A.N: 199 reviews, guys, come on, we can break 250 easy!

I'm glad I didn't kill off Myrcella. Makes things easier for me, to keep House Martell intact with Myrcella part of their court. Myrcella's gown is inspired by an Elie Saab-style take on Padme Amidala's purple silk nightdress with the pearls. In my mind, Myrcella looks like Diane Kruger (in Troy). If Lena Headey hadn't made such a phenomenal Cersei, I would use Rosie Huntington-Whiteley as a face-claim for Cersei.

Oh, and if anyone's wondering, stout is a very dark, top-fermented beer: Guinness is a branded kind of stout. Stout (and any other kind of beer or ale, really) was very popular, because the fermentation process made it safer than water to drink; it took longer to spoil, and wasn't affected easily by heat; and because of the hops it was very nutritious (in fact, when gin became popular, malnutrition rose because gin was far cheaper but could not supplement meals in terms of calories and nutrients). There are variations of stout made with 30% oats, and some with chocolate, or oysters, which used to be considered common fare and served in pubs! Interesting! (I thought so! I should've written my History dissertation on food all those years ago!)

Valyrian Steel

27

Heart and Henge

Obsidian was finicky. Don't give it enough heat, it turned brittle: Forge it too hot, it was the hardest material in the world, nigh on impossible to reshape.

It was all in the heat. Heat had created it, melting stone over thousands of years, so said learned maesters. And an ingenious maester who had discovered how to record temperature using mercury would say that the key to forging obsidian lay in the temperature of the fire into which the obsidian was placed to be melted down and forged.

The Children knew of no such thing. There was no temperature, only the fire, and their crude stone implements. No true tools as blacksmiths and craftsmen would understand them. Just a rock to bash the hunk of obsidian into smaller pieces; a blackened ironstone saucer in which to place the obsidian; the fire; and whatever spear or dagger-hilt they wished to bond with the obsidian. Any wood worked, but obsidian bonded best, for a reason completely unknown, with ironwood or weirwood. As weirwood was no longer in abundance, they would have to suffice with what they had on hand - and the felling of parts of the wolfswood, though it made Larra's heart ache to see it done, was instrumental in forging weapons fit to fight the Night King's armies.

The castle was never still, and today it was especially manic: As many arrows as could be fletched were stacked in woven baskets as groups of small boys, elderly men and women chatted and sang and laughed, their fingers working with remarkable dexterity. If they were not engaged in fletching, other groups were crafting spears, taught by the women of the Free Folk who led lessons in wielding the finished weapon itself.

Arrows, spears…for those more adept at fighting, it fell to the forges to craft weapons people could actually use, swords and cudgels, maces and axes, halberds, falchions, flails and morningstars, tridents - Meera had hers a 'frog spear'. The smiths had no problem whatsoever with forging any such weapons: And they were at an advantage, all the North emptied to Winterfell, which meant every castle and holdfast's blacksmiths and armourers had converged on the forges of Winterfell. There were more than enough men to complete the work, and they all had the skill to forge the weapons.

They had never worked with obsidian before.

Only one person in the entirety of the North knew how to forge it. Because she had been taught. The Children had passed on all their learning, their songs and their skills.

It was quite something to see, and it attracted quite a bit of attention - first from Lady Sansa, who was curious, and then the Knights and Northmen and Free Folk who came to ask for specific weapons - as Larra held the forges enraptured.

There was only one way to ensure the tempered obsidian was strong enough to endure. And that was to pay close attention to the fire.

With her hair bound up in braids, and her gauntlets gleaming, Larra's long, pale fingers flashed in the firelight as the smiths and armourers snickered. She had produced a large chunk of stone, and began smashing the obsidian to pieces.

"Doesn't have to be stone," she said softly, not looking up; the fire before her made love to her fine features, made her eyes glow like purple stones. "But this is how I was taught. The obsidian must be crushed to pebbles, and then…a single layer of the stuff, spread out over the dish, so that all of the obsidian is heated evenly…" She gathered up the obisidan in her palms, sprinkling it over the ironstone dish resting in the fire, the heat shimmering in the air. Casting a glance at the obsidian, she readied her mould - not made of steel, but of ironwood, neatly carved with ten arrowheads.

The obsidian started to hiss, and then to melt.

"It should start to look like treacle," Larra murmured. Despite the noise of the courtyard beyond, she did not have to raise her voice: She was surrounded by men, ranging from young apprentices to grizzled white-beards, and they were all enraptured, watching her work. Her unhurried calm, the purposeful movements of her long, pale fingers, her ease around the great forge, her sensibleness, the simple clarity with which she explained everything, and her subtle confidence made her mesmerising to watch - they had started laughing as she bashed the obsidian with a rock, but quickly fell silent, watching. She did not stir the obsidian; she used a poker to nudge the sides of the stone dish so that the melting obsidian - which did indeed look temptingly like treacle - swirled idly around, a viscous material that had an entrancing sheen to it, every colour of the firelight reflected seemingly from within the liquid itself, a hint of its origins.

"You don't want to stir it," Larra warned. "Poke anything in there, it'll be bonded fast. You don't want to use it yet, especially at this heat. See the tiny white sparks rising from the edges of the dish? That's tiny bubbles releasing from the still-melting rocks… You'll have chunks of obsidian spoiling your weapon, and the obsidian itself will set brittle. Give it a cross look and it'll shatter."

"You know this?" one of the old men asked, his white hair glowing like a septa's wimple around his shoulders. "How?"

"Practise," Larra said, pointing to her armour, the direwolves stitched in thousands of tiny obsidian rings, her shoulders dripping with the stuff.

"You forged those?"

"Fiddly and time-consuming - but worth it," Larra said, glancing around the men. "This stuff's worth far more than gold. Not only does it kill wights and White Walkers, but it stops the Others' ice-weapons from penetrating through. I wore these stitched to a bearskin vest under my furs - I should've been skewered, but the obsidian stopped the blade. I was bruised, not gutted."

"And…you did this, every time you made that ring-mail?" another man asked, frowning.

"I did," Larra said. "These are the work of thousands of hours. I can tell you, all I know about forging obsidian I've learned through experience. See how the obsidian's starting to smoke?"

They looked, and some peered closer, while the apprentices jerked their heads back, as the glimmering opalescent surface of the liquid smoked - and caught alight. First orange, then warm yellow flames…bright hot white…pale blue, and then…

"When it reaches purple, that is when it is at the perfect time to start working with it," Larra said. "You can pour it immediately, into arrowheads or dagger moulds… But if you want to create something truly remarkable out of it, you can. You can pour it, shape it, take hammer and tongs to it. As long as you give it time to melt properly, you've the time to work with it, before it starts to cool and set. If you're working on something like a Morningstar or a mace or a trident, you can return the obsidian to the flames as you would steel - make sure the flame burns purple before you start to work with it again, or it'll all be for naught. But don't dunk it into a barrel of water - the obsidian will explode on contact with the cold water, and you and the barrel with it."

"It can cause that much damage?"

"Oh, yes," Larra nodded. "People call this stuff dragonglass, after all. Forged by fire, volatile…but enduring. Temper it the right way, these weapons will last as long as any Valyrian steel sword… Any questions?"

She organised the forges. Apprentices emptied the crates and started the process of crushing the obsidian: the smiths took turns preparing the obsidian, with men who had the specific role of checking the obsidian was being heated to the correct temperature - the 'purple-phase', they called it. The smiths took charge of making arrowheads, spearheads and daggers; and the more experienced armourers were charged with forging weapons fit for the nobility trained to wield them. At Winterfell, obsidian would replace good castle-forged steel - at least for this one battle.

And alongside those men, some of the smiths had to be set aside to continue working with steel. There were still things around Winterfell - things for the siege preparations, and the everyday running of the castle - that required steelwork.

And in that forge, Larra had quietly placed her designated survivors. Skilled armourers, apprentices, seasoned blacksmiths, and a few who had started to forge obsidian and done so with meticulous attention to detail, making her take note: They worked the regular forge, and in the back of her mind, Larra had a thought to keep those men back from the fighting. If the Night King was defeated, and some of them had managed to survive, then a complete team able to take over the forge in a moment's notice would be beneficial.

They had to think about what came after the Night King.

He could only kill them.

Daenerys Targaryen intended to enslave them all to her will.

Larra sighed, her eyes smarting as she left the overwhelming heat of the forge, glad of the cold and the light of the brittle winter sun. It was a relatively fine day, after almost six days of continuous ice-sleet and rain and cold that had seen the courtyard frozen solid. Men had gone about with axes and tridents to break the ice and make it safe underfoot, scattering salt sent by Lord Manderly purchased from the Saltpans, crushing gravel to give them purchase on the slick, ancient stones: Livestock had been moved inside, and two unfortunate people had been found frozen solid.

"Larra…"

Bran, wheeled across the courtyard by one of two dedicated guards, smiled softly to Larra.

"Are you headed to the godswood?"

"Yes."

"Where's Sansa?"

"Inside with the ladies," Bran said, his eyes twinkling. "Sewing and singing…they need a new song… Larra, it's time. You've put it off for far too long." Larra watched him carefully, and gave him a warning look. And Bran gazed at her, mournful and almost desperate, "I can't go down there. Can't see them." He glanced down at his wheeled chair, looking so like the frustrated little boy who had woken from his long sleep, broken, and aching to go about and run and play with his brother, and spar with swords in the courtyard and tumble about in the autumn leaves in the godswood, and climb the stairs, and push himself out of bed… "Light their candles for me?"

Larra sighed, dread settling in the pit of her stomach. She eyed the guard. "Go, fetch yourself something to eat. I'll take Bran to the heart-tree. Come and find him later."

"Yes, my lady," said the guard, bowing courteously, and left, leaving Larra rather unsettled. My lady… People had started calling her that, though she wasn't one. Whatever Jon was, Larra was still a bastard born of the North…or so people had always been led to believe by Ned Stark. And yet, they addressed her as my lady and curtsied or bowed at her approach. It had a little less to do with who Jon was than it did what Larra got up to around the castle. She was a leader; she organised everything; she always had an answer or solution - or knew who to ask for an answer or solution. People came to her, sometimes for reassurance, sometimes for guidance, but always…they listened patiently for her advice, and took it. That was the strangest thing. Larra had had to fight her entire life for all she had - her education, her place in the family with her brothers and sisters - and no matter how much she did, how high she had raised Robb with her actions…she would always only ever have been his bastard half-sister, despised and distrusted by his mother, disdained by the bannermen who could never forgive her birth.

To be not only accepted but respected…that was a heady thing, for someone like her. And she had earned it.

Larra pushed Bran into the godswood. The ice-sleet had not done much damage - the godswood had withstood thousands of years of winters, after all, unchanged, enduring… It was tranquil, and fine; the sun shone, making the snow shimmer, and the ice frozen on the trees glittered like hundreds of thousands of diamonds strung on silver. There was nothing quite as beautiful as the North in winter, Larra thought - something Father used to say. But Benjen had once told Larra that in spring, all of the moors surrounding Winterfell were carpeted with wildflowers beyond imagining.

"You want me to go down there?" Larra prompted grimly, as she settled Bran beneath the heart-tree. The scarlet leaves gleamed, as if they had been trapped inside the purest crystal; instead of rustling together, they clinked and tinkled in the gentle wind, and here and there Larra heard a patter - the ice slowly melting in the sunshine.

"Yes," Bran said softly. "You cannot delay it any longer, though I know you would rather go the rest of your life without having to go down there again…" Bran squinted up at her. "They're all down there, Larra. Just waiting for you."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"You do not fear the dead," Bran said softly, his face understanding.

"You're wrong," Larra told him quietly. "My fear kept us both alive."

"Fear of the Night King's soldiers…" Bran stared up at her. "Why should you fear your family?"

"Rickon's down there. He's down there…because of me," Larra said, clenching her jaw.

"The Ironborn would have skewered him long before, had it not been for you," Bran said softly. "They would have gutted him at Craster's Keep, had it not been for you… In the Land of Always-Winter, he would have died…and he would have killed you - it would have been the death of us all."

Larra stared at Bran, uncertain…was he fabricating some possible future, diverted by her actions…to soften the sting of guilt and shame that pervaded her entire body, and snapped in the back of her mind every time she relaxed toward deep, untroubled sleep?

"I'm not lying to you," Bran said softly, gazing up at her. "It would be easier to fabricate some untruth to put you at ease… You made a choice. The possible outcomes were whittled down. Without Rickon, we stood a chance. And you knew that from the very beginning. You did the right thing in sending Rickon away: Smalljon Umber made the wrong choice in betraying him. Now both are dead; and we are alive, because Rickon did not die lost in the Land of Always-Winter, separated from us, to turn…to find us and slaughter us in the storms… Larra…you're the only one who can do it, you know that. You need to go down there. The Children taught you for a reason."

"I know," Larra said heavily. There was something comforting in the fact that she had been…necessary, that her time in beneath the weirwood had not been wasted, that she had not been merely a vessel, a carrier - the one who carried Brandon the Broken. The Children had been preparing her, for this very day.

"Go, now," Bran said softly. "Don't think on it. I have a skin of stout, some oatcakes and a truckle of mature Cerwyn cheese. Take them and go."

Larra sighed, eyeing the provisions Bran had hidden, tucked in his furs, and took them. She turned and walked away. By an ancient oak, she spied a flicker of colour. A weirbird, tugging at the tufted grasses and moss beneath the tree, protected from the worst of the ice-sleet by the tree's massive canopy. And beyond the weirbird…nodding hellebores, some of them still dusted with snow, others gleaming with ice. They were hardy flowers, the winter rose. Through sleet and snow and ice, they endured, with their simple, broad petals and frilly throats, and gorgeous variations of colour - from pure snow-white to delicate pink or green to the deepest, velvety purple-black, and every hue in between. Diverted, Larra wandered over; the weirbird paused, hopped, turned to stare at her with beady black eyes. It chirped, fluffed its wings, and went about foraging for worms and slugs. Not too many to be found now, but in the shelter of the godswood's great canopy, the birds stood a greater chance of finding food.

She stooped, trailing her fingers over the pristine winter roses. The finest, she left where it was, that it could go to seed and bring forth more flowers later. She picked the second-best, a many-layered hybrid with pure white petals soft as silk and a throat of velvety purple.

White and purple… Silver-white hair and violet eyes, Larra's eyes… Rhaegar.

She plucked the flower at the stem, and focused on the many immaculate petals as she trudged through the godswood. Distracting herself with thoughts of Rhaegar, and the locket heavy against her breast under her clothing, she barely noticed when she approached the entrance to the crypt. The direwolf statues had been replaced with new ones, uncannily accurate representations of Ghost. Workmen were grunting as they installed a new door - the brief one-time occupants of the castle before it had been reclaimed had installed a door engraved with the flayed man. Sansa had had it ripped off its hinges, and the bones of the Leech Lord burned and scattered in the wolfswood. The new door was made of ironwood, plain, but banded with obsidian. The workmen were being especially careful; the obsidian bands were decorated with obsidian spikes. To keep the dead out.

Every external door was going to be outfitted with the same, every gate, every window and murder-hole, and the battlements were going to be similarly armoured.

Larra was of the opinion, and those Sansa had consulted agreed, that given all they knew of the enemy, the best chance they had was to fortify, and defend - not attack. They did not have the men.

But they could be clever, and cunning, and use the one thing they had: Winterfell.

So use it they would, concerting all their efforts into turning Winterfell from a fortress into a weapon in and of itself.

Whenever Larra had sat in counsel with Sansa and the Northmen, and the Knights of the Vale, planning their defences and some of their strategy when the enemy finally showed itself, they went over the fact that the Night King had no archers, no siege towers, no scaling ladders or catapults or battering-rams. It was the one thing they went back to, when it all seemed too overwhelming: It was the one advantage they had.

They had long accepted that the Night King's army would contain the ragged corpses of giants - apparently, the last of the giants, Wun Wun, had fought beside Jon and Tormund Giantsbane during the Battle of the Bastards: The Valemen had seen his body. They believed… And there would be mammoths, shadowcats, bears - every manner of creature lethal in life would now be horrifying in death. Giants, mammoths, all the beasts of the True North…but no siege weapons. No true cavalry - Larra had never seen a wight astride a dead horse or a giant upon a decaying mammoth, and nor had any of the Free Folk, who would know best. No archers, no cavalry, no siege weapons: The Night King did not need them. His siege weapons were his infantrymen.

And for every one of the living who died, they were at risk of allowing another soldier to join the Night King's army. Those who died within the walls of Winterfell were a risk to those who could keep fighting.

There was only one way to stop the Night King's influence take hold. Larra knew it: She had lived within its protection for ages. She had been taught the spells…

She slipped down the worn stone steps, the topmost ones still slick from the ice-sleet that had seeped under the door, and she stepped carefully down into the dark. Embers seemed to flicker into life out of the chill darkness, and as she walked along the passage full of gaping vaults unsealed - ready for the future generations of Kings in the North - the embers grew to a warm, inviting glow. Hundreds of candles flickered in the dank vaults, scattered here and there among statues.

Something pierced her heart as Larra stopped at the first statue.

The long, narrow face, the stubborn chin, even Rickon's wild curls had been immortalised…his face clean-shaven, if he had ever grown in his first whiskers, his expression stern but far gentler than Larra ever remembered her little brother being. His face had been carved, not from memory, but from observing his dead body. His bones were interred, and a likeness of Shaggydog was curled at Rickon's feet; an iron sword rested on upturned palms, the same as every other statue. There was a reason every statue was given an iron sword - to keep the vengeful spirits at bay…

Every King in the North had pledged an oath - and given it was the Starks, allegedly, who had founded the Night's Watch, it was perhaps less remarkable that the vows of the Kings of Winter were very similar to the vows of the Night's Watch - the greatest difference being the vow of celibacy, and holding no lands or titles.

Winter is coming, and so begins my reign. I shall defend my realm and all those who live within it. I shall fight for their freedom, never for mine own glory. I shall live and die for the good of the North. At Winterfell the fire burns against the cold, and the light brings the dawn. It is my blood that wakes the sleepers. Mine shall be the sword in the darkness. I am the shield that guards this Realm of Men. I pledge my loyalty to the North. In my life and death I pledge to fight for Winterfell and the North, for winter is coming. Winter is coming.

They were the words, handed down through the generations - from the very first Brandon, who had built these crypts and the First Keep, and had raised the Wall and manned it with the Night's Watch. Curious words…full of double-entendre, though no-one knew it.

At Winterfell the fire burns against the cold, and the light brings the dawn. It is my blood that wakes the sleepers… In my life and death I pledge to fight for Winterfell and the North, for winter is coming…

Vows so that the Kings in the North would never forget their duty. And yet, they had forgotten their true meaning - the power of those vows, those words, the magic in their veins. The magic of the First Men, the oaths they had taken…

It is my blood that wakes the sleepers… A shiver crept down her spine. Larra paused before the statue next to Rickon's.

It looked like him. Whoever had carved Father's likeness had known his face. Grave and gentle but unyielding. His bones were there, Larra knew, sealed away. He rested beside his family, beside Lyanna - beyond her, Lord Rickard her father and her brother Brandon held iron swords, direwolves curled at their feet. Rickard and Brandon's tombs were empty.

Larra glanced back. Rickon, Father, Lyanna, Rickard, Brandon…

Robb was missing. The first King in the North in three centuries. Robb had neither tomb nor statue, and nor did his foreign Queen. A devastating oversight.

Someone had come down to light the candles, and only the Starks ever came down here. They were the only ones who did not dread the crypts, the shadows of the dead Kings of Winter. Some of them had done terrible things, and Larra had grown up learning every one of them, every story. She knew the stories as well as she knew those of the Targaryen dynasty. They may not all have been good men, the Starks of old, but they had been great kings and leaders of men. They were a family of hard people, raised to rule even harder lands in the harshest of times.

Finally, she stood before Lyanna. Every Stark had a place in the crypts; but only the Kings in the North and the Lords of Winterfell had statues, iron swords in their hands and direwolves at their feet. The statues of Brandon and Lyanna were an exception. Brandon, killed gruesomely, and Lyanna…

She carried no blade, but one of her hands was elegantly upturned. Her serene face…looked punishingly like Lyanna's - gentler, but with the same solemn oval face… Candles flickered all around her, and if Larra squinted, she could almost convince herself that the carved stone eyes were alive… She stared at the statue. Her mother. Her bones had turned to dust long ago, sealed in their crypt. She had been here, all this time.

How many times had Larra come down here, to vent her frustrations - scorning Lyanna for her stupidity in…well, in running off with Rhaegar Targaryen. As a child, Larra had thought, if Lyanna had never done that, then Rickard and Brandon might still be alive, and so would Lyanna, and Father wouldn't be so unhappy at the sight of Larra's smiles; he would never have had to marry Lady Catelyn, and he and Larra and Jon could have been happy in a holdfast, with Uncle Benjen. The Seven Kingdoms would not have been plunged into the most destructive war since the Dance of Dragons.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and placed the winter rose in Lyanna's accepting palm. She sighed, and gazed up at the statue. It wasn't her mother, but it was the closest Larra had to her. "I'm sorry you're dead. I'm sorry it all went wrong."

"Lyanna would be so proud of the woman you've become - of the man Jon has become," Uncle Benjen murmured, the wind stealing the sound of his voice.

"Was it really worth it?" she had asked. "All the horror, the death…"

"Were you worth it? Always. Absolutely."

She stepped away from the statue, leaving the flower in Lyanna's hand, and her eyes glanced from Brandon to Rickard...she took a fortifying gulp from her skin of stout, stoppered it, tied the laces to her belt, and set her shoulders, determined.

The candlelight was soon consumed by the gloom. She went deeper into the crypts, walking past each and every sealed tomb. She descended lower, and for a moment, absolute terror gripped her.

Old Nan's voice echoed off the dank vaulted ceilings of the crypts sealing in ancient kings, telling them the story of the Seventy-Nine Sentinels.

"T'was the Nightfort they were bound to, sworn brothers all in black, seventy-nine of them… In the dark of night, they fled the Nightfort, stealing down from the Wall as outlaws, dangerous men with naught to lose…naught but their lives, which were given over to the Night's Watch before Old Gods and new… One being the youngest son of Lord Ryswell, they thought to secret themselves away in safety to his lands… But Lord Ryswell was a man of honour, and dreaded the wrath of the Kings of Winter should they discover he harboured deserters and oathbreakers… Lord Ryswell had the outlaws rounded up and bound in chains - yes…his son, too, for bringing dishonour upon the Night's Watch and the name of Ryswell… They were dragged back to the Wall, and the crows enacted their punishment… Holes were cut into the Wall, seventy-nine in all, one for each of the deserters, who were sealed up inside with horn and spear…in life they had abandoned their posts and brought dishonour upon themselves; in death they endure, sentinels in the coming storm…"

She had always both anticipated and dreaded every retelling of that story. Every time Old Nan told it, the details were slightly different - more gruesome, depending on how much she wanted to frighten the little boys into obedience.

But it made her shudder, to be here, now…where the dead Kings of Winter were interred, bound by their oaths for eternity, their swords of iron all that bound them to the crypts…

She put the Seventy-Nine Sentinels to the back of her mind, focusing not on the ancient kings before her but Lyanna behind her…and Ned, whose love had protected her all her life.

The crypts went on and on, sprawling farther than the entirety of Winterfell, and Larra plunged deeper into the darkness of the ancient crypts, pausing at every sealed tomb…thoughts of the Seventy-Nine Sentinels lingered, though, and she sometimes thought she heard murmurs of the long-dead, their sighs and groans after so long in idleness, a slow and patient anger, a wariness and anticipation emanating from the chill stone…as if the stone itself - or the spirits of those who lay beyond - was alive, and aware…

The only things that startled her in the dark were the cobwebs, and the rustling of rats, but even they grew fewer as she went deeper.

Down, down into the dark, no torchlight to guide her, her sword sheathed at her side, Larra journeyed through the crypts. If she was thirsty, she sipped the rich, savoury stout. If she was hungry - and she thought to herself how soft she was becoming, here at Winterfell, that she gave in to hunger so easily now - she nibbled on an oatcake or a chunk of mature cheese.

And eventually…eventually…she tasted it in the air. Warm water on stone. She tasted it before she heard it, the soft bubble and gurgling of running water. A tiny stream, little more than a trickle, passing from a tiny crevice, into a gentle depression in the earth…and the ground beneath her was earthen, now, no longer foundations of stone.

Her eyes were accustomed to the dark, and she could see…

She squatted down, to kneel and observe the delicate ribbon of clear water trickling from the natural stone - the eldest of the crypts were crude, reminding her too vividly of the Children's caves beneath the weirwood, the floor beneath her feet of packed ancient earth, the walls carved from ancient ironstone.

Down into the depression she slipped, and then she saw it. In the stillness, the sound of the water brought life to the henge.

It was not as big as the ones she had seen in Bran's visions, or her own childhood dreams. The sacred henges of the Children, curious spirals of stone made to honour the weirwood groves, which, left to themselves, grew the very same way - the boughs of the weirwoods into which the Children fled from predators, the roots beneath which they created their cave-communities, their homes, secret and safe, feeding the trees with their dead, as the Starks fed their own dead to the crypts, to the weirwood heart-tree that grew above them. To the Children, the great weirwoods were as eternal as stone.

The first White Walker, the dreadful Night King, had been created at a stone henge witnessed by a mountain shaped like an arrowhead, a shard of obsidian plunged into his heart. A weapon for the Children, to defeat the First Men who were their enemies, massacring them…their creation had turned on them, destroying not just Men but…everything…

A henge beneath Winterfell, made by the First Men, the allies of the Children in the War for the Dawn. The jagged stones were smaller, shorter than she was but heavy, and arranged in the strange spiral, sprawling outward.

The henges were places steeped in magic.

The henge below; the heart-tree above.

The Kings of Winter, waiting between.

It is my blood that wakes the sleepers.

They gasped and writhed against each other, her golden hair spilling over the crumpled linens as he hooked her knee over his elbow, adjusting his hips to thrust deeper, making her cry out, and he groaned, giving a few last brutal thrusts that made her moan shakily, and finally he pulled out of her, rolling to his side, grinning and panting as she preened, smiling and relaxed.

He smoothed a hand over her breasts, which were high, plump and very sensitive, and he tenderly cupped her belly, sweetly rounded… Myrcella had felt the first true flutterings of movement weeks ago; now Trystane felt them.

"I can feel it...like the kiss of butterfly wings against my skin," he murmured in wonder. He shot her a grin.

"I've felt it for weeks, I am glad that you now can…our child straining to meet you…" Myrcella smiled warmly, draped with a kind of rumpled, sensual elegance against the embroidered pillows. She reached a hand down to caress her belly.

"I don't think I've ever seen you quite so beautiful as you are now."

"I'm getting plump," Myrcella blushed.

"Plump with our child growing in your belly…" Trystane grinned, and his eyes dipped. "And these magnificent breasts…" They were much bigger now, Myrcella thought; Trystane was becoming obsessed with them, though they ached, and had been sensitive to the touch, even to the feel of Qartheen silk against them… There were things no-one had warned her about carrying a child. The vomiting. The bad dreams and sleeplessness, a strange aversion to some of her favourite foods, nausea every hour of the day, feeling tired all the time, and the bloating…the bloating was possibly the worst. She felt uncomfortable in her own skin.

No-one had prepared her for it, not even her mother. But then, her mother had not prepared her for much. Not for life in the Dornish court, certainly; it had been an education of its own, and Myrcella had learned a great deal. About her own body; about men. Princess Arianne had been her confidante and her tutor, guiding her in all things…things that had made her blush…and things that had excited her curiosity. Things the Dornish revelled in…finally, she understood why…

"I am glad your father has finally agreed that we shall marry… I was terrified when I first came to Dorne…now the idea of returning to King's Landing… I could not bear it," Myrcella said. They both knew Prince Doran had finally only capitulated because of the child growing in her womb. It had been Princess Arianne to suggest Myrcella hurry things along, if she was so terrified that she would be flung back to King's Landing… "To leave here…to leave you… But I am glad he has agreed. I would not have wanted word to reach my mother that I had been…anything but virtuous."

"We shall keep it a secret from her, then, that it was I who was in constant danger of being corrupted," Trystane teased, and Myrcella blushed, smiling fondly at him. "You are tenacious."

"You like strong women in Dorne."

"Yes, we do."

"I was worried your father would…would perhaps cast me aside, or…" She sighed, framing her belly with her hands. Her golden rings glittered in the fierce sunlight. Winter may have come, but here in Dorne it would mean something very different to Winterfell. She still remembered Winterfell; Prince Doran had told her that Lady Sansa had returned to the North, and reclaimed her home. Myrcella was glad. But Myrcella no longer wanted any home but this one, no family but the Martells who had welcomed and embraced her. "I hear things, what's happening in the rest of the kingdom. I know diplomatic relationships between Dorne and the Iron Throne are strained…I do not want your father to think less of me for seducing you."

"Why would he?" Trystane asked, his eyes wide. Prince Doran could have no issue with Myrcella rumpling the sheets with Trystane - not with the way his own daughter carried on. The rumours were she lay with her cousins the Sandsnakes - Myrcella didn't believe it one bit; but she knew those women adored each other with a ferocity that was often quite alarming.

"Perhaps he thinks…with your cousins on Dragonstone at the Dragon Queen's court…" Myrcella winced, as her baby kicked. "I'm a complication."

"Did you think he would allow his first grandchild to be born a bastard?" Trystane asked, trailing his fingers over her rounded belly. He leaned in to kiss it, sighing.

"Trystane…does it bother you?" Myrcella asked. She had never asked before. Better to know now, though, today, before… "The rumours…that I am not Robert Baratheon's trueborn daughter."

"Myrcella…" Trystane frowned, but did not immediately deny that he had heard the same rumours - that he and his family likely believed them. As Myrcella did.

"None of us ever looked a hint like him," Myrcella said, almost desperately, her beautiful face anguished at the realisation, the unsettling truth. "My mother's twin-brother…they were always together. Even in my dreams they are together, smiling and intimate… What if it is true? Not a princess…a bastard."

Trystane knelt before her, cupping her face in his hands, his dark features solemn. "Whatever you were born, you shall be Myrcella Martell. I give you my name; it shall always be yours, from this day on. And you will be a Princess of Dorne." He leaned in, and gave her a deep, savouring kiss that lit a fire in her again. He cupped her belly, gazing with fondness and pride at it. "This child…will be a prince or princess of Dorne, and no-one will ever dare question it." He smiled, kissed her fiercely, and started to climb off the bed. "Now…we should get ready. I shall see you in a few hours, and finally make you my wife."

"Not yet," Myrcella said softly, tugging gently on his hand; Trystane didn't resist. He grinned, and dived for her, already hard, and they groaned in exquisite agony as her legs parted eagerly, and he shoved inside her. Sometimes it was slow and savouring, spending all night just touching and kissing, tormenting each other by denying themselves…sometimes, though, it was hard and fast and desperate. It was like that now, feverish for each other.

"The more I give you, the hungrier you seem to get," Trystane groaned, and Myrcella grinned, gasping, as he arched his back and spent inside her.

If Myrcella was truly a bastard, she thought, this was why: Because the feeling of someone she loved filling and enflaming her was worth everything in the world.

Hours later, the entire court of Dorne was gathered in the Water Gardens, the scent of citrus heavy in the air, the setting sun gilding everything a deep, rich gold, the perfumed air heavy with moisture and the strains of exotic, hypnotic Dornish music, the sound of laughter and murmured conversations, gasps and stifled grunts from the dainty follies and shivering bushes, and servants everywhere poured vibrant sparkling drinks, offering stuffed olives and figs and pastries drenched in pomegranate syrup. Prince Doran was dressed handsomely, his aching feet concealed by shimmering silk, as he was wheeled through the gardens, greeting his court, to take his place in the most honoured position, observing the proceedings as the septon prepared.

The laughter and conversation bubbled brightly, delighted, and cheers issued from a few of the nobles present, alerting everyone to the presence of Princess Arianne for the first time in months. No-one but Doran and his man Areo Hotah knew that a coup had been stopped before it could put Princess Myrcella at risk: Doran had had his own daughter and heir imprisoned for her recklessness. Now, she knew all.

Now, things had altered. News had reached them of an ash meadow, and of a Lion Culling.

Demands had been sent from Dragonstone - ordering the Prince of Dorne and all his lords to bend the knee to Daenerys Targaryen. The threat that to deny was to invite their own deaths did not need to be spelled out.

Specifically to Prince Doran, he had been ordered to yield the Princess Myrcella.

The years she had been a guest at his court, Doran knew the girl had come to view the Water Gardens as her home. He had come to have a deep and abiding affection for her - and had understood her value far sooner than his eldest son, who was enamoured of her beauty. She was naturally a joyous, gentle girl, underestimated because of her shining golden beauty. But she was cunning, Doran knew it: He had spent too many hours playing cyvasse with her - she had been a quick study. It was…delightful, to spend time with her. She radiated light and an innate joy wherever she went - her mother's opposite in every way. And Doran had invested much, to make up for her lack of education: She had enjoyed her lessons, and continued to show incredible promise. She had innocence, a genuine sweetness, and shining beauty that stood out among the salty Dornishmen. Arianne had been teaching her guile; but Myrcella could teach Arianne much about patience and objectivity.

Yes, Princess Myrcella would be an asset to the royal court of Dorne. She was not just an exquisite beauty: She was cleverer than Trystane, gentler and more patient than Arianne, with her own unique charm and tact. She complemented his children beautifully, and Doran foresaw the future: a wise, calm, stunning woman who charmed with ease and guided her husband and sister-by-law with patience and insight.

He regretted that she had been so frightened that he would brush her aside, send her back to her disgraced mother, do worse. But he could not help but smile in anticipation - she was with child. His first grandchild. The future of House Martell, a future for Dorne.

Doran flicked his gaze to Trystane, already ready, waiting, dressed in Martell colours, a silk cloak falling from his shoulders; and he greeted his older sister with a bright grin, clasping her in his arms to kiss her.

"Sister!"

"Did you think I would miss such an occasion?" Arianne purred, smirking. Trystane glanced knowingly at his father, who winked subtly. Arianne sighed, smiled, and gathered up her glittering skirts to lean down and kiss her father's cheek. "Father."

"Dear child," he sighed, smiling. He reached out a hand to cup his daughter's cheek. Beautiful. Wilful, like her mother…passionate, like Oberyn, with a hint of Doran's own shrewdness that time and experience would nurture.

The music swelled, and a sigh whispered through the crowds. Myrcella had appeared.

In the dying sunlight, Princess Myrcella glowed as radiant as the sun. Her golden hair had been curled and brushed down her back, and wreathing her head was an intricate coronet of gold orange-blossoms and pearls, Doran's personal bride-gift to her. Her gown was of fine pale-gold lace, falling from intricate strings of golden pearls gleaming over her shoulders, the lace shimmering with thousands of tiny gold beads, outlining golden lions and tangled antlers and sunspears over the lace, which showed off her breasts, growing more succulent and plump as the child in her belly grew bigger, and the golden embroidery trickled over her hips, the swell of her belly noticeable under the pale-gold lace, the future of House Martell for all to see.

There was no hiding it, though clever sewing might have, a different style of gown, if they had chosen to conceal what all knew. In the last month, she had started to show. Myrcella was proud of that child, excited for its birth, already in love with its every flutter and kick. The other day, she had reported that the baby kept hiccupping.

Every tiny detail about the child reminded Doran of his own anticipation of Arianne's birth, when he was young and in love... Only an hour ago, Trystane had told Doran that he had felt the baby moving in her belly for the first time. Doran hoped it would not be the only child to bring joy to their family. He wanted to hear innocent laughter echoing through the Water Gardens again before he died.

Trystane draped his cloak over Myrcella's shoulders, giving her their protection. She was officially their princess now. And no-one would take her from them. Not Daenerys Targaryen…not even Myrcella's mother.

She carried the future of House Martell…she was the future of House Martell, along with Princess Arianne, and her new husband Prince Trystane, who spirited his new wife away to their bedchamber before they could even start the wedding feast. They reappeared, flushed and wearing a change of dress less formal, more comfortable for a feast - for dancing and celebration. Myrcella was radiant, her golden curls shining in the candlelight as she beamed, dancing giddily and laughing, her new husband stealing kisses, noblewomen congratulating her on her child, the future prince or princess, offering advice, asking about names…

No-one told Myrcella about the Lion Culling that night.

He let the newlyweds bask in their love, in their lust…

They had time for grief and dread later.

They had time to prepare Princess Myrcella Martell as envoy at a summit between warring queens, both of whom wanted to snatch her from the other's grip.

Doran wondered, sipping his wine, his lips curling with anticipation, how Cersei would react, to see her beloved daughter so recently wed - and so noticeably with child already.

She stood buffeted by the wind, by the snap and thunder-clap of her children's wings as they soared and danced in the air about her. From the top of the cliff, she looked over Dragonstone, the island and its ancient fortress forged with fire and forgotten magic, and the new settlement that had sprung up at the base of the Dragonmont, protected by the castle and inhabited by Dothraki and Unsullied and Meereenese freed-slaves. The Dragonstone natives, those whose families had lived on the island for centuries, some long before the Conquest, kept to themselves, at the quays and in little hamlets. Watchful and wary, waiting for the moment Daenerys would leave their island, their home, and take the Seven Kingdoms - and leave them in the peace they had become accustomed to.

This was her ancestral home, though it did not feel like it.

Her home was Khal Drogo, making love under the moonlight in the great grass seas, their son growing healthy and strong… In her dreams, her home was the sons and daughters she bore Khal Drogo, plenty of both, all copper-skinned, violet-eyed, strapping and strong like Drogo with her gentle, fierce heart… That home had been taken from her, as had every other.

She had not known home since the red door in balmy Braavos, with the lemon-tree outside her window.

Ser Jorah had once told her that Braavos was a dank stone city concealed by mists in the marshes. Lord Tyrion agreed: Whatever trees there were in the stone city were not citrus.

Citrus grew in the south, in Dorne. They were famous for their orange-blossoms and lemon-cakes.

Daenerys frowned, swatting away the thoughts.

She would not have her advisors convincing her that her own memories were false.

Not only were they questioning her decisions…

She winced. The little girl had left claw-marks on Daenerys' skin, something no armed man had yet managed, in all their many attempts.

"Which gave Drogon the most trouble? The young women heavy with child, the brittle old men or the infants?! This was not an act of war. This was an act of murder. You BURNED little children."

No matter what she had been engaged in the last few days, always, her thoughts seemed shattered by the King's words. They shot through her when she dozed toward sleep, spoiled the food in her mouth as she dined with her sullen court, and filled her with a hotness not unlike Drogon's fire burning beneath her skin, blistering and painful.

She felt as if she was back in the Great Pyramid again, forced to deal with the freed-slave who had killed the Son of the Harpy imprisoned in her custody for questioning. She felt the subtle but irrefutable sting of shame and uncertainty as Hizdahr zo Loraq told her that his father, a man of learning who had honoured Meereen's past by preserving its great monuments for posterity, for the future, had been crucified on her orders.

For every action, she was coming to realise, there were going to be untold, unforeseen reactions.

She had ended House Lannister, as they had ended House Tyrell. She had spared seven, as seven were spared. She had done no more than House Lannister when they had sacked Highgarden, and yet…and yet she they turned their noses up at in disdain, disrespectful. It was she they refused to look in the eye. She they scorned.

Daenerys closed her eyes.

Had you not promised yourself that you were above them all? That you were better than those you intend to rid the world of? That you had not come to Westeros to murder people and orphan their children? a little voice inside her head said. It sounded suspiciously like Ser Barristan, the calm old man with soft white hair and stories about her valiant, gentle brother, who had never liked killing, as Viserys had claimed, but had adored singing. Had been a man himself as their Father descended into cruelty, turned mad by the tortures he endured at Duskendale, where Ser Barristan had been the only man to dare scale the walls and rescue his king.

What had the broad, shrewd-eyed Lannister woman, Lady Genna, said? "Tywin was right: It would have been better had King Aerys died at Duskendale. Rhaegar would still sit upon the Iron Throne…and you, girl…you would never have been born to replace your father in cruelty - and firelust…"

She had warned Daenerys that she would become Queen of naught but ashes…

What had Jon Snow called her, the night she held court, after the wild brat had assaulted her? The Unsullied should have been able to stop her; why had they been so slow? How had the King come between them?

Why had her own men turned on her Unsullied? The Greyjoys and the Sandsnakes had each held weapons to her Unsullied, her kos.

Over a child.

Daenerys winced.

Had she not often wished, as a frightened child no older than the violent little lioness, that someone…someone like the King would come and rescue her? Fierce and gentle and brave. To stand between her…and Viserys, all Daenerys knew in the world, and her first, prolonged exposure to cruelty. How often had she ached, in those first few torturous days and weeks of her marriage to Khal Drogo, before she had learned the ways of love to gentle and coax him…as he had taken her brutally on her belly, on her knees…before she had taught them both that he could be tender… How often had she bitten down on her whimpers of pain and imagined herself somewhere else, perhaps with a man who was gentle and considerate, with hands calloused from fighting but whose eyes lit up with warmth as he shushed and cuddled a frightened child.

Khal Drogo had become that man, whose calloused hands turned gentle when he held her, who had killed Viserys to protect her, and their unborn son.

In that moment, slumped on her throne, smarting and bleeding, Daenerys had realised one horrifying thing.

To that small child, cuddled in the King's arms…she was more vicious than Viserys had ever been.

He had sold their mother's crown to feed and shelter them.

She…had taken the jewels of that child's mother and…as Jon Snow said…had paraded them about, unthinking of the effects… The reactions.

She had made a mistake.

Possibly more than one. And yet she was uncertain… The Lannisters were not abhorred, had not lost the respect of Westeros when they had taken Highgarden, and yet…and yet Daenerys saw it in their eyes. A shrewd caution, a disappointment…

They expected more from her.

She had let them down.

She had let herself down, she realised.

What had the King said?

"You've given Cersei all the weapons she needs to defeat you. The Mad King's Daughter will burn Westeros - down to the last child - to become Queen of the ashes!"

She had vowed that she was not her father, that she understood that he had been an evil man inflicting untold horrors on innocents, and that that same malice had sparked the destruction of a dynasty, had robbed Daenerys of her family, her home…

The day he had arrived, the King in the North had told her that any oath his ancestors had made had been destroyed in fire and blood when her father murdered his grandfather and uncle, when her brother had stolen off into the night with the only daughter of the North…

The Targaryen dynasty had ended in fire and blood. And she had begun her conquest with the very same.

Daenerys winced, and sighed, shaking her head. Her long hair, intricately arranged by a noticeably quiet Missandei, featured a new braid, but it seemed to sit heavily on her head, the way none of the others did. She tucked a loose curl over her shoulder, catching sight of movement.

She had chosen no kos, but claimed the entire united khalasaar of Dothraki as her bloodriders. And yet, among them, they had their leaders - the strongest, fiercest, most ruthless of them. They had the finest horses, and in the castle, kept the most beautiful wives, some of the young girls freshly mounted for the first time, but others had already given them fierce sons of their own, who trailed behind their fathers, loosely swinging their arakhs and whips, some plucking the strings of their bows. With them walked the young dosh khaleen Zharanni, the beautiful Lhazareen widow with remarkably fine eyes: She was one of Daenerys' ladies-in-waiting now, the rest of her young life no longer given to isolation in Vaes Dothrak. Daenerys was already considering possible marriages for her: She was a beauty, and her lessons with Missandei on the common tongue were coming along very well. Naturally shy from her husband's abuse, and the sharp tongues of the hags of the dosh khaleen, she was becoming vibrant once more, curious and engaged, and in awe of Daenerys. The Dothraki still respected Zharanni - and the other women - as dosh khaleen, but they did not question that they sat in Daenerys' court in finery, rather than secluded away in shadows, as they had been in Vaes Dothrak.

What good was their wisdom, if Daenerys had no access to it?

Some of the other dosh khaleen had not made the journey with Daenerys; they had remained in Vaes Dothrak, as the merchants and slaves had. Daenerys needed only the mounted warriors. But of the dosh khaleen, Zharanni now led them; Jassi was still young, and had given her khal five sons before his death - she had taken Daenerys' ko Zireyo as her husband, when Daenerys had declared that the dosh khaleen could remarry - and in fact, should. She was already pregnant: Zireyo expected a son as fine as any of the five she had born her khal.

Zharanni was accompanied by Oqetti, the daughter of Kovo, bloodrider to one of the burned khals - the one who had whipped Daenerys and taunted her on their long trek to Vaes Dothrak, and one of the first to kneel before her as the great temple had burned around her. Daenerys had chosen Oqetti as a handmaiden, and where Zharanni went, Oqetti was likely to be. Oqetti remained in awe of Daenerys; Zharanni smiled beautifully at Daenerys as she approached, with Kovo and Zireyo, Qago and Rozzo, her ko. She had no bloodriders, but she had men who kept a firm control over her khalasaar. It was the greatest since the Century of Blood: Her warriors needed a firm hand to guide them.

"Khaleesi," Zharanni began, then flushed and smiled bashfully, switching to the common tongue, "My Queen… Ser Jorah here."

"Ser Jorah is here?" Daenerys breathed, light filling her, relief. Whatever their tumultuous bond was, he had been with her since the very beginning, since her wedding-day, and if he had had his way, every day since. He loved her, she knew: She loved him, in her way, as a niece might love her uncle. He had guided and protected her… And whatever else he had done, he had always done his utmost to make it right with her. Was deeply loyal to her. And he always gave her wise advice.

And there he was. Wrapped in a fur-trimmed cloak billowing in the winds, his weather-beaten face earnest and smiling as he stepped forward, taking a knee respectfully.

"Khaleesi," he rumbled. She would always be his khaleesi, she knew, no matter how many lands she conquered or thrones she claimed. She would always be the shy, dainty girl in the pale pink silk dress, silver-blonde in a sea of copper-skinned Dothraki, delicate and untouchable, and strong. He had watched her turn from frightened girl to the Mother of Dragons, to a conqueror, confident and radiant… "Your Grace."

"You look strong," Daenerys gasped, unable to contain just how pleased she was, how relieved. She had banished him to cure himself and return to her - as he always had. "You found a cure?"

"I wouldn't be here if I hadn't," Ser Jorah promised. "I return to your service, my Queen… If you'll have me."

"It would be my honour," Daenerys beamed. She reached her hands out for him, and the knight stood, his Westerosi armour gleaming, the rearing bear over his heart seeming to roar, and smiled as he took her hands in his. "I admit I am quite in need of your counsel, Ser Jorah."

Hissing at the brightness of the light, Larra stumbled out of the stairwell, hand clamped over her eyes, and took up a vigil beside one of the carved direwolves as the sound of carts rattled far too close and the clamour of the courtyard stung her deprived ears. Too bright, too loud. She had grown accustomed to the dark, to the restless silence of the crypt.

"Where have you been?"

She jumped, and squinted in the sunlight.

A fire burned, growing larger the closer it got, consuming everything… Oh. Not fire. Sansa. Larra winced, and opened her eyes, which smarted in the brightness of a pristine white sky. Snow was drifting down in idle flurries.

Sansa advanced hurriedly, her pale, beautiful face pinched anxiously.

"I've been…in there," Larra said, raising her hand to jab her thumb over her shoulder.

"For three days?!" Sansa blurted exasperatedly. Larra blinked.

"Three days?"

"Yes! What were you doing?!"

"Didn't Bran tell you?" Larra asked, tilting her head to one side.

"Bran - he's gone off - who knows where…or when!" Sansa said. "What on earth were you doing down there?"

"Making preparations," Larra said, almost defensively. It had not felt like three days…

"What kinds of preparations?" Sansa frowned. She glanced at the obsidian-banded door. "Doing something for Bran?"

"Yes," Larra said quietly. Sansa actually looked quite upset. You've been gone three days, with no word, Larra thought guiltily.

"Couldn't he do it himself?" Sansa asked. Larra raised her eyebrows, and Sansa realised what she had said. She blushed. "Oh."

"He used to forget, too," Larra said sadly.

"What was it you were doing down there?" Sansa asked quietly, eyeing the door to the crypt warily.

"Waking the sleepers."

A.N.: I always thought that was a curious little addition in the Night's Watch vows, specifically in those 'the horn that wakes the sleepers'… Who is sleeping? Who are they supposed to wake?

I realised they do an incredibly poor job of showing the diversity of Daenerys' armies and followers on the show. Every one of her advisors is Westerosi; only Missandei and Grey Worm actually represent the people Daenerys has liberated/conquered, and even then Grey Worm does not represent all of the Unsullied, who come from beyond the Wall and Skagos and the Summer Isles and anywhere slavers can snatch people, Lys and Volantis etc - there should be Summer Islanders, and Valyrian-lookin Lysene soldiers in the Unsullied army. So I thought I'd actually show that Daenerys' court and followers are a patchwork of different cultures. And that, you know, she actually has a court. Missandei; Qezza and Zafiyah from Meereen; Zharanni of the Dothraki. Not just her Unsullied and Dothraki bloodriders. There are women following her, too, who act as ladies-in-waiting and maids and cupbearers; she has musicians and dancers and gymnasts and talented cooks and tailors and seamstresses, jewellers and armourers and probably freed bed-slaves who keep her company (as in the books).