Book II – Chapter 17: The Angel's Light

The Free Folk

"Hey, Lord Kneeler, get your face out of my hair. We're here."

Robb groaned, forcing his heavy eyelids open. He expected shadowed skies and bitter cold. What he found instead was hair like the spun gold pressing against his eyes, and an intoxicating scent of freshness filling his nose.

He jerked back as if burned and fell from the Wildling girl's horse, crashing into the snow beside Grey Wind.

Only then did he realise that a ring of people clothed in mismatched animal furs and leathers had crowded around them. And all of them burst out laughing at him.

Laughter.

It was anathema after what he'd seen.

Robb sat up, shaking the snow from his hair. He was in the Wildling camp, and Uncle Benjen had not been exaggerating when he described the sheer size of it. Everywhere he looked, rows upon rows of tents stretched into eternity, covering the snowy plain. The surrounding forest had been cleared, creating a barrier between the settlement and the horrors lurking beneath the trees. The Wildlings were more or less as Robb had expected them to look.

Like people.

He spotted burly men, little children, awkward teens, expectant mothers, women warriors… so many people, crowded so close together, and with one single goal.

Robb understood it a little better now.

Hearing about… them… was one thing. Seeing them was something else.

Maege and Harrion and over two-dozen of his men dead. Only he, Dacey and the Greatjon had made it out alive. Thanks to the Wildlings.

Quite the bitter pill to swallow.

The… the giant placed the Greatjon on the ground beside Robb, and the huge man vomited across the snow, nearly spilling his entire guts across the trodden earth. Robb honestly couldn't blame him. Being manhandled by a giant… well, it wasn't precisely ego-boosting, especially for an Umber, whose sigil was a giant wrapped in chains. If they ever made it back to the Wall, Robb would never let the man live it down.

Dacey threw herself to the ground with as little dignity as Robb and the Greatjon, back peddling away from the red-bearded Wilding. He had this ferocity in his eyes that at once drew you in and warned you away. But his face contorted in the biggest grin, and the way he joined the rest of the Wildlings in their bellowing laughter almost seemed to diffuse some of the tension.

For all that the scene was obviously hilarious; the surrounding Wildlings never let their hands stray from the crude weapons at their sides.

Robb, Dacey and the Greatjon were vastly outnumbered.

The Wildling girl dismounted, handing her horse off to one of the gathered Wildlings. She approached Robb with a warm smile, and though the sky was still mostly obscured by thick clouds, daylight finally awarded him a look at his rescuer.

A mane of golden curls cascaded down her back, a sharp contrast against her all-white clothing and thick bearskin cloak. Vivid grey eyes, one just a bit higher than the other, stared as if evaluating Robb as intently as he was studying her. She bit her lip, rosy and pink against the paleness of her skin. Her face was perfectly round. And not the only thing, he quickly realised as he took in the rest of her.

Oh, and she was easily six feet tall. Probably more.

Which meant she was a good half a head taller than Robb.

The eagle, whose feathers matched the colouring of the girl's hair, soared down from the sky and landed on her shoulder.

She seemed to come to some sort of confusion, nodding a few times to herself. Robb could have sworn he heard a muttered, "he'll definitely do."

Then she reached down and offered her hand.

He grabbed it at the elbow, and she pulled him to his feet.

"I'm Val," she said, quirking her lip into a sort of half-smile.

"Robb. Thanks for saving our asses."

Val chuckled.

"Lucky I was in the neighbourhood."

Robb opened his mouth to say more – something stupid probably – but the Greatjon finally appeared to find his voice.

"Bloody hells… You're one big motherfucker yer know that?!" He shouted up at the giant. A squished and very asymmetrical face glanced down at the Greatjon – a man very used to being the tallest in any given room – in return, with something akin to amusement stretched there. The giant spoke; slow, melodic words booming down like thunder from above, and Val giggled.

Robb immediately knew he wanted to hear that sound again.

The Greatjon turned to Val.

"What he say?"

Val's face broke into an enormous grin, like Arya after she'd discovered a new staff member to play with. "He said he takes offence at the implication that he fucks his mother."

The Greatjon blushed! His cheeks tinted red, eyes widening in alarm.

"Uh, sorry, Master giant… it was a compliment, right and honest."

The Wildlings burst out laughing again, and, yeah, he really needed to bottle Val's giggling. There was this musical quality to it, like the tinkling of chimes in the wind.

The giant spoke again, and Val translated.

"He says… um, okay, that's a new one. He says he likes you, but… uh, I swear I'm not jesting, but you should squirm less? Or wriggle, maybe, I'm not sure. Either way, apparently he believes it might give your mother… no that was probably wife… some troubles."

Now it was Robb's turn to explode in a fit of laughter, and he grabbed Grey Wind's coat to support himself. The Greatjon looked like he wanted to take his axe and bury it in his own head.

"Hey! Hands off, mate!" Dacey shouted, batting away an offered hand from the red-bearded Wildling. This man was a warrior if ever Robb had seen one. Massive, thick of frame, broad in the shoulder, and muscled practically everywhere. His garb was considerably better than the Wildlings surrounding them; sturdy ring mail, with twin armbands of golden metal clasped around his forearms, each one engraved with old runes like those in the crypts beneath Winterfell.

If they'd been born on the same side of the Wall, he and the Greatjon probably would have been best friends.

Dacey clambered to her feet, gripping… gripping her mother's dragonglass mace. She must have grabbed it as they fled the camp. Her gaze scanned the assembled onlookers, then settled on Val, and she seemed to somehow deflate like a pigskin. Her shoulders slumped, breath fleeing her lungs in a moment.

"That's just not fair."

"You mean Val?" the red-bearded Wildling stated, appearing beside Dacey once more and slinging his arm across her shoulder. "Pah, she is pretty, sure, but she is not kissed by fire like me! I assure you, Dacey the mighty spearwife, that I can teach you far more than Val here can her new toy. For I am Tormund Giantsbane, Tall-talker, Horn-blower, Breaker of Ice, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods and Father of Hosts! You are a lucky woman indeed, for there are none that match my prowess or skill on the battlefield or in the dance of man and woman! And I assure you, my member is the greatest you will ever set eyes…."

Dacey elbowed the burly man right in the nose. He stumbled back, tripped over his own feet, and fell into a snowdrift. Peals of laughter erupted from the crowd again; Robb, the Greatjon… even the giant joined in. Dacey looked down at 'Tormund Giantsbane', then up at Val.

"He's always like that, isn't he?"

Val snorted.

"Oh, you have no idea."

The laughter died, and the Wildlings parted in a wave, creating a corridor through the tent city. A man stood at the far end, silhouetted against a great tent topped by a rack of elk antlers.

An old and slender man of a height with Robb, dressed in heavy ring mail, a bronze helmet tied to his belt. A black cloak slashed with red hung over his shoulders.

Robb berated himself internally. He'd forgotten why they'd come north in the first place. It was time to be the Lord of Winterfell again.

Taking a deep breath, Robb drew himself to full height and placed a hand on Longclaw's hilt, finding comfort in the simple leather grip. The man turned on his heel and re-entered the tent.

"What's he like? Your King Beyond the Wall?"

Val bit her lip, standing side by side with him as the Greatjon and Dacey flanked him.

"We don't kneel to him for a start, so none of that southerner nonsense."

"We aren't southerners," the Greatjon said.

"You're from south of the Wall. To us, that makes you southerners."

Well, he couldn't fault her logic.

Val looked Robb in the eye. "You want him to take you seriously? Earn it. Up here, your titles mean nothing, Robb Stark. Only your actions and intentions matter."

Robb hadn't told her his family name.

He nodded all the same, and Val's eagle shifted from her shoulder to perch on Grey Wind's back once more. Why the direwolf let the eagle do that, Robb had no idea.

Val led the three of them to Mance Rayder's tent, Tormund bringing up the rear – much to the Greatjon's apparent displeasure. She held the tent flap open, and the group slipped inside – though Grey Wind elected to remain by the door.

The interior was cosy and inviting, woven rugs covering the floor, wooden chairs scattered around a small fire pit. Mance Rayder himself sat in a chair no more ornate than any other, arms folded over his legs. It was not to Robb the man spoke to first, but Val.

"I told you, I told you not to go out there, and you did it anyway." His voice was harsh, cold, but no more than Robb's father had been when he caught Robb and Theon trying to slink away to Wintertown.

"You don't tell me to do anything, Mance," Val stated. "My sister might be your wife, but you have no control over me. As a matter of fact, I distinctly remember telling you that the Raven spoke to me, and you ignored my warning!"

Val was a princess? A Wildling Princess. A gorgeous, fiery, Wilding Princess.

Arya would love this girl.

"She has you there," Tormund stated, stepping into the tent behind Dacey and the Greatjon.

Mance turned to Robb, staring at him with shrewd eyes, and Robb blinked.

"I know you. I've seen you before, haven't I?"

Mance sat back in his chair, face slackening enough to reveal the laugh lines gathered at the corners of his lips.

"You remember me? I must say, I'm surprised. Your uncle didn't."

Robb frowned at the man, trying to place the familiar visage. He remembered a smoke-filled hall, and a lute? His father laughing on one of Benjen's rare visits, Arya throwing food at Sansa, Robb sneaking down to take a seat with Jon near the…

Near the lute player.

Robb glanced behind Mance, and sure enough, resting against the back of the chair was an ornate lute. Not something you expected to find out here.

"You played the lute in Winterfell on one of Benjen's visits. I was sitting with Jon at the low table. It was just before he left for Highgarden… How in the hells did you end up here?"

Mance raised an eyebrow.

"I could ask you the same. Where is your father, Lord Stark? Or does he think me so beneath his notice that he sends a green boy to treat with me?"

"My father is dead," Robb snaped, fury boiling up from the depths of his heart at the mention of his father. This man might claim to be a king, but Robb was Lord Paramount of the North, and it was time he was showed the respect that position demanded. "Incinerated along with King Robert and all the other Lords Paramount. Kings Landing is a crater, the kingdoms below at war. You have no understanding of just how hard it was for me to keep the North neutral. To resist the urge to march down the Neck, avenge my father, and help my brother secure his birthright. Instead, I came here to meet you and lost good friends in the process. So, 'your Grace', are you going to show me the respect that I deserve? Or are we going to keep playing games?"

That… may have been a bit much. But Robb was tired, angry, and scared. Everything had happened so fast, he hadn't the time to process it. He'd seen monsters from the deepest of the seven hells kill his men, people he respected, his friend, with frightening ease. They'd sacrificed their lives to get Robb here, to make an offer of peace to a group of people his country had been fighting for centuries. He had no intention of playing any games.

A moment passed, another. Then Mance rose to his feet and bowed his head. Robb did the same. Progress.

"Very well, Lord Stark. I'm sorry to hear about your father. He was an honourable man."

If Robb listened hard enough, that sound like a creaky hinge would be Tormund's jaw falling open. He glanced out the corner of his eye. Val was smirking something fierce. He couldn't see the Greatjon or Dacey, but he trusted them to keep a straight face and not give their thoughts or opinions away.

"Why have you come here?"

Robb stepped forward, coming eye to eye with the grey-haired former member of the Night's Watch. (And, apparently, former bard? Robb almost wanted to demand the man sit down for drinks and explain his life story.)

"To save your people."

Mance's ash-brown eyes clouded over slightly as the man frowned.

"Why?"

"Because I've seen those things, just as you have, and the only thing that can save you is our Wall, and you know it. That's why you're marching south."

"I don't want to fight you, Mance. You or your kin. We may be ancient enemies, but as far as I'm concerned, the Wild… the Free-Folk, have just as much a right to live as anyone else does. Those nightmares out in the dark? They want to kill us all. Every member of the Free Folk and Black Brother they rip to pieces will just rise and join them. I will not sentence women and children to become those fucking monsters because of old hatreds they and I had no part in. If we want to stop the Others, you must come south. The Wall was built by my ancestor to keep the Others out. We have to hope it still works."

Mance narrowed his eyes. "And the catch? I am no fool, Lord Stark. If you let my people into your kingdom, you'll expect us all to kneel and throw away our culture. I would rather die up here than discard everything that makes me who I am, and those who stand with me agree."

Robb exhaled in annoyance. "I'm not going to take away your bloody culture. You can still live as you want to live. There are lands in the North devoid of men and structure – if you've been to Winterfell, you obviously know that. The Northern Mountains are nearly empty, and the hill-tribes there are closer kin to you than us. So long as the tribesmen don't revolt against House Stark or attack the innocent, they are permitted to live in peace and isolation. Your people can do the same if that is your choice. The forests, hills and cervices around the Long Lake belong to House Stark, but their only inhabitants are hunters and gamers. I will give those lands to you, as is my right to give them to anyone. Or, if that is too far south for you, the Free-Folk may settle in the New Gift and do what they will. There is farmable land completely unused. You can start your own houses or live as you do now in clans or communities. I don't care. I won't even take away what riches you have – I'm reasonably confident they can't rival what a merchant can simply purchase in White Harbour after all.

"But the raiding stops. It ends at your borders. I will not have a single report of a Wildling… sorry, of the Free Folk setting a village of Northmen to the torch, and if even one woman is stolen from her bed, I will come down upon you with a cavalry ten-thousand strong, and I will win."

Robb stood straight-backed and proud, not giving an inch to the man who called himself king.

"Any goods you trade outside your own domain will be taxed at the exact same rate all other lands and fiefs in the North are – no more, no less. But you can also charge your own tolls to use the river and all roads save the Kingsroad, just like all the other lords. Policing your communities and clans is in your hands, and you may follow your own rules and customs as you see fit, so long as they do not interfere with the domains of others. You cannot call yourself king – the Iron Throne will not tolerate it – and I expect the aid of your soldiers to guard the Wall against the Others when they come."

Robb stepped back, then held out his hand for the man to shake if he would.

"This is my deal. The best you're going to get."

Seven Hells… did that just come out of my mouth?

Robb resisted the sudden urge to look at his shoulder, expecting to see a miniature Margaery and Sansa applauding him. Or he hoped they'd be applauding. He'd kind of just gone with his gut. Starks were good at uniting things, right?

Thank you, Harrion. I won't forget you.

Everyone in the tent seemed to hold a collective breath, waiting to see what the King Beyond the Wall would do.

And with a trembling arm, as though a great weight were attempting to stop him, Mance clasped Robb's hand.

"I will agree to these terms, on one condition."

"What?"

"Insurance. If we do this, there is no going back. I want an assurance you can't break, that you and House Stark can't renege on our deal."

Robb hesitated. "Sounds fair," he said after a second. "What did you have in mind?"

Mance glanced to Val.

"Did you steal him when you saved his dumb ass from the Walkers?"

Val froze, eyes flaring wide and cheeks burning tomato red as if she'd suddenly realised something incredibly embarrassing.

"I…"

"That would be a yes," Mance said, face splitting into a shit-eating grin, and Robb got an odd feeling he was about to get screwed. Mance turned back to Robb and squeezed his hand. Robb, thankfully, was ready for such a move and braced his own hand against the older man's in retaliation.

"I will lead my people behind your Wall, and we'll help you guard it, in exchange for lands and territory in the North and permission to live as we wish within those borders. I keep the clans in line and put an end to raids outside our territory, and anyone who disobeys those rules, I bring before you to deal justice as you will. And to ensure you don't turn your back on the Free Folk, you'll marry one of us – in our way, and yours."

…

…

Dacey sucked in a breath.

The Greatjon and Tormund both burst out laughing.

Grey Wind howled from outside the tent.

A crack of thunder echoed through the sky above.

Ah, fuck it.

"Deal."

Bastardborn

The next day, Jon found Myrcella sitting beneath the Weirwood tree of Storm's End. It was a sickly thing, small and stunted, face twisted and almost unrecognisable. Yet the pure white bark and crimson red leaves marked it for what it was. Myrcella herself was leaning against the tree trunk, golden hair fanned around her head like the halo of the sun. The blood-red dress she wore seemed to contrast perfectly with the tree, her Dornish tanned skin the only part of her out of place. She still wore the boots she'd bought after Jon had shown them to her at a market stall in Crakehall.

"The first time I ever saw a Weirwood tree was at your wedding," Myrcella whispered, words seeming to meld with the heavy atmosphere of the Godswood. Much like the tree, the sacred forest was small, tucked away on the stormward side of the castle, no trees growing taller than Hodor would be high. Thin grey trunks seeming to fit with the storm overhead, waiting for the perfect moment to unleash its fury.

"How did you know it was me?"

Myrcella opened her eyes, offering him that soft smile of hers. Unbidden, he thought back to what Trystane had said. Of Myrcella pleasuring herself to thoughts of Jon. He hadn't had time to really digest or think about it since yesterday. Trystane was dead, Myrcella a widow, and a false king was deposed.

"Mat would have cracked a joke. Anyone else would have announced themselves."

"Point," Jon said, taking a seat beside her and leaning his head against the bark. Sickly, the tree might be, but he could still feel that calm serenity he associated with the Godswood, and that gave him a little more strength.

"So, what brings you to my hiding place?" Myrcella asked, turning to look at him with those big emerald eyes of hers.

"Hiding from Varys," Jon lied. Or, well, not a complete lie. He was hiding from Varys, who'd clearly been trying to get Jon in private. He didn't trust himself to talk to the spymaster alone. He needed Margaery with him so he didn't talk himself into a hole he couldn't crawl out from. But that wasn't what had brought him here. It was the conversation he'd just overheard.

Jon had been searching for the bathhouse when he passed a room with raised voices. He'd ducked into the doorway and pressed his ear to the wood, curiosity getting the better of him.

"It is clearly a plot concocted by Stannis. He seeks to divide us." Lady Leonette Fossoway was saying. Leonette… who was she again? Oh. Oh, Garlan had almost married her before Olenna negotiated his betrothal to Arianne.

"Aye, I think it overly convenient that our Queen being a bastard suddenly gives Stannis the best claim to the throne," Lord Oakheart stated.

"You have to admit, the evidence is convincing, though." That was Lord Ashmark.

"To a simpleton maybe," Lord… Lord Tarly said? Tarly was defending Myrcella?

"How so?" Jon didn't know that voice, but the accent was clearly Marcher.

"Yes, the Queen does look like her mother and not her father, that is true enough, and Cersei Lannister's… poor habits are no secret. But the girl clearly acts like Robert did in his youth. Strong-willed, determined, unyielding, and as loath as I am to say it, good with strategy. Even I didn't expect a false ambush from the water. If I were in Renly's position, I might have fallen just as victim, though I would have waited until the battle was joined before opening my gates."

This was a meeting of Tarly's dissenters. The group who hadn't outright said they were on Myrcella's side but hadn't declared they weren't. But why was Tarly defending Myrcella now? And especially after Renly's claim before his execution. Jon thought it utter insanity, but others were stupid enough to buy it, and he wasn't sure what to do about it.

"I think, at the end of the day, it doesn't really matter," Lady Fossoway said.

"Why?" Oakheart asked.

"Because no one will ever know the truth. Robert, Cersei and Jaime Lannister, the only people who could tell you, are all dead. Furthermore, this war will continue regardless of whether the Queen is a Baratheon or a Lannister Bastard. The Dornish will still follow her, as will Tywin Lannister. With the Starks sticking their heads in the snow and the Stormlands occupied by loyal armies, even if we all took our levies home, and Tyrell did as well – which I doubt – the smart money is on Myrcella Baratheon being crowned the next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Stannis only has so much time before his inevitable defeat, be it at our hands or the fires of this Dragon Queen from the east. And you mark my words, we will be far more likely to survive unroasted when she arrives if we're following a golden-haired Queen than if we followed a grumpy old man directly involved in overthrowing the Targaryen dynasty."

"Leonette is right," Tarly stated, chair scraping on flagstones as he stood up. Jon had heard no more, as he'd vanished from the doorway before he could be discovered.

"They've been talking about me, haven't they?" Myrcella asked softly, turning away from him and sniffling slightly. There were tear stains on her cheeks.

"Aye," Jon admitted. "But it's good news. I overheard Tarly; even he thinks it's a lie."

Myrcella sighed. "I don't think it matters if it's truth or lie. It's out there now, and it'll follow me forever. And you know the worst part? I'll never know if it's true or not."

Jon took her hand in his and squeezed. "Don't think like that. There's no way it could be true. As Obella likes to remind me, the words of a dying man are never to be trusted."

Myrcella squeezed his hand back, then let her head fall onto Jon's shoulder.

"I'm not so sure. My mother and uncle Jaime were always close… though I never thought… But she was always so angry and horrible. And vindictive. Cuckholding the king would seem like a poetic irony to her. It's exactly something I can picture her doing. To top it off, everyone's always said I look so much like my mother. Less so now, thanks to my time in Dorne, and I certainly have more musculature and height than my mother ever had – but I suppose that could be thanks to Uncle Jaime." Myrcella shivered.

"And… and it would explain Joffrey maybe, and little Tommen." She was really crying now, tears dropping from her skin onto Jon's shoulder.

Margaery, if you could, I don't know, magically transport yourself across the country to deal with this, I would really appreciate it.

He tried searching for something, anything to distract her as she continued sobbing. 'Um… how creepy is this Godswood, am I right?' Ah, no, that wasn't going to work. Or how about 'your dead husband told me you used to call my name when you masturbate. Do you still do that or…'

Funnily enough, he didn't think that would make her feel any better either.

It was then that his gaze settled on her boots. The same pair…

He released her hand, and her head fell from his shoulder with a soft squark of surprise. Jon moved away from the tree and grabbed her boot, raising it and Myrcella's leg into the air.

"What… what are you doing?" Myrcella asked, pausing to hiccup in the middle of her sentence.

"Who bought these boots?" he asked, starting to grin now.

"Me."

"And why did you buy them?" He said, waving his hand in a 'come on' like gesture. Myrcella was looking at him as if he'd grown two heads.

"Because you said I'd look cute in them."

Jon shook his head. "Why did you really buy them?"

She opened her mouth, probably to say something funny, then closed it again, brow furrowing.

"I… I bought them because I liked them. The fit was good; they're sturdy, reliable. Good for riding. And they make me taller."

"Exactly," Jon said, releasing her foot and taking both her hands instead. "Maybe you're right. Maybe you are a bastard, but that isn't such a bad thing."

Myrcella snorted.

"How would you know?"

Jon raised an eyebrow at her, and she blushed.

"It took me a long time to realise that bastardry is just a name. It only changes who you are if you let it. Margaery showed me I was more than just the name Snow, and not just in discovering who I really am. She showed me that I'm Eddard Stark's son, blood or no blood. I'm Garlan's student, Arya and Robb's brother. I'm a knight, a follower of the Old Gods, a man of the North, and a man of the Reach. I am who I decide that I am. Nothing more, nothing less. Maybe… maybe you were born Myrcella Waters, but you will always be Myrcella Baratheon, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms to me. You earned that title and the loyalty of everyone inside this castle who marched to war for you. If I have to spend four years proving that truth to you, like Margaery had to for me, then you bet your royal ass I'll do it or die trying."

Myrcella sat staring at him for several long moments, and Jon thought maybe he might have overdone it. Then she took a long breath, as if centring and steadying herself.

"Thank you, Jon. I… I needed that."

"No problem, Cella. Always here to help."

Myrcella tilted her head to the side and sighed softly.

"I know. I know."

Perhaps she intended to say something else, but Jon never learned what it was, because a voice spoke up from behind them.

"Heya, Cella, this bald bloke says he knows you, but I don't like the look of him."

Jon and Myrcella both groaned.

"Let him in Mat, he's just a big, fat spider," Myrcella said as Jon climbed to his feet. He held out a hand, and she took it, rising as well. A moment later, Lord Varys entered the garden, Arys Oakheart, Mat, and Myrcella's giant armoured guard – who was, to Jon's total shock the previous night, a woman – behind him.

"Your Graces," Varys said, bowing low.

Jon facepalmed. And that was three more people who now knew. Great. He bet the damn Spider had done that on purpose too.

"What do you want, Varys? Not some new bad news, I hope. I had wondered where you vanished to after Kings Landing exploded," Myrcella asked as Mat's jaw fell open, head swivelling from Myrcella to Jon and back again. Brienne was clearly trying to look non-plussed and failing. Oakheart? His complete lack of reaction was as good as. He'd already known or at least guessed. Probably had since their journey through the Westerlands.

"Quite the contrary, in fact. I bring word from the Dragonlords."

Jon's eyes snapped to the Spider's, interlopers forgotten for a moment.

"Rhae and Daenerys?"

The Spider drew two letters from his sleeves.

"For you, your Grace." Varys handed the letters to Jon, who looked to the seals. Unbroken, but there was something else about them too. The sigil was slightly different. Perhaps a poor forgery, but Jon knew better. They'd been made with the pendant Jon had given Rhaenys and Daenerys. A pendant with the symbol of House Targaryen, but in a slightly different shape. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his own medallion. A perfect match.

Jon looked back to Varys, who was staring at him with a raised eyebrow.

"What? They don't call you the Spider for nothing," Jon said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Is she coming then? When? Where does she plan to land first?" Myrcella asked, wiping away her tear stains with the sleeve of her dress, excitement practically bubbling up from her skin now.

"Empress Daenerys has set her fleet to sail for Westeros, the Princess Rhaenys, the Golden Company and the dragons Rhaegal and Viserion at its head. I left them as they reached Lys, chartering a ship to bring me around the pirate-controlled waters of the Stepstones. Rhaenys will bring the fleet to Sunspear, then, once she receives my message, fly the dragons to Storm's End to meet you."

"And where is Daenerys herself?" Jon asked. Varys bit his lip.

"The Empress and Princess Arianne are dealing with the Dothraki personally before she rendezvouses with Rhaenys, intending to meet you. My birds are not so numerous in Vaes Dothrak, but rumour has it she achieved her goal and is returning as we speak. Lord Tyrion will remain in Meereen to hold the Bay of Dragons, formerly Slaver's Bay, while Lord Oberyn takes the Empress' Dothraki Horde to Volantis. She has left orders to liberate the city through any means necessary."

Varys bit his lip.

"Your graces, I do have recent news, however, and bad news at that."

Jon gulped, an odd vibration thrumming through him.

"I received word from my little birds the second I returned to Westeros. They have found Stannis Baratheon."

Jon and Myrcella shared a look.

"Where is he? The Riverlands?"

Varys took a deep breath.

"He's in Highgarden."

Jon's heart stopped.

"What!? How!" Myrcella shrieked.

No. No no no. That was not possible.

"It appears he took the Royal Fleet south from Dragonstone while Renly and yourselves were mobilising. He circled wide through the Summer Sea, a dangerous voyage by any metric, passing Dorne, Starfall, and the Arbor undetected. Then, he hired a fleet of pirate longships he encountered en route to sail him up the Mander while the rest of his ships attacked Lannisport as a diversion, and most of his ground troops liberated Brightwater Keep – the seat of Stannis wife's house. Now, Stannis is personally occupying the city, searching for the Tyrell vaults. Companies of Florent cavalry ride unopposed across the southern Reach, entire battalions barricade the main roads, Oldtown is under siege, and the Royal Navy have total control of the Redwyne Straits. No ravens or riders have escaped. Any that tried have been executed, man and beast alike.

"One little bird of mine was able to dodge the blockade, but only managed it by travelling the entire length of Oldtown's old catacombs, dating all the way back to the First Men. I have some patchy contact with Highgarden. A few brief letters from my people in the Warrens made it out before the occupation was solidified. They say the Lady Olenna is dead and that Margaery Tyrell is locked in the castle's tallest tower."

Nonononononononono. This wasn't happening. Margaery was not suffering while he'd been out here playing soldier. She was supposed to be safe. Their baby was supposed to be safe.

The rumbling was getting louder.

"Jon. Jon! Jaehaerys!" Myrcella snapped, slapping him across the face and knocking Jon somewhat back to reality. "Focus. We'll get her back. We can retake the city; Stannis knows it. That's why he's keeping such a tight grip on communications. And Margaery isn't defenceless. She'll have figured out something. Hells, she might have taken control of Stannis' own guards by now! She's that good, after all. And if Rhae is coming with three dragons, Stannis can't beat us on the field. We'll liberate the Reach and end the war in the Riverlands. You have to focus, Jon. FOCUS!"

He had to… had to…

'Jon Snow; Jaehaerys Targaryen, Third of Your Name. The time is now! Open your eye!'

"What's that rumbling?" Myrcella asked, glancing towards the ground. Jon stumbled backwards, earth shifting beneath him, mind a whirl of chaos and panic and voices that weren't his own.

His hand came to rest on the Weirwood tree. Its eyes were bleeding… glowing.

The sky overhead split asunder, lightning dancing through the crowds. Sheets of rain broke from above, falling in curtains all around… but Jon could not let go of the tree.

"Mat! Brienne! Help me with him!"

The face beckoned to him, the Weirwood tree burst afire, tender arms wrapped around Jon's abdomen, and pulled him back, into a torrent of light.

Rich,

White,

Gold,

Red.

Run

When the ground began to shake and the end of the world drew nigh, Sansa didn't notice right away. The thundering of fifty horses galloping in formation, the crackle of lightning in the storm overhead, her racing heart, and the frantic thoughts bombarding her brain did an excellent job of clouding Sansa's perception of anything beyond the goat track underfoot. The goal of the Stark company was a town called Sallydance. On the border of Bracken and Blackwood territory, the village was the only place anywhere nearby with a bridge they could use to cross the river. From there, they could ride hard for the North. But they had to cross the Red Fork first.

And the Red Witch's hounds were hot on their trail.

Arrow shots zipped overhead every few seconds. Most flew wide or impacted the trees, but two had hit their marks so far. One man had been unhorsed, dying in a shriek of blood and gore as the riders behind trampled him to death. The second man continued riding, a wooden shaft protruding from his right shoulder blade.

It was all Sansa could do to avoid throwing up over the side of her horse. Theon and the Smalljon rode on either side of her, and the Stark soldiers at the rear of the company occasionally twisted in their saddles to shoot behind them, but she could tell they did little other than deter their pursuers from drawing too close.

Oh no. The company's real weapon was the direwolf, apparently known as 'Lady'.

Every time a rider emerged from the trees in sight of the fleeing Starks, Lady would dart from the tree line and rip the man from his saddle. The horse would piss bolt in the opposite direction, and the enemy rider would never be seen again. Lady would then disappear into the undergrowth – presumably keeping pace with them – until another hunter spotted them, and she repeated the cycle.

And it was working too. With each hunter Lady unhorsed (and ate? Gods, Sansa hoped not), the sound of their chasers grew further and further away.

They were winning.

"How far away is the town?" Sansa called to Theon, his horse running an arm's length from her own.

"A few more leagues," Theon answered. "We had to swing wide to avoid the witch's patrols on the River Road."

"I'm more worried about what happens on the other side!" The crannogwoman exclaimed. Meera Reed was her name, Lord Reed's eldest daughter. She'd led the company through the Neck in secret, keeping the Stark force obscured from the Valemen patrols guarding the Kingsroad.

"What do you mean?" Theon responded

"If the Freys have joined Stannis, the Blue Fork isn't safe anymore! We'll have to pass through Hag's Mire, then hope we can make it across Frey and Mallister land to get back to the Neck! Open land, and take a guess where the Frey army is going to be heading?"

"Aye, she's right!" The Smalljon replied, ducking a low branch. "Frey will march on Seagard; it'll be fucking impossible to get back home if the Arryns and the Freys are waiting for us."

"Then what do we do!?"

They all glanced at one another, but no one had any ideas. They couldn't even go west into Lannister controlled land. If Tywin was captured, then the Lannister army would be without its head. Probably bickering amongst itself to decide who should take command and what to do about Tywin – assuming the Red Witch didn't just burn him alive. It was too risky.

She opened her mouth to say as such, and a bolt of lightning arced from the sky, colliding with a tree beside the galloping company. The sheen of bright white light printing on her eyes, the tree detonated outwards with a horrific CRACK, and splinters and branches careened into the riders to Sansa's right.

The company broke down, horses shrieking into the dark, riders collapsing in heaps. The ground shifted beneath them, and Sansa screamed as her filly reared up. She clutched at the reins, but a building pressure crashed into her head, her mind spun out of control, and her arms refused to obey. Sansa fell from the saddle, flailing blindly…

The world shattered to light.

Authors Note: All is not going so well for Team Jon, is it? And see, I told you all Robb would be getting a girlfriend! And some of you dared to mock me! Meanwhile, I can't help but think that Durran Godsgrief would have been a very rich man on Roshar. An utterly storm proof castle? I wonder if that includes highstorms?