The Dothraki Sea, 300 AC

Arthur

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Being a leader was tough. Arthur wondered how Dutch and Hosea managed it, let alone a small girl like Daenerys. It had been a long time since he spoke with the three, but fortunately he was now on his way to them. Until then, he had to get comfortable with his new people. The old ladies might have declared him the so-called Stallion, but he could neither speak their language nor drink their famous horse milk without puking his guts out.

"The khalasars of Khal Pono and Jhaqo joined us today." said Charles. "We're now nearly fifty thousand strong."

"Then we better get to this Meereen quickly. The food won't last long, not with their large appetites." Arthur told him. The Dothraki had no limit when it came to fighting, eating or making love. They would do it out in the open, in ways that could make the Saint Denis working girls blush. The only silver lining was that they didn't start brawls like they did before the business in Vaes Dothrak. This time, they were obedient and often came up to him to pay their respects. Charles did the translating as the newer horselords brought gifts and slave women to him that day, though all were freed quickly. Maybe Charles would be a better choice for their king. As the horselords left, Arthur looked at their gifts. There were curved swords, sets of knight's armor, rubies and sapphires as large as walnuts and fine horses that looked like Arabians. Gone were the days of robbing stuff. They now had stuff brought to them.

"Take whatever you want." he told Charles. "Those blades look nice."

"They do." said Charles. "But I would prefer something like that machete you have. Valyrian steel, was it?"

"Yeah. Barristan said that you don't need to sharpen it, ever. Magic, he said." Magic was something that the gang had accepted as a fact at this point, as would anyone in their position.

What was supposed to be a short tour had turned into an entire journey. It was at its end, but Arthur felt more tired than ever. Six months in this world felt like years, with all he had seen and done. All this war business led to something he never thought he would experience. For the first time in his life, instead of living free in the wilderness, he now desired to settle down. No longer wanted by the law, and rich beyond his wildest imagination, he could have a family.

"Rider approaching!" a Braavosi yelled. Minutes later, a man entered their camp, flying a strange flag with a dragon and three stars.

"I have a message from Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the United Cities, to be delivered to Mister Arthur Morgan." he said. Arthur was puzzled. United Cities? He opened the parchment, and upon reading its contents, he broke into laughter.

"Good old Dutch is at it again!" he handed it to Charles. A lot had happened since last they spoke, including the creation of a new country with a name very similar to their own. "We should get a move on. We have a little more than ten days before the girl reaches the city."

The largest khalasar ever seen increased its pace as it travelled through the grass sea. The weather had become a lot cooler in the last few days, which was a welcome change for the Americans and the Westerosi. Being rid of their troubles, they could now begin to enjoy themselves more. John had recovered from his wounds and now partook in chores. Arthur couldn't help but notice how much he had changed from this ordeal. Gone was the easygoing boy who couldn't seem to do anything right. The new John took everything seriously and pulled his weight, leaving no room for complaints.

"I must say, you have the favour of the gods." said Barristan. "We were sent to bring five thousand men, but now we return with fifty. Never before have I had the honor of working with such a capable man."

"That wasn't the plan, old man." Arthur replied. "To be honest, I don't understand this business myself. I destroy their city and they make me their king. On another note, what should we do about that information?"

"I say that it is too important to send by raven, but the Queen needs to know as soon as possible. Mayhaps we can send the rider back?"

"Then that's what we'll do. I'll write the message myself."

In his tent, Arthur pulled out some paper borrowed by the Braavosi captain and wrote to Daenerys, telling her of their progress and warning her of the threat of the assassin. As an extra measure for safety, it was written in a code that Dutch had taught him years ago. The letter never explicitly mentioned anyone by name, nor the Dothraki and their numbers. To an unsuspecting person, it would look like details of an unimportant matter, all signed under the name of a Tacitus Kilgore. Before he left to give it to their messenger, he had another idea though. It had been a long time since he talked to Missandei and Doreah, and he might as well take full advantage of the opportunity.

"Take these." he said as he handed three letters to the messenger. "This one's for the Queen, and the others are for the ladies Missandei and Doreah." The man rode out of the camp at night, and Arthur went back to his tent. Outside, the people were busy enjoying themselves. Every night was a celebration these days. Among the many things taken from Vaes Dothrak were the wine barrels, which the Braavosi and the Qarth boys were determined to empty as soon as possible. Arthur didn't approve, but who could blame the men for wanting a little fun after all they had done?

Before sleeping, he wrote the events of the day in his journal. It was almost full now, and he would have to get another one.

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The Lands of Always Winter, 300 AC

Bran

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Many leagues south of Castle Black, an army had made camp. The night was much colder even for the people of the North, and darker as well.

"No signs of Lord Umber, m'lord." a foot soldier told Ramsay Bolton, with a hint of fear in his voice.

"Then take a few men and ride out!" Ramsay commanded. It was the dead of night, and he was running out of patience. Bran looked around and saw the army flying Bolton, Karstark, Umber and Glover banners.

"Do you think the bastard got to him?" Harald Karstark asked.

"Could be. I imagine he did not take well to his brother's fingers." Ramsay smirked.

Brother's fingers? Could that mean?

"I am surprised at how tough the lad is." said Karstark.

"They say that the Starks are hard to kill. Let us put that claim to the test." The men walked towards a tent with the Bolton flayed man. Bran followed them, and he was not prepared for what awaited him. Rickon was tied up to a chair and was missing fingers on each hand. He was much taller than last they met, and looked so much like Robb. There was a rug on the floor, made of a direwolf's skin, black as night. Bran ran forward towards his brother, attempting to help, but he just passed though his body. Rickon did not look healthy. He was thin and frail, with wounds on his face. How had he been captured? Was Osha dead?

"So, where were we my lord?" began Ramsay. "Oh yes, I was just talking about your dear brother. I am afraid that he has refused to reply to my raven, which means that I will have to send a stronger message."

Rickon did not say anything. He did not even look at him.

"As you wish then." Ramsay said and pulled out a knife. "I will take an eye…"

The men outside let out a cry, as blades clashed with each other.

"Did the bastard attack us?" Karstark unsheathed his sword, and so did Bolton. They went outside but it was too dark to see anything. Bran knew what it was. The men were being slaughtered by the undead horde, which had sneaked up to their camp without warning. They had covered the light of the moon under dark clouds, giving them the advantage. The army did not stand a chance.

As Bolton and Karstark went inside, a strong gust of wind blew the tent away, leaving them exposed. The two men lost their footing and fell on their backs. Bran saw the undead form a circle around their position. They stayed there, but did nothing.

"What in gods' name are they?" Karstark was terrified as he looked into their faces. Ramsay did not say a word. Then, a line of the undead gave way to five figures who approached them. Unlike the rest, they had unnatural white skins and blue eyes. They wore armor and carried swords made of ice.

The White Walkers.

"The Others." said Ramsay as one of the five went towards him. He went for his sword, but the White Walker was faster. It punched Ramsay in the stomach and put a hole in it with its bare hands, ending his life. Karstark attempted to run but another walker got to him first. Only Rickon remained. Bran could do nothing but watch as the five White Walkers gathered around his brother. Rickon looked up at their face and let out a scream, but his hands were tied. After a few moments, one of the five took a black blade in its hands and with a slow stroke, buried it inside Rickon's chest, ending his screams.

Rickon's eyes turned dark blue, and so did his skin. He freed himself from his binds using a newfound strength. As Bran looked at him, nothing remained of his brother. He was now something else, something different. The walkers gathered around him, and Rickon screeched.

Bran walked towards him, reaching his hand out. His brother's head turned into his direction, and Bran was frozen in his tracks. Could he see him?

"Time to go." It was Brynden.

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"Rickon!" Bran cried as he came back to his senses. Meera and Hodor ran to his side.

"He is not Rickon Stark anymore. He is now the Night King." The three eyed raven said from his seat. "I brought you back before he could mark you. It is time to leave."

.

King's Landing, 300 AC

Kevan

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"What do you mean?" Kevan asked Pycelle.

"We have stopped receiving ravens from the North, my lord Hand. Winterfell, Dreadfort, even White Harbor has yet to send any." the maester replied.

Weeks ago, a raven had come from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, claiming that the Wall had fallen. The council had laughed at the message, surmising that the Night's Watch had grown too desperate for more men and supplies. But now, this other piece of information was concerning.

The small council was not at its full capacity this day. Randyll Tarly had left for Horn Hill, while the Tyrells were gathered at the Sept of Baelor to witness the trial of Ser Loras and Cersei. Kevan was on his way to attend but an urgent message from Pycelle delayed him.

"It is possible that the North is in open rebellion again, and they have involved the Night's Watch in their schemes." Pycelle said. His words made sense, Kevan conceded.

"We shall discuss this later, when the council is in a proper session." he said while drinking from his wine cup. The last two years had been much more eventful than the decades that preceded them. The Seven Kingdoms had seen members of great houses wiped out and were plunged into destruction not seen since the Blackfyre rebellions or the Dance of the Dragons. In the east, the Mad King's daughter had brought dragons back to life using sorcery, and there was enough proof for those claims. They might have won this so-called War of the Five Kings, but they were not prepared for the wars that would come again. This Northern scheme might as well turn out to be the least of their worries.

As he went towards the door, he felt an unusual sensation in his body. His body went cold and he had the urge to vomit. All strength left him as he struggled to stand up, and blood came out of his mouth. He heard Pycelle let out a groan as he fell. What was happening?

The wine.

His vision was getting weak, but he could still hear. A man in a black maester's robe entered the room. Kevan got one look at him, and it turned out to be Qyburn. He wanted to speak, but no words would come out as he kept slipping into the darkness. Then, he heard a loud explosion coming from the direction of Visenya's hill.

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The end of Chapter Three.