The Isle of Faces

Bran sits in a hollow atop a chair of tangled weirwood roots. Around him sits a circle of Children, some young, others old. Frost is there, and an ancient, hunch-backed male they call Willow. Bran's arms are entwined in the roots, his eyes covered with the blood red leaves.

He is everywhere. Nowhere. Anywhere.

The images come, one over the other, a cascade of time and space as Willow's creaking voice narrates the journey.

"Every people across the world has their stories. Every people has their legends. But you and us, we can see the truth of the stories. And this is the story of you, Raven, and the fire that would destroy this world."

Bran is in a forest now, greater and older than any other – a Westeros before man. Here only the Children and the giants walk.

"From the beginning of time, we lived at peace, in harmony with the woods and the mountains and the water. But men came. Where we saw perfection, they saw a world to conquer and bend to their own vision."

They reach Dorne, but an ancient Dorne, where a massive land bridge extends across into the narrow sea. A rabble of savage looking men come down from the crossing, weapons in hand. And with them comes the fire.

"We fought fiercely, and many sacrifices were made…" The land bridge splits and breaks apart, sinking into the sea and dragging screaming men down with it. "But the men were here to stay." They are in the circle, but here it is new, free of moss - the stones are new, freshly carved. Here the Children stand to meet with a rabble of wild looking men. Bran knows this story. "Peace returned for a time. But across the sea, another legend was being spun."

A new world forms now - great cities with towering stone fortresses and glittering jeweled idols.

"They called it the Empire of the Dawn. The greatest civilization known to man stretched its mighty hand across the known world. Rather, all that man had known. But they shall always desire more."

A great blood red comet comes crashing down out of the sky, landing in the heart of a great city. From the impact, a shadow arises – the darkness seems to choke Bran, and he turns away. But behind him stands a dark man, as if shaded by ash.

"The Bloodstone Emperor believed that the power beyond the shadow would lay the whole world at his feet, not just the lands known to man. He crossed the sea. It was a battle we could not win. And so we turned to a darker power of our own."

A cold comes over Bran as the sun is blotted out and the air turns to ice around him. A man with a burning sword strides across the frozen sea, and army of torches behind him. And opposing the fire is the Night King, with legions of wights and White Walkers.

"Stop!" Bran shouts. "You did this! You couldn't control what you created. You caused the Long Night!"

The images freeze around him and the Children appear. Willow strides towards him.

"Do you not yet understand? Sacrifices must be made. When the Night ended, the Empire of the Dawn was no more, the eternal flame retreated beyond the shadow once more and we locked away our creations." The Wall rises in a circle around them. "The First Men earned the favor of the gods, and were gifted the Three-Eyed Raven to defend the memory of this world. But as ever, peace did not last. The first men forgot their oaths and new men were to come, who wiped our people away. All that we sacrificed, only to be betrayed again. We could only watch as the land that belonged to us fell to the weak and small-minded with their steel."

Bran watches as the Wall melts away to show the arrival of the Andals, the First Men and finally Aegon the Conqueror. King's Landing rises, and at last a pale man in red stands atop its walls.

"Do you know him?" Willow asks.

"Bloodraven…" Bran recognizes his predecessor.

"Yes. He ruled for a time. Tried to bring order. But mankind fears what they cannot control. And so they drove him away."

Bran watches as Bloodraven flees beyond the Wall, beneath the great weirwood, and slowly ages to the man who was the last Raven. Who opened his own third eye.

"Bloodraven learned what we already had. To hide and to wait. To preserve ourselves. Let humans drag each other down in the muck. We are something different. We must survive. But now the champion of the light and shadow has stirred again. And, like a child, you lashed out in fear. We were left without a champion."

Bran watches as Arya strikes down the Night King, and feels anger begin to boil over.

"That's not right! The Night King would have killed everyone!"

Willow stares at him, unblinking. "Do you not understand? Sacrifices must be made. We thought Jon Snow would be our new champion. But he abandoned his destiny."

"No!" Bran kicks at the spectral Children around him, wishing for the visions to end. "Jon didn't betray anyone. He's a hero!"

"Then why is his direwolf here, with you, while he flies through the skies on a dragon?"

"You were going to kill everyone just to defend yourselves!" Bran shouts.

"Silence your emotions, Raven!" Willow shouts. "You are above such things!" But Bran's anger only grows. And with it, he grows as well. Or do the Children shrink? He is towering in the void now, as all the dreadful horrors flash by – every bloody sacrifice, burning, drowning, White Walkers, a whirlwind of pain and grief.

"Enough!" Willow commands and everything else fades to black. "You speak with the voice of Brandon Stark. That boy is dead. You are the Three-Eyed Raven. And it is your destiny to restore the proper order to this world. Our kind will rule once again. No matter the cost."

For a moment, Bran is lost in time. But then he steels his resolve. He reaches out in his mind. He can feel them, all of the trees, all of the memories, all of the feelings. He reaches out until he can feel the minds of the Children encircling him. And he opens his eye.

"Not today."

There is a blinding flash of blue light and Bran is back among the weirwood roots, the Children holding their heads in pain.

"My family is in danger. I will go to them."


Arianne's Quarters

As dusk falls the evening before the trial, Arianne watches Elia train in the yard. Elia Martell, now, she smiles proudly at the thought. She thinks of the Starks, and hopes that Arya may yet come to train with her heir. She hears noise from the entrance. Garin has returned, exhausted from a long day tending to the sick, trying to master his Rhoynish water spells. He is too tired even for Sarella's flirtations. Seeing him trudge off to his chambers makes Arianne realize how tired she is herself. But as she walks back to her room, she finds a figure blocking her way.

Ellaria Sand.

"Who let you in?" Arianne demands, looking for her guards.

"Elia did," Ellaria steps forward into the light. Seeing her now, like this, Arianne finds it hard to hate. She had thought the woman dead, and it looks as if she had been right – eyes sunken, hair thin and patchy, skin stuck tight to her bones, Ellaria appears as if a walking corpse. "I only wanted to thank you. For my daughter."

"I honored my uncle when I made Elia my heir. And my aunt, whom she was named for. I warned you what would happen if you returned."

"If I returned to Dorne," Ellaria sighs, wearily. "This is not Dorne. But kill me if you must. I have already lost so much, my life is little left to give." She turns and begins to walk aimlessly away. "I have had an eternity of grief to think of the past, and have watched my vengeance slip away through my fingers like sand. I am left with nothing. This hate destroyed me, as it doomed Oberyn. I will be with him shortly. Raise her better than we could, please."

"Ellaria…" Arianne goes after her, and she turns.

"Live for the day, princess," Ellaria's dry, bony hands clutch at Arianne's soft arm. "You are not your father, nor your uncle, nor me. You are who you wish to be. Look to tomorrow, and seize it for yourself."

With that, Ellaria disappears, down the stairs and into the night, with a final glance back at her daughter in the yard. Arianne watches her go. In that moment, and knows what she must do.


Stark Quarters

Sansa had barely touched her dinner. She has found little appetite since her fight with Jon. Neither wine nor Mycah's comforting words have done little to lift the tension. At least Sam's spirits were raised by the news of his wife's safe arrival at Blackhaven, en route to the capital. As he and Mycah swap stories of adventures, Sansa slips away to her sister's room. Arya had not joined them for dinner. And as she enters, she sees why.

Arya sits, her sheets and mattress slashed, Needle stabbed down into the bed.

"Get out," she grumbles, without looking up.

"Arya," Sansa does not leave. Instead, she crosses to sit beside her sister. "I know that things have not always been well between us. We were apart for so long. Someday, perhaps, we can share everything that happened. But until then, we're still sisters. We should be able to talk. Do you want some wine?"

"You know I hate wine," Arya looks up, with the faintest smile. "Gendry did, too."

"Well, Gendry is a fool, clearly," Sansa japes, but that does not help. "I'm sorry."

"He's right. He took an oath to Daenerys. I never should have asked him to betray it."

"It's not wrong for you to want him to support Aemon. He was our brother."

"Aemon..." Arya stiffens. "Why did you call him that?"

"That's his name, after all. His true name."

"Oh, gods," Sansa's composure finally collapses. She pulls at the weirwood pendant on her neck. "What if it's all wrong? What if we're all wrong? Half the North goes to him for answers he will not give them, the other half come to me for answers I do not know. He cannot be King of the North and King of Westeros at the same time. But if he sits the Iron Throne, and the North is free, what does that make me?"

"I think you have to decide that for yourself." Arya leans her arm out over Sansa's shoulder. Comfort is a stranger to her. But she has to try.

"If the North wants to be free, then is it not right for me to stand up for them? But what if Jon's right, and that hurts his own position."

"What if no one's right?" Arya asks. "I think, maybe, that is how it is. The right is in little pieces, broken, and each of us has a little. We just have to find a way to piece it all back together."

"But how?" Sansa runs her hands desperately through her hair. "It hurts! This all hurts so much."

"Syrio used to say every hurt is a lesson. And every lesson makes you better."

"Who's Syrio?"

"My dancing instructor," Arya laughs at the memory.

"I think that is something you will have to tell me one day," Sansa smiles. "But everything is so wrong. Jon is angry with me. And Arianne."

"Then find a way," Arya hugs her, sincerely this time. "Give them your truth and listen to theirs. And I... I'll listen to Gendry's. And then maybe we can all see what to do..."


Arianne's Quarters

The guards at the gate are Manwoody men, Sansa can tell, from the white skulls painted on their faces. But they know her, and usher her inside. Elia is still in the yard, taking aim with a bow as Sarella instructs her. The younger girl's skill with the bow is clearly not to par with her lance and spear, as a stray arrow flies far from the target to land at Sansa's feet.

"Ah, careful now, Elia, the lady wolf approaches," Sarella looks up. "You must hold your arm steady, like this." Taking the bow into her own hands, she quickly pulls back and looses an arrow into the wooden target without looking. Elia gasps. Sansa, feeling uncomfortable with her intrusion, slowly applauds.

"How do you do that?" Elia asks.

"Practice. Years of practice. When you're trapped in the Citadel with your bosoms wrapped tight, you can only read so much. This was my ecstasy." Sarella looses the rest of the arrows in sequence. "Now get yourself to bed, Lady Martell. You need rest for tomorrow." Elia sneers her nose at the formality, but listens nonetheless.

Finally Sansa approaches, and Sarella takes a long drink of wine. She passes the bottle to Sansa, who partakes gladly, and begins to set up a far-eye to examine the stars.

"What brings you here at this hour?" she asks as she works. "No one is left awake but me and the heavens. Just how I like it."

"I must speak to Arianne," Sansa looks about. "Do you suppose you might check on her?"

"Oh…" Sarella nervously scratches the back of her head, looking to the stars as if to ask them for a suitable answer. "The princess isn't exactly here…"


Maegor's Holdfast

Jon nearly falls down from Rhaegal's back as he returns, the city at last at sleep. And he knows he must sleep, too, so little of it has he seen this past week. He must restore his energy, to face the moment he has been dreading for so long. But it is hard to sleep angry. And today most of all, Jon is as angry as he is tired. Everything is falling apart. The lords cannot stop bickering. His own home and family will not heed his will. If he cannot control the North, how can he control all seven kingdoms? And tomorrow he must fight the woman he loves to the death.

It does not have to be to death. But it will. She'll never yield.

He screams in agony and fury, unleashing his energy on the nearest wall, punching with his fist until his knuckles bleed. As he stumbles towards his bedchamber, he knows something is wrong. The torches are lit. His hand flits to Blackfyre at his side. He steps slowly around the corner into the room.

A lone figure stands, hooded, in a black robe. Jon steps swiftly, in, drawing his sword. The figure turns, gasping, and throws down their hood. He sees the silver mask first.

"Your grace!" Arianne calls out.

Blackfyre clatters to the floor.

"How did you get here?" Jon yells, outraged. He storms forward, but she does not run. Grabbing her wrists, he begins to shake her violently, back and forth. "The passage, where is it? Who else knows?"

As they struggle, her arms twist in his hands and she grasps hold of his head. He stills as she pulls their faces together into a kiss. The cold metal of the mask stings his face. But she smells of elderberries, sweet pepper, winter roses and warmth. Jon pulls himself away and her robe falls open. There is nothing underneath the velvet. Only smooth, soft olive skin.

"You need to go," Jon insists.

I do not want this, he tells himself as she backs sensually away, the robe fully slipping off her onto the ground now.

"The gods showed me how to find you," she whispers as she begins to extinguish the candelabras one by one. "I was lead here for you. You must not deny what you desire, Aemon. You are a king. A king should have what he wants. What he needs. Tell me you do not want me, and I will go."

There is only one light left, beside the bed. Jon stands stiffly in its glow, wanting to command her to be gone but unable to look away. She prowls, naked, closer towards him, full hips swaying with each step. Jon tries to remain stoic, but his manhood betrays him. She looks down at his breeches and extinguishes the final candle. Only then does he hear the mask fall to the floor.

"Take off your clothes," she states plainly. He does not move. But she is in control now. Her nimble hands go to swift work at his buttons and laces. As he stands still, he remembers Daenerys, and Ygrytte before her. Every love he has found has been a betrayal. But he is tired. He wants this. Her. Anyone, Anything to make him forget it all.

Nothing between them now, he feels her warmth as she pulls him into her.

Forgive me. I just want to forget.


Duck's Bed

There are no windows in the small chamber the serjeant of the Golden Company had claimed for himself. But years of strict military regimen wake Rolly Duckfield early in the morning all the same. His head aching, he finds Wynafryd Manderly sprawled atop of him, her heavy breasts atop his chest and long yellow hair ensnares his face. As he opens his mouth to yawn, he chokes on golden strands, startling the young woman awake.

As she yawns and stretches, he tries to rise, but she straddles him still.

"So soon to leave me for the king after what you told me last night?"

"What… what did I say?" Rolly's face reddens with panic, racking his brain to remember what he had done. Seeing the flagons and bottles lying amongst their clothes on the floor, he knows he will not remember. Seeing this, Wynafryd grins triumphantly to herself and reaches beneath the sheets to grab hold of his member.

"Only that you wanted me all to yourself. That you wished my poor betrothed would have championed King Aemon and fallen in the trial. A truly terrible thing to say."

"Oh," he gasps at her touch, leaning up to kiss her neck, breathing lustily. "I have certainly dishonored myself. How shall I recover?"

"Like this" she whispers, pulling tighter.

"Then I have so much dishonor yet to give. You truly bring out the worst in me."

"Oh, I know," Wynafryd smiles, her mind already laying plans. "I know."


The Maidenvault

The hostages are already waiting when the knock comes at the door.

"Are they going to free us?" Nigel Tudburry asks.

"No, you daft boy," Tybolt Crakehall sighs, biting into a half-rotted apple. "Today's the day of the trial."

"I've always wanted to see a Trial of Seven!" Nigel nearly jumps out of his chair.

"No good ever comes of such things," hunchbacked Hotho Harlaw sighs. "Do they not teach young lads their histories on the mainland these days?" Hotho swings open the door to reveal Rolly Duckfield and a half dozen fellow Golden Men.

"Please don't cause any trouble," Rolly grimaces as another wave of pain rakes his skull.

"Just bind out chains loose, we aren't going anywhere," Tybolt holds up his wrists to be tied, but the exuberant Nigel must be corralled.

"Don't tie too tight!" the squire shouts. "You'll need to free us quick once it's over! My Lady Mya will crush Aemon's chest with her hammer like her father crushed Rhaegar at the trident! And then my Lord Gendry will be coming for me!"

"Hush now, ye daft boy," Hotho grumbles. "Best not be singing for the death of the man keepin' us in chains. Who knows what the day will bring?"


The Black Cells

Arya follows close behind as men of the Golden Company meet the watchmen guarding the cells to escort Daenerys and Euron to the Dragonpit. She watches as the former queen and king are marched from their cells. Neither resist, but as she turns to follow them, she notices a cluster of watchmen headed in the other direction, escorting another prisoner – a stout black-skinned old man with braided white hair in dirty crimson robes.

Curious, she slinks along behind them, staying in the dark, close to the wall.

Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow.

There is someone shouting, further ahead, from within one of the cells. Finally, she sees the door shaking. Through the grated window, she can see Yara Greyjoy's frantic face. She stops.

"You! Stark girl!" Yara hisses.

"What do you want?" Arya glances back and forth between the prisoner and the guards as they vanish around a distant corner.

"Those men! They are not the king's men! I know them!"

"What do you mean?"

"The Codd brothers! They're draped in gold cloaks but I know their stench. They're Euron's men, and they've taken his priest!"

Arya does not waste another moment. She leaves Yara behind in her cell, racing headlong down the hall. Silence can wait for now. She can only pray to find the men again.


Streets of King's Landing

Brienne rides ahead of the Stark carriage as it trundles through the streets, struggling to clear a path. The shattered city, home to only ghosts just days before, is overflowing with life again. It seems as if every man, woman and child within a week's travel has flocked to see the Trial of Seven.

A grim spectacle, Sansa grimaces as the cart hits a bump. Mycah places a hand on her shoulder to steady her as the broken road grows worse. This death is a sport to them.

Tyrion rides with them, along with Lord Glover, Lord Stout and other northerners. Tyranna Stane on her fearsome unicorn ride up alongside them with several of her men, then on to Brienne. At the sight of those beasts, the crowds quickly part.

Jon has his dragon, the Golden Company their elephants, and I have my unicorns, she thinks. Perhaps men will come to fear me after all.

She looks to Tyrion at her side and can see the pain in his eyes. She misses the sound of his voice.

"You didn't have to come," she tells him.

He scrawls away at the slate around his neck: I brought her here. I failed her. This at least, I owe her.


The Dragonpit

Within the pit itself, Jon is fitted with his armor by Davos and a crowd of squires he does not know. Strickland had it made for him – shining black plate, embellished with red and a dragon's helm with ruby eyes to match those in the hilt of Blackfyre. He can see his Kingsguard waiting in their glistening white armor and capes, Ser Steffon and Jarl with them. But as the squires clasp his crimson cape and leave, he freezes.

"I can't do it." He can barely speak.

"You must," Davos insists. "You once told me that your father taught that the man who casts the sentence must swing the sword. Those were wise words."

"He wasn't my father," Jon muses, distantly.

"Not by blood, your grace," Davos admits. "But he raised you. And if you're to keep this peace, I'd advise you to act more like Ned Stark than Rhaegar Targaryen."

"Thank you, Davos," Jon places a grateful hand on the old smuggler's shoulder. "You have always spoke true and plain. You're a good man, ser." With that, he slowly walks out into the makeshift arena. Davos watches him go and mourns. His king had not said good-bye. But it feels as if this will be the last moment he shall see him.

Jon steps out into the cold sun, red cape flowing behind him. It pulls at his back, an unnecessary flourish. As he approaches his champions he loosens the clasps on his shoulders and the heavy red fabric falls limply to the ground.

"Your grace," Jon Bettley kneels, along with the other Kingsguard.

"That is not nessecary, Lord Commander," Jon bids him rise. "You fight by my side today, not at my feet." Together, they turn to face their foes as Daenerys and her champions enter.

Her guard – Ser Merlon, Kimbo, Black Spot and Ser Osgood - in their black and red armor. Mya Baratheon in light grey plate and black-and-yellow surcoat, warhammer in hand. Euron in simple sailor's garb, a queer horn strapped to his side. And Daenerys in her own armor– crimson red, embossed with flames, with a matching helm. Jon looks back, nervously. He should have his own helm, he thinks. But it is too late.

"I call the Dothraki," Ser Rolland grips his axe in anticipation as Lord Harlan Dondarrion rises, bringing order to the crowd.

At his command, the opposing champions stride to the center of the pit, lining face to face. They have found a septon somewhere, and now he says a prayer alongside pious Bonifer Hasty. Daenerys stands defiantly before Jon, halberd in hand. This is the closest they have stood since the devastation, nary a foot apart.

She smells the same, Jon thinks. She is the same. What have I done?

"I see you've brought our ancestor's sword to slay me," she looks to his side. "Is that all it takes to make you think you can rule these people by yourself?" Jon has no answer, his brain slowing to a crawl. She leans closer. "It's not too late," she whispers in his ear. "We still can make this right. We can still build a new world."

"You killed that world when you burned this city to the ground."

"No." Her halberd shifts the slightest beat closer towards Jon's face. "You killed it when you could not accept what had to be done to bring peace. When you threw me in chains and stole my dragon. When you conspired with Lord Farman to betray my allies. And when you abandoned my love for her." She raises the halberd, pointing it to where Arianne sits in the crowd. "You've stumbled Jon. But you can still do the right thing. You know it's true. All this has to be burned away for the world to be free."

Jon steps back and turns to the dais. The world is a blur around him, sound a vacuum, his heart pounds as if trying to escape his chest. He wants to yell. I can stop this. Can I? But if any noise comes out, no one hears. Lord Dondarrion says something. And then the battle has begun.

The sound of clashing steel must surely be loud, Jon thinks. But all he can hear is the rushing of his blood, roaring in his ears. And then Daenerys is rushing towards him. He should move. Or parry. But he does neither. The point of her halberd takes him in the shoulder and knocks him to the ground. As he hits the earth, he finally manages to draw Blackfyre. He blocks the next strike and rolls away, struggling to his feet.

Blood has already been spilled. Mya's hammer has crushed Jarl's chest and Rolland's axe cleaved Kimbo's skull. But then Daenerys is on him again, swinging the razor-sharp halberd. He dodges, trying to counter with his greatsword. But Daenerys has more range. He cannot reach. The sympathy is gone from her eyes now, and he is fighting for his life. Rolland and Bettley see the threat and move to his aid. But the distraction opens them to attack. Euron presses the advantage, his cutlass burying deep in Bettley's side.

As the Lord Commander falls, Euron lets the cutlass fall away and reaches to the horn at his side. Jon stops to watch as Daenerys turns to block Rolland's attack. In the midst of the fight, Euron raises the horn to his lips and blows. A burst of fire sparks from his obsidian eye. And then Rhaegal roars.


The Silence

Arya creeps below the deck of the haunting black ship, hearing the echoing footsteps of the men on the decks above her. Daenerys' guard, Eres, had been waiting here for the red priest's arrival, and now they were unmooring the ship. That seemed wrong. They should be with their masters. Or were they abandoning them to die?

Hearing a creak behind her, she ducks behind a crate, lying in wait. Whoever is falling her is doing well to mask their footsteps. But not well enough for her. Silently, she draws Needle. As the figure nears, she rises and pins him to the wall, Needle at his neck, in an instant. In the dark, she recognized gold cloth and blue hair. Grif.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses.

"Following you," he hisses back. "What are you doing here?"

"Euron's men are in the City Watch," she cautiously lets the squire go.

"Are they planning an escape before the trial?"

"No. At least I don't think so. They brought his priest to the ship."

"Then what are they doing?" Grif reaches to draw his own dagger. And then the boat shifts forward violently. "We're moving. Why are we moving?"


The Dragonpit

When the dragon turned, all madness broke out. The great green beast had waited where Jon left it, beyond the pit. But at the dark, ancient sound of the Valyrian horn, it had risen, and the fire began to rain down as it descended into the pit.

"Rhaegal, no!" Jon shouts as it lands. Caught off guard, Ser Cregan and Ser Steffon are consumed in the flames, Black Spot along with them. Mya takes one look at the dragon and flees to the stands. Euron flashes a smile, horn in hand, and climbs atop its back. Jon rushes towards them, but feels the halberd slice the back of his leg. He falls forward, dropping Blackfyre, and Daenerys stabs down, barely missing.

With a roar, Rolland strikes a heavy blow. Daenerys staggers, armor dented but not pierced. She spins her staff and strikes at the knight's knee before turning back to Jon. He crawls through the dirt towards his sword, but she kicks at his head. Blood comes into his eyes and he rolls over. Rolland catches up, and Daenerys blocks his attacks, his heavy axe knocking back her lighter weapon on each blow.

Finally, Jon feels his fingers on the hilt of Blackfyre. He rises just as Daenerys ducks below a swing and looks up as Daenerys stabs upward, landing a deadly blow.

"No!" Jon shouts as Rolland hits the ground. He rises dizzily, sword in hand but the blood rushes to his head. He stumbles and Daenerys swings her blade, the dull end striking the back of his head. He topples back down, landing besides Rolland's body. Daenerys turns and runs to the dragon. It is the last thing Jon sees before his eyes go black.

In the stands, Damion Lannister looks about at the chaos as knights and soldiers in the crowd begin to turn on each other, devolving into a mob of violence.

"What in the seven hells is happening?" he roars at Gendry. "Did you know about this?"

"No!" Gendry shouts. The young lord turns and runs to his sister. Damion searches the crowd for answers, but all his allies are fleeing or raising arms. Lord Farman lies on the ground dead, his throat slashed open. Who killed him, Damion cannot say, but Forley Prestor is rushing the dragon, his sword ablaze.

"Damn it!" he shouts as things spiral out of control. He had planned things so perfectly, followed his orders, and now… madness. "Robert, my sword!" He yells, finding his squire. Robert Brax stares aimlessly out from behind his scarred face. "My sword, boy!" He stomps forward to grab it himself. But at last the boy draws it. And stabs.

The Valyrian blade passes between the break in his plate. Damion gasps as Robert twists the sword. And at last, his squire speaks.

"For my father."

In a moment, the boy is gone, and Damion is left staring down at the sword in his stomach - that damned false-Brightroar, stolen so long ago to boost his cousin's pride. The lion on its pommel taunts him, as if it is Tywin Lannister himself, laughing from beyond the grave. As the blood seeps out, he topples forward, down from the stands. His face lands in dust and ash. In the end, there is nothing else.


Outside the Dragonpit

The Horpe knights form a vanguard around Harlan Dondarrion as he rushes away from the chaos – a deadly circle of steel and tattered white robes. Tywin and Wynafryd cower behind Edric Dayne, who has drawn the great blade Dawn. Harlan turns to his fellow judge, Lord Franklyn Fowler.

"Where is Ser Bonifer?"

"Dead, ser! Dragonfire!"

"Seven hells," Harlan shakes his head. How could happen?

"My lord!" Meraxes Horpe steps to his side. "Ahead of us, it's the Starks. They look to be in trouble."

For only a moment, Harlan hesitates, his own cart in the opposite direction. He wishes he had brought a weapon for himself. But Tywin is making no use of his. "Give me your sword, boy!" he commands his son. Tywin eagerly abliges, and Harlan runs back to his commander. "Go to them."

Sansa and Tyrion are surrounded, Dothraki, Unsullied, Ironborn, even random looters run rampant about them. Brienne, Mycah and Lord Glover fend off attackers from every side. A roar makes Sansa look up to the shy to see the dragon in flight. But her heart drops when she sees Jon is not astride it.

Mycah hurls his trident into the chest of a charging Dothraki stallion. Rushing to the dead horse, he retrieves his weapon to finish off the rider. Looking up past him, Sansa sees Sandor Clegane cutting his way through the crowd to their group.

"Where's Arya?" he barks as he reaches her.

"She wasn't with us!"

"Do you have a way out?" he asks. Sansa shakes her head. He points behind her, and she sees a crowd of knights in white robes rushing towards them. They part to reveal Harlan Dondarrion, who lashes out with his own sword at a rock-throwing rioter.

"Come with us!" the lord barks. Sansa and Tyrion rush in, with the others joining the Horpe vanguard. They press on through the panicked streets until reaching a dead halt. Before them, blocking their path, is an Unsullied shield wall.

"Madness…" Harlan grumbles.

"We can take them!" Edric tries to rush forward, Dawn in his hands, but Meraxes pushes him back, her cold eyes flitting between her fellow Horpes and the guards in their path, clearly trying to devise a plan. But she never gets the chance.

"Clear the way!" Tyranna Stane calls from behind as she and two other Skagosi storm through on their unicorns. One of the fearsome hairy beasts is impaled on the Unsullied spears, but the other two break the wall. Seizing the opening, the Horpes usher their charges through the gap on into the city, on to safety… they can only pray it waits for them somewhere..


The Silence

The gilded kraken cuts swiftly through the waves as the great black ship cuts across the ocean. Moqorro stands at the bow, arms outstretched, beseeching his god for speed. Eres stands at the rear, waiting for a sign from shore. Grif and Arya watch from behind a crate.

"We should kill them," Arya whispers.

"We should find a way off this damned boat," Grif shakes his head. "If the bloody red priests want to steal a ship and sail to the ends of the world, let them."

"I don't think they're stealing the ship…" Arya rises and points behind them. Racing out above the city and out over the bay they can see Rhaegal.

"What's the king doing?" Grif asks as the dragon draws nearer.

"That's not the king," Arya murmurs under her breath. The boat lurches upwards as Rhaegal comes crashing down to land upon the deck with five figure on its back. Euron is the first off, followed by Daenerys, Ser Merlon, Ser Osgood and Forley Prestor.

"My queen," Eres bows. "The Lord has been true."

The Codd brothers, still in their stolen City Watch, attend to Euron.

"Good work, m'boys," he laughs. "You should've seen the look on those pompous cocks' faces when their precious dragon turned on 'em." He raises the horn in the air, his eye still smoldering. "I like this!"

"You're right," Arya turns to Grif. "You need to get off the boat."

"Wait!" he protests for a moment, but Arya is too fast and shoves him back over the edge and into the water below. She has disappeared into the shadows again before he hits the water. The Silence cuts on, quickly leaving the floundering squire fighting a losing battle against the waves. As if hearing a cry for help, Rhaegal launches back into the air as the others are looking away, throwing them to the ground as his wings take flight once more.

Furious, Euron raises the horn back to his lips, but Eres pulls it away.

"Let the little green beast fly back to its master. Where we're going, we will have no need of such children."


The Docks

When Jon woke, the arena was almost empty. Ser Myles Manwoody, his last surviving guardian, was dragging him across the sand to safety. But he had refused to hide. And so Ser Myles seized a horse from a dead Dothraki and held his king on the mount following the dragon's path all the way to the docks. But it was too late. And he has set, bleeding onto the cobblestone at the edge of the bay ever since. For how long, he cannot say.

"Your grace," Myles finally speaks. "I must return you to the keep. You need a maseter's attention for your wounds."

Jon does not answer. Instead he peers back over the horizon. A shape has reappeared. A shape that can only be one thing. Rhaegal is coming home. He tries to stand, but cannot. Myles comes to his side and lifts him to his feet.

It's her, he thinks. She's come back for me.

But there is no rider on the dragon's back, only a figure wrapped limply in its talons. Rhaegal comes to a majestic landing, dropping a wet body that Jon ignores, hobbling to his dragon's side. He collapses onto Rhaegal's side, feeling the warmth and the scales.

"Thank you," he whispers as he collapses again. But now he finally looks back to see what the dragon had pulled from the sea. Kneeled over, gagging up salt water, Grif looks up to lock eyes with Jon. The water has soaked his hair, the blue dye running down his face. And it leaves behind a long, blue-stained white-blonde hair. Jon knows that hair. On Daenerys. And on the ghost of Rhaegar that has haunted his dreams.

Who are you?

Jon might have said it. He might have only thought it. But behind him in the city, he hears the trumpets of the Golden Company, riding out into the riots to restore order. And then the blackness comes again.


The Isle of Faces

In the dead of night, Ghost stalks fiercely through the trees with Bran on his back. After the incident, the Children had given him a wide berth. He had heard them talk amongst themselves and the Green Men. Some wanted to kill him. But he was the only of his kind, so most advocated means of binding him to their will. Either way, Bran knew it was time to leave.

The images haunt him as he rides. The stories he had loved as a boy, marred with blood and screams. The heroes who had led him so far, who he thought had given him his power, now seemed as monsters. And, above it all, there lies the great fear that he is wrong. That he has failed. Who is he to question the Children of the Forest? As the moon sparkling on the lake appears before them, tears come.

And then he sees the Green Men waiting for him.

"This is your home now, Raven," Howland Reed stands broadly in his path. "This island is your throne. And from here we will defend Westeros. And when the ashes fall, Westeros will once again be ruled by its true power."

"And how many lives must be sacrificed this time, Lord Reed?" Bran asks. "I will not hide away and let men suffer to keep myself safe."

"You could die! You are our last hope!"

"Then I will die with my people. I may be their hope. But their vision is a false dream. I have a different dream. And I will not be a slave to yours."

The men march closer. Theon draws his sword.

"Meera!" Howland barks. "Return him."

But Meera buries her frogspear at her father's feet.

"Bran is right. You told me the Raven was to defend humanity. You told me the children wanted to defend humanity. That's what I choose."

Furious, Howland lunges forward. But Ghost is quicker, biting down hard on the crannogman's arm and tossing him aside. In terror, the other guards back aside. Ghost strides on towards the boat, with Meera and Theon following.

"You're making a mistake," Howland gasps. "You'll all die!" But they walk on.

As they reach the water's edge, Bran takes a final look back, wiping the tears from his eyes. The moon seems to dance on the treetops. The time has come to make the choice.

"Let's go," he declares. "It is time to fly."