Arya

Arya narrowly escaped Septa Mordane's embroidery lessons. She had better things to do.

One of those things was meeting the men of the Far Easter Host. From the rumours, it seemed that most hailed from places no Westerosi had arrived before and that there were demons, snarks and grumpkins in their ranks.

How exciting! I've always wanted to see a snark in real life!

From what Harvin had said, the Host is staying in the Guests Hall, the third greatest keep of Winterfell, only outclassed by the Old Keep and the Great Keep. The Stark ancestral seat was vast and impenetrable, with two rings of walls protecting what was inside. Father had said that during peacetime, it was impossible to fully maintain them. Only a force of twenty thousand men could manage to do it. Winterfell was truly the North's greatest castle, it never fell under siege before. Only Royce II and Royce IV Bolton managed to capture it. With deceit, obviously. The two didn't end well, both had their heads on a spike once the Winter Kings retook their seat. The two times the people of Winterfell rebelled in the night, and slaughtered the Red King's garrisoning army.

Arya dirtied herself. No one would question her identity if she blended in. She would pass as a farmer's daughter, tasked with selling carrots to the Host's members. She picked up the carrot sack and walked towards the Guest's Keep square.

She arrived ten minutes later, and the square was full of soldiers... drilling. The training grounds weren't big enough for all the Host, so they trained with what they could.

"Carrots! Carrots! Carrots free of charge!" She started shouting. Some of the men took one, thanking her. Arya loved being alongside the soldiers, they were less restrained than the courtiers and more honest with her. She could recall how often she watched the guardsmen fight. It was entertaining.

A particular duel got her attention: there were two men with odd lamellar armour fighting, one with a strange glaive and the other with... a giant rolling pin? With some iron protrusions in the striking end.

They fought relentlessly, with the glaive warrior victorious. She clapped animatedly alongside the other watchers. It was a great spar, Arya hadn't ever seen such a skilled man fighting with a glaive.

"Hey, I think I've seen you before." A voice behind Arya said. She turned quickly and saw a strange man with black leather armour. His face was hidden behind a black hood, and Arya could not decipher his ligaments.

She shook her head, "Nay, my Lord. I'm just a simple farmer's daughter giving away carrots. Would you want one?"

She could hear a small chuckle from the man, "I'm no Lord." He said, "Thank you nonetheless." He took the carrot, and Arya tried slipping away. She couldn't be recognised, or her cover would be blown.

But a hand grasped her shoulder, "Hmm, you're Lord Stark's daughter. I saw you when the Host entered Winterfell."

Seven hells.

She sighed, and the stranger laughed. "I knew it, a farmer's daughter wouldn't carry herself so nobly."

"Don't tell my father, please!" She pleaded.

"Tell your father what?"

Bollocks.

And the man in black leather slipped away.

Cunt.

Her father was alongside the glaive warrior, now without his helmet. "What are you doing here, Arya? And why aren't you attending Septa Mordane's lessons?"

"There are better things to do than embroidering..." She muttered, "I want to learn how to fight! What should I do when an Other attacks me? Poke him with a needle?"

Father rubbed his face, while the warrior laughed merrily. "This one is fierce! How old is she?" Gods, he has an atrocious accent.

"Ten." She answered.

The man rubbed his great moustache, "Hmm, perhaps I could teach you something, if Lord Stark agrees."

"Really!?" She beamed.

Father's brows furrowed, "Truly? It wouldn't be a burden for you?"

The man shook his head, "Nyet, Lord Stark. There's no problem with that."

Father sighed. "Very well, Rotislav. You can begin tomorrow, now my daughter must be elsewhere. Go take a bath, or the Septa will have a stroke."

Arya jumped in joy. Finally, she was going to become the world's fiercest warrior!

She waved at Father and her new teacher, and ran away.

But she won't do as Father asked, at least how he intended for her to bathe. Arya was going to the Godswood. She would relax in the small lake before the Weirwood tree. She sometimes went there to skip her lessons, Arya liked the contrast between the chilling air and the hot water.

She reached the clearing and checked if Jorund was there. It's deserted. Good.

He found her once: the God didn't like it one bit. 'You must learn the ways of womanhood', he said, 'You must be fierce, but also know your way around the court.'

She sighed. Arya didn't want to marry, she didn't care about the frivolities of court. All she wanted was to fight, and be the greatest knight alive! Bards will write songs about her and be remembered for centuries to come!

She settled near the lake's border and stripped herself naked. Arya then dived, splashing water everywhere. She giggled at the chaos she created, but a sudden screech got her attention.

Arya remained baffled when a small creature appeared from thin air, all wet from the splash.

The creature's eyes widened once it realised of being discovered. Arya instinctually submerged her whole body, only her head remaining out of the water.

"What... are you?" She asked. But as she studied its appearance, a realisation dawned, "Are you a Child of the Forest!?"

The supposed child jerked back for Arya's enthusiasm, "N-Not really. I am a Woodwalker, the Children are our cousins..."

Arya was trembling in amazement. She found a legendary creature, in Winterfell nonetheless!

"From where did you come from? What is the difference between a Woodwalker and a Child of the Forest?" She asked, mayhaps a bit too excitedly.

The Woodwalker's face reddened, "I am from the Kingdom of Ifequevron, near Ibben... I came here with the Host, to reconnect with our cousins."

Arya nodded, "Can you sing? I heard the Children of the Forest sing to heal wounds and cast magic!"

He shook his head, "N-No... we Woodwalkers don't sing." He seemed melancholic, "Silence is our magic..."

Arya was confused by such a definition, but after mere seconds she understood.

It was as if the time around them stilled. A feeling of... well-being encroached her. Arya felt her head float on the water, devoid of any thought. She could sense every tiny movement, whether a small animal or the wind blowing. Everything was silent, but at the same time, she had never heard this much in her life.

Suddenly, the spell broke. Everything was back to normal, and Arya remained flabbergasted. "This... this is INCREDIBLE! How did you do it?!" She emerged from the pond and dried herself.

"A-As I've said, this is our magic." He seemed embarrassed, "Call me Aratrim. It's my name."

She nodded energetically, "I am Arya! Daughter of Lord Stark."

"I guessed as much..." Aratrim smiled thinly, "It's a pleasure, Arya Stark."

They clasped hands. Arya had made a new friend.


Eddard

"Thank you, Rotislav. I will report everything to King Robert at once."

"No need to thank me. Every life of Essos is at stake, this information should reach the right hands."

The Mussovian bade hood night, leaving Eddard alone. The new reports from Essos troubled him, the crisis was spiralling out of control.

The Scourge has reached the Three Daughters. Myr is in a state of total anarchy, and is by far the city more affected by the maddening plague. The Council of Magisters was lost in the chaos, and the city militia stood without orders.

Lys stood unaffected, their distance from the coast being their blessing. But the mainland was a different story, with many villages and towns falling in disarray.

Volantis has been faring decently, the Triarchs have managed to quell the initial spread, but the city has been running low on supplies. If the situation doesn't change, doom will be assured for Valyria's eldest daughter.

Tyrosh still hasn't been hit by any means. The Archon has declared a state of emergency beforehand and has closed all trade with the east. They lost most of their trade routes, but the risk of infection is shallow. But it seemed that the Archon wished to compensate, and he opened the free city to Westerosi trade. The Tyroshi are known to be greedy, so this search for profit doesn't surprise Eddard.

Qarth has been completely silent as of now. Eddard could assume the worst has happened, and that the city has completely fallen. May the Gods help them.

The plague hasn't reached northern Essos, facilitating the Host's latest voyages. But they had other trouble to deal with.

The Ibbenese-Dothraki war was still raging. Ibben has been victorious in the battle of Ibbish, the God-King has driven away the Dothraki and liberated the former colony. Tagd has been very... colourful, with his slander against the horse lords, mostly revolving around them fucking their horses.

Nonetheless, this was a terrible defeat for the Dothraki. For the first time, they have been driven away from their lands. Now rumours are circulating that the Tall Men wish to intervene, hoping to restore the Kingdom of Sarnor.

Eddard wished this conflict to be resolved soon, or many would have their lives forfeited.

Eddard passed through Wintertown's main square and found Melisandre doing a ritual for her fire God. Some members of the Host were attending, but also some curious Northmen. As always, a burning pyre was set up, and Melisandre chanted R'hllor's message.

"May R'hllor bless us with fire! For the Night is dark and full of terrors!"

Most of the attending cheered, but the Northmen just stared in confusion.

Ned walked away. He had more important affairs to settle.

Eddard knocked on the door three times, and an old man opened, "Mikken, thank you for staying here late. Your help is appreciated."

The blacksmith inclined his head, "There's no trouble, m'Lord. This is not the first time I have stayed at the forge till this hour."

Eddard entered the smithy. Mikken's was the biggest in Winterfell. Usually, his apprentices ran left and right, but at this hour, everyone was sleeping, leaving only the two men talking.

"'Tis strange for you to be interested in learning, m'Lord. What pushed you to acquire this skill?"

Eddard grabbed Brandon's hammer from the bag, laying it on the nearby table. "This. Take a look."

Mikken studied the weapon carefully, tracing the engravings and testing the metal. "This... Gods..." He lifted it, "Where did you find such beautiful work?"

"The crypts. Some moons ago, we discovered a new hall, the one where Brandon the Builder was buried. This hammer was by the statue, and when I touched it, I received a vision..."

Eddard explained everything they had discovered these last weeks. The blacksmith stared at the hammer in wonder. "So, Brandon used this hammer to forge dragonglass weapons...?"

Mikken lost himself in his thoughts for some minutes, "I may have an idea. M'Lord, do as I say. Perhaps it will work."

Eddard nodded and watched the blacksmith prepare the forge.

"Dragonglass is a brittle thing, but as you said, Starke managed to forge entire weapons made from it. If he used this hammer, then that means that he didn't knap it. To smelt it, you need extremely high temperatures a normal forge wouldn't be able to create," He smiled, "But I have a trick up my sleeve."

He produced a small vial from a cabinet. The liquid inside it was green. It was wildfire. The same thing that killed his father.

Mikken snapped him out of his thoughts, "So I use wildfire. I don't have much of it, but it melts anything exposed to it. Everything, minus Valyrian Steel."

"M'Lord, this secret must remain between us. My master revealed that Winterfell's smeltery is covered with Valyrian steel."

"What?!" Eddard asked, "How did the Kings of Winter afford such a thing? It would be worth a King's ransom!"

"That's what I thought! Probably the Valyrians had some debt to the Northmen, for what I do not know."

Mikken dropped some wildfire inside the drain, and the smeltery roared with green fire, "Watch." He said.

Mikken inserted the dragonglass in the smelter. After some minutes, a molten liquid filled the tank, and Mikken drained it into the sword form. "Now we wait for some minutes."

The molten obsidian rested for some time. Eddard then felt Brandon's Hammer resonate. "Gods..." Eddard said, "The hammer is pulling itself towards the dragonglass..."

Eddard approached the cast, hammer in hand. His eyes widened as it emitted blue sparks, which fell upon the molten liquid.

Mikken stared dumbfounded as the obsidian started to solidify, "Others take me... it's sturdy!" He removed the blade from the cast, laying it in the anvil, "Now, hammer it as I say..."

Mullen explained to Eddard where to hit the blade to forge it properly. After some minutes, it was ready. Mikken inserted the grip, pommel and guard.

It was sharp and tough. Mikken tried cutting a staff, and it did not break, "By the Old Gods and New... this is incredible."

Eddard tried a few test swings, "We need to forge more of these... Mikken, I count on you. Teach me your methods, I will be the North's forge."

Before Mikken could answer, Maester Luwin broke through the door, "My Lord! I've finally found you!"

Luwin was frantic, as if something terrible had occurred. "Luwin... what happened?" Eddard cautiously asked.

"This," He handed Ned a letter, "Read."

Eddard raised an eyebrow and began to scan the contents.

His eyes widened. The Lord of Winterfell felt light in the head. No... this is madness...

Robert's children aren't his...


The King of Westeros

Wolves, stags, lions, trouts...

Scattered around the room, countless carcasses rotted on the ground. A boy king sat on the Iron Throne.

Before it laid two dead lion cubs, one had a nasty gash on its muzzle, and the other was crushed, as if it fell from a high tower.

Staining the boy's soles, the carcasses of 4 beasts rot, impaled on the Iron Throne's blades. A headless wolf, two charred, unrecognisable horned creatures and a squid, bluish and still wet.

The boy's hands were scarred, as if he had cut himself while sitting on the throne. His skin was deep purple, with red lines across his face.

A cold squall.

Robert landed at the bottom of the throne. He turned, and saw a pale creature with blue eyes slowly walking towards him.

Robert could not move. He was mesmerised by those deep, blue eyes...

Robert cried. He had never seen such magnificence.

His legs failed him, Robert felt powerless before it.

The creature raised its sword, ready to cut him down.

Robert closed his eyes.

Fire.

The room was aflame, everything burned.

But not Robert. He withstood the blaze, no heat could scathe him.

A figure landed before him.

A dragon.

It looked at him, and Robert stared back.

For a fleeting moment, they were one.