Catelyn
Word of Robb's plans spread like wildfire. Despite bowing to him that night in the hall, Hugo Wull was nowhere to be found when morning came. He and his clansmen had deserted in the night. They were the first but not the last. Hundreds more left during the two days Robb allowed his army to rest in the town of Emond's Field. No other lords left. Perhaps they felt their oaths held them too closely or else believed that they would find no welcome elsewhere in the North. The same could not be said for the common soldiers who slowly began to desert rather than fight side by side with hated wildlings. Or perhaps they feared to face the Others in battle. That was something Catelyn, despite everything, couldn't fault the men for fearing. Their king and lords were asking them to fight the monsters of a thousand tales and stories spoken in the darkest hours of the night.
All this should have left Robb worried, angry, or stressed. Catelyn knew the toll desertion could have on a commander, how it could place and water the seed of doubt and despair. But it all seemed to wash away from him like water off of a stone. Catelyn's son showed almost no care for the deserters. Instead, he seemed eerily calm and confident, or at least that's how he appeared to Catelyn's mind.
"Perhaps he's keeping a strong face?" Catelyn asked herself as she sipped from a bowl of soup. "Perhaps it's all to keep the rest strong?" She stopped for a moment and looked askance to Septa Gisella. The woman who'd cared for her since her arrival at Riverrun so long ago. "I'm talking to myself like a madwoman."
"Oh no, my queen. Please don't say such things," the young septa said.
"Sometimes, I think I am mad," Catelyn said. "So few people speak to me now, just you and Robb mostly. Oh, the rest are respectful when they see me but," Catelyn shook her head. "Sometimes, it's like their eyes pass over me like I'm just a piece of furniture."
"Please, my queen," Gisella said.
Catelyn smiled slightly and then frowned. "I should apologize to you, Gisella. I haven't been as kind to you as I should have been. You've been so good to me."
"Thank you, my queen," the septa blushed. "I think," she said after a second of hesitation. "I think King Robb is being very brave. To face the Others," the girl shook her head slightly. "It hardly seems real," she said. "Like the old stories come alive."
Catelyn quietly hummed her agreement and took another sip of soup.
"Still," Septa Gisella continued. "They were defeated once, weren't they? The Last Hero and all his companions did so. Surely mankind can drive them back again, with Faith in the Seven to strengthen our hearts."
Unless the Others learned from their mistakes, the thought erupted to the forefront of Catelyn's mind, unless they waited until they were ready. There was no Wall last time, and now they've shattered the greatest defence of the living. Or maybe they've tried before. Catelyn's worries expanded as her memory recalled Old Nan telling the story of the Night's King and his icy white-skinned bride. Just a frightful tale, she'd thought at the time. Or perhaps just a test of the living's defences. Suddenly sick, Catelyn put her spoon down and allowed it to sink to the bottom of the bowl.
"Are you done with your soup?" Gisella asked. "I'll take it away, my queen."
"Yes," Catelyn replied. "Thank you. I find myself not as hungry as I used to be. All for the best, perhaps I'm not as active as I once was."
Septa Gisella took Catelyn's bowl and spoon and started to leave.
"Gisella," Catelyn called. "Could you please ask my son to come to me?"
"Of course, my queen."
The young septa took Catelyn's dishes away and left to find Robb. Catelyn was left alone with her thoughts and her fears.
Robb didn't come to her for many hours. Night had long since fallen, and the north wind was howling. Catelyn had retired from her chair to her bed with Septa Gisella's help.
Catelyn smiled slightly when he entered the room, a candle flickering in his hand. "Robb," she said warmly. "How did the day go?"
Robb sat down in Catelyn's chair. "More deserters," he said and set the candle down on the table.
They sat in silence for a minute before Catelyn broke it. "The wildlings have reaved and raided the North for as long as men remember. They've done so for as long as the Ironmen have, if not longer. Thousands of years of hate cannot be erased with a single speech no matter how well spoken."
"I know," Robb said. "I only wish they could see as clearly as I do now."
"What do you mean?"
"It's all… clear now what will happen."
"You can't know that will happen," Catelyn said, worry creeping into her voice.
"I have seen it," Robb said. "It was shown to me. The Old Gods showed me what is coming. Some of it, at least."
"What did you see?"
"The living will join at Winterfell, and the battle will be fought."
"And won?"
Robb shrugged. "I will do as the Gods demand."
"Robb, please," Catelyn pleaded. "I cannot watch you go to your death."
"You won't," he said. "My death will not come so soon."
"You're frightening me," Catelyn said. His talk of visions and the Old Gods reminded her of the maddest wandering Septons and their flocks of followers.
"I'm sorry," Robb said.
"What happened in the Godswood?"
Robb paused, hesitant to answer such a direct question. "I…" He began. "I was shown, shown many things," he took her hand. "Trust me, mother, trust me now more than ever."
Catelyn squeezed Robb's hand. "Do you remember the Night's King?"
"One of Old Nan's stories," Robb said wistfully and sadly. "Bran loves the scary ones."
"Yes, he did," Catelyn agreed. "The Night King's bride, icy and pale, was she an Other?" Catelyn asked.
"Does it matter?" Robb asked in turn.
"I worry that," she sighed, her worries heavy on her heart. "That the Others attack now because they are ready and we, you, are not that they've been watching and waiting. Was the Night's King, his story at least, a memory of an old battle?"
"I think no man would start a war without thinking they're ready. I think the Others would be the same," Robb looked away, staring at the candle's flickering flame for a long minute. "I'm going to send you back to White Harbour," Robb said quietly.
"What?" Catelyn asked, surprised by the sudden shift of the conversation.
"You'll be safe in White Harbour," he said.
"No,' Catelyn said at once. "Don't leave me. You're the only child left to me."
Robb shook his head. "I'm not."
"Theon slew bran and Rickon," Catelyn said with tears in her eyes. "The Lannisters took Sansa, and there has been no word of her since. Only Arya lives, and she is in King's Landing now, in Stannis' power."
Robb took her hands in his only hand, his strong fingers wrapped around hers. "Arya will need you. You will be reunited eventually."
"Did the Old Gods show you that too?"
"No, but I know it's true."
Catelyn sighed sadly. "Please," she said. "Don't make me beg, don't send me away from you."
Robb took her hand in his. "Mother, I am begging you," he left his chair and knelt on the ground beside her bed. "Do as I ask and return to White Harbour. Please," his eyes were clear, his voice pure, and his tone earnest. "Please," he begged.
"Why?" Catelyn asked.
Robb closed his eyes. "I am asking you, mother, don't make me command you."
Catelyn looked into her son's blue eyes, they were as hard as ice, and she knew she couldn't convince him to change his course. She nodded. "Alight," she relented.
Robb visibly relaxed. "Thank you," he said. "I will let you sleep."
Catelyn squeezed Robb's hand slightly as it slipped through her fingers. Robb stood and departed, leaving Catelyn in darkness as his candle left the room.
Catelyn's departure was delayed. During the night, a blizzard came screaming out of the north. Fierce enough to make even hardened old Mountain Clansmen shudder and seek shelter. It forced the whole army to take refuge inside the halls and houses of Emond's Field. A dozen men to a room or more and animals beside that. The longhall smelt of sweat and smoke and animals as hundreds crowded inside.
But the storm did eventually pass. Catelyn finally left a few days later than intended and didn't depart alone. A guard of twenty Manderly men-at-arms and led by Ser Marten Harwick would accompany her. Master Beron of Emond's Field led his people as well. The whole of Emond's Field had packed their things and loaded them onto wagons, carts, or their own backs.
News of wildlings and Others had spread like wildfire among the townsfolk. Those that stayed were mostly old men who kept nothing for themselves. They said they'd hunt for all their food. Catelyn had long heard tales of the old Northman going hunting in the dead of winter, never to return, and now saw it with her own eyes.
Catelyn, her guards and the townsfolk following them departed early in the morning, not long after sunrise.
Scouts and outsiders by the dozen left at the same time, scattering to every direction armed with weirwood branches to show their peaceful intent. They would bring word of the invasion to every corner of the North, carrying Robb's command on letters and on their lips. Come to Winterfell if you would fight. If not, flee as far south as south goes.
Arya
Arya
They fled the Isle of Gods and made their way deeper into the city. They darted across streets and bridges and hid in alleys. They moved quickly between shadows and hiding spots. They made their way across the city of Braavos as soon as they could. They avoided the widest roads and the busiest canals, and they travelled down narrow alleys in the shadow of tall buildings and across rickety little bridges that passed over dark canals. The folk here reminded Arya of Flea Bottom, with their shabby clothes, dirty hands, and wary suspicious eyes.
Two men gave them a strange look as the girls passed by their spot in the alley, a shelter made from driftwood and old cloth tucked away in the corner of two buildings. One poked the other with his elbow and said something in Braavosi. Arya grabbed Shireen's hand and half dragged her as she rushed them out of the alley and into a busier and cleaner street. Other people passing by studiously ignored them as the girls found a spot in the shadow of a statue of a leaping dolphin.
"We need shelter," Arya said. She peeked around the corner of the stature to check if the two men had followed them.
Shireen nodded quickly. "But where? I know nothing of Braavos. How can we live here?"
"I lived in Flea Bottom after," Arya paused. "After Queen Cersei, my family. Braavos can't be worse than Flea Bottom."
"You need to cover your face," Arya told Shireen.
Shireen's hand rose to her greyscale. "They'll spot me right away," she said a little sadly. She reached down and tore at her skirts until she had a strip an arm long and two hands wide that she wrapped around her head as a makeshift scarf. "How's that?"
"You look silly," Arya said with a smile.
Shireen let her hands fall. "Let's go," she said.
Arya nodded and led them onward. They crossed the busy street and entered another alley, which lead to a second and then a third and a fourth. Their world became a maze of narrow twisting passages that saw them run along the sides of canals. A shadow detached itself from a crook where two brick walls met unevenly. A man with broken teeth, ragged clothes, and a sour look, and then another man took up a position behind them. He had a look just as rotten as the first and was missing one of his ears.
He hissed something in Braavosi, and then when they didn't react, repeated himself in the Common Tongue.
"Are you lost, little girls?" The broken toothed man asked. His accent was very thick, almost incomprehensible. He and his friend approached knives in their belts and arms and faces heavy with old scars. "Let us help you."
Arya joined Shireen in backing away but soon felt the alley wall against her back.
"It's alright little girls," Broken Teeth said. "We'll take you somewhere nice. You'll be safe and warm and fed."
"Just have to work for it," Missing Ear said and chuckled darkly as he made a motion with his hand.
"Shush!" Broken Teeth hissed to his friend.
Arya had her back against a wall, and she clutched Shireen's hand in hers. Arya wished she had Needle, wished Shireen had kept the dagger she'd stolen from Ser Osmund's belt, wished she had even just a rock to smack the Braavosi's eager and ravenous face.
"Let's see that pretty face," quick as a snake, Broken Teeth's hand snatched the makeshift scarf away from Shireen's face. He cursed in Braavosi half a second later and clutched his hand as if he'd burned it. The friend approached to see what had alarmed the Braavosi, then his face went pale, and the pair fled seconds later.
Arya's heart was pounding when she looked over to Shireen.
Shireen's clutched her cheek. "They were scared of me," she said. "Scared of my greyscale, just like that priest."
Arya shook her head. "No, he said you'd spurned his god's gift."
"He was looking at this," Shireen rubbed her greyscale. "Death was the gift he spoke of, the peace he promised. He didn't dare to touch it," Shireen was trembling and was pulling in on herself.
"We need shelter," Arya said, repeating her words from the day before and hoping to keep Shireen focussed on something other than her greyscale.
"Where?" Shireen asked. Worry made her voice tight. "We have no money and know no one."
"We'll find a way," Arya said.
They sent the night in a gutter. Arya whispered her prayer of names over and over until she fell asleep.
They woke and wandered for the rest of the next day until they reached a part of Braavos where the waters had risen over the streets. Some alleys and corners stood only a few inches above the water that laid stagnantly over the slimy cobblestones. They soon learned the place was called Drowned Town and that it was an old part of Braavos and had fallen into the lagoon. It was mostly abandoned, but people still lived in some of the taller buildings.
They made their shelter in an alley on the edge of Drowned Town. The tall buildings flanking their alley were still in use, the territory of dirt poor gangs that ruled this part of Braavos in all but name. They wouldn't let Shireen or Arya stay inside unless they could pay rent, so the girls stayed outside in the alley. It was constantly damp and wet and often dark as the tall buildings hid the sun for most of the day. When the sun could be seen, that is, for lately, thick and dark clouds had hidden the sun from view. A north wind sent the clouds and brought with it a deep chill that settled over Braavos. Some days Arya woke to find some parts of the lagoon covered in a thin layer of ice. The ice broke up and melted away before midday most of the time, but Arya and Shireen could both feel that the air was growing colder.
Five days passed, and a routine developed. They spent their mornings begging for coins, collecting copper pieces and coins tossed at them by passing Braavosi. In their black and dark robes, the nobles and merchants would mostly ignore them, but their servants would sometimes give them a coin from their master instead. By midday, the guards would be out in force and Arya and Shireen retreated into the poorer parts of Braavos. They'd heard nothing of what could have happened to their captors, and Arya feared that they were still searching for them. With copper coins in hand, they pooled their money and saved a little but used the rest to buy food. Some of the temples sponsored kitchens and cooks for the poor, nobles did the same for others, they were free, but Arya and Shireen had soon discovered that the gangs of Braavos requested a fee if you wanted even to get close to the kitchens. So they begged for coppers and ate as much as they could. The latter part of the day was worse for begging, so they'd return to their alley and try to stay hidden from their former captors. It was a hard rhythm to fall into, but it was one nonetheless. But it couldn't last forever.
The water woke them in the night. Arya gasped as she felt the icy chill lick her feet. The night was alive with wind and fury. The waves were crashing up the alley. Flecks of water and foam had woken Arya. She flew to her feet. Shireen rose a moment after. The wind was rushing and storming, sending spots of white snow down like arrows. Thunder echoed in the cold air. Arya and Shireen fled the approaching waves. Seconds later, the cold water crashed into their makeshift hut.
It was too dark to see what was happening, but Arya could imagine that if the waves were this big in Drowned Town, they must be huge in the lagoon. More thunder roared, and flashes of lightning lit up the night. The snow was already half a foot deep, where it was dry enough to stick at least. The water came higher and higher with each wave. They ran from their alley onto the main street. It was crowded with fleeing people. They were the poorest of the poor, like Arya and Shireen, too poor to live in the upper floors where they might be safe from the surging water. Panic ruled, and the girls darted here and there between the legs of scared Braavosi as the waves followed them into the streets.
The cobbles were slick with snow and slush, and people slipped and fell to be trampled upon by their desperate neighbours. A man crashed into Arya and flung her to the ground. She twisted to avoid trampling feet and took Shireen's hand that dragged her upright. The wind howled again, screaming with all the fury of winter's hate-filled heart as it fell upon Braavos with terrible force.
People were slamming on doors, trying to break into the best buildings and get somewhere safe. But the doors were locked and barred, and no one could get inside.
"Here!" Arya shouted, but the wind stole her words, so instead, she pulled Shireen's hand and dragged her out of the street and into a different alley. The water was ankle deep and rising quickly. "There!" Arya tried to shout over the wind and pointed at the open window she'd spotted. It was six feet off the ground, but the walls were made of old bricks and would be easy to climb.
Arya quickly started climbing. She jammed her fingers and toes into the cracks between the bricks and pulled and pushed her way up the wall. Shireen made a few concerned noises but followed Arya rather than risking the rising water. Arya reached the window and spun quickly. Shireen was barely halfway up the wall. Arya hooked her legs against the sill and reached for Shireen. Their fingers met, and Shireen kicked up so they could grab each other securely. Arya pulled while Shireen climbed, and they were both quickly inside and not a moment too soon. The wind howled anew and threatened to knock them over even inside the building. Shireen stumbled, and Arya caught her. Together they pushed deeper into the building, feeling it shift and buckle within the storm. The room was full of crates, barrels, and boxes.
More than half had already fallen over, knocked over and tossed around by the wind and the shaking building. They both flinched when they heard a tremendous crash from outside.
"Probably a building coming down," Arya said once they were deep enough into the building to be able to speak without the wind snatching the words away.
"Probably," Shireen agreed.
The next room was much like the first, full of boxes, crates, and barrels. It was very dark, there were no windows, but holes and cracks in the walls would have let some natural light in on another night, but tonight they were only highlighted whenever lightning flashed. They fumbled through the darkness, using their hands and feet to guide themselves.
"I think this is a gang's building," Shireen said. "I saw people coming in and out the other day, and they all had red scarves."
Arya cursed as she stubbed her toe and stumbled. Her hand hit something on a crate as she reached out to keep her balance. She grabbed it and explored it with her hands. It was a nail, and it was sharp. She slipped the nail into her hand. "I think you're right. The doors were all locked," the sight of people slamming on the doors trying to escape the storm returned to her.
Curiosity drew Arya to one of the cracks in the wall, where the plaster had fallen away, and the bricks were old and crumbled. The streets were gone. The waters had risen and covered them, and the night was illuminated only by flashes of lightning. In those flashes, Arya saw the currents of the storm surge carrying debris deeper into Braavos, doors, furniture, roofs, bits of ships, and bodies, a lot of bodies.
Arya closed her eyes and felt as if she could sense the storm, its anger, its hatred, its disgust for the humans crawling beneath winds driven by malevolent will. She slowly opened her eyes, and for a fraction of a fraction of a second, she thought she could see Braavos spread out beneath her. Then light blinded her.
Lightning shot down and struck a nearby building. Arya tripped backwards and fell on her backside. She blinked rapidly but could only see the deadly white bolt of lightning. Arya felt the building begin to tremble and shake and tried to get to her feet, but between her blindness and the shaking, she couldn't get up. She scrambled and heard boxes fall and crash around her. Panic was forestalled when Arya felt Shireen's hands grabbing her left arm and pulling her. Arya blindly followed, struggling to keep her balance as the winds and waters threatened to tear the building down.
A tremor brought dust and boxes down in equal measure, the former getting cut in Arya's rapidly blinking eyes and making them burn and cry. Shireen lead them somewhere else, somewhere even darker, Arya thought as she tried to blink away dust and the afterimage of lightning. Her back scraped against a rough piece of wood, and she and Shireen squeezed against each other.
Arya blinked again, her eyes finally clearing. A crash shook the little room, a little hiding hole, knocked open by the earlier shaking. They clutched each other as wood cracked, foundations sank, buildings flooded, and winter's wrath raged outside.
Jon
It was snowing again, not very hard, but the thick white flakes were sticking to the ground. They were but two week's march north of Horn Hill. Still much too far south for it to be seasonable, but it wasn't enough to slow the march, not yet at least. Highgarden was not far away, and with it the Roseroad and the long march to King's Landing. Jon had his doubts, but Stannis' witch was certain that that was where Euron was heading, and for now, Aegon was willing to believe her. So to King's Landing, they marched even as ravens and messengers brought word from Dorne that the Ironmen were sailing along the southern coast.
Jon suppressed a scowl as he passed the part of the camp where Ironmen banners flew. Most of the rebel Ironmen had stayed with their ships to return to the Iron Islands. Lord Rodrik Harlaw, the greatest lord amongst them, had offered to return to the Iron Isles and spread their rebellion against Euron and prevent further raids. Jon again disagreed with Aegon on the decision to let them go but had been overruled. Those Ironmen that stayed to join the march north now deferred to Lord Dunstan Drumm as their leader.
Jon left the possibly traitorous Ironmen behind as he walked into the Targaryen part of the camp. Golden Company, Dornish, and Reachmen banners were thick on the ground here. Jon regarded the last one with no small amount of suspicion for many of the same banners hanging in Stannis' part of the camp. One camp now, not two, every day since the kings made their agreement, the camps had grown a little closer together until, seemingly overnight, two camps had become one. The Reachmen had led the way at each step. Many of them were neighbours and had old friends in both camps.
Despite the sudden goodwill between the Reachmen, there were still tensions. Fights were common between the contingents, Stormlanders, Reachmen, and Dornish had an enmity going back centuries, and lately, the Golden Company had been getting involved as well. Many of the Westerosi remembered the Ninepenny War and had lost friends and family to the pikes and arrows of the Golden Company.
The night before, Stannis had set up a pyre for a Stormlander who'd knifed one of Franklyn Flowers' squires. The poor boy hadn't even been born when the Ninepenny Kings had waged their war on the Stepstones. Jon had to admit that Stannis had done right. The pyre would stifle the conflict for a while, and no one wanted to be burned next.
Jon passed the ashes of the pyre and turned a corner, entering a row of tents mostly used by servants. He came to an unassuming tent near the middle of the row and shrugged his cloak off his shoulders, and shook it to rid it of snow, and then he spread the tent flaps aside to enter.
Varys motioned for Jon to sit on the available stool. Even after weeks and months on the march, the eunuch still managed to smell of rosewater, and his silk clothes were still soft and clean. Jon sat and started fiddling with a rough piece of rock he carried with him. It was a piece of the Hightower he'd taken from Oldtown. Many of the men who'd been in Oldtown had taken something similar. It was a keepsake, a memory of what had once been one of the wonders of the world, something that was now gone, and the world would never know it's like again. Jon had only visited Oldtown thrice in his life, but somehow the Hightower had always seemed like a fixture of the world just as Rhaegar had been for Jon's life.
"What did you want to see me for Varys?"
The Spider fiddled with his robes before he spoke. "The matter we'd discussed in Highgarden."
Princess Shireen, Jon shook his head. When Varys had told him of his plot to kidnap Stannis' daughter, it had seemed brilliant, undermining Stannis while taking control of the last claimant to the throne who could challenge Aegon's legitimacy. Now it was a disaster waiting to be unleashed. "What of it?"
Varys sighed. "I don't know. That's the problem. I have certain contacts and ways of sending messages here and there. I won't bore you with the details," Varys' slight smile turned into a frown. "But there has been no word, nothing from my agents."
"What about Illyrio?"
"He heard a claim that someone matching our agents' description was spotted in Braavos but no more than that."
"Do you think they've deserted us?"
"It's possible," Varys said quietly. "Or perhaps they acted under Baelish's orders."
"The commands of a dead man?" Jon asked skeptically.
"They likely don't know of his disappearance yet, and almost certainly didn't know that it would happen. If they betrayed us at all."
"Braavos has been friendly to House Targaryen in the past," Jon said, remembering that the Sealord had allowed Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys to shelter there for several years. Could they help?"
"The new Sealord is far less amenable."
"So you've lost the princess, and there's no way to get her back."
"With great regret, I must say you are correct," Varys admitted. "Our bargaining chip is gone."
"If Stannis discovers," Jon began.
"When not if," Varys corrected. "The closer we get to King's Landing, the more dire our situation becomes."
"Then it will mean all our heads, chaos in the camps, war born anew."
"Yes," Varys said almost eagerly. "That's why we must strike first."
Jon frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Stannis has, but a slight advantage in numbers, does he not?"
"That's right."
"Then a surprise attack will scatter them, and killing Stannis will demoralize them."
"That could work," Jon allowed. "But that doesn't mean a battle should be fought, nor is it certain King Aegon would win such a battle."
"I'm surprised, my lord. I would have thought you of all people would be most eager to end the line of the Usurper."
"Don't question my loyalty Spider," Jon snapped. "Such a betrayal wouldn't end the war. There's still Greyjoy to fight, and the Baratheon loyalists will be up in arms."
"Lady Melisandre is as dangerous as Euron Greyjoy in her own way," Varys said. "It would be wise to be rid of her as soon as we can."
"It matters not," Jon said. "Aegon will never agree to this."
"He never needs to know," Varys said quietly. "Just as we did with poor princess Shireen."
"What you're suggesting borders on treason."
"Treason never prospers, for if it does, then none dare call it treason," Varys replied. "We act now, and Aegon will have no choice but to accept it."
"It will haunt Aegon for the rest of his reign. No one will believe he didn't order it. Some may even say that he broke guest right."
"This is for the good of the realm."
"Aegon is our king."
"Aegon is a good boy and will be a good king, but we both know that it takes more than good people to make a peaceful realm. We should strike now before Stannis strikes."
"It's only a matter of time," Jon mumbled, his mind furiously working as he weighed the risks. Stannis would need to die for Varys' plan to work. If he lived, the war would be more bitter than ever. The loyalty of the Reachmen was suspect as well, Lord Garlan could be trusted, but his bannermen had too many ties with Stannis' men. Even if Stannis were killed, the Stormlords would stand and find some Baratheon to rally around, even if just one of Robert's bastards. There's one in King's Landing, is there not? He wondered. Yes, he remembered now, and that one is half Florent as well. He cursed Robert Baratheon. Even in death, the Usurper worked against House Targaryen.
"There is…" Jon said slowly. "Another option, a scapegoat, someone to put the blame on."
"And who would you suggest, Lord Jon?" Varys asked sweetly. "This has my webs all over it."
"Littlefinger."
"Is weeks dead, it would seem."
"Dead men are easy to blame," Jon replied.
"True," Varys admitted. "But there are other factors at play."
"What do you mean?"
Varys was silent. "A mistake was made, so far from King's Landing am I that I cannot arrange things to perfection, Alester Florent suspects, and Stannis has long held great disdain for me. It is possible, but the damage would be too great for our position."
"Our position, or yours?" Jon asked.
Varys didn't respond.
Jon shifted slightly as his thoughts came to an ugly conclusion. "But dead men are easy to blame," Jon repeated quietly.
Before Varys could act, Jon drew his dagger and, with a smooth movement, stabbed Varys in the chest. The silk robes resisted but were no substitute for armour and couldn't stop the blade from piercing the Spider's heart. Jon pulled the dagger back just as quickly.
Varys' hands flew to his chest as if he was trying to hold his life's blood in his chest. His legs gave way, and he collapsed to the ground. The fine silk robes turned red and black as blood poured forth. In a matter of seconds, Varys was dead.
Jon quickly cleaned his dagger as he pondered his next move. The moment of quiet focus he'd experienced when he drove the dagger deep was fast fading.
"I'm a fool," he cursed himself immediately. "I should have dragged him before Aegon and let Stannis have his vengeance," Jon started pacing within the confines of the tent. "No. Then he'd simply have dragged me down with him. My head would be next to his and Aegon's as well. Unless maybe-"
The flap of the tent opened as a guard stuck his head inside. "My lords, His Grace…" the words trailed off when he saw Varys dead on the ground.
"Why did His Grace send you?" Jon demanded, deliberately stepping forward to block the man's view of Varys' body.
"He, ugh, His Grace and King Stannis have convened a council."
Jon pushed forward, forcing the guard aside and letting the flap swing shut to hide the body. "Lead the way," he said brusquely.
"Y- yes, my Lord Hand," the guard stammered.
The guard turned, and Jon followed him to the council.
They moved quickly, boots stomping in the wet and snowy earth as they trod the worn path to the pavilion.
Jon pushed the flaps aside and quickly took a seat beside Aegon while the guard rushed around the makeshift tables to whisper a few words into Aegon's ear, causing him to give a wicked and dark look at Jon.
"We should wait for Lord Varys," Lord Edmure said from Stannis' side of the council.
"Lord Varys will not be joining us," Jon said. "I spoke with him, and he is indisposed," Jon looked down at his hands, noting only then the blood on his right hand. He slipped both hands beneath the table.
"Very well," Stannis growled.
Aegon turned and glared silently at Jon but said nothing.
The council had already moved on to other matters, Princess Arianne was speaking. "-Last seen east of Salt Shore," she said. "Likely moving into the Narrow Sea."
"The R'hllor has given me a glimpse of his plans in the flames," Stannis' witch was saying. "A spear standing strong from the tide while the lands around it are blackened and ruined. And the bloody tide sweeping north to a city with three hills."
"King's Landing," Lord Mathis Rowan said.
"It sounds like Sunspear will be attacked as well," Lord Yronwood added. "But it will stand strong."
How quick we all were to accept her visions, Jon thought as more questions were directed at the witch demanding more details from her fires. Jon sighed and stamped down on the urge to scratch an itch on his neck, lest anyone see the blood on his hands.
"Lord Dunstan Drumm," Aegon said, turning his attention away from Jon. "What do you think?"
"Euron rarely shared his plans, even with his greatest lords, but yes, he did say he planned to drive into the Narrow Sea."
"Then our march to King's Landing should continue then," Jon said. "What else?"
"Our outriders have gathered more broken men and deserters," Harry Strickland said.
"Reachmen are joining us as well," Mathis Rowan said. "Word of Oldtown is spreading, and of the alliance."
More Reachmen to watch, Jon thought sourly. "How many?" He asked.
"Only a few hundreds, these lands have been fought over many times," Lord Garlan said. "We will be at Highgarden soon, and more men will meet us there."
Stannis grunted and ground his teeth.
Aegon ignored the other king. "I'm sure there is other business, my lords, but I have an urgent matter to discuss with my Hand," he stood up. "Your Grace," he said to Stannis and nodded his head slightly, not a bow, not a sign of submission, just respect.
After a moment, Stannis nodded in return. "Your Grace."
Jon waited for Aegon to take a few steps from the table before he rose to follow him out of the council meeting.
"You killed him!" Aegon demanded an answer the moment they were alone in his pavilion. "For the Seven's sake, why?"
"Varys bid me come to speak with him," he said and began to weave the truth into lies. "He told me that he had planned to kidnap Princess Shireen."
"What? But… the alliance."
"Varys told me it was a plan set into motion long before the alliance was even a dream."
"Gods," Aegon swore. "But why kill him? Why keep this secret?"
"Varys said Alester Florent was trying to hide the truth from everyone, but he feared that Stannis would discover it and shatter the peace," his words were true, but false as well. Varys had told him all this many moons ago.
"But… why kill him?" Aegon asked again. "If we revealed it, then surely Stannis would understand.
"Stannis has as much understanding as a stone," Jon said harshly. "Don't forget the Baratheon words, Ours is the Fury. He would be roused to dreadful wrath."
"Then hand Varys over, an offering, or keep him imprisoned."
"You know as well as I that Varys could escape any prison, within days if not hours, the only way to stop him from spinning his webs was to put an end to him then and there." Aegon shook his head, trying to parse the web Jon was spinning, but he didn't let up. "Varys was plotting treason. He was laying plans to try to kill Stannis before he could learn the truth."
"I would never command that," Aegon protested.
"I said as much," Jon said quickly. "But Varys was insistent, and I knew he would act regardless of your wishes. You wouldn't have ordered the kidnapping, and Varys acted alone nonetheless." But he told me, Jon thought, and I kept his secrets. He pressed on lest Aegon noticed his hesitation. "He was already a traitor."
"Stannis," Aegon shook his head.
Jon put a hand on Rhaegar's sons' shoulder. "I think it would be best to speak to him yourself, king to king, hold nothing back and beg his forgiveness, justice has been rendered on Varys, he will be enraged of course, but the architect has been slain, and Lord Alester's deceit will draw his attention as well."
Aegon lowered his head. "Thank you, Lord Jon. I must think about this further. You may go, have a good night."
"And you as well, Your Grace."
Jon departed, taking the long trek back to his own tent.
Jon threw back the flap of his tent and stormed inside. Fury and disgust roiled in his stomach what he'd done to serve the son had tarnished the memory of the father he'd loved. Jon looked in his bags for the sealed jug of wine he kept but couldn't find it. He didn't see the man sitting in the shadows until he spoke.
"Looking for this?" Petyr Baelish leaned forward and offered the jug to Jon. "My apologies. I took the liberty of helping myself."
Jon snatched the wine and glared at Littlefinger, surprise and anger wrestling for dominance in his heart.
"I suppose I should thank you, Lord Jon, for keeping my involvement In Varys' plots a secret," Petyr Baelish said with his characteristic charm.
"How do you know?"
"Servants and guards often have loose tongues." Baelish took a sip of his wine. "But I do wonder why. Why lie for me?"
"I thought you were dead," Jon replied as he poured himself some wine. "Why waste words on you when Varys was there," in truth, Jon had simply forgotten Petyr's involvement in his stress. He drank deeply and considered what to do with the guards and servants, the spies. "What became of you after the storm?" He asked.
"I was separated," he said. "Caught on a fleeing horse that tripped and broke a leg. I lost consciousness, and when I woke, I wandered until I found the army's trail," Baelish said smoothly. "My recent absence was all a happy accident, I assure you."
"Or just another plot?" Jon asked suspiciously.
Baelish shrugged. "Perhaps some of one and some of the other. I was curious to see what would happen in my absence."
"What do you want?" Jon snarled at Petyr.
"Varys was dangerous," the Mockingbird replied.
"He believed in House Targaryen. In the son of Rhaegar Targaryen."
"Oh yes, he was a true believer, but I doubt he really cared for your king or his house. Though perhaps he did, I never much cared for Varys' true ideals. Only for what his immediate intentions were."
Jon frowned and sat on his bed opposite Petyr. He drank deeply.
"Come now, my lord, there's never been a spymaster born who hasn't dreamed of being the power behind the throne. Varys was that back in Aerys' day, and he would have been so again under Aegon."
"King Aegon is not Aerys, and he would not be manipulated so easily."
"Perhaps," Littlefinger shrugged. "But it's too late to find out now, and I have you to thank for that," Petyr raised his goblet to toast Jon.
"And what will you do now?" Jon asked. "Weave webs of your own to snare and trap?"
Petyr chuckled. "That was the difference between myself and Varys. He weaved his webs, plotted, and planned. Always waiting for the opportune moment to strike," he shrugged. "But break the web, and he'd have to start all over. I prefer a little chaos. Chaos is a ladder for those willing to brave the climb."
Jon looked down disgustedly at the smaller man. "A would-be king of the ashes lighting fires for his own pleasure. You and Euron are much alike."
Petyr's smile faded, and he shook his head slightly. "No, we're not. This is magic and monsters," he said. "Nothing that I ever wanted," and for a single solitary moment, Petyr Baelish seemed to be honest, and then his sly grin returned. "Rest assured my Lord Hand, King Aegon and yourself have my full support. As your Master of Coin, I will do everything in my power for your cause."
"Why shouldn't I kill you like I killed Varys?"
Petyr Baelish looked shocked as if he hadn't thought of that, but his smile soon returned. "Because my lord Hand, I have no ambition greater than securing myself, to climb as high as I can, and you can trust that I'll put myself first over any delusions of virtue or ideals."
"And if serving King Aegon is no longer the best way to advance your own ambitions?"
Littlefinger smirked. "That will be a very interesting day, won't it? But Stannis hates me almost as much as he did Varys," he paused and considered for a second. "Actually, no, I imagine Stannis hates Varys a great deal more than me at the moment. In any case, I have little future in Stannis Baratheon's Westeros, and so," he raised his goblet. "Long live King Aegon, the sixth of his name."
Jon glared at Petyr Baelish, not bothering to hide his contempt, but he raised his goblet as well. "Long may he reign."
Asha
To Asha's great surprise, the Other had kept his word. For three days and nights, there had been no sign of either the Others or their wights. Sleds and wagons pulled their supplies over snow and between the Wolfswood's dark trees. Snow weighed branches so far down that they touched the ground only to spring back up when the wind caught the snow just right, or Asha's men knocked the snow away to clear a path. No more snow fell for those three days. Maybe it was some wicked sense of sport on the part of the Others, maybe their magic could only last so long, or maybe they had some other reason beyond human knowledge.
In any case, Asha's band of Ironborn and Northmen ran as fast as they could. They carried their supplies with sleds pulled by men and beasts through the looming pines and evergreen trees of the Wolfswood. Darkness defined their days. The tall trees and their needles seemed to drink in whatever light made it through the clouds. How can men live here? Asha wondered. So far from the sea, with air so still, and nothing to see but trees and shadows. The forest clans were a strange breed to live here.
The sun rose on the morning of the third day. For once, there were no clouds, and the sun was shining, and its reflection on the snow was almost blinding.
"It's so nice," Qarl said. "One could almost forget why we're here."
"It's just the calm before the storm," Asha said. She shouldered the pack she carried and kept walking.
Later, several hours past noon, they approached a village nestled in a meadow next to a wide stream. Tall pines left the village in shadow despite the early morning sun. The houses were all built low and with steep roofs that fell to the ground. The snow was thick upon the ground and buildings alike, and the homes looked a little like shiny white teeth reaching out of the ground.
"Who lived here?" Asha asked Lady Glover when they entered the outskirts of the village.
"The Wolfswood is home to many crofters and small villages," Lady Sybelle said. "Most of them are too small to have names," she pointed at a house that was slightly larger than the others and had a coat-of-arms above the door carved from wood that showed three trees with interwoven branches. "That's the sigil of House Woods."
How imaginative, Asha thought. Out loud, she asked. "Where have they gone?"
Lady Sybelle shook her head. "I know not."
Asha frowned and joined Qarl and Tris in leading their Ironmen into the village. Doors hung open, revealing the homes inside. Asha used her axe to push a door fully open and peered inside. Snow had drifted inside and piled up around the belongings of the former owners. She stepped inside for a better look, there were no bodies, and there was no sign of looting.
"Not the work of some clan raid," Asha said to Qarl.
"Wildlings?" Tris suggested.
"Wildlings that didn't take anything?" Qarl half laughed.
Asha moved further inside as the two men talked. She swept the snow away from the straw mattress. "And if they'd gone on their own will, then why leave their blankets here?" Asha asked. She looked around at the goods that still filled the home. Boots, tools, and trinkets things that anyone with a sound mind would take.
A muffled shout took Qarl back outside for a moment while Asha and Tris kept searching the hovel.
Qarl came back a minute later. "Asha, some of the men found a slaughter in godswood," he looked sick.
"Fresh?"
Qarl shook his head. "Old, a few days at least, but it was men and women in there. The remains of people," Qarl paused. "They were arranged," he swallowed. "Like, like the way a child plays with stones on the beach."
"Others," Asha said, she was certain of it. "They've no need for anything here except bodies. So they're trying to scare us."
"Why the godswood?" Tris wondered.
"Why not? The Northmen are a superstitious lot. This is to put fear in their hearts."
"Should we bar them from the Godswood?"
"No, let them see," Asha said. "Let's remind the Northmen of why they need us."
The Northmen found their way to the Godswood soon enough and spawned much wailing and crying from them. The Northmen stayed busy cleaning their holy place and burying the dead the Ironborn continued to search the village for anything useful.
"We'll stay here," Asha told Qarl.
"Aye, the clouds are back, and the night is almost here anyway," Qarl chuckled. "It'll be nice to spend a night with a roof over our heads."
Asha sighed. "The last chance for a long time, I think."
Northmen and Ironborn settled into the village for the evening. Stored firewood and blankets were plundered along with anything else worth taking. Fires were lit in cold hearths, and people stuffed themselves and their animals inside.
No death came in the night, only more snow. A flurry started during the night and was still gently sending flakes to the ground when the sky turned lighter. The Ironborn and Northmen departed as dawn came. For a few hours, the light seemed like it would pierce the clouds, but then the clouds grew dark, and the snow began to fall in earnest. A ferocious wind swept from the north, and it rushed through the trees like a riptide.
It was only after many hours of cold, wind, snow, and hard travel, when everyone was exhausted, that the Others came.
Asha stepped wrong and slipped on a hidden root. She fell heavily, for her heavy pack had ruined her sense of balance. Qarl grabbed her hands, and together they managed to pull herself back to her feet. They embraced for a moment, and as Asha looked over Qarl's shoulder, she saw Other come out of the trees. It appeared as if from nothing, a pale shadow detached from the trees and struck with terrible grace and beautiful horror. Tris Botley died with his own blood on his lips as an icy blade sliced his neck.
Warriors screamed to waken their courage. Asha was among them, she whipped her axe at the Other it flew straight and true, but the monster tossed it aside with a flick of the blade and stepped back into the woods. Grimtongue and Cromm charged after the Other, each armed with hastily lit torches that sputtered in the wind, but it was gone.
Cromm brought Asha's axe back. Half an inch of ice and frost covered the steel blade.
Asha slipped it back into her belt as she looked down at Tris. Sweet eyes, truly. That was the trouble with poor Tristifer. He was too sweet for the Iron Islands. Those were the thoughts she'd had at Ten Towers when royal ambitions had been sending her to the Kingsmoot. Now his sweet eyes were cold and dull, Asha wanted to weep for the boy, the man she'd known most of her life, but she couldn't not here, not now.
"Take everything," she said. "And leave the body."
"Leave him for the crows?" Cromm said.
"Them or the Others," Asha snarled as she remembered the horde of the dead. "We can't stay to bury or burn him. We need to move quickly."
"Hard to do that with all of them," Cromm jerked his head in the direction of the Northmen where there were so many elderly and children.
"We'll do the best we can."
The Others attacked sporadically over the day, sometimes by themselves, but more often, they sent their wights in alone. The dead monsters would strike from the woods with lumbering brutality, easy targets for torches and spears, but always charged the children and elderly first. Always. The march slowed to a crawl as the warriors tried to surround and protect the young, the old, and the supplies.
It was a long and sleepless night, and the dawn brought little respite. The clouds remained thick, and the Others changed their behaviour again. Icy witchlights flickered in the shadows of the trees. They burned with a freezing chill and drove Asha's crew and the Northmen off the trails and into the deeper woods.
"Easier for them to pick us off like this," she muttered as the defensive lines became ragged.
"I haven't seen a witchlight in nearly an hour," Qarl said.
Asha hummed in acknowledgement.
"Doubt they've been kind enough to leave," Qarl continued. "Probably just resting," they walked a few more steps. "Do… do Others need to rest?"
"Only the Drowned God knows."
"Aye," Qarl agreed.
He sounded tired. He looked tired. Asha was tired too.
When she heard shouting, she groaned in exhausted anguish, but the screams of the Others and the horror of their dead puppets didn't echo through the trees, just the shouting of men and battle cries.
Suddenly alert, Asha tossed her lit torch to Qarl, who awkwardly caught it and drew her axe. She rushed toward the fighting. Stone and bone-tipped javelins and arrows were flying out of the trees. Northmen and Ironborn warriors quickly began locking their shields while some threw spears or shot arrows back into the woods.
"Hold!" Asha shouted. "Hold!"
The woods were coming alive with shouting figures, the living, not the dead. Some were screaming in the common tongue while others shouted in a language Asha didn't know.
"Damn wildlings!" A Northman shouted.
"Fuck me," Asha cursed as a javelin hit her stomach, it hurt, but her mail armour was proof against the bone point. Qarl pushed forward, his torch lost in favour of a shield to cover them both. However, the hail of missiles was beginning to lessen already. A quiet returned to the forest as warriors on both sides breathed heavily as they waited for the other to make a move.
Asha pushed past the shield wall and stepped into the open. "Speak!" She shouted into the trees. "Come on. We're waiting."
A shadow left the cover of a tree and approached. The pale light slowly revealed a wildling woman wearing a white mask. She held a bronze and weirwood spear in both hands and lowered it as she approached. "The dead walk and the Kneelers go to war against us?"
"I am no Northman," Asha said. "I am Asha Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, an enemy of the North just as you are," she prayed Lady Sybelle and the Mormont girl would be silent, and mercifully the two were.
White Mask crept closer, and her warriors followed her into the circle of light from the Ironborn torches. Asha watched them carefully as they moved closer, old men and young boys, with a handful of women among them ranging from young to old as well. Most bore their weapons with uncertainty and had fear in their eyes.
"Kneelers are all the same," White Mask said.
"But we aren't blue-eyed corpses either," Asha said, hoping she would hit her mark.
She did, and the masked wildling tilted her head quizzically.
"That's why you've come, isn't it?" Asha asked. "The Others were coming, and then the Wall fell, and they followed you south."
White Mask looked suspiciously at Asha before planting her spear in the ground. "You flee them?"
"Yes," Asha said, noting weapons on both sides beginning to relax.
"I am Morna," White Mask said. "We must talk."
Weapons lowered all the way, and a camp was quickly made. More wildlings joined those who'd attacked, old men, old women, children.
"I was to take our people into the forest," Morna said, sitting cross-legged with a dozen of her chiefs opposite Asha, Qarl, Sybelle, Lyanna Mormont and her guardian Hother. "Take them here and thrive."
"You, not Mance?"
"Mance took the warriors south to draw the kneelers away," a wildling with a beard down to his ankles said.
"You fled White Walkers?" Morna asked. "Tell me more."
"They came over the sea," Lyanna piped up. The young girl was wrapped up thrice over in a bearskin. "Froze it solid and marched to Bear Island."
"And then to Deepwood Motte," Asha added, then she shook her head. "They just let us walk away. Why haven't they killed us?" Asha asked of Morna.
"Is it just a game for them?" Qarl asked quickly.
Morna shook her head. "No," she said and took a sip from her drink. "And yes. In the North, the Ice River Clans and men of the Frozen Shore will go on great hunts sending their people across dozens and hundreds of miles, rounding up reindeer, hares, and all other animals, and driving them into a trap where all the animals can be slaughtered at once."
"Fish," Asha said. "In the Iron Islands, we do the same with nets and fish."
"We do the same," Hother said. "Fish have been known to escape those traps."
"Not enough that I'd risk it," Asha said.
Morna nodded as if Asha had said something wise. "We may choose death soon or death later. We are nothing but beasts to them."
"If we know it's a trap, then perhaps we can turn it on the Others," Asha said. "They may treat us like beasts but beasts we are not."
"A fool's hope," Morna said sadly. The weirwood mask hid her face, but her eyes shined with ancient mourning. "The last hope of the living."
"Your king?" Asha asked. "You said he went south. Where was he going?"
"A stone village called Winterfell, home of the kneeler king. I know not where it is, but some of my warriors might, old raiders they are."
"It's been a generation since Wildings came that far south," Sybelle Glover said, speaking for the first time.
"The Mance was there when your king was," Morna sniffed proudly. "The fat one who wore antlers as his crown."
Asha rose a hand to forestall Sybelle from saying more. "I've been to Winterfell," she said. "More importantly, I rode the paths and trails through the Wolfswood to reach it. I can guide you there."
Morna nodded. "Yes," she said. "You will lead us to Winterfell, to Mance Rayder, and every step will be a step deeper into the trap. Death now or death later," she said.
Sansa
Anyone who saw a fog bank this thick in Dornish sea would call it unnatural, and they would be right. For twenty ships worth of Oldtown captives had burned alive to ensure the fog endured under the burning Dornish sun, and the Ironborn fleet was guided by the slowly dying people hanging off the bows. The Dornish shouldn't have seen the fleet coming, but they did.
When Silence pierced the veil of fog, Sansa was greeted by an ocean of flames. The small Dornish fleet had been set ablaze at their moors by their own crews. The flames had spread to the docks from the ships and then carried inland by Euron's own wind to turn the Shadow City into an inferno.
Euron tilted his head, curious and dangerous. He squeezed and twisted the ropes of Silence in his hands. He turned and spotted Sansa. "See how their banners still fly," he said and pointed at the orange and red flags still flying from the towers of Sunspear. "Someone failed me."
The Ironborn fleet crowded into the bay, dropping anchor and closing sails lest they drift too close to the flames.
"What happened?" Euron snapped as another ship came alongside.
"One of Lord Codd's captains refused to sacrifice a thrall, and their ship struck aground and was spotted," Alvyn Sharp shouted from his ship. "The Dornish were already fleeing the city for the castle when we arrived."
"Have that captain and his crew drowned," Euron commanded. "You all must understand my word is as iron, do not defy me."
"They…" Alvyn Sharp caught Euron's eyes. "Yes, lord king," he waved a hand and began shouting commands at his own sailors.
Euron had already turned his back on the Ironborn and was shouting commands at the crew of Silence.
The fleet rested at anchor for a day and a night, waiting for the fires to burn themselves out. A full day of choking smoke, the sky turned yellow-grey as the sun tried to shine through the smoke, and the world became shades of grey. Sansa could hardly feel the smoke burning her lungs, feel it make her head spin as she waited on the deck and drank shade-of-the-evening. She watched the flames dance and could feel their heat upon her skin.
Night fell and passed, and the sun rose with a fresh wind to clear the air. The Shadow City was in ruins, and the walls of Sunspear had been scorched and blackened. Ironborn descended upon the city. There would be no thralls taken today. Those who hadn't entered the castle had long since died or fled, but beneath the ashes were collections of molten metal. Gold, silver, copper, iron, and steel had all been melted down and fused into chunks as large as a man and far heavier. The Ironborn used axes to chop off pieces and pry hunks of metal free for themselves.
Neither Euron nor his crew joined the looting. With some of his mutes and his most trusted Ironborn, Euron marched away down a road that followed the coast away from Sunspear. He didn't tell Sansa where he was going, nor did he say why he departed in such a hurry.
It was only after that Sansa realised it had been some days since Andrik the Unsmiling or his ship had been part of the fleet. Perhaps Euron has gone to meet him, she wondered.
Without Euron to command her presence Sansa was free to do as she wished. The Ironborn dared not forbid her from anywhere she wished to go.
Sansa skipped along the shore, letting the warm waves of the Summer Sea wash the ash from her bare feet. She could almost pretend she was somewhere else, somewhere warm, but also cold. It was like there was a fog upon her mind that threatened to lift to reveal what she'd forgotten. Sansa shied away from it, for some part of her warned her that that path held only pain. She reached for her shade-of-the-evening only to find her skin was empty. She let it fall to the sand and watched the waves take it away, and saw it slowly sink beneath the waters. Waters that were now sprinkled with snow.
Sansa whipped around. Her auburn hair flew this way and that as she watched Dorne disappear to be replaced by a forest that smelled of moist earth and decay. A wood of stubborn sentinel trees armoured in grey-green needles, of mighty oaks, of ironwoods as old as the earth itself. Their thick black trunks crowded close together while twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead, and misshapen roots wrestled beneath the soil. Sansa could feel the ancient power here, the power of gods that had no names. Sansa. Her own name reached out for her. She turned and saw that the warm blue sea had been replaced with a small pool where the waters were black and cold.
Beyond it was a huge weirwood tree with bark as white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful. They were old, those eyes, older than Winterfell itself.
"What is Winterfell?" Sansa asked the world. The name had come unbidden to her mind.
She turned a full circle again, and when she looked again, there was a man sitting by the pool under the leaves of the weirwood. He wore brown and grey furs, and carried his own head in his own hands. The face was long and solemn, with a brown beard just beginning to go grey, and his dark grey eyes were the warmest she'd ever seen. She didn't recognize that face but knew that she should.
Stark, the heart tree, said to her.
Sansa felt her heart begin to beat with almost forgotten feelings and then felt it break.
Euron found her crying, huddled next to a rock and wet from the salty waves. With unusual tenderness, Euron took Sansa into his arms and carried her back to Silence.
"Hush, little bird," he said. "Hush now, and be still," he wrapped a strong arm around Sansa's shoulders and began to pet her head.
Sansa trembled as deep gasping cries escaped her. She clung to Euron like a sailor shipwrecked in a storm.
"What… who is Stark?" She asked.
Euron stroked her hair. "Something that brings only pain," he said. "Pain and fear. You fear the pain, don't you?"
"Yes."
"You remember what I told you the day we met?" Euron's grip shifted and began to squeeze her skull. "Remember?" He growled dangerously.
Sansa did remember. The night in the Stone Garden of Casterly Rock. The night Tommen had died. The night Euron had shown her how to fly.
"I can make that fear die," Euron had said that night. "I can make you be feared."
His hands were squeezing her head so tightly Sansa could hardly think. "Yes," she said through the pain. "Yes, I remember."
"Do you still want that? Do you still want to feel no fear? No more fearing the pain of memory?"
"Yes."
"Then drink," he said and forced a skin into her mouth. "Shade-of-the-evening will steal all your pain away."
Sansa drank and lost herself beyond the mists of memory.
When she woke, she knew not how much time had passed. Her hands were stained with blood and gore. Her mind felt clouded, the world was clear and foggy all at once, and she stumbled to her feet, ignoring the golden-haired bodies lying before her. Euron sat ten feet away, his hands were bloody as well, and he was smiling.
"I have given you your vengeance," he said.
Sansa felt empty when she looked back at the bodies. She didn't recognize them, the woman, the girl, what vengeance did Euron speak of.
"Thank you," she said tonelessly as she watched the mutes throw the bodies overboard.
Euron chuckled darkly and pulled himself upright, his weak leg buckling slightly and making him lean on the ropes for balance.
Sansa's eyes darted back and forth as she felt the wind shift, blowing from the east, slowing the fleet. She shook her head in a daze, struggling and for a moment, she could almost hear the beat of great wings carried by the wind.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the huge and heavy footsteps of an approaching Ironborn warrior. Andrik the Unsmiling trudged over the deck, approaching Euron with the queer mix of bravado and fear Sansa had seen many of the Ironborn show around their king recently. Was it recent, she wondered, or was it since forever? She was so confused.
"My king," Andrik fell onto one knee.
"How many prisoners were taken?" Euron asked.
"Less than half a thousand," Andrik the Unsmiling replied.
"Not enough," Euron said. "Not nearly enough. I need more sacrifices black and bloody, the tide must be. To Lys then, Lys will have to be enough."
Andrik shared a quick look with another captain. "We lack the strength to take Lys," he said.
"You lack the strength," Euron corrected him. He leaned over the edge of Silence and looked hungrily to the east. "Where Ironborn and steel fail," he chuckled darkly and without mirth. "Fire and blood will succeed," he smiled. "Kill the prisoners, cut their throats, all of them, and throw them overboard. I will raise a red and terrible wind," his mad smile spread even wider as he said quieter. "And bring my prize to me."