The Dowager Queen

'Frankly, Qyburn, I don't care whose arrives first—the High Sparrow's, or the Tyrell slut's and that of her wrinkly old cunt of a grandmother. I want their heads, and I want them now. See it done.'

'Yes, your grace.' Qyburn bowed and scurried out of the room, and it was all Cersei could do not to fling her wine at him. He'd been a breath of fresh air when he'd first arrived, with none of foolishness of Pycelle or the sense of superiority her father had had. Not to mention the dangerous spark in his eye that told her he was exactly the kind of man she could use. But now that seemed gone, and he was just another lickspittle that feared to look her in the eye.

It was actually rather fortunate I didn't throw my wine at him, she mused as she took a sip. Dornish red has been in short supply since the incident with the Red Viper, and it'll be hard to make any Arbor gold once the Arbor's been burnt to the ground, now those flowery little shits have run away with their tails between their legs.

They must've been so proud of their ruse—the decoy in the bed, the guard with the hammer, and the guards in the black cells who'd been drugged unconscious and had now been executed for their negligence. Still, the murderer had lasted barely a day before confessing what had truly happened, and now Cersei frankly didn't care if the Reach burnt to the ground.

If they mess with the lions, they should expect the claws. She hadn't told Tommen the truth, of course—her sweet son had been a mess since finding out, and she'd once more been able to feel her grip on the throne tightening once more. No, it would be good for him to believe her dead.

Cersei raised her glass to her lips and looked out over the city, the Sept of Baelor looking like an ugly blemish on the skyline; a symbol of her failure to tear up the roses, root and stem, and to snap the beak off the high sparrow once and for all. Still, it didn't truly matter—she held the throne, and she'd bloody well keep it that way, and nothing the rabble or the roses tried to do would ever change that. After all, Lannisters were proud, having only knelt to the dragons after the field of fire. And if the dragons ever tried anything like that again, they'd find that Cersei had fire of her own.

'Your grace!' Qyburn barrelled through the door, ignoring any kind of decorum in a way that was refreshingly honest.

'What, Qyburn?' Her tone was clipped and disinterested, but the cogs in her mind were turning—not much could make the man this scared, and Cersei felt needed to know what.

'It, it…' he panted, taking a moment to catch his breath before pulling himself back up to full height. 'It's the Targaryen girl. She's landed at Sunspear.'

Fire and Blood. I suppose we'll be seeing plenty of both from now on.

'Call the council, Qyburn. We have a dragon to hunt.'

Lady Stoneheart

It hadn't been a particularly satisfying hanging—there'd been a slight croak and a swift kick of a leg, but that had been all. Not that it mattered, particularly; they were dead, and that was that. Nowadays, that was all that mattered.

It wasn't enough though. It never would be, not until the last of those bastards died for what they'd one to her precious boy. In the beginning, she'd been fighting for someone else, but she could hardly remember that by now. All she could remember was a flash of auburn hair, a wild shriek of laughter, and a pair of piercing grey eyes. That, and a single phrase.

Jaime Lannister sends his regards, uttered as a blade pierced her boy's heart.

So whilst she'd hang everyone with a golden lion on their chests that she came across, there was always bigger prey, and she'd prove that the Lannisters weren't the only ones who paid their debts.

'Milady,' came a voice from behind her. She turned to see Harwin, a hand fiddling at his hilt and a nervous expression on his face. 'They're beginning to move. All of them, marching south, if what the scout said was true. What should we do?'

Lady Stoneheart raised a hand to her throat and looked at him. She didn't talk if she could help it, but some things needed to be said, no matter how painful. She could feel it in her bones that she was nearing the end of her hunt, and she'd be damned if she wouldn't be there every step of the way.

'Follow.'

Sansa

Gods, how had father done it? Running a castle like Winterfell was near impossible in any case, and he'd managed to do it with children running round his ankles, preparing for a winter that appeared as though it would be longer and longer, all the whilst harbouring what had turned out to be the only Targaryen in Westeros. Of course, it should've been Rickon doing it—he was the lord, after all, but he'd had precious little else on his mind than sparring with Robar ever since he'd heard his story, and Sansa couldn't bear to tear away the last lingering threads of his childhood. That would be torn away soon anyway, she knew.

'A letter, my lady.' Lost in her thoughts, she'd not heard Wolkan come in, moving silent as was his wont despite his massive frame. She uttered her thanks and he left the room before she opened it.

Sansa,

As I write this, my ship is no more than a few days away from Sunspear to meet with the Dornish. From there, we shall sail to Blackwater Bay, from which we shall march on to King's Landing. With father's forces from Riverrun and the Tyrells sailing up the Mander (not to mention six dragons, a Dothraki horde, and a few thousand Unsullied )—

Six? That was certainly an interesting development.

—I feel that it will be an easy war a war in which we stand a decent chance of victory (or at least a better one than I had when I marched south for the first time). Still, should we all fall, I can rest easily once more, knowing that our home rests in your capable hands. So with that, I have a request to make of you.

Remember our words. Winter is coming, and this winter will be like none we've ever seen. Do what I did not, and watch out for the North. I was so caught up in notions of war and vague ideas of protecting the North, I forgot something important—that a home is not a place, but the people who inhabit it. So as you shore up the defences in preparation for the long night, remember that it will not be stone and iron that defends us, but the flesh and blood that wields and builds it. Watch out for them, and they will repay it in kind a dozen times over.

I can hardly wait to be back within the walls of our home, just as we all were those many years ago before the king's arrival.

Your brother,

Robb.

It was good to hear from Robb, and it had certainly been an interesting insight. He wasn't wrong, of course—castles and holdfasts be damned, it was people that made a kingdom, and a lord of corpses was no lord at all. It was a sentiment that could be lost ever so easily in the game of thrones.

He'd mentioned the Tyrells, she'd noticed. It was strange that they'd switch sides, especially after being so deeply ingrained in the capital, but Sansa was aware that Olenna Tyrell wouldn't act in such a way if she was not sure that it would ultimately be the correct course of action. She only hoped that Margaery was alright—whether genuine or not, her friendship had been a rare ray of light while she'd been in the capital, and she'd rather hoped that she'd be able to see her once more.

But he was right. Easy or not, there was still a war to come, and she was no longer so naïve to think that just because she was a noblewoman she could be left out of it. No, winter was coming, and Sansa Stark would certainly be ready for it.

Eldric

Astapor was…well, strange, in that it was the closest thing he'd seen to the Asshai he'd left all those years ago. The streets were winding and the air was foul, and more people had clear lashes on their backs than not. Still, the absence of any volcano looming over him or soldiers chasing him whilst threatening to take his hand reminded him that this was definitely not home. In an odd way, he was strangely nostalgic.

After leaving Leng, they'd hugged the coast as they travelled west, disembarking every so often over the weeks to resupply, eventually hobbling into the Astapori harbour with water round their ankles and planks of wood falling off.

All in all, if they'd been at sea for another day, they'd have been utterly fucked.

They were now sat in a large courtyard watching the sun set, each with a glass of wine in their hands and a satisfied smile on their lips. They'd made it—well, not completely, but the ship they'd brought passage on would leave at dawn, and from there they'd be straight on to the land that they'd now heard was called Westeros, and as such Eldric felt they were deserving of some kind of rest, no matter how short it may be. This was a sentiment supported by his companions, as could be seen by the growing number of empty jars accumulating around their table.

'It'll be strange, being back in the west,' Nissa said suddenly, her eyes meeting those of her friends. 'Not just because it'll inevitably have changed in, well, every way possible, but it's horrid to think that everyone we ever knew there has…you know—'

'True, Nissa,' Eldric interrupted, placing a hand over hers and shooting her a small smile. 'But then again, we're here, aren't we? Who's to say that no-one else has come back. It'll be a big old reunion, mark my words.'

Hyrkoon snorted. 'A big old reunion, broken up by ice demons. I can hardly wait.'

'Oh, fuck off,' Yin said, swallowing a large gulp of wine. 'I'm sure nothing'll happen—surely it can't be as bad as last time.'

'She's right. I'm sure nothing will happen.' With that, Eldric raised a goblet to his companions and flashed them a grin. 'Here's to absolutely nothing exciting happening at all.'

'By R'hllor…there were so many of them. I, I've never seen that look in a man's eyes as he died. Never. Fuck!' Eldric pulled the tooth from his knuckle with a sudden jolt, tossing it overboard and looking back to Nissa. 'You alright, Niss?'

She swallowed and nodded slowly. 'Of course? What's a couple of hours fighting corsairs, after all we've seen. Only had to bite off three or so fingers, if you can believe it?'

He smirked. 'Well, we all know how you love to bite fingers. How are the others?'

'Last I saw, Hyrkoon was pulling his bow out of some poor bastard's eye—'

'You mean arrow?'

Nissa shook her head. 'It wasn't strung when they boarded, so he fought using his actual unstrung bow. Like I was saying, he killed the last one by sticking it in their eye.'

'That's…wow.'

'Indeed. That being said, you fought them off with a broken-off spearhead, which isn't too bad. Have you seen Yin?'

'She was fine, as usual. Barely a scratch on her.' Eldric jerked a thumb over to his shoulder, where she was speaking to the captain. 'I suppose that's Yin for you.'

'Of course she is. Do you think we have enough men to get west?'

'If we resupply in Volantis, we should do?'

'Good.' Nissa was silent for a moment, looking out over the crashing waves at the speck of land on the horizon. 'I've got to say, Ric. I…I don't think this is going to be as easy as we thought it would be.'

'No. It probably won't be.'

Rhaegar

If there was one thing he hadn't got used to, it was this damned cold. He'd always been a loner by nature, so his desertion in this frozen wasteland hadn't been a particularly big change, and all the stares he'd received in his first life had well prepared him from the looks he'd been getting since his arrival here.

But he was a dragon, damn it all, and had fire running through his veins. So why in the name if the gods was he so bloody cold?

'Ray! It's your turn on watch!' came the shout from the lord commander's office, and he begrudgingly made his way to the lift. He'd long since given up on them calling him Rhaegar, not that it mattered anyway.

Nothing mattered really, not when you knew what lurked in the shadows and would soon be coming for every man, woman, and child in existence.

Rhaegar wrapped the cloak tighter and began to ascend.

He'd considered deserting, of course—there likely weren't three people on the continent as well prepared for what would come as him, but knew that if he was caught he'd have to pay the price. And that, he knew, he could not risk. So instead he waited, for when the night would fall, and he could show them all that he'd been right all along; that the realms had bled for a reason, and that those he loved had died so a million others would not.

This time, Rhaegar Targaryen would be the hero he was born to be, and nobody would stop him.

Jon

'I swear, my lady, I won't let anything happen to you.'

Shireen's lip quivered, and Jon was once again reminded just how young she was. 'But what if she hates me, because of who my father was? What if she gets her dragons, and…'

Jon gave her a small smile. 'You seem like a clever girl, my lady. Tell me, do you know who her father was?'

Her brow furrowed. 'Of course, it was the Mad King, wasn't it?

'It was. And if Daenerys Targaryen is any sort of leader worth following-which, from her exploits in Mereen, I think she will be-she'll know that you can't judge someone for the sins of their father. Alright?'

'Yes. Thank you, Ser Jon.'

'Just Jon, my lady. After all, I'm no ser.'

'Jon, then. Thank you.'

With that, she walked out of the solar, hand in hand with Jeyne. They'd been close since the older girl had arrived; two young women who'd seen horrible things, finding some semblance of safety at last.

Now for his second appointment. This one, he knew, would not be so pleasant.

The dungeons of the Dreadfort were more expansive than he'd ever have believed, stretching out for near-on a mile, bright spots of flame lighting up the darkness. Jon could almost hear the screams that must've occupied the place when the Red Kings had reigned, when every cell had been filled, and every body had a tormentor. For now, though, there was only the one body, curled up and frail, yet less deserving of any mercy than the men who'd been in his place. At least, as far as Jon was concerned.

'Hello, Theon.'

He flinched and began to shake his head wildly. 'Reek. You can't call me Theon, he'll find out, he always finds out. I'm not Theon. I'm Reek. Rhymes with Sneak.'

'Who, Ramsay?' Jon couldn't deny a tiny inkling of satisfaction in his chest as he watched terror enter the eyes of Winterfell's former ward at mention of the name. Gods, he looked like shit—white hair, teeth as sparse as his digits, with his waxy skin clinging to his skeleton; if he hadn't known him, he'd have thought him an old man. 'He's dead, Theon. It was far quicker than he deserved, but he's dead.'

Theon simply stared, his mouth twitching as though he was trying in vain to form words. 'Y-you mean it?' He shook his head. 'No, you lie. He's done this before. He'll find out, and then he'll take a toe. Or a finger. Or…' He looked up at Jon. 'I-I don't believe you.'

'Then don't. Or do. I truly don't care,' Jon replied. And he didn't. He truly felt nothing for this pathetic creature before him other than contempt. 'I just want to know why you did it, Theon. Robb saw you as a brother, and you betrayed him. Bran, Rickon, Sansa, Arya. Gods, we had our troubles, but even I thought you a brother. Why did you do it? How could you do it?'

The once-ward of Winterfell looked up at him for a moment, but almost immediately turned his head away, casting a glance to the floor. 'I, I…no, you wouldn't understand.'

'It wasn't a request, turncloak. You will tell me why you acted as you did of your own volition, or I can provide some motivation. I suppose I lack the expertise of Lord Bolton, but I'm sure I can have you talking sooner or later. So, what'll it be?' Jon knew deep down that no matter how much he wished to pummel the pathetic creature sat before him, he'd never go any further. Torture was the tool of beasts, and he knew that there were lines you couldn't cross should you ever wish to sleep again.

Theon, however, seemed convinced enough, swallowing and wiping his nose on his tattered sleeve before he began to speak. 'R-Robb sent me to Pyke to seek an alliance between my father and the North. He was unsure, but I was convinced I could do it. I thought I'd fight with him and one side, and my people at the other, and for once it would be me, me who'd done the right thing.' He let out a dry cough, and Jon took a step back. 'Have you ever spent your life imagining something, building it up in your head to dizzying, glorious heights, and then you see the reality—the harsh, raw truth of it, and it feels like your vision collapsing around you?'

'Aye.' Visions of the Wall and those first soul-shattering moments in which he realised that it was not the glorious brotherhood he'd created in his mind, but rather something far baser, came unbidden into his mind, and he had to make a conscious effort to look back at Theon.

'And, and you know it's not what you believed it to be, but you keep chasing after it in the hopes that one day you might reach it, and some of that satisfaction you were hoping for all that time might be found? But then you look around, and it's far too late to turn back. So you commit, and every day you step further away from what should have been?

'My own people, my own father! I was nothing to any of them, just a mainlander whelp, so green that he pissed grass. I just…I just wanted to be accepted, to take my place at my father's side. I never did, though.'

What little life had come into his voice as he tried to explain his actions now seemed to have bled out, and the sliver of Theon Greyjoy that had been visible a moment ago seemed to retreat back in the sad shell of Reek. It made sense to Jon—a lifetime of never truly belonging, and a chance to be accepted by those whose acceptance meant the most. But at such a cost? A cost of betraying the only family he'd ever truly had, killing innocent children and old men? No, any pity Jon may have had when he'd seen the mangled body of Theon Greyjoy, any spark of hope that the traitor had been even vaguely justified in his actions had vanished, and all Jon felt was hatred.

'I'd love nothing more than to take your head, turncloak.' Jon crouched down so he was closer to Theon's eye level, but still loomed over him. 'Of course, it'd hardly be my place to do it—Rickon is the lord of Winterfell, of course, and so the old way would say it's his right. Of course, if he's too young, I'm sure there are dozens of men who had kin slain by your men who'd happily do the job. But something funny's been happening in the North—well, everywhere really—recently, Theon. Very funny indeed. The dead are rising and marching south, you see, but there are others too. Other people, returned to life. Kings, Knights, Lords, all kinds of warriors. So tell me, Theon—when you lose your head, would you rather it was taken by Lord Eddard or Robb? The choice is yours.'

With that, he rose back to full height and walked out of the cell, slamming it with a mighty clang, the muffled sobs of Theon Greyjoy as he walked out into the light.

The Young Rose

She could name a million-and-one reasons that the Reach was better in every way to the capital, but the biggest would have to be the manner in which you could breathe in without having your nostrils assaulted by a barrage of shit. Of course, through much of the Reach there was a similar scent to be found, but that was different—it was used for growing the crops that sustained the continent, and as such the smell was far more acceptable.

Or at least, that's what Margaery had been telling herself for the last half an hour or so, clutching a handkerchief to her nose as the wheelhouse slowly trundled toward Highgarden. Her grandmother sat across from her, eyes fixed on the horizon, remaining silent as she had for much of the journey. She was deep in thought, Margaery knew, given the precarious situation they suddenly found themselves in—it was never a particularly wise move to declare against the throne, no matter how questionable their leadership was, and they'd just done so in a way that made it very clear whose side they were on.

No, she thought. Grandmother knows what she's doing. She wouldn't take such a risk if she didn't truly believe we'd be better off for it. Still, she couldn't help but be nervous, tension writhing around the pit of her stomach like a serpent. After all, dragons were returning to Westeros, and a rose could burn just as easily as a lion.

Arya

The road didn't seem quite so long this time around, she noticed—what had once seemed like an endless stretch of land now seemed far more traversable, and she could feel herself getting physically closer to her goal. Then again, her legs were longer this time, and she'd had no particular scruples about stealing a horse. Not to mention, she wasn't getting pulled in a dozen different directions by a dozen different people, all of whom had been as different as can be but for the fact they were all far, far bigger than her.

No, this time she was being pulled in a single direction, with one goal ingrained in her mind: she was going to kill Cersei Lannister, and no-one would stop her.

She remembered being at Winterfell all those years ago, watching the Kingslayer swagger everywhere, the sheer arrogance of the man practically radiating off of him. At the time, so full of her father's ideas of honour and justice, she'd wondered how he could act in such a way—after all, he'd killed the king he was sworn to protect. Why should he go unpunished?

Now, of course, she knew that the death of Aerys had been a single move in a vast game, and for all the decisive action of a sword through the back, there were dozens of different agendas that it would contradict or coincide with. He'd been arrogant, she knew, because he'd found the way to bypass all the shit, all the games and the flattery and the treacherous words. He'd shaken up the game of thrones with a single swing of his sword, doing more in a minute than others did in their entire life. It must've been an exhilarating feeling, to have so much power over the world around you, backed up by nothing but your own hand and the cold steel it wielded.

She couldn't wait to feel it for herself.

Lyanna

The courtyard was rammed, a bustling hub of activity in which for anyone to move, another two would have to make room. Shoulder rubbed against shoulder and a dozen curses flew through the air at any given moment. The orders had come from her brother and Robert that the bulk of the army would begin to follow the first scouts at dawn, and as such every soldier currently in Riverrun had somewhere to be.

Thank the gods there's not a plague circulating, Lyanna thought to herself as she hit her forehead on yet another stained steel pauldron. If we were all this close together in that case, we'd be buggered.

'Lady Lyanna?' The deep rumble of Ser Lyonel Baratheon could be heard from amongst the throng, with his large frame appearing a moment later, eyes briefly lighting up when he saw her. 'Ah, there you are. Your brother was looking for you.'

'Gods, Lyonel, I've told you. Don't call me that.'

'Apologies, my lady, but I feel I'd be a rather poor knight if I didn't address a lady of your standing correctly.' He flashed her a grin. 'Besides, if I called you by your name, what would you have to complain about?'

'I'll bloody give you something to complain about,' she mumbled, before looking to him and nodding. 'You're a fool, Lyonel. But I suppose we'd best go and see what Ned wants.'

It was a far easier journey through the crowd than it had been previously, with Lyonel's massive form parting the figures in front of him like a wave hitting a rock. Within a few minutes they'd reached him, stood behind a now-scarce desk, leather and mail donned and sword buckled on. It broke her heart to see that for the third time in his life, her brother was marching to war. This time, together, she'd be right at his side.

Robert was there too, a gauntleted finger making a clank as he poked the map before him with a triumphant grin on his face. 'Trust me, Ned. The bastards will never see it coming. Do it like this, and we'll be halfway to the throne. Well, the Targaryen girl will be, at least.' He saw Lyanna and Lyonel entering and inclined his head ever so slightly, tipping her brother off to their presence.

'Ah, Lyanna. Ser Lyonel. I've much to tell you before you leave.'

'Why do you say you, as though neither of you will be counted among our number?' Lyanna asked, before the only conceivable reason entered her head. 'No. No. I won't sit out of this war, Ned. I won't. After all I did, it's the least I can do to try and give back some semblance of peace. Not to mention, I'm a better fighter than most those men out there! I—' Her rant was interrupted by a light chuckle from the lips of her brother, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender.

'Peace, Lyanna. I have no such interest in cutting you out of the war. I know better than that. Rather, I'd thought to offer you a command—of course, if you don't want it…?'

'Of course I want it, Ned. But still, you referred to me leaving. What did you mean by that?'

'With both the holdfasts we've recently conquered, we used a similar strategy—a small group infiltrating to begin with, with them easing the way for the larger force. Whilst I was not entirely comfortable pressing forward in such a way, Robert convinced me that it may be the way to take King's Landing as bloodlessly as possible.' He turned to Robert. 'Would you care to tell her the remainder of the plan? It was your idea, after all.'

'Gladly,' Robert replied. 'Similarly to how we used Frey colours to infiltrate Riverrun, we've taken a fair bit of Lannister armour from the men who were stationed here. You two will ride south with fifty men—twenty dressed in such clothing and thirty not. Lyonel will lead the ones dressed as lions straight to the sept of Baelor, which they'll take without any trouble and hole up, debasing the High Septon and the queen in equal measure, whilst Lyanna and the rest will do all they can to cause as much civil strife as they possibly can—if it can be achieved, a riot would be ideal. So long as you keep causing trouble, my bitch of a wife will have no choice but to send the Gold Cloaks in to deal with you, drawing a fair chunk of her strength away from the streets as a whole. If they get caught in a single street, they'll be like lambs to the slaughter when we come crashing in.' To demonstrate his point, he moved a finger down a line on the map, which Lyanna could now see was King's Landing. 'With Robb and his lot coming in from the East and the Tyrells from the West, they'll be forced to retreat south to the Red Keep.'

'A sound plan, Robert,' Lyonel said, scratching his chin as he critically surveyed the scene before him. 'But you assume that we'll be able to enter unhindered and act however we wish once inside the city—security will undoubtedly be tight, and none of us will be known to the guards at the gates. How are we to get in?'

'Not to mention that you assume the queen is defenceless,' Lyanna cut in. 'She knows people will be coming for her throne, and she'll no doubt have compensated for it. How are we to know what to expect?'

Ned looked at Robert and then back at her, smiling as he did so. 'Both of your concerns are valid. But both have the same answer.' He cleared his throat. 'You didn't really think we were going to let Jaime Lannister sit out the rest of the war, did you?'

Jaime

'Tell us, or we'll gut your daughter where she stands.' Robert's words were coarse, but his tone was not—he spoke softly, almost as though he was telling a child a story. 'What defences does your sister have in King's Landing, and how can we avoid them?'

'You'd really kill her? She was your daughter too, once upon a time,' Jaime responded. They all knew the truth of Myrcella, and he frankly didn't have the energy to deny it anymore.

'Once upon a time, I wouldn't have. Once upon a time, I had dozens of children around the kingdoms, and your lover murdered them. So please, Kingslayer, don't try and tell me what I would or wouldn't do.'

Surely he can't mean it. Even Robert Baratheon couldn't be that heartless, could he? At the end of the day, Jaime wasn't sure he was willing to risk calling the man's bluff—after all, this was the same man who'd laughed at the bodies of Rhaegar's family, and even he hadn't wronged Robert Baratheon quite this badly.

'I don't know. It's been an age since I was there, and even then I was never particularly concerned with the city's defences. It was my place to guard the king and queen, and that's what I did. I know nothing of how the king or queen would defend the city beyond how I personally would use the soldiers at my disposal.'

'I know you think you're being honourable, defending your sister like this,' Ned Stark said, breaking his silence for the first time since the two of them had come to his cell. 'But if that white cloak of yours ever meant anything to you, if you were ever more chivalrous or knightly than the man who sits before us now, please, tell us how we can take the throne with as little blood being shed as possible. Because we will take it, kingslayer.' His tone has shifted now, from desperate to stonelike, from a plea to a warning. 'We can always charge in like we did all those years ago, and we'll take the throne with as much butchery as is required. And this time there'll be no such forgiveness for whichever Lannister we see sitting on the throne.'

Jaime smirked. In spite of his position, in spite of the hatred radiating from the men he was currently talking to, in spite of the fate of a city potentially resting on his shoulders, he smirked, all in a vain attempt to keep the fury bubbling in his chest from boiling over. It was not successful. 'Oh, you'll charge in just like last time, will you? You'll slay the evil queen, the people will cheer, and peace and tranquillity will reign? Just like last time? Please. You think yourselves conquerors, liberators? You'd be naught but ash, had I not paved the way for you, dust burning on the wind courtesy of the mad king's pyromancers, had it not been for me!'

'What?' Robert's voice was barely a whisper, but Jaime could see—possibly for the first time in his life—real fear in the old king's eyes.

'It-it's nothing,' he shot back immediately, but the damage had been done.

'Ash? You mean, Aerys meant to burn us?' Ned Stark asked, all prior venom vanished from his voice.

'I…yes. I suppose he did. Well, I believe it would've been Rossart who technically burnt you, but aye, it was at his orders all the same.'

'And that's why you…'

'It is.'

Robert let out a deep sigh. 'Gods, Kingslayer—'

'Don't fucking call me that!' Jaime shouted, finally giving in to every temptation he'd faced to do so ever since that fateful thrust of the sword all those years ago.

'Apologies. Jaime.' The words sounded strange on Robert's tongue, but still sweeter than any melody. The man had a strange look on his face, as though he'd been forced to eat something that was unexpectedly sour. 'Believe it or not, I have no desire to see Myrcella and Tommen dead. They're innocent of your crimes, and too much blood has already been spilt in the name of that bloody chair. But,' he said, emphasising the word so there could be no mistaking its importance, 'if there is no alternative, they'll be killed without a second thought. The Targaryen girl wants the throne, and our houses have done precious little to gain any goodwill. So please, for their sakes, tell me what we need to look out for, and I swear to the old gods and the new that I'll do everything in my power to have them spared.'

'As do I,' Stark said.

Half a hundred faces and voices came into his mind unbidden—his father and his sister, Rhaegar Targaryen and Barristan the Bold, the Mad King and little Rhaenys amongst dozens of others, all talking over each other with conflicting and equally useless advice. But then came Tyrion, the man who he'd both loved and then hurt more than any other, a reassuring smile on his lips.

'You know what you need to do, brother. It's a simple choice to be sure, but that doesn't make it any less painful. You know that Cersei will never give up the throne and you know that Daenerys Targaryen will never give up her claim. She has dragons, and your daughter by the sounds of it,' the voice said. 'You need to choose. Your sister, or your children?'

'Fine. Gods forgive me, I'll betray her and tell you everything I know. Happy?' He didn't give them a chance to answer. 'But I swear to you by any god out there—if Myrcella or Tommen have so much as a hair on their heads harmed, no queen, no dragon, no force in the known world will stop me from hunting you down. Got it?'

Both men nodded.

'Alright then,' Jaime began, his heart hurting as he slowly drove the knife deeper into his sister's back. 'When you came to the throne, the wildfire remained untouched. It'll surely be less potent, but it could still blow chunks out of the city and the flames wouldn't go out for days. Weeks even. And if she even had a glimmer of inspiration after Tyrion's show at the battle of the Blackwater…I fear that the threat of dragons may not be so useful in your bloodless conquest as you'd hoped.'

The Young Lioness

'Uncle Tyrion? What are you doing here?' The room was dark (as per her orders, so that no-one would walk in and see the mess of her face) save for the thin beam of bloody Dornish sunlight that penetrated the curtains no matter what she did, but there were few enough men of her uncle's stature in the world, and fewer still that could ever conceivably be there. No, as soon as the short figure stepped through the door, she knew exactly who it was.

'You have no idea how good it is to see you,' he said, stepping closer to the bed she was currently occupying. He was probably smiling as he always used to, and it was a pleasant reminder of home. But then she remembered what that horrible man had done, and couldn't bear the idea of that smile faltering, not even for a second.

'Stay back!' she shrieked, pulling the bedsheets over her head. 'I'm hideous! Please, uncle, stay away—I can't bear for you to see me like this.'

'Of course, dear. If you wish for me to stay away, I will do so. But first I have a question to ask you.'

'A-alright?'

'You left prior to the battle of the Blackwater, didn't you?'

What? Where in the seven hells is this going?

'Yes?' Her tone was questioning, but she knew her uncle wouldn't ask such a question if it was not going somewhere.

'Did you ever hear about my role in the battle?'

'I'd only heard from mother once it was over and you weren't mentioned, and I don't really think Tommen particularly knew what was going on. And Joff…'

'So, I suppose you don't know that I was—not to sound arrogant—quite possibly the greatest warrior in the battle?'

She stifled a giggle at the thought of him fighting, but she could also tell from his voice that he wasn't completely lying. 'You?'

'Yes, me. The Hound had run away with his tail between his legs and the Kingsguard were swinging their swords at the wrong people, but the Halfman was there, cutting down Stannis' men left and right as though he were the wholeman. Now, would you give me your hand?'

Confused by the sudden change in direction but still holding faith in her uncle, Myrcella slid a delicate hand from below the covers, finding it being taken in her uncle's rough one and being raised to his face.

'Can you feel it?'

'No, I don't think so…Oh.' As she felt the jutting edge of the bridge of his nose cut off into nothingness, Myrcella realised what he'd been leading up to.

'Yes, "oh" indeed. It's a shame, really—the most handsome Lannister, now given the extra advantage of a rugged scar to make all the fair maidens swoon. Poor Jaime has never stood a chance, not really, not next to me."

Slowly, she brought the bedsheets down, her face gradually coming into her uncle's view. The bandages were long since gone, and the dull throb of pain was mercifully tame compared to the prior agony, but the fact remained that much of her face—from the missing chunk of ear to the angry red gash stretching from the top of her cheekbone to just below the corner of her mouth—was far beyond the point of no return. Despite the way in which he quickly schooled his expression, she could still see a brief flicker of horror and had to resist the temptation to crawl back under the cover.

'I'm so, so sorry, Myrcella. Lord Doran told us what happened. As soon as the throne has been taken, I swear to you, I will find the man who did this to you and he will regret ever being born. I promise you.'

Whilst she ordinarily would not have enjoyed the prospect of anyone suffering, she could not even deny that she would take great joy in that man receiving the retribution he so deserved. But then she realised what had just been said.

'I'm sorry, uncle. What did you mean about taking the throne?'

The Clever

After months of walking at a snail's pace over mile after mile of snow, they were there. Well, nearly there. Stood, resting for a moment, upon the ridge overlooking the largest weirwood he'd ever seen at the side of the two men he loved more than any others, Lann couldn't deny that the satisfaction he was now feeling almost made the whole journey worth it.

Almost.

Give him some warm broth and a week's worth of sleep, and then he'd be content.

It shouldn't have taken all these months, of course—even on foot, the only reason they'd been working for so long had been the snaking path which Brandon had led them over that had led to them only reaching their destination now. Visiting landmarks ranging from colossal mountains to simple boulders, entire forests to a single tree, Lann felt that he was better acquainted with the far north than he really had any right to be.

'They're here. Let's move.'

Brandon spoke gruffly and moved without any attempt at seeing any general consensus, as was his wont, his boots ploughing through the snow with a characteristic lack of grace. Giving a shrug to Garth and receiving one in return, Lann moved to follow him, albeit not with as much determined energy as Brandon seemed to have gained.

He spotted him crawling into an opening at the tree's roots and followed suit, cursing silently as he inhaled what must have been many centuries worth of dust floating on the air as he tumbled down, deep into the earth. Lann lay there for a moment after crashing on his back, only rolling to the side when he could hear Garth begin to make his descent. He staggered to his feet. It was light, he noticed, surprisingly so—thin shafts of light were poking through the earth, but not enough to provide this much illumination.

How curious.

No matter. He'd seen stranger things in his life, and likely would again.

For an immediate example, the skeletal body that was sat before him beside what appeared to be a young boy, both sat upon a great seat of weirwood roots.

Gods, It's—

'The Builder, the Greenhand, and the Clever. I have foreseen your coming.' The voice was weak and raspy, but Lann had never heard such conviction in his life. 'I'm afraid we don't have much time. I…I am the Three-Eyed Raven.'

A/N: Anothr chapter, done at last! Sorry it's taken so long-with university deadlines, a government that doesn't have a clue what it's doing in terms of the pandemic (there are four tiers of UK restrictions now, apparently?), my phone inexplicably breaking down, and general exhaustion, it's been tough to write, but I hope that the length (longest yet, 7k+ words!) and general scope (a POV of every moving part that's been mentioned since the beginning of the fic) will make up for that.

In case it wasn't obvious, this is the end of a "part" of the story, with everyone involved in the battle for the throne now in Westeros. I've had to make up some shit in terms of plausible distances and times it would take to get from place to place, so there'll be some vague time jumps/shifts as every player converges on King's Landing. I know it might be a bit weird, but please bear with it.

As always, feel free to follow, favourite, and review, and a massive thank you to those who have already done so! I really appreciate it more than you know :)

Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and see you next time,

-Kinginthenorth1

Force Smuggler-Really glad you enjoyed it!

Kingmanaena-Cheers!

Blackwidow713-Who says she's going straight to Winterfell?

ZenJack-Cheers, glad you're enjoying it

Moshi-Ok.