Qyburn—Present Day

Gods, he was running out of time. Not that he particularly believed in them, but he was sure that they must have some hand in just how fucked he was about to be. He was practically running now, doing his utmost to avoid drawing attention to himself as he sped through the corridor and failing miserably. Still, at this very moment he couldn't quite bring himself to care—at least he didn't have a chain to slow him down and clank as he moved.

He reached the door and pounded, directly violating any ideas of courtly etiquette, panting heavily as he waited for a response. Qyburn wasn't a young man anymore, and his journey through the Red Keep had taken more out of him than he would've liked.

'Who is it?' The voice came from behind the door, the perfect elocution evident despite its muffled tone.

'Qyburn, your grace,' he responded immediately, trying in vain to hide his exhaustion.

The hulking figure of the Moun—no, Ser Robert Strong, he reminded himself—opened the door, his lifeless eyes looking at him for a moment before further opening the door and allowing him access.

'Your grace,' he began, not wholly sure how he should proceed. 'There's something you need to know.'

'You may leave us, ser Robert.' The colossus left, shutting the door with a slam, before she turned to Qyburn. 'I trust all is proceeding correctly with the trial?' A malicious glint entered her eye, but she said nothing more.

'Yes, your grace. But I have heard…troubling rumours from the North.'

Cersei scoffed. 'I'm not sure that the unwashed savages up there can pose any real threat, and if they do, that Bolton bastard, little psychopath that he is, he'll straighten them out.'

Qyburn swallowed before continuing. 'He's dead, your grace. Sansa Stark and her brother Rickon have retaken Winterfell. He is the legitimate heir by all accounts, before either lady Sansa or their bastard brother.'

The queen remained silent, the cogs turning in her mind. 'Rickon Stark…wasn't he butchered by the Greyjoy ward?'

'Apparently not, your grace. But I regret to inform you that there are more rumours.'

'More?'

'Yes. Firstly, and this has come from multiple sources, there were supposedly hundreds—if not thousands—of Dornish soldiers fighting for the Starks. Martells, apparently.'

She pulled a face. 'Traitors, the lot of them. They'll burn after the flowers do.'

'I also heard tell that Dawn, the sword of house Dayne was being used by a man in the white steel plate of the Kingsguard.'

'These are lies, of course.' She dismissed any alternative with complete immediacy. 'Arthur Dayne has been dead for years—Ned Stark saw to that, and by all accounts he was such a bore that he'd die before giving up his vows.'

'There are also whispers of, well…' he hesitated. 'Others.'

'Others?'

'Alongside this supposed Arthur Dayne, people have spoken of other strange figures at the battle. Robb and Eddard Stark, Oberyn Martell with the Dornish. And, well…your husband.'

He winced as she began to shout, her tirade undoubtedly within the earshot of those passing nearby, the breaking of glass and clattering of bottles no doubt also obvious.

'I will not tolerate these lies!' She finished, a trail of smashed bottles and scattered books in her wake. 'I will tear out the tongues of anyone I hear repeating this slander, is that understood?'

'Of course, your grace.' He swallowed. 'But these rumours are already circulating and the people have been whipped into a frenzy. His grace the king has gone to the Sept of Baelor to put them to rest, in sight of the gods and men.'

This is what he'd been dreading—he could handle any criticism of hers, and he'd stayed on her good side enough that he'd always be relatively safe, but the idea that her own son might be at risk was the one thing that could push her over the edge.

And yet, she was silent, her eyes opened wide in shock and her mouth slightly agape. 'How soon can you get someone below the sept, someone you trust?'

'Mere minutes, your grace.'

'Get them down there! They are to proceed with the utmost haste and the utmost caution, for the king's life will hang in the balance.' She gave a slight wave of her hand. 'That will be all. See it done.' He made to leave, bowing deeply before he was stopped. 'If my son is hurt, Qyburn, I will blame you personally.'

'Of course, your grace.'

As he left the queen's chambers, he could see her hands clasped so tightly that the knuckles were turning white. Try as she might, he though, she can't stop them shaking.

Now, he had a king to save. If only the Tyrells knew how lucky they were.

The Lost Lion—The Night of the Return

Night came as it always did, too soon and too cold. Sure, the fire was built and he had his means of protection, but by no means did that mean that he wasn't keeping his eyes on the horizon, ready for the first glimmer of sunlight. Of course, the stone men weren't restricted to stalking in the night, but the darkness made it every bit easier for one to sneak up on you. If only he'd been castaway on another island, one in sight of ships that might provide him with some way to return home.

Gerion Lannister was tired. He'd long since lost count of how long he'd been there, spending day after day and night after night watching his back at all times, eating naught but the rats that scurried in and out of the abandoned ruins and the leaves that grew on the vines that clung to the crumbling stone.

Gods, Valyria really was a shithole.

He missed his bed at Casterly Rock, the inexhaustible supply of wine and women available to a man of his stature. He missed comfort and pleasure, sparring with Jaime and japing with Tyrion and being glared at by Tywin. He missed Joy. She'd be a woman soon. The thought had used to make him weep—after all, why shouldn't he? There was no-one else around to see him—but now he was simply drained.

So he sat with his back against the wall and that bloody Valyrian steel sword laying across his lap, the ripples illuminated by the dim firelight. His eyes remained open, but he didn't truly see—sure, if he detected movement he'd be ready to fight, but Gerion was in another place mentally, watching the waves crash against the Rock as he dangled his legs from the window.

'Hello?'

His eyes focused and his sword was pointed to the darkness within half a second, being up on his feet a few moments after that. Two women emerged from the darkness, their hands raised slightly as though trying to prove that they weren't a threat, slowly stepping towards him. They had the delicate features of a Valyrian—maybe they were Lysenis, or perhaps from Myr?

'We saw your fire,' the shorter of the two said, her voice one of Westerosi aristocracy, which likely would've confused Gerion to no end had he not been as exhausted as he was. 'We found ourselves stuck here and wondered if we might share your fire, even if just for a night.' She smiled sweetly at him.

'Or we can take it,' the other said. 'Quite frankly, I don't particularly care which. It's your choice.'

Gerion stared for a moment longer, before lowering his sword and nodding. 'By all means, sit.' His voice was weak and raspy from years of disuse. 'There's, uh, rat if you want it.' He gestured to the unfinished carcass that had been his dinner.

'My thanks,' the shorter one said, looking to her companion. 'Our thanks, I should say.'

He nodded again, unsure of what to say. Apparently he'd forgotten how to socialise in his years being alone. 'I'm Gerion!' he blurted, his voice ringing through the darkness. They winced at how loud he'd been, and when he spoke again it was quieter. 'Apologies. My name is Gerion, of House Lannister.' Despite it all, he still hated the etiquette that bound Westerosi nobles. 'Brother to Lord Tywin and uncle of queen Cersei.' Gerion had no way of knowing if either of them were still alive, and honestly he didn't care—there wasn't a man, woman, or child who didn't know who Tywin Lannister was, and he reckoned he'd just about doubled his chance of getting off these gods-forsaken pile of Rocks.

'Lannister? Any relation to Lord Loren?' the taller one said.

Loren? The last Loren of any note had lived through the conquest—why would these women care about him, but not the man who'd drowned every Reyne and Tarbeck in existence?

'Uh…yes, about three hundred years or so ago?' Gerion replied. 'Why? Do you know him?' He smirked, having made his first joke in years—although judging by their response, he could do with some more practice. The two women before him simply stared, their mouths agape.

'I'm sorry,' the shorter one said, the other too preoccupied with her roasted rat. 'Did you say three hundred?'

Gerion chuckled nervously—surely even his luck couldn't be so bad that the first people he met after a decade of isolation were a couple of madwomen? 'Yes. Well, give or take a few years. I'm sure that you can tell by my appearance that I may not be wholly up to date with current affairs in the Seven Kingdoms.'

The taller one choked on her rat. 'Seven? Dorne as well? Ruled by the same king?'

'Yes? Of course they are.' Gods, who were these women that were so unaware of anything from—by the sounds of it—the past three hundred years?

'Well, sister,' the taller one continued. 'Looks like I owe you a golden dragon, or whatever they may use nowadays. Still, a shame it couldn't be you.'

By the gods, what were they talking about? 'If you don't mind,' he asked, 'might you tell me your names?' He was sick of these games—he wanted the truth and would be damned if he would get it from them one way or another.

'We…' the shorter one trailed off, clearly unsure of what to say.

'Visenya. She's Rhaenys,' the taller one—Visenya, supposedly—interrupted. 'Targaryen.'

Gerion said nothing for a moment, only staring at these women who clearly thought he was quite that stupid, before bursting into laughter. 'Ha! Good one! Apologies, did I say my name was Gerion Lannister? I meant to say that I was the Rat Cook, hence, you know, that delicious food you're currently feasting on. Targaryens, ha!' He wiped a tear from his eye. 'Thank you, ladies, I needed that. Now, the truth. Just who the fuck are you?'

With a deep scowl that didn't quite seem so sit right on her face, with smile lines around the mouth and eyes, Rhaenys—or whatever her name truly was—dropped a sack to the floor, with three large stones rolling out. Gerion picked one up, running his hands over the patterned lines and bumps—no, scales.

Gods, he thought to himself, recalling one of Tyrion's books he'd read before he left. It's a dragon egg! A real, legitimate dragon's egg.

'As my sister here said, Lord Lannister,' Rhaenys continued, snatching the egg back and placing it in the sack. 'Our names are Visenya and Rhaenys Targaryen. We are on the ancestral island of House Targaryen, and it is of the utmost importance that we get back to Westeros.'

Fine. He'd go along with it. 'By all means, go then. But I've been trying to leave for near on a decade and never got anywhere close—how do you intend to get out of here, your highnesses?'

Visenya smirked. 'All due respect, Lord Lannister, but all these years you've been here, you've never had either of us here with you. We'll be in Volantis within a moon's turn or two.' She took one last bite of her rat and reached out for Brightroar. 'Give me the sword, Lannister. I'll take first watch.'

He knew he shouldn't—that sword was his life's work, the very thing he'd wasted the last decade in pursuit of, and he had no reason to trust these women who'd done naught but lie about their identities since they'd arrived. She must think him to be a lackwit if she really thought he trusted her enough to lend her Brightroar.

With that, Gerion Lannister handed the sword over and turned away, immediately falling into a peaceful sleep for the first time in years.

The Rhoynish Queen—Present Day

Gods, it truly was an ugly building, even all these years later. Of course, for her it had been barely a moon's turn, but the fact remained that it had been a thousand years since she'd died and the Sunship was still as much of an eyesore as it had always been.

Still, Nymeria thought as she looked out at the sun setting over the Narrow Sea, it was nice to know that some things never changed. Not that that could be said about anything else.

For one, the idea that her beloved Dorne was a puppet kingdom ruled by some brat half the continent away unsettled her deeply—where were her countrymen who'd die before allowing the Northerners to lay a single foot on Dornish sand? They were without a doubt bent and bowed, and there was only so much bootlicking that could take place before House Martell could be considered broken. It sickened her.

And her descendants! Gods, what a bunch of fools they were—one too reckless and the other too cautious, both remaining inactive for decades just so that they might be once again ploughed by the same dragons who'd brought her house to the brink of ruin. Had it been her sister who'd been killed in such a way, Nymeria was certain that none could have stopped her from taking the heads and the manhood from the perpetrators, no matter the cost.

It was a different world, no two ways about it—the dragons were gone, despite whispers of the Targaryen girl hatching them—as was the magic that had once been so common. This was a world of men and women, of blood and steel, with none of the wonder that had seemed so possible in her lifetime.

'Princess.' The voice came from behind her, jolting her out of her daydream. 'Prince Doran wishes to see you.' Try as she might, she simply couldn't bring herself to like Areo Hotah—such blind loyalty bordered on zealotry, and if she'd learnt one thing in her life it was that those ruled by infallible ideologies could become massively unhinged with very little pushing. Should something happen to her many-times-great-grandson, the bodyguard would be aimless, and she feared for anyone in his wake when that happened.

Nymeria followed the guard through the corridors, enjoying the massive contrast between the baking heat outside and the cool air within. Doran lived on the ground floor, making access to the castle easier given his condition, his existence restricted to his large complex of interconnected rooms that likely could've housed half of the Shadow Town. They entered the room, Areo standing guard near the door and Doran remaining behind his desk. The maester was also there, as short and fat as they came, his pudgy fingers clutching at a small scroll, standing behind Doran.

'Ah, Princess,' Doran began. It had been mutually preferable not to use any familial honorifics—they did not know each other, and it would be pointless to pretend that they did. As such, she was once again a princess, as she had been before she crossed the Rhoyne all those years ago. 'I'm glad you can join us. Caleotte?' The Prince of Dorne gave a quick smile which had, she was sure, very little true happiness behind it, before raising his hand and taking the slip of paper from the maester. 'You'll be glad to hear that Oberyn and his men were successful—Winterfell has been retaken and the Starks are in power once more.'

Nymeria scoffed. 'And why should I care about that? I do not care for Northerners, nor do they care for me. What goes on in that frozen wasteland is beyond my concern, and the idea that you'd send your brother and your countrymen to die there seems ridiculous to me.'

Doran remained silent for a moment longer, his eyes never leaving hers. 'Tell me, Princess, are you aware of the story of the Long Night? The Night King and the Others, The Last Hero and Nissa Nissa? The Last Hero?'

'Of course I am, Doran. I'm not a simpleton, unlike some people here. What does a children's tale have to do with any of this?'

'If Oberyn was correct, everything,' Doran replied, taking a deep breath and tightly gripping the arms of his seat. 'He said that he…well, that he saw one of the Others north of the Wall, as well as a small army of the dead in its wake.'

Nymeria said nothing for a moment, staring at him incredulously before bursting out laughing. 'And, and you believed him? Ha!'

Doran attempted to school his expression, but any fool could've seen that he was starting to get annoyed by her deliberate obtuseness. 'Dragons have returned. Stannis Baratheon had a shadowbinder in his employ who supposedly murdered his brother Renly, there has been talk of the Lord of Blackhaven being resurrected multiple times, and my brother—who, may I remind you, was brutally murdered in front of hundreds of witnesses—strolled into my solar. Not to mention your very own presence here! Oberyn is not a madman, nor were Sers Arthur and Oswell. Tell me, Princess Nymeria, why in the name of the gods would I not believe him?'

She merely bristled—she'd been beaten, that much was obvious, so instead opted to change tracks. 'So what do you propose we do? None of us, bar Hotah here, are particularly skilled warriors. Do you want us to, what, march North and ask them politely to leave?'

His nostrils flared but he was able to remain calm. 'This act of yours isn't half as endearing as you believe it to be. Anyhow, no. I gave Oberyn a message to pass on to the rest of them. If all goes to plan, they shall soon be in Sunspear. And then,' he continued, lifting his hand and flexing his swollen fingers, his eyes still locked on Nymeria, 'we go to Meereen. Daenerys Targaryen has dragons, and they will be needed for what is coming.'

The Younger Dragon—Two Weeks after the return

All in all, it made sense that Gerion had never been able to leave. His vessel had been utterly destroyed upon its wreckage, fit for naught but kindling—which, incidentally, had been his key to survival all these years. The island was not completely desolate by any means, having enough loose vegetation and small animals for survival, but there were no materials with which he could've crafted any means of escape.

Still, he'd never had Visenya with him before. Rhaenys might consider herself clever, and Aegon had always been the tactical genius of the three, but in regard to practical work and seeing plans come to fruition, Visenya had always had them outclassed. She was a prodigy, that much could not be doubted.

It was fortunate they'd returned from wherever they'd been, next to a convenient pile of dragon eggs on their island—had it been any other, Rhaenys was sure they'd have been equally clueless as to how to leave as Gerion was. Luckily they'd landed on the old island of House Targaryen from before the doom.

It was a wondrous thing, girls, their grandfather had told them in some of his last lucid moments. Of course, he'd never been there himself, but he'd heard about it in such detail from his own father that he was almost a first-hand account. The spires would stretch to the sky, twelve of them, black as the wings of Balerion! We may never have been the greatest of the dragonlords in the old country, but now we're the only ones! Serves the bastards right, if you ask me. He'd told her and Visenya of the castle and the village, the keep and the treasury, of the tunnels that coiled beneath the black sands and the untold riches that could be found if only you knew where to look.

Lucky for them, he'd also told them where to look.

There were a number of large beams and rocks in the way of the crumbled entrance, a single skeleton in rusted golden armour lying next to it with the skull crushed by a boulder. From what she knew of the Lannisters and the Valyrian steel blade in the possession of Gerion, it must be Tommen Lannister, killed by his greed—any simpleton could see that the barriers were too great for a single man to bypass. Gerion, despite his dubious sanity having spent near on a decade (by his estimate, at least) in isolation, was clearly an intelligent enough man to not attempt such a manoeuvre.

But with three of them, it was relative child's play—herself and Visenya lifted, not being so malnourished as Gerion, with him stood to the side, sword raised, ready to strike any potential debris. They were inside within the hour, hit by a wave of stagnant air as soon as they entered, causing Rhaenys to cough and Gerion to giggle maniacally. Visenya simply stared at him.

'What,' she asked, 'in the seven hells is wrong with you.'

'I…I think this is the first time I've been inside since…Volantis, I think.'

'And how is that funny?'

Gerion paused, scratching his tangled beard. 'I don't actually know. I suppose I'm just losing my mind.' He shot them a crooked grin and kept walking.

The three of them had reached the treasury soon after that and found all the necessary materials they needed—a number of tapestries preserved over the centuries to act as a sail, a twelve-foot lance for the mast, and a number of broken wooden pillars with a fine wooden table for the body of the raft.

Not to mention the literal mountains of treasure surrounding them.

The construction had been relatively simple. They'd all had a fairly similar vision for the vessel and having all grown up near the ocean were well-versed in shipbuilding, no matter how far below their respective stations it might have been. Within a week it was built and in another it was seaworthy, so after bulking up their supply of rats and vines and their collection of Valyrian valuables wrapped up in another tapestry, they set sail. As nice as it was for Rhaenys and Visenya, their joy paled in comparison to Gerion, who sat with his legs crossed edge of the raft, his giddiness almost contagious. He had a loose thread he'd torn from the tapestry looped around his index finger, attached to a brooch from the treasury, which he'd bent into a hook and thrown into the sea. His eyes were closed and his smile was subtle, but anyone with half a speck of common sense could see that he was, for the first time in a decade, at peace.

Well, anyone apart from Visenya, apparently.

'What are you doing?'

'Fishing.' He turned his head and opened one eye. 'What does it look like?'

'You'll not catch anything, you know. You have no bait and we're moving too fast. Don't waste your energy.' Gods, Visenya was more irritating than usual when she felt that she had to be right.

'Leave him, Vis. He's eaten naught but rats for years, let him have his fun,' Rhaenys cut in. She shot their Lannister companion a smile. 'I assume you've done this before, Gerion?'

'Many times. Me and my brother Tygett would do this as boys, and then I'd take my nephews to do the same when they were old enough.'

'You have nephews?'

'Yes. Kevan, Tyg, and Genna had a few who I never knew particularly well, to be honest. But Tywin's boys truly were excellent. The opposite of their father and sister.' He smirked and gave a slight tug at the line.

'What were they like?' Rhaenys asked.

'Tyrion was—is, I suppose—probably the cleverest man I've ever met. He's a dwarf, you see, and Tywin's despised him since he was born, but his heart is kind and his mind is sharp. Jaime, on the other hand, is likely the most skilled swordsman in the seven kingdoms, barring maybe Ser Barristan Selmy. Wasn't so popular in recent years though, ever since the whole kingslaying incident.' His eyes widened and he was pulled from his musings.

'The what?' Visenya's voice was iron, filled with the promise of pain.

Gerion swallowed, meeting her eye. 'I'll tell you, only because it's better you hear it from me than someone else.' He exhaled. 'Aerys the Second was on the throne. He'd been a decent enough king to start, with Tywin as his hand. And then he wasn't. It was known throughout the kingdoms that he was going crazy. Then his son, Rhaegar, abducted the daughter of Lord Stark, resulting in Lord Stark and his heir being executed by Aerys through some circumstance or other—it's been years, and I can't completely remember all the details. Anyhow, the North, the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale, I think, all rose in rebellion against the throne—'

'The bastards! How dare they!?' Visenya shouted.

'Peace, Vis. Carry on Gerion.' Rhaenys had always been skilled at calming down her sister and was now forced to use every bit of said skill to prevent the raft from rocking too much.

'Aerys had been burning people, you must understand, and was every inch a tyrant king. He'd called for the heads of Lord Stark's second son and the Lord of the Stormlands, who was, mind you, his relative by blood.' He struggled with the line for a moment more before continuing. 'To cut a long story short, Rhaegar was killed and Robert Baratheon had been proclaimed king, marching on King's Landing. No-one other than Jaime and Aerys himself know the truth of what happened, but by the time Tywin reached the throne room, Aerys was lying with his throat cut and Jaime's sword was bloody, his white cloak stained red.'

'He was a Kingsguard!?' Visenya bellowed. 'What kind of dishonourable rat—'

'My nephew did Westeros a favour when he killed that mad fucker and received naught but scorn in return!' Gerion was now truly angered for the first time that Rhaenys had seen. 'Say what you will about me, or anything really. But know, my ladies, that if I have to choose between you and my nephews, or you and my daughter, I will choose them every time. Every. Single. Time.'

They sat in silene for a few minutes, the tension near unbearable—Visenya and Gerion refusing to look at each other, and Rhaenys sat between them, aware that any attempt to speak to either would be misconstrued by the other as a declaration of war. Still, she couldn't bring herself to allow it to linger. 'Your…daughter, Gerion?' She asked.

Rhaenys could see him tense, even with his back turned. 'Yes. Joy.' He said nothing more, but the unease was slowly dissipating.

It was another half an hour before he turned around, a large fish in his hands.

He smiled slightly. 'Anyone hungry?'

The Prince That Was Not Promised—present day

'Valar Morghulis'

'Valar Dohaeris'

'Be safe, my prince. Princess.' The red priest prostrated himself, kissing Eldric's feet before rising and giving the woman a quick nod. 'Remember, The Night is Dark and Full of Terrors.' His voice was so deadpan and severe that it couldn't quite be taken seriously.

'Is it really? By R'hllor, you should've told us that at some point over the past few weeks. Any point, really. Maybe even repeated it multiple times in an hour, every hour we've been here' He smirked at Nissa as the ship slowly began to move. 'We'll see each other again, priest. Or maybe we won't. Maybe I'll convert to those new Andal gods you told us about!' By now he was shouting and receiving some strange looks from the bystanders on the docks, but it was all worth it to see the look of horror on the red priests as the ship pulled out of the port.

Asshai truly was a grim place and he was glad to be away, even if he found the stuffiness and procedure of Yi-Ti equally unbearable. Still, he had to assemble his group, and that was the obvious first place to start. If he could find Yin-Tar there, he could soon be away to get Hyrkoon from Leng, at which point they'd truly be back in business.

It was strange, that he and Nyssa had appeared but Azor had not. Then again, he'd always been…different, so it made sense that his resurrection had been too. Of course, given what the priests had said of their legend, about how all of them—Eldric (Shadowchaser, apparently), Azor, Hyrkoon, Yin Tar, some man called Neferion—had been one person who'd stabbed Nissa in the heart to temper a sword, proved that the priests weren't quite the infallible experts they might claim to be.

But for now, Eldric had a mission, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to achieve it. The Last Heroes, as they'd been called by the peasants all those millennia ago, would reunite and be ready to fight again.

He could only hope that Azor would make an appearance.

The Eldest Dragon—Present Day

There had been few temptations in her life greater than the temptation to hit this man in the face. His skin looked almost orange in the waning sunlight, pudgy flesh coating what Visenya was sure was a particularly ugly skeleton, his sparse tufts of pale hair plastered down onto his head. A smell hung around him, one of sweat and desperation in equal measure, and as he spoke it further permeated the air through his breath. He'd introduced himself at some point, but she'd been so caught up in her disgust that she must've missed it. True, he'd provided them with lodging and food that wasn't raw fish or cold rat upon their landing in Volantis, but he'd still ogled both Visenya and her sister every time he'd seen them and charged them a Queen's ransom for it all.

'These slaves are tremendous, honestly, the best slaves you'll see this year, I guarantee it. Guarantee it.' The slave trader contorted his face into a smug grin, no doubt pleased with his impressive rhetoric, gesturing at the children near the door, their collars pressing tight into their skin.

'Not a fucking chance,' Gerion responded immediately, His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, prompting the nearby unsullied to act similarly. He held the hand up, showing that he didn't intend to cause any further trouble. 'Forgive me.' He plastered the most obvious false smile on his face before he continued. 'While we are grateful for your…hospitality, we intend to proceed without slaves. Where we're going, you see, they're not so fond of slaves.'

'Might you recommend a place for us where we might charter a boat?' Rhaenys asked sweetly.

By now, the man wasn't even attempting to hide the fact that he was staring at her tits. 'I'm sure we can come to some…agreement. I've made many agreements before, and they've all been excellent agreements, everyone's been very satisfied.' Gods, there was the grin again. Based on the bruises on the arms of the cowering slaves nearby, neither of whom could've been more than thirteen, she had a fairly good idea of what he meant by an agreement.

He placed a hand on Visenya's shoulder, the sweaty palm filling her with an equal sense of rage and disgust.

'If those fingers are still touching me in five seconds, sir,' she said venomously, 'you'll lose them. Amongst…other things.'

He swallowed and hastily removed his hand. 'I…I think I know a man who'll be able to help you, at the Eastern Docks. I assume you're going to Westeros then, since you said they don't like slaves? Lovely people in Westeros, truly the best. Not a big fan of the Dornish, but the rest are lovely people.'

'Uh, yes.' Gerion's reply was succinct, clearly wishing to interact with the man as little as possible.

'Excellent. Thank the gods you're not going to the dragon slut in Meereen. She's not a fan of us, nor we of her. Still, I'm sure she'll be gone soon, and then everything will be back to normal.'

'I'm sorry? Dragon slut?' Rhaenys asked.

' Yes. She's a Targaryen—you know, one of those ones from Westeros who got chased out a few years ago? Anyway, she's taken over Meereen with her dragons and banned slavery. Some big man will put her over his knee and then she'll be back where she belongs.'

'Which is?' The smile hadn't moved from her face, but fury lingered behind Rhaenys' eyes.

'On her back! Ha, get it!?'

Gerion nodded and shook his hand. 'Very, uh…funny, sir. We'd best be off. Again, our thanks for your hospitality.'

Rhaenys and Visenya gave similar responses before following Gerion through the door, relieved to be out of the presence of such an odious man. They slowly walked to the docks, chartered a ship for Meereen that left at dusk, and went straight to the tavern to while away the time. As their ship left the port, Visenya, likely for the first time since she'd returned, smiled to herself as she watched Volantis shrink away in the distance—after all, she was going to meet one of her relatives, living proof that all she, Rhae, and Aegon had sacrificed had not been for naught.

Well, that, and the fact that no one had seen her slip a dagger into the hands of one of the slave girls back in the manse.

The body was found the next morning, stripped naked in an alley, three dozen stab wounds spanning from his stomach to his throat, the wrinkles of his sagging orange flesh running red with dried blood. He was an awful man, and beyond the pleasantries circulating amongst the upper echelons of Volantene society befitting a man so recently deceased, he was never truly mourned.

The Dagger, it turned out, had been worth a fortune—a prime example of pre-doom Valyrian metalwork which sold for a million honours on the Valyrian black market and ended up in the collection of a nearby abolitionist who, as luck had it, had recently gained a dozen recently freed slaves as passengers on his ship heading up the Rhoyne.

The Builder—The Night of the Return

They walked, one after another, not stopping until the moon was at its zenith. A black cloak, a red cloak, and a green cloak, all jarring against the stark white snow, all illuminated in the warm light of the fire.

'I still can't believe it worked,' the man dressed in green said. 'Who'd have thought it, eh? The children actually coming through on their side of the bargain. Madness, I tell you, madness.'

'Gods, Garth. Quiet,' the Red said. 'They'll hear you.'

'They won't,' the black cloaked man said.

'What's that, Brandon?'

'They're not anywhere close, Lann,' Brandon responded, pulling his black cloak around his shoulders more tightly. 'Trust me, you'll know when they are.'

Lann grimaced. 'Well, boys, forgive me if I'm not completely willing to risk it. After all, it was only yesterday that I was practically buggered with one of those bloody ice spears.'

'You mean it feels like yesterday,' Garth interrupted. 'How long do you reckon it's been, Brandon?'

The man in question simply raised his head, his eyes scanning the constellations above him—the positionings, the distances, the angles, the cogs whirring in his mind. 'If we've been walking steadily north for twelve hours and thirty-five minutes, which, according to Lann's calculations, we have been,' he thought aloud. 'Then it's either been four-thousand, three-hundred and twenty-two years, or exactly double that. Given the damage that Azor did to the frozen bastards, I'd wager the latter.'

They sat silently for a while, Lann and Garth ultimately lying down and pulling their cloaks around them.

'Do you…' Garth began. 'Do you really think we can beat them again, Brandon?'

The man said nothing at first, only staring north. 'Aye. If the Children of the Forest pulled through, I'd say we have a chance. I suppose we just need to see what passes for a hero in this day and age.'

A/N: Another chapter done! This one was a bit different, but I hope you still enjoyed it. Some of you may not be too happy at my...unique interpretations of some of the Long Night myths, but my logic is rooted in how we perceive old stories in real life-Do you really think that we have the absolute correct interpretation of who someone like Heracles or Gilgamesh would've been back when their stories were being told/written?

As always, feel free to favourite, follow, and review, and cheers to those who have done so (100 follows! Who'd have thunk it?).

See you next time for more shenanigans at Winterfell,

-KingintheNorth1 xox

DarthMaine-For now, Nymeria is the only one to have returned in Dorne-if only a certain number of people with various skills could be brought back to help with the long night, it might have been a bit odd for one of them to be a women who was notoriously frail and sickly. That being said, I wouldn't rule anything out just yet ;)

Ficreader2011-Thanks so much! Really glad you're enjoying it, hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

Kingmanaena-Cheers! Will try my best to keep the posting schedule fairly consistent :)

DonnyDonuts-Thanks a lot! I'm not gonna say exactly how many people returned just yet, but rest assured that more older/more obscure characters from Westerosi lore will be making appearances.

Force Smuggler-Yeah, I've been looking forward to introducing characters like Nymeria and others who aren't necessarily just the warriors (+ a few others) that arrived North of the Wall. Littlefinger's definitely in for a shock. And yes, the high ground was a star wars reference (I also chucked in a 'hello there' and 'a surprise to be sure, but a welcome one')