Quick Note: Apologies in advance if I lag in answering reviews this week. I've kind of got COVID-19. It sucks. Get vaccinated kiddos.

Book II – Chapter 3: A Talent for War

Empress of Meereen

Daenerys stood in her solar atop the Great Pyramid, staring down at Jaehaerys Targaryen's 'Senate'. Jaehaerys Targaryen. That explained that, at least. Her brother's son, by his second wife. Rhaegar… why did you do it? Was loving the wrong woman really worth it? Or was there something else? Some piece on the board everyone was missing. Everyone except Daenerys.

She couldn't help being tugged back to the House of the Undying, to the visions the warlocks had shown her.

The silver-haired man holding a child, whispering about 'a prince who was promised'. Could the man perhaps be Rhaegar? Had he known something? Learned something? Varys said Rhaegar's 'instability' – and she still wasn't sure she believed that – had started after he moved from the Red Keep to Dragonstone.

The old man sitting the Iron Throne screaming about "burning it all." Was that truly her father as Rhaenys and the others all claimed

And the flower in the wall of ice… could that be Jaehaerys? 'Jon Snow'? A bloom of hope sheltered in the frigid north?

But what of the other visions she had seen then? The stone beast and its shadowed flames? Wizards who claimed to know the speech of dragons? A golden hammer etched with vines lying on the bed of a river, glowing eyes of the darkest red shimmering around it. The strange man with the white coat and the spiked hair, rummaging through a room filled with the corpses of his family; copies and copies of the same people piled high before him. Who was the brown-haired girl sitting in the mud, a bloody scar cutting across her throat? The hopeless man cradling the woman with golden curls? The girl with white eyes racing through the woods? The crow with three eyes.

She didn't have any answers, but she felt as though there was a message there. Some sort of secret she had glimpsed, one the warlocks had not intended. Her own magic, fighting against theirs.

Daenerys could find no solace in dreams and visions. At least, not at the moment. Instead, she looked down at the Senate and felt a semblance of real, tangible hope build there. Jaehaerys, Jon Snow, whomever he truly was, must be a good man. He had to be to envision something like this. And his wife, Margaery, sounded like someone Daenerys very much would like to meet.

Accountability.

Power both dispersed and preserved. A contingency to protect the kingdom from another abusive and tyrannical ruler. A shield against anyone like the Good Masters ever ruling in Westeros. Maybe, just maybe, an end to the cycle of death the country seemed trapped in.

And Jae wanted her beside him.

Watching Rhaenys and Viserion together, watching how his – her, sorry sweetie – her temper had been dampened by having Rhaenys near… that was enough to convince Daenerys that Jaehaerys was true. He had to be. Rhaegal had taken to perching atop the pyramid since Rhaenys arrived, staring out at the western sea like he now knew somehow that there was someone out there calling to him.

If the Senate was a ruse, it was an enormously complex and detailed one for little ultimate value. It would fall apart the second she arrived, and Drogon was still the largest and the most aggressive. And they were still growing.

Jaehaerys was offering Dany the one thing she'd always wanted: a way home. So why was she hesitating? Why didn't she reach out and grab it as tight as she could? She had the Masters' fleet; she could load up her Unsullied and her sellswords and sail home tomorrow. That was what Oberyn wanted to do. The second he'd learned of the Burn, he'd pronounced that Tywin Lannister must be responsible for killing his brother and demanded to return at once and claim his vengeance. Rhaenys had… had slapped him, actually. It had been incredibly entertaining to watch. Obara and Nymeria had needed to restrain their father, while Arianne and Princess Arianne's new bodyguard – Areo Hotar, her now-deceased father's former head of security – held back Daenerys' niece.

The Burn… Jorah and Daario and every single advisor she had pointed out how perfect an opportunity it was. The Usurper? Dead! House Baratheon? In civil war! House Martell and Tyrell? Perfectly willing to support a Targaryen restoration (apparently? She wasn't sure she believed that. This 'Queen' Myrcella must be quite the ditz, a complete fool, or a girl very loyal to Jae.)! House Stark, traitors, the Usurpers dogs? Raising Daenerys own nephew in secret the entire time, teaching him, guiding him to become a great man. If he hadn't already been married, Daenerys would have had the marriage papers drawn up immediately for proposing upon arrival.

It was too good to be true.

Yet, she hesitated.

She would be a fool to trust everything she heard and was being told about the state of things in Westeros. There was no way to know, this far away, how events were progressing. The war could be over already. It could all be lies.

That was an excuse.

In truth, she was conflicted. About herself. About what she wanted to do and what she needed to do. All her life, she had believed she would marry Viserys, and that would be her life. Then she'd wed Drogo, and that became her life. But even that wasn't to last. She birthed her dragons, walked the Red Waste, liberated Slaver's Bay… She was a queen, an empress. Going back to Westeros would be turning her back on all she had done in Slaver's Bay. In Meereen and Yunkai. The ashes of Astapor. What would happen to the freedmen?

They would be enslaved once more, by masters newly vindictive and vengeful, and these Sons of the Harpy would take control. She knew that. They all knew that. The people looked to Daenerys for a decision. She was their saviour. Did she abandon them now?

Surely there was another option? One that didn't involve her forsaking her people here to go home?

And what would she do in Westeros? Would she put aside her ambition of sitting on the Iron Throne? The one thing that had sustained her these past few years. The throne was Jaehaerys' by right and by blood, not Daenerys' as she had believed. Rhaenys fully believed in her brother – he had even proclaimed her his Kingsguard, his own sister. She had no doubt that, should Daenerys announce her intentions to kill or usurp Jae's claim (not that the thought ever crossed her mind), Rhaenys would do her duty and murder Daenerys where she stood – relation or no. For him, she would do it. A pure loyalty: one Daenerys had known before. It had corrupted her mind as she begged the witch to save Drogo. There was nothing it couldn't do.

Daenerys didn't know what to do. She desperately wanted to go home, see her nephew, be a part of his dream for the world. Maybe, one day, the three of them would fly in the skies on dragon back. Aegon, Visenya and Rhaenys restored. Yet, she also needed to be here for the hundreds of thousands now looking up to her. The whispers of discontent amongst the nobles were ever-present, the Sons of the Harpy were growing bolder, the governing of Yunkai continued to be a problem, and Volantis would soon decide what to do about the new burgeoning dragonlord empire on their doorstep.

And of course, there was Rhaenys herself.

Daenerys had spent near an entire week sequestered with her undead niece, begging for details of her life, of Jae, of home, and telling with heartbreak and tears, her own story. They had cried together, laughed together, played with the dragons together, sat in the throne room together to hear petitions. Ser Jorah was wary of her, Daenerys knew, but he didn't dare say it. After all, he and Oberyn Martell sparred near-daily now, having apparently struck up quite the friendship during their time in Meereen's gutters, so it would be slightly hypocritical.

Just yesterday, Daario, Rhaenys and Arianne had snuck Daenerys and Missandei out of the pyramid – right under the noses of the Unsullied, the Golden Company and the Second Sons. They'd travelled in rags and shawls down to the largest brothel in the city and just… just sat in the back corner, watching the freed slaves use their newly earned wages to pay for dances from the pretty men and women in their fine silks. Daenerys was mortified when two girls dressed as Daenerys herself came out and performed a literal striptease – right in front of her!

Never, in her entire life, had she experienced something like that. Arianne called it a 'girls' night' for all that Daario was there and very much not a girl (Rhaenys said Daario didn't count, though she neglected to explain how or why).

Honestly… she'd never had more fun in her life, and not just because Arianne had her hand up Daenerys shift half the time.

Rhaenys would not stay. She would go back to Jae, no matter how much Daenerys might beg her. So, she wouldn't. Queens did not beg. But Viserion would not want to stay behind without Rhaenys, and Daenerys didn't know what Rhaegal would do.

There were just… just no good choices. Or none that she could see at least.

A soft rasp echoed on her outer door.

"Come in," Daenerys said.

The door opened, and two Unsullied stepped inside. Then, a dwarf dressed in Lannister red and gold followed, curly golden hair doing little to hide his misshapen face.

"Lord Lannister," Daenerys said, inclining her head.

Tyrion bowed low as the Unsullied closed the door – though they remained inside instead of out.

"Your Grace. Forgive the intrusion, but I thought I might find you here and wondered if I might speak to you."

Daenerys had met the dwarf only a handful of times since he'd arrived. He'd spent most of his time in the brothel, according to Daario – whom she knew was having every newcomer tailed, despite her not having asked him too. Rhaenys said he was incredibly clever and had created the seating allocation and half the rules of debate and house politics compiled in the note sheets Rhaenys had supplied.

"A gift. From us to you. To prove we're serious about building a better world. Margaery left a note for you at the end."

Daenerys had yet to reach the end; that was how long the notes were.

"Speak about what, my Lord?"

Tyrion waddled across the room to one of the chairs and sat down with a groan.

"Tyrion, please. The less I have to think about my father, the better."

She understood that. Much of her time in the past week had been devoted to thinking about all her father had done. Burn them all!

The dwarf then reached into his coat and drew out a metallic flask.

"Swiped this from Rhaenys; Dornish Whiskey. Would you like some? It has quite the bite."

Daenerys accepted the offer, and Tyrion poured a little into two goblets on the table, handing the second to her.

"Tell me, Lord Tyrion, why are you with Princess Rhaenys and not your father?"

This had been bugging her quite a bit.

Tyrion winced.

"My father doesn't like me very much," he said, offering no further explanation. Daenerys sat and stared at him, not taking no for an answer.

Eventually, Tyrion sighed.

"Very well. I am here because I had nowhere else to go, really, and the Tyrell girl thought I'd be useful to you. Can't imagine what you'd need with a drunk dwarf, but who knows what goes through that girl's head sometimes. Be a right scary place to live, I think."

He took a gulp of the whiskey and coughed, shaking his head.

"But enough about me," he said, not so subtly changing the conversation. "I wanted to ask you something actually, so a trek up the inordinate number of stairs in this building was warranted."

Daenerys nearly flinched in sympathy. That couldn't be easy for him, come to think of it.

"Oh really? And what did you wish to ask?"

Tyrion sat forward, face furrowing into an odd frown.

"Why? Why conquer Meereen? Or Yunkai? You could have easily left Astapor on the Masters' ships with your new army and new followers and sailed straight for Westeros. There was no logistical or tactical need to secure the rest of the bay. So why? What reason?"

Daenerys was a little taken aback by the question, so to cover herself, she raised the goblet in her hand and took a sip of her own.

She immediately regretted it.

"Urgh! That is foul! And I've eaten a horse's heart, so that's saying something!"

Tyrion laughed at her.

"Don't sip it. You need to drink enough to swish it around your mouth, then swallow it. If you only sip, you get the taste on your tongue, but not the smoothness or the burn going down your throat."

Daenerys eyed the glass and the amber liquid inside, not convinced.

"I did it because I could," she said after a moment. "I saw all those people in Astapor, suffering in pain, in chains, and I thought to myself… this is what they believe power looks like. The ability for wealthy men to do whatever they want to those they perceive as beneath them. But power doesn't lie in money, or authority, or blood. Not really, no matter how much men with those things like to believe it does. Power, real power is choice. The ability to choose what to do with your life. To rise or fall on your own terms. If I learned anything on the run with nothing but Viserys, then later with Drogo, it was that. My name didn't give me any power. My position as Khalessi didn't make me a conqueror worthy of respect. It was what I chose to do with those things that granted me power. But I had to learn that for myself. The slaves of Astapor couldn't decide what to do with their lives. Everything they did was because somebody else made them do it.

"Now, the Unsullied follow me because they wish to. They are free to leave at any time. I conquered Yunkai and Meereen because I couldn't sail away knowing I'd left so many people behind without freedom, without choice. I'd fought so hard for mine; they deserved some light at the end of the tunnel as well."

Tyrion and Daenerys sat in silence for a while, just listening to the sound of the birds outside the pyramid balcony. Or was that Drogon?

Eventually, Daenerys took another drink of the whiskey, then coughed as it slid down her throat, burning as promised, leaving a tingling after taste in its wake.

He was right. You did need to take a proper drink. Sips just didn't work.

"My father wants me dead. That's why I left. He blames me for everything that goes wrong in his life and cannot see his own faults because of it. Everything I've ever had, he's managed to take away from me, yet he still expects me to do what he wants for the 'good of the family'. I risked my life countless times because he asked me to, and even then, he wouldn't even give me what was rightfully mine. Why am I out here, Daenerys Targaryen? Because no one wants me, and this seemed like a good way to drink myself to death. At least I'd get to meet a dragon," Tyrion muttered, not looking her in the eye.

Daenerys gave him a rueful smile.

"Well, mine is a court of outcasts, Tyrion Lannister. Feel free to make yourself at home. Now, I have one more question to ask you."

Tyrion downed the last of his glass, looked her in the eye and gestured with his hand.

"Ask away."

"Why did you really climb this high?"

The dwarf smirked at her, and Daenerys found herself grinning in reply.

"When I was a young man, I heard a story about a baby born during the worst storm in living memory. She had no wealth, no lands, no army, only a name and a handful of supporters, most of whom probably thought they could use that name to benefit themselves. They kept her alive, moving her from place to place, often hours ahead of the men who had been sent to kill her. She was eventually sold off to some warlord on the edge of the world, and that appeared to be that. Yet now here we sit, and that girl without wealth, lands, or armies had somehow acquired all three in a very short span of time, along with three dragons. Someone like that must be quite the fascinating person, and there is little I enjoy more than conversing with fascinating people. Drinking with fascinating people is even better. Thought you were worth meeting at least."

"And have I lived up to your expectations, Lord Tyrion?" Daenerys asked, raising an eyebrow, now distinctly amused.

Tyrion pursed his lips, as if pondering the question.

"Yes, yes, I think you rather have."

Whatever he might have said next was interrupted by the door slamming open, revealing Jorah face red and clutching his sword. Grey Worm, Missandei and Daario were only a few steps behind him. Daenerys launched to her feet in a second.

"What's happened?"

"The Dothraki. They just sacked Hesh. They'll be here in less than a week."

Daenerys grit her teeth, then glanced towards the window.

"We have work to do then."

The Council of War

Honestly, if Margaery had been here, this debate would have been over in a few minutes. At least, that was Jon's opinion.

"We can't sit here for weeks, Dondarrion," Lord Anders Yronwood snapped, pointing at the survey map laid on the table before the commanders.

"I am more than aware of that, Anders," Lord Beric retorted, rolling his eyes. "But unless you have any better ideas you would like to share, I don't see any other option. We can't reach Storm's End without passing through Buckler lands, and if we try, we'll have a force up our collective asses before we're halfway to Shipbreaker Bay!"

This argument had been playing out for quite a while now, to Jon's perpetual amusement.

Willas, Garlan and Randyll Tarly stood on one side of the table, representing the Reach, while Anders Yronwood, Allyria Dayne and Beric Dondarion stood opposite. Trystane, though he was undoubtedly trying to look important, couldn't help being overshadowed by all the men at the table. Between the men's voices and their height, he'd never had a chance. Even Jon, though he was of a height with Garlan and Yronwood, would have looked small standing at a table of grown men, all masters of war.

Which was why he stood off towards the side, mostly hidden in the shadows. His former squire-ship to Garlan and official position with the Tyrell household (and unofficial position as representative of House Stark) earned him the right to be in the tent, but not to speak. Not yet. So, he held his place in the corner, waiting, biding his time.

Margaery would be proud of him.

Edric Dayne stood on Jon's left, face utterly serious as he studied the debate as intently as Jon was. He had grown far taller since Jon had last seen him, and his time in the sea had washed away most traces of plenty or youth from his face. Instead, his entire body (though currently hidden by his Dayne coloured gambeson and mail) was covered in small scars and marks – bites from fish stings from jellies – and a larger one across his left hand where he'd fought off a pirate who tried to take him captive. He was still jovial and quick of the mind, but a seriousness weighed on him now. One not unlike the heaviness that pressed on Jon's shoulders when he thought about all he had to do.

He was good company though, both skilled and courageous, though he spoke little of his time on the sea. No one really knew what to do with him, though. He was still fifteen – too young to be a knight. Yet his skill and feats far exceeded a squire, and he was the Lord of his House – one contributing a considerable amount of the force in this very army. He and Jon had naturally been drawn to one another.

Standing on Jon's other side was Obella, no longer bothering to disguise herself as a man, at least in the company of the commanders. This was a Dornish host as well as a Reach one, and none would dare tell Oberyn Martell's daughter to stand aside when she demanded a spear or the right to enter the command tent. In the past moonturn, she had undergone a growth spurt and was now – much to Edric's chagrin and Jon's amusement – equal to the Dayne boy in height, coming up to Jon's shoulders. She kept her curly brown hair chopped at the shoulders, so it didn't start growing out into a literal lion's mane, and had taken to wearing a single earing she'd asked the blacksmith to craft for her. A tiny wolf's head embossed over a sun. She knew he'd noticed it, but he didn't say anything about it out of respect.

He was terrified for Arya as well. He knew, just knew, that she'd have done something rash by now. There was no way she'd have remained quiet in Winterfell. Even if Robb had followed the plan and kept the North out of the war, Arya would not have just stayed behind. And he kept having this strange dream of a pack of wolves running through a forest, Arya at its head.

In fact, a mutual concern over Arya's wellbeing had brought Jon, Obella and Edric together over the past week of travelling in each other's company. The very first thing Edric had said to Jon when they met once more had been a question after Arya's health. The moment after he explained that she'd been gravely wounded on the road north was the one-time Edric had looked like the boy he truly was once more.

"Then we are at least agreed we must attack, and soon," Allyria suggested, encompassing the entire table in a gesture.

"Lady Allyria is right," Willas said. "We must strike hard and fast; take the city before the Bucklers can dig their heels in. Or worse, call for reinforcements."

The answer to their current predicament seemed obvious to Jon, and if he had to guess, Randyll Tarly had come to the same conclusion given how silent he currently was, sitting in his seat picking at a small plate of bread and pork. Tarly was a military genius, far beyond anyone else in the tent for sure. Jon respected him for that. However, that did not mean he liked the man. Not in the slightest.

Before the march to Bronzegate, Myrcella held court with all her generals and lords in the Ruins of Summerhall. Alerie, most of the women, tradesmen and other camp followers would remain there until the results of the coming battle were determined. However, Randyll Tarly had been suspiciously silent as the high lords of the Reach offered their fealty, gifts and oaths to die for her cause. The lesser Reach lords did as the Tyrells told them to. The Hightowers, the Oakhearts, the Ashfords and the Merrywethers had all been eager to entice themselves to the new queen, and Jon had failed to observe any particular distaste at the idea of a female ruler from most of them. In fact, Baelor Hightower – heir to Oldtown and Garlan and Willas' uncle through their mother – seemed positively thrilled at the idea of having a Queen and had been the first to volunteer to accompany Myrcella when she declared her intention to leave on a secret mission. Well, Jon, Willas and Anders knew where she was, but a secret from everyone else. However, there were some who seemed less sure of having a woman in charge, even with so many advisors, and Randyll Tarly sat at the head of that group. They weren't outright hostile, but convincing they would need, and Myrcella had concocted just the plan to do it.

He hoped she was alright.

Jon also didn't like Randyll Tarly because, no matter how hard Jon tried, he could not discover what had happened to Tarly's firstborn son, Sam, who had apparently disappeared. Jon had met him once during his four years in Highgarden – a large, cowardly and scholarly boy. Jon didn't like where his thoughts took him when he thought about Sam's suspicious absence.

"We could probably take the walls," Garlan said, rubbing his chin and staring down at the map of the city on the table. Provided by Tyrion Lannister when he assessed the city's defences for Olenna several years prior. "But it would cost many lives and leave us considerably weakened."

"Furthermore, almost a quarter of our total force is on horse," Anders pointed out. "They'll be useless in a frontal assault. We must play to our strengths. How is the question."

Randyll glanced up from his meal, staring right at Jon.

Damn asshole knew that Jon had figured out the solution. If he wasn't such a colossal douchebag, Margaery would love the guy.

It was, realistically, a simple plan. Bronzegate's walls were formidable and armed to the teeth, its gates near impossible to batter down. The answer was obvious. To take the city, the gates would need to be open already.

Tarly finally stood up and pointed towards a dotted line that passed under the wall, across the plain, and ended at the foot of the mountains blocking the passage to Storm's End.

"That is how you take the city," Tarly said.

Everyone looked at him in confusion.

"The Bucklers' escape tunnel? You can't fit an army through that; it's barely wide enough for two men abreast. We have people watching it, but if you tried to move a force that way, the sentries and scouts atop the wall would see and send word to collapse the tunnel," Anders explained, clearly not seeing the point.

"No. An army is far too obvious. But if you were to send a small strike-force, perhaps ten lightly armoured men down the passage, they could sneak into the guardhouse and open the gates from within."

Thank you, Tyrion Lannister's sticky fingers and talent for loosening tongues.

The room fell silent, and Jon took a deep breath, glancing between Obella and Edric. He'd already told them what he planned to do, and they were already prepared to follow him into the breach.

"I'll do it," he said, stepping forward and desperately making sure to keep his voice carefully controlled. No fear. No weakness.

Everyone turned towards him, and Anders and Randyll both nodded in respect. Allyria looked towards him with a calculated expression – unsurprising, given Olenna had told Margaery that Allyria knew who he was. Garlan and Willas looked ready to argue, but neither actually spoke up. He had to do this. It was the opportunity he'd been waiting for. A chance to prove his worth as a warrior and become a name amongst the entire army, not just the men from Highgarden.

And it was a chance to prove to himself that Garlan had been right to knight him, right to believe in him.

"Are you sure this is the only chance?" Trystane asked, biting his lip and wringing his hands behind his back.

"I'll go with you," Beric said, stepping around the table and approaching to shake Jon's hand. A good man, Jon thought. "Gather two men you trust, Ser Snow, and I will bring two of mine."

"Leave when the moon sets tonight," Willas said, voice just slightly higher in tone than it had been before. "Enter the tunnel in the hours before dawn. Open the gates, and the cavalry will charge through to hold them while the infantry marches forward. May the Seven guide you all."

And with that, the men and women went their separate ways, and Jon retreated to his tent, ordering Obella to do the same. They would need all the sleep they could get tonight.

Skinchanging

Arya was running. Racing along a dirt track the wolves had found in the night. She was running in Ghost's skin tonight, silent, massive and deadly. Ghost ranged the furthest of the pack and was the second deadliest after Nymeria, but Darkeyes was the best hunter – keenest of ear, nose and eye – so it made sense the two mated and were rarely apart. Most of the younger direwolves in Arya's pack had come from Ghost and Darkeyes' litter, but the six eldest and largest wolves had all come from Gale. Gale was, more or less, the pack mother. She avoided fighting, mostly tending to the new pups, but was vicious when threatened. Arya saw her only rarely, but when she did, the steel grey of her eyes and the bronze tint to her fur was recognisable instantly. She deferred only to Nymeria, the pack's leader. Not even Nymeria, Ghost and Grey Wind intimidated her. But Arya had sent Grey Wind north to Robb. She wasn't sure why; she'd just known he'd need help.

Tonight, however, Darkeyes smelt something… odd. A scent the wolves hadn't expected to find after crossing the Wall at the Shadow Tower. Arya didn't understand their fascination with it. She was still a girl, no matter how much she knew the skins of wolf, falcon or horse. But Arya did know one thing.

There was magic in the air tonight.

Ghost came to a stop deep in the brush as the burning golden light of a fire appeared in the distance. Darkeyes and Shadow – a shaggy and light-footed wolf of pitch-black fur and green eyes – came to a stop behind him, hackles raised.

The smell was coming from there.

Arya turned Ghost's head towards the treetops, searching for a bird she might leap to. She spotted a raven, but there was no tether to it she could touch. A first. Strange. It was… it was as if the raven were not truly there at all. She kept looking. Finally, she came to a rest on a falcon's nest. Good enough.

She leapt from Ghost's skin into the falcon, and the bird squawked at the intrusion, flapping its wings in confusion. Its name, as far as birds could have names, was See's Far Colours, and Arya soothed its mind with calming words and the promise of adventure. Falcons loved adventure; Arya had learned that long before she first slipped her skin.

Below, the wolves watched the bird, somehow knowing that Arya was there, and when she guided See's Far Colours towards the fire, the three followed on silent paws behind her. Arya came to a stop on the branch opposite the odd raven and looked down at the people. Children, a boy and girl, dressed in rags and huddled around a poor-quality fire. They had no equipment or tents or horses. Just themselves and what looked like a shared blanket they sat on. Their heads were down, but Arya could see they were eating something.

"I don't like this," the girl said nervously, looking towards the raven. "It's the same bird, I'm sure of it. It's following us."

"I'm more worried about the people tracking us than a bird."

Bran.

Arya shot upright, instantly awake, head pounding and skin thick with sweat. Nymeria, lying a short distance away, also perked up, watching Arya in confusion as she tried to regain her breath.

Bran was alive. He was alone in the forest. And he was being hunted. How far away were Ghost, Shadow and Darkeyes? Several days to the south, if she had to guess.

Arya and her rebel friend had made their way across the Green Fork with no small degree of effort two days ago, the wolves helping them cross the deep, vast waters. Starmane – Arya's sand steed filly, who'd initially not liked the direwolf pack at all but had since calmed around them – had a more challenging time of it than any of them. They'd managed to pull her across the river, exchanging a slightly shallower section the horse could at least walk across for a wider bank. The rebel had then bolted away from Arya and her wolves as fast as his legs could allow. She couldn't blame him and hoped he reached his rebellion friends, or whatever.

Arya's mission was to get south as fast as possible to join the Tyrell army, help Jon, and deliver her intelligence on Stannis.

But if Bran was out there… and the girl – it must have been Ysilla. What about Sansa?

They needed her more than Jon did right now.

"Ah, fuck it," Arya muttered, before grabbing some dirt and extinguishing her fire. She wasn't getting any more sleep tonight. Muttering under her breath about ungrateful brothers, Arya walked over to Starmane and reached into her bag of oats.

They had a long night of riding ahead if they wanted to catch Bran before whoever was chasing him.

Next up, Jon wears Margaery's favour as he takes the next step towards fulfilling their dream, and a trip down memory lane has us singing a Dan + Shay song. In Westeros? What? Here comes my first proper battle chapter! I hope you all like it!