"We need to move now."

"If we strike for King's Landing, we leave our flank open to attack, Princess. Highgarden could yet break the siege and we know that reinforcements are marching from Casterly Rock."

"You said yourself we can't afford a long siege, and if we stay we will still be trapped between Highgarden's walls and the Lannister press."

"If we go any retreat back into Dorne will be cut off."

"It isn't my intention to retreat."

"Daenerys-"

"What would you have me do? Sit here until the snows come waiting for my brother? Our supplies will run out long before he arrives, which is exactly what the Tyrells and Lannisters are counting on. King's Landing is weak, a boy-king sits the throne, and we have had word of uprisings."

"Rumours, with no way of accounting for their validity. The wreckage of Stannis Baratheon's fleet still lies at the bottom of Shipbreaker Bay, does that seem like the work of the weak to you? Rhaegar will come."

"And if he does not?"

"He will."

Any further argument was cut short by a screech Arthur knew could only come from one of the dragons, followed by the panicked shouts of men. Sweeping aside the canvas flap he stepped out into the cool night air, his hand already closed around the hilt of the sword Daenerys had gifted him in Dorne.

All around the tent men were scrambling for either cover or weapons. A wild glow illuminated the otherwise dark camp and it was in that direction Arthur moved. Pushing through the commotion, he could hear an inhuman keening the closer he came to the dancing light, and the press of bodies opened up before him.

In the enormous shadow of Rhaegal's bulk a torch was twisting and flailing, lurching to and fro madly, and it was from this the wailing originated. Arthur's gut clenched at the realization of what he was seeing.

Doran's son had been fascinated with the dragons from the first time he'd lain his dark eyes on them, much to Arthur's chagrin. Daenerys had been sweet enough while they'd yet been in Sunspear, but the moment they'd set sail she'd turned on the hapless Dornish Prince an uncaring aloofness that had Arthur chafing not to reproach her. But whatever he might have said would have only fueled the spiteful Targaryen Princess to show Quentyn even less interest. Arthur was well aware she still had not forgiven him for proposing the marriage pact as a means of gaining Dorne's support in winning back the Iron throne, despite naming him her captain. It had been a deliberate and calculated compromise on her part, and while he had the command of their force in title, he knew that it was with their Mother of Dragons the Unsullied and Freedmen's allegiance really lay. And Daenerys took pleasure in questioning his orders and decisions at most every opportunity. His authority counted for nothing, but at least he understood this.

While Daenerys preserved complete control over her army, it was the dragons with whom she was losing power over and yet refused to admit. The beasts were growing at an alarming rate with the plentiful and unrestricted prey they now enjoyed access to. The problem lay in that Rhaegal, Viserion, and Drogon did not always differentiate between the enemy and the men fighting under their mistress. They had acquired a taste for human flesh, and the livery which covered it was of little and less concern to a dragon. The more they fed, the more they grew. And the more they grew, the more they hungered. The tenuous hold Daenerys had maintained during their voyage across the Narrow Sea and while in Dorne was fading fast.

"Rhaegal!"

The cry was enough to jerk Arthur from his stunned paralysis.

"Archers!" The command was hoarsely given, his voice nearly failing. He glimpsed the horrified expressions of the men in the flashing light as it wheeled before them, shocked into the same inaction he had been. Archibald Yronwood and Gerris Drinkwater were among them. "Archers! Take aim!"

This time at least some of those who had not run for shelter in the presence of the dragon's malice stirred, raising weapons as though in a daze.

"No! Stop!" Daenerys was screaming as she flew into Arthur's line of sight, throwing herself between Rhaegal and the gathered men.

Behind her Quentyn Martell's morbid capering had ceased and his last howl died on lips that had long since melted away. Crumpling to the ground, his body twitched, and the flames which had consumed him began to gutter out.

Arthur felt bile rise in his throat. "Loose!"

Bowstrings thrummed all around him. For a moment the sound of both Daenerys' and Rhaegal's shrieks blended together.

Arthur could see the glint of the arrows as they arched through the air and he launched himself forward, knocking the Targaryen Princess to the ground with such force that it took his breath away.

Rhaegal spread his leathery wings in a rush, sending up a fine spray of sand as he lifted from the ground.

"Again!" Arthur urged frantically. Beneath him Daenerys was struggling like something rabid, and her nails scored his cheek, narrowly missing an eye. Rolling back onto his heels, he captured her wrists and hauled them both to their feet as another volley of arrows streaked toward the emerald scaled dragon.

"Rhaegal, dracarys!" Daenerys cried out before Arthur could clamp a hand over her mouth.

Cursing, he shoved her toward a dray still laden with supplies. Almost before they'd ducked behind the cart a blast of heat like nothing Arthur had ever felt before seared past his shoulder and the night sky brightened as though with the coming of the dawn. A chorus of death cries went up, forcing him to have to shout into Daenerys' face to be heard despite their proximity.

"Stop this madness before you kill us all!"

It was only by sheer will that Arthur did not shudder at the blaze he saw burning behind her lavender stare. No trace of Rhaegar was reflected there, only Aerys.

Lyanna was half delirious with pain and hunger. Her ankle was a swollen mass which could no longer bear her weight, hanging uselessly in the stirrup for the most part as she rode. She could not feel her toes, but every other muscle in her body was throbbing from the long hours spent in the saddle and nights spent curled up on the cold, hard ground. She didn't dare traverse the Kingsroad, instead giving it a wide berth and keeping to the coarse brush she had been so loath to tackle when attempting to escape Bolton. It had been the cause of her failure then, but was now her sanctuary. The going was far slower and brutal on her poor mount, but she could not afford a run-in with the bandits which now held free reign over the thoroughfare. It was no longer safe for any to travel without the protection of an army at their back.

Shivering, Lyanna lurched forward when her horse stumbled, barely able to right the animal. It would only be a few days more before the beast would be able to carry her no further, weak as it was with malnourishment. What little grazing there was, was tough and offered no nutritional value and she had been pushing hard, asking too much of the horse every day. But she had to get to Greywater Watch, and if her mount died before she reached the cranogmen, then she would in all likelihood perish right along with it. As much as it pained her to do so, she had no choice but to run the animal into the ground.

Suddenly pricking its ears in a show of more livelihood than it had displayed in days, the horse froze and snorted uneasily. Lyanna listened, but she could not hear whatever had spooked her mount and tried to urge it on, an attempt which bore fruitless results. Her breath was fogging around her as she drove her good heel into the animal's side in frustration.

"We do not have time for this," she grated.

Starting, the horse jolted back and Lyanna hit the ground with a yelp as her ankle was jarred badly. A crashing through the scrub told her, her mount was gone and she lay for a few moments in silence with despair overwhelming her.

When she finally pushed herself up to sit it was to take in a pair of luminous golden eyes which watched her balefully from the darkness. Lyanna's breath caught, and in the time it took her to blink the creature was gone. She remained still for several achingly long seconds before rising the rest of the way to her unsteady feet. Nothing stirred and the only sound she heard was her own ragged breathing.

Turning a slow circle, Lyanna attempted to get her bearings while not putting weight on her injured foot. Her fingers felt numbly for the maps tucked into her belt and she drew first one and then the other out, unravelling the yellowed vellum and studying them with growing despondency. Greywater Watch, if she was lucky, was yet a few good day's ride north, perhaps even a week away, and much longer by foot.

Somewhere in the distance the horse gave a bloodcurdling squeal and the maps drifted from Lyanna's grasp as she fumbled instead for the dagger. She could hardly see for the mist puffing from her mouth with every exhale and swallowed, willing her hands to stop shaking.

A branch snapped, and she whirled to meet the golden stare again, twisting her ankle in the process and issuing a hiss at the answering pang which shot up her leg. Through the haze of pain Lyanna saw the beast step out of the shadows. Moonlight touched its thick gray coat and glistened off the stark white fangs revealed as it drew its thin lips back into a snarl.

She had never seen a direwolf before, but she had believed she heard them howling in the forest outside Winterfell as a child. Old Nan's tales had commonly featured the creatures, though it was commonly believed by the Northerners that they'd been hunted to extinction, at least south of the Wall. Perhaps they had been, but Lyanna had no doubt that she faced one now. It was more than twice the size of any wolf pelt she'd ever witnessed hung above a hearth as a trophy.

Sinking down onto her knees, she let the short blade tumble from her freezing fingers.

The night erupted into a chilling melody of mournful howls and Lyanna closed her eyes.