The stars had gone out.
What once was a clear winter night had been overtaken by a blizzard, its shadow cast over the land for miles around.
Trudging along under the trees, Meera pulled the makeshift sled on which Bran Stark now lay motionless. Her face was red from exertion, and her ragged breath fogged the air in front of her.
Trotting next to her was Summer, looking more like his sibling Ghost as a scattering of snowflakes appeared to paint him white. The wolf sniffed ahead, signaling to Meera where they could find a safe hiding place.
Bran's sled hid a snag on the ground, and Meera was forced to halt. Perhaps it was a rock, or the gnarled root from one of the countless trees surrounding her.
With a grunt, Meera tugged her friend over the obstacle and kept moving. Yet even as he bucked up and down, Bran's eyes remained empty.
He was lost. Lost somewhere in time and space, far away from their predicament now.
...
Bran was lost.
He could not begin to guess where, or even when he was anymore. Space and time held no meaning anymore, and he found himself overwhelmed with a flurry of sights, smells and sounds.
He saw a distant sunset over the frozen north. Then, in the blink of an eye, the seasons changed and he was flying on the wings of a bird over a forest blooming in the spring.
Then he saw a line of men, clad in heavy furs and tunics, marching across a mountain. Their features were rugged, and their clothing and weapons primitive.
Were these the First Men?
Next, Bran was in a dark tunnel carved from stone. A wizened scholar held a heavy bottle containing luminous, eerie green liquid. Pouring the substance into a clay jar, the man signaled his attendant to place it on a shelf. A shelf where dozens, perhaps hundreds of similar containers were stocked for as long as the tunnel went on.
Bran could not be sure, but he thought he heard a man's voice echo in the darkness.
"Burn them all!"
These visions were unknown to Bran. He did not recognize the men's faces, nor understand where or when they were. And he was unable to stay put long enough to find out.
Yet, as he almost resigned himself to this insane cacophony, Bran caught a glimpse of someone he knew very well.
"Jon."
Standing alone in a camp, Jon Snow was tending to the scabbard which held his Valyrian steel sword. Bran almost reflexively called to him, before remembering his brother was far away.
Close by, he though he glimpsed a dash of long, auburn hair.
Sansa.
With a tremendous effort, Bran tried to direct his thoughts and feelings on his family. Concentrate, Bloodraven told him so often in their lessons.
So he did. Reaching out and latching on to every image, every sound, every event tied to someone close to him.
Before long, Bran could move on his own, and almost picture himself standing in place again. There was a thread, a tenuous string of events involving his family which he started to follow.
It began with the Tower of Joy, and the violent duel which saw the fall of the Kingsguard. Yet as before, he was unable to follow his father inside.
The years flew by, and he saw himself and his siblings grow. Then the tragic War of the Five Kings, and the scattering of his family.
At last, he was back in the cave. With a pang of guilt ringing in his chest, Bran saw Bloodraven hanging lifeless in the roots of the ancient tree. A crimson stain was spreading across the stone floor, pouring from the horrific gash in his chest.
The Night King stood before him, wiping blood from his sickle-sword. Sensing Bran's presence again, the Night King's pallid features contorted into a smirk.
You are next, his wicked smile told Bran.
Turning away, Bran felt himself returning to the here and now. Back to the real world.
...
He was splayed out across a wooden sled. Around him was a clearing in the forest, covered in a blanket of snow.
Bran's eyes were closed, and when he opened them Bran saw Meera looking down at him.
The girl was visibly exhausted. Her cheeks were ruddy, and her eyes were wet.
It was not hard for Bran to guess why. Not only was Hodor gone, but all the Children as well. And Bloodraven.
They were all gone, having shared the same fate as Meera's beloved brother.
"They've found us," Meera sighed, her voice close to breaking.
Indeed, from off in the woods Bran could hear animalistic growls, and the shuffling of feet. Summer turned about, snarling, and bearing his fangs.
Leaning up as much as he could, Bran glimpsed a scattering of wights racing towards them.
"I'm sorry," Meera sobbed, holding him close to her. "I'm so sorry."
The dead men were closer now. In seconds they would be on the two survivors and their loyal wolf, and rip them to pieces.
Yet even as they, he felt no fear. No sorrow.
Why?
The first wight leapt at Summer, drawing a crude dagger.
Only to be struck out of the air by a massive dark shape. The wight was sent crumpling to the ground and could barely raise its head again before a heavy hoof smashed its skull.
Bran gaped at the sight of a great elk. The creature stood higher than most men, its head adorned with magnificent antlers. Its breath fogged the cold air as it rested for a moment. The sight left Bran stunned, though not nearly as stunned as the rider.
Atop the steed was a man garbed in leather and ringmail armor. A hooded cloak concealed his face, though his hands were bare. They were blackened, as if bitten by frostbite or caked in dried blood.
The rider gazed down at Bran and Meera. His head then jerked upwards, to look beyond.
From behind them, the two heard galloping. Bran twisted about to see another black rider. This one was also shrouded and clad in light armor, but instead of an elk he rode an armored stallion. Unlike the other, his hands were covered.
The two riders surveyed the youths on the ground, then exchanged a knowing look. The horseman turned his mount in the direction of an oncoming swarm of wights, reaching into the depths of his cloak.
His compatriot did the same, facing the other direction. From within their cloaks, they each drew a heavy chain the length of a grown man's arm. At the end of each chain was a spiked head, and as Bran and Meera each looked on in wonder the weapons ignited into flames.
Almost a dozen wights had broken into the clearing, surrounding them.
Spurring their chargers on, the cloaked men took the fight to the walking corpses. Bran watched them descend on their foes, swinging their chains in brilliant arcs and smiting every wight in their path. The White Walkers' minions screeched and flailed wildly as they were set ablaze or trampled underfoot.
The rider on the elk fought boldly, more than once spurring his steed to toss aside wights with its large antlers before he burned them. His ally on the horse engaged with more caution, maneuvering his smaller animal through the horde, then disengage before any could react.
Summer circled Bran and Meera, no doubt itching to join but determined to stay by his owner's side.
Before long, the bulk of the attackers were lying in pieces, or smoldering on the ground. But more were coming, and Bran knew their masters were not far behind.
True enough, the pair of riders extinguished their weapons when it was safe before riding to him and Meera. The man on the elk stretched out a blackened hand.
"Come with us, brother. We will protect you." He spoke in a voice that rattled like the breath of a dying man, and more disturbingly the air in front of his face did not fog up.
Though his appearance unsettled Bran, it was clear if the gruesome rider meant him harm, he would know by now. After a moment's hesitation, he took the man's hand, ignoring the icy cold of his fingers. Beside them, Meera was hoisted onto the other man's saddle.
"Hurry," the man shouted.
"The dead don't rest!"
A flurry of wights rushed into the clearing to stop them, but it was too late. The hooded rescuers charged out, their dark cloaks flapping behind them like raven's wings as they vanished into the darkness.
Sitting on opposite sides of their table, Jon and Sansa each mulled over an unfinished meal. Neither was particularly hungry as of late, not since Lord Baelish's rather unwelcome visit.
Sansa's fingers folded over one another in frustration, her knuckles whitening and then flushing again as her hands flexed again and again. Her face was empty, staring off into nothing.
Jon spoke first, pushing his plate aside when it was clear he would not touch it again.
"Do you trust him?"
"Only a fool would trust Littlefinger," Sansa answered flatly. "He can make as many pledges as he wants to me, or to our house. In the end, he'll never pass up the chance to serve himself first."
Her eyes met Jon's again. He appeared uncertain, waiting on her word. Jon had never met Baelish, having only her words to go on. And she had few that were even remotely kind.
After a long pause, Jon at last said, "We have to tell King Stannis."
"Of course we have to tell him. But when he accepts, and Baelish arrives, all of us will be put in danger."
Jon nodded in understanding. "Well, we all knew this was a risk when we started. No reason things it should get easier now."
His bluntness almost drew a smile from Sansa. Her eyes drifted to the map resting on another table beside them. The night before, Jon had gathered with Tormund Giantsbane and Stannis Baratheon to plan the siege of Winterfell.
Yet, every now and then, Sansa could look over and see Jon look pouring over it when he thought no one was looking. The coming battle weighed heavier on Jon than any other man in their army, Sans knew it.
Not that this surprised her. Horrid as it was to be trapped in Winterfell under Bolton rule, at least she had seen it in the time since their separation years ago. All Jon had of the castle was memories. Memories of a better life long gone.
The blast of a horn cased Jon to look up. For a second there was something different in his posture. He looked like a different man. Less a commander in an army, more a ranger traversing the wilds of the dangerous land beyond the Wall.
He took a deep breath, then beckoned Sansa to follow.
"It's only first light," she said. "Who could be showing up now?"
The two Stark children walked out to the front of the camp, where Stannis and a retinue of guards stood waiting. Stannis appeared tired. It seemed he, like Sansa and her brother, had slept very little.
The king and his allies watched not one, but two men dressed in heavy riding cloaks and helmets. From their dirty, worn appearances, they must have been riding for days.
It did not take long for Sansa to guess who they were. Messengers from their potential allies. As more houses declared their support for the Stark-Baratheon alliance, riders from every corner of the North rode across increasingly cold and hostile lands to deliver the news.
Dismounting in a hurry, the men removed their helms and bowed their heads to Stannis.
"Your Grace."
Stannis nodded in return, acknowledging their long journey.
Beside him, Ser Davos reached out a gloved hand to accept their messages. Each man passed along a scroll, each sealed in wax and marked with the sigil of a noble house.
Gesturing to his guards Stannis ordered, "See these men to a warm tent, and fetch them something to eat."
A pair broke off, following his orders without hesitation. It never ceased to impress Sansa, the absolute confidence in which Stannis conducted himself and the unquestioning loyalty in those who followed him. Though, after years of fighting and surviving everything the Lannisters and their allies had thrown at them thus far, such camaraderie was to be expected.
She and Jon followed Stannis to the tent marked with his sigil, the stage enclosed in a red, flaming heart. Davos passed along the letters to his king, and the group took their seats at his table.
Placing his cane aside, Stannis undid the seal on the first letter. It was, to Sansa's joy, the coat of arms of Lady Brienne. Though the contents of her last letter had been bittersweet at best, it gave Sansa hope just to hear from Brienne once more.
Indeed, as Stannis read the contents of the letter, his dark blue eyes flickered up at her for a moment. It was hard to tell if he was annoyed, as the man rarely ever smiled.
"To my Lady Sansa," he recited flatly.
"If this letter finds you, then know we will meet again soon. Under my authority, the Tully force entrusted to us has passed the borders of the Vale and will soon reach Moat Cailin. The lords of the Vale have informed me of the Knights' march."
Stannis paused, and Sansa's heart skipped a beat. There went her chance to break the news to Stannis on her own terms.
After lingering on the letter a second longer, he went on.
"There, we will restock before continuing our journey.
The forces of House Frey, still under the rule of Lord Walder, became aware of our movements but were waylaid by the Vale's scouts. Whatever resistance we encounter is minimal, and will not delay us.
Though we have received no word from Lord Wyman, the lack of Manderly forces in our path bodes well for our chances of an alliance.
If the Gods are good, we will meet before the walls of Winterfell and take back you home.
Your faithful servant,
Lady Brienne of House Tarth."
Stannis closed the letter. His demeanor remained flat, detached.
"Dutiful as ever. Though I see the woman's feelings towards me have not changed."
Sansa shared a sheepish glance with Jon before Stannis went on.
"I would like to know, Lady Sansa, if you had any knowledge of the Vale and their activities."
Clearing her throat, Sansa did her best to keep her attention solely on Stannis. Even as she knew all eyes were on her. There was little point in lying to the king
"Yes, your Grace. I meant to tell you myself. The other day, I received… a message from Lord Petyr Baelish. He pledged himself to our cause.
He has mustered the Knights and waits to hear from us."
Stannis's eyes narrowed, and Sansa corrected herself.
"From me."
"Stands to reason," Stannis remarked. "It was you he abandoned at Winterfell. Doesn't surprise me that his first course of action would be to win back your favor."
"Well, he won't have it." Sansa shook her head. "He can't be trusted, your Grace. If Littlefinger offers one hand in friendship, rest assured the other is already clasping a dagger. Ready to stab you in the back whenever it suits him."
Ser Davos shrugged. "That being said, such an offer is hard to pass up. If you ask the lords and ladies of the Vale where their loyalties lie, I'm willing to bet every one of them would choose you over Baelish. I doubt he could take any action against us without incurring their wrath."
"So long as he keeps his sway over Robin Arryn, I don't think it matters what they think."
It pained Sansa to be so cynical. But if the past several years had taught her anything, it was to hope for the best while expecting the worst. Indeed, the very mention of her cousin and Baelish's tight hold over him brought a scowl to the face of every man present.
"You don't think the young Arryn would approve of it?" Davos sounded almost desperate to hear her say no.
Sansa pondered long and hard on the question. Though her interactions with Robin were not exactly pleasant, it was inconceivable he would see her thrown through the Eyrie's feared Moon Door as he would any other perceived enemies.
No, even Baelish could not turn him against her so. That was not his plan then, it could not be his plan now.
"No."
Stannis appeared satisfied. "Then there's not much room for discussion, is there?"
It frustrated Sansa beyond belief, but she knew they had little choice. Though the army pledged to her house and Stannis's grew by the day, their progress was slow. Too slow.
They needed more men.
As if sensing her trepidations, Davos added, "If you say Littlefinger can't be trusted, then we won't. We take whatever men he can offer, then we keep an eye on the bastard at all times."
He peered at Sansa reassuringly.
"We didn't come this far to see you lose your home again, my lady. When Winterfell is yours, we will do everything necessary to keep it that way."
More than once, Sansa had observed Davos taking it on himself to be a voice of reason, of compromise. It was easy to see why the king favored him so. Jon had known him for some time, and clearly he trusted the man.
Sansa looked to Jon, waiting for an answer. He said nothing, but the look of understanding in his eyes told Sansa everything she needed to know.
Perceiving they had reached a decision, Stannis beckoned to an attendant standing in the corner.
"Send a raven to Moat Cailan and tell the Lord Protector we accept the Vale's aid. I will expect to hear from him, and soon."
The attendant exited in a hurry, already pulling out a quill, and a scroll on which to write the message.
"Now," Stannis continued, "Let us continue."
Stannis opened the second letter, his air more eager and confident than before.
Only to freeze, as his eyes scrolled down its contents. Sansa saw the king's lips draw back into a sneer of contempt, and could almost hear his teeth grinding.
As he fumed, Sansa spotted the wax seal on the message that had him so furious.
A shield, marked with blue and white chequy, and gold plates. The sigil of House Mazin.
It was late morning when Jon strolled to the edge of their war camp. To where the free folk had set up their shelters.
Or, at least he thought it was still morning. A heavy layer of clouds obscured the sun, covering all around them in a shroud of dull grey. Not a single ray of light peered through, nor had any for days on end.
It reminded Jon of his time beyond the Wall. When he was still a brother of the Night's Watch, sworn to act against the free folk and their king. Now, here he was, counting on their help.
Tormund Giantsbane stood at the center of a circle, conferring with several other chieftains of his people.
The elderly Ygon, called Oldfather by members of his tribe the Nightrunners.
Dim Dalba, an elder who hailed from Tormund's home of Ruddy Hall.
Halleck, a raider captain who succeeded his sister Harma in the vanguard of their people's army.
Dalba, a respected figure in the host, saw Jon's arrival and turned to address him. "Was hoping you'd come, King Crow. Tormund was breaking to us the bad news."
Jon briefly regarded Tormund, who remained in place even as the congregation focused on Jon.
Dalba went on, speaking in a reedy but firm voice.
"It seems not every house in this land is so eager to answer your summons. Those Mazin folk, they're already on their way to join the Bolton lad?"
Jon's fingers clenched at the reminder. Even hours later, his anger towards Lord Finlay Mazin had barely abated.
"Yes. And they will answer for it."
"I think it goes without saying, the situation is grim." Dalba shared a worried look with the others present.
"We said we would fight with you, King Crow, when the time comes. And we meant it. But this march isn't what we agreed to."
Tormund barked, "I gave Snow my word our fighting men would be ready to answer when he called…"
"Aye," Ygon interjected. "You gave your word. When we were huddled up at the Wall, still licking our wounds from Hardhome. But this isn't a host of White Walkers we're facing. This isn't the army of the dead.
The king, Stannis, his fight with the Boltons is not our fight."
"It's Jon's fight, as well. And his sister's. That make it ours." Tormund explained slowly, deliberately, as if he was speaking to a gang of ignorant children.
"And in case you've forgotten, we only made it past the Wall with his help. Without Jon Snow, none of us would be standing here now. You'd be mindless beasts in the White Walkers' army. And me?
I'd just be a pile of charred bones, same as Mance Rayder."
This brought a sad silence to the Wilding gathering. Many bowed their heads, looking crestfallen just at the mention of their proud leader's name.
"Aye," Halleck murmured.
"Mance. Do you remember his camp, Tormund? Stretched all the way to the horizon. We built a host greater than any our people have seen in centuries.
Look what's left of us now. Two thousand fighting men, at best. Two and a half, if we let the women pick up spears of their own."
"It's enough to make a difference," Jon retorted.
"With your ranks standing next to ours, we still have a chance. And the Knights of the Vale all but assure victory."
Dalba crossed his arms skeptically.
"On the field of battle, perhaps. But as the winter sets in, and the enemy hides behind the castle wall, we will lose the advantage. We outnumbered your fellow crows a thousand to one at Castle Black, yet you held fast."
Ygon sighed. "I lost five sons that night. And two grandsons."
He gazed at Jon, regret staining his wrinkled features.
"I'm an old man, Snow. I'm not fighting for myself anymore, those days are long gone. I accepted your deal at Hardhome to buy my clan a future. A new life, for them and those who come after should we somehow survive the White Walkers. But now, we have another fight on our hands.
How many will the free folk lose, then, before it's over?"
Jon struggled to find the words to answer him.
"Too many," he admitted.
"I'm sorry about your sons, Ygon. Truly, I am. But if my sister and I lose, if Stannis loses, I fear your people are doomed all the same.
Ramsay knows you're here. The Karstarks, the Umbers, and now the Mazins, they know too. And that more than half of you are women and children. If we're defeated, Ramsay will send them all after you next.
And when he's finished, there will be nothing left. You'll be the last of the free folk."
His words hung heavily over the gathering. It hurt Jon to speak so gravely, knowing the horrors his companions had already faced not too long ago. Countless friends and loved ones, lost to the Night King and his horde. Many of whom Jon might have called friend himself, had they survived.
Yet even now, miles south of the Wall, Jon knew they were not safe.
"You're right," he said as last.
"This isn't your fight. I shouldn't be asking this of you. It's not the deal we made. But if we are to defeat Ramsay Bolton and take back the North, we need you.
And if your people are to survive, you need us."
Unable to say anymore, Jon at last unclenched his fist and let his gaze drop. Whatever happened now, whatever choice the chieftains made, he had no say in it. Though he wore the Stark colors now, flew their banners, Jon knew many of them would forever see him as King Crow, and nothing more.
But not Tormund, who crossed into the center of the circle and stood before Jon. He turned back and forth between his fellow warriors, glowering at them all.
"You sad cunts. All of you.
You speak of licking your wounds. Do you even remember what Snow suffered?
The crows killed him! Because he spoke for me, for you, when no other southerners would. He called us free folk, even as his brothers sneered at us. Called us 'wildlings'.
Jon Snow died for us."
His voice rising, Tormund strode to a rocky outcrop which marked a scout's post. Now standing higher than any other attendee, Tormund pointed at his brethren, before his sight landed on Jon once more.
"If you're not willing to do the same for him now, then I say you're all fucking cowards!
And you deserve to be the last of the free folk."
It never ceased to amaze Jon, how a man like Tormund could be so eloquent yet crass all at once. Once before, the raider spoke on Jon's behalf before an assembly of his people. Then, as now, they faced imminent death and destruction.
But Tormund minced no words this time. He was clearly done playing diplomat, asking for help nicely.
Then again, such a bold approach was what won him such respect in their ranks in the first place. The free folk respected strength. And Tormund had that in abundance. Not just strength of body, but strength of character.
Much like Mance Rayder before him.
Jon scanned the speakers, reading their expressions. Though they appeared annoyed, or offended by Tormund's accusations, none doubted him.
Because every word of what he said was true. And they knew it.
The ground shook, and Jon saw a towering shape rising next to him. The giant, Wun Wun, had sat in silence and listened to the entire meeting. He did not speak a word of the Common Tongue of Westeros, only fragments of the Old Tongue, and even then Wun Wun spoke only when he felt he had to.
He was the last of his line, Tormund told Jon when they visited Hardhome. One of the last living giants in all Westeros. The others of his kind remained at the Wall, helping the Night's Watch refortify for the coming of the White Walkers.
As part of an ancient race long allied with their people, Wun Wun held some sway among the free folk. His voice would be the deciding one.
So all waited for his decision. Ygon, Dalba, Halleck, even Tormund for all his bluster.
The giant's dark eyes fell on Jon. His massive head rose and fell, in something resembling a nod, and he bellowed one word.
"Snow."
At a makeshift fire pit, Melisandre of Asshai sat in silent prayer.
One hand reached out to the small but bright flames in front of her. Unmoving, and unhurt by the heat. The other rested above her breast, and the priestess's pale fingers traced her ornate brooch.
In the past, when the War of the Five Kings was still young, Melisandre could remove the enchanted jewel with little trouble. But as winter set in and the presence of the Great Other encroached on their world, she was forced to hold it close.
The crunch of snow under heavy boots alerted her to a visitor. Withdrawing her hand from the flames she looked up to see Ser Davos Seaworth standing close by.
He looked down at her in a mix of pity and annoyance. It was no secret the two had little love for one another. Long had Davos opposed her efforts to further indoctrinate his king into the faith of R'hllor. And long had Melisandre dismissed the Onion Knight's skepticism as that of a worldly, faithless man who could not grasp the bigger picture.
How fitting it was, that they could only tolerate each other now with Stannis beyond her grasp, and the young Jon Snow as her new charge.
"My lady," Davos muttered.
"Ser Davos. Will you sit with me for a moment?"
Nodding, Davos took his seat on the other side of the fire pit. Just far enough to her left that they could still see one another. Taking off his gloves, the old man warmed them. Melisandre's gaze rested for a moment on his right hand. On the missing fingertips that served as a reminder of both Davos's past deeds and his present oath to Stannis.
"Praying for a reprieve, from this terrible weather?" he asked.
It was not typical of Melisandre to laugh at such japes, yet her lips parted in a light grin. "If only it was so easy. In Asshai, we did not see the sun often. But I would gladly stay there if it meant never seeing snow again."
Davos's hands were smudged with ink, drawing an inquisitive look from the priestess.
"If I may ask, to whom were you writing?"
Davos sighed. "My wife, Marya. It's been almost two months to the day since my last letter. If she doesn't hear from me again soon, she'll surely fear the worst."
Now it was Melisandre who regarded him with pity.
"The princess taught you well. It will lift Marya's spirits to know you are still here, still fighting. If the Lord smiles on us, you may see each other again before this is over."
Davos shook his head. The Red Woman could not go even a minute without invoking her god, even now.
"If the Red God smiled on us, the queen and the princess would still be here," he remarked bitterly.
Melisandre appeared too tired to even be offended by the blasphemy.
"And now you serve Jon Snow?"
"I watch over him. Jon Snow faced the Night King in the far north and survived. He united the free folk and Night's Watch, and he will secure King Stannis's victory. More than that, he was given a second chance at life.
He is the Prince that was Promised."
Davos's face darkened at the mention of the prophecy. The tale that spurred Stannis to accept Melisandre's aid, and the aid of those who followed her. No matter how barbaric and cruel their methods. "With all due respect, my lady, I remember you telling a very different tale once. You said it was Stannis who was promised."
Melisandre's hand drifted to her brooch again. Then she said something neither she nor Davos ever expected to say.
"I was wrong."
The knight's hand dropped, almost landing on the burning edge of the fire pit. Bewildered, he tried to find any answer he could.
"I'll be honest," Davos replied at last, "you of all people saying so frightens me, Melisandre. Every time I think things couldn't get worse, something else adds to the pile of shit we've found ourselves in.
Would you mind elaborating, if you can?"
Melisandre's eyes fell, moving away from his and back to the fire.
"We were on the road, marching to Winterfell. When a blizzard struck, our host was forced to halt. Some in our ranks demanded sacrifices, to appease the Lord of Light and break the storm."
Davos peered at her intently. "I'm guessing you had no objections."
"No. But Stannis did. In fact, he refused, telling us to simply pray harder."
This drew a smirk from the knight. "Aye, that sounds like him."
Melisandre did not share his amusement.
"When the time came, King Stannis took the bulk of his forces to head off the Bolton host. I stayed behind, with a garrison which saw to the protection of Queen Selyse…"
She paused.
"And Princess Shireen."
As Melisandre's tone grew dread, Davos feared to hear more. But he had to.
"For days, I did not know the outcome of the battle. I prayed by the flames, seeking a glimpse of our victory. Yet there was nothing.
Not until that last fateful night, when I asked for a glimpse of Azor Ahai…"
Her voice fell.
"And I saw Snow."
A sudden chill entered the enclosed area, and Davos wrapped his cloak tighter around him.
"I'm sure you know the rest," Melisandre murmured.
The recollection of the disastrous battle in the ice caused Davos's maimed hand to clench. It had been a massacre, he was told, on both sides. Though the Boltons claimed victory, as they still held Winterfell, much of their forces were depleted.
Yet they had struck the greatest blow possible to Stannis, short of his own death. The death of his child, the rightful princess of the Seven Kingdoms. The thought almost brought tears to Davos's eyes, and he forced himself not to dwell on it for long.
"So, you fled?" he asked, trying not to let his grief give way to anger. "The moment the war turned against our king, you ran back to the safety of the Wall?"
"I rode to return to Jon Snow," Melisandre retorted.
"I could not be sure at the time what my visions meant. I only knew my Lord wanted me by Snow's side.
To what end, I did not know. Only when I arrived, and you beseeched me to help you, did I understand."
Some shadow of her old determination, her fierce loyalty to R'hllor returned to the woman. A glimpse of the power and confidence she had when she arrived at Dragonstone years ago.
"I will not apologize for following His will, Ser Davos. Not to you. Not even to our king.
If I was mistaken, and anointed the wrong man as Azor Ahai reborn, that is my burden, and I will seek to correct it any way I can. I will go where Jon Snow goes. I will counsel him if he asks. And should he accept his destiny, I will do all in my power to help him fulfill it."
A slight whiff of nostalgia touched Davos. It was strange, but he felt almost comforted by the feeling that they were back at Dragonstone, debating before Stannis as they had so often. But things were different now. Melisandre no longer had Stannis's ear. No power over him.
No power over Davos.
"If that's your promise," Davos answered, "I can accept that. But allow me to make a promise of my own."
The knight stood up, donning his gloves once more.
"Should you prove useful to Jon, and his fight against the Night King, I won't stand in your way. You can give as many sermons as you like, perform whatever miracles the Lord of Light allows you to. But if I get so much as a feeling you'll lead Jon astray, get him to compromise his honor and principles for the sake of your god, I'll do whatever it takes to stop you."
His eyes narrowed.
"Whatever it takes."
Davos turned on his heel, and without another word he left the Red Priestess to her prayers. They were allies, for now.
But if this war had taught them anything, it was that alliances could quickly change.
The great hall of Winterfell was still, and deathly silent.
Circling the hall as a contingent of guards, their shields emblazoned with the flayed man of House Bolton. Each man stared straight ahead, glowering as two lords entered the hall.
One of them was a shorter man, dressed in a lighter mail shirt and scale armor. His face was lined, framed by a greying beard and a hooked nose.
The other was a more intimidating figure, standing at almost seven feet. The tall lord's clothing was also fiercer than that of the man next to him; a heavy mail hauberk, a thick leather jerkin studded with iron, and a deep red cloak.
Waiting for them both at the far end of the hall, seated at the high table, was Lord Ramsay Bolton. The bastard's pale eyes glinted maliciously, and his lips parted in a false smile at the shorter lord.
"Welcome, Lord Mazin. I trust your journey was not too uncomfortable?"
Finlay Mazin, head of his house, glanced at the surrounding guards before jerking his head outside.
"Take a look outside, my lord, and I'm sure you'll get your answer," he snarked.
A red-haired bannerman next to Ramsay scowled and barked, "Show some respect, old man. You're lucky we didn't take your head the moment you walked through the castle gate."
Ramsay raised a hand, chuckling at his anger. "Calm yourself, Harald. There's no need for violence."
Waiting until Harald Karstark had quieted down, he then glanced at the other visitor.
"It's good to see you again so soon, Lord Umber. Well done escorting our guest here. Once again, your loyalty humbles me."
Jon Umber, commonly known as the Smalljon to differentiate him from his father, did not return his smile. "You can never be too careful these days. Plenty of dangerous men on the road, since your father passed."
Ramsay gestured to two chairs, ignoring the unspoken hostility emanating from Umber. Since assuming lordship Winterfell, he had sent many agents to watch the roads nearby. With much dissent still left in the North, it was important to assert his rule or else see it all slip through his grasp.
Mazin and Umber sat opposite the young lord as he continued to grin insufferably at them. As he rested in the chair, the Smalljon grunted in irritation. It was stiff, crudely made. And as Ramsay's smile widened, it became clear he was looking down at him despite the older man's impressive height.
The visitors' chairs were built to sit lower than Ramsay's. Lower than the cruel tyrant who now ruled the North.
"Now, my lords, let us begin." Ramsay folded his hands and leaned towards his vassals.
"I wish to thank you, Lord Finlay, for seeing reason. You lost many brave men when you pledged your cause to the false king, Stannis Baratheon. Men whose lives may have been saved, had they remained faithful to my beloved father."
Everything in Mazin's demeanor said loudly and clearly that he did not want to be here.
In a resigned voice he replied, "My house's food stores have nearly run out. I cannot provide for them or our people without help. Worse still, the host of wildlings that follow Stannis Baratheon will soon pass by our lands.
I cannot change the past, Lord Bolton. But if it means providing for my subjects, and weathering this terrible winter, I will pledge my men to you. House Mazin is yours to command. Our banners will be carried into battle for you, and you alone."
He paused.
"The rightful Warden of the North."
Ramsay leaned back, visibly basking in Mazin's show of submission.
"I accept your most gracious offer, Lord Finlay. Know you will be rewarded.
And if the gods are good, your wife and children will live to see another spring."
His demeanor then changed sharply. Ramsay focused on Umber, who continued to glare at him from his small seat.
"Lord Jon, on our last visit to Winterfell, I requested two battalions of your fighting men. The bastard and the false king draw closer by the day, and I would see my home properly guarded when they arrive."
Umber cocked his head at him. "Yes, I remember."
His lips pressing into a thin line, Ramsay asked, "Well? Where are they?"
"They're close. A unit of two hundred horsemen should be arriving any minute. A host of spearmen, swords and axes should be here by first light tomorrow morning."
Ramsay's head leaned slightly to his left. Close by, Maester Wolkan scribbled on a scrap of parchment. Accounting the numbers of his lord's army.
"Later than I'd hoped," Ramsay admitted. "Every day we lose is a day that Baratheon and Snow gain."
He peered at Mazin.
"And yours?"
"Our forces have been depleted significantly, Lord Ramsay. But a unit of five hundred men should come in two days' time."
Five hundred. It was not a significant increase to their ranks, and they all knew it.
As if sensing Ramsay's disappointment and knowing full well the risk of disappointing a man like him, Mazin added, "I fear I could not spare any more, or else leave our fortress of Ash Hall defenseless."
"Of course. Such a thing would be unacceptable."
Ramsay waited for Maester Wolkan to add the estimate to his notes before asking, "How many men can we expect from you, Lord Umber? Forgive me, I forgot to ask."
"A thousand, give or take."
This lifted Ramsay's spirits. "And should I expect to see your father join us?"
The Smalljon shook his head. "No. You shouldn't. He's returned to Last Hearth. To restore what our house lost in the war. I'm here to fight with you, in his stead."
His defensive, loyal attitude towards his father was well known. It brought a cruel smirk to Ramsay's lips. Such sentiment was only ever seen as weakness by his house.
"Such loyalty is touching. Truly, a rare thing these days. I often think of my own father, and the wisdom he imparted to me before he passed…"
He was interrupted by a derisive snort. A flicker of anger crossed Ramsay's face, as it was now Umber smirking at him instead.
"My lord, if we're to be allies, I'd prefer if we speak plainly."
Ramsay took a deep breath, his composure almost faltering for a moment before he answered. "Very well. Tell me what it is that amused you so?"
"Glad you asked. I'll get right to it.
Your father was a cunt."
The silence in the hall was so heavy, one could hear a pin drop. Indeed, a small clack on the stone floor signaled Wolkan's quill falling from his fingers. The maester gaped in horror at Umber, barely able to believe what he had said.
Next to him, Mazin seemed about to shrink into his seat. Harald Karstark's face was blank, while his eyes darted between his master and the lord who had so blatantly insulted him.
"My beloved father…" Ramsay's voice remained level, even as his teeth bared like a hound's and his eye twitched.
"My beloved father, the Warden of the North, was a leader dear to our house and all who knew him."
"No, he wasn't." Umber leaned over the table, clasping his two large hands together and starting deep into Ramsay's eyes.
"Roose Bolton was a cunt. I know it, you know it, and all the North knows it. He was a scheming, traitorous old dog who saw a chance for power and took it. Even if it meant killing a whole family at dinner.
I don't know if you loved him, or if he loved you. It's not my place to say. But understand, my lord, that the rest of us only joined you because we must. Because a host of wildlings now marches over out lands. Because a winter colder than any in generations is settling in. And because your beloved father left us no choice."
The two men stared one another down, resentment bubbling to the surface. It was true, the Stark had ruled the North through respect. They were firm, but fair. Whereas Roose Bolton had wielded his new authority with nothing but detached cruelty. His son was no better.
"Well," Ramsay rasped through gritted teeth, "so long as we know where we all stand."
It was clear he would have relished the chance to punish Umber for his insolence, right then and there. But with his power dangling on a thread, and civil war about to break in the land he now ruled, he could not afford it.
And Umber knew that.
Ramsay stood to his feet, giving a curd nod to Umber and Mazin.
"I will have attendants see you to your chambers. I hope you find them comfortable."
The two lords departed swiftly. Neither was in any mood to stay. The feeling was mutual, and upon their exiting the hall Ramsay exhaled sharply.
"Ungrateful sons of whores. Both of them."
Donning a pair of leather gloves and a heavy cloak, Ramsay started his path to the castle wall with Maester Wolkan and Harald Karstark in tow.
Several times, the new Lord of Winterfell had strolled along its lengths to oversee the fortress. To look down on the servants and soldiers who took their orders from him.
Him. Once a shameful mark of his father's misdeeds, the 'Bastard of Bolton'. Now ruler of the largest region in all Westeros.
"Maester Wolkan," he barked.
Wolkan stood at attention, shivering in the cold air.
"Yes, my lord?"
"Once the Mazin and Umber men arrive, what will be the final count of our army?"
Wolkan scanned his notes quickly, not wishing to keep him waiting. "Five thousand, my lord. Roughly a third will be horsemen. A large bulk of the rest will be spearmen from your house, with swords in reserve."
He glanced at Harald.
"Lord Karstark's men will bolster the reserves, along with a join unit of archers.
The swords and axe-men from House Umber will serve as a strong center."
Ramsay's lips curled.
"Or a quick and easy vanguard."
Wolkan's cheeks drained of color. His mouth opened, then shut again. By now he knew better than to protest Ramsay's acts of cruelty, lest they be directed at him next.
Harald surveyed the fields outside Winterfell. "Five thousand is enough to engage Stannis in battle, my lord. But if we're to withstand a possible siege, we need more. Far more."
Ramsay pondered his bannerman's advice. "Yes. We do."
After a minute of musing, his face lit up.
"Maester Wolkan, would you say a farmer can hold his own against a knight?"
The old man squinted at Ramsay in confusion.
"Well, that depends…"
When Ramsay glared at him for his indecision, Wolkan concluded, "No. I would not think so."
"Quite right. But if you put a spear in the hands of a dozen farmers, and line them up? I'd say they stand a chance."
He smiled broadly, as if they had just received news of Stannis Baratheon and Jon Snow's unconditional surrender already. "Maester Wolkan, I want you to send ravens to every available village. Every outpost. Every castle held by a garrison still loyal to us."
Surveying the field, Ramsay's grin widened.
"I've shown considerable mercy to the smallfolk. Despite throwing in their lot with Robb Stark and his pointless rebellion against the crown, I have not punished them for it.
Don't you think it's time they repay me, for my generosity?"
Harald nodded slowly, starting to get his meaning. Wolkan, on the other hand, regarded him with concern.
"Of… of course," he stammered.
"Then have them send me every able-bodied man possible, to fight in the defense of their new Warden."
Wolkan gulped. "Conscription, my lord? When winter has only just begun?"
"Yes," Ramsay answered, approaching Wolkan. Taking him by the shoulders in an almost pleasant manner, he locked his pale eyes with those of the maester. When he had his attention, Ramsay gave the man's shoulders a sudden clap. While the man jumped in place, his lord did not break eye contact for a moment.
"Conscription. We must do whatever it takes to defend Winterfell from the false king, and the bastard. We're committed, my friend. It's too late to turn back now."
Though his smile did not break, it was obvious he was not eager to take a no for an answer. So, swallowing his worries, Wolkan bowed his head and departed for the castle's rookery.
Content to stay a little longer, Ramsay allowed his veneer of civility to fall and gazed blankly at the lands surrounding him. More than once, talks of Jon Snow and Sansa Stark had reached Winterfell and caused a stir.
Though her stay was brief, the last surviving daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark had made an impression on those present. Her kindness, her grace, and her stunning beauty.
Ramsay's heart raced at the thought of her return, and what he had in store for her.
As for the bastard, Ramsay's fists clenched at just the thought of him. He had little patience for the almost mythic status Snow had attained. A young Lord-Commander of the Night's Watch, famed for his strategies against the wildlings and prowess with a sword.
But a bastard was a bastard. He was a Snow, whereas Ramsay was a legitimate Bolton now. Once the battle was over, Ramsay would see to it that none would undo his claim over the North.
Not for Sansa, his bride to be.
And not for Jon Snow.
Just a bastard…
When Arya crossed the threshold into the temple, it was almost completely deserted.
All servants of the Many-Faced God had taken their leave, save for two. The kindly man, donning the face of Jaqen H'Ghar, and the Waif, who watched Arya as she came closer.
The kindly man sat with his legs crossed by the black pool, staring into its murky contents. His air was almost sad, and only when Arya sat beside him did the man react to her presence.
"Your head is feeling better?" the Wait asked gently.
Arya gave an assuring nod. The Faceless Men, for all their famed skill as assassins, were also remarkable healers. Many cuts and bruises she suffered in her training may have become ugly scars otherwise.
"Good," the kindly man replied.
"A girl was successful. The old man who cheated his client is dead, by your hands." His eyes rose to stare deep into Arya's.
"But your success was quickly undone. Ghosts from your past continue to haunt you, reminding you of what was. Distracting you from what is."
The Waif had told him, then, of Arya's wolf dreams. As her cheeks burned, the kindly man shook his head.
"You have studied, trained as hard as any other here. Your dedication is not lacking, nor is your skill.
But a part of you remains unchanged. A part of you is still recalls your name."
"A girl has no name," Arya protested, grimacing immediately at the sound of her voice.
Hollow. Weak.
False.
The kindly man's expression turned only more sorrowful. "A girl lies. To herself, most of all. She is caught between the duty expected of her, and a life from which she cannot free herself."
Arya tried to explain, ignoring the shame slowly overtaking her.
"It's not like I haven't tried. Every day, I try to forget the dreams. Try to forget my father. My mother. My sister and brothers.
Sometimes it's worked. There are days where I barely remember their faces. Or what they sounded like. But when I sleep, it all comes back to me.
And the other things I saw… The tree, the ravens, I don't understand what it's supposed to mean."
The kindly man and the Waif exchanged troubled looks.
"A girl was possessed of many gifts, as Arya Stark," he answered. "There are others in the world, with such talents. The priests and priestesses of Asshai, who perform sorcery in the name of their Red God. The skinchangers of the west, and shadowbinders of the east."
Arya allowed herself a grin.
"The Faceless Men."
"Correct. Arya Stark saw through the eyes of her wolf. You called it Nymeria, yes?"
Arya nodded.
"One must assume her brothers, or perhaps her sister might possess this power as well. A man cannot know, he has never met them.
When a gift is learned, it is difficult to unlearn. Particularly in times such as these."
The kindly man's cold stare moved away from Arya and the Waif. He instead looked to the array of ebony statues around them. Thirty gods of the known world, gods both loved and feared by millions.
"You remember what the other girl told you, of the Long Night?"
"Yes."
The kindly man continued to look away, even as he proceeded.
"Grim tidings have arrived, from our brothers and sisters in Westeros. Tidings of a winter colder and darker than any in living memory.
Though it begins in Westeros, many suspect it will descend on all lands. The Free Cities, the Dothraki Sea. Even the Summer Isles, for all their beauty, will not be spared."
Arya feared to ask what this meant. Though, deep down, she suspected she already knew the answer. When she was small, and still sheltered behind the walls of Winterfell, Old Nan told her no shortage of stories about the Long Night.
Worse, she had spent enough time around the Brotherhood Without Banners to know that another disaster of the like was prophesized to come.
"It was just a prophecy, wasn't it?" she asked, desperate not to believe the fears now gnawing at her.
"You can't mean another Long Night. The White Walkers, they're all dead."
The Waif spoke at last.
"Most like to think so. It would be a blessing. But one message we received spoke of a massacre in the far north. Beyond the Wall your people built.
Thousands are said to have vanished that day. Never to be heard from again."
Old Nan's words rang in Arya's ears, and a chill ran up her spine.
They swept through cities and kingdoms, riding their dead horses hunting with their packs of pale spiders big as hounds…
"We can't ignore the signs for much longer," the Waif admitted gravely.
Arya forced herself not to dwell on the terrible possibility. To do so would be to remember Jon, her half-brother, whom last Arya knew was at the Wall.
"So, what does this have to do with me?"
"A girl has given up her name, but remembers it all the same. She still carries her memories, and a power tied to a bloodline that stretches back many thousands of years.
That she still possesses this power at such a tipping point in our world is a sign. A sign that her destiny has not yet been decided. That her place may not be in Braavos."
For the second time, the kindly man met Arya eye-to-eye.
"So a man must ask, and he expects the truth…
Does a girl still cling to who she once was?"
Arya did not answer. She could not, as she did not truly know.
Having sensed her indecision, the Waif followed up with a question of her own.
"Do you truly wish to be no one?"
Arya almost answered 'yes' without missing a beat. But her mouth barely opened before she faltered.
Did she?
For so long, the Faceless Men dictated absolutes to Arya. They expected questions to be answered with a simple yes, or no. She was either Arya Stark, or no one. She either wished to remain, or she did not.
Yet, for all their simplicity, Arya never found the questions to be easy. When she arrived, she thought it would be. She came to Braavos seeking a new beginning. Half of her expected to gain the tools necessary for revenge against those who so wronged her, and her family. The other half might have truly wished to leave all of that behind.
After so long in Braavos, she would have expected some simplicity by now.
"I…"
Her eyes fell, staring blankly at the floor.
"I don't know."
The kindly man reached out his hand. Taking Arya by the chin, he gently lifted her to look at him. Her vision almost turned blurry, as she fought back frustrated tears.
"A lack of an answer is, itself, an answer."
She knew plain as day what he meant. That her answer, after years of searching, could only be no.
"How am I to be punished?" she asked.
Both priests of the Many-Faced God peered at her. The kindly man appeared to pity her, while the Waif was confused.
"You have done no wrong, girl," the Waif said flatly. "There is nothing to punish."
The kindly man continued. "But there must be a reckoning. To learn the secrets of the Faceless Men means pledging your life to them. If you cannot, then you must make another pledge."
Arya looked between the two. "And what is that?"
While the Waif stared at her, her feature turning downcast, the kindly man answered.
"A girl may choose freedom.
But she must earn it first. She will face a test, in which her life will be pitted against that of another. She will make use of the lessons passed on to her and demonstrate whether said lessons have taken root."
His eye flickered down.
"When it is done, a face must be added to the hall. Yours, or that of your opponent."
Arya's stomach churned.
"You're telling me to fight a duel?" she asked.
"To perform one last service," her mentor instructed. "One that proves both your willingness to walk away and respect for our traditions. Should you succeed in your task, you will take an oath of secrecy and leave behind a token of said service.
You will depart the House of Black and White, then Braavos after."
The kindly man paused, almost seeming to regret what he said next.
"And you will never return."
Processing what he said, Arya did her best to keep her breathing steady. A mix of bewilderment, terror and some mad sense of hope were at war in her chest. If what the priests were telling her was true, she could do what she thought almost impossible by now.
Go home.
"You're telling me if I fight this person, and win, I'm free to leave?"
The kindly man bowed his head solemnly, and repeated words familiar to Arya. Words she heard once before when they were but strangers in the ruins of Harrenhal. "A man has said."
Arya swallowed audibly, working past a growing lump in her throat.
"I accept the task," she rasped. "Tell me who I have to fight, and I will."
She was greeted with ominous silence. Arya watched the priest regard her with a mournful gaze, not understanding. Not until he slowly looked beside him.
To the Waif.
No…
Arya turned to her in alarm. "No," she said, her voice shaking.
"You don't mean it."
There was an awful, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she and the Waif stared at one another. Standoffish and humorless as she was, the Waif had never been anything by a fair and patient teacher to Arya. Every lesson, every day spent sparring in the halls of the ancient House, every little 'game' they played had shaped this strange bond between them.
One neither appeared eager to break.
"He does mean it, girl. I'm sorry."
"No," Arya repeated. "Find someone else. Please, I'm begging you, find someone else!"
The kindly man did not budge. "Our order requires sacrifice. Every contract we fulfill, every face we add to the hall, every name we are forced to abandon, all of it is sacrifice."
Arya stood to her feet. Her tears could no longer be held back now, and she tried to blink them away furiously as the other woman and her master rose with her.
"I can't. I can't do it."
"Of course you can," the Waif said bluntly, like she was trying to steel Arya for another one of their games.
"The only question is whether you will. Whether you wish to see your brothers and sister again. Find the wolf with whom you still share that unbreakable bond."
The Waif almost sighed in exasperation.
"You've never given up before. No reason you should, now."
"This isn't another lying game. Or some tussle in the streets. You're asking me to kill you."
With a bemused shrug the Waif retorted, "Well, I'm asking you to try…"
Arya almost stamped her foot in helpless anger. "Does your own life really mean that little to you? If I win, and bring your body back here, your face will be just one of many. You'll be forgotten. Not a soul will even know who you were."
This brought a subtle change to the acolyte. For a moment, her otherwise unbreakable composure seemed to flicker, giving way to someone Arya had never seen. Someone older, more vulnerable. Someone who once had a name, a family, a home.
But no longer.
"I know who I am, girl," the Waif answered after a lengthy pause.
The cruel reality almost broke Arya, and she looked down before shutting her eyes.
"No one," she murmured.
Arya felt a hand on her shoulder, whether the kindly man's or the Waif's she did not know. She did not bother to look.
"The test will begin tomorrow," the Waif said.
"At first light. You will seek me out, in the market, and we will engage in one last game.
Or I will seek you."
Arya kept her eyes closed, the terrible gravity of her circumstances bearing down on her with the agony of a thousand swords. The terrible longing to leave this place, and the pain of striking down someone who might have been her friend.
"Do you still accept?" the Waif asked.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Arya opened her eyes, and made her choice.
"I do."
At the break of dawn, the black riders stopped at last.
Bran opened his eyes. More than once he had almost drifted off, whether from the cold or the exhaustion which often set in following his time in the greensight.
Fully awake once more, he saw a gleam of sunlight reflected off the branches of a tall oak.
His and Meera's cloaked rescuers had taken them to the edge of the forest, overlooking a white-covered plain that stretched ahead as far as Bran could see.
The rider who carried Bran dismounted by the gnarled roots of the oak tree, laying out a thick blanket against it.
Gently, the stranger took Bran and set him down. No sooner had Bran touched the ground before Summer ran to him. The wolf buried his snout in his companion's shoulder protectively, comforting him in the bitter cold.
As the rider stood up again, Summer looked up and gave him a wary look, his ears slanting back.
"Peace," the stranger rasped. "Peace, wolf. Your master will come to no harm while I am here."
"Nor I." The other man had already helped Meera settle down and was striking a flint over a makeshift fire. Bran squinted at the sight, puzzled as to how the man could have assembled the wood so quickly.
Unless…
"Where are we?"
Creating a spark, the second of the strangers leaned over the firewood as it started to crackle. Removing one of his gloves, he tended to the small fire as Bran observed his fingers. They were colorless, as if drained of all blood.
"Somewhere safe," the man answered, no longer muffled by a mask.
"One of several camps we've built across this land."
His voice was not as breathless as that of his companion. In fact, Bran could not shake the feeling he had heard this man before.
"Who are you?"
For a moment, the man did not answer. Not until he threw back his hood, revealing a pale, bearded face covered in scars.
Bran's eyes almost bugged out of their sockets, and his jaw dropped.
"Uncle Benjen!"
Benjen Stark regarded his nephew with a sad smile. "When I saw you last, you were just a boy. A fearless, disobedient boy who loved to climb castle walls and argue with his mother."
His grey eyes, once full of life, fell towards his bone-white fingers.
"Gods, how we've both changed."
Meera looked back and forth between the two Starks in confusion.
"Benjen Stark?"
"Aye," he grunted back. "I was called that once."
"Jon wrote to us," Bran said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "He wrote about you, told us you'd been lost beyond the Wall."
Benjen let his hand drift close to the fire. Disappointment rang in his sad eyes before he withdrew it. As if he could no longer feel any warmth.
"I led a ranging party into the forest. Looking to find any signs of the White Walkers.
Instead, they found me. My companions were slaughtered in front of me, before one of the Walkers stabbed me in the gut with a sword of ice."
Turning to look back at his new companion, who kept watch nearby, Benjen went on. "They would have left me to die, and turn into one of their mindless slaves, if not for Coldhands and the Children."
Bran followed his uncle's gaze. Coldhands, as Benjen called him, had withdrawn a dead animal from a sack resting at the elk's side. It looked like a rabbit.
Coldhands brought the rabbit to the fire in front of Benjen, which was now burning brightly.
"We stopped the Night King's magic from taking hold of your uncle. But his servant's blade had done its work. Benjen Stark is not enthralled by the darkness, the power behind the Walkers. But neither is he one of the living."
"How did you stop them?" Meera asked.
"We invoked an ancient power of our own. Placed the dying man in a circle of stones and set a fire around him. Then we did the very thing which created the Night King in the first place."
Bran grimaced at Benjen. "A shard of dragonglass? Plunged into your heart?"
Benjen smiled again, more genuinely this time. "I see the Three-Eyed-Raven has taught you well."
"But not enough," Bran protested. "He couldn't finish our lessons. This power he passed on to me, I can't control it."
"But you will."
Benjen took the dead rabbit from Coldhands, sticking it onto a spit which he turned over the fire.
"Brynden Rivers is dead. You are the Three-Eyed-Raven now. All that power, that knowledge, will serve not just you, but all the world when the Night King finds his way into the world of men."
Looking at Coldhands again, Bran saw the firelight illuminate what was under his hood. Though his face was still hidden behind a black cloth, his eyes were visible. They were not blue like a wight's. Instead, they were pitch black.
After stammering at the startling sight, Bran found his voice again. "Did the Children do the same for you?"
"Aye," Coldhands grunted. "They did."
"Who are… Who were you?"
"That is not for me to say." Coldhand's voice was flat yet betrayed a hint of regret. Sorrow.
"You must look into the greensight, see for yourself. For now, know only that I was once much like your uncle. Trusted to guard the realms of men and fight our enemy. Not the free folk, or the giants. The true enemy."
Meera regarded the ghoulish man warily. "The Walkers?"
"Death," Coldhands answered.
"The red priests of the lands beyond Westeros have a saying. Death is the enemy. The first and the last.
In his fury, the Night King seeks to bring death to all our kind."
Though Coldhands's eyes were black and featureless, Bran knew they were fixed on him.
"The Wall has stopped him for thousands of years. But soon I fear he will have the means to break past it."
Bran gulped. "And then?"
Benjen rose from his place by the fire, crossing over to his nephew. Though Summer still regarded Coldhands with caution, the wolf calmed at Benjen's presence. Dead or not, he was still Bran's kin.
"Then you will be waiting for him," Benjen murmured. "You, Meera, and what remains of your family."
He took Bran by the arm.
"Our family."
Although no warmth radiated from his hand, his calm and measured expression gave Bran all the encouragement he needed.
Even after all they had suffered, they were still here.
Bran took Benjen by the hand, nodding in understanding. Hoping beyond all reason that maybe, just maybe, he would see home again.
Upon a single horn blast, the army was ready to move again.
Sansa stood outside her tent, beholding a sight that caused her heart to race in her chest. In less than an hour, the united host of Stannis Baratheon, the Stark loyalists and the free folk would begin their slow and steady march to House Stark's ancestral home.
Having gathered what strength they could, their army now stood at almost four thousand in total. Spearmen, swords, axes, and a contingent of battle-hardened knights.
The odds were not in their favor, and Sansa knew it. Ramsay had greater numbers and held a fortress capable of withstanding assault for weeks or even months on end. Even if the Vale and her uncle Brynden's reinforcements arrived, victory was still not assured.
Heavy footsteps signaled her brother's approach, and Sansa greeted Jon.
"Are they ready?"
Jon scanned the host with her.
"As they'll ever be. The free folk took some persuading, but we can count on them when the time comes."
Jon pointed to the closest contingent of free folk. Two clans from the Frozen Shore, some wearing antlered helmets and others walrus tusks. According to Jon, the two groups hated one another for years until circumstances forced them to ally.
On their arms they carried freshly adorned shields, marked with the symbols of their clan. In their hands were clasped long spears, spears of a far higher quality than they bore when they first arrived. Many in their ranks, as with others beside them, had eschewed the rough furs and cloaks of their people for gambesons or mail armor.
Their armaments were not the only change. The free folk walked in orderly rows and columns, not a disorganized mob.
"You've been training them."
"Day and night," Jon explained. "Many of them were there when Stannis arrived at the Wall. None were ready to face a well-armed Westerosi army. The king's forces cut them down like weeds until Mance told them to surrender."
Sansa remarked, "I don't expect they're eager to let it happen again."
Looking at a desk some ways behind Sansa, Jon asked, "Drafting our last request to Moat Cailin?"
Sansa rubbed her hands, trying to keep the blood in her fingers flowing or else let them grow numb from the cold.
"It's all I can do not to just crumple up the parchment and throw it in a fire." Sansa did not bother to hide the venom dripping from her every word.
"This is wrong. We shouldn't have to ask him for help."
Jon's eyes rang with understanding. He raised a hand, almost putting it on her shoulder. But as Sansa remained rigid, he lowered it.
"But we must."
Sansa stared at the ground, her cheeks turning red.
"I know. I can just imagine him riding to the gates of our castle, wearing that damned smile. So assured, so smug. Then sooner or later, he'll start whispering to our fellow lords. Making his promises. Swearing to the old gods and the new that we can trust him."
"But we can't," Jon answered. "And we won't."
He paused, appearing to reminisce on some bad memory.
"I saw that arrogance during my time at the Wall. In a man from King's Landing. Said he was the Commander of the City Watch when our father was arrested…"
Jon's lip curled in disgust.
"And killed."
The pain of their father's memory hung over them both for a while, before Jon went on.
"Slynt never failed to flaunt his former position. Even in exile, he saw himself as a lord with power over every man at Castle Black."
Sansa allowed herself a smirk. Jon had spoken of the man once or twice, and never fondly.
"It must have come as a great shock when you took his head."
"Aye," Jon said. "It was. Even as the others dragged him to the block, Slynt tried to remind us of his powerful friends. Friends with wealth, and sway in the capital. Friends who would punish us for laying our hands on him."
Now it was Jon who smiled grimly.
"How quickly he forgot one of the very first things he said to Ser Alliser. I overheard him, whispering into the man's ear shortly after arriving. I don't think they caught me listening. But I heard every word."
Sansa cocked her head.
"What did he say?"
Jon's grey eyes flickered in contempt as he recollected.
"Slynt repeated something he heard in King's Landing. A pearl of wisdom he picked up from his supposed friends, no doubt. He said that when you're a man of means, everyone is your enemy, and everyone is also your friend. All at once."
As Jon recited Janos Slynt's boast, something stirred in the recesses of Sansa's mind. Some queer feeling that she had heard those words before.
"A pity," Jon remarked as another blast of a horn interrupted them.
"In his last moments, even Ser Alliser turned his back on Lord Janos.
Seems the man had no friends at all."
A squire came to them, clasping the reins of Jon's horse.
Sansa shared a look of concern with her brother. "If we take our home back…"
"When we take it back," Jon answered as he mounted his steed.
"When we take it, no one will threaten it again. Not the Boltons. Not the Lannisters.
And not Lord Baelish."
He spurred his steed onward to join Stannis, leaving Sansa with her thoughts.
The younger of the Stark children returned to her desk. A scroll of parchment rested in front of Sansa. When finished, the message would bring the full might of the Vale's armies to bear against her enemies. But at what cost, she did not want to imagine.
As she picked up the quill and dipped it in an inkpot, Sansa again wondered where she had heard that remark from Janos Slynt.
Was it Queen Cersei? Such a paranoid, self-serving outlook suited the woman well. But as she dwelled on it, Sansa shook her head and dismissed the thought. Cersei had many enemies, surely, but she was far to proud to even call anyone her friend.
It could not have been Tyrion. Despite his lecherous reputation, and the hate even his own house bore for him, the younger of the Lannister siblings had shown Sansa nothing but kindness in their short time together. A ruthless man, no doubt, and ambitious. But he was not the monster King's Landing thought him to be. He had at least some friends, where it counted.
No, it was someone else. Someone who lacked loyalty to any house, or kingdom. Someone who strived only for their own gain, regardless of the harm it caused anyone else. Sansa had known a precious few men who fit that description.
Two of them in King's Landing.
Powerful friends. Jon's words echoed in her mind.
Friends with wealth, and sway in the capital.
Janos Slynt saw to the arrest of Lord Eddard Stark. He boasted of it often, Jon told Sansa as much. And he did so with the support of a rich, influential man who had cause to betray their father.
Some sick, awful feeling was rising in Sansa's gut. Beads of sweat appeared on her brow, and she felt a dull pounding in her ears as the truth began to dawn on her.
A part of her did not want to believe it, but the longer she thought of it the clearer it all became.
It almost caused her to laugh, the sick obviousness of the truth. She cursed at herself, wondering how she had not seen it sooner.
There was a loud snap, and Sansa felt the quill in her hands come apart. In her fury and disgust, she had neglected to notice it crushed in her hands.
Sansa tossed it away and picked up another in a flash. Her lips curled in desperate, unimaginable anger, and she began to write.
Oh, yes. He would come to Winterfell. Expecting to be rewarded, for all he had said and done.
And he will be…
As night set in across Braavos, Arya crept to a rocky alcove by the waterside.
She looked over her shoulder for the sixth time that evening. There was not one person in sight. Arya heard no footsteps, no sound that betrayed the presence of a Faceless Man.
When she was confident she was alone, Arya knelt by the alcove. Squinting at a crack in the solid rock in front of her, she reached a hand inside. Her fingers passed over rough stone and moss until landing on a thick, heavy cloth.
Arya allowed herself a smile and took hold. Withdrawing her arm, she unwrapped the layers of cloth and beheld her last possession as Arya Stark.
Jon Snow's final gift to her before his departure for Castle Black.
Needle.
Its polished steel blade reflected the setting sun, glinting as if ready to spill blood again.
Arya strapped the weapon to her hip and moved back into the city. She had scoped the east end, found a pitch-black alley far removed from Braavos's bustling marketplace.
When she reached her destination, she knelt by the candle that served as her only source of light. With a single breath, the light was extinguished, and everything went dark.
Should any unwelcome visitor find her in the night, she would be ready.
Arya no longer had to rely on her eyes to kill.
It was the dead of night.
Meera was fast asleep, getting her first night of undisturbed rest in a while. Summer lay on the ground beside her, his ears perked for any sign of danger.
Bran found no rest here. Resting against the trunk of a tree, he pondered over the flurry of visions he experienced after their escape from the Night King.
Thousands of years of knowledge was at his fingertips. The experiences of untold millions, and the events that shaped their lives were within his reach. Just as Bloodraven said.
More than once, he told Bran the process of becoming a greenseer would change him over time. That such power would be too much for any man to endure without a significant transformation.
He was right, Bran thought. This power was overwhelming. Terrifying, even. It chilled Bran to remember how close he was to losing himself forever. If not for the memory of his family, he very well might have.
Bran closed his eyes, trying to force himself to sleep. But to no avail. Since his crossing paths with the Night King, fear gnawed at him every waking hour. Old Nan once told him, years ago, how little he knew of fear.
Time had proven her wise.
Knowing it was no use, Bran tried to focus on the specific images he glimpsed during his last journey into the greensight. As he kept his eyes shut, Bran cleared his mind of any distractions. Bloodraven told him once a vision was glimpsed, it would be possible to recall every minute detail. But it would require total concentration.
He thought of the old men in the tunnel, and the green potion they handled. Where were they? What was that unusual formula they handled?
Why did they approach it so delicately?
And that line of travelers in the snow. Their bronze weapons and simple clothing suggested they could be free folk. But there was something different in their bearing. From what Bran had observed of the free folk, they knew the frozen lands of the north well. Better than any southerner, for sure.
Sure enough, the memory started to return to Bran. He retraced his steps, and soon he could almost see the travelers.
Yet as he dwelled on the sight, he remembered something different in their bearing. Some traits the free folk did not share.
Uncertainty. Doubt. A sense that these men were strangers to the snowy lands they traversed.
No, they were not free folk. Bran's first instincts were right, these were the First Men.
Then, to his wonder, the image reached almost perfect clarity and his gaze was drawn to the man at the front.
A tall, armored figure, clad not in simple furs but armor. An iron and bronze helmet rested on his head, with matching bracers on his forearms. A gleaming sword hung from his belt, and a finely made cloak billowed behind him in the cold winds.
The man's eyes gleamed from behind the eye slits in his helmet. They were grey, full of vigor and determination. This man was no mere explorer, but a warrior.
A hero, some small voice in the back of Bran's mind told him.
A woman's voice.
Bran jolted, felt himself shaking as if rising from a dream. But not before he thought he caught sight of one last figure in the distance.
A woman. Dark of hair, clad in a crimson cloak, with a sun-kissed complexion and eyes that burned like fire.
The image was gone as quickly as it had come. In a flash, Bran was back in the woods. He felt the cold of night bite at him once more and looked around as his heart raced.
Meera was still here. Benjen and Coldhands continued their vigil, having no need for sleep.
Summer was looking at him, whining in concern.
He was where he was supposed to be.
Yet the thought of the armored man and the red woman stayed with Bran, even as he began to relax once more.
He no longer felt fear. In its place was understanding. Clarity. The comforting thought that he may yet prove worthy of Bloodraven's gift after all.
Bran did not know the woman. But he knew the man. If not by name, then by his deeds.
Yet again, Old Nan's stories held some truth to them after all.
A hero.
The last hero…
Author's Note:
Happy spring, all.
I hope this year's treated you well.
Moving forward with this story, we're approaching the end of my rewrite of Season 6. With that, the end of this chapter of my Game of Thrones rewrite.
In the next chapter, the stage is set for the Battle of Winterfell and Arya faces down the Waif in one final "game".
Expect a little surprise in store for Jon, Stannis and Sansa once they've reached Winterfell.
See you soon!