Into the Night

by Elysium94

Winter has come. As the War of the Five Kings draws to a bloody close, the war for mankind's survival draws ever nearer. Jon Snow, freed from the Night's Watch, must unite the realm to face the threat from the far north. As the other lost Starks find their way home the Long Night will descend on them, and their fates are tied to the coming of Queen Daenerys Targaryen.

5. The Past Rewritten

BEAR ISLAND

The gush of a loud waterfall rang in Jon's ears. as he waited by a stout gate. He and Sansa stood shoulder to shoulder before a stout gate, waiting for the troops of Mormont Keep to let them in. Doing his best to stay patient, Jon stole a glance at the landscape surrounding House Mormont's modest wooden castle.

The waterfall, not yet frozen by the winter cold, poured into a wide river which surrounded the hill on which the castle stood. Tall oak and pine trees stretched across much of the island. Though he could not see them Jon imagined dozens, or perhaps even hundreds of bears hidden away in the forest. Hibernating, waiting for the winter to pass.

If this one passes at all.

Jon then turned to the road behind them all. Waiting with an armed escort was King Stannis, looking ahead in annoyance. The current ruler of House Mormont had refused to indulge him with a meeting face to face, demanding only that she see the children of House Stark.

Again, as he had months before, Jon felt a mix of bemusement and dread at Lyanna Mormont's boldness. The letter she sent to Stannis, which reached them at the Wall, was quite definitive. She would not yield any more than Stannis would.

Davos Seaworth waited behind Jon and Sansa, having convinced Lady Mormont's guard to at least allow an envoy from their would-be ally.

"I don't suppose I should introduce myself unless asked," the Onion Knight snarked.

Jon shook his head. "Probably not."

There was a lock knock of wood and metal, and the gate to Mormont Keep opened. Jon kept his eyes ahead as it opened, and his party walked through. He found them marching across a narrow corridor with thick wooden walls on each side. Antique shields and axes decorated the walls, each shield emblazoned with the fierce bear that was the Mormonts' sigil.

Reaching the end of the corridor, Jon and his party crossed a threshold which led to a wooden longhall. A smoky smell hung in the air, and he was pleasantly surprised to feel warmth for the first time in days.

At the opposite end of the hall was a large fireplace, littered with heavy logs which smoked and crackled loudly. Before the fireplace, seated and facing them intently, was a young girl. She could not have been more than twelve years old, judging by her appearance and stature. The girl had a pale, round face and long dark hair that was tied back.

Lyanna Mormont's gaze was hard, focused. Her large brown eyes had been fixed on him and Sansa from the moment they entered the hall. It was difficult to determine what she was thinking as Jon stepped forth to be greeted by his host.

When he stood a mere foot away from her, Jon bowed his head in respect.

"Lady Mormont. It's an honor to meet you."

"Welcome to Bear Island," Lyanna said curtly.

Jon waited for the girl to continue, but instead she sat in silence. Her eyes flickered back and forth between him, his sister and Davos. The silence turned awkward, then unbearable as Jon came to the awful realization that Lyanna was waiting to hear from one of them to speak up. Something he found difficult to do under her rather withering glare.

"I remember when you were born." Sansa was the one to break the silence, putting on a warm and diplomatic smile.

"My father told me you were named for my aunt, Lyanna. She was a great beauty, I'm sure you will be as well."

This drew a smirk from Lyanna. "I doubt it. My mother was hardly a great beauty herself, or any kind of beauty for that manner. But she was a warrior. A proud one. If I live to be as old as she was, I only hope to be half as great as her."

Lyanna's smirk dropped, and speaking to Jon now she added, "She was wounded fighting for your brother, Robb Stark. Even after the Red Wedding, she and those loyal to your house fought for as long as they could before retreating here. She died not long after."

Although Lyanna's tone was rather stoic, Jon knew regret and sorrow when he saw it.

"I wish I could have met her. Her brother, Jeor, was my commander at Castle Black. I was his steward, in fact…"

Lyanna appeared to resist the urge to roll her eyes, and she interrupted him.

"Yes. I'm sure you got along quite well. Now that we've dispensed with the small talk, tell me why you're here."

Jon's jaw seized. He exchanged a look with Sansa. She appeared as flabbergasted as he was. Here they were, an heir to House Stark and former Lord-Commander of the Night's Watch, stunned into silence by a girl little older than Rickon.

While he struggled to find his voice again, Jon reached into the pockets of his tunic. There was a crumpling sound, and he withdrew a roll of parchment. It was brittle to the touch, but the ink across its surface was as clear as it had been when he first read it.

"When King Stannis first garrisoned at Castle Black, you sent him this. I'm sure you remember what it says."

"I do.

House Mormont knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark."

Finally, Jon saw what he thought was a slight smile cross Lyanna's lips.

"I can't imagine your friend Stannis was too pleased."

"No, my lady. He wasn't."

What came next Jon practically forced himself to say. It was hard to, even now.

"Robb is gone. Many of his bannermen are gone. But House Stark lives. And it needs your help, now more than ever. My sister and I come to ask for House Mormont's allegiance in our fight to retake the North."

Lyanna's fingers drummed across the table, and she visibly calculated his request.

"And I would gladly give it to House Stark…"

Jon's heart lifted, but then fell almost immediately when Lyanna leaned to one of her advisors. She whispered something to him, and he responded as such.

"But as far as I understand it," she continued, "you are not a Stark. You are a Snow. And Lady Sansa was a Lannister."

She glared at Sansa. "Or were you a Bolton? I've heard conflicting reports."

Next to him, Jon saw Sansa's cheeks redden at the jape.

"I did what I had to, to survive King's Landing. And I fled Winterfell before Ramsay could claim me as his own. Whatever rumor you may or may not have heard, I am still a Stark. I will always be a Stark, and you would do well to remember that."

Lyanna's demeanor did not soften, but she appeared to back off for now.

"If you say so."

Jon took a moment to let the tension between his sister and Lyanna settle. The remark on her captivity at Winterfell had struck a nerve. Taking a moment to appreciate Sansa's self-control, he spoke up again.

"Ramsay Bolton has made an insult of his station as Warden of the North. He holds our brother Rickon Stark captive. Even now, he marshals his army to pursue and hunt us down, and any Northerners loyal to us. It's our duty, it's your duty to stop him."

"My duty is to the people of Bear Island," Lyanna replied. "I have no love for Ramsay Bolton, or his new friend Harald Karstark. But my people's forces are diminished, and every day is a struggle for us now as winter sets in."

Lyanna's bearing was different than Lord Glover's, Jon observed. Not belligerent, or resentful as his had been. Just doubtful, and cautious. He did not blame her. After the disaster that was the Red Wedding and the cruel dominion of the Boltons, it spoke to the spirit of the Northerners that any of them would fight back now.

"It would be one thing to gather resources, supplies with which to fight. And in that regard Bear Island would gladly lend our aid. I pledged my service to House Stark.

Yet you and Lady Sansa march in allegiance with Stannis Baratheon, who will no doubt demand such service if we win. Why, then, should I provide you my fighting men? Why should I sacrifice one more Mormont life in Stannis Baratheon's war?"

To this, Jon had no answer. Indeed, House Mormont had indeed suffered greatly on behalf of his family in the War of the Five Kings. To ask that Lyanna compromise her loyalty and go back on her word now was unthinkable. Furthermore, Bear Island would need all the hardworking men possible to provide for them as the winter drew on.

At this moment, such a man took this chance to make himself known. Davos Seaworth cleared his throat, drawing Lyanna's attention to him.

"If it please my lady," he stated carefully, "I know how you feel. More than that, I understand how your people feel."

Lyanna's eyebrows quirked. "And you are?"

"Ser Davos, of House Seaworth." Davos nodded at Lyanna and then stole a glance at her maester.

"Don't worry, friend, you needn't try to recall my house. It's fairly new."

Jon suppressed a chuckle.

"Very well, Ser Davos." Lyanna sat back in her chair and surveyed Davos with curiosity.

"You seem a humble man. Let's say you are indeed a man of the people. How is it, then, that you understand my position?"

"Well," Davos said humbly, "Like you I never thought I'd be in my position at all. You're entrusted to care for so many lives, at such a young age. I started as a crabber's son and grew up to be a smuggler. Now I'm a knight, serving at the right hand of a king."

He paused and pondered his next words.

"But I'm here, with Jon and Lady Sansa, because this isn't just King Stannis's war. Or House Stark's. It's ours. All of us. I'm sure you and your advisors received letters from Castle Black, letters which detail the threat beyond the Wall. That threat will close in, and soon."

Lyanna hung on his every word. She remembered the Night's Watch message, Jon could tell.

"Your uncle Jeor Mormont was a great man. He saw that same greatness in Jon Snow, and made him his steward. He trusted him to carry on the duty expected of the Night's Watch, and that duty will soon be expected of all the realm now.

Jon understands, like Jeor before him, that the real war isn't between some squabbling houses. It's between the living and the dead. And make no mistake, my lady, the dead are coming."

As always Jon was touched, awed even, by the humble knight's ability to present himself with all the certainty of a great lord. Lyanna too appeared impressed, or at least impressed enough to listen.

She looked at Jon and asked, "Is this true?"

"It is. Your uncle fought them at the Fist of the First Men. I fought them at Hardhome. I'm afraid we both lost."

"And we will all lose, my lady, if the North remains divided. As long as the Boltons rule that division will go on, and I promise you a divided North stands no chance against the Night King."

Emboldened, Jon continued where Davos left off. "There's no hiding from this, Lady Lyanna. When winter comes, when it truly comes, we will survive together. Or not at all."

He did not want to sound too grim but given the circumstances he had little choice. It was important Lyanna understood the gravity of the threat facing them.

And when Lyanna's maester leaned into to whisper to her, and she held up a gloved hand to silence him, Jon sighed in relief knowing she did understand.

"House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for a thousand years. I won't see us break that faith now."

Sansa, Jon and Davos shared a collective nod. Yet another house added to the loyalist army.

"Thank you, my lady." Jon spoke with the utmost gratitude, making no effort to hide his joy at the news.

"And if I may ask, how many fighting men are we to expect?"

"You may ask," Lyanna answered. "Sixty-two."

Just like that, Jon's high spirits dropped with the weight of a stone. His face turned blank, and a pit opened in his stomach. Sixty-two? Was that all the Mormonts possessed after the Red Wedding?

"Sixty-two, my lady?"

"We're not a large house, but we're a proud one. I will have to retain some measure of our forces to guard our home, as our allies likely will. Yet I assure you, Jon Snow, every man from Bear Island fights with the strength of ten mainlanders."

Lyanna's gazes scanned over her visitors, discerning their plain unease.

"Furthermore, I can compensate for the lack of numbers with resources."

She looked outside to the towering trees marking her island home.

"We'll need more than just fighting men to siege a castle. My people can provided wood for siege weapons. A ram, perhaps a catapult or two. Covers to protect from arrow fire. House Mormont will fight however we can, with whatever we can."

Jon's doubt abated, but only slightly. He turned to Sansa, whose grey-blue eyes shifted uncomfortably. His sister gave him a half-hearted shrug, her unspoken message loud and clear.

We'll take what we can get.

Davos bowed his head in thanks. "Thank you, Lady Lyanna. We humbly accept your offer. And if Bear Island's men are half as fierce as their lady, Lord Ramsay is doomed."

---

The snow under Sansa's feet crunched loudly as she paced across the army's camp.

During the stop at Bear Island, her forces had taken shelter at the northeast corner of the vast Wolfswood. When the morning came, they had to move out. They could not stay for long, or else Ramsay and his loyal followers would track them down.

Sansa leaned against a true, rubbing her hands together to warm them.

She glimpsed Jon scanning a map with King Stannis. The men had different markers set across the lands of the North, tracing the movements of their foes and friends alike. It was one thing to hear of Jon's exploits at the Wall. His defense of Castle Black, his ranges in the far north, all of it. Seeing him like this in person was something else entirely.

Counting the various markers on the map, Sansa calculated the odds her brother's army faced. Hornwood. Mazin. Mormont. The Free Folk. And whatever scraps of troops were left of the Starks. Together they could raise three and a half thousand men.

"Not enough," she muttered to herself.

The Boltons and the Karstarks had far more in reserve, and their alliance with Smalljon Umber put their number near six thousand. Men and horses. With Winterfell to shelter them when the siege came.

Returning to the here and now, Sansa saw a messenger approach. "My lady," he said, "Word from the Riverlands, and from the Vale."

Handing a scroll to her, the messenger hurried off. Sansa stared in confusion, noting the man's rather hurried gait. The messenger was making for his horse, taking care to avoid anyone in his path. As if he did not wish to speak to anyone else there. Not Jon, not Ser Davos or Tormund, not even the king.

She pushed aside her puzzlement and looked to the scroll. Unfurling it, she saw it contained two separate letters. One marked a noble sigil, which she recognized with a smile. A shield, marked with two yellow suns and two white crescent moons.

Brienne of Tarth's sigil.

She opened the letter, scanning its contents. Her heart picked up its pace, and a sudden heat rose in her chest.

My Lady Sansa,

Riverrun is fallen. Ser Jaime of House Lannister has taken the castle, and two hundred of your uncle's men have surrendered.

Podrick and I secured the aid of the rest, seven hundred in number. We escaped in the dark of night before the Lannisters took the castle.

Your great-uncle sends his regards. He and his personal guard stayed behind to help us escape. I know not if he still lives.

I ride north to rejoin you and your brother. If the Gods are good, we will meet before the walls of Winterfell and take your home back.

Your humble servant, Brienne of Tarth

Sansa's attention lingered on the name. Brynden Tully. Another of her family, lost to the Lannisters and this terrible war. It was enough to bring tears to her eyes, and she crushed the parchment in her hand. Seven hundred men marching from the Riverlands would take weeks, and time was a luxury she and Jon were lacking more of by the day.

Their progress was slow. Far too slow. By the time their army was summoned, and Winterfell was in their reach, Rickon could already be dead.

It was all Sansa could do not to toss away the other letter. Forcing the other message into her cloak, to be presented to Jon later, she pulled up the other.

An awful feeling began to eat away at her. Somehow, she could already tell what sigil was on the letter before she even looked at it. Now, of all times, as her house were on the march to war once again it only made sense she would hear from him again.

The coat of arms belonged to a house from the Vale. Until recently, it displayed a great stone head, like that of a giant, set against a green field. In recent days, the house had a new symbol.

A black mockingbird.

---

"No avoiding the subject any longer, Snow. We will discuss this now."

Jon rested his face in his hands, suppressing a groan.

Standing across the table from him was Stannis, his finger pointed down at the markers lined before him. Markers denoting the Northern houses pledged to their army.

"What is there to discuss, Your Grace? The North will ride under the Stark banner, and yours. And should the White Walkers bear down on Westeros, they will continue to do so."

"But it's not just the White Walkers and the Boltons we have to deal with," Stannis remarked. "Is it?"

Stannis's dark blue eyes roamed across the map. First to the Wall, then the North, then to the southern kingdoms below.

"My ambitions do not end in the North, Snow. When this land is taken, I will turn my gaze to the South. Cersei Lannister and Jaime Lannister's last bastard sits on the Iron Throne. A throne that belongs to me.

Worse, word has reached us that Euron Greyjoy has claimed rule over the Iron Islands. The White Walkers are the greatest threat we face, but they are not the only threat."

Jon felt himself taking a cue from the stubborn king, as his teeth gritted in frustration.

"Your Grace, what is it you want of me? Holding our army together is difficult enough. If we look too far ahead to claims over land and kingship, we won't have an army for long."

Stannis was unmoved.

"When the Boltons are dead, all the North will answer to you and your sister. When a Stark sits in Winterfell, as has been for centuries, do you think they will be eager to bend the knee and call me their king?"

Jon knew the answer as well as Stannis.

"Not all of them, no. Some are more amenable, Lord Glover and so on. But Lyanna Mormont will be… difficult to persuade."

Ser Davos shook his head. "That's going to be a problem. Your brother Robb Stark was a good man. Brave, honest, and loyal to his people. But accepting the title of King in the North cost us a valuable alliance."

Jon's offense at the mention of his brother must have been obvious, as the knight raised a hand diplomatically.

"I know. He did what he thought was right. For his family, for his kingdom. But what he did was not as your father wished. Lord Eddard Stark knew as well as anyone that Stannis was the rightful king. If he were here…"

Davos paused again, waiting for an interruption from Jon.

When none came, he concluded, "If he were here, Lord Eddard would see the North bend the knee. Pledge fealty to Stannis, the one true king, and unite our forces. Against the White Walkers, the Lannisters, the Night King, all of them."

Jon stared at the markers. The bear of House Mormont, the mailed fist of House Glover, and all the others. They were putting their trust not just in Stannis, but in the Starks.

In him. Jon Snow. Ned Stark's bastard, now a commander of an army.

More than once, he had wondered why Robb became a king and defied Stannis's claim. Was it determination to see the North decide its own fate? An act of impulsive defiance, aimed at the southerners and their misrule? Whatever the reason, it all ended in ruin and death. The King Who Lost the North, that was what people called Robb now.

It was up to Jon and Sansa to carry on the fight. Every decision they made from this point on would be life and death.

He considered his next words carefully before giving an answer.

"I understand. The North's people are stubborn. Such stubbornness can be both a blessing and a curse. We've seen it firsthand. But know their hearts are in the right place, my lords. Regardless of their feelings towards you, towards anyone else, they care for their people and will do whatever it takes to save them."

He peered at Stannis.

"When it is done, we will hold counsel with the Northern lords and reach a compromise. A compromise, Your Grace."

He added the last part forcefully, as the word itself drew a glower from the king.

"If they understand the danger bearing down on us, if they hear from me the truth of what's coming, they will put aside their pride and do what needs to be done. We will put aside our differences, save our people, and then we decide who will rule.

Your Grace, I implore you to be patient. Just this once, accept this alliance on their terms for the time being."

Approaching Stannis, Jon looked around the camp. The Free Folk and their other companions were going about their business, readying for another cold night. Tormund and Wun Wun were conferring with their people, ensuring their cause and Stannis's remained the same. Ensuring their faith in Jon did not waver.

For them, and for his people, Jon knelt before Stannis.

"I humbly ask you to put aside your claim on the North. Only for the time being.

Should we survive, should we win the day and save the North from the Boltons I will speak on your behalf. I will ask that the North swear fealty to you as the one true king of Westeros when the war is over. Fealty, as my father wanted. We may not hear the end of this debate until the fighting ends, but when it does, I will do all in my power to see they North makes the right choice."

Stannis's finger tapped on his cane three times, his hand not trembling once. His strength had improved significantly over the past three days. He was even able to mount a horse without need for help, though it still caused him visible pain.

"Your idealism is admirable, Jon Snow. If even half the men in our army believed as strongly, as fervently as you do, this fight could be over in a day. But alas, things remain uncertain.

When all is said and done, I'm sure you know your people better than I do. If you're so sure they will bend the knee, given time, I can afford to wait a little longer. But it would be preferable if you could persuade them now.

My brother Robert loved to talk strategy. War, in many ways, was perhaps his greatest love of all. He said an army united behind one leader, with one purpose, could topple any loose alliance no matter what numbers they possessed. The Lannisters have no friends, only subjects. Minions, coerced to fight for them by bribes or by threats of violence.

When the time comes to face them, I would see us do so under one banner."

Stannis reached down to one of the markers, the one marked with a stag. Taking it in his hand, Stannis held it up for Jon to observe. To remind him who he served.

"If I am to wear the crown, that banner must be mine."

Stannis spoke the truth, and Jon knew it. Standing up, he took the marker from Stannis. Jon set it back on the map, nodding in understanding. It would be hard work, keeping their forces on the same page, but it was necessary.

"Your Grace."

Jon departed from the tent, tightening the clasp on his cloak when he stepped outside. He surveyed the camp, taking in the sight in front of him. Several Free Folk, members of the Frozen Shore clan, were helping a contingent of Mormont men split heavy wooden logs. Wood promised by Lady Lyanna. Tormund was at the far side of the camp now, assigning the first watch for when night came.

Then came a sentry, clad in Stark armor. Huffing and puffing, the sentry's cheeks were red as he walked hurriedly over to Jon with a roll of parchment clutched in his hand.

"Commander," he rasped, "I have a message from Lady Sansa."

A message? Jon took the parchment from the sentry, noting its crumpled state. His brow furrowed, and he wondered to himself why Sansa would pass along a letter. Why not tell him whatever it was she had to in person?

He found his answer when he opened the letter. It was not, in fact, from Sansa. It was from Brienne of Tarth, bearing bittersweet news of their progress at Riverrun.

"Where is Sansa?" he asked, pouring over the details provided by Brienne.

The sentry did not answer.

Jon looked up, his heart stopping in his chest.

"Where is she?"

---

As Sansa arrived at the ruined village, she felt a deathly chill pass over her.

It was a loose collection of huts, lined up and down the narrow road on which she entered. A larger structure, perhaps a tavern, sat directly to her left. There was an ugly hole in the building, and its blackened interior told Sansa it must have been burned.

Sansa had no way to be sure what happened here, or when. Yet another of the Boltons' raids, perhaps. Or a skirmish with the Ironborn, before they were driven out of the North. It did not matter. She was in danger here and now, but not from Ironborn or the Boltons.

To her right was an old stable. The wind picked up, and an eerie whistle rang in the air. The stable appeared to be in the best condition of any building left in this village.

"My lady?"

She looked back to two guards who accompanied her. The one on the right scanned their surroundings, looking as disturbed as she was.

"Are you sure you will be safe?"

Sansa dismounted, leading her horse to the stable. Tying its reins to a wooden railing, she stared at the entrance. She knew very well who it was, waiting inside for her. A part of her told Sansa to turn around and leave, to not hear a word of what he had to say.

Get back on the horse and ride back. You know you can't trust him.

No. She had to do this. Forcing her feet to move again, Sansa walked into the stable.

"Remain at your post. At the first sign of danger, we leave."

He was facing away from the entrance. Rubbing his hands together by a lantern. When a piece of dried straw cracked under Sansa's foot, she saw his head rise. The thin, bearded man drew himself up to his full height and turned around to face her.

"Sansa." Lord Petyr Baelish smiled warmly. The sight might have given Sansa some small comfort once. Now, it sickened her.

Sansa's hands flexed furiously. She wanted so desperately to strike him, to walk over to the man, take his lantern and smash it over his head. But she did not. Instead, she simply glared at Baelish in cold anger.

After a brief silence, Baelish's smile began to recede. There was a hint of concern, though whether for her or himself it was impossible to say.

"When I heard you escaped Winterfell," he said, "I feared the worst. You can't imagine how happy I am to see you here, unharmed."

Sansa sneered. "Unharmed… No thanks to you."

"Yes." Baelish's grey-green eyes darted to the side, then back to her. "I suppose I owe you an explanation. I know our last encounter ended on not the most pleasant of terms. But know then when I returned to the Vale, I acted immediately on your behalf."

Sansa's eyebrows raised.

"And I'm only seeing you now. What was it that required your attention so? Why are you here, now, after all this time?"

"I spoke to the Lords of the Vale. I told them you were kidnapped, and had young Robin marshal the Knights of the Vale. It took time, but they are fully assembled and ride north as we speak.

Baelish's smile started to creep back.

"They are encamped at Moat Cailin as we speak. They need only hear from you, and they will come to your aid."

"Come to my aid?" The older man's audacity almost surprised Sansa.

"Did you tell them the truth, back at the Vale? Did you tell them the circumstance that led to my kidnapping, Lord Baelish?"

At first, Baelish said nothing in response. His jaw worked furiously, and it was clear how much he was struggling to find some answer.

Then, with all the effort, he could muster, Baelish told the truth.

"No."

"I thought not. If you had, I doubt you would still be alive." The thought drew a smirk to Sansa's face. She made no effort to hide it, she wanted Baelish to know her anger. Her contempt.

"Let's try another question."

"Sansa…" Baelish protested.

Ignoring him she continued. "Lord Bolton sought to have me marry his son. In our time together, Ramsay talked about our wedding. All the things he had planned for us. He would sometimes visit me in the night. He never touched me, of course. Lord Bolton knew any harm done to me would only incur the Northerners' anger.

But he whispered things to me. Made countless vile promises, imagined what games we could play once I was his. What do you think he would have done, had we stood in the godswood and said our vows?

What do you think he would have done to me?"

"I can't imagine," Baelish muttered flatly.

"Oh, come now. You're a smart man. I'm sure you can imagine. Ladies aren't supposed to talk about it, but you ran a brothel for years. I'm sure you heard such things every day!"

"What is it you want from me, Sansa? An apology?" Baelish's cheeks flushed in humiliation.

The man's body was shaking. He took a step forward, holding his hands up in resignation. "Then say the word, I'll fall on my knees before you. I'll do anything you ask, to atone for what I did."

Sansa's anger rose at the man's empty promises.

"You said you would protect me. That day we fled King's Landing, you told me I was safe with you. But the moment we faced any real danger, danger you placed us in, you fled."

"I made a mistake, Sansa. I never claimed to be a perfect man, I'm as capable of mistakes as you or any other."

"So," Sansa growled, "My mistakes are to be discussed, then?"

Baelish cocked his head. The man's pride had been wounded terribly, now the anger between them was mutual. "Between the two of us, I'm not the only one who trusted the wrong man. At King's Landing, I can recall two people you placed your faith in. Before the truth came out, of course."

The mention of Joffrey and Cersei Lannister caused Sansa's lip to curl in rage.

"Don't you dare try to shift blame. Not now. I was almost sentenced to a fate worse than death because of you. I was almost wedded to a monster, forced to bear his children, be his property, his plaything.

Because of you!"

Just like that, Baelish was on the defensive again. His hands fell uselessly to his sides, and he let out a deep sigh.

"Sansa, you're right. I was a coward, and my lack of action afterwards almost cost you dearly. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you."

"You won't even be able to protect yourself if Jon and the others end up following me here. Before long they'll wonder where I am. You'll be lucky if Jon decides to cut you down quickly."

Baelish's eyes fell to the ground. His anger had given way to shame. Possibly even guilt, if he was even capable of such a thing.

"Whatever it is you want of me, Sansa, I will do it. I couldn't help you before, let me help now."

Now it was Sansa who stepped toward him.

"I don't want your help. I don't want to see you, or hear from you, ever again. A part of me wonders if I should even let you live. Or if I should tell the Lords and Ladies of the Vale what really happened to Lysa Arryn. That, coupled with your abandonment of Eddard and Catelyn Stark's daughter when she needed you most…

Well, that wouldn't look particularly good, would it Lord Baelish?"

The Lord Protector of the Vale's eye raised to meet hers again, and she stopped. There was a dangerous glint in them. The same kind she saw when Baelish spoke of Joffrey and his poisoning. The kind that burned in them when he pushed Lysa to her death.

"I wouldn't blame you, Sansa. But such a move would be unwise. Young Robin, you know how close he and I are. I fear he may have trouble believing such vicious slander."

Just like that, he had her. Sansa cursed inward, infuriated at the truth of his words. Little Sweetrobin, so devoted to his Uncle Petyr. Had Sansa told the truth of Lysa's murder then, the day it happened, he may have been persuaded. With some difficulty.

But Sansa had spent weeks, months away. The lie she told in Baelish's defense had taken root, and Robin was allowed to grow all the closer to his new father figure. He would not listen to her now.

"Go back to Moat Cailin. Keep your army. King Stannis will help us take back our home."

Baelish drew himself up again. He did not appear satisfied with her answer, but at the very least content that he could leave this place with his head attached.

"My offer still stands, Lady Sansa. Should you need us, the Knight of the Vale will ride to vanquish any foe that stands before you."

Baelish picked up his lantern and moved to the other side of the stable. His horse, a black thoroughbred stallion, waited for him.

"Good luck to you and your brother."

A smug smirk crossed his mouth.

"Well… half-brother."

With that, 'Littlefinger' mounted his horse and rode off. Leaving Sansa alone once more.

His parting shot rang in Sansa's ears, and her helpless rage started to rise again. This was how Baelish always worked. He offered some tantalizing prize, dangled it before peoples' faces before making his move. She knew him too well by now, Baelish would not offer his help without some ulterior motive.

What mattered to him was power. What twisted affection he may have held for her, or her mother before her, power would always be his primary goal.

She returned to her steed and passed her guards without a word.

"My lady," the younger guard protested, spurring his horse as to keep up with her.

Sansa rode back to camp, weighing her options the whole way. It was getting dark by the time she returned to the camp. Jon waited at the entrance, torch in hand.

"Where were you?" he asked anxiously.

Sansa looked down at him, thinking of how delicately she could put this.

"I met an old friend."

---

"Slide it through the gate. Let the wild boy feed himself."

There was a harsh, obnoxious scraping sound, as a small clay bowl was shoved into the boy's cold cell.

Waking from his stupor, Rickon Stark looked at his evening meal. A bowl of muddled soup, slightly steaming. How considerate of Lord Bolton to have his servants heat something up for him this time, instead of leaving some solid, almost inedible lump as they had before.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the shadow of a guard exiting the dungeon. When his shadow was gone completely, Rickon sat up from his cot and walked to the bowl.

He was not fully awake yet. But the growling in his stomach and the feeling of the hot bowl in his hands was already beginning to change that.

"What is it this time?" a voice from the next cell asked.

Rickon almost smiled. "Peas, pork, and… I think those are carrots."

"Well," the wildling Osha snarked, "That sounds wonderful. We're living the height of luxury, we are."

Digging into the meal greedily, Rickon did his best to pretend he was in his old room. Feasting on a treat from Old Nan. The soup He ate like a wolf on a cold winter's night. Without manners. Without any sort of finesse.

Because, as much as he would like to pretend otherwise, he was not in his old room. He was a lord in name only, kept alive by the grace of his captors.

"You should know, I had talk with Smalljon Umber when he passed by. Stubborn, brutish man. Rode with your brother Robb for a time before… well, before it all ended.

He asked me if Ramsay's done anything to either of us."

Rickon scowled.

"Ramsay would be stupid to even try."

"That's just what I said. But there's whispers of a march across the North. Our host still has enemies. And they're on the move.

Umber told me not to get too comfortable."

Rickon heard her snort in derision.

"He told me he's done what he had to do. That we wouldn't be here unless we absolutely had to. I told him to go fuck himself."

The boy snickered. He believed her, no question.

"But enough about me. What about you? I could hear you dozing off in there.

Any dreams this time?"

Rickon slowed down.

"Yes."

"Did you see through the beast's again?"

"No. This one was different. Darker."

He gathered his thoughts, and Osha's silence told him she was waiting patiently as he did so. The wildling has shown much kindness to him in their time together, following their flight from Winterfell and separation from Brandon.

"It's alright, little lord. You can tell me."

Brandon closed his eyes, trying to recall the terrible dream.

A frozen waste far beyond the Wall.

A cloud of darkness bearing down.

A tree…

---

"Move those trees out, I want them onstage this instant!"

In the backstage of the theatre house in Braavos, Izembaro shouted and cursed at the haphazard movements of his troupe.

Two stagehands, neither older than seventeen, huffed and puffed as they moved a painted wooden "tree" out to the stage. It was mid-afternoon, and a performance by the mummer group calling themselves the Gate was set to begin shortly.

One of the boys stumbled, nearly dropping the painted stage prop.

Izembaro's eyes widened at the near-disaster and threw his head back in despair.

"Gods above, will you get on with it? Move, before I ask Lady Crane to poison you both with that horrid stew of hers."

The stagehands' faces flushed in embarrassment, and soon they vanished from sight.

The reedy, red-faced mummer sat down in frustration. He looked to the young actress who had watched what could have been a show-stopping mishap.

"Are there any artists in this city, any in the world who suffer as we do, Mercy?"

Laughing off his concerns, 'Mercy' gave a shrug.

"Wouldn't know. Haven't seen as much of the world as you have."

Arya Stark, dressed as a modest and innocent maiden did her best to conceal her annoyance with the old man. So dramatic. So self-absorbed. He knew nothing of suffering.

Behind a thin screen, a middle-aged actress gave a derisive snort.

"Don't waste your time flattering him, my dear. Izembaro's not as worldly as he likes to claim."

Without even looking in her direction, the actress's superior pointed a finger at her.

"Don't you start, Crane."

Lady Crane leaned out from behind the screen. Though she was no longer a young woman, she was quite beautiful, with a round smiling face and deep blue eyes. She was still half-dressed, though her long dark hair hung down and covered her bare chest.

"And don't you goad me on, old man. Or else I'll subject you to my horrid stew and see how you like it."

The rest of the troupe erupted in laughter, much to the irritation of their director. Bobono, a rum-drinking dwarf currently enjoying a dalliance with Lady Crane. Bianca and Clarenzo, two fresh-faced performers slightly older than Arya. Camello, a jovial man with a broad toothy smile. And Lara, an elegant if not somewhat stuffy newcomer.

A horn blast from the house outside put a stop to the ruckus.

"Three minutes," Izembaro barked. "Let's get a move on!"

Arya walked to a cracked mirror and checked her reflection. She was immediately glad she did, as she noted her hair was still tied up. Loosening the cord holding it in place, she watched it fall to her shoulders.

It was as long now as it had been, years ago. In Westeros. When she still called herself Arya Stark. Now, for the time being, she was Mercy. A young actress, assigned to an apprenticeship under Izembaro and his troupe.

Today's performance was a raunchy and in Arya's opinion thoroughly insulting play called The Bloody Hand. It was written as a farcical retelling of the War of the Five Kings. Arya often had to remind herself it was a farce, as thinking otherwise might have sent her into a bloody rage.

She was assigned the role of Maiden. An attendant to Bobono's titular character, Tyrion Lannister. It gave her no pleasure to act alongside him in such a manner, as part of their performance involved an act of drunken sex before the audience.

Though she bore Bobono no ill will. Crass as he was from time to time, he had not taken advantage of her and seemed quite content with Lady Crane.

"Mercy," Bianca chirped, "Would you mind?"

Arya stepped aside for her fellow actress, who took a moment to check her own hair and costume. Bianca was the Traitor's Daughter, a victim of circumstance to be abused and raped by the Hand.

It brought a sick feeling to Arya's stomach, thinking of her sister presented in such a manner. Though they rarely saw eye to eye growing up, Sansa was family.

Was. You cannot look back now.

When the troupe were done, they rushed to their places.

With another horn blow, and an announcement from the local town crier, the show began.

"It will all be fine," Lady Crane muttered to Izembaro as he pulled on a fake Robert Baratheon beard.

"We'll see," he answered, and walked out to be gored by a wild boar.

...

The troupe marched backstage. It was nearing sundown, and the first half of the play done. Most were not sure if they were relieved or disappointed by the audience's reaction.

Izembaro appeared quite sure, however.

"Ugh," he groaned. "They're awful today. No enthusiasm, no merriment. We acted our hearts out today."

Clarenzo loosened his belt, reaching down his pants to scratch something Arya did not even want to imagine.

"The show's not over yet. We still have the poisoning scene left, that always gets a good angry reaction."

Izembaro nodded. "True. You have shown remarkable improvement. But you…"

He pointed at Bianca.

"You rang false today."

"False?" Bianca opened her dress, and her breasts spilled out. She fanned herself, quite clearly smothered by the uncomfortable costume.

"I had two lines."

"Two lines, three, it doesn't matter. We are artists, girl. There are no small parts."

The tired actors and actresses cleaned themselves during the intermission. Drank to ease their parched throats. Attended to their needs in the privy. Arya did not bother with the food, as she ate very little nowadays. Though she gratefully accepted a cup from Bobono and Lady Crane, who relaxed side by side.

Bobono smiled cheekily at her. "I hope I wasn't too much today, girl."

"You weren't. Believe me, if you had I would have twisted that ugly nose of yours the moment we walked offstage."

Arya allowed herself a laugh, which the older two performers returned in kind.

Crane cocked her head, regarding Arya proudly. "I'm surprised we didn't find you sooner. I remember seeing you for the first time, one week past. You were in the audience, watching our first performance. Tell me, how many times did you watch this stupid play before joining?"

"Three times."

"Did you pay?" the older woman asked with a wry look.

Arya's face burned.

"No."

Bobono raised his cup, filled with rum instead of water. "Smart girl. This isn't quite the high art our fearless leader likes to pretend."

"I heard that, you diminutive pustule!"

In the background, Izembaro sounded shrill and hysterical at the jape. The man had no tolerance for criticism.

"I remember when the players first came to my village," Lady Crane said, ignoring the man's protest. "I didn't have any money, so I snuck in like you. Saw the painted faces, the costumes. Listened to the songs.

Bobono gave her a teasing side-eye.

"Cried when the lovers died in each other's arms?"

"I got a little choked up, but cried? No.

I ran off and joined them the next day. Never looked back."

Arya grinned at her story. It sounded so wonderful, to leave her past troubles behind and live a carefree life free of misery and violence. Not many women Arya knew got to enjoy life as Lady Crane had.

"You're very good. All of you. Even Bianca, she's not as bad as Izembaro says."

Lady Crane's eyes fell.

"My final speech is shit, I admit it. But to be fair to myself, which I always like to be, the writing's the problem. But I have to do it. Let's just hope I get some reaction tonight."

"Change it," Arya replied without thinking.

The other two's eyes widened, and both Bobono and Lady Crane regarded her with curiosity.

"Change it?" the dwarf said. "How?"

She was put on the spot. Arya scrambled to think of something, anything to say. Her persona was that of an aspiring lover of theatre. An idealist. A dreamer. The kind of person Arya Stark was, before her dreams were brought crashing down.

Arya slowed her breathing, as the Waif told her to do when thinking up a proper lie. Storytelling and lying were not as different as she thought before the Waif's lessons. Both required confidence. Dedication. One had to almost believe it herself.

"The queen loves her son. More than anything. He was taken from her before she could say goodbye, she wouldn't just cry.

She'd be angry. She'd swear revenge against the one who did this to her. Grief, anger, it all wraps up into a noose and strangles you until you can't breathe. Can't even think. All you can do is lash out at the one who wronged you, and hope you hit your mark before it's too late."

For once, Bobono had no sly remark. No jokes. Instead, the dwarf looked at her in uncharacteristic worry.

"I hope I don't come across as too intrusive, Mercy, but it sounds like you're speaking from experience."

Arya straightened up. She realized her posture had slumped, and she was staring off into the distance. She cursed inwards when she noticed her eyes were wet. So stupid of her to get caught off guard like this.

Her worries were pushed aside when Lady Crane reached over and took her hand.

"You're a very frank girl, Mercy. It's truly admirable. Us drunken, lecherous fools are lucky to have you."

"Hear, hear," Bobono added, taking a swig of rum.

Another horn blast.

"Well, on to the thrilling climax." Lady Crane gave Arya's hand a squeeze, then stood up. She tied back her hair and donned the blonde wig of Queen Cersei Lannister.

"Keep an ear out, perhaps I'll improvise. Come up with something that will pull at the heartstrings of even that old windbag." She jerked her head towards Izembaro, who thankfully seemed not to have heard her.

Arya nodded, but kept silent. It pained her to know she would not hear Lady Crane's performance this time. Her time onstage was done for today, and Mercy had another task to carry out.

Slipping a hand into her pocket, Arya felt her finger trace over a vial of poison. It was meant for a special visitor to Braavos. One who would pass the theatre any minute now.

An old man, a ship insurer visiting on behalf of King Tommen Baratheon. The ruling houses of Westeros were deep in debt to the Iron Bank, and yet more ships were needed to fend off a rumored resurgence of Ironborn raiding the coasts.

The old man had cheated a client, who prayed at the House of Black and White for justice. Justice that would be delivered by servants of the Many-Faced-God. Arya was chosen for this task, both as a test of her abilities and commitment. She passed by his place of work earlier that day, switching out a Braavosi coin in his stock for one laced with poison.

The man had a habit of biting coins in his possession. To see if they were genuine. By now, his work was done, and he ingested the poison. It was up to Arya to observe his gait, his health. If she had succeeded, she would see him walking uneasily and with some difficulty, even for a man his age.

Arya would be lying if she said killing a servant of Houses Lannister and Baratheon was not something she looked forward to. More than that, the old man was by all accounts an unpleasant and greedy fellow who deserved what was about to happen to him.

Cleaning herself up and dressing back in her simpler street clothes, Arya looked to the exit.

Then she heard a heavy knocking sound and whipped her head towards the walkway to stage right.

The wooden tree prop was tipping over again, this time directly over Lady Crane and Bobono. It appeared the two hapless stagehands tried to move it again, and now it was set to knock over two of the troupe's most important players.

All thoughts of Arya's assignment vanished. She felt her legs spring into action, and she darted to help. Moving with lightning speed honed by weeks of grueling instruction, Arya seized Lady Crane and pulled her aside at the heavy wooden prop came down.

The two women tumbled to the floor, and Arya felt some glance across her temple. Her vision flashed black and blue, and her head felt knocked to one side.

She laid splayed out on the floor. Her fellow players shouted in alarm, and over a loud ringing in her ears Arya could make out Izembaro screeching at the stagehands.

"…an embarrassment! Get out before you kill one of us with your incompetence!

Out of my sight!

Out!"

She lifted her head to look up. The stagehands were rushing out of the backstage, their faces flushed almost purple in embarrassment.

The players were looking down at her in shock and alarm. Camello was helping Lady Crane back to her feet, and Bobono was kneeling beside her.

Another ring in Arya's ears deafened her, and she could not even hear the question Bobono asked her.

Though she could read his lips close enough.

"Are you alright?"

She tried to sit up. Propping herself up with an arm did no good, as every muscle in her arm was numb and unresponsive. When she forced her body upward, she regretted it in an instant as a wave of pain hit her skull.

Arya reeled back, clutching her head with both hands. The pain was overwhelming. It felt like her skull was being pressed under an anvil, and her vision began to spin and grow blurry. She felt something warm against her right hand and pulled it away.

Though she could barely make it out, she saw her fingers stained red.

Behind her hand, she caught a glimpse of the toppled painted tree, cracked from the force of its fall.

Then she saw no more.

...

Arya blinked once. Then twice.

She was surrounded by miles of frozen wastes. Glittering peaks, rivers turned to solid ice, and wisps of snow swept up with every gust of cold air.

The Land of Always Winter.

Standing before her was a massive weirwood tree, its leaves bright red and its trunk white as bone. Carved on its thick trunk was a face, which stared solemnly at Arya.

The sun was set behind the tree, illuminating its leaves with golden light. Yet as Arya watched, entranced, the light went out.

Desperate, frantic howls behind her caused her to turn around, and she gasped.

Behind her was a pack of wolves, huddled together in the dark. Two stood at the front. One male, another female. They snarled, baring their teeth angrily, but not at Arya.

She looked back to the tree, and her blood turned cold.

It was dead. All its leaves gone, its truck cracked and covered in a layer of ice.

From out of the trunk flew a raven with three eyes, streaking towards her and the wolfpack. Its three eyes bored into hers, half-pleading, half accusing.

Then, from behind the tree, a storm cloud emerged. Spreading out at impossible speed, it smothered the old tree and raced forward.

Arya heard an awful, ghastly wailing from inside the storm. Something else was racing to her.

A dark, horned shape with glowing blue eyes.

...

Arya woke with a start.

She was not in trapped in the Land of Always Winter. Instead, she was on a soft bed, in a dimly lit room.

A candle was seated next to her, its light soft and warm, not icy blue.

Arya sighed shakily. She was back in the House of Black and White.

There was a dull, throbbing ache in her head, one that grew worse when the tried to sit up straight. Arya reached up to her head, and her fingers brushed over damp linen. It was a bandage, wrapped tight around her head.

When the pain persisted, Arya lay back down and took a long, shuddering breath. What happened? How did she get here?

A creak of old wood caused her to jolt again, and she looked to the source. It was the Waif, sitting in a corner opposite her bed. The girl was slouched in an old chair, chipping away at some piece of fruit. In the dim lighting it was hard to tell what kind it was.

The Waif looked up at Arya, her face indecipherable.

"Finally awake. How's your head, girl?"

Arya grimaced.

"Terrible, I…"

A sudden realization hit her, and Arya's eyes bugged.

"The theatre. The old man, I have to…"

Again, she tried to rise, and again the pain in her skull kept her from moving any further than a few inches. As she groaned in helpless anger, the Waif set her food down and walked over to her.

"Stay. What you must do is stay and relax. You've been in and out for three hours now."

Reaching into a pouch at her side, the Waif produced the vial of poison.

"You did well today, girl. Shortly after passing by the theatre, the ship insurer's heart started to give out. By now, he will already be dead."

Arya felt like some heavy weight had been removed from her chest. Allowing herself to sink into the bed she looked away from the Waif, staring at the stone ceiling. Success. After weeks of hard training, of practice and questioning and countless tests, success.

So why did she feel so empty?

"How did I get here?"

The Waif made a small sound, like she was about to laugh but held herself back at the last moment, and answered, "Your friend Lady Crane. When you passed out, she took you home to recuperate. Soon after, I came to ask for you."

When Arya shot her a fearful glance the Waif rolled her eyes and added, "She still lives. I told her you and I were old friends and asked that she help me take you home."

Her lip curled. "She was taken aback when that meant coming here."

A slight twinge of regret hit Arya.

"I never told her I came from this place. Can't imagine what she thinks of me now."

"You need not fear, girl. Lady Crane told me what happened at the theatre and wished us well. She asks to hear back when you are in good health again. The woman is rather fond of you, Mercy."

Arya's eyes fell.

"I suppose that name won't be of much use anymore. My task is complete. Will I be sent someplace else now?"

The Waif tapped her finger three times before giving her answer.

"For now," she explained, "You will remain here until we are sure your injury is fully healed. Should you require any assistance, our servants will provide it. I will leave you now…"

Her eyes scanned across Arya's bandaged head. Then her hands, which Arya realized were still clenched. Then the Waif's dark eyes locked on to hers.

"But before I do, I must ask you this. When you were under, did you dream?"

Arya was disheartened at the question. Not particularly surprised, as it was a question the Waif asked of her every morning.

Granted, her wolf dreams and visions were less frequent than before. This was the first in five whole days.

"Yes," she murmured. "I did."

The Waif appeared as a statue. Unmoving. Placid. Her features frozen in a blank stare.

"Take time to recall. Then we will speak in the morning."

The Waif stood up and made for the door, tossing Arya her fruit.

When the older girl was gone, Arya examined it. It was a pear, ripe and juicy. Ready to be served. Yet as she looked closely, Arya saw an opening. A spot where the Waif had cut off the pear's skin, through which the juice was steadily leaking out.

It was almost perfect. But one chink in its exterior, and the whole pear would be spoiled.

The meaning was not lost on Arya, and she continued to scrutinize the fruit. Alone, in her dark room. Just hours ago, it seemed she made such progress here. But now, once again, she was as alone as she had ever been.

Home, the Waif told Lady Crane.

This wasn't home.

---

Meera Reed folded the last of their things hurriedly. It was nighttime now, and with the night came time to leave Bloodraven's cave forever.

It was strange. As much as Meera longed to go back to Greywater Watch, this place had sheltered her and Bran for months. The Children and Bloodraven were not her family, yet they cared for her no less than Bran or Jojen. And whatever grand purpose they had in store for Bran, what use his power would be when the White Walkers returned to Westeros, Bloodraven was as good a teacher as anyone could have asked for.

Leaving him was not as easy as Meera thought it would be.

Distracting herself from such thoughts, Meera looked to Hodor. Dutiful and genial as ever, the large man tied three sacks of supplies together and smiled at her proudly.

"We can home now, Hodor," she said brightly. "Well, maybe not home home. But at least somewhere that isn't a cave. I can't wait to food. Real food, something that isn't moss."

Hodor snickered, glancing at a pouch of rationed moss meant for their journey south. He was not too fond of the stuff either.

"I'll have an egg. First egg in…. gods, I can't even remember how long. What about you? How do you like them, boiled?"

The man grimaced.

"Hodor," he answered in disgust.

Meera laughed, "Fried then, with a side of butter?"

There was a twinkle in Hodor's eye at the suggestion, and Meera pointed at him in enthusiasm chuckling, "Well, you're in luck. Should we get back to Greywater, my family's cooks will take care of that for you. Maybe add some bacon, or blood sausage."

The tall man gave a hearty laugh of his own. Yet as he shouted "Hodor," one more time, Meera's heart stopped.

His breath was fogging in front of him.

She drew in a sharp gasp. Her lungs seized for a moment and though she feared to, Meera exhaled to be sure if she saw what she thought she saw. Now it was her breath that appeared in a wisp before her. More pronounced this time.

No. Not now. Not yet.

Meera's head snapped to her right. On the floor of the cave, Bran lay still at the roots of the great weirwood. His eyes were still milky white. He was still in the greensight, as was his teacher.

"Hodor, stay here."

Before he could say anything, Meera turned on her heel and sprinted out into the cave. She ran, as hard and as fast as she could, to the entrance. As she did the air turned colder, and every breath she took was like a gulp of ice-cold water into her lungs.

She made it out, panting from exertion, and spotted three of the Children standing guard by the opening. Leaf was with them, with a short bronze sword and obsidian dagger strapped to her thigh. A package of metal and obsidian orbs by her side. An enchanted weapon, one that saved both Meera's and Bran's lives when they first came here.

Leaf's eyes were locked dead ahead, out to the frozen plain. Meera followed her gaze, and her mouth dropped open.

Though the field was shrouded in the cover of a black storm cloud, enough thin rays of moonlight shone through to illuminate the vast army of corpses facing her. Men, women, and children. Towering giants, some astride woolen mammoths. The dead horde were standing completely still, watching Bloodraven's lair in complete silence.

Until the wind took a sudden turn, growing in intensity until the chill stung Meera's cheeks. From out of the horde stepped the source of said chill. Four pale warriors, clad in dark armor. Two among them were women, the other three were men. In their hands were crystalline swords, sharper and stronger than any castle-forged steel. Their features, though gaunt and colorless save for their glowing blue eyes, possessed a sort of unearthly beauty and elegance.

The exception being their leader. His armor appeared thicker and somewhat more weathered than the others, and the sword slung across his back resembled a garish sickle more than anything else He was a ghoulish, menacing figure with sharp features and an array of spikes on his head that resembled a sort of crown.

The Night King.

As Meera watched, transfixed, the master of the White Walkers stepped out in front of his army and knelt. Stretching out his bony fingers, the Night King placed a taloned hand on the ground. For a moment Meera wondered what exactly he was doing, until an earsplitting crack broke the eerie silence.

A fissure opened in the solid rick beneath his hand, sending shards of rock and ice into the air as it grew closer and closer to the cave. Meera's fear turned to panic when the crack raced between her and Leaf, at last marking the stone that hung over their heads. She darted to one side, narrowly avoiding a heavy piece fragment that might have hit her in the eye.

The enchantment which shielded this cave was gone. The White Walkers were free to enter, and to slaughter every last one of them.

"Get Bran," Leaf shouted. "There is a sword waiting for you by the doorway. Take it and get Bran out of here!"

Without hesitation Meera did as she was told. She ran back in, looking to-and-fro for the weapon Leaf spoke of. After a brief search she spotted it. A long sword, marked with a gilded crossguard and pommel. The blade was slender, as if made for a lighter hand, and a blood red ruby rested on the crossguard.

Meera took no time to admire or examine the weapon, seizing it as she continued her flight.

---

Outside, Leaf and her brethren each clutched an orb and tossed it at the now advancing army.

The field was lit up as each orb landed and ignited in a fiery blast. Scores of wights were consumed by the explosions, screeching as the dark power that fueled them was snuffed out. The Children continued their assault, leaving a dozen smoldering craters where the dead once stood.

Yet their masters were untouched. Through some cursed luck or their own power, the White Walkers were shielded from the flames. At their head, the Night King drew his sickle-sword, marching at a leisurely and almost mocking pace. His eyes met Leaf's, betraying one solitary emotion.

Rage. An implacable, merciless anger that festered for thousands of years.

It was by her hand that he became this abomination. And now, by his hand, she and her kind would meet their end.

Leaf took another orb, lobbing it at a circle of dried wood and leaves that guarded the cave. In a flash, the circle was lit into a bonfire which obscured the Night King from her sight.

"Go!" she ordered, and the other Children followed her inside.

The Night King was not even slowed down by the bonfire. The scorched wood cracked beneath his boots as he and the other Walkers walked right over it, their very presence dousing the heat.

The pale king's face contorted into a grim smirk. Clutching his weapon in growing triumph he walked into the Three Eyed Raven's cave.

When they had passed through, their minions rushed to join them. But with the Walkers' passing, the circle lit up again and three wights met a fiery end.

The others halted. For a minute they looked around them, searching for another way in. They found it when one wight darted around the circle and clambered onto the on which their enemy's tree rested. It started to burrow, frantically digging and scratching at the tree's roots until whatever dried flesh was left on its hands was all scraped away, leaving only bare bone.

Roaring in one awful voice, its fellow wights scurried to do the same, and soon the entire hill was covering in one black, dead mass.

---

Meera reached Bran. Still lying on the ground, still stuck in his visions.

"Bran," Meera cried, "wake up! You need to wake up!

We need Hodor!"

Hodor was huddling in the corner, clutching himself and fear and groaning his name.

Footsteps rang from the tunnel behind Meera. She reached for her sword, drawing it in one clean motion before turning around.

It was not a wight, or a White Walker that approached, but Leaf. Flanked by the others. Their bronze and obsidian weapons were now drawn.

"What's happening?" Leaf asked.

"He hasn't come out," Meera yelped. "He and Bloodraven, they're still under. There wasn't enough time."

Leaf's face hardened. "Then we hold the dead off long enough for you to get him out. You, the wolf and Hodor must escape."

Meera looked back at Leaf with worry.

"What about you?"

"…It doesn't matter what happens to us."

The Child of the Forest spoke in empty resignation. She made no attempt to keep from Meera the truth of what they faced here. Death.

A loud barking interrupted them. Summer, the direwolf, was looking up at the ceiling. Meera leaned her head back to see what had the beast so upset. What she saw was a rotted hand slipping in between two gnarled roots above her. With the snapping of old wood, a wight emerged and screamed at Meera.

Meera's fingers wrapped tight around the handle of her weapon, and she brought it up in one clear arc.

The wight's head tumbled to the floor, a death-rattle escaping its severed throat.

Keeping her weapon raised, and trying to watch the cave for other intruders, Meera bellowed, "Bran!"

---

Bran stood in the courtyard of Winterfell with Bloodraven, watching a young Eddard Stark prepare for a long journey to the Vale. Bloodraven showed him much today, mostly their family's long history and the current whereabouts of his siblings.

In front of him, Eddard was locked in a tight embrace with his brother Benjen, patting him on the head.

"I'll be fine. Just take care of yourself until I get back. Don't let Lyanna land you two into any trouble."

Their father Rickard walked over to them, putting a gentle yet firm hand on Eddard's shoulder.

"It's time to go, Son."

Eddard broke away from his brother, sharing a sad smile before he turned away.

"Remember," Rickard instructed, "That you are a Stark. Conduct yourself with dignity at the Vale. Be an example to our fellow Northmen. Try to stay out if fights, if you can."

"Yes, father."

Rickard then gave his son a serious look.

"But if you must fight…"

His grey eyes narrowed.

"Win."

With his last word, a sudden tremor echoed across the castle. A tremor no one present appeared to notice.

None, save for Bran and Bloodraven.

The two greenseers shared a fearful glance.

"We are out of time," Bloodraven said to him grimly.

A distant voice carried across the air.

"Bran, wake up! You need to wake up!"

We need Hodor!"

Bloodraven nodded at Bran.

"Listen to your friend, boy."

Bran, reeling from the sudden change, closed his eyes and stretched his mind outward. Back to the world outside the greensight. Back to the cave.

Back to Hodor.

---

Standing back-to-back with Leaf, Meera cut down two more wights. The cave was erupting into a grisly melee, with the Children fighting desperately to hold off wave after wave of undead.

One wight swung an axe at Meera, locking its blade with hers, and snapped its jaws at her face in a rage. She tried to lean back, to stay out its way or else find herself in the creature's teeth.

Meera had no need, however, as silvery-grey blur slammed into the wight. Summer, all teeth and claws, tore the hapless wight to pieces. When it was done the wolf rushed back to its master's side, barking in defiance.

Yet more wights came.

She retreated to where Summer and his master waited.

"Bran!"

As if on cue, Hodor appeared from the corner of her eye. The broad, powerfully built man walked to another wight headed her way and took it by the throat. With a loud crunch, Hodor smashed the corpse to the stone floor and shattered its skull.

He stole a glance back at Meera. His look was determined, fierce.

It was not Hodor any longer.

"Come on," Meera sighed in relief, "Let's get out of here!"

The two loaded Bran's unconscious body onto a stretcher, which 'Hodor' pulled along, out of the cave. Not a moment too soon, as Meera felt their surroundings turn even colder than before.

A White Walker strolled into the cave. Tall, broad shouldered, with a thin white beard across its face. The demon surveyed his surroundings, spotting Bloodraven in the roots and his charges just past him.

The Walker brandished its sword, hissing something Meera could not understand. Its language was harsh, inhuman, and caused the hairs on the back of Meera's neck to stand up. One of the Children charged him, leaping up to stab him with an obsidian knife.

Instead, the Walker parried his stab and replied with one of his own. The Child was impaled by his enemy's crystal blade and was tossed aside to die on the floor.

"Meera," Leaf yelled, "Your sword!"

Meera looked down at her weapon, then at Leaf.

"No manmade steel can kill them."

Leaf shouted back, "That blade is no ordinary steel. Use it!"

The Walker was bearing down on them now and raised its weapon to behead Meera. Desperate, and seeing nothing else to do, Meera lunged at him and thrust the point of the sword at the Walker's throat.

The steel connected, plunging into his cold, white flesh. The Walker's eyes widened in pain and horror. Then the blue light in them went out.

With a deafening howl, the White Walker collapsed. Its body crumbled, shattered into a thousand pieces until all that was left was a half-melted mass of snowflakes on the floor.

Meera watched the miraculous sight, nearly dropping the sword in blank shock.

She killed one of them.

I killed a White Walker.

The moment was short lived, and she heard another deathly wail from off in the tunnel.

"Run!"

She did as Leaf told her, fleeing the cave. Around her, she could see the other Children cornered and eventually overwhelmed by their attackers. Soon, Leaf was all that remained, racing alongside her group. Summer remained with them, refusing to leave Bran.

As they fled, Meera could hear the cave growing quiet in their absence. Bloodraven was alone now.

Defenseless.

---

Stepping over the corpse of a male Child, the Night King walked into the now silent cavern. He observed the carnage left in his servants' wake, the mangled bodies of Children and wights.

The Night King's teeth bared as he spotted the remains of one of his kin. Slain, by who he neither knew nor cared. Whoever was responsible, they would not get far.

His attention rested now, at last, on the Three Eyed Raven. Brynden Rivers, once a proud member of the human house of Targaryen. Now little more than a wizened, faded shell that barely resembled a man. His one remaining eye was white, marking he was still drifting in the world of the past.

The Night King cocked his head. After centuries of waiting, this was almost too easy. Not as satisfying as he imagined.

But no matter. He came here to face Bloodraven, to let him know he failed. Only then would he finish it.

His eyes flashed, and his consciousness hurtled into the past to join his enemy.

---

Bran listened to the echoes of what was happening outside, in the real world.

"The time has come," Bloodraven remarked solemnly. His eyes met Bran's, and in them Bran could see tears.

"I'm sorry, Brandon. You must leave me now."

Something in the air changed. Light footsteps rang across Winterfell's courtyard. Footsteps that came from behind Bloodraven.

Bran looked around the old man's shoulder and took a step back.

It was the Night King, bearing a large, curved blade of ice and heading straight for them.

Even as Bran tried to point to him, to warn Bloodraven, his teacher kept his gaze only on him.

"Brynden…"

"Goodbye."

Bloodraven waved his hand, and Bran was hurtled far away. Away from him, away from Winterfell, and away from the White Walker's ruler. He vanished from sight, as if he had never been there at all.

Then Bloodraven turned around, content his work was done.

"You are too late. I have passed on all I know to the boy. My knowledge, my power, already flows into him as we speak. He will be waiting for you."

His violet eyes bored deep into the Walker's.

"…As will the other."

The Night King stood opposite Bloodraven. They stared each other down with the air of two knights that jousted many times, over many years. But now the fight was over.

Then, in a voice that echoed like the howling of a blizzard, he spoke.

"They wait only for their end."

Raising his sword, in both this realm and the world beyond, the Night King readied to strike down the Three Eyed Raven.

Brynden Rivers, son of King Aegon IV, closed his eyes and spread his arms in acceptance.

The sword flashed, and all went dark.

---

The black tunnel seemed to go on forever.

Meera, Hodor and Leaf ran as fast as their feet could carry them, barely keeping up with Summer who was now at the head of the group. The wolf appeared to know the way to the south exit by heart, a fact that came as no surprise to any of them. Summer spent many days stalking the labyrinth that made up Bloodraven's lair, he must have known it quite well by now.

Behind them, the group could hear a cacophony of chittering, ravenous undead. Now the defense of the cave was gone, dozens if not hundreds of wights were in pursuit, ready to rip every one of them limb from bloody limb.

Then, as they rounded a corner, Meera let out an audible sigh of relief. A sturdy wooden door was in sight. The southern exit. If they could make it through and somehow seal the entrance, it could buy them enough time to lose the Night King.

But as they drew ever closer to safety, Leaf stopped in her tracks. The last of her tribe gasped and doubled over, her face contorted in pain as if she were stabbed by some unseen blade.

Looking back at her, Meera shouted, "What are you doing?"

The look of shock and pain then turned to sorrow, telling Meera all she needed to know. Leaf's brothers and sisters were gone, as was their charge.

The Three-Eyed-Raven was dead.

Leaf turned to look behind them, at the twisting dark mass that was gaining on them with every second. Then, watching Meera and the others draw further away, Leaf stood back up. Her demeanor changed again, this time to determination. Resolve.

"Go."

She dropped her bronze weapon and produced one last orb from her belt. Her fingers wrapped tight around the archaic weapon, and its surface glittered with a spark of energy.

Meera, understanding what it was the last Child was trying to do, kept running.

The swarm of wights was right behind them now. Leaf remained rooted to the spot, not moving an inch even as the dead bore down on her. They horde crashed into her, throwing her to the ground. They hacked, slashed, and stabbed at her, again and again.

Yet Leaf made no sound. No cry for help. Clutching her weapon tight, she pulled it close to her heart and muttered something in her people's True Tongue. She sang a song of the earth, praying for her soul and the souls of the others who died that day.

Then she let go.

The tunnel erupted in a blaze of fire.

---

Bran hurtled through time, watching the world flash by in a blur of colors and sounds blended into one deafening chorus. The last thing he saw clearly was the Night King advancing on Bloodraven with sword in hand, and the elder greenseer telling him to leave.

He tried to stop himself, tried to focus on one place in time. Concentrating, he remembered a serene, peaceful scene shown to him his first time in the greensight. He forced his mind to return to that place.

The world around him materialized, slowly. He was back in Winterfell, back in the courtyard. Eddard, Benjen and Brandon Stark were gathered in a circle, watching Lyanna Stark dismount a horse gifted to her by their father.

She was now handing the horse's reins to Wylis, their kind and trusted stablehand. The boy who would one day become 'Hodor'.

"How did Benjen fare today?" Lyanna asked.

"Better than before," Wylis said with a shrug, "but he's got a way to go."

Bran remembered his surprise, hearing the boy speak.

Lyanna chuckled. "He always lifts his chin when he's about to charge."

"And lowers it when he's going to dodge, my lady."

Bran sighed in relief. He was safe, for now, in a place that could help him calm his thoughts. Yet he would need to keep his guard up, or else risk being followed.

---

Behind them, the survivors could feel the heat of the blast. They pressed on, knowing they would not have long before the pursuit started again. At last, they reached the southern exit, and Hodor set Bran's body down.

He was himself again. Meera could see how afraid the man was, how uncomfortable he was at yet again being controlled by Bran. Still, he did his duty and shoved to shove the exit open.

Far off in the now smoking cave, there was a snarl. Then another, and another, and before long the feral cries picked up again. Leaf's sacrifice bought them all valuable time, but unless they pushed the door open now it would mean nothing.

"Hodor, hurry!"

With a mighty yell, Hodor put his full weight against the door. Roots snapped, metal twisted, then the door flung open, letting a gust of wind sweep in. Meera flinched at the force of the blizzard, and a scattering of snowflakes hit her across the face.

Barely registering the change in temperature, Hodor helped Meera pull Bran outside, flanked by Summer. Not a moment too soon, as the dead were on them again. When they were outside, Hodor turned around and slammed the door shut.

For a moment, the din of the wights ended. Only to then pick up when the door jolted, almost torn off its hinges. At any moment, they could break through. Hodor tried desperately to hold them back, eventually putting his back to the door and leaning against it to keep the dead from flinging it open.

Meera picked up Bran's stretcher, looking around for any sight of danger. There was none to be seen. She looked to Hodor, whose arms were now spread to either side of the doorframe behind him. He stared at Meera in confusion and fear.

There was no escape, not unless Hodor stayed where he was and bough them just a little more time.

Bran had to survive. But that would mean leaving Hodor behind.

Meera started to pull Bran away, not breaking eye contact with Hodor even for a moment.

"Hold the door," she shouted, her voice cracking from the strain of pulling Bran and the guilt of leaving the caring, gentle man behind.

"Hold the door!"

---

"Hold the door!"

Bran's ears perked at the sound of Meera's voice.

Her words were carried on a cold wind that rang in Bran's ears. They must have made it out of the cave, he though. But who among them was still standing, and who was left behind?

"Hold the door," he muttered, looking around him. His eyes passed over everyone present. Lyanna, Eddard, Benjen, Brandon, the servant Old Nan…

Then Wylis. The stablehand was looking in his direction, puzzled. Like he could almost hear him.

Bran gasped. He remembered the tower in Dorne, what Bloodraven told him about echoes in the greensight. He told Bran the past was already written, not to bother trying to change it.

Yet as Wylis looked at him, Bran realized the horror of the truth.

Bloodraven lied.

Again, he heard it.

"Hold the door!"

And Wylis heard it too.

There was a clap like thunder, and the stablehand's eyes turned white. Before Bran could react, the boy collapsed to the ground. Wylis's body seized, then began to spasm uncontrollably.

In a pained, strangled cry he yelled, "Hold the door!"

"Wylis!"

Old Nan rushed to Wylis's side. The woman always had a motherly attitude towards those in her charge, and Wylis was no exception. She dropped to his side, taking Wylis by the hand and feeling his cheeks.

"Wylis, what's the matter?"

The boy did not even notice her.

"Hold the door!"

Bran then felt something twinge on the back of his neck. His eyes shut, and he tried to shake off the feeling. Instead, it turned to a buzzing that rang through his whole skull.

He could see it now. Hodor, in the present, struggling to keep the door shut as the wights rammed against it. His face contorted in pain, and he yelped in fear.

"Hold the door!"

An axe head burst through the wood mere inches from Hodor's head.

"Hold the door!"

A hand seized Hodor's shoulder, clawing at it.

"Hold the door! Hold the door! Hold the door!"

Something in Hodor's complexion changed. His features slackened. Some strange clarity hit him. The truth.

Who he was. Where he came from.

Why he was here.

Bran collapsed to his knees, watching in helpless despair. Watching his loyal, trusted friend calmly accept his fate.

Knowing at last, that all along, it was his fault.

"Hold the door!

Hold the door!

Hold… the door!

Hold… door!

Hol… door!

Ho – dor…

Hodor…

Hodor…

Hodor…"

---

Author's Note:

Many a tear was shed when I watched 'The Door'. Such a gentle, innocent soul Hodor was. Lived his whole life trapped, destined to die a horrible death. Breaks your heart, it does.

Anyway, on to a few changes here. Summer is indeed alive. And will stay as such, for the time being. The Children appear to be gone, but whether that lasts is a question for another time.

Arya's pledge for the Faceless Men has hit a snag. But not the one we saw in the show. What does that mean? She succeeded in her mission, but that success is not going to last.

Jon and Sansa are still going about their business. Yet again, I'm trying to reinforce that "the North remembers". But what does that mean for Stannis, the man determined to be their king? Can Jon hold the peace? Sansa has no trust in Littlefinger, and she is in fact going to tell Jon about his little visit.

But does she want anyone else to know?

And of course, one of the biggest changes. Yes, the Night King talks here. And he will talk some more in the future. But only to a select few. Bran Stark, and the "other" Brynden spoke of.

Who is that other?

Wait and see...