Jon
From the top of a tower guarding the River Gate, Jon had watched the battle begin and proceed with growing dissatisfaction. It had started well enough when the Ironmen had set half their ships on fire. But it had quickly turned for the worse when the wind had brought with it the smell of burning people. Something that had brought back too many uncomfortable memories of his time as Hand to King Aerys. The bells didn't help his mood either. King's Landing had too many bells. The Great Sept of Baelor had bells. The Red Keep had bells. It seemed like every damn tower, manse, or sept in the city had bells. And they were all ringing fit to wake the dead.
The River Gate was held by Golden Company men commanded by Ser Tristan Rivers and Riverlanders led by Lord Edmure Tully. Jon was supposed to command both men and keep them from each other's throats. But he hadn't had to do much. The two contingents had taken it upon themselves to garrison the two towers on opposite sides of the River Gate and had practically drawn a line down the centre of the gatehouse as well. That Jon was seated on the east tower, where the Golden Company was posted, was only because it was closer to the battle.
A volley of crossbow bolts and arrows flew from the tower, killing a few of the sad little landing parties the Ironmen had managed to land. Sad little landing parties made up of sad little men without even a ram with which to try to knock down the gates or ladders to scale the walls. So instead, they hid behind their shields and upturned boats and did nothing.
Jon had watched as the Ironmen fleet had disintegrated into chaos, equal parts fleeing, surrendering, or fighting with the insane courage of the hopeless. Longships crowded the southern bank of the Blackwater. The arrival of a second fleet had worried Jon. At first, he'd thought them by the Baratheon banners, to be the remnants of Stannis' Royal Fleet. But there were Greyjoy banners as well and the Martell sun and spear. Best and worst of all were the huge red and black banners of House Targaryen.
Daenerys Targaryen, it must be her. She had come at last. The woman who for years had been the last Targaryen. The greatest threat to Aegon's legitimacy. Jon shook his head. He felt like a fool for thinking of such things at this time. But at the same time, the Ironmen were failing so abysmally.
"Is this it?" Jon asked himself under his breath. "This is what we surrendered Aegon's chance of victory to defend against?" Disgust roiled in his stomach. The Ironmen had started wavering just as the battle began, and now Daenerys' fleet was the last nail in the coffin.
Jon cursed under his breath as lightning thundered and roared in the clouds above. He looked up and watched the dragons fighting in the sky above reappear from the clouds. Only the dragon had given Jon pause for worry. The way the green dragon had dived at Mathis Rowan's command, Jon wondered if the Reachlord was even alive. Lightning flashed in the distance, and Jon turned in time to see one of the dragons falling free from the fight. A moment later, he saw a gout of flame and watched another dragon, the green one, he thought, falling as well. The black hung in the air for a moment before flying closer to the Red Keep.
Jon compulsively gripped his sword hilt, squeezing the leather grip until his knuckles were white. The green dragon hit the sea. Jon turned. Damn the Mud Gate, he thought. Jon turned and started to walk the tower top to the spiral staircase with resolute steps. Aegon needs me at the Red Keep. If Daenerys believes she can steal his birthright, then-
The world went white. Something knocked Jon from his feet, and a thunderous burning roar overwhelmed his ears.
Jon found himself on his back when the whiteness waned, and the ringing started to fade from his ears. He blinked spots from his eyes and rolled over. He pulled himself to his knees. And looked up. Lightning fell like rain. Like at Oldtown, but worse. So much worse.
Jon sat back in his legs, ignoring the pinch and pull of his armour, and watched the lightning fall. It came down indiscriminately upon the ships in the water below. It fell upon the walls and the Red Keep. But it fell hardest upon the city itself. Homes, shops, manses, and tenements alike went up in flames. The Dornish fire brigades would be busy, busier than Jon's men on the walls. Half the Ironmen had not even reached the walls. He stumbled upright and leaned onto a parapet.
Lightning fell more thickly in some areas than others. The Dragonpit, for one, which perhaps made sense as lightning often seemed to strike at the tops of hills, but then the Great Sept of Baelor on Rhaenys' hill seemed untouched. The Red Keep was hit again and again as well. But one place in the city seemed to fare worse than even the Dragonpit.
Idiot, Jon cursed himself. Damn crowned fools, he cursed Aegon and Stannis. Seven bastards above, he cursed the gods. King's Landing was nothing more than a trap. The storm clouds rumbled overhead. Despair and horror warred inside him as he watched the bolts fly with growing dread as he realized where they were landing. The Alchemist's Guildhall.
It was like he was back in the Red Keep's great hall for a moment. Watching, just watching, as people who'd displeased Aerys in some strange way were dragged toward pyres of green flame. How many people had he watched Aerys burn? How many people had the pyromancers killed with their wildfire? Jon didn't know. He would never know. He felt sweat break out across his body, the same kind of sweat he had after waking from a bad dream. One of his nightmares about the Battle of the Bells. Bells. The bells of Baelor's Sept were still ringing. Louder and worse than the thunder. Loud enough to wake the dead.
His stomach fell out of his body, his mouth went dry, and his heart was beating like a terrified rabbit. "Seven Hells," he swore. "We need to get out," Jon gritted his teeth as he pulled himself upright. "I need to get out of the city." His back and legs burned with pain, and the rushing wind almost knocked him back down. Jon put a steadying hand on the parapet and looked around. The black clouds had turned the world into night. The Red Keep was silhouetted with lightning. The walls and battlements stood stark against the sky, and he could even see the banners in the flickering light.
"Aegon," he stumbled toward the spiral stairs. "My boy," he pushed past fearful men who huddled next to the parapet and began descending. He took the stairs two and three at a time until he reached the next level.
Hundreds of men filled the inside of the tower. They were pressed together like fish in a barrel, staring up at the ceiling and flinching every time the thunder echoed outside. Even so, discipline appeared to be holding for now. Jon took a step toward the door.
"Lord Jon!" Ser Tristan Rivers called. He seized Jon's wrist. "It's a sure death if you go out there!"
"The King needs us!" Jon roared, and he pulled his arm free.
Jon pushed his way past more of the hiding soldiers and descended deeper into the tower. The floor beneath was much the same as the other. Jon stepped out of the stairway and began to force his way through the press of men.
"Out of my way, gods damn you!" Jon shoved a man aside and with fists, elbows, and curses, forced the men to open a path to the heavy oaken door.
He had only opened it a crack before the wind took it. The bronze latch was pulled from his hands, and the door slammed against the stone wall. The soldiers inside covered their eyes and pulled away, as if afraid that even inside, the wind would pull them out and make them fly. The rain came with the wind, a torrent that soaked all it touched.
Jon forced his way outside with one hand forward to shield his eyes. His red cloak waved in the wind, a sail that threatened to pull him off the walls. Jon fell against a crenellation and scrambled against the pin which held his cloak and pulled it free. It was gone in a flash, flying high like a streak of blood in the wind.
Jon continued. Struggling against the wind that threatened to push him down again and again. Lightning flashed and fell. He stumbled again on the slippery stones and cursed the gods. A storm so fierce as this always brought rain, as a Stormlander Jon would know. But this was madness. Enough rain to drown the whole world, and the clouds only boiled more fiercely and grew darker by the second. The rain even seemed to dampen the clangour of the bells a little.
Save for blackened and charred bodies, the walls were deserted. No one sane would dare to be outside in this. Jon laughed at his own madness, only for it to run into a shout of panic as the wind suddenly reversed direction and sent Jon skidding through the water until he hit the outside crenellations. The Blackwater Rush had broken its banks, and he thought he'd be thrown over the wall and into the waters below for a moment. Jon forced himself away from the stone and continued onward.
He stumbled with and against the wind, ignoring the lightning that fell randomly all around him. Either it would hit him, or it wouldn't. So what use was there in worrying?
He passed the blackened stretch of wall where Euron's dragon had scorched the walls and a company of Black Balaq's archers. He paused for a moment to look down at the devastated tower by the sea. Nothing was left of Mathis Rowan's command, but bodies and dragons were scattered like a child's toys. The Red Keep was not far now. With the rain and lightning, the red walls shone like fresh blood.
Jon pushed onward. He was almost there, almost to Aegon, the wind pushed him down, and he saw the world turn white as lightning struck. He felt the whole world slow to crawl as he was sure his fate was sealed. Memories filled him as the blinding light filled his eyes, and he could only close them and wait for the moment when he would be left as nothing more than charred meat, his soul ascending to the Seven Heavens to join his Silver Prince.
The moment never came.
Jon opened his eyes, surprised that he was still alive. The air still crackled with electricity. His body felt odd, as if he had received a shock from a door handle. But from everywhere and all at once. He blinked a dozen times before he could see clearly again. The skies were still filled with lightning, but the thunder seemed muted. He clambered back to his feet but heard nothing. All the world was quiet save for distant thunder, a ringing in his ears, and the bells that rang incessantly.
He stumbled upright and continued on. The Red Keep was so close. Aegon was so close.
Daenerys
With tears on her cheeks, she had watched Euron fall and then the world had gone mad. Lightning flashed, and the thunder roared. The wind tossed Drogon around like a toy. Of Viserion, there was no sign. The clouds were as black as midnight, and with the rain, Dany could hardly see in front of her own face. But the Red Keep stood out despite it all. Red walls like shining blood in the lighting and the rain.
She flailed with her whip in a vain attempt to keep control of Drogon, but the wind was too fierce. Perhaps driven by instinct, Drogon was headed toward the Red Keep regardless. No doubt, the promise of shelter drew him.
Bolts of lightning illuminated the world around her in brief flashes. She saw ships below being tossed like toys. Some, struck by the hail of lightning, were aflame. Others were sinking as the waters swept over the side and swamped them. Some ships had been thrown onto the shore or the rocks. But, of Balerion, she saw no sign or sign of any other vessel she might have recognized. It was too dark, and the moments of light were too brief.
The storm wasn't natural. Dany knew that. She couldn't understand how someone couldn't know. Dany could feel it looming above her, a supernatural weight upon her shoulders and her mind. She'd been told of the happenings at Oldtown but had hardly believed it. How could a man do this? Dany shook her head in anguish, her tears lost in the furious rain.
But it was done, and Ser Barristan's words echoed in her mind. When a clever foe does something that looks foolish, it is wise to expect a trap. And it was a trap. A trap for her, for Aegon, for Stannis, and all their armies. She whipped at Drogon again, urging him toward whatever slim safety or shelter the Red Keep offered.
Black wings struggled against the turbulent air, and suddenly the wind sucked Drogon out of the sky. They must have fallen hundreds of feet before the black dragon regained his flight. The wind roared again, and Dany felt the cold in her bones. They were below the heights of the Red Keep now, and Drogon struggled to stay in the air and climb higher. The sea wasn't far below. Lightning offered a momentary glimpse of Rhaegal. The raging sea had tossed the green dragon's mangled body onto the rocks.
Drogon fought his way into the air. His talons clawed the stone walls as he ascended, and the powerful muscles of his legs strained against the winds trying to crush him into the wall. Before long, the treacherous winds turned and pushed Drogon away from the walls and up high into the air. Dany's stomach dropped as the sudden acceleration drove her into her saddle. The Red Keep, once so close, was now distant again. Lightning bolts by the dozen and hundred were crashing into the city. Countless fires were already scattered throughout the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. The light of the flames illuminated parts of the city in the brief seconds when no lightning was falling.
The Red Keep's walls shone like blood. On another hill, Rhaenys' Hill, what must have been the Dragonpit barely went a heartbeat without being struck by lightning. Finally, on the third hill, Visenya's Hill, stood the Great Sept of Baelor. Alone among the city's high places, the Great Sept appeared untouched. Viserys had once told her that the bells of Baelor's Sept could be heard anywhere in King's Landing. Now, she almost thought she could hear them through the storm.
Drogon took advantage of a sudden shift in the wind and dived toward the Red Keep. For a moment, she was weightless, and the Red Keep grew from small and distant to massive and close in a handful of heartbeats.
Drogon flew low and fast over the castle walls. His claws must have skimmed the stones. Lightning revealed the terrified soldiers below, gaping up at the dragon. Drogon then dived almost straight down into a courtyard, pulling up at the last moment to avoid crashing into the cobblestones. Dany whipped forward and felt something pull in the small of her back. She heard men screaming all around her during the brief breaks in the roaring thunder. Drogon waited for nothing and dashed on all fours to a small hall and crashed through the wide wooden doors. Timber splintered, and Dany held herself close to Drogon's back to avoid being struck by the ceiling or anything else.
Tables, chairs, and benches were snapped and crushed as Drogon pulled himself into the darkness. He pulled his wings, limbs, and tail into a tight ball and flinched at every crack of thunder. Dany took a moment to breathe. Her limbs were shaking, her armour chaffed, and she was sweating despite the chill in the air.
Slowly and cautiously, Dany undid the straps that tied her to Drogon. Her child stirred a little at each thunderclap but otherwise remained still. With the straps unbuckled, Dany slithered down Drogon's side to the ground and then looked around. Dust filled the air and covered the floor, and there was an old set of plate armour with a red dragon enamelled on the breastplate. This hall hadn't been used for some time.
And outside. Dany paused, listening again to make sure what was happening was true. The storm seemed quieter. She stepped clear of Drogon, her black-scaled child still hissed at the distant thunder. Distant. Not close as it had been moments earlier. Dany trailed a calming hand on Drogon's neck as she approached the broken doors.
Rain still fell in the square outside, but the air was strangely still, the furious winds were absent, and the thunder was somehow quieter. Other than the falling rain, the only sounds she heard were the ringing of the bells. Dany shielded her eyes from the rain and looked up in time to watch a bolt of lightning slowly descend. Like a fish swimming through molasses. It went slower as it approached the ground, but it never struck. Instead, it arched in midair and broke up harmlessly in the sky over the seas.
She heard voices above her, one said.
"What in the Seven Hells?"
"More like the Seven Heavens," said another.
Dany leaned back further. A crowd of soldiers had come out of hiding and had gathered on the wall above her. They were looking into the city. Curiosity compelled Dany, and she ran across the courtyard, making ripples in the ankle-deep water. She took the stairs two at a time. The stone steps zig-zagged their way to the ramparts and were slick with rain, and she nearly slipped twice. At the top, she had to push her way through the soldiers, ignoring that they mistook her for a squire and called her boy. They were Golden Company men, by the sigils on their surcoats, something that put Dany a little more at ease than if they'd had the Baratheon stag or another sigil belonging to one of the Usurper's Dogs.
Dany had to grip the ramparts as her knees wavered. She watched as a bolt of lightning fell straight toward the base of Rhaenys' Hill, suddenly diverted north and spent its fury on the open air. Just the same as the one she'd seen in the courtyard. A scene that was repeated dozens of times across the city. Some lightning still came through and struck the city, mostly parts furthest from the Great Sept of Baelor. Her breaths came quick and hard when she saw the Great Sept itself. The bells were still ringing but seemed different as if all seven bells were ringing with one note. Or… or it was one bell ringing with seven notes.
Dany wiped sweat from her face and shook her head, it didn't make any sense, and yet the towers, the great sept's seven bell towers appeared to be shimmering as if surrounded by a heat haze, and the crystal dome was glowing. A shimmering and flickering light as if from a candle writ large.
She could feel something emanating from the great sept, like the storm above, but different, as soft and strong as silk.
A moment passed, and answering candles came to light across the city. One by one, they came into existence and brought light and warmth to the skies. The thunder seemed so distant now. The lightning burned in the skies, but the sparkling aurora that enveloped King's Landing held firm. The distant thunder roared, and the bells answered it beat for beat.
Melisandre
She steeled herself. She had seen it in the fires. Watched this moment dance in the flames of her Nightfire. Yet, despite the proof that had burned before her very eyes, Melisandre was still uncertain. The building in front of her was a triumph for the heathen gods of this land. The seven-faced demon.
R'hllor had shown this to her for a reason. She had to have faith. Melisandre stepped inside the Great Sept of Baelor. The statues of the seven false gods looked down upon her with disapproving eyes. Outside the sept, the thunder roared with the fall of lightning.
Thoros stepped forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Melisandre. "We don't have much time," he said. He had seen the same things she had, the same visions in flame sent by R'hllor, but had accepted them with more grace. They pushed through the crowded Hall of Lamps, the resplendently lit entrance hall of the great sept. Past the raised marble pulpits where septons led their charges in prayer. Many of the septons and their followers flinched and cried at every roar of lightning. Rumours of the Storm at Oldtown had multiplied by the thousand recently, and everyone in the city knew or thought they knew what was coming.
The Hall of Lamps ended in gilded double doors, tied open by silver ropes. The sept was beyond crowded. Thousands had come to pray before the battle, and some had stayed while others had left. But for every person who had left, at least two more must have come. Men and women of every rank and station were crowded shoulder to shoulder, in front of every altar save one. The one where a hooded statue stood. Thousands of candles flickered on the altars while their reflections in the crystal, glass, and gold of the high domed ceiling twinkled like stars.
Melisandre, Thoros, and five of their most devout followers gathered on the steps. Beric Dondarrion, Anguy, Brus Buckler, Benethon Scales, and Cassana, one of Queen Selyse's serving girls. Highborn and smallfolk alike, they were genuine, strong, and earnest in their faith. They had come without question when Melisandre and Thoros had called.
"It's time," Thoros said, and they went their separate ways, divided amongst the crowd of unbelievers. Each of the faithful headed toward one of the seven altars.
Melisandre slipped alone into the crowd, most stepped aside when they recognized her, but some tried to bar her way, but Melisandre simply walked around, the weight of the crowd preventing them from catching her. The thunder roared louder outside, and she did not have time for the pointless pride of these people.
Melisandre pressed onward. She slipped through the crowds like a shadow, and in time Melisandre approached the altar she had chosen. Atop it stood the hooded statue of the last and least loved of the Seven. Where the others had a sea of candles at their feet, only a bare dozen stood at the base of the Stranger. The god's statue stood tall and hooded, face barely visible beneath, the candles lit flickering shadows over the half-human and half-animal visage.
Melisandre clasped her hands and prayed quietly. "My god, R'hllor, Lord of Light, and God of Flame and Shadow, you have shown me the path you would have me walk." She was conscious of a septon approaching her from behind. "Give me the strength to do what is needed," she finished.
Melisandre's eyes fell to the candles, and the flickering flames consumed her sight. She saw a one-eyed crow battling another with three eyes. Two lost wolves gathered their strength and howled at a storm. She saw a faceless king be anointed with a burning crown by red shadows and then stand tall with a bloody and beating heart held in his hand. The candles flickered, and the visions came faster and quicker. Green flames consumed a city. Snow fell and fell in eternal blizzards, ice spread across the oceans, darkness clouded the skies, and all that was warm and living died an endless death until the world was cold and never-ending night ruled for the rest of time.
"Can I help you?" The septon asked, interrupting her trance.
Melisandre turned. He was a small, thin, hard-eyed, grey-haired man with a heavily lined face. Unlike the High Septon and Most Devout, or some of the other septons, he wore a simple white wool tunic that fell to his ankles where feet, hard, horny, and thick with callus, poked out.
Melisandre met his stare. She could almost feel the burning faith in his heart, the zealous gaze of his eyes.
Thunder rumbled outside.
"Yes," she said. "You can," and she half-stepped a little closer.
The thunder outside grew and roared, and lightning could be seen flashing through the stained glass windows.
Unafraid, the septon took a half-step closer as well.
"Have faith," Melisandre said. "Take charge of your flock, my god… our gods demand it."
The septon glared at her suspiciously for a moment, but then his eyes shifted, looking at the altar and then up at the Stranger.
"As you say," he said stiffly.
When she looked back to the altar, it was covered in frost. The septon stepped aside and knelt down in prayer before the altar.
Melisandre moved on. She slipped around the altar and statue to the narrow corridor behind it. Even here, where none of the public would ever come, the walls were made of polished marble, gold and silver lamps provided light, and murals and tapestries showed scenes from the heathen faith.
Melisandre fell into deep thought as she passed down the corridor. There was power in kingsblood. There was power in flame. Fire and blood. The sorcery of Old Valyria had been built upon it, a lesson learned by the Red Priests of old and passed down generation by generation.
She stopped and turned to gaze at the back of the statue of the god these Andals called the Stranger. Neither male nor female nor fully human, its face was half hidden by a shadowy cowl. The light that filled the sept sent flickering shadows into the hallway. Oh R'hllor, she prayed, Lord of Light, God of Flame and Shadow, give me strength.
"There is power blood," she murmured and walked onward.
She heard a rising psalm from the congregation of the Seven, echoing slightly against the polished marble walls and floor.
Fret not, dear heart, let not them hear
The mutterings of all your fears
The fluttering of all your doubts
Blessings of the Seven
Be welcome to their table
Is there power in faith? She wondered. In Oldtown, Euron's storm had ravaged every building, from the Hightower and the Citadel to the lowliest hovel. A storm that would be less than a mouse compared to the tempest rising outside. A storm that would bring a black and bloody tide wherever it went. Every building had been ravaged save for the Starry Sept. It alone had stood untouched.
The hallway widened into the base of the belltower, a seven-sided room with stairs fixed into the walls that climbed up to the heights. A smattering of rain fell through the open windows high above, leaving the floor damp.
Melisandre approached the rope. She reached out to touch it. It was worn smooth by countless hands that had handled it for over a hundred years or more. Melisandre wrapped her slim hands around the rope. I must have faith. She let go and drew the knife from her belt. A flash of lightning reflected off the black blade. In Westeros, the smallfolk called it dragonglass, maesters obsidian, but Melisandre had first known the material by the name Old Valyira had given it, frozen fire.
She grimaced at the pain as she made a deep cut on her left hand. She switched the knife to her left hand and almost dropped the black blade as her bloody hand slipped on the ivory hilt. She took a deep breath and cut her right hand as well. A wound made jagged and uneven as the blade slipped again.
"There is power in fire," she said. She took the rope in both hands. "There is power in blood," the rope grew wet and sticky beneath her fingers. Crimson rivers seeped from between her fingers and fell to the ground like rain. "There is power in faith." Faith in R'hllor, the Lord of Light, and the God of Light and Shadow. Melisandre had no faith in the Seven whose temple she stood within, but R'hllor had sent her here. R'hllor had shown her Stannis Baratheon in the flames. She'd thought he was Azor Ahai Reborn, and she had been wrong, but every vision happened for a reason. Yes, she thought, yes. I am here for a purpose, and R'hllor has His plan for me.
The storm was raging outside and bringing death with every bolt of lightning. Death that would strengthen the storm. Melisandre's bleeding hands squeezed tight around the old and worn ropes. But Euron and his storm did not own the deaths, and their sacrifices would not be in vain. Melisandre pulled on the rope, and the bell far above her rang loud and holy. The other seven bells in the other seven towers followed suit soon after. It rang out with pure notes and joined the six other bells, one each for the seven statues and the seven gods. A clamour of metal on metal, of faith cast from stone and into metal.
Melisandre pulled and heaved on the rope. The muscles of her arms and back began to burn. Tears fell from her eyes, blood welled from the wounds and sank into the rope or made crimson streaks as drops ran down her arms. The ruby at her neck pulsed in time to the ringing bells.
The bells rang as one. Notes in perfect harmony made a swelling river of sound that rose from the seven crystal towers of the Great Sept of Baelor and became something more. Seven bells that rang as one or perhaps one bell that rang with seven notes. One god with seven faces. A river of sound and faith confronted the storm and matched its thunder beat for beat.
Far above, a light shining stronger than the lightning began to blaze.
Arya
Lord Dale had left them in the care of Captain Erich Sweet, a man he trusted. So as Wraith and the rest of the remaining ships moved into battle Red Raven, Captain Erich, her crew, Arya, and Shireen remained behind. Safe from the battle. But not from the gathering and growing storm.
Now, hidden beneath the deck of a war galley called Red Raven, Arya and Shireen took shelter from the storm. The captain's cabin was dark and lightless. The two already small windows were plugged up with wooden stoppers. And without sight, every sound seemed twice as loud. The crash of waves, the roar of thunder, the ship's groaning timbers as it bent and buckled and threatened to break. But nothing could explain how Arya could sense the storm above.
Arya knew the clouds above were black as midnight and were twisting in on themselves like a dying snake. She knew that unnatural lightning burned in the dark sky. She knew that the winds roared like demons and whipped the sea into a frenzy.
Arya had felt the storm building before it broke, an uneasiness that she couldn't place until it was too late. It was like the winter storm that had struck Braavos. Not the same, but similar. It was smaller and weaker but growing stronger with every minute. Just like at Braavos, the winds blew too strongly, the lightning struck too fiercely, the roaring thunder sounded like insane laughter, and the sea had been whipped into a hateful frenzy.
Red Raven rose and fell with each wave. The ship rocked and trembled, tossed around like a toy in a tub by the waves that rose and fell all around them. All the furniture in the cabin was nailed down. But even so, it still flexed and shuddered with each wave that struck the ship.
Arya and Shireen hid together under the bed. Their arms were wrapped around each other, and they used rough wool blankets to cushion themselves as the world outside went mad.
Something crashed overhead. Arya felt the timbers beneath her tremble. Something on the ship had broken. The storm raged, and Arya could feel the anger behind it growing. Anger and desperation, though for and at what she didn't know.
The ship rocked, and the world turned sideways as a wave struck Red Raven, heaving over onto its side. As everything spun and she started to fall, Arya grabbed the bed leg and held fast to it with both arms. She almost lost her grip when the falling Shireen grabbed her around the waist. The wood pressed hard into her arms. Arya felt Shireen start to slip, and it was only Arya's quick hand grasping the back of Shireen's dress that stopped her friend from sliding across the cabin and into the other wall. They hung there like that for several long seconds. Arya's one arm wrapped around a bed leg, and Shireen, hanging in mid-air. Arya felt her muscles straining, her limbs shaking, and then the world righted itself. The deck came back up to meet Arya, and she hit it with force enough to drive all the breath from her lungs.
Arya gasped for breath and unlocked her bruised limbs and aching joints. She scrambled on her hands and knees and slipped back under the bed, and Shireen quickly crawled after her. Arya grabbed one of the bed posts and wrapped her other arm around Shireen. The black-haired girl held Arya tightly and screamed and cried with every new bump and jump of the ship. After a moment, Arya realized she was screaming and crying too.
She screamed all the louder when blinding red-white light filled the cabin, and the deck overhead shuddered, cracked, and exploded as lightning crashed through. The wind seized at the fractured timbers and ripped them away along with half the deck above. Waves crashed into Red Raven, and seawater filled the gap and soaked the cabin.
She felt something touch her mind but for a moment, something that brought memories of warmth, the scent of candles and lemons, something that was the storm but also was not the storm. The almost overwhelming anger and hate did not touch it. There was only emptiness, the feeling of something missing, no one where there should have been someone.
Reality came crashing back as rain and waves pushed water into the cabin. Arya pulled herself out from under the bed, joining Shireen as they rushed through the already ankle-deep water. The cabin was so dark, there were no lanterns or burning torches, and the only light came from the flashes of lightning coming through the gap and reflecting off the water inside.
Arya and Shireen seized the heavy cabin door and shoved it open against the resistance of the water. They entered a scene of chaos. Sailors were rushing across the deck, up and down the steep ladder-like stairs. Arya knew not what any of them were doing. She heard Captain Erich shouting above them, roaring in a pale imitation of the storm above them.
The thunder was growing louder, the waves fiercer, and the wind stronger. The world seemed to move like paintings, a single still image illuminated by lightning, and then the darkness returned only to be banished again when more lightning flashed, revealing everything in a slightly different place.
Arya stumbled out of the sailors' way. She dragged Shireen by the hand as the waves tossed the ship about like a toy in a tub.
She found shelter in the nook behind the stairs. Out of the sailors' way but open to the sky above. Rain lashed down in a torrent. Every inch of Arya that wasn't already soaked was drenched in seconds.
The storm hung overhead. The dark clouds exuded pressure on Arya's mind, like a hand as strong as the Mountain's or Greatjon Umber's gripping her skull and squeezing. Arya closed her eyes and saw more than before.
It was like seeing but not. Everything was clear but also not. Arya could see nothing but also saw the storm above her as something else. A crow with a bloody beak to bite, cruel claws to cut, and a single baleful black eye to see. In her mind's eye, she watched as the eye expanded, growing to encompass and surpass the crow. Then the eye became a face. A girl's face. A familiar face.
Arya forced her eyes open again. She ignored the sting of salty seawater and gazed through the steps of the stairs. The clouds had contorted and pulled in on themselves above Red Raven. They had become a face. Her sister's face. Sansa.
A part of the thing that touched her mind suddenly began to flee. Hardly knowing what she was doing, Arya stretched out a sense she hardly knew was there but was half-remembered as if from a dream. A dream about wolves
Arya reached for the thing that was of the storm but not. A nothingness. An absence of something defined only by its lack compared to everything else around it.
She held the nothing and squeezed it as hard as her body squeezed Shireen. The nothingness struggled and fought against Arya with all its might. But Arya didn't give up. She held on, clutched at the nothingness with all her strength. But the nothingness was like smoke. The tighter Arya tried to hold it, the more slipped through her grasp. So Arya let go. She wasn't sure exactly how. It was like dreaming and being awake at the same time. Almost like when she dreamt, she was Nymeria. But instead of becoming a direwolf, she became something else. A leaf.
A leaf caught in the winds of the storm. Tugged along by the eddies and winds but left unharmed. Arya could feel everything. Every churning cloud, every burst of wind, and every burning bolt of lightning. She felt the minds, thoughts, and fears of all the people caught in the storm's winds. She sensed that the storm was frustrated, angry that it had been denied something. The winds howled and threw her around. She sensed something else, something beyond the storm. It sounded like bells and felt light. The winds roared, and Arya didn't have to search for the nothingness. It was caught in the storm as well. The winds brought them together.
It was familiar, like a scent, a family smell. Warm and comforting, but sharp as well. The nothingness recoiled again, shedding the sensations of pain and fear like blood from a cut-throat. It came in a torrent of thoughts, feelings, sensations, images, and distorted memories. An auburn-haired girl.
Sansa, Arya thought.
NO! The shade of her sister shouted.
Please.
Everyone goes! Everyone leaves! Everyone betrays! Pain, oh the pain, everything hurts.
Arya wanted to cry. She was crying for her sister, herself, and who she used to be. Her father was dead, brothers at war, abandoned by family, hurt and hunted by the Lannisters, and betrayed by Gendry. She could still see him as clearly as yesterday. Standing before Lord Roose in red and pink, telling the Lord of the Dreadfort her secrets. So full of anger and mistrust and lashing rage. But then... then Shireen had taught her to trust again.
Arya clutched Shireen with all her strength. Seawater was all raining down, the storm was raging overhead, and the ship was shaking all around them, but she knew things would be alright.
No, she told Sansa's ghost. You were alone, left out in the cold. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. We all need someone to hold. Someone to trust. Shireen helped me. Let me help you.
Arya opened herself to the ghost. She felt it try to flee again, but Arya held firm this time. Arya reached out with something she wasn't sure how to describe. It was the place between emotion and thought. The storm was shaking above her, screaming in deepest agony. Sansa's ghost was full of nothingness, so Arya did her best to fill it.
I have no faith in the Seven, Arya sent. The Old Gods haven't helped me either, she added. But I have faith in you. Your name is Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and you are my sister.
The storm began to cry.
Sansa
Your name is Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and you are my sister, said the voice.
Arya. The name came to her unbidden. Arya Horseface. Arya Underfoot. Arya Stark. Sister. More names followed, and with them came memories. Robb. Bran. Jon. Rickon. Catelyn, mother. Eddard, father. Jeyne. Jory. Mordane. Luwin. Lady. Pain, there was so much pain. Monstrous lions in the shapes of lords, queens, and princes. The grave of a gentle wolf. The sunlight shining on a blade as it took her father's head.
In the darkness beneath the storm, Sansa came back to herself. Pain, fear, and anger all came back to her at once. Forgotten horrors returned to her. Sansa wanted to scream. To cry. To beat her hands and stomp her feet. To claw herself bloody. But she couldn't.
I have no mouth, and I must scream.
I'm sorry little sister, she sent to Arya. I think I've done too much. It was so much simpler being too mad to see. I didn't have to wake up to this world around me. But now I am awake, and it's too much to take, and I fear my heart will break. I want to look away. I want to look away. I want to look away.
She felt Arya reach out to her, it felt like a hug, Sansa couldn't remember the last time someone had held her like this. No malice, no lust, no cruelty, love and comfort alone. Don't go blindly, she felt more than heard Arya say. Look for the light.
Will you keep me close? Will you love me still?
Yes. I know how it feels, standing alone with the pain. We all need someone to hold. Let me help you. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
There was more than pain in the memories. There was giggling with Jeyne Poole as they ate lemon cakes and blood oranges. There was her mother brushing her hair. There were her brother's pranks. There was sleeping in a warm bed with Lady. There was sitting in Maester Luwin's lessons. There was her father's stern but loving smile.
She could feel the storm pulling her from Arya. Her sister was holding on, but only just. The storm would rip her apart. Euron would sense her. Let go, she said. Before he sees.
No! Arya said and fought even harder for her grip on Sansa.
I am lost, Sansa thought, don't look back, or you will be too. She pushed her sister away, and as their connection was severed, she sent one final thought. I love you.
Sansa was alone again. Trapped in her own mind. In her own body. Suddenly the darkness seemed to press in on her again. The pain and hurts and all that was wrong. A part of her wanted to look away. To flee back into the insane darkness where there was no hurt, no pain, and no Sansa.
I must not look away.
Sansa opened her third eye of spirit, and suddenly she could see through Euron's, hers, and their eyes of flesh. She saw the storm writhing in the sky. It was beautiful and terrible. A web of sorcery that made Oldtown pale in comparison. That made everything pale in comparison. Bloody sacrifice rolled across the skies, thunder like a beating heart propelling it higher and further.
Sansa felt tears roll down from her eyes.
Euron lifted his and their hand and wiped them away. "What is this?" He asked with Sansa's voice.
Euron raged, and the storm obeyed. Dreadful winds, willed into being by his hate, whipped the sea into a frenzy. Waves rose ten, twenty, and thirty feet high then came crashing down again.
He, she, and they felt it rising, bubbling up like boiling water. Sansa screamed, she tore her throat with the scream, and the storm answered her, not Euron. Waves fell and did not rise again, the wind died, and the ocean was like glass. The clouds roiled no more, and the lightning ceased to burn the sky.
"No," Euron growled. Lightning began to crackle and strike again.
"Yes," Sansa said, and the clouds turned in on themselves.
"NO!" Euron bellowed. He beat his fists against their head and attack her with all his strength. Sansa could hardly resist.
Weak. Euron declared. So weak. A failure. You give into your fear and your terror. Only I am strong enough to survive. Euron's soul attacked Sansa's, pressing down upon her with all the hate he could muster. That was all there was hate, loathing, disdain, and disgust. Scorn and detestation and abhorrence for everything and everyone that was not him.
Sansa faltered, overcome by the tumult of misanthropy, and she was driven back and forced to retreat into her own soul. A place where the pain seemed all-consuming.
So much suffering. Euron declared. Better to forget it. I promised you a world without pain, without fear, so let me give it to you. The cold will take everything, but the storm will remain. I will remain.
It was unbearable within the pain, the grief, the sorrow, was something all too human. But there was what Arya had given her as well. Her mother, who brushed her hair. Her father, whose hands were warm and whose eyes were kind. Brotherly pranks. Sisterly squabbles. Friends and friendship. All of it was lost but not gone. A sister reaching out in the darkest moments when you'd lost yourself. What was grief, if not love persevering? Pain, if not happiness remembered?
You cannot have my pain. Sansa pushed back. You cannot have my sorrow. You cannot have my grief. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell and I will not forget myself. I will not surrender myself.
Sansa attacked. She threw her all into it. All her anger, her grief, her fears, her sorrow, and her love. All that made her Sansa Stark.
It was Euron's turn to falter now. Buckling beneath unfamiliar feelings. His, her, and their body screamed in grief and pain as memories returned to shake their heart. Euron's hate flickered and burned. A scar of malice that shrivelled and cried against the tide rising against it.
Sansa pushed forward. Unrelenting and undeterred. You cannot have my joy. You cannot have my laughter. You cannot have my happiness. You cannot have my love!
Euron collapsed beneath the weight of all of Sansa's everything. His hate, his rage, it wasn't enough. Euron bent and broke beneath the onslaught but did not surrender. He retreated deeper into himself, and Sansa pursued him. She felt a scar, an old wound Euron had hidden long ago. She attacked, and the scar was ripped away. Sansa felt Euron's heart of hearts. It was all fear. Fear of pain, loss, and above all, of Winter's Return and the Long Night. A child is taught to fly by a three-eyed crow. A child who saw the Heart of Winter and knew there could be no victory against the chilling blue and hateful cold. She saw an old god's mistake. Sansa could, at last, feel her body as her own. She strained against Euron on the verge of taking back this body of blood and bone, and flesh. Her teeth broke, and her muscles began to tear as they strained against themselves.
Euron rallied. Unmasked and revealed, he attacked. Gone were the pretenses, the pretend superiority, even the hate was gone. Where malice had failed him, purest terror prevailed. Thunder roared, lightning burned, and winds howled in time with the hammer blows Euron rained down upon Sansa's soul. Power driven by the utter certainty that the cold would come, that snow would fall forever, that night would fall and never end. An eternal and hateful winter that would kill and kill and kill until the entire planet was dead. But maybe, just maybe, the storm could survive. Maybe. Light cracked and shot down from the midnight sky. The wind screamed like a terrified child.
Sansa fought but couldn't win. This was beyond her. Euron's fear smashed aside her happiest thoughts. His terror crushed Sansa's pain. Euron's horror and despair defeated her love and her anger.
Euron overwhelmed her, threatened to consume her, and Sansa let go. Their body collapsed, exhausted by the struggle, limbs trembled, muscles ached, and Euron cried. He wept and blubbered like a child, his own darkest pain revealed to himself. He wiped his face with a dirty sleeve, staining it with tears and mucous. Euron gasped for air, struggling for breath in the foreign body. The storm had quieted. Snow was falling. His everstorm was dying.
"No," Euron gasped. "No! Don't go. I need you!"
The cursed red priests and their spell frustrated his attack on King's Landing where five hundred thousand deaths by emerald flame waited. Worst of all was the quiet and almost imperceptible onslaught of the Heart of Winter. He hated himself and his weakness in these moments, but the fear was stronger.
Euron pushed himself up, ignoring the joints and muscles that screamed in agony, and pushed himself in the girl's body to the prow of Silence, where he grabbed a rope for stability. He opened his third eye and threw his fear and hate into the clouds above. Within seconds the storm rose back to dreadful life. Winter's touch was driven back once more. But, the ritual centered on Baelor's Sept still held. For now. Euron looked to the sea for more deaths. If he could take the storm to Pentos or even Duskendale, maybe there he could-
Sansa let her hand go limp. The rope slipped out of her slim fingers. Silence rose and fell. Bare feet stumbled on wet wood. And their body fell into the reckless and furious waves.
The waves were a storm unto themselves. Out of anyone's control. Frenzied and tempestuous.
The waves threw them into Silence. Bones snapped, their skull cracked, and barnacles ripped and tore at soft bare skin. The water fell, Silence rose, and they were sucked underneath. Euron struggled, desperate and pleading against what his own power had wrought. Too late, far too late. Silence struck again, crashing down with terrible force, and their body went limp with shock. Sansa inhaled. Cold and salty seawater filled their lungs. Darkness started to gather around the edge of her vision. Sansa felt Euron's soul screaming as it closed in. No more pride nor strength or power, just fear. True white-hot terror of what was coming. Sansa was calm. She could feel the currents seizing her body and pulling it into the cold depths. It all seemed so distant. Sansa was so tired. Euron's struggles began to slow. Then he was gone. Something took him away. Took him and dragged him out and somewhere to a void where Old Darkness ruled. Where he would scream beneath the Altar of Starry Night forever and for an eternity after that. On and on beyond the ending of time itself.
Sansa closed her third eye and her eyes of flesh as darkness took her. A different darkness than what took Euron, somehow warmer and softer, made from sadness, anger, happiness, and all the other things of thought and memory. So close and yet so far from death. She closed her eyes.
And then opened them. Black wings lifted her through the calm air. The storm was fading where it wasn't gone already. Sansa cawed and, on black wings, flew into the open sky, where she danced among the falling snowflakes.