The Song of Winter

By MADJACKc1940

This work is original to GRRM, I claim no credit to his books or the show.

Chapter 15

Olenna Tyrell, the aged Queen of Thorns, looked out across the lush fields surrounding Highgarden. She was in deep thought. It was no secret that she was the real authority in Westeros' best-fed realm. Next to the usual bowl of figs on her table sat a white kerchief embroidered in roses. It had been made for her by her late granddaughter, Margaery, when she was little.

Margaery was dead now, immolated in the fire of the Great Sept of Baelor along with her fool of a son, Mace, and the rest of her line. Olenna clenched the kerchief in her wrinkled hands as she examined the rival missives next to her figs. One bared the snarling direwolf of, allegedly, the late Brandon Stark's notable son, Jon. The other missive presented the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Both missives requested material aid.

"So, the honorable…nephew…of honorable Ned Stark has himself a smuggler in his service, does he?" queried the Queen of Thorns to the man across from her, the man who had brought her Stark's missive.

"That would be so, Lady Tyrell, one of my many specialties, it seems," answered Davos Seaworth. He sat across from her, reaching for a fig she had offered him.

"A little ironic, given the criminal nature of smuggling that the integritous House Stark would have such an agent."

"His Grace finds honorable outlets for my activities, my Lady. And when I am not being used for my old talents, His Grace values my humble counsel."

"Fat lot of good that did for Stannis Baratheon," pointed out the wily old woman.

"Perhaps that is why his grace prefers me as a smuggler," Davos answered honestly, "I serve in whatever way I am needed."

"Tell me, Ser Davos, what is it with this young king that holds your allegiance so firmly?"

"He is honorable to a fault, my Lady, yet unfettered with the fanaticism of a foreign religion, like my late King Stannis. He never sought to rule, but the position found him anyway, like it did his adoptive father, Eddard. His adherence to the codes of honor and chivalry holds his realms together in a way that is only pantomimed in the South through a mixture of favoritism, intimidation, and politicking. When my King's lords are called, they come, and if they have need of His Grace, they may approach without fear and speak plainly."

Olenna nodded absently. "I will admit that I was pleased to hear of the survival of your Queen Sansa. I knew her at King's Landing, I urged my Margaery to befriend her despite the taint seen by the Iron Throne of her father's actions. Eddard was not wrong about his accusations regarding that cunt, Cersei, and her children. His crime was that he had no delicacy on how to deal with such information. But Sansa was a sweet girl, though her mother prepared her poorly for the southron court. Not that I did any better with my granddaughter, it seems."

"Let us be frank, then, Lady Tyrell. Clearly, you have no love for the Lions. The Starks intend to oppose her claim over the North and remain independent. We have a much greater fight brewing beyond the Wall, if you haven't heard the rumors."

"I sympathize with the Stark cause, Ser Davos. And I will oppose the Lannisters to my last breath, House Tyrell has no sons or daughters left to give. My only value is in my wheat and the gold obtained through my wheat. Otherwise, I have an empty castle in which to die, and an army poised to strike against the Lannisters when the time is right."

"Alas, I cannot establish a supply line like your king is asking. It would be folly to attempt a land or sea route past the Crownlands, Westerlands, and the Iron Islands. The Lion cunt has been seen cavorting with one of the brothers of Balon Greyjoy, a fact you would do well to remember on your return North past their domain. I will do what I can, which is to send a generous donation from our coffers with you personally. I trust in your reputation to get past Ironmen patrols, Onion Knight. After that, the best way I can support your king is by aiding the Dragon Queen in her fight against Cersei Lannister. What shall come of my House is going to end with me. I wish your king success and all the best to House Stark. Give my affections to Queen Sansa for me, her happiness is a balm to the loss I feel for my own blood."

. . .

Daenerys Targeryen absently stroked the snout of Drogon. They had been on Dragonstone for some weeks and were steadily preparing for the invasion. She had been ardent about immediately beginning the assault on the mainland, but her counsel had strongly advised diplomacy first. So far, they had garnered the quiet support of the Martells and Tyrells. Their formal demand of fealty to the North and Vale had been ignored. A fact that piqued the ambitious Dragon Queen, but was much less irksome than the taunting display on the beach of the Sea of Dragons. They had offered a token demand of fealty to Cersei Lannister, at the behest of her Hand, but the expected reply was equally infuriating.

"Come take it," was the Lion Cunt's response. They had found the conspicuously beheaded statuary that had been used in the beach display, a reminder that caused a vein to throb at her temple every time she passed one of the defaced statues. She swore that Cersei would meet the same fate.

Daenerys smiled at her child; his siblings were out hunting on the mainland. She loved her dragons dearly. Though the people of the formerly-named Slaver's Bay called her mother in their own tongue, she only felt feelings of real maternal connection to her three dragons. She had been denied a real child via the prophesy of the mad witch in the Dothraki Sea. Her child with Drogo had died, as did his father. Despite her various paramours, she had yet to conceive again and was grievously beginning to expect that the witch's prophecy was true.

Her dragons and her throne were the only two things Daenerys had left. She was truly the last scion of her house. Viserion and Rhaegal flew overhead together, one emitted a bone-tingling screech. Daenerys' desire for action thrummed within her breast. She would be the second-coming of Aegon the Conqueror if she could not be anything else.

. . .

Cersei Lannister shifted on the Iron Throne, the most uncomfortable chair in the Realm. Before her prostrated the smiling, amicable Euron Greyjoy. The eldest brother of Balon Greyjoy, he had gone rogue early in his life. The rumors of his death were now for naught it seemed. The fact that the man's remaining eye was constantly straying to her tits was not a new feeling for the renowned Lioness of Casterly Rock. A plan of opening her legs for use of the pirate's naval assets was already forming in her head.

She was with child. It was early in her term, and she was not yet showing; she knew not how many child-bearing years she had left to her. But all of her and Jaime's little cubs were buried now, and this fourth one may well be their last. Jaime stood before her and to the right of her Throne. His remaining hand clenched over the hilt of his blade at the shameless display of flirtation that Euron Greyjoy displayed before the entire court.

She would not be telling Jaime about her plans. He had not taken it well when he had learned of her various other transactions she'd used to her advantage during her ascent to the Throne, especially with Cousin Lancel. She would do what she must to protect and maintain the family's status, and what Jaime did not know could not hurt him. She knew better than any how the Game of Thrones was played.

Cersei had no qualms about the threat arrayed against her reign. She'd had her engineers working night and day fashioning ballistae and other machines intended to shoot down fire-breathing lizards. But it wasn't as if those methods hadn't been tried during three centuries of Targaryen rule. Her attention was brought back to Euron as it appeared his display of peacocking and simpering was concluded. He had a fleet and the means, so he claimed, to rid Cersei of her dragon problem. She had the wherewithal to admit when she had few other options.

"Thank you for your proposals, Lord Greyjoy, we shall take them under consideration," she told the man with an overtly placid smile, "Grand Maester, please arrange for a meeting between Lord Greyjoy and myself in the Queen's solar in the coming days to finalize the details of our agreements."

Qyburn acceded to her request. Jaime looked to her questioningly, then looked forward again, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Euron's smirk widened as his eye dipped low, pausing at her tits, and then down to the floor as he swooped into a showy bow of gratitude. The tiniest vein throbbed on the Queen's temple. "I thank you for your generosity in supplying such a humble Kraken Lord with your precious time, Your Grace. If you have no further need of me, I shall retire to The Silence until our meeting, which I am greatly anticipating!"

"Who is next?" the Queen sighed after Greyjoy exited the hall.

"Ser Wilfred Frey, Your Grace, the eldest surviving son of Lord Walder Frey and current leader of their House's troops," Qyburn informed.

The small vein on the Queen's temple grew. News of Stark's outlaw bastard taking the Twins and the retreat of the Frey army had not been a good day for the Queen. Such actions would be met with the full fury of the Lannister army if they didn't have three fully-grown dragons bearing down on their doorstep.

"No meeting is necessary, Qyburn, have the man's troops housed and fed. They will assist in the defense of King's Landing."

"As you will, Your Grace."

. . .

Jon awoke feeling cold. Not the dull cold felt through the thick coat of Ghost's pelt when he warged with the great direwolf, but a persistent, familiar cold. He opened his eyes and found himself mostly submerged in murky water that stood placid all around him. The normally red-tinted vision of Ghost's sight was not what he saw. The vision looked mostly like looking through his own eyes, except that his field of view was very wide. He was floating in the ice-encrusted mires of the Neck. Towards the center of his view, he could see a long, scaly snout punctuated by two nostrils.

He felt a foreign presence suddenly wrestle for control of its body. It was a cold, primeval presence that matched the body of the lizard-lion whose body he was quite sure he was visiting. Ghost never fought for control, but Ghost and he shared a connection. This reptile had no such feelings and did not appreciate him being in control. The presence seemed to reel back and then surge forth, ousting him from its consciousness with a long, angry hiss. Jon felt himself thrown back into his own body, his head aching terribly.

He sat up in the tent he was sharing with his wife, gasping for breath. Ghost bounded into the room, on alert. The guards outside of his tent exclaimed at the rush of the great beast. The large form of Nymeria followed. Jon looked to the direwolves while rubbing his aching temples. It had to be the early hours of morning. Ghost relaxed on seeing he was unhurt, but Nymeria approached and sniffed at him. Jon looked to the smaller direwolf and noted with surprise that the normally dark-brown eyes were a pale blue. She came forward and nuzzled him. Jon scratched behind her ears, forgetting his aching head for a moment. He looked back at the sleeping shape of his wife. He peered over her shoulder and brushed back her hair.

Out of curiosity he gently opened one of her eyelids with his thumb and released when he saw a flash of similar pale blue. His attention was brought back to Nymeria-being controlled by Sansa-pushing her large head against his shoulder and snuffling. Jon felt a familiar pressure release in his head and quickly brought his hands to his nose as blood started to flow and his head ached anew. Nymeria whined seeing his state which was followed momentarily by a gasp from his sleeping wife. Jon clenched the bridge of his nose and called for a rag from the tent guards.

Sansa, now herself and fully awake, gently laid a hand on his shoulder.

"What happened?" she asked in concern.

He was about to answer as the guard entered and handed the requested rag to his king.

"Get Lord Reed," Jon ordered next, the concerned Stark guard nodded and left with a quickness.

Jon placed the rag under his nose and described the encounter to his wife.

"It didn't seem like you were in control of Ghost," Sansa remarked. With the regularity of them warging nightly, the royal pair would hunt together often as their direwolves, strengthening their bonds with the animals.

"Why are you bleeding?"

"It appears the lizard-lion didn't appreciate my being there and knocked me out of his head."

They had seen plenty of lizard lions. They were camped north of Moat Cailin, still within the boundaries of the Neck. Jon had never considered trying to warg with one of the creatures, though. In theory, he knew it was likely possible to do so. Some of the wildling wargs he had met controlled several different species of animals.

Lord Reed entered the tent after Sansa had donned a heavy cloak. Jon's nosebleed was letting up, but the headache persisted.

"What happened?" asked the aged crannogman Lord.

Jon explained.

"Ah, now this is familiar territory," replied Lord Reed, "The old stories would say that the crannogman wargs used to have to wrestle for control of new beasts they wished to claim. Some even went insane if they were repelled too severely."

"I never had to fight for control of Ghost, nor Sansa for Nymeria," Jon grumbled.

"Direwolves are allied with your House, Your Grace, it is likely they are more willing. They are also significantly more intelligent; it is likely they knew exactly what was occurring."

"Why was this connection with the lizard-lion even enacted? It's not like I had a fixation on the bloody reptiles."

"That could be a question for the old gods, your Grace. The lizard-lions are one with the mires as much as we cranngomen try to be. It appears you are simply turning out to be a very powerful warg. I am confident that with time will come control. You may only be broaching the potential of your gifts, Your Grace. I encourage enthusiasm. When next you find yourself in such a situation, strike first and strike hard to maintain control. Continue your commune with the old gods, for they give you the strength you command to bind such beasts to your will."

Jon nodded his understanding. The Queen placed her hand on his shoulder.

. . .

Meera Reed watched the gate in the Wall creak open, ice shattering with the movement of the weights powering the mechanism. She stood astride Bran's old Direwolf, Summer. The scarred beast limped and had a torn ear. She looked behind her, fearing that the encroaching White Walkers would break the tree line, but the faithful direwolf had carried her well ahead of their advance. She simply wished that she hadn't had to leave so much behind.

It had all been quiet. Brandon Stark had become the next Three-Eyed Raven, the avatar of the old gods. Her brother and the simpleton, Hodor, had died on the way to the grotto where they met the old Three-Eyed Raven and his guardian, a child-of-the-forest. They were safe from the wights within the grotto. But one day, Bran had simply told her that they were no longer safe. The Night King had been gathering strength, and though he did not have enough to breach the Wall, he had enough to penetrate the protections on the grotto.

Bran ordered her to flee with summer, taking a very specific path that would lead her far around the wights and to the Shadow Tower, where Night King's forces were the thinnest. She had refused, even though Bran was both her liege lord and the old gods' chosen. She would not leave him to fend for himself.

Then the day came. She had awoken to screams of the child-of-the-forest and the flashes of the balls of flame she could summon being sent at a slowly advancing figure that was unflinching at the searing heat. The figure was alone, he strode to the child, cornered her and speared her with an icy lance that had formed out of the air.

As the child fell, Meera summoned her courage and took a stand before the blue-skinned demon before her. Summer growled at her side. The face of the Night King was as blank and impassive as that of Brandon Stark's behind her. The night king felt no emotion, he was a manifestation of a force of nature. Brandon Stark was a manifestation of the living memory of Westeros, he knew too much and had lived too many lives for his distant human emotions to be anything more than negligible. He knew this day was coming.

"Leave," he told Meera quietly, "he is here to kill me, and he will succeed. He will kill you too if you do not do as I instructed. It is nearly too late."

Meera grit her teeth. "No!" she yelled, "Why, Bran? Why? You want to let him kill you?"

"It is inevitable," he replied in a level tone, "Do not fear for me, Meera. It is not so simple to kill the memory of ages. The old Three-Eyed Raven had it wrong."

The Night King had ceased his advance. It seemed that he was allowing them their final words. Perhaps it was out of disdain for he believed that all resistance north of the Wall was futile and soon it would be the same to the south. Who was to question the arrogant nature of a blizzard, of a volcanic eruption, or a typhoon?

A tear fell from Meera's eye, freezing to her cheek in the presence of the Night King. She wordlessly acquiesced and began to creep around the passive figure, keeping her spear between he and her. The Night King made no move to stop her, his eyes remained on the boy cocooned in weirwood roots. He also paid no mind to her dragonglass spearhead, he was beyond such weaknesses now. The direwolf continued to snarl. The boy called its name one last time.

Summer looked to his master, pure devotion poured from the open bond between the strongest warg and his first companion. Bran sent Summer the last human emotions he would feel: love, respect, gratitude, and a desire for the girl exiting the grotto to survive.

"Save her, and return to your pack, Summer. I have showed you the way many times."

The direwolf released one last whine before he bounded past the Night King, who also made no move to stop him.

Finally, the Night King hefted his spear. The blood of the child was frozen to its tip. He wordlessly advanced on the Three-Eyed Raven. Brandon Stark wordlessly watched him. Nothing had to be said, Bran had already seen it. The Night King raised the spear and slowly pushed it through the heart of the last trueborn son of Ned Stark. Bran held his eye contact until the life left his eyes and his head rolled backward. He still sat upright, suspended in the weirwood roots.

Meera couldn't stop herself from watching Bran Stark's final moments from the entrance to the grotto. Tears flowed freely at the death of the young, crippled Lord she had protected for so long. His direwolf bounded up to her, growling nervously. He knelt his front legs and Meera needed no guidance on what his intentions were. They had to leave.

The young Lady of Greywater Watch, last child of Howland Reed, mounted the horse-sized direwolf and hefted her spear as Summer bounded into the daylight of the freezing Far North. They were met by a ring of White Walkers standing before a larger group of wights. Summer gave them no time to react as he picked the thinnest section of bodies and pounded forward. Meera leased a cry and raised the dragonglass spear, driving its tip into the chest of a White Walker. Her arm was wrenched as she fought to keep her grip on the spear as they passed the stoic figures.

Summer's mass carried them through the snarling wights and past their lines, his hot breath fogging before his maw, and his hot blood from glancing wounds leaving a clear trail for the White Walkers to follow on their dead mounts. They raced westward, toward the Shadow Tower, as per her dying Lord's final request. The dead followed.

The Night King twitched at the death of one of his White Walkers, not that it mattered. He turned to exit the grotto. With the Raven dead, the great stand of weirwoods above them would die in time, time that he possessed.

The throat of Brandon stark bobbed. Frozen blood crusted his tunic from his fatal wound, steam emitted from the wound as the body heat was quickly sapped from his corpse. His fingers were tinged blue before the Night King had made ten paces from the boy's body. The throat bobbing and shifting intensified as a shape emerged from Brandon Stark's open mouth.

A bloody raven swiftly flew over the shoulder of the Night King from his rear, too quickly for him to grab. He wordlessly hefted his spear and sent it flying after the raven at an intense speed. The raven adjusted its flight path and evaded the spear by inches. It flew out of the grotto. The Night King mentally ordered the risen birds in his flocks after it.

His normally impassive face turned into a frown.

. . .

Authors Note: Wouldn't be a GRRM tribute without popular character death.