Melisandre had known that there was something wrong with him as soon as she had returned to their room. It turned out that he wasn't able to hide anything from her and he didn't know how he truly felt about that. She had pestered Bruda for a while, stating that it wasn't the first time recently that something had been 'off' about him. He passed it off as simply feeling under the weather as he clambered into bed that night, quickly pretending to fall asleep. He felt guilty as he lay there with her warm body pressed to his, keeping more secrets from her. But he had to protect Isabella, no matter how she had returned back to the land of the living, and he had a foreboding sense that Ustrina wasn't a woman to make idle threats. So, for the foreseeable future, he was vowed to secrecy against his own will, unlike the silence he'd been keeping for fear of ridicule.

The knowledge of why the dreams had started and who the phantom was didn't make it any easier to sleep. He was no longer haunted by his past; it was the present that was now eating away at him. Why had he been so easily swayed by this tempting woman? Maybe she was telling the truth in that she was inside his head and had been for many years but that was a dark conclusion to come to. It made him question every decision, every action he had made, wondering if he had ever been doing anything of his own volition. How long had she been manipulating his every move, if she had been? Was it his own fault? He'd grown to think that he was untouchable to an extent, infallible. A man who could cheat death if he really wanted too. But now someone else who could do the same had reared their head, a young woman who appeared to be able to match, and even better, his own powers. He'd taken a risk in allowing her to stay in the Keep, even if Daenerys had agreed, again proving two points he didn't want to think about. Ustrina was right in saying that the queen listened to him, which made her threats even more imposing. And he was now a liability to the ruler, as had been shown with her close call with death, everyone seemingly better off if he was far away from the capital.

No. That wasn't true. At the moment, he was the only one who knew of Ustrina's plan. He couldn't do much to stop her in fear of losing Isabella. Many would claim he was nothing more than a puppet tied in strings. But he was also the only one who had the power to challenge her, maybe make her change her mind before it was too late. He had to stall her, prevent her from doing anything rash. He may have made a promise to her but his allegiances would always lie with Daenerys primarily. When the time came, he would do all he could to protect her and hope that she understood his deep regret at what he'd done. He wasn't looking forward to that moment.

It just so happened that the next morning brought another of his personal meetings with the woman he was betraying. It was pretty much the last thing he wanted to do but knew that cancelling it at the last minute would only raise more questions and cause more trouble than he needed. He kissed Melisandre on the lips as he slowly rose out of bed, a silent thank you for how understanding she was being. Her eyes were still closed but her mouth had curved into a small, content smile. Again, that sense of guilt rose up into her chest. How would she react when she found out he was helping his wife, the one who had died centuries ago? Not well, that was clear. He sighed as he left the room, closing his eyes for a short moment.

Daenerys was up and ready when he arrived in her chambers, as Bruda had expected. He knew she enjoyed these moments together, possibly even more than him. She was wearing a blue dress, very similar to the one she had often worn in Meereen. It brought up pleasant memories of when he'd first met her despite how that ended with him sleeping within a cell. How far they'd come. He sometimes couldn't comprehend how magnificent a woman she was, so strong, so resilient. How lucky he was to work for her, which made him feel even worse for not telling her straight away about the threat she was facing. He contemplated revealing it all, believing that he could do it without Ustrina finding out. But was it worth the risk? She said herself that she wasn't intending to do anything yet so surely there was no need to worry Daenerys straight away. She couldn't do anything to stop it regardless of when she found out.

She smiled at him as he entered, gesturing to the chair in the corner. "It's another pleasant morning. How are you feeling today?"

"As chipper as always, your Grace," he lied, the first of many, he imagined.

She arched her eyebrow at him, perching herself on the arm of the sofa. "You're not normally so formal with me. Are you sure you're alright? I'm not complaining, it's just...unusual."

"I'm fine. Truly. A bit tired, is all. It is early in the morning. You know you could hold these meetings at another time?"

She continued to stare at him. "Tired? You've been saying that a lot."

"Have I?"

"Melisandre is worried about you, you know. She came to me the other night, asking to see if I'd have any more success in getting you to open up."

His heart broke at that, realising how much hardship he was putting her through. "I'll tell you the same as I've said to her - there is no need to worry."

"You're a silly old man. We will always worry about you, no matter what." Her voice came out stronger than she'd anticipated. Daenerys gazed at him closely, trying to pick up on the small details of his expression. He was doing well to keep his eyes locked with hers. "You're keeping something from us. I thought we'd talked about this. How…"

"How nothing good comes from me keeping secrets from you, even if I feel that it'll protect you," Bruda finished with a small, sad smile.

"Precisely. So...have you got something to tell me?" She was pleading with him, he could see that in her eyes. She was begging him to confide in her. But all he could see was Isabella's face. She was screaming in agony as Ustrina stood over her body, red pulses flashing around it. He wouldn't allow that to happen.

He set his lips into a stern line. "No."

Daenerys' smile fell instantly, her expression quickly turning cold. She stood up from her perching position, walking towards the table. "Then I guess we'd best get this meeting done as fast as possible."

"Daenerys…"

"What?" she responded sharply.

"If there was something that I was hiding, I would tell you if I could."

"But you can't," she reasoned. Bruda didn't nod or shake his head. He was already saying too much. "Bruda, is someone threatening you? Are you in danger? Am I in danger? Because, if so, then you really need to tell me."

He hesitated. "Not at the moment."

"But it's a possibility." It wasn't a question. It didn't need to be. She could tell from the way he was acting.

"It could be."

"I trust you," she said sincerely. "But you don't have to do everything on your own. Me being here right now proves that."

"I know. But this is one thing I have to do alone. For now. There'll come a point when I'll change my mind."

"I hope so." She hid her face away from him as she looked at the papers stacked on the desk; he was pretty sure that she was wiping away a few tears. That infernal moral voice in his head was urging him to just tell her but he resisted. Daenerys tried to hide her pain as she looked back, forcing herself to smile. "Fine then. Any word from the North yet? It's been a while. Far too long actually."

He was thankful that she'd changed the subject. He didn't think he could hold on for much longer. He stood up, knowing that moving around would keep him distracted. "No. Varys believes that the Northern houses we sent ravens to also received messages from Winterfell, probably carrying similar sentiments. Asking for their support, pledges of protection."

"Shouldn't we be worried that we haven't got any response from them then?"

"Not yet. We think Lady Stark has got the same lack of correspondence. It seems that they're all stalling. They've just been through a war. They don't want to be dragged into the middle of another one straight away."

"Do you think that that's what Jon Snow is doing?"

"It's a possibility. But, from what I know of him, he isn't one to shy away from a battle."

"He's also someone who doesn't want to disappoint people. We've put him in an impossible position, pitting myself against his sister."

"To speak candidly, it's not an impossible decision. If I was in his position, I'd undoubtedly pick you since the odds are stacked heavily in your favour."

"Family does strange things to people. Just look at Jorah. His whole demeanour changes when his family are brought up in conversation."

Bruda was about to respond when a glint of light caught his eye. With a confused look, he stepped over to the offending item, spotting a bell on the desk just behind Daenerys. The early morning sun was reflecting off of its metal shine. He picked it up and examined it, not noticing Daenerys' face go pale when she realised what he'd found.

"What's this?" he wondered as he scrutinised it.

"I...don't really know. I just found it here the other night. It just...appeared." She neglected to tell him about the strange voice she had heard before finding the offending item.

He looked at her with a piercing gaze. "And you kept it?"

"I recognise it. But I don't know where from. Where would I have seen a bell?"

"Lots of places." He spun it around his fingers, feeling something strange about it. "Tell me, have you been having any strange dreams recently?"

She frowned. "Not that I know of."

"Will you tell me if you do?"

"Why?"

"Because I have the sense that something is happening around here and I want to be ready for when it does."

Tyrion was plowing on ahead with his day's work as the afternoon wore on, a goblet of wine set aside from his stack of his papers (he truly needed the fruity concoction if he was to be able to properly concentrate). He was writing the same message as he had done all morning, making sure to change the name of who it was for every time. Daenerys had asked him to write letters to every major house in the Realm and every house in the North, which was no easy task when the repetition of it all became so unbearably boring. It became even more difficult since this was the second time he'd done it, being instructed to send ravens once a week until they got a response. Thankfully, most of the larger families that lived relatively close to King's Landing had immediately written back, pledging their undying support and unwavering loyalty, lightening his workload considerably in the process. At least he didn't have to deal with the ravens. All they did was shit everywhere in the room, on every book and shelf they could find, and caw for food until they either got some or were strangled for being so annoying. He didn't know how Grandmaester Marywn coped, the man in charge of training and sending the ravens, with Varys suggesting who were the best people to send them too. The Spider had a knack of knowing who was most likely to go a deathly pale white when they saw the emblem of the Crown imprinted on the wax seal.

Something in the overall atmosphere had changed recently. As more letters returned, with more people vowing to remain on the Queen's side if the North were foolish enough to declare a pointless war, the more Daenerys became fixated on those who hadn't yet made such promises. Every council meeting would begin with the same question, the same hope that the families of the North had chosen the smartest course of action. When the same response came, that still no word had come back, she would close herself off. Tyrion could easily tell that she spent that time worrying about the future, which surprised him. She had shown herself to be a strong woman in the past, hardly ever showing any weakness. Something had shaken her resolve, he reasoned, but he couldn't know what. Maybe, because she had reached her goal of winning the throne, she was now fearful that someone would take it away.

With the queen going through her own personal turmoil, that also visibly affected Jorah Mormont. Instead of suggesting advice of what they should do if the worst was to happen, he spent most of his time in the meetings constantly glancing at his love, making sure she was okay. Tyrion understood that it was a reasonable reaction to the situation - the old Bear had always been preoccupied with keeping his khaleesi safe - but he was being proven right once again. Having someone so close to you as your advisor usually meant that they ended up getting distracted at the worst of times. Even Bruda, so normally talkative and exuberant, was more dour and grumpy that usual, giving no explanation. When people spoke, he would sigh or quickly and succinctly tell them why their idea would never work. But he never came up with his own plans (Tyrion had seen the warlock force himself into conversations that didn't concern him regularly so a sudden change in his demeanour was always going to be noticeable), as if the old man knew that whatever they did would be futile. If that was the case, the Hand of the Queen rightly deserved to know why they couldn't solve this issue.

What Tyrion needed most was a distraction. A distraction from his work and a distraction from the sombre atmosphere that was spreading throughout the Red Keep. Luckily, as if she were an angel, Missandei appeared at the open door, holding a tray. Tyrion looked out the window in shock, seeing the sky going a fiery red. The day had gone far too quickly, which seemed to happen when he locked himself away alone in his chambers. He put down his quill and beckoned her in with a smile, shifting some paper off from a stool so that she could sit down once she had done with the tray. There was another cup of wine with a jug (he was definitely not complaining) and a hot meal that he hadn't known how desperately he needed. She seemed hesitant to stay, which probably had something to do with the other tasks she had to do.

"Come on, sit down. Stay a while," he urged pleasantly, wanting the company before he started talking to himself and finally giving into his madness. "Everyone else can wait for their meals. I'll shut the door on you if I have to." He promptly realised how that sounded, judging from her widened eyes and the nervous energy she was giving off. "That...sounded weirder than I expected. I apologise."

"I've come to expect nothing less from you, Lord Tyrion," she said, a small smile on her face. He was happy that she did sit down eventually although her body language told him she was ready to flee at a moment's notice.

"How many times have I had to ask you to just call me Tyrion?"

"Khaleesi has asked me even more to call her by her name and yet I still refuse."

"But I'm less important than her. And much less respectable." He winked as he finished her sentence, making her blush. He enjoyed how easy it was.

"You don't have to tell me that. I already have seen enough evidence to prove your statement," she shot back, playing the game they always played when they got to be alone. She didn't know why she was finding more excuses to make that happen; she didn't especially want to know.

"And yet you sat down. What does that say about you?" He passed her the cup she'd given him, choosing to use the one he already had.

"That I sometimes make poor choices?"

"No wonder we get along so well then," Tyrion quipped. She smiled again, her eyes drifting to the floor as she took a sip of the wine. He remembered a time when she would have protested about drinking, especially without Daenerys' permission. How times had changed, how much progress they had made. "I see that our Queen still has you serving people other than herself." That had only started recently, coinciding with the change in her mood.

"Only her closest advisors," she answered, knowing that he'd enjoy the compliment. She could practically see his ego swell at her words. "With the conflict not yet resolved, she wants those she cares about to be looked after by someone she can trust." Even if that meant she was incredibly busy and shouldn't be wasting this time by talking to Tyrion.

"Would you say that she's becoming more paranoid?"

"I mean...she has a right to be. Being the ruler of seven kingdoms and one threatening to go against her reign. How many more would see it as an opportunity to do the same?"

"So that's a yes."

"It's understandable. Is it a bad thing for her to be concerned?"

"Not at all. Paranoia, to a certain extent, is an essential quality of any good ruler. It's better to be aware of the problems facing you, rather than turning a blind eye because the truth is too scary."

"Then what is your problem?" She knew that she was speaking far too openly towards him. That was down to the drink, she kept telling herself as she put the cup down, definitely not because of their growing relationship...friendship, she amended.

"If a ruler becomes too paranoid, then they make hasty decisions. They close themselves off, they try to do anything to protect themselves. You only have to look at the previous Targaryen ruler before her to know how drastically bad that can end up." He held up a hand before Missandei could defend her queen. "I know that she is not like her father. But it is the wisest approach to make sure she doesn't fall into the same pitfalls before she inevitably does. I want her to be safe, that's all."

"You want me to keep an eye on her. To ascertain how she's feeling."

"Exactly. How she acts, whether she's eating, if she's meeting people like she normally does. If anything changes, I need you to tell me."

Missandei looked offended. "I won't betray her like that. She confides in me. I couldn't, in good conscience, go behind her back.

Tyrion clenched his fist and bit his lip. "It's...not going behind her back. I don't want you to tell me any of her secrets. But if anything troubling happens, I'm one of the few people who can help her. She chose me as her Hand for a reason."

She was at least thinking about it now, which eased his concerns. "If anyone has changed recently, it's Bruda."

Tyrion sat up, his interest piqued. "What do you mean?"

"When I've delivered his meals on the few times I've been given that task, he sometimes hardly notices that I'm there. He'll be lost in thought or muttering to himself."

"The warlock has always been a...peculiar man. It's in his nature to be slightly off putting at times."

"But he always seemed happy. And he would usually have a conversation with me, if only to be polite. I hear people talk about him roamin the corridors, going into abandoned rooms. And that woman he let into the Keep...hardly anyone knows who she is. What if..."

"You can't think that he's plotting anything. He literally died for Daenerys. He's the last person I'd suspect of betraying her."

"You dismissed him from the Keep. You obviously felt that he was a threat of some sort. And then he returns with that strange woman. I'm just making you aware, like you asked me."

"I only thought he was a threat because of how much he cared about Daenerys."

"And what if he cared about someone just as much? His power...an entire army wouldn't be able to stop him if he turned against us."

"Has he given you a proper reason for believing this."

"No," she answered honestly. "But I care about him and I care about my khaleesi. If something is wrong with him, then someone needs to do something about it. Before something 'drastically bad' happens."

Sansa was adamant that people were conspiring against her. Not just those who fought for the Crown, which was an obvious turn of events since she'd practically burnt that bridge after her disastrous visit. No, what worried her was that the families who were supposed to be loyal to her, the ones that had cowered under the protection of House Stark for centuries, were trying to get away with cutting ties with her. She had no fundamental proof that this was the case, no letters of active defiance, no sign of gathering armies nearby. But, with each morning that broke and each night that settled, and no pledges of support to her cause, she became certain that silence meant betrayal. Baelish would constantly advise her to stay calm and keep her wits about her, knowing that rash decisions would likely mean a war would never happen. She was growing more annoyed with him. All he could see her as was a little girl, the one who had paraded around the Red Keep looking for attention and compliments about her beauty. The one who had been vain and stupid and so very blind to the cruelty the world had to offer. Why couldn't he see how much she had changed? That girl would never have been able to sit where she sat and lead a Realm on her own. She had no guidance, no family members to tell her what to do. She may have had a small council but she was still utterly and entirely alone. That's why she had wanted Jon to stand by her side. That's why she was so heartbroken and distraught over the fact that he had chosen not to. It was her plan to make her emotions plain and simple in the next letter she wrote to him.

Lyanna Mormont tried to claim that it was perfectly natural for people to be taking their time with getting back to her. Although her family was strong and devout in their support of the Starks, she reasoned that others were more hesitant when it came to choosing a side. After all, for a small family, one wrong move could signal the end of their bloodline, removing any chance of them ever growing to the heights they desired. Sansa saw that as a contradictive mindset, wondering how someone could strive for strength and yet be frightened of how to actually get it. Lyanna had reminded her that, throughout the course of the political games over the years, no matter who was fighting who, there were always people who decided to wait until the very last second before they made their choice. That way, they had a greater chance of surviving by being on the side of the apparent winner, when all other possibilities were taken out of the equation. Baelish remarked how the Freys had been experts at that technique, focusing on the Late Walder Frey. Sansa had been angered by that, retorting with the fact that he now lay in ashes because he'd never chosen a side permanently. His nickname now had two meanings that could be used.

Sansa didn't want that to happen to the families she was trying to win over just because they were scared of losing. During the war, she had seen Northmen believe that they were only ever going to lose against the might of the White Walkers yet they continued to fight regardless of their impending doom. Why had that mindset left them when she really needed that spirit? Littlefinger claimed that people were braver in war so that they could earn a slice of honour, a part of a future story, recounting how they stood up against the greater, more formidable foe. Sansa saw that as a rather cynical viewpoint but she understood what he was trying to say. She was the one standing up to this 'formidable foe' and the only guaranteed way to get people to be on her side and to be brave was to start the war. She would have to push people, that was for sure. They would be thankful that she did in the end.

Sansa stood overlooking the courtyard, a thick black cloak wrapped around her shoulders to fight off the typical Northern cold. She watched as people pushed carts and carried boxes, as soldiers trained and fought one another, as women worried over their children, preventing them from running around too much. Most of the children looked wild and untamed, much like her sister Arya. How she could have done with that unquestionable defiance nowadays. Sometimes, she wondered what life would have been like if she had been more like her youngest sibling. She doubted it would have been much different; her spirit had always been calmer and better hidden than Arya's had been, which was the reason why she was still living. It would be the reason why she won against Daenerys, because people underestimated her.

She didn't notice that Petyr Baelish had approached her on the balcony. She was becoming used to the far too often occasions when he tried to get her alone but, thankfully, Maester Capaldi was also with him this time, standing just behind him. The Maester, gaunt as he usually was, had a stern expression on his face, which told her that something had happened. She hoped that it would be some good news - she was pretty sure that he was constantly scowling so she couldn't ascertain how positive it was going to be judging from his facial expression alone.

"I'm glad to have found you, my Lady," Baelish said in greeting. The Maester simply nodded his head. He was one of the few around here who didn't care for formalities, which was a surprise coming from someone of the Citadel.

"It feels that you always know where I am, Lord Baelish." She didn't think she meant it as anything close to a compliment. She was still usually nervous around him.

"It's my job."

"I wasn't aware that I had given you one," Sansa shot back.

Baelish bowed his head with a smirk. "Maybe I'm being a bit too presumptuous. I just like to see myself as your closest advisor."

"We all like to have our fantasies."

He scowled at that but (wisely) chose not to say anything. Instead, he turned to the older man by his side, who Sansa noticed was holding two books. She then remembered the task she had ordered him to complete, researching in their family library to find ways of convincing Jon to join her side. She was suddenly optimistic that they'd found something. Baelish took the books out of his grasp and then beckoned him away. Capaldi frowned, biting his lip at the rudeness, before bowing his head only to Sansa and grumpily walking away.

"You asked us to find anything that could have been of use to you," Littlefinger explained. "The Maester went on and on about old family histories and books about long forgotten trade deals, so much so that I thought he'd never end. But then he told me of these two books that he hardly remembers coming across before."

Sansa took them, seeing no sign of dust on either of them. She had hardly spent any time in the library (the gods forbid if a lady was ever a bookworm) but she knew that it was an old and musty place. "They're new."

"Precisely why he was confused. One shouldn't even be here, an old diary of a Grandmaester, dead many years now. Somehow, it got here from the Citadel of Old Town. He doesn't know how. But that wasn't even the most confusing and intriguing discovery. The other book isn't a published tome. Handwritten fairly recently. And it's addressed to you."

Sansa went pale. "Who wrote this book?" For some reason, her voice was shaking.

"Your brother. Bran Stark."

She could have dropped it but knew that she had to remain composed. "This could have waited until we were in private quarters. People shouldn't know about this."

"People don't care about books. It's a major flaw in the public psyche. But you...you should care about what's written inside of it."

"Have you read it already?" She was slightly (and rightly) offended. If it was for her eyes, one of the last people she wanted to see it was Petyr Baelish.

"I wouldn't dare," he replied innocently. She glared at him with as much force as she could muster. "Fine. Only the first page. The introduction."

Sansa opened to the page in question. It was only a small passage but it was definitely her brother's handwriting.

I fear that my time is running out. Sister, we naturally drifted apart. You may not even see me as your brother anymore with what we've been through. You may not understand my powers or what I can do with them. I used to be able to see the future so clearly, I saw a better world. But something else came, a strong force that changed and obscured what I could see. A being that I couldn't control, who took fate into their own hands. I fear that they will not understand my purpose in this realm and react in a drastic fashion. I just don't know when this will happen, if it ever will. I have taken the precaution of writing down everything I have seen in my visions, just in case the worst was to happen to me. I leave it up to you to read them. I know Jon will not accept what I have to say but you may be able to convince him. There are secrets in here that will change the world you live in. Use them as I would: carefully.

Sansa skimmed through the rest of the pages quickly, her eyes widening with every word she read. She walked away from Baelish, who followed her closely, trying to see the words on the pages. Eventually, she looked at him and spoke with a shaky voice.

"I need to write to Jon."