Chataya's Brothel
Yara Greyjoy lies chilled in her sleep, unhelped by the warm bodies of the women at her sides. Despite her comfort, her sleep is disturbed, haunted by a distant laughter and the sound of dark music.
Waking in a cold sweat, she sits upright with a start, body tingling with goosebumps. Her braziers have gone out. There is no light. And she hears it still. A voice, singing, somewhere in the darkness. A song she knows from her nightmares.
It's always summer under the sea.
Reaching beneath one of the many embroidered pillows, she draws a long dirk and creeps to the edge of the bed. A silent gasp chokes in her lungs – the dark floor is alive, writhing with oily black tentacles. The silk curtains come loose in her hands and she falls, slamming hard onto the floor. She feels the shapes around her, slithering over her skin, grabbing at her arms and legs. She lashes out in the dark, slashing her own leg.
She tries to call out in pain, but her throat is stopped, clenching shut beneath invisible hands. She looks up to see the shadow standing over her, a shadow with no face, but a crow's beak and a single, burning eye. Euron.
The water burns, Yara. So will you.
"My queen, what's wrong?" The cry of one of the whores, Marei, she thinks, frees Yara from whatever dark vision holds her. She rises, shaking, to her feet.
"It's nothing, sweetling. Go back to sleep."
"It must be near morning, your grace."
"Oh. Shit."
Ignoring the wound on her leg, Yara pulls on her simple sailor's clothes and stalks up to the roof of the brothel. There she finds Damion Lannister in his crimson and gold armor, lost in his own thoughts, surveying the hellscape of a ruined city.
"There's your legacy now, Tywin," he mutters to himself. "Everything you sacrificed, everyone you stepped on, all for a lot of rubble and ruin in the end."
"Lord Hand," Yara breaks his attention. "You choose a strange hour to recollect."
"Nothing worth remembering," Damion turns to her. "Only the follies of men and their dreams." He notes the blood seeping through her trousers. "Your leg…"
"It's nothing," Yara shakes the night terrors out of her head. "The past is dead. Ready the council. We have no need for ghosts."
The Red Keep
A rotten chunk of orange falls down from the ramparts as Missandei carves away at a citrus pulled from the storeroom. On this early morning, she walks with Ser Davos Seaworth.
"I can't imagine you've ever seen the likes of this winter," the onion knight muses.
"I had never seen snow until I crossed the sea," Missandei remembers. "Now it is everywhere. I cannot say I like it. But on Naath we teach that all of creation is born of the Lord of Harmony. All life is beautiful in its own way."
"Well, I must say I wish your Lord of Harmony had made the winters a little warmer," Davos tightens his cloak, his old fingers cracking beneath their gloves. They stop, noticing the scorched ruins of the Tower of the Hand. "So this is where it ended. I heard the Red Woman was slain here."
"I never knew her."
"Then that's your pleasure. She was a wicked creature."
"So I've heard." Missandei lets the peels fall, the orange all gone. She spies a rat in the rubble beneath them drag it back away into a crevice. "I hear whispers among the birds that it was Lord Tyrion who finally delivered your justice."
"Then I shall have to thank him," Davos turns to walk on. "But later. The king awaits. Strickland is already with him, no doubt."
"Do you trust the Golden Company?" Missandei matches his pace.
"They are sellswords. But they are founded by banished lords and outcasts. They want a home. So long as they believe Jon is the man who can ensure their security, they will serve him well. And their general is wise, if ruthless. A king needs such men."
"And what type of a man is the king?" Missandei has stopped again. Davos looks back, confused. "I served Daenerys for years. And yet I never thought her capable of something like this." She gestures out to the ruined city. "You knew King Aemon when he was just the bastard of Winterfell. I want to know what sort of man I serve."
"I once served another whose darkness I could not predict," Davos sighs, remembering the past. "But Jon is not Stannis. Rhaegar may have given him blood, but Ned Stark was his true father. And no man knew honor and duty better. There are many stories I might tell you. But later. For now, this council must counsel."
The Iron Throne
Ser Rolland Storm kneels as Lord Commander Jon Bettley drapes the white cape of the Kingsguard over the broad shoulders of the bearded knight. Completing his vows, Rolland stands to take his place beside Ser Argilac Horpe and others honored today – Ser Cregan Ryswell and Ser Myles Manwoody.
He smiles back at Princess Arianne Martell, who proudly watches the wayward knight who had guarded her for so long. As the ceremony draws to a close, the white-clad knights assume position in line with the throne. The king moves to see Arianne on her way.
"We thank you for commending your guardian's service," Jon genteelly kisses her hand. As he rises, she grasps his and pulls herself near to his body, close enough that their crowns meet with a metallic scratch.
"Ser Rolland has served me nobly and loyally," she whispers. Her breath smells of flowers. "He has all the knightly qualities a king shall require. I am glad I could serve you thusly. Please, let me know if I may yet fulfill any of your other kingly needs…" Jon stiffens as her hand slides down the length of his inner thigh.
"Such services," he coughs, breaking away, "will not be necessary."
"As you wish, your grace," Arianne bows. "But may I request a small honor?"
"What do you wish?" Jon is reluctant to look back at her as he climbs the throne.
"These times of war were hard upon my family. I stand before you as the last Martell, at least in name. I beseech you, grant legitimacy to my noble uncle's daughters, Sarella and Elia, so that they may carry on the Red Viper's legacy."
Looking down from the throne, Jon cannot help but remember the long nights at Winterfell, dreaming of such an offer. How can he say no?
"It is granted. Lady Missandei shall procure formal documentation."
"Thank you, your grace," Arianne smiles and bows again, slowly and sensually, before turning to saunter out of the hall. Jon tears his eyes away as she departs, turning instead to his council.
"Two white cloaks remain unfilled," Harry Strickland observes.
"I hope to claim knights of the Reach and Vale in their place," Jon answers. "Missandei, are any fresh troubles arisen among the lords this morning?"
"A Ser Bonifer Hasty has raised concerns regarding the practices of healers treating the victims of the fires. He believes that witchcraft is at play, and that the Seven will cast judgement upon the city once again."
"Have the patients recovered?" Jon asks.
"Many, yes."
"Then Hasty is a fool. See that he does not cause further trouble," Jon's eyes darken. "Now, there are other matters. I cannot risk Daenerys' allies attempting any disruption at the trial. I will need you to procure hostages."
"Hostages?"
"Yes, close to Yara and the others. People they will not risk losing." Jon can tell that Missandei is reluctant. "If you do not think you can, I will ask Captain Strickland."
Missandei casts a glance to Davos, then at the gilded man beside her. "Your wish is my command, your grace. It will be done by my hand."
Arianne's Quarters
Arianne returns to find Sansa Stark waiting for her, sitting rigidly with a bottle of wine, ignoring idle chatter from Lord Fowler. She seems tired. But the poor northern girl always seems that way, Arianne thinks.
"You've been to see the king," Sansa rises to greet her.
"Indeed. I have pledged my personal protector and one of Dorne's finest knights into the service of his Kingsguard," Arianne replies "And have secured the boon of legitimacy for my cousins."
"Perhaps I ought to offer him one of my own guard," Sansa broods, "for I cannot seem to find a way for him to receive me."
"He may be afraid of what you will ask. Will the North give up freedom so easily for him?" Sansa does not answer. "The king most certainly has a strong will. He has thus far resisted me, as no man I've met ever has."
"How tragic that must be," Sansa pulls away.
"Oh, I meant no ill will!" Arianne chases after her. "As I said before, we are allies in this. I was glad to see you, for I wished to speak about my cousin, Elia. Until the time I am with child, I plan to make her my heir. It would be a great honor if your Lady Brienne would come to train her. And perhaps your sister, as well. Elia would adore a sword such as Arya's. Needle, is that it?"
"Please, do not bother me with platitudes. I came to speak to you of the king. Do not tell me how we are so alike. For you, I am only a way into the royal bed!" Sansa grabs the wine and begins to storm out, but Arianne pulls her back.
"Please, leave if you like," she implores. "But do not doubt my sincerity. Believe me when I say, I want the same things as you. The best for the king. The best for my people. And the best for myself, so that no one will ever hurt me again." She places her hand on Sansa's stomach, where she knows the scars lie.
"I will speak to Brienne," Sansa says plainly. Thanking Lord Fowler for the wine, she exits.
The Burn Ward
Garin leans close to a badly burned peasant, one hand hovering close to the red, scalded skin, the other holding a bowl of water. As a boy, his grandmother had done this countless times. He tries to remember the incantation Mallora Hightower had taught him, though it was less about the words, she said, and more a matter of feeling the water's spirit as it touches the flesh. He watches the salve sink into the burn and steps away, unsure when he will know if the healing magic works.
"Patience, boy," Mallora seemingly answers his thoughts from the shadow. He had forgotten she was watching. "Such things take time."
She leads him out of the tent and back into her study, where they find Sarella waiting with Samwell Tarly.
"I found this one brooding in his quarters, trying to cast some paltry spell you taught him," Sarella pushes him forward. "Quite the mighty wizard."
"I miss Gilly," Sam groans, collapsing into the nearest chair. "And I'm worried this is all my fault. I shouldn't have said anything until I met Jon."
"I tried to tell him that he didn't personally make the dragon queen destroy the city. And I told him that Gilly could travel here with a fine Dornish guard. But that is a long journey. So I thought to myself, Sarella, where better to take the man who cured greyscale?"
"Do you have work for me?" Sam looks up sheepishly at Mallora.
"Look around," Mallora throws her arms up. "Between the wounded and the rubble, there is no end to our work. And half of the workers are zealots or children. You have followed Qyburn's texts before. Take an apron and get to work." She hurries him out of the study. "And do not try spells without me to instruct you! You are no mage!"
The grey-haired woman turns back, exasperated.
"I also believe your brother is looking for you," Sarella mentions.
"Then tell Humfrey to bring shovels or salve," Mallora chases her out. "If he tries to drag me into Baelor's politics, then he'll truly see how mad the Mad Maid can be!"
The Stark Quarters
I need to leave, Sansa thinks as she hurries back. There are too many memories here. I belong in Winterfell, I could be strong there. But, here I only see Jofferey and Cersei in every window...
Her moods worsens to find a pack of shaggy Skagosi unicorns tied in front of the manse. Those awful creatures are the last thing she needs now. Leaving her guard with her horse, she rushes around to the rear entrance, headlong into Mycah Manderly. She gasps, dropping the Dornish wine. Thankfully, Mycah catches it.
"Why are they here?" Sansa asks as he returns the wine to her hands.
"To speak to you, of course," he smiles. "You do rule the North now, as far as I can tell."
"Oh, gods, I do not need to think about that right now," she scrambles to open the wine as they walk inside. "I've gone and ruined everything again. We need Dorne as allies, and I couldn't do it. She's trying to use Jon, I know it. But am I trying to use him, just the same?"
"He's your brother!"
"He's the king! And I'm still a scared little bird who can't trust anyone, even when everyone else is depending on it!" Finally getting the wine open, she takes a long drink. As she finishes, Mycah grabs her hands.
"Do you trust me?"
She pauses, swallowing, and looks into the sea in his eyes.
"Yes."
"Then believe me when I say, you are the strongest person I know. I can't imagine surviving what you've been through. There is no one better suited to rule the North. And Arianne sees that. But you have to believe it yourself. And you have to show them." He points through the door to where the Skagosi await.
Silently, Sansa allows herself to smile and brushes a stray hair from Mycah's face. She kisses him softly and steps through the door. Lady Tyranna Stane waits with two of her men, the brutish warriors clearly impatient.
"Would you like wine?" Sansa offers.
"We do not need your fruit piss," Tyranna states, bluntly. "We need truth. We were promised a seat at King Jon's table in North. Now Jon is Aemon and we are far from North."
"I assure you, Lady Stane," Sansa extends a reassuring hand. "Your people's sacrifices are honored by us all. The vows made by House Stark will not be broken."
"Then you speak as Winterfell, lady wolf?"
Sansa pauses, but only for a moment longer.
"Yes. Yes, I do."
Highgarden
Art Hightower and Talla Tarly stand at attention in the yard as the banners of Hightower, Redwyne and their bannermen wind through the arbor. Oddly enough, Art spots the Tyrell rose. There remain distant cousins of the family scattered across the Reach, including the short, fat vintner Leo Tyrell, personal steward to Hobber Redwyne. None would dare to fly the noble sigil after Cersei had declared the Tyrells traitors to the realm. Until today.
All the guests, from the highest lords and ladies to lowest cook, have assembled for the Beacon of the South's arrival. Even Ser Bronn and his new wife, the head gardener's daughter, are in their finest clothes. A cheer rises as the gates swing open. The sigil bearers ride at the head, followed by the leaders of the party. A great, ornate wheelhouse trundles along behind them.
Lord Baelor Hightower makes a clattering, awkward sight in his bronzed armor, helm and flowing orange cape. How long it has been since his father has worn plate or ridden a horse, Art doesn't know, but judging by his tottering stance in the saddle, it has been far too long. Alongside the likes of Ser Desmond Redwyne and Lord Mathis Rowan, he looks positively comical.
Bronn steps forward to great the arrivals, and the nobles rush to follow. Art makes quick pace to his father's horse as Baelor struggles to bring it to a halt. He grabs the reigns to steady the great chestnut steed and Baelor nearly topples to the ground. Bronn steadies the lord as he lands. But as Baelor pries free his ill-fitted helm, Art is surprised to see a new look upon his father's tired face – confidence. For the first time in his life, perhaps, Baelor Hightower, known better for his smile than his skill or wit, looks like a lord.
"Father!" Art begins to speak as the wheelhouse opens and the noblewomen disembark, led by his mother, Rhonda and sister, Hela. "If we may speak in private, I have had talks regarding the succession process, and…"
"Wait, boy!" Baelor interrupts to embrace his son, flashing his famous smile. "Your mother and I have far grander news for you!"
Confused, Baelor turns to see Ser Desmond has joined Lady Rhonda. Between them stands a short, slender girl in a soft purple dress and lilac cloak. From beneath a fur-lined hood spills crimson curls around a pale, freckle-spotted face.
"Arthur," Rhonda smiles, nearly as widely as her husband. "Meet Lady Desmera Redwyne. Your betrothed!"
A Tavern
Lord Tybolt Crakehall stares down at his empty mug and dinner plate, his braided beard dripping into the remains of his gravy. He looks across the table at Lord Damion's squire – the young Robert Brax. Like Tybolt, Robert has only recently become a lord upon his father's death. Unlike Tybolt, Robert is still just a boy, his mind scarred by the red priests, and his father was a traitor. He has not touched his food. Annoyed, Tybolt claims the squire's dinner for himself.
"I saw my brother today, you know, in his fancy Queensguard armor," he rambles with his mouth full. "He asked about father, if I was with him when he tied. And I wasn't. He died on the battlefield, like a Crakehall should. And I damn well cut down the fucker who killed him. And Merlon, well, that made him proud to know. So how come I still feel like shit?"
He looks for a response from Robert. But the boy's burnt face, branded with the flaming heart of R'Hllor, does not move nor speak.
"See, your lord Damion, he says legacies are a fool's game," Tybolt continues. "That we all turn to dust in the end. All we got is what we can give ourselves today. But then what did father die for? Or my brother Lyle? What's the point if a cause ain't worth nothing? But then if he did die for Daenerys, and now Daenerys don't even get the throne, where's his legacy?"
"A legacy can take many forms, Lord Crakehall," Missandei appears behind them, following Alys' lead. Two of the Golden Company loom ominously behind her. "Often in places the dead would have never imagined to look." Tybolt freezes, unsure of how to respond. "I would like to speak to young Lord Brax."
"You want him as a hostage, don't ya'," the huge man rises. Missandei, surprised by his sudden lucidity, steps back. The knights move to defend her, but Tybolt raises his hands. "Damion don't give a shit 'bout the boy. The priests broke him. Take me instead."
Hesitant at first, the knights begin to bind Tybolt. He shakes his head at Robert.
"Get out of here, boy. And don't speak a word of this!"
Robert retreats slowly out of the tavern.
"Follow him," Missandei tells Alys, and the little bird flits out into the streets after the squire. She watches the knights lead Tybolt away. And, nervously, she asks the barkeep for water to wash her hands.
The Iron Throne
The wildling Sigorn, Lord Harwood Stout, Robbet Glover and Hugo Knott gather around the throne, the leaders of the Northern army. At least, those who still follow Jon. It has been too long since he left the army he led south alongside Daenerys. Now he must learn where they stand.
"There is no mourning for the Lannisters or their city in the camp," Glover states bluntly. "The men do not doubt that, had they arrived before the queen, they would have acted no differently. War is war, and these people cheered as Ned Stark was slain."
"I would not have allowed it," Jon insists.
"As I said, war is war. A general cannot always control their armies. And how many northmen would have died in a siege? We ended the fight without losing another life."
"And at what cost? How many innocent lives? Do you mean to say that…"
"I mean nothing, your grace," Glover puts his foot down. "Only that there are few in the North who would pass judgement upon Daenerys."
"I do not need their judgement, only their loyalty."
"The freefolk trust your word," Sigorn says, simply.
"And the mountain clans?" he looks to Hugo Knott.
Hugo shakes his head. "The Wull says that it is not you, but Daenerys who his father followed down from the mountains and died for in the long night."
"We all died for each other against the Walkers!" Jon yells, finally losing his temper. "We came together to defeat something greater than all of us! How do we forget so quickly? It just goes round and round and round and nothing ever changes! She's right. Gods save me, she's right…"
"Who's right, your grace?" Hugo is confused.
"Nothing," Jon begins to wonder off. "I wish for rest." However, it is at that moment that Missandei enters. With her are six of the Golden Company and, bound in chains, three hooded figures. Jon rushes to them as the northerners are ushered out.
"Are these the ones we spoke of?" he asks his Hand. She nods, and begins to remove their shrouds. The first is an ugly, hunch-backed man.
"Ser Hotho Harlaw, Yara Greyjoy's cousin and heir to her uncle's lands." The second, a huge, docile knight. "Lord Tybolt Crakehall, a Lannister bannerman." She pulls the hood from the final, smallest prisoner, just a boy. "And Nigel Tudburry, Lord Gendry's squire."
"Well done," Jon nods, approvingly. "See to it they are treated well." The hostages are led away. When Jon turns back to the throne, he sees that a crow has flown through the ruined wall and landed in his seat.
"The bird fancies itself a king, your grace," Missandei quips, happy to find some levity.
"Indeed," Jon walks nearer. "There is something queer about its eyes…"
The crow looks knowingly at Jon, as if it understands his words. And it is then that he sees the roughly torn parchment tied to its leg.
"Bran…"
"Bran?" Missandei is confused.
Jon does not answer, instead he gently unwraps the missive from the bird's wing. Freed of its duty, it takes flight as quickly as it had appeared. Jon unrolls the small scroll, his mood growing fouler with each alarming word.
"It is word from my bro… Prince Bran of Winterfell."
"Your, grace, I'm afraid I don't understand. That did not look to be a maester's raven."
"Strange ways are afoot in this world, where the things we know shrink instead of grow… Bran says that the Vale is marching in force, led by Robin Arryn, who styles himself a King of Mountain and Vale."
"Yet another?"
"And there is more. I fear I may require your services away from the city for a time."
"Away? Your grace, I am your Hand, I belong at your side."
"There are times when the Hand must speak for the king where he himself cannot go," Jon hands off the note. "I need you to be my voice in the Reach. I need you to return to Highgarden."
The God's Eye
The haunted towers of Harrenhal loom down over the northern shore of the God's Eye, covered in a frigid mist. Out of the haze moves Ghost, the huge white direwolf's paws crunching in frozen mud. Bran Stark clings precariously on its back, his guardians close behind.
"Who do you suppose lives there now?" Theon wonders.
"No one in their right mind," Obara grumbles. The troupe stops as Ghost begins to growl, the long white hairs on his back rising on end. Obara examines the ground. "We aren't alone here, prince…"
"I know," Bran shrugs off the warning. "They are not a threat."
"Somehow that doesn't calm me," Obara stalks ahead into the reeds along the shore, spear poised in front of her. She hears a reed snap and turns, only to see a net rise up out of the brush and ensnare her. A girl appears with a pronged spear, knocking Obara to the ground as she flails in the net. At the sound of fighting, Ghost lunges forward, flattening the plants. He stops, letting out a violent howl and a tall, awkward boy rushes out with an axe, screaming.
"Stop!" Bran shouts over the ruckus. At once, Ghost is silent, and the prince on his back looks down at the girl standing over the captured Sand Snake. "Meera."
"You." Meera Reed glares for a moment, then lashes out with her spear, catching Bran hard in the side and knocking him down. Ghost begins to attack, Theon draws his sword and finally Frost rushes forward between them all, throwing down her cowl to reveal the inhuman face beneath. Meera freezes.
"By the gods… you're one of them." She drops to her knees, throwing the spear aside.
"Am… am I supposed to kneel?" the boy asks.
"Get down, Hos!" Meera hisses. He listens, and slowly from behind him a small crowd of children appear out of the reeds.
"I do not require your tribute," Frost looks down, almost disgusted by the proselytization.
"We only need your boat," Bran points through the broken marsh to where a wooden cog can be spotted on the shore. "And Theon, this is Hoster Blackwood. Fetch him his father's things."
"How do you… Oh," Theon remembers whom he serves and rushes back to his horse to retrieve the ancient rune-blade of House Blackwood, and the late Lord Tytos' raven-feather cloak. He hands them over to an awe-struck Hos.
"Your father was a dear teacher to me," Bran bestows the gift. "He died valiantly against the Night King. I know you are not his heir, but until you may return to Raventree Hall…"
"No time for chatter!" Frost hisses. "We must make way to the Isle!" No one wishes to argue with the mystic creature, and they fall in line to the water's edge. The lake is shrouded by the dark fog, the pewter water resembles cold steel.
"All this time and you finally return with a Child of the Forest, just to steal my boat?" Meera shakes her head, helping flip Bran into the small vessel.
"No," he answers. "You're coming with me."
"There's no way we'll all fit…" Theon states the obvious.
"Obara will stay with Hos and the other children," Bran commands. "The rest of us will carry on." On command, Ghost lurches forward into the boat. Meera and Frost follow.
"Do you know how to use that that thing?" Obara glances at Hos as he holds Remembrance clumsily. "Or are you going to cut your own head off the moment I look away?"
"No, my lady," the lad answers sheepishly.
"Do I look like a lady to you?" She glances angrily to Theon, who shrugs as he climbs into the boat. Giving up, she crashes down atop a log and watches the prince and his guardians vanish into the icy mist.
The Ruins of Flea Bottom
"What are we doing here, Arya?" Gendry grumbles as his slim black stallion lurches along after Arya's pale grey workhorse through the burnt out wreckage of the city. He had nary gotten used to his new, fine mount from the stables of Storms' End. And he would much rather be racing it in open field, not tripping through the burned and broken streets of the haunted city. It reminds him far too much of Harrenhaal.
"Don't you see where we are?" Arya asks. Gendry brings the stallion to a stop and looks about. All the rubble looks the same. But something seems familiar. "This is Flea Bottom," she declares. "Or at least it was."
As recognition dawns, Gendry slips off from his mount. He places foot by foot along the blackened stone at his feet, picturing the years of his life spent walking these paths. Then he wore rags. Now he wears fine Baratheon colors. But the streets are the same. He knows his way now, and begins to run. He can hear Arya's horse behind him, but pays it no heed until he stops. And a fat droplet of rain hits his eye. Master Tobho's shop.
There's nothing left.
He pieces through the crumbled shell of his life before the war, before 'Arry, before the dead and the dragons and his sister and Storms' End. There it is, half-melted by flame but still amidst the rubble – the new bull's helm he had made before fleeing the city for the second time. He holds the warped metal up to his face as the rain begins to fall harder.
"Did Tobho deserve this?" Arya asks.
He turns back, angrily. "Is that why you brought me here? To blame me?"
"No!"
"This… this was another life," he holds the helm up to her. "Gendry Waters! But that boy died by the decree of Daenerys Targaryen. I am Gendry Baratheon now, and I swore a vow to defend my queen. This was wrong. But even great men make mistakes. I cannot betray Daenerys. Because if she was wrong…" Tears begin to form in his eyes, mixing with the rain rolling down his face. He tears at the stag embroidered on his chest. "Then she was wrong about me, too!"
"Gendry, please, no one thinks that!" Arya jumps down from her horse and runs to him, but he throws the helm at her feet.
"You loved Gendry Waters. And I loved 'Arry. And somewhere, I think, somewhere they're still lost out there in the woods. And I think they're happy. Because if they ever got found, well, then they'd have to grow up! And face the facts! I've never asked you to betray Jon. I wish you wouldn't ask me the same."
With that he turns, his stallion caught up with them, and climbs back up, hoping Arya hasn't seen him cry. On the ground, her own tears run free as she picks up the bull's helm. The warped, twisted metal cuts her hand, now coated in soot. Wiping her eyes clear only smears her face with ash and blood. And then she hears hooves splashing away.
Arya watches him ride off into the rain until she can watch no more. She looks back, deep into the charred labyrinth behind her. And for a moment, she thinks she sees a ghost in the shadows.
Jaquen H'Ghar.
But that cannot be. She does not look again. It is wet out, and she needs shelter.
Daenerys' Cell
Ser Argilac holds a torch high to guide Missandei as she walks through what remains of the Red Keep's dungeon. She hears a soft singing coming from Euron's cell, and presses on until at last she has arrived.
"Missandei." She hears her queen's voice from within the cell. "I should have known. I had already lost your heart. And now you leave me."
"How do you…"
"My eyes have been opened by the light."
Missandei gestures silently for Argilac to open the door. The knight reluctantly follows. As light flickers in, Missandei steps forth to see Daenerys. She sits in the center of the cell, cross-legged. She seems at peace, healthier than when Missandei had found her beside Drogon after the devastation.
"He made you his Hand," she will not look at her. "An irony. And now he sends you to swat flies in Highgarden so you do not see what the wretched lords of this land have planned for me."
"You will face justice," Missandei insists.
"What is justice? This show of virtue, a carnival to let them sleep at night that they were in the right, and that the woman from across the sea lies dead for her sins. And the wheel spins on and on and on. Not all chains are made of steel. You have helped them ensnare the world."
"No!" Missandei steps forward, gritting her teeth, but still Daenerys does not look up. "You broke my chains. You made me strong. You made me who I am. I loved you for it, I worshipped you! And I still do. That is why I told him I would go. Because I cannot bear to watch you receive what you deserve."
At last, Daenerys looks up.
"This is the last time I will see you in this world, Missandei of Naath. Pray it will not haunt you."
Beneath the Red Keep
Two small torches flit through the darkness in the crumbling tunnels hidden centuries ago by Maegor the Cruel. Three figures move in dark cloaks, nervously looking behind them – Sarella, Garin and Princess Arianne.
"You're going to get us killed for a damn dream!" Sarella hisses at her cousin.
"Not just a dream!" Arianne whispers back, but pulls her cowl lower all the same. In the middle of the night, a vision had come to her of a creature, part-man and part-crow, with one burning eye. It had led her to these tunnels, and before the memory could fade, she had taken to the streets. "And you are a Martell now besides. You owe this to me."
"A noble name is worth nothing if I'm dead," Sarella replies.
"Wait!" Garin, in the lead, bids them stop. "Where the hell are we?" He lowers his torch to illuminate a poorly hidden chest. Inside lies a suit of red and silver Targaryen plate. Sarella bends down to examine the earth, and raises a stray coin from Pentos.
"The Golden Company…" she murmurs. "What are they doing here…"
But Arianne hears none of this, for she has crept further on. A crack in the wall let's her gaze through to what lies beyond. And then she knows why this vision has come. Lying in the bed, not three yards away from where she hides with bated breath, is Jon Snow, King Aemon Targaryen, asleep in his bed
The God's Eye
Even the great towers of Harrenhal are gone from sight now. It's as if the whole world has been consumed by the unyielding fog, leaving only the little boat, listing perilously to one side under Ghost's weight. It cuts through the water not by oars, the water itself seems to carry it along, propelled, no doubt, by some spell worked by Frost at the helm. Meera and Bran sit behind, each unwilling to look at the other for too long. Theon nervously stands guard at the rear.
The island does not appear until they are almost upon it, rising up out of the mist like a great leviathan ready to consume them. But the boat simply shudders to a halt on its shore. Eager to be back on land, Ghost leaps out, nearly overturning the others. He rushes onto the darkly forested shores and seems, to Bran, at home.
But, as the direwolf rushes about on the beach, silhouettes emerge from the woods. Theon and Meera nervously reach for arms, but Bran stays their hands. The figures, small in stature, step into the dim light – brown and green garments covered in moss and bark, their skin smeared with green paint, with huge wooden horn and antlers adorning their helms, adding feet to their short height. Frost steps forward in greeting.
"He has arrived," she points to Bran.
Their leader steps forward and buries an ancient looking sword in the sand. Slowly, he removes his helm and places it beside the sword. And Meera gasps. Even beneath the green paint, the narrow, weathered features are clear.
"At last we meet, Raven," Howland Reed kneels, solemnly before Bran. "And now, all is complete."
The Dragonpit
A crowd the likes that Sansa has never seen, even at Jofferey's wedding, has come to the pit today. Each lord and lady within the city, including new ones arriving every day, have come to see the trial. There are elephants, unicorns and a dragon. Dothraki, Ironborn and Unsullied. And the king who was once her brother, high upon his dais and far away from her own seat.
She hears a ruckus behind her and turns to see several men accosting Tyrion Lannister.
"Leave him be!" she commands, and Brienne ensures he receives safe passage and a seat at her side. She knows this trial will not be easy for him, and offers wine. He declines.
Jon sits stiffly. At his sides are Lord Harlan Dondarrion and Lord Franklyn Fowler, both learned men whose knowledge of the law is well-known and will preside with him over the proceedings. He grips the arms of his chair tightly, grateful they are not as sharp as his throne, as Daenerys is led into the center of the pit.
His heart breaks at the sound of jeers and curses in the crowd.
"Silence!" Harlan bellows, and Jon silently thanks him as quiet begins to spread. "This is a trial. We will have order!"
"The accused shall rise!" Lord Fowler decrees. "She stands charged of grievous crimes of war, specifically, the wanton slaughter of unarmed civilians."
Jon watches carefully the tents of Yara Greyjoy and Damion Lannister, waiting for any signs of a threat. But instead, Daenerys begins to speak.
"In the years to come, many men will offer stories of why I did what I did," She is addressing the crowd, paying little heed to the judges. "They will say that I went mad. That the loss of those I loved made me lose my mind. That I was a weak woman who could not control myself. But they will lie. I was a queen at war. And at war, sacrifices must be made.
"They wish to judge my crimes. But I stand here in judgement of your crimes. The crimes that have turned your land into a feast for crows. You, you mighty lords in your high towers, who will judge you when you steal from those in need? When you break the backs of those beneath you and send their sons to die in the name of your greed and lust for power?
"I am that judgement. For too long, the people have waited in darkness. Their gods did not answer their prayers. But the Lord of Light did. I brought fiery justice upon this city, but it was only a spark. And the fire it lights will bring forth a summer that never ends, where all men are free! You cannot judge me. Only the gods can. I will face my accuser myself in the manner that befits a king. I demand a Trial of Seven!"
A/N: To my fellow fans of Gendry+Arya - Yes, these are trying times for them, once again. Arya is my favorite character, I think, and I love Gendry, as well. Tragically, both of them had their lives uprooted very young and didn't necessarily have the best environments to recover and mature. They're both stuck in arrested development, of sorts, children playing in adult bodies at adult games. And neither are in a place for a healthy relationship right now. But if there is ever a time for growth, it's spring. And spring is coming.
