Authors Notes: Sorry for my tardiness, everyone. I was cooking all day yesterday, and kind of just forgot about you all. Oops. The next chapter will be up on time, I promise.

Book II – Chapter 15: Children

A Queen's Mercy

It did not take long for Jon's cavalry to secure the field before Myrcella's ancestral home, and once they did, the Dornish infantry poured through the castle gates, slaughtering with abandon and fever.

Myrcella had never seen anything so utterly horrible and never wanted to again. She remained in the heart of the rear-guard of cavalry, a hundred mounted knights surrounding her at every moment, and had absolutely no desire to leave her bubble of protection.

Less than two hours after they'd arrived, Jon, Mat, Brienne, Lord Beric, Obella, Edric Dayne and Thoros of Myr were riding out of the chaos towards her, flecks of blood across their clothes and bodies. But they all seemed unharmed, thank the Seven, and Brienne was still flying the standard of Myrcella's father… her standard.

"Your Grace, the castle is ours," Jon proclaimed, and the riders around her burst into cheers, parting so Myrcella could join the approaching men.

"Well done, Ser Jon, Lord Beric. Renly Baratheon's rebellion is done. The Stormlands are ours."

More cheering and pumping of fists and bloody weapons. As much as the devastation made her want to vomit, Myrcella couldn't help the small well of pride that boiled up in her. Her plan had worked. She'd won.

Myrcella rode forward, very much aware of all the eyes on her, and did something entirely out of character for a woman. She slapped Jon on the back, then grabbed his arm in a firm hold. Just as her father would have done. Jon went with it perfectly, she could always trust him, and fortunately, Lord Beric copied the movement when she did the same with him, though he looked so confused Thoros started laughing at him (and what was her father's drinking buddy with the flaming sword doing here anyway?). Then, just to lay it on thick for the thousand sweaty men currently cheering and watching her, she raised Jon and Beric's arms high in the air.

"To Ser Jon!"

"SER JON!"

"To Lord Beric!"

"LORD BERIC!"

"Congratulations, both of you," Myrcella said, bowing her head to them. Mat rolled his eyes from a few metres away, and Myrcella poked her tongue out at him, careful not to be seen.

"Your Grace," Beric said, bowing his head as Myrcella released his hand, "Lord Tarly and Lord Tyrell are preparing to enter the drum. Would you like to be there when we bring the traitor to justice?" There was extra venom in his voice that Myrcella hadn't expected, and Jon flinched just slightly too. The cheering faded away, and Myrcella's heart plummeted. Someone had died. Someone well-liked and well known.

The Tyrell cavalry… where was its true commander? Where was Garlan?

"Yes. I very much would. It's time to have words with my Uncle," Myrcella said, glee vanishing from her face, replaced with all the rage she had inherited from Robert Baratheon himself.

Oh, she would be having a lot more than words.

Beric led them through the castle grounds, eventually coming to the centre courtyard of the enormous fortress and the tower's great gates. Dozens of men in Tarly and Tyrell colours stood waiting around the edges as a troop of Dornishmen bashed away at the locked doors with a ram. Willas and Tarly were waiting for them. Great, now she had to deal with Tarly again. She preferred the pirates.

Myrcella dismounted in a single smooth motion, Mat appearing at her left hand in a second, and Jon wasn't far behind as he materialised on her right. Brienne fell in behind her, as did the rest of Jon's people.

"My lords, congratulations on a well-fought campaign," Myrcella stated, putting on her best walk, letting the heels of her boots click on the cobbles, red-painted lips set in a straight line.

The two men bowed, but Randyll Tarly's eyes were on Jon the entire time, a calculating look crossing his face.

"Your Grace, your timing was perfect. I believe congratulations are owed to you as well for bringing House Tarth to us and securing passage for the Redwyne Fleet," Willas said, but the smile he offered her was devoid of warmth, eyes highlighted by black bags of sleeplessness.

"Celebrations will have to wait, I'm afraid. We have unfinished business. Lord Willas, I am so sorry for your loss."

Willas swallowed.

"Thank you, your grace. I…"

"Your Grace! Lord Willas!"

The entire group spun around as Lord Anders came galloping into the courtyard, entire gambeson stained with blood, arm in a red soaked sling.

"What has happened, my lord?" Myrcella asked, stepping up as Anders swung from his saddle, stumbling as he hit the ground. He shouldn't be on his feet.

"Your husband, the prince… No one knows what happened; it must have been an archer…."

"Trystane? Is he alright?!" Myrcella exclaimed, heart now pounding something fierce, fingers trembling.

"Your grace… he's dead."

Myrcella sealed her eyes shut to hold back the tears, turned all her focus to the sound of the ram slamming into the doors.

Trystane was dead.

"I don't understand," Jon spoke, but the words reached Myrcella through a fog. Distorted and blurred. "Why was the prince near the fighting?"

"He wasn't," Anders said, and Myrcella could tell just from the hesitancy in his words that there was something more. "He was behind the lines, surrounded by his guards. Three of his men are dead, two look like to die, and three are missing. The ground and the men were littered with arrow shafts."

A mounted cavalry attack the rest of the army missed, maybe? She didn't think so. Her husband was dead. She was a widow after only a few moons of marriage, most of that spent far apart. She may not have loved him, but Trystane was her friend. One of her first.

"Don't disturb the bodies," Jon said, "leave them all perfectly the same and have the Silent Sisters examine them. Something about this is off."

Myrcella opened her eyes and glanced towards her King. Her King.

Grandfather, you motherfucking bastard.

Tywin Lannister knew who Jon was, and he'd just cleared the way to reveal his existence and marry Myrcella to him. But…

Oh no. The baby! Margaery!

He would murder Margaery and her baby if he thought she was standing in the way of a Lannister sitting on the throne.

In the way of Myrcella sitting on the throne. If Margaery died, then Jon would have to marry Myrcella to keep the South. A perfect plot.

And Myrcella would have everything she ever wanted. Respect, the love of the people, the Iron Throne… and the man she loved. All she had to do was wait. All she had to do, was nothing.

Please, please, please don't do this to me. Seven, Old Gods, Mother Rhoyne, God of Fire, whoever is listening… let her live, let her child live. Spare me this choice. Don't let it sit on the table like a golden apple, waiting for me to reach out.

You worthless, horrible friend. You can't even bring yourself to say you'd never take it, can you? Because that's it. If the opportunity presented itself to take the Iron Throne in truth and love Jon as you want, you aren't sure you'll say no. Some friend you are.

I don't want to become my mother. Don't show me that path. Let me win this war and return to being Myrcella, Princess of Dorne, Lady of the Stormlands. Margaery's friend. Jon's friend.

Don't make me choose.

The ram crashed through the doors, and Tyrell soldiers waiting around the edge of the wall started pouring inside, Lord Tarly and his Valyrian Steel sword leading the charge.

"Cella?" Mat's voice. His hand on her shoulder. Jon was whispering in hushed tones to Obella and Edric, both of whom nodded rapidly then rushed away to mount their horses. No doubt off to find Trystane's body and protect it.

Her husband was dead, and her grandfather already schemed to marry her off to someone else.

Such was the life of a Princess.

You're a Queen now, Myrcella. Your grandfather can't order you to do anything.

A Queen for how long?

A little over an hour of silence and memories of Trystane laughing over the crevasse board, Randyll Tarly returned with a crown of antlers and jewels in his hand. Gaudy, heavy and useless. He handed it to Myrcella.

"We have him."

She nodded, swallowing her fears for a brief moment, bringing everything she'd ever been taught to the foreground. Don't show weakness. You are powerful. You are the Queen right now. Act like it.

Together, the Lords of the Reach, Dorne, the Red Mountains and the Marches entered the fortress of Durran Godsgrief, led through bloodstained and torch-lit corridors by Tarly men. Until they reached the Great Hall of Storm's end, an enormous glass-domed hall usually reserved for banquets and dancing. Renly Baratheon had turned the once regal hall into a tourney ground. Tiered wooden seating had been raised around the walls, sand apparently carried inside and hard-packed over the stone floor. And he'd placed a throne on the dais at the head of the room. A solid slab of white marble inlaid with gold veins. The throne of the Storm Kings of old. It must have been stored away in some cellar or vault.

The Tarly men not holding prisoners at sword point around the room were in the process of tearing down the banners Renly had erected around the hall displaying the sigils of the houses that supported him. Her Uncle himself was on his knees in the centre of the room, hands locked in stocks behind him, feet in chains, knights surrounding him on all sides. Oh, and he was buck ass naked. She hadn't needed that image. Especially not when her stomach was already prepared to vomit.

"Very clever, niece. Far too clever for you, I imagine. Which of your generals did you steal the idea from so you could pass it off as your own?"

Myrcella ignored him, striding past the chained and naked man and mounting the dais. Mat kicked the former King in the balls as they passed. Renly had placed a lavish cushion on the harsh marble. Myrcella tossed it away. To sit the throne should be a burden, not a pleasure. Margaery had taught her that.

Myrcella took her seat, trying her best to channel her father from what little she remembered of him in his prime. Brienne and Jon took the standard of the Baratheons' of old, and the Durrandons before them, returning it to its rightful place at the head of the room, hanging over Myrcella's head. The rest of the Lords and Ladies – Allyria Dayne and an apparently returned Edric, Anders, Wyl and Dolt, Tarly and Oakheart, Captain Hightower, Paxtor Redwyne, Beric Dondarrion, Donnel Swann, and Willas and his mother Alerie – took places around the room. And there was a bald man in flowing robes who slipped into the room at the last minute.

Lord Varys.

"My strategy seems to have worked far better than yours did, Uncle," Myrcella said, ignoring his initial remark. Nothing she said in response would change the minds of anyone here. Many undoubtedly thought the idea had not been her own – Randyll Tarly certainly did, given his look towards Jon. But it had been her plan, and no one could deny she had single-handedly pulled it off. "I haven't been holding tourneys and parades. I have been fighting a war, or did you only remember that when my army pulled up outside your gates?"

"Should a king not entertain his subjects and shower upon them the fruits of his reign? What have you shown those who profess to follow you, niece? Dead brothers and dead sons? That is the promise of Queen Myrcella." Jon dug his nails into his palm, then leaned over and whispered in Myrcella's ear.

"Loras killed Garlan as a diversion for Renly to escape Bronzegate."

Holy fucking hell. That was… that was horrible. No wonder Willas looked so haunted.

I'm sorry, Alerie.

"Well, if a king is to emulate you, Uncle, he must take lessons in cowardice and foul deceit. Kinslaying is the gravest crime in this world. You may not have swung the sword yourself, but I hope the gods condemn you to the seventh hell, where you sent Loras to when you ordered him to kill his own brother."

Alerie gripped Willas' arm in a vice, tears streaming down her face, and Myrcella couldn't even begin to imagine the pain of knowing your sons died fighting against one another. Even Renly shivered on the sand-covered floor as she spoke the words.

"Thanks to you, the Stormlands were shattered. Thousands of our people – men and women and children supposed to be under the protection of House Baratheon – lay dead because of your ego. Or perhaps you believe that a woman, even the daughter of your own brother the King, was unworthy of the throne? Now, you lay in the dirt, and this woman has put you there. Tell me, Uncle Renly, am I unworthy now?"

Renly snarled at her, and one of the guards yanked his chains.

"YES!" he shouted, voice ricocheting around the stone walls. "You are no child of my brother! You're a bastard born of incest!"

…

What?

Her hesitation cost her, as Renly turned to the crowd, face contorted like a rabid animal.

"Jon Arryn learned the truth; he sent me a raven, explaining everything…."

"Ha!" Myrcella exclaimed, desperate to regain control of the conversation. Smart of him to throw something so outlandish into the air moments before his inevitable execution. A last-ditch effort to discredit her. It was a joke, really. "Jon Arryn explained it to you, did he? Jon Arryn, who is in open rebellion against the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and losing as the Lannister army – my army – smashes his knights into the Trident? I forgive you for being taken in by such ridiculous fancy, Uncle. You are, after all, of a clearly feeble mind."

Mat snorted, the sound carrying across the room. He lowered his head and mumbled a short 'sorry'.

Myrcella rose from the throne, staring down at her Uncle. And, for a brief and single moment, she let all her hate and fear and anger pour out, flushing what taint she could from her body and mind.

If not for him, Garlan would still be alive. Maybe Trystane would still be alive. Thousands would still be alive.

Defeated he may be, but he was still dangerous. Very dangerous.

"I have no need to hear your explanations or your delusions, Uncle. I see before me a murderer and a traitor to his kin. I choose to remember you as I did as a girl, not this power-hungry egoist fool you have become. Ser Jon?"

"Yes, your Grace?"

"I, Myrcella of the House Baratheon, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, strip Renly of the House Baratheon of all his lands and titles and sentence him to death. In honour and memory of and Ser Garlan Tyrell, who was your mentor and friend, will you deliver the Queen's Mercy?"

Jon, solemn-faced, anger burning in his eyes, bowed low.

"Aye, your Grace."

Jon drew his sword, and the guards forced Renly's head out before him.

Then, without a single word, Jon removed her traitorous Uncle's head from his body.

A bastard born of incest, how utterly ridiculous. Her father had no sister to fuck, and her mother…

It was ridiculous, wasn't it?

Davos of Fleebottom

Davos stood atop Highgarden's outer wall, watching as the King and his elite guard rode out the northwest gate, bound for the Riverlands and the army that awaited them there. But the northwest gate was home to the Warrens, and he couldn't help his eyes and his thoughts from dwelling on the shanty roofs of Highgarden's incarnation of Fleebottom.

Or, well, that wasn't so fair a comparison. Davos had spent quite a bit of time walking through the slum district since they'd occupied the city a moon turn ago now, and it was clear that far more thought and attention was paid to the Warrens than the lords of Kings Landing had ever given to Fleebottom. Oh, it was still a hobble, and the people still poor, but there was no shit in the streets, the crime was far lower, and Davos had seen not one person eating a bowl of brown.

The fires they'd set in the slum had ripped through the rotting wood and thatch with a vengeance – he estimated nearly a third of the buildings had been burnt down, another third damaged in some way from the smoke or ash. Fifty-three people had died.

Davos hadn't taken any wages since, diverting all his money to rebuilding efforts.

That was when he first started hearing the whispers.

He knew neighbourhoods like Fleebottom. Understood them on a fundamental level. The Warrens shouldn't have been different. Shoulders slumped, a heavy canvas bag turned into a tunic thrown over his chest, rough trousers with a rope for a belt holding them up, and Davos could walk those roads of dirt and mud as if he were born there.

Because he had been.

He had expected to see resignation, pity, defeat and indifference. When an invading force conquered a city, little changed for the poor. Especially when a good king like Stannis forbid looting or raping. For them, the days just rolled by. They sold what they could, bought what they could, and tried to feed their families. The lucky ones earned enough to get by or had a job they enjoyed. The unlucky ones…

What Davos found instead was very different. He found anger. A deep and bitter resentment. Conversations in alleyways, harsh glances towards the Baratheon soldiers marching on the curtain wall above, gatherings in fire-blackened homes and buildings. And every funeral was held in the same place: the only two-storey building in the Warrens – a town hall of a kind, known locally as 'the Lady's House'.

A Lady? In the Warrens? That had piqued Davos' curiosity, so he'd made his way into the building, following a crowd of people as the sun began to set.

Inside, he found an open hall built around an enormous fire pit, beds of straw and canvas scattered around the space, all occupied. Men worked together to stack the fires and chop wood, while circles of women worked a dozen beaten iron pots filled to the brim with stew and broth. Children ran around, playing chase games or sitting beside the elderly as they leaned over the crevasse board. Laughter and chatter echoed constantly, voices bouncing around the high ceiling. A ceiling of sturdy hardwood, Davos noted, rather than the far more typical thatch.

It was a homeless shelter, he quickly realised, but Davos had never seen anything similar at this scale before. Certainly not in Fleebottom, where even the orphans and children had to fend for themselves.

But it was also more than that. There was a single space clear of beds, home to the only chair in the building. Right at the head of the firepit. And somebody had carved a gorgeous effigy of a rose into its back.

Suffice to say, Davos struggled to believe the Tyrells had ever cared anything about the Warrens or the people who lived there. Why would a group of homeless people honour the family that lived in the castle above them, looking down while dressed in silk?

Davos had spent the next week stewing over what he learned, coming no closer to answers. Then, he listened as Stannis debated with Margaery Tyrell, locked in her tower chamber.

Davos was not a learned man. He couldn't read, for a start, and understood even less of political theory or the machinations of the high-born. What he did know was people. He understood how they reacted, how emotion could drive anyone to feats they'd never dreamed of before.

A ruler of love, or a ruler of duty. Davos didn't understand why you couldn't have a leader who respected both. A ruler who felt both passion for his people and a responsibility to make his country better. Yet Stannis and Margaery seemed convinced that you could only be one or the other. Why? Why did it have to be that way?

The debate between the two of them had left Davos with much to think about, an itch scratching at the back of his neck. It had driven him back to the sanctuary in the Warrens. This time though, a mural had been painted on the far side of the room. The visage of a woman wearing a crown of roses, dressed in rags, begging in the street. A man stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder.

"Who is she?" Davos had asked one of the cooks, an older woman who looked in charge of the others.

The woman had frowned at him, clearly confused by the question.

"Are yer a newcomer then?"

"Aye," Davos had answered, "my town was burned a week ago. I… I didn't have anywhere else to go."

The woman had instantly grabbed a bowl of broth and pushed it into his hands, then set one of the girls to search for an empty spot on the floor. There hadn't been one, so the girls had rushed into a back room and emerged with blankets and some straw a few moments later. It was, perhaps, one of the nicest things anyone had ever done for him. A complete and total stranger. And the broth was good. Better tasting than soldiers rations for sure, though a smaller portion.

"Who is she? Did she build this place?" Davos asked again.

"She's ourLady. The Lady of the House. No one's ever done anything for us like she has. Helped us when she could have just sat up there like all 'em others. And this Stannis? He comes and sets the place on fire! He and his lot can go fuck 'emselves. My girl and her boys died in the fires, saved her entire life to buy that tiny house. Now it's gone, they're gone, and the Lady's locked up. So, we're doing what she'd want us to. We're working together, pooling what we can find. Built this place, opened a kitchen, letting people like you and me sleep under a roof. And the lads, they're trying to find a way to get her out. Now she needs our help, and we're not gonna sit on our asses."

"Who is she?"

"She's our Lady. That's all that matters."

Oh, Davos wasn't stupid. Had spent the last week investigating, talking to people throughout the city, even interrogating the Maester Stannis had locked in the Tyrell cells. He knew it was Margaery they were talking about.

How had she earned such loyalty? Davos didn't have a choice but to believe the stories he found because everyone told the exact same one. Margaery Tyrell gave patronage to the orphanages, the whorehouses, and the low markets. She begged on the streets, clerked for businesses in the Warrens or worked for wages in the smelters, and reformed the tax code, raising the standard of living in the Warrens and the city's outer rings. Even spent time teaching the storeowners how to sell their goods more effectively.

There were other names mentioned alongside hers too. A Ser Jon that Davos assumed must be the father of the girl's bastard babe. He'd left with the Tyrell soldiers. And talk about a young girl called Arya – Arya Stark? Eddard Stark's daughter who'd fostered in Highgarden with Willas Tyrell? But it was always the Lady they held in highest esteem, and that anger at King Stannis was tied directly into the treatment of Margaery Tyrell.

Now, a moon turn since the occupation began, the treasury still not found, the girl's babe apparently close to birth, and Stannis had received intelligence of a secret meeting in the Riverlands. The perfect opportunity to break the stalemate and deal a crippling blow to the Lannisters.

But Davos was more conflicted now than he'd ever been, so even after Stannis' party disappeared over the northern horizon and grey storm clouds grew overhead, he remained to stare out at the rolling fields of the Reach.

A ruler of love. Was that what Margaery Tyrell had meant? The people in Highgarden were utterly devoted, yet the Septons and Septas of the Seven all hated her. Even mentioning her name in their company was a sure-fire way to starting a tirade. 'She worships the heathen gods of the barbarians!' 'She disparages the Faith!' 'She insulted the High Septon to his very face!' 'She conceived a child out of wedlock, sleeping around like a common whore!' 'A high-lady birthing a bastard?! Has she learnt nothing from her own history!?' 'Consorting with whores and lowlifes and giving her maidenhead to a bastard? She is no lady!'

It went on and on and on. Davos had never gained a headache faster.

The few remaining lords and surviving squires spoke of her unorthodox lifestyle and refusal to accept courtship requests. But they stopped short of mentioning the Warrens or her patronage, though Davos got the impression they cared little whether she did the work or not. The middle class – the trades masters and innkeepers and professionals – waxed poetic her credentials. She sent them apprentices, introduced people of a similar mind and profession, approved expansion requests and employed their daughters in the castle above.

On the surface, Margaery and Stannis didn't seem very different. They were both people of incredible character and formidable presence; they simply manifested it in different ways. Stannis was the archetype of the stern, masculine general. Margaery was the epitome of a queen of the people, charismatic to a fault. But Stannis was not well-loved on Dragonstone. Not amongst the people or the lords under his command. Margaery… there were few, it seemed, who didn't love her. And Olenna Tyrell – by all accounts a shrewd and wilful woman – had committed suicide rather than be used against her granddaughter. Was that the difference then? Duty vs love?

Davos owed everything to Stannis. His life, his lands, his titles, his wife and children even. Yet he couldn't help his gaze flicking between the burned houses in the Warrens, the wreckage along the lower tier, or up to the high tower.

Stannis was a dutiful, loyal, and honourable man, and Davos believed he'd make a great King. The love the people of Highgarden held for Margaery Tyrell was admirable, but it couldn't protect the country from what was coming. Dragons. Horrors of the sky. But Stannis had never done anything to help the people like Margaery had. The girl had been right in the tower. For Stannis, people were only important when they were useful or proved themselves worthy – like Davos had done. Why? Why didn't Stannis do more for the smallfolk? If a girl of barely seventeen name-days could do it, why couldn't he?

The nation vs the country. The people vs the land. What was more important?

He didn't know what to do. How to reconcile these two things together. It would take someone far wiser than he was. Davos just wasn't built for philosophy. But didn't he have an obligation to the people of Fleebottom – those still alive at least – and others like them? Davos had escaped that life. Made something of himself. Now, this girl had shown him a way to give back, to help others like Stannis had helped him. Didn't he owe them? Or was he just a hypocrite all those times he'd told people to stop calling him a knight?

"Milord Hand?" a runner called, appearing at Davos side.

"What is it, lad?"

"A raven from the fleet barricading Oldtown. Lord Velaryon says the Ironborn have started raiding up and down the coast. We've lost control of the Shield Islands."

Davos growled low in his throat. Damn bloody Ironborn.

"Tell Velaryon to retake the Shield Islands and send word to the patrols watching the roads south and east. Tell them to double their sweeps. It won't be long now before we're exposed. If they can buy us another week or two before a rider or a raven makes it to the Tyrell army, they can lose a few hours' sleep."

"Aye milord!" he said, before scuttling away.

Davos ran a hand through his hair just as the first drops of rain began to fall. He needed to find that treasury. Then they could leave Highgarden behind, and Davos could stop thinking about philosophy and Margaery Tyrell.

The God's Eye

They reached the God's Eye on a day of clear skies, nearly two weeks after Arya and Bran reunited. There was not a cloud to be seen, wind perfectly still, air full of birdsong, and in the far distance, Bran could just see the melted tower tops of Harrenhal. Any other time, he would have been thrilled, but he just couldn't bring himself to feel excited. He was too scared of what came next.

All the wolves and Arya's horse had remained behind on the far bank – well, all except Nymeria and Summer, who refused to leave their sides. The humans had then crossed the river on a fishing boat Arya had found the night before, Nymeria and Summer swimming alongside. Bran and Ysilla had not asked how or where she'd gotten it.

Now, Arya was pitching her tent a short distance from a half-buried stone that looked far too cylindrical to be natural while Ysilla and Nymeria gathered wood for a fire. Ysilla had bathed in the lake before making the crossing, and her hair was still a little damp, and water droplets clung to her skin, sparkling as the sunlight caught each one. What was Bran doing? He was staring at the wall of towering oaks that bared their passage inward, Summer at his heel. He thought… he thought he could feel a dull, thumping sound. Like a heartbeat, maybe. And it was coming from within.

"What do we do now?" Ysilla asked, coming to stand beside him, biting her lip.

Arya snorted, rising from the unlit campfire and standing behind them with folded arms.

"Bran has to lift some hammer? What's a hammer going to do against those things? Where's the bloody old man when you need him?"

Bran winced. That vision had shaken them all, and while Bran and Ysilla both refused to talk about it, Arya was rather vocal in expressing her dislike of the Raven. They both let her rant; it was pretty obvious it was his sister's way of coping. As the weeks progressed, Bran's dreams had taken him back to the Wall again and again. He'd seen his brother arrive at Castle Black, and Uncle Benjen stuck with arrows and forced to flee on a dead man's horse.

But he'd also gained some measure of control, enough to cast his mind in the opposite direction. He'd even managed, briefly, to see through the Weirwood in Highgarden and catch a glimpse of Jon's girlfriend, locked up in a tower. Jon, unfortunately, was too far away from a Weirwood for Bran to find him. Arya had been quite upset when Bran said he couldn't contact their brother. Instead, she'd set Sandspray running south with a message tied around her neck explaining the situation in the Riverlands, the threat to the North, and what Bran needed to do about it. Then she'd sent Lady away west with some other mission she hadn't bothered to tell him. Ghost had clearly wanted to go south, but Darkeyes was ready to go into labour, and he'd stayed behind with her instead. Arya said they'd built a den somewhere by the lakeside and that the pups were expected in the coming days. That made Bran smile a little. Direwolf puppies. Who would have thought it?

As if in answer to Arya's question, two of the enormous trees groaned, twigs snapping and bark creaking as the trunks literally stretched apart to form a short and dark passage. A pair of green eyes appeared within, and Arya drew a knife, her blue-eyed gyrfalcon flying down from the sky to land on her forearm, beady black eyes narrowed towards the opening. Bran stepped in front of Ysilla, breath quickening. Only Nymeria remained calm, sitting down on her rear paws, simply watching.

A small figure, like a girl but only half Bran's size, emerged from the tunnel. Her skin was grey and brown, like clumps of dirt in the rain, with big eyes slit like a cat and rough red hair falling straight from her head to the ground, lilies and roses weaved through the strands. And she was naked.

"What are you?" Arya whispered.

The creature looked towards Arya, lips quirking in a smile full of razor-sharp teeth.

"Your ancestors called us the Children, but we were born long before them. I am Willow; come, the Elders await you."

The Child of the Forest turned around and walked back the way she came, disappearing into the dark. Bran shared a look with the two girls, who just shrugged. Nymeria took the lead, Arya right behind, falcon still perched on those armguards she wore, one of her Needles in the other hand. Bran hesitated, heart beating in his throat. Ysilla took his hand, beckoning him forward with kind eyes and a nervous smile. That, at least, made him feel a little better, and together they disappeared within, Summer holding the rear.

The pitch-dark passage lasted only about a minute before it widened out, torch bugs providing a soft green and gold light from their tails. The air was heavy, like in the Neck, but Bran thought it felt different. More… pure, somehow.

The thumping was growing louder.

They rounded a corner, and a sudden rush fell over him. A… a noticeable absence he couldn't quite explain. Almost as if something had disappeared from him, something he hadn't realised had been there at all. A weight lifting from his mind, and he… was Summer still there? He glanced behind him, but the direwolf seemed unaffected.

Arya had felt it too. Stumbling slightly, then looking around in confusion. The falcon took flight from Arya's arm with a squawk, gliding down the passage and over Willow's head. Arya cursed, then followed after the bird, Nymeria at her side.

They emerged into a clearing formed from enormous white-barked Weirwood trees with carved faces of different shapes and styles. The grass beneath their feet was the greenest Bran had ever seen, and it even smelt fresher somehow. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of red leaves above them, casting the entire space in soft crimson light. The only opening in the ceiling sat right at the apex, a beam of sunlight pouring down into the heart of the clearing, where a ring of river stones separated the grass from a field of brown earth. Four statues roughly the size of a man, carved from Weirwood bark, appeared to be standing guard around something in the centre. A tree stump with an odd mist clinging to the wood.

That was where the thumping was coming from. Bran had been right. It was a heartbeat. He could feel it calling to the blood in his body, pulling on his very bones, drawing him in…

"Bran?"

Bran shook himself, looking around. Ysilla's hand was still in his own, and she was staring at him in concern. Arya, meanwhile, was staring at the Children surrounding the statues. Fifteen small people, similar in appearance to Willow, all of them watching Bran's every move. The Raven flew down from the opening above, landing atop one of the statues, perching on its head.

"Ah… hi," Bran said, waving awkwardly, the hairs on the back of his head standing up.

"This is the one? He has the gift of the ancients?" One of the children asked, looking towards the Raven.

"Yes," the Raven's voice whispered, though it was odd, almost muffled. As if it were trying to push through a great fog. "One of the last on this continent."

"Very well," another of the Children said, standing beneath the tallest statue. This one was clearly old, a grey and red beard stretching to the grass to match his hair. Or, well, Bran thought it was a he. It was hard to tell.

"Um, what is it I have to do exactly?" Bran asked, voice coming out far higher in pitch than he'd intended. Come on, Bran, get it together.

The Children turned as one and pointed towards the stump. That's not creepy at all.

"The Hammer of Waters; a relic of ages past," Willow explained. "The Greenseers of ancient days have used it before. Once, to sever the Arm of Dorne, another time to drown the Neck, and long before even that to drive the western invaders away. The last time, Brandon the Builder used it to construct the Wall and halt the advance of the Others. Then, he and his companions hid the weapon here and ordered it left untouched so the power men and Children alike had squandered would have time to build up once more."

Bran swallowed. The mist hovering about the tree-stump seemed to pulse with anticipation, whispering on the wind, calling him forward.

"What does Bran have to do when he picks it up?" Ysilla asked, biting her lip.

"For a brief moment, he will hold in his hands the power to remake the world," the Elder said, voice low and croaking. "The Hammer has rested here building strength for five-thousand years. Our best chance to undo the magic binding the Others to this universe permanently and cast them back into the void. One chance, one hammer stroke, to save the world."

Bran clamped his jaw closed to prevent his teeth from chattering too hard. This was mad. And yet, here he was, and those creatures of ice and hate from the Raven's vision had to be stopped.

"How do I do it?" He asked, steeling himself as best he could.

"I will teach you what I can. But we must hurry. They have discerned my plan and already move to counter us. Sit, Brandon Stark, and prepare. The future of everything is at stake."