The Isle of Faces

Meera had told Bran of the Green Men who guarded the Isle of Faces. And Old Nan had told him of them before that. And now these horn-helmed woodland warriors of lore march him and his companions through the heart of their sacred isle. The woods are unlike any Bran has seen outside his visions – they seem to carry their own kind of darkness, they feel unbearably damp and they are filled with weirwoods.

There are more of the great white trees and their red leaves here than anywhere else in the world. And each carved face seems to follow the path of the new arrival. Bran, however, focuses on Howland and Meera Reed. She had been delighted to find her father alive. He said it was only the magic taught to him by the Children that saved him from Daenerys' red priests. And now, Howland leads the way into a great stone amphitheater. Four levels descend down to the bottom of a hollow. The rocks are ancient and covered with moss, but they have not crumbled, looking as strong as the day they were laid. Above them, tangled white weirwood branches form a twisted canopy to block out the sky, letting the light twist through and shine down in strange shapes upon the stone.

Perhaps this is where they signed the pact of peace with the First Men? Bran thinks. Or, more ominously, where they summoned the Hammer of Waters to break the arm of Dorne.

The Green Men stand in a circle around the travelers as the reach the bottom. Howland blows a horn, an ancient and musty sound. At its call, Ghost joins, throwing his great snout back in a howl. And slowly they come – the Children of the Forest, dozens, creeping one by one out of the dark glen and into the light. Theon shuffles nervously closer to Ghost at the sight.

"Welcome home, Raven," Frost looks to Bran as she rises to rejoin her brethren. "You come on the eve of our darkest hour. Your ascension must begin."

"I don't understand," Theon frowns beneath his wolfhelm. "What do they want from you? We already defeated the Night King."

"There's something worse." Dread fills Bran's voice.

"What could be worse than the Night King?"

"Whatever the Night King was born to kill."


The Dondarrion Quarters

A flurry of feathers fly into the air as eight ducks dash through a makeshift maze of chairs, pillows and over-turned tables. Their quacking cacophony is matched only by the roar of the nobles surrounding the race, each cheering their chosen fowl. Rolly Duckfield and young Grif, however, are busy counting the gold wagered on their scheme.

"You boys have found yourselves a golden goose, it seems," Wynafryd Manderly approaches from behind, leaning between the two Golden Company men. She begins to playfully count the golden bands on Duck's arms. "For any one of those ducks, you could melt yourself a new ring, I'd wager."

"This isn't for the gold," Grif looks back. "It's just the game of it. Fascinating what it shows about the ones who play."

Wynafryd slides down onto Duck's lap. She watches the lords, ladies and knights, pushing and shoving to get a closer look at the race. For a moment, she spies her betrothed, Tywin, watching her, but the nervous lad quickly looks away. And then Duck flips a coin. She squeals as the cold metal drops into her bosom.

"You'd best get that out," she whispers in his ear. "Can't let them think I'm a whore."

Just as Duck's fingers flit to retrieve his coin, the doors slam open. Lord Harlan Dondarrion storms in, flanked by Ser Steffon and Meraxes Horpe.

"What is the meaning of this?" Harlan demands as the nobles scatter. Wyanfryd rolls off of Duck to the the floor. The lightning lord prowls the room, showing equal disdain for his peers and lessers alike. "Where did you find these damned ducks?" Tywin, clutching two of them in his arms, gulps a silent reply. "The city is starving, and you lot sit in here playing games with your dinner? Get out!"

Quickly, the nobles scatter, few even bothering to reclaim their gold, which Duck happily pockets. Harlan stops Tywin and Edric Dayne as they try to corral the birds.

"The Horpes will take care of that," he glowers. His son is covered in feathers and the dung of frightened fowl. "Tywin, clean yourself, you look ridiculous. And you, Edric, I'm very disappointed. I expect this nonsense from my boy. But you…. Get on out. Your aunt will be here soon, with the rest of my family."

As the lads leave, Harlan notes that Ser Daemon Peake, his son Percy and Wynafryd all remain.

"You told me the Baratheon boy would yield," Daemon glares. "I am beginning to doubt your future as Paramount in the Stormlands."

"And I am beginning to doubt your relevance," Harlan dismisses the dark-eyed knight. "Have you not heard? Your son's betrothal to Talla Tarly is a failure. She will marry Hobber Redwyne instead, and rule at his side from Highgarden." Daemon almost strikes him at the insult, but Harlan has moved on the the table, where Grif and Duck have left behind some gold. "There are exiled Peakes within the Golden Company, are there not? Find out what their role in all this is. They have aroused my suspicions."

"Several of them have taken a fancy to me," Wynafryd boasts.

"That I can see," Harlan plucks the coin from her breasts. "But be careful with Tywin. I cannot have any foolishness from him if he becomes distraught."

Wynafryd and the Peakes exit, and Harlan stands alone, slowly resetting the furniture to its proper place and brushing away piles of feathers with his feet. Finally Meraxes Horpe returns.

"The ducks have been returned to their proper place," she reports.

"Excellent. Ensure your guards do not allow such frivolities again."

"My lord, if I may say, about your problem with this stag," a cruel smile crosses Meraxes' shrouded face. "The city is crumbling. Stray rubble everywhere. It would be no surprise to anyone if, say, he were to die from a falling stone."

"No!" Harlan spins about, jabbing a stiff, accusing finger in her face. "We will act honorably in all things. Even this. I will not have lesser men say I won a name for my family through murder. In all likelihood, the boy will offer himself as his queen's champion in her trial. And that will be the end of Gendry Baratheon."


Chataya's Brothel

A council of Daenerys' allies gathers in Yara Greyjoy's meeting room – Ser Damion Lannister, Eres, Malaqo, Lord Sebaston Farman, Gendry and Mya Baratheon and the remainder of her Queensguard.

"Our queen has vowed to defend her own name in a Trial of Seven," Damion explains. "She will require six champions to stand alongside her."

"She has a Queensguard, has she not?" Yara looks about. "Though I see only four."

"My brothers fell in defense of the queen," Ser Merlon Crakehall answers solemnly. "But we that yet live will stand."

"Good," Yara approves. "I will fight as well."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Damion's eyebrow rises. "If you should be slain…"

"I will not fail." Yara ends the discussion.

"I shall fight as well," Mya offers. "That makes seven."

"Why you?" Damion examines the Baratheons. "Did not your brother defeat Balerion Horpe in single combat?"

"I don't think we can count on any stray lightning bolts in this fight." Mya answers for Gendry.

"I do not see why we should wait," Black Spot grumbles. "The Unsullied will slay the betrayer today and end this."

"We must respect khaleesi's wishes," Malaqo insists. "And do not forget that the betrayer rides a dragon."

"Exactly," Damion insists. "There is a week until the combat. We must all keep level heads and.." his thoughts trail off. "Where is Lord Crakehall?"

"Dead, my lord," Ser Merlon answers, still mourning.

"No, are you all so daft?" Damion throws his hands in the air. "The new Lord Crakehall! Where is your brother, Tybolt? Has anyone seen him?" He had assumed the despairing lord was lost in an alehall or whorehouse somewhere, wallowing in pity for his family. But he has been gone now since the trial.

"Perhaps he is a hostage of the king?" Yara posits, disinterested. "They took my cousin and Gendry's squire. Perhaps your wayward lord is with them?"

"Why have I heard nothing of this?"

"It did not seem important at the time," Yara shrugs. "Focus on the trial." But Damian does not focus. He turns angrily to his squire, Robert.

"You were with him last, boy! Did you not see him go?"

Robert shakes his head, silently. Increasingly agitated, Damion slaps the boy, but he does not flinch.

"An impertinent squire should be whipped," Forley Prestor comments. "Perhaps he has forgotten his service to our Lord."

"Whipping him would do no good, he feels nothing!" Damion slaps the boy again. "Damn you for leaving me with a broken squire, Prestor!"

"Mind the way you speak to one of the Lord's chosen," Eres warns.

"I do not give a fig about your damned squire, Lord Hand!" Yara declares. "Adjourn this meeting and see to the preparations. That is what that little pin on your chest means, doesn't it?"


The Iron Throne

"I assure you, your grace, the Kingsguard will stand beside you in combat," Lord Commander Bettley vows. Counting his guards, Jon finds himself wishing he had not permitted Missandei to take Ser Argilac as guard on her journey.

"You yet only number four," Jon muses. He looks to Davos, then to Harry Strickland and his sergeants. The Golden Company were excited by the prospect of a fabled Trial by Seven. Perhaps too excited, he thinks. Particularly Grif.

"Let me fight," the blue-haired squire stands, a little too proudly, his eyes straying past Jon to the throne. "I have a warrior's blood."

"No!" Jon insists. Rhaegar's ghost still haunts his dreams, no matter what explanation Strickland holds for those visions.

"The boy is well trained," Strickland offers. "He is among the best of our Company."

"He is still just a boy," Jon insists. "And he has never fought in a war."

"I'm no older than he is!" Grif yells, offended.

"Know your place, lad." A glare from Davos silences him.

"Send your best men to me, Strickland. I shall see how they fare against the champions of my bannermen. Davos, go among the lords and gather their champions. We must act quickly."

"Perhaps you ought not to have sent Lady Missandei away?" Davos posits. "Send a raven along her path and we may return her in time."

"Bran told me the events in Highgarden would be crucial to the realm. She is needed there. Here, I need warriors. I cannot merely win this Trial. We must show to all that without a doubt, I am the true king, and am to be feared."

"Of course, your grace," Strickland bows as his sergeants leave. "The game is nearly up. And then all will fear the true king."

Davos reluctantly leaves Jon alone and follows the Golden Company out of the hall. He fears for the young king's mind, and prays that Gendry will not take up arms in this trial. He has come to love them both like sons – to see them war with words is hard enough, to have one kill the other would be too much.

Suddenly, a thin figure steps out of the shadow before him, a grey cloak pulled over pale blue garb – Lord Sebaston Farman. One of Daenerys' men.

"What are you doing here?" Davos reaches for his dagger.

"Stay your hand onion knight," Sebaston hisses. "I come with news for the king. Daenerys' champions have been chosen. I can share all and more, so long as he vows the Iron Islands will not go free."


Tyrion's Quarters

Tyrion Lannister yawns after another long day working among the sick and the laborers clearing the city's ruins. A curved slate rests beside him. In the day, it hangs about his neck, and he finds what voice he can through writing with chalk. But sleep does not find him yet. He toils over sketches for the rebuilding of the city. Plans for which there are no funds, nor supplies, but perhaps one day…

He hears a knock on his door. Brienne waits outside, a surprise to be sure. But not an unpleasant one. She reminds him of Jaime. The good parts of Jaime.

"I thought you would like to know," she says. "The girl is here."

She leads him to the Red Keep, where space has been set aside for the nurses and servants who followed the nobles into the city. He waddles along behind her, grimacing at the memories of his torture here. It seems no matter what he does in life, he is always pulled back to this cursed building.

Brienne pulls aside a curtain to a small chamber, a nursery for children misplaced by the devastation. He recognizes a few of the wetnurses from the camp in the Kingswood. Brienne goes to them. When she returns, the babe is in her arms.

"She has Jaime's eyes," she smiles, sadly, kneeling down to show Tyrion. He steps forward to embrace her.

Perhaps, he thinks, we are the only people in this whole lonely world who loved him for who he truly was. He looks up to see Brienne has silently begun to cry. He etches out on his slate.

Were you there?

She nods. "He had no fear. It was a noble end."

Tyrion looks back to the child, and feels his own tears begin to flow. He tries to remember, when did it start? When everything began to fall apart? A tear drop falls on the tiny blonde face. He wipes it away with his cuff and holds up his slate again.

Her name is Tysha.


Harrenhal

The haunted old castle sits abandoned on the shore of the God's Eye. Obara had feared some rogues would have claimed its towers as their own, but save a few freezing peasants, the great, broken halls lie empty. Some shared food and fire ensures those poor souls will be no trouble to them. The children of the river lords have been sheltered away in Kingspyre Tower. Some of them had taken to scaring the younger with ghost stories. Obara had put a stop to that. But the dark legends remain in the corner of her mind as she stalks the stone bridges high above the earth, patrolling the length of Harrenhal and waiting for Bran's return. If he ever does return. She cannot recall any tales of a man returning from the Isle of Faces.

It is on one of those lonely patrols that she sees the ghost. A tiny white specter sliding across the ground into the vast godswood. Rushing down crumbling stairs, Obara creeps nearer to the shadowy forest. It has a sickly ambience, low-hanging pines cutting at Obara's face as she makes her way into the wood. Ahead, she can catch glimpses of the white spirit, leading her deeper until it stops.

Harrenhal's hearttree has no clearing to its own. It is a huge, twisted thing, warped branches spiraling up to tangle with the pines. Its face is a terrible, hateful visage, marred by huge scars left by a dragon, centuries past. As Obara steps forward to the creature huddled before the tree, she sees it is no ghost. Just a tiny, warped, ancient woman with long hair as white as her faded skin.

"The wolf with wings has flown to his roost," the old woman speaks, seemingly to the tree itself. "Will they let him fly again? Only he can say."

"You there!" Obara steps forward. "Who are you?"

"I?" The woman turns. Obara stifles a gasp at the sight of her wrinkled face and red eyes. "I am just a dreamer, looking for rest, blown far from her home to see the one sent to the trees. Like this poor dear," she turns back to the weirwood. "So much grief. So much suffering." She runs her hand along the scars, pulling back covered in a trace of sticky red sap. "Spring is coming. If we can make it."


The Isle of Faces

Ghost treads through the thick forest to the shore with Bran on his back, his face and arms still smeared with green. The days have been long since their arrival. The nights longer. Bran is rarely out of sight of the Children or Green Men. But now he finds Meera sitting alone, on the shore. He slips down from the direwolf to sit beside her. The sun has dispersed enough of the fog to reveal Harrenhal on the far shore.

"You ought to know everything," She does not look at him. "And yet still you think I desire your company."

"Did I offend you?"

"Offend me?" Meera almost laughs. "Can you truly see so little? I dragged you beyond the wall and back. My brother died for you. And three days after I return you to Winterfell, you sent me away! You didn't even say good-bye!"

"I was afraid," Bran whispers. "You saved my life time and again, but I was still afraid. I didn't know what I was. I became something more… less… not human. I couldn't bear to hurt you. So I pushed you away. But I see now. I know what I am. This is the final journey. And I can't do it without you."

"You don't even know what they want of you..." Her anger seems to turn to sadness.

"I do know what I want. And what I want for you."

"What you want doesn't matter." She turns away. "When tomorrow comes..."

"I don't care about tomorrow. Not now," Bran holds out his hand, cautiously. "I was wrong before. I will not make the same mistake twice."

Slowly, Meera takes his hand. He looks for forgiveness in her eyes, hoping that some of what he knows she felt for him might still be there… And then Howland marches out of the forest behind them.

"Run along, Meera," the Lord of the Neck bids. "I must speak to the Raven."

Bran begins to protest, but Meera silences him. She shakes her head, bows to her father, and disappears back into the shaded forest. Howland sits down beside Bran and dips his toes in the water, sending ripples across the dark surface.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks. Bran is unsure how to answer. He wants to shout that a great fount of love has torn him apart inside. But he cannot say he even knows what love feels like, for certain.

"Meera… I do not wish her to be angry with me."

"I know what that means," Howland smiles, the green paint on his cheeks cracking. "You Starks can never say what you feel. I remember the first girl who captured Ned's heart. He couldn't stop talking about her, but couldn't bear to say her name."

The memory of his father draws Bran in.

"My daughter is brave," Howland continues. "Fierce. And a beauty, in her own way. She may very well love you. But Meera and I both know what you must realize. You are above such things now. To love is human. You are beyond human."

"I am human. I am Bran Stark, of Winterfell," Bran insists.

"No. You are the Three-Eyed Raven. And it is long past time you learn what that means."


The Iron Throne

Jon nods in approval as Ser Symun Varner and the wildling Jarl walk out of the room, his final two champions. After a week of searching, now the trial is only a day away.

"I must say, I was surprised you picked none of my men," Strickland ponders. "Part of me thinks your grace still does not trust me."

"These ones will stand true," Jon insists. "Your men have other roles to play."

"Have you thought more on Lord Farman's offer?" Davos inquires.

"I am not fond of such treachery," Jon frowns. "But ensure that my champions are aware of whom they shall be facing. Any favors Farman wants, he ought ask them in public, not in secret."

"Wisely said, your grace," Davos agrees and exits. As the doors swing wide for his departure, Jon Bettley steps in.

"The Lady Stark awaits you," the Lord Commander reports. Jon frowns. That can only mean Sansa. He had avoided her since her arrival, fearing claims of favoritism. And fearing what she may ask of him. But he cannot hide forever.

He finds her in an open plaza, the cracked floor painted with a map of Westeros with Ser Rolland. The white-clad knight swiftly exits at his king's arrival.

"I had begun to think you'd forgotten me," Sansa turns as he approaches. They shuffle toward each other, sharing a hesitant, half-embrace.

"I could never forget you," he insists.

"Rolland brought me in, please don't blame him." She searches for words. "All the way here I've tried to think of what to tell you. What to ask. I know you've spoken to the northern lords. But not to me. You have spoken with Arianne. But not with me. Jon, you are the King in the North, but the North turns to me now for what you will do. And I do not know what to tell them."

"Jon." He backs away.

"What?"

"You called me Jon."

"That's your name…"

"My name is Aemon Targaryen," Jon's mood visibly darkens. "I am the king of all Westeros now. And you finally come here, not to comfort me as family, but to ask my favor, just like all the rest."

"No, Jon, no, your grace," Sansa trips over her tongue. "I don't want anything from you, I just want to talk!"

"Have you pledged fealty?"

Suddenly, Sansa realizes what he means. And what, perhaps, she had refused to admit she was asking for.

"You want me to bend the knee."

"I want you to do your duty."

"Jon, the North is finally free! Robb died for this! Mother died for this! So, so many men and women, our friends and subjects died so that we would never have to serve the Iron Throne again! I can't just throw that away! I didn't think you would…"

"I cannot treat the North any different because it is my home!" Jon points to the map at their feet. "There are seven kingdoms, and they are falling apart. I did not ask to rule, but this is my duty now! We must be united! And if you can't understand that, if you can't support me, then you might as well join Daenerys!"

For a long while, they stop in time, unmoving, unspeaking. Sansa looks at her feet and finds herself in the North. Jon has never seemed further away. It would be so easy, she thinks, to give in. To put an end to the struggle, give up her power and its burden. Let someone else rule. But no. That has been her whole life story. And now, thousands look to her.

"I'm not against you Jon. If you can't see that, I'm sorry. But I cannot be beneath you, either. You cannot bludgeon this world into neat little pieces with your honor. And the next time you wish to speak to the North, you will speak to me."


Daenerys' Cell

Damion Lannister watches his queen as she paces the floor. He has been permitted to speak with her regarding the champions. But thus far, she has not said a word. She looks colder, fiercer, stronger than when he last saw her. Hair is beginning to grow back on her shaved scalp. Finally, she speaks.

"Those will all do. But you choose one too many. I have already have a champion of my own selection."

Damion looks about, confused. Who else could she have spoken to?

"Euron Greyjoy will fight for me."


Chataya's Brothel

"Euron?!" Yara Greyjoy hurls a flagon of wine against the wall and it explodes, splattering sticky crimson over Robert Brax. Damion steps back, fearing for a moment the sea queen plans to attack him.

"I swear, I do not know why, but this is the queen's decree!" he insists as Yara tears apart her room to locate her cutlass.

"Does she realize what this means?"

"I told her that I imagined it would make things… difficult between the two of you."

"Difficult?" Yara points the cutlass straight down the center of Damion's face. He feels the point prick the tip of his nose. "I have half a mind to cut through the guards and kill them both myself!"

"Our queen hears the voice of R'Hllor," Eres insists. "If she has done this, it is the Lord's will."

Yara spins about, pointing the sword at the red warrior now.

"If Euron Greyjoy is a tool in your god's will, I want no part of it."

"You don't mean that," Eres insists, calmly. "All the waters of the sea are not enough to quench the fires of the Lord. You cannot challenge the chosen."

"I do challenge," Yara slowly stalks backwards out of the room. "And I will piss on your fires until they go out. Consider me Aemon's champion!"


The Red Keep

Yara has barely watched the path before her has her horse sprints recklessly through the streets, winding up towards the castle. Her mind has only been on two things – fury at her queen's betrayal and dreams of how she will kill Euron. At last she finds herself before the entrance to the Red Keep and brings her mount to a stop before two battle elephants and a wall of Golden Company men, led by Harry Strickland himself.

"What do you want, Greyjoy?" Strickland calls out. "Lord Lannister already spoke to Daenerys. She will have no more visitors today."

"I do not plan to speak to her!" Yara declares, leaping from the horse. "I will speak with King Aemon. Daenerys has lost my favor. I will be his champion."

"King Aemon already has six fine men to stand beside him."

"I promise you I could bury each of them in a heartbeat," Yara marches forward. "I want only a chance to slay my uncle."

"And place the king on trial with a sworn enemy at his side?" Strickland laughs as his guard begin to surround Yara. "Take her away to the cells. And do not trouble the king."