Notes: Hehehe, here's the next chapter, because I have a paper to write tomorrow, and I don't know if I'll make the Monday upload time.
Book II – Chapter 14: The Ink is Dry
Tyene
"Who are you? Really?" Jaime wheezed as Tyene pressed a cold cloth to his face, tutting under her breath.
"Drink this," Tyene said, purposely ignoring the question. She wasn't stupid. She'd known he would travel into the city at some point, searching for his sister. So Tyene had watched and waited until he made his move, then followed behind. Thank the gods for Obara and her father insisting she learn to swing a sword, even if her poisons and poultices were far more elegant weapons.
Jaime did as she instructed, slurping down the wormwood tea she proffered, then scowling at the taste. Which ended with him wincing at the cuts now marring his face. Seven Hells, how sharp were that woman's nails to do this to human flesh?
"Because you aren't just a septa. Septas don't know how to wield a blade."
Gods, but wasn't that the truth. How was she going to tell him? There was no hiding now…
She was spared answering immediately by the arrival of Lan and Mistress Almeara. Lan immediately swept to where Tyene had left his strange heron marked sword, baring the steel and inspecting it. Seemingly satisfied with the weapon's integrity, he glanced once towards Jaime, face a blank mask, then stormed back outside the temple. Mistress Almeara, however, was not to be silenced.
"You foolish good for nothing imbecile!" The woman screamed, tugging her long braid with two trembling hands. Okay, how did that not give her a splitting headache? "What could have possibly possessed you to go into that place?! The sundered souls of the Forsaken, whispering from beyond the void? Or maybe even the Dark God himself? Light forever blind me to the stupidity of men!"
Mistress Almeara did not follow the Seven Gods who were One, of that Tyene was sure. For all that she claimed she was a holy woman, running a sept, and organising anyone with healing or alchemical skill in the Blackwater Filth, she was probably the least devout woman Tyene had ever met. Either that or the gods of her far away land were worshipped in a vastly different manner than any faith Tyene had observed. But she'd studied a lot of religions, from both Westeros and Essos, all the way even to Yi Ti, and she recognised the turns of phrase the Mistress frequented. In particular, it was her praise of 'the light' and the mentioning of her feared 'Dark God' that gave her away. The concept was far too suspiciously familiar to the Fire Lord R'hllor and his supposed opponent – the 'Great Other', a god of cold and darkness – to be a coincidence.
"My sister," Jaime whispered, and Mistress Almeara's jaw clamped shut, tirade cutting off. She took a deep breath, rubbing her forehead.
"Alright… just drink your tea, and don't go in there again! Light only knows what horrors are waiting in that place. Wildfire… I've seen what it can do when unleashed. Those flames are capable of far worse things than simply destroying stone. It eats through everything it touches – the very stones beneath your feet, the air you breathe, the very essence that holds the world together. And the ruins it leaves behind are haunted forever after."
She narrowed her eyes, then waved a finger at Jaime.
"Now I've warned you, it's up to you whether you listen or not. If you have even a modicum of wit, then maybe you just will. Mayhaps your sister's body still walks in the nightmare beyond, but the person you seek is dead and gone."
With that, she followed Lan out of the sept, muttering under her breath about 'wool heads and ungrateful swine'.
"You're going back, aren't you?" Tyene said, not even bothering to beat around the bush. Jaime flinched, clearly preparing to lie. But he seemed to think better of it, sighing in defeat as Tyene pressed the cloth to his wounds once more.
"I… I have to. She's my sister… Joffrey… he was my son."
Tyene swallowed. Now, wasn't that something? She'd overheard Cersei's words in the Red Keep, but she assumed them just a mad woman's deranged ravings, and the woman was most certainly insane. But if Joffrey was Jaime's son, and not Robert's… Then Queen Myrcella Baratheon was probably not a Baratheon either. And that information would change the war. Even worse, it wasn't even something she could use because Myrcella was on her side. On Jon Targaryen's side. On Dorne's side. If somebody else found out…
"I know what you're thinking," Jaime muttered. "That I must be some degenerate, heinous thing. Not just the Kingslayer, but the sister-fucking kingslaying Kingsguard who cuckolded the king." Jaime's eyes were tightly closed as she dabbed at his face, unwilling to look at her. Yet his whole posture screamed revulsion, sagged and limp. She had seen him like this down in the dark of the pit. The well of self-loathing he tried desperately to contain. Deep down at his core, Jaime Lannister was a man who hated and despised one thing above all others.
Himself.
"That's not what I was thinking," Tyene answered softly, opening his eyes so he could stare into hers and see the truth of her words. "I was thinking… that when you go back… when you confront Cersei… I need to be there."
Gods, she really, really would prefer to be literally anywhere else. If there was anything Tyene was sure of, it was that she would never, ever get what she'd seen in that castle out of her nightmares.
"What? How? Why? Absolutely not!" Jaime stuttered, sitting up, limpness forgotten at Tyene's declaration. She allowed herself an inner smirk. Men. Always so predictable.
"I'm not some simpering maid, Jaime. You know that now. I came to Kings Landing with a mission. I failed. But now I have a way to discover why. I won't let it get away from me. You need to go back into the Red Keep to confront your sister? Well, so do I."
Jaime tensed, eyes narrowing at her.
"What mission? Who are you, Tyene?"
No point in lying now.
Tyene took a deep breath and placed her cloth to the side, the long red cuts from Cersei's nails beginning to purple at the edges.
"My name is Tyene Sand, daughter of Oberyn of the House Nymerios Martell. I am a septa, just not a… full-time one," she said, frowning at the end. She did consider herself a septa – she did follow the Seven and knew all the prayers and psalms. But, well, she was also a Sand-Snake, with everything that came with that.
Jaime's jaw went slack, which was honestly a fair reaction. But he didn't flinch away or reach for a weapon he didn't have (Tyene wasn't fool enough to reveal herself with one nearby), so that was something.
"My… my mission was to kill Joffrey. My father dispatched me years ago on the orders of Olenna Tyrell. But it wasn't me!" She quickly finished as Jaime's gaze turned murderous, hands gripping the bed pallet. "I swear it wasn't me. I didn't poison the king or Joffrey. I had nothing to do with what happened in the Sept of Baelor… or what came after."
She clenched her jaw and flexed her hands, keeping herself steady, but now it was time for her to look at the ground, unable to look at Jaime. How did you explain to a man that you intended to kill his son?
"I was supposed to poison him that night, at the feast. No one else was supposed to get hurt, and he might have been your son, but we both know what Joffrey was."
Jaime took a long hard breath, air hissing through his teeth. Eventually, after several drawn-out moments of tense silence, he nodded his head.
"My father and Uncle Doran were planning with your brother Tyrion, the Tyrells, and the Starks, I know that much. No one wanted another Mad King on the throne, and I won't apologise for being the weapon dispatched to secure our future," Tyene stated, not lying, just… not telling the whole truth. Jaime seemed to believe her, some of his anger bleeding away.
"Tommen and Myrcella?" Jaime asked.
"Would have been entirely safe. That was implicit in my orders. I don't know precisely what they had planned for Tommen, but I know it was the Queen of Thorns who had him sent to foster in the North, and she had a hand in bringing Myrcella to Dorne. Joffrey would die, either Tommen or Myrcella would become the heir, and the threat of another Aerys would be dealt with. A simple plan. But, well, you know what happened."
They both shivered, thoughts flitting back to that panicked day.
"The priest's chalice was poisoned," Jaime muttered, "Robert drank from it – more than he should have, but anyone who knew him could have guessed he would. Robert was never subtle when it came to wine."
"Exactly!" Tyene said, standing up and beginning to pace to try and burn her anxiety. She'd spent a long time thinking about this. "It was a clever plan. I'd guess that whatever poison it was, a small dose probably wouldn't have done much. Anyone else who tasted the wine might have felt woozy or dizzy, but that's what's supposed to happen, after all, so no one would question it. But Robert, being Robert, drank the entire thing, falling straight into a trap. Robert becomes ill instantly, and the wine is gone, conveniently destroying the best source of evidence."
Tyene had spent a fucking a lot of time thinking about this.
"Who benefits from Robert's death? Not many. Robert was a weak king, and the individual lords were all benefiting while the realm fell deeper into debt and extravagance. Which says, in my opinion, that the assassination wasn't about Robert so much as who would follow him."
"Joffrey?" Jaime said, voice rising in disbelief. "You think he tried to kill the man he thought his father?"
"No. But he would have ended up on the throne, and there would have been no way for me to get close enough for my original plan to work if Robert died of poison hours before. Everything Joffrey ate or drank would be checked. Joffrey would sit the Iron Throne, and all the Lords Paramount were gathered in one place – hostages to ensure a peaceful transition of power. Extremely clever."
"Then who do you think was behind it?"
Tyene froze in her pacing, shooting him a pained look.
"You aren't going to like my theory," she warned. Jaime shivered.
"I don't need to like it… I need… I need to fulfil my promise."
She nodded, then continued her walk, clasping her hands behind her back.
"First, I'm almost certain the poison and the wildfire explosion weren't connected. All that planning to then go and explode the sept and everyone in it? It doesn't make sense!"
"What then? You think it was just an… an accident? Robert slipped, split the oil and somehow sent the entire place up?" Jaime asked, clearly having a hard time believing that.
Tyene bit her lip. "I don't think so. The oils Robert spilt from the table were highly flammable – they're part of the ritual. They're meant to be flashy. But even if some of the oil and flame did fall into the smoke tunnels beneath the sept, there shouldn't have been any wildfire down there. I'd seen the tunnels plenty of times. Plenty of thatch and oil and other materials that burn down there – that's kind of the point after all – but no wildfire. Either something else happened we can never know about, or someone had wildfire barrels moved down there."
Jaime shook his head. "But that would have to mean that someone knew about the poisoning attempt, didn't stop it, and moved wildfire into the Sept of Baelor without anyone noticing on the off chance they might go up? That's quite the contrived plan. And say you're right, where would they even get that much wildfire? It isn't exactly easy to acquire. Unless this person knew about Aerys' caches, but Jon Arryn told me he swept the city for them."
Tyene's frown deepened.
"Who was in charge of cleaning up the city after the Sack?"
"Eddard Stark," Jaime answered immediately. "He put a stop to it and took the city from the Lannister host until Robert arrived. They had their big argument over… over Elia's children… then went their separate ways."
"But what happened after?" Tyene asked, deliberately ignoring the comment about Princess Elia and her babes.
Jaime paused, brow furrowed in thought.
"Jon Arryn… he took control of the city, started cleaning things up, but it was slow going at first. The Lannister and Baratheon troops were still in the city, and Robert and Cersei had just married. I…" He paused, eyes widening.
"What?"
"Littlefinger."
Tyene's stomach knotted.
"What about him?"
"Jon Arryn brought him in from Gulltown, where he was customs master, and told him to get the economy of the city going again. If he did, he'd be raised to Master of Coin. Baelish managed it, though conditions in Fleebottom never recovered as much as the rest of the city, and Arryn honoured the deal."
Jaime grit his teeth, face contorting into a snarl.
"If someone intended to kill Robert, I find it hard to believe Littlefinger wouldn't know about it. A slimy piece of filth like him? He'd think it some grand joke, killing all those Lords Paramount at once. And…" Jaime froze before resuming, voice much lower in tone than before. "And Varys wasn't there."
Tyene paused in her pacing.
He was right. Varys hadn't been in Kings Landing. He'd left on a secret task for the Hand of the King several months before.
"The Eunuch and Baelish had this running thing on the Small Council," Jaime explained, "Both of them constantly throwing barbs at each other and putting their fingers in the other's affairs. With Varys gone from the city, even temporarily, Baelish would have nearly free-reign to do what he wanted."
He deflated, huffing to himself.
"That still doesn't solve who poisoned Robert in the first place, though."
"Doesn't it?" Tyene said, turning to look at the golden-haired man who had, oddly enough, become her friend. Her father was going to kill her. Assuming he was still alive.
"What do you mean?"
"There is one person in Kings Landing who wanted Robert dead and Joffrey on the throne," Tyene explained nervously, wringing her hands together. "The very person who brought all the Lords Paramount to Kings Landing in the first place – even her own father."
It finally clicked in Jaime's head, his entire body stiffening at once.
"You mean… you think that… Cersei?" The shiver that passed through him then was enough to tell her what he thought of that.
"That's why I need to go back into the city, back into the Red Keep. I need to know if it was Cersei who tried to kill Robert. She might be completely batshit crazy and insane, but if I phrase the question right, appeal to her vanity, she should answer truthfully. Now that I know she's alive… I have to try."
Jaime sat in silence for a long while, looking down at the floor.
Then, he pulled himself upright, wincing as he did so. He stepped up to her, towering over her far more diminutive form, and pushed back his shoulders. His spine made an audible cracking sound, then his neck followed suit.
"A bloody Sand-Snake… At least I know you can handle yourself," he muttered.
"That's an understatement, but yes," she retorted.
He sighed.
"Alright. But this time, we do it together… and we try it my way first. Maybe… maybe I can reach her. Help her somehow."
"What if you can't?" Tyene asked. They both glanced towards the door of the sept, and barely visible towers of the Red Keep silhouetted in the far distance.
Jaime didn't answer.
She suspected he didn't have one.
A Tale as Old as Time
"Maester Aemon?"
The withering old man glanced up from his desk, sightless eyes training on the door where Robb had entered the library. His steward, the portly black brother, trailed off in his reading of one of the old texts of the Long Night, for long-time gathering dust on the shelves all around him. Despite his age and clearly failing health, the Maester had apparently been spending all his time scouring the texts for mentions of Others or White Walkers.
"Ah, Lord Stark, how can I be of assistance?" Robb resisted the urge to flinch at his father's title – he'd gotten very good at it by now – but he doubted he'd ever divorce it from the man. Eddard Stark had been as strong and formidable as a mountain. He was not easy to forget or live up to.
"I know you've been busy, but I wanted to ask for a moment of your time," Robb said awkwardly, scratching at his hair. This man was a legend. Aemon Targaryen! Jon and Rhaenys great-great-grandfather or something. And he probably believed his entire family dead.
Nothing terrified Robb more than waking one morning to the news of the day only to discover a letter confirming Jon's death, or Arya's, or Sansa's, or Bran's or Rickon's or his mother's. He'd done it once already; he never wanted to see another. The utter hollowness he knew would settle over him if he discovered his entire family was dead featured prominently in his darkest nightmares.
Robb could not risk telling the old man of Jon or Rhaenys. There was certainly no place in Castle Black safe enough to reveal such precious information, especially not with how crowded the encampment had become with Robb's arrival. What he could do was tell Aemon what little he knew about Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons. If anything could lift the man's spirits, it would be that.
"Of course, my Lord. Samwell, could you leave us, please?"
The steward looked as if he intended to argue for a moment, then sighed and left. Robb sat down in the chair Samwell vacated and waited for him to close the door behind him.
"Maester, first… I'm sorry I haven't been able to take the time to see you sooner."
"See me? Oh, don't you worry, young man. I am old and quite unimportant these days. I am a brother of the Night's Watch, nothing less, but nothing more either," Aemon said, perhaps guessing where Robb's inquiry would focus. He wasn't surprised. After all, you didn't get that old by being dumb.
"On the contrary, you and I both know you are more than just that," Robb answered with a smile, and he hoped the man could hear it in his voice, even if he could not see his expression. "In fact, I have two… two dear friends that would appreciate meeting you very much indeed."
The maester raised an eyebrow at him.
"We shall agree to disagree then," he said at length. "What did you wish to know?"
"That's not why I wanted to speak to you. I imagine you have people pestering you with questions about times long past from dawn until dusk. I figured it's only fair somebody tell you a story for a change."
Now that sparked something in Aemon, his entire demeanour shifting in a moment. He leaned back in his chair and croaked out a soft laugh, cracked lips twitching into a faint grin.
"That is true. That is certainly true. A story, you say? Well, let's hear it then!"
Robb grinned in turn.
"Do you get news from the east often?"
"No. News comes slow to the Wall, even from within Westeros. Rarely do more than whispers come from Essos."
"I guessed as much," Robb said, nodding. "Both a blessing and a curse, I suppose. But at least it means you can hear this news from me and know it for truth rather than some elaborate fiction."
Aemon frowned.
"Something has happened in the east?"
"Indeed. It seems a young woman with lustrous silver hair came by ship to Astapor intending to purchase a force of Unsullied. But the girl was penniless, and the Slave Masters of the city threatened to turn her away. Until she produced a living, breathing dragon to barter."
The Maester's breath caught in his throat.
"The girl revealed herself as Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen and proclaimed for all to see and hear that she had discovered the secrets of Old Valyria and returned dragons to the world. The Masters, in awe, agreed to sell the entire Unsullied army in exchange for a dragon of their own. A great beast of black and red colouring, breath hot enough to melt through metal, and only half-grown. But in their greed, the Masters underestimated Daenerys Targaryen. At her command, the dragon turned on the slavers and set them ablaze. With her new army in hand and three dragons at her back, Daenerys burned the city to the ground. When she left Astapor that day, she was penniless and powerless no more. Now she controls one of the most formidable fighting forces in all of Essos and marches with an entire train of liberated slaves as followers."
Maester Aemon reached out and gripped Robb's wrist in a vice. His face trembled as if about to shatter into a million pieces. "You… You are speaking the truth? You swear it?"
Robb placed his free hand of the Maester's.
"Every word. Your kin live, Maester, and the dragons of old have returned to the world."
The dam broke, and Aemon Targaryen broke down into a fit of sobbing, still holding onto Robb, desperate for support.
They stayed like that for a while, and Robb let the old man process the knowledge. Eventually, Aemon looked up and practically pleaded for him to go on, to speak of everything he could.
"I don't know as much as I'd like," Robb admitted. "But I understand that Daenerys has liberated Yunkai as well and now rules in Meereen, where she is consolidating her power and influence. The most recent rumour I have speaks of a great battle with the Dothraki and that the temple of the Dosh Khaleen in Vaes Dothrak was burned to the ground, but I don't know whether to believe it. What seems certain is that she will eventually sail for Westeros and try to reclaim the Iron Throne."
Gods, but he hoped Rhaenys had reached her before she left Meereen, and that the silver-haired woman was open to meeting and speaking with Jon. She'd spent years freeing slaves. Surely that meant she was a good person, right?
Aemon straightened up once more, releasing Robb's arm.
"And what do you intend to do if she does, Lord Stark?" Aemon asked, a nervous tick appearing as he voiced the words.
Robb squeezed the man's hand.
"I will tell her Grace exactly what I told the rest of the idiots claiming that ugly iron chair. The North has no intention of fighting southerner wars in exchange for naught but empty promises. Once someone rules the Seven Kingdoms in more than name, then I will speak to them and bend the knee if I must, as all the Lords of Winterfell before me have done since Aegon's time. Everything… everything I have learned since coming to the Wall has only hardened my resolve. The real war is here, not down south. Though I can't help but think that having some dragons to help fight the Others might not be a bad idea."
Robb had already prepared several letters – all of them written himself, despite his hatred of it. One for Jon and Sunhair, which he'd send to Sunspear for Quentyn Martell to forward on to wherever the army currently waited. One for Goldflower, though Robb was becoming increasingly worried by her sudden silence. And a message to be sent directly to Daenerys Targaryen.
He was still one hundred percent devoted to Jon and Margaery's plan, and he would do his part when it came time. But this war he was facing to the north… the Wildlings, and the Others… No one could have accounted for that. Robb had to hope that Daenerys – if she did have three dragons – would believe his words that monsters walked beyond the Wall. However, regardless of who sat the Iron Throne in the end – Jon or Daenerys or even Stannis – Robb would have no choice but to bend the knee and ask for help if his own forces were unable to repel this army of dead men.
"Yes… yes, it would be helpful," Aemon muttered, nodding softly. "Maybe…"
"Lord Stark! The First Ranger is awake!"
The call came as the door swung open, and Robb was on his feet and running like a lion at the sprint, Maester Aemon left behind. Robb almost barrelled into Samwell, loitering outside the library, but didn't give the boy any more thought. Within moments he was pushing his way into Benjen's quarters, where the Lord Commander and the Greatjon were waiting for him.
"Uncle Benjen!"
"Robb? Gods, but it's good to see you." Benjen was sitting up in his bed, back resting against the wall, a blanket draped over his shoulders. He looked a darn sight better than he had days before when he rode through the gates pin cushioned with arrows and dressed as a Wildling. Still, Robb refrained from hugging the man, as his chest was still wrapped in bandages.
"What happened, Benjen?" the Lord Commander asked, stepping up to Robb's side with a fierce expression etched in every line. "You killed that thing, and then we lost you in the snowstorm…."
"The Free-Folk found me. Brought me into their camp," Benjen explained, voice a bit hoarse, but he seemed strong enough to deliver his news at least, so that was a mild comfort to Robb. "It's twice as large as we thought, Jeor. Twenty-thousand fighters at minimum, and their women are just as dangerous as their men. They're all fucking desperate and utterly terrified. I spoke to Mance himself… he says at least two entire clans have been wiped out already, and the scouts all report the same thing. The Others are marching south, and they're moving fast. I managed to convince Mance I was worth keeping alive so I could report to my brother and bring an army to the Wall to fight the Others, though I'm not sure if he trusted my word. He sent me with a group of Free-Folk over the Wall, about a hundred strong. I managed to give their warg the slip near Queenscrown and piss-bolted it back this way, but they chased after me, and one of them… Ygritte… shot me. The rest, well, there ain't much more to tell."
Robb doubted he was the only one who noticed how Benjen stumbled over the girl's name, but no one dared to comment on it. There was plenty more in his report to be scared of.
"Twenty thousand…" Robb muttered. "We can't fight off that many with just five thousand light infantry, and we only have a couple hundred mounted men."
"Aye. We need to send word out across the North immediately. We were expecting to help guard the Wall from some Wildling raiders, not fight an army twenty-thousand strong," the Greatjon stated, all his usual bluster and bravado gone.
Benjen furrowed his brow as if just noticing the Greatjon for the first time, then his gaze swept the room before returning to Robb.
"Robb… where's Ned?"
Robb closed his eyes, unwilling to look his uncle in the eye. He opened his mouth, but no words emerged, and he gripped the edges of his cloak as tight as he could. The Lord Commander started explaining in a low voice about the Burn and that the entire country was embroiled in a three-way war, but Robb forced himself not to hear the words.
Twenty-thousand Wildings, all scared for their lives and willing to do whatever it took to get past the one thing protecting them from the outside. And an army of the dead probably larger just behind them.
Robb's heart froze in his chest.
That was it, wasn't it?
Gods, but it was a bloody clever plan too. An army of dead things, commanded by the Others, who, according to the legends, were more than capable of raising more corpses to replace those that fell. The horde advances south at a rapid pace, and anyone who doesn't want to join them has to escape or hide deep in the mountains and hope for a miracle. A mass exodus results, Wildling clans putting aside their enmities and fleeing as far south as they can go. To the Wall. The very thing built to keep the Others out of the realms beyond. Backed against an impassable barrier, the Others could descend and slaughter those that fled with impunity. Or, they could wait for the Wall's defenders to do it for them and resurrect the corpses left behind. Either way, that's twenty-thousand new recruits to an army that doesn't tire and can't be killed. Could these things even be killed? No, they could. Benjen said he'd killed one, and the Night's Watch had already destroyed some of those dead things in their flight from the Fist. They could be stopped, but no one had any idea just how many creatures were already marching.
And Robb could not say with absolute certainty that the Wall would protect them at all. Maybe the Wall was magic, and the Others couldn't pass it. Or perhaps it was just a giant wall of ice, and with enough walking corpses, the Others could climb over the top.
Twenty thousand people, scared out of their minds, marching to a slaughter. Wildlings, yes, but they were still people. Could Robb really stand by and watch as women and children were butchered, then turned into unliving monstrosities?
What would Jon do?
The answer came instantly.
Jon would try and help as many people as he could, consequences to himself be damned.
Robb opened his eyes.
"Jon…" he said, swallowing hard and turning to the Greatjon, who looked nearly as shaken as Robb no doubt did. "You're gonna hate this."
"Hate what? I don't think I could hate anything much more than an army of dead men com'en to fuck us in the arse."
"I see two choices. We mount a defence with what we have and leave a graveyard for the Others to… to raise up. Or… or we let the Wildlings through and make them help us garrison the Wall."
The Greatjon's hands started trembling. Gods wasn't that a sight and a half. The Lord Commander's gaze snapped up to meet Robb's.
"You'd let them through the Wall?! After how many brothers have died fighting those bastards?!"
"And how many of them have died fighting you?" Robb yelled back. "Grow up, Mormont. See the bigger picture."
"Jeor," Benjen muttered, face white a sheet, voice trembling with barely contained sorrow. Robb knew what to look for. "The Free Folk… the Wildlings… they aren't our enemy. They never were."
The Greatjon rested a hand on Robb's shoulder.
"Aye, lad." He took a deep, hollow breath. "You're right. I fucking hate it with every single bone in my damned body. But you're right."
Robb nodded, mouth dry. "Lord Commander, have gear and materials prepared. My host can provide provisions, but we'll need a guide. I have to meet with Mance Rayder."
Authors Notes: I don't think it will take a genius to guess what's going to happen next.
One thing I've tried to do is rectify the whole 'White Walkers walking about doing nothing' plot hole. Here, there is no Night King (show watchers, I'm looking at you) and no ridiculous chains to lift Viserion from the bottom of the ocean. I'm sticking far closer to the books. The Others aren't mindless. They are intelligent, and they plan. There is an end goal for the Others, one beyond just killing everyone. And they have spies south of the Wall. You have already seen one on screen. The one element from the show I am keeping, because it works perfectly with the rules of magic as I have outlined them (magic cancels out magic), will be that wights are connected to the Other that raised them.
Also, slight side note, but Grammarly fucking hates the word "septa".
Next up, Arya and Bran reach the Gods' Eye, Davos has a moment of reflection, and Myrcella dispenses justice.
Then… Robb rides beyond the Wall.