guests, steam floating from its nostrils in the crisp winter air.
"He means they ain't coming," Mya stands beside her brother, presenting a prepared message. "The Queen of the Iron Islands and Lord Hand Damion Lannister will not attend any counsel, nor will the leaders of their armies, until Daenerys Targaryen is released to claim her rightful authority."
Jon hears a commotion from the Northern pavilion, but does not take his eyes off of the siblings. Gendry nervously looks up at the looming dragon.
"Then they do not recognize my authority as rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms?" Jon asks, though he already knows the answer.
"No," Gendry stiffens his stance and makes eye contact. "Nor do I."
"Gendry!" Arya shouts from the Northern pavilion. Jon turns to see Mycah restraining his sister. Sansa rises instead.
"Lord Baratheon, please, surely you must see reason. Our fathers were friends."
"My father was a friend to the Starks," Gendry continues, defiantly. "This king is not a Stark. He is a betrayer. And my father killed his father for a betrayal."
"Calm yourselves, all of you!" Missandei shouts as the Kingsguard rush forward. "You have come into the king's council, show him the respect he is due."
"I have already said, he is not my king. I will not return until Daenerys is freed." At that Gendry turns and begins to exit, his followers going with him, though Harlan Dondarrion and the marcher lords remain.
Mya turns back as she leaves, with a parting smirk at Jon.
"And you'd best not count your kingdoms before they hatch, my lord. I see an awful lot of crowns going around these days, not just yours."
Dracarys. As the Baratheons leave, Jon feels the word on his lips. But he dare not speak it. Instead, he urges Rhaegal back to rest. I can't just burn everyone in my way. That's not who I am. But as he returns to his seat and sees the eyes of the other lords, he sees no fear, nor respect. A king in name only is no king at all. I must be strong, before there is no kingdom left.
The Stark Quarters
Arya rides silently back from the council meeting. She knows Gendry will not be waiting for her there. Part of her wants to go to him. But a much larger part wants to leave him bleeding in the street for how he treated Jon today. The memory of their past nights' passion is already fading as she stews.
"You could talk to him, couldn't you?" Sam offers.
"It wouldn't work!" Arya snaps. "All his life he had nothing. Daenerys gave him everything. And he's afraid that it's all about to be taken away again."
"If he values Storm's End more than he values you, than you ought to have nothing to do with him," Sansa advises his sister as they arrive home and dismount. "That said, we cannot afford to have him further undermine Jon. If there is any way to sway him to our side…" She stops, noticing Arya is not listening. She pulls her back to finish. "Perhaps you would have better luck with his sister. Meet her somewhere, try to talk reason."
"I'll try, Arya shrugs, noncommittally, and walks through the door. Sam follows silently. Sansa is left alone with Mycah.
"Have you seen Wynafryd?" he asks.
"No," Sansa shakes her head. "Though I hear that Harlan Dondarrion has renewed her betrothal to his heir. No doubt he wants the North to back his claim to the Stormlands."
"No wonder the Baratheons are on edge," he coughs. "Gods, I hate this ash. There's nowhere to breathe here. I miss the sea."
"Let us pray then, that we shall return home soon enough," Sansa clutches her weirwood necklace. And that it will still be a home worth returning to.
A Tavern in King's Landing
The best tavern still standing overflows tonight with knights, sellswords, traders and wayward nobles alike. A makeshift band plays as flagons of ale and stale bread and cheese are dispensed to guests. Arya and Sandor Clegane swing open the doors and step in. Sandor immediately grabs a wedge of cheese from a passing tray. Taking a bite, he gags.
"Shit," he tosses the wedge to Arya. She tries it herself and pulls the same face.
"Shit," she drops it by the plate of a passed out knight. "Good thing we're not here for food." It doesn't take long to find their quarry. Mya Baratheon is already through a flagon of ale, belting out a crude drinking song with two drunken knights and a serving wench.
"Takes after her father, that one," Sandor mumbles as they reach the table. The knights look up, their flirtation interrupted. But one harsh bark from Sandor sends them scurrying away.
"More ale for the Hound and the Wolfpup!" Mya calls out.
Arya begrudgingly takes a seat, remembering she is doing this for Sansa.
"I hope that little spectacle at the council today doesn't put a damper on things," Mya laughs. "My brother and I have issue with the king, not you. This is no place for politics."
"Of course. Tonight is for drink," Sandor seizes a flagon as the serving maid returns. She pauses, confused. "Go on, get the rest, this is for me!"
As the maid hurries away, Mya laughs loudly, smacking the table. "A knight after my own heart!" She drains what is left of her own ale. "Finally some worthy company."
More drink is brought in due haste and the night rolls on. Arya bites her tongue as Sandor and Mya swap stories of their woeful youths and greatest fights. She wants to flip over the table and grab Mya by the throat, demanding that she and Gendry stop being absurd, that they listen to Jon, that he won't rob them of their name and that they ought to let Harlan Dondarrion rule the Stormlands if that's what it takes to end the fighting. But instead she silences herself with more ale.
Before long, Arya has lost track as time as a very drunken Sandor is attempting to recount his duel with Beric. Her eyes growing heavy, Arya has finally had enough. She slams her fists down and stands, the sudden dizziness suggesting that perhaps she has drunk too much. And so, not wanting to drink anymore ale, the logical next seems to be to empty her mug into Mya's face.
"By the hells!" Mya roars and grabs Arya's vest, pulling her down and slamming her face into the table. Sandor rushes to pull them apart, clumsily knocking over the table and sending empty mugs and flagons clattering to the floor. He grabs Arya be the shoulders.
"What do ye' think you're doing, pup?"
"Get off me, you drunken lout!" Arya shakes free.
"Drunken lout? Me? Have ye seen yourself?" Sandor trips over a chair and hits the ground as Arya vaults over the clutter. Mya swings drunkenly and misses and the servants rush to restrain the confused and riled patrons.
"What are you thinking?" Arya wraps her arms around the taller woman's waist and begins to knee her in the side. "Just listen to Jon! You're going to get him killed!"
"I'm not makin' my brother do nuthin'!" Mya lifts Arya up into the air and throws her to the ground. "And we don't owe this king Jon or Aemon or whatever the fuck nothing! I don't forget a favor. And neither does Gendry."
Arya swings her legs out, undercutting Mya and taking her to the ground. She crawls on top, punching at her face.
"You know," Mya growls between blows, "You're starting to make me mad!" She pushes up, throwing Arya back. Sandor, finally having collected himself, catches his small companion. He holds out an arm to push back the livid attacker.
"You need to calm down," he slurs, before Mya forces close enough for a missed punch to hit him in the face. He catches her next fist. "I don't care much for fighting anymore, but…" She headbutts him square in the jaw. Spitting out blood and ale, Sandor lets out a furious, drunken howl and grabs Mya with both hands, throwing her across the bar.
Oh, no, Arya tries to think through the pain in her head as she watches the two fight and the chaos spread across the room. I've ruined it. Sansa wanted one thing, she finally asked me for help and… Maybe I always will be a savage little girl. At least things can't get worse…
There is a stirring from the entrance. Tywin Dondarrion has entered, with Wynafryd Manderly at his side. With them are Edric Dayne and Aerea Horpe, all in their finest clothes, save Aerea, who remains in the tattered white cloak of her house.
"What's happening?" Wynafryd gasps. Recognizing Arya, Tywin rushes forward, concerned. But seeing Gendry's rival face to face only adds fuel to her simmering rage.
"Lady Stark, you're bleeding! Are you alright?"
"This is all your fault!" Arya shoves Tywin backwards onto a crowded table. "And you!" She spins to confront Wynafryd, but is knocked aside by another brawling patron. Aerea, overjoyed at the violence on display, leaps into the fray as the entire tavern devolves into a total brawl.
From the corner of the room, Grif and Rolly Duckfield recline with goblets of wine. The squire toasts the gilded knight, smiling as a flirtatious maid runs a stray hand through his dyed blue hair.
"How uncivilized they are, Duck," Grif chuckles. "Are these the lot with which Aemon thinks to rule the Seven Kingdoms?"
"We'll see about that," Duck smirks as Mya furiously breaks a cask over Sandor's back and Tywin cowers behind a table with Wynafryd. "They'll have to do it without any ale at this rate. Let's go back and make sure they don't defile the wine."
"Yes, let's," Grif nods and the duo sneak off, several unnerved maids rushing close behind them.
As the sounds of fighting slowly die down, Arya stumbles back into the street. She wipes someone's blood from her mouth, catching the taste of spilt alcohol on her hand. Good ale, she thinks, and vomits into the gutter.
She topples into a wall and slides down to sit, watching the others leave. Sandor and Mya wonder off together, having returned to amiable terms while cracking the skulls of drunk ruffians. She thinks she might even hear him singing an old ditty into the night.
This is how we live in the city of the dead. Suddenly, the anger is gone. And guilt remains. Guilt for all those who died against the dragons, against the Walkers. And she had survived, for what? To cause mayhem in a forgotten tavern on a lonely street. Stumbling back to her feet, she limps off into the night. No more hiding. She will see Gendry herself, whether he wants to or not. And she will put an end to this, even if it costs her everything.
Highgarden
From the great window of the lord's hall, Gunthor Hightower looks down at the smallfolk milling about in the yard below, his wife at his side.
"You can smell them even from here," Rhea sneers.
"Ser Bronn," Gunthor turns to the castellan. "My elder brother will be here soon. I expect you plan to have these people gone by his arrival."
"Gone where?" Bronn reclines in the lord's seat, the Valyrian scythe he won from Harras Harlaw at his side. "Their homes are not yet rebuilt. It is still the dead of winter, I can't very well send them out to freeze."
"You can very well do whatever I say!" Rhea storms towards the former sellsword. Gunthor rushes to hold her back. "This is Highgarden, not some charity ward! It's overrun with these gutter rats!"
"I'd sooner keep company with the gutter rats than you," Bronn smirks, rising. "Tell me, was your first husband even cold in his tomb before you married his son?"
"You bastard!" Rhea shrieks, breaking free to lash out with clawed hands at Bronn's face. He only laughs and shoves her aside. She stumbles and Gunthor runs to catch her, his hands steadying his wife's heaving breasts. "Kill him!" she shouts.
Slowly, Gunthor turns, drawing his sword.
"Leave now, ser, and do not fancy to sit in that chair again. It will be mine soon enough."
"You know, you're very pretty," Bronn reaches for his schythe. "But I don't fancy you much of a fighter. Thankfully for you, my dueling days are over."
Ignoring the dismissal, Gunthor charges with blind fury. In a flash, the blunt end of the scythe hits the center of his chest, sending him falling back, his head hitting the chair and sword clattering to the floor.
Rhea's screams for help are finally heard as Art rushes in with Titus Peake, Alek Florent and Hobber Redwyne. They find Bronn standing over Gunthor, the point of his scythe squarely in the knight's bloodied face.
"What is happening here?" Lord Peake demands.
"This damned fool attacked me!" Bronn shrugs, backing down. "And didn't have the skill to back himself up."
"He insulted my lady wife!" Gunthor hastily stands, pointing wildly.
"Who was trying to give me orders," Bronn flops back into the Lord's Seat.
"And get out of that fucking seat!" Rhea shouts, charging Bronn again. This time Lord Peake restrains her.
"I ought to have them both locked up," Bronn looks as his guards march in. "They've clearly lost their minds."
"You have no right!" Gunthor shouts as the guards step cautiously closer.
"No, I suppose I won't do that," Bronn waves them away. "But this is still my castle."
"Your duties were bestowed by Queen Cersei," Alek declares, as if he has just made a great discovery. "Your titles died with her!"
"Then they have been returned by me!" Talla finally speaks up. "As my house sits as Lords Paramount of the Reach."
"And who gave you that title, girl?" Rhea glares at her niece.
"Regardless of who holds dominion, Lady Talla certainly has higher rank than either of you," Art declares. Lord Peake and Hobber both signal their agreement, causing Gunthor and Rhea to finally relent. Rhea seizes Alek's arm, pulling her brother from the room. But Gunthor lingers a moment longer to whisper in Art's ear.
"Enjoy this while it lasts, boy. Your father will be here soon to put an end to your impertinence. Whatever hare-brained scheme you have, it ends the moment he walks in that door. And when I rule Highgarden, don't expect an invitation to dinner."
With that, Gunthor follows his wife out. The others turn to Art, but he has no further words, his hopes for the future rapidly dissipating. Instead, he rushes from the room.
"I'm going to go paint."
The Iron Throne
Jon sits atop the cold throne, turning his crown over in his hands.
"My men can make for you a finer work," Harry Strickland offers.
"That will not be needed," Jon dismisses the thought. "This suits me."
"As you wish. There is much to be said of the simple things in life."
"Last night, in the Holdfast, I thought I awoke and saw your squire."
"Grif?" Harry laughs. "In Maegor's? Your grace, there is no way in but with you on the dragon's back!"
"So it may seem," Jon's mind drifts. "But I hear tell of secret paths within the walls, built by Maegor himself. They say the Spider used them well."
"I and all my men are new to this city," Harry insists. "If there are such passages, we do not know them."
"Even so, I want you to find them. And seal them."
"As you command," Harry bows, before taking a more serious tone. "But tell me more, you say you thought to see my squire?"
"In a way," Jon tries to recall the hazy memory of night. "It seemed like him, but taller, prouder, with the white hair of a Targaryen. Like the tales of Rhaegar come to life." Rhaegar, my father, he thinks, a thought still foreign to him. "It was just a dream."
"They say in the east that dreams often reflect the inner thoughts that even we do not know," Strickland muses.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing. Only that it is wise, perhaps to heed such matters. You say you saw an image of what Prince Rhaegar's son should be. You have lived your whole life as Ned Stark's bastard. To suddenly be named a Targaryen king must have come as a shock. If you want your subjects to see you for who you are, you must first see yourself truly."
"And if I cannot see that?" Jon asks, lost in thought.
"Then perhaps there is another meaning…" Strickland trails off as Jon turns back to him.
"What other meaning? If I am not that man, who is?"
"No, no, your grace," Strickland returns to his typical, amiable self, raising his hands in submission. "I am no reader of signs. Find a priest or prophet if you wish to study your dreams. Come to me for matters of the sword."
"And me for those of the pen." Both men turn to see Missandei has entered. "I have begun to look into what it will take to clear the rubble and begin to rebuild. Some skilled workers did survive the fires. In such times as these, it will not take much to entice workers with food and shelter. However, any such effort will require coin. And we have none."
"Surely there must be some gold left," Jon is taken aback. "How else did Cersei pay for the Golden Company."
"The Lady Genna offered me sovereignty over Dragonstone," Harry explains. "And I could not refuse a chance to return my brothers to our rightful home. However, if it is coin you want, the great beast outside is worth the wages of a hundred lifetimes."
"No," Jon insists. "Drogon was a noble creature. In many ways, he was a child to Daenerys. I will not use him to line the kingdom's coffers."
"I have loved the dragons longer than you, your grace," Missandei offers. "But perhaps hard choices must be made."
"They must indeed," Jon grips the throne tighter. "And I will make them. I choose to not defile the fallen dragons."
"While we are making hard choices," Harry interjects, "I feel we must address the incident at the Dragonpit. The Baratheon boy made a spectacle of defiance. He and the Westerners must be brought to heel. You have been too soft on these rebel lords. They do not fear you as they should."
"The Ironborn and Western armies are small," Missandei observes. "And Gendry Baratheon does not speak for every Stormlord. If they act recklessly, then they will be dealt with. But we ought not to court war."
"You forget the Dothraki and the Unsullied. They grow restless without their queen. And my own men aside, there are few in Westeros who can stand against them."
"I am very familiar with them both. They will not move against a dragonrider. And they will listen to me. Show mercy to Gendry, Yara and the rest. Wait. When they see their position is untenable, they will see reason."
Jon does not like that advice, it is clear. "Daenerys showed mercy when she first arrived. Look what it got her."
"I advised her to show mercy," Missandei steps to the foot of the throne, her voice rising. "It was the right decision then and remains the right decision now. Do not think that it has haunted me every day since. That every loss, every death, ending in the destruction of this city and the man I loved has not made me question whether I should have told my queen to burn this castle to the ground the day she arrived. I had seen her burn our enemies before and called it justice. But every life we takes comes at a cost to our own soul. I will not stand by and watch you make the same mistake. If you cannot see this, then perhaps you have chosen the wrong Hand!"
"Perhaps I have!" Jon shouts back, standing but Missandei does not flinch. Her hand rises to the golden pin on her chest. "No, wait!" Jon stumbles down the steps of the throne. "I am sorry, you are right. I cannot kill them all."
"But your grace," Strickland protests, "they will only continue to defy you. And every day that they do not bend the knee, more will question your authority."
"They do not fear me for they still believe in Daenerys," Jon straightens his back and looks out past the throne and the destroyed wall, to the city beyond. "They wish to see her? Than they will. She will stand trial before all the lords. And justice will be mine."
The Neck
Glistening ice covers the ground as the travelers from Winterfell wake in the early hours of the morning. Theon stirs a bubbling pot of gruel over a small fire. Bran Stark is tucked tightly into the curve of Ghost's belly, the white direwolf's fur warming him. He rises to find the wide golden eyes of Frost looking down at him.
"Your sleep is troubled, Raven."
"Tell me, what do you know of a one-eyed man?" Bran asks quietly.
"I have known many one-eyed men. Surely you know more than I could."
"That's what worries me," Bran shivers. "I see him in my mind, where he does not belong. His past is clouded to me. I've never felt that before." Frost is clearly concerned, but offers no answer.
"We were watched in the night," Obara reports. "Little people lurking in the bog. Still there, most like, but awful good at hiding."
"It is only the crannogmen. They will leave us be," Bran answers. Those are Meera's people, he thinks.
"A queer folk, those ones," Theon ponders as he passes out the porridge. "I've never met one myself. They say their ancestors bred with the Children of the Forest."
"Nurse's tales," Obara scoffs. She glances over at Frost. "I can't imagine why anyone would climb into a bed with the likes of that."
"There are far worse watchers in the night," Frost ignores the comment. "Not all of which can be seen by sentries."
"Fetch me parchment," Bran asks. "There are stirrings in the land Jon must know of."
"We didn't bring a raven…" Theon hesitates, until a large crow, cawing uproariously, lands beside him.
"Any bird will do," Bran forces a smile. "And please, eat quickly Theon. We don't have long."
As Theon rushes to choke down the piping hot porridge, Obara kicks out the fire and Frost helps Bran climb back atop Ghost. But as he looks back, the corner of his vision catches a glimpse of a watcher in the marsh. No crannogman. But a tall, black-haired stranger with a crow's head, wings of shadow, tentacles of smoke and one eye glowing with a piercing fire. When he blinks, it is gone. But in his mind, the crow's eye remains.
Special Guest Star Anthony Starr as Gunthor Hightower
AN: So COVID-19 is a wild time. Adjusting to the changes the pandemic brought caused a slight delay, but Shelter At Home means more time to write, so the final few chapters should be out quicker than usual! As always, all feedback is greatly appreciated.
