Jon

Lord Willas had offered to host King Aegon in Highgarden, a small feast to celebrate victory over the Ironmen. They had thought that such an event would raise morale and allow a little more time for reinforcements to come. The flotsam of the three battles at Bitterbridge, the Cockleswent, the Feast for Crows, and the Ironmen raids, not to mention the levies scraped from the bottom of the barrel as the loyalist houses rallied their last men to King Aegon's cause. House Rowan was chief among them, Jon had returned from the Battle at Waxley to Highgarden to find Lady Bethany Redwyne, Lord Mathis' lady wife, his eldest daughter, Serra, and two thousand fresh troops waiting. There were more besides that, a few thousand smallfolk who'd fled the Ironmen for Highgarden's safety had been taken into the castle as well.

Plans for a great feast, however, were quickly set aside when the Lord Willas entered Highgarden in the bed of a wagon. The arrow that had injured him was still embedded in his neck, just above his collar bone, the maesters hadn't removed it for fear that the barbs would pierce his heart or the veins and arteries surrounding it, as it was, the wound was growing infected.

Jon, of course, hadn't been privy to the meeting between Lord Willas and his family, but afterward, he'd overheard Lady Margaery crying in the gardens, while Lord Willas' mother Lady Alerie Hightower had reclused herself to the solace of her sept, and Ser Garlan was alone in his chambers with his lady wife. As for the Queen of Thornes, she rested in her gardens kept company only by her twin bodyguards and favourite fool. He knew already of the tragedies that had befallen House Tyrell in this war.

Baelish told him how Ser Loras had been ripped apart by Stannis' dragonfire at Storm's End, a battle called the Second Field of Fire, or so the lord of the mockingbird sang. Lord Mathis told him, after some prodding, how Joffrey himself had cut Lord Mace down with his sword, even as Lord Mace stood over the slain body of Tywin Lannister. Jon could hardly believe that the Fat Flower had been so bold, he could believe that he'd been that foolish. If the fat fool hadn't wasted his army at Storm's End Rhaegar would reign and it would have been Robert who died on a field somewhere. The most recent blow to House Tyrell was still in midswing, Lord Willas lay dying as his flesh turned green and his blood turned black.

"The infection has entered his blood," Maester Lomys said to Jon when he pressed him with the full authority of the Hand of the King. "The arrow is cruelly barbed so we cannot easily pull it free, but we cannot push it through as it would enter his heart. The only way would be to perform surgery."

"Is that possible?" Jon asked.

"Theoretically… yes," the maester nodded his head. "Practically… no. The pain would be very great, Lord Willas would have to be drugged to near the point of death, and he might die regardless. One wrong cut would sever and artery, or perhaps even pierce his heart, and then there are the ribs to consider."

"So Lord Willas will die?"

"Sooner or later yes," the old man admitted, wiping a tear away.

For all their oaths of neutrality, most maesters developed strong feelings for the house they served. Many viewed their charges almost like their own children, Jon's maester had been like that, it seemed Maester Lomys was no exception.

"Do what you can," he said. "Let him die quickly, peacefully, not in pain. That's the only gift left to give, the gift of mercy." Jon left the old man alone with his potions.

It made no sense, Jon thought as he stalked the halls of Highgarden. Lord Willas had been cautious and had kept himself well away from the front lines, surrounded by bodyguards, and still, an arrow had found its mark, an inch higher and he would have been killed outright. Instead, he was left to slowly suffer and die. He was out of arrow shot, by fifty yards or more. Maybe a dragonbone bow could have reached that far, but nothing else, and at that range to be so precise. "An act of the gods," he said to himself, pushing the undercurrent of unease out of his mind.

He made his way to the indulgent set of chambers set aside for the king and his court. Though he walked past his own room going instead to Aegon's. He opened the door without waiting or knocking, giving Ser Rolly a nod as he did, and stepped inside. Aegon had closed the drapes, putting his room in darkness, a fire was already lit, and the king was staring into its burning depths.

Jon suppressed a shiver, with the light of the fire rippling across his face Aegon looked much like his grandfather. He sat down opposite the king without a word of greeting. "We must hold a feast," he said to Aegon.

"You want me to feast and drink while a man lays dying?" King Aegon responded, the fire he stared into had turned his eyes a dark red.

"Yes. Waxley was barely a victory. We sent the ironmen to flight but only just. I've set Varys to work hiring every singer and bard between Waxley and Highgarden to sing your praises. The men need this, for their morale, they need to know that they didn't watch their friends drown for nothing."

"What of our hosts, should I expect to drink hand in hand with Ser Garlan and Lady Alerie?"

Jon's finger reached up to play with his beard while he thought. "No," he said after a few seconds. "I'll speak to them and ask them to speak at the start of the feast. Then they can go to Lord Willas' side. The feast can be in his honour."

Aegon was silent for a long minute. "Alright," he said. "Let there be a feast, but only if the Tyrells agree."

"Good." Another silent moment of passed between the two men. "That battle should never have happened," Jon said. "At least not like that."

"You want me to be a butcher then," Aegon said it wasn't a question.

"I want to see you sit on the Iron Throne. I want to see you take your rightful place in King's Landing. I want to see you throw down the Baratheons, these usurpers. Every day that Stannis claims to be king is another day your father is dishonored. You can't win without sacrifice. I had the chance to kill Robert, and I didn't take it. Because of that, your father died, and I can never make that right. But I won't let you repeat my mistakes. Consider Waxley to be the only mistake you'll ever be allowed to make." Jon stood. "Goodnight, Your Grace."

As he closed the door behind himself, he heard Aegon say. "Goodnight, my lord."

Jon made his way quickly to Ser Garlan's chambers, a floor below those of the Lord of Highgarden's rooms, and a five minute walk away from where Lord Willas was dying on the same floor. The door was open and he could hear Ser Garlan and Lady Leonette speaking quietly inside, so he didn't hesitate before making himself known. "Ser Garlan," he said as he stepped up to the open door, carefully staying just outside. "May we speak?"

Ser Garlan and his lady wife were sitting in a large and comfy-looking padded chair, wide enough for the two of them to sit side by side. Ser Garlan had his head in his hands, while Lady Leonette's arm was around his shoulders. The soon to be, lord of Highgarden looked up, his eyes were red. "Yes, my lord. Yes of course." His voice was hoarse.

Jon's eyes twitched to Lady Leonette before returning to Ser Garlan. "Alone," he prompted.

Ser Garlan shook his head. "No, Leonette can stay."

The dainty Fossoway girl leaned in closer to her husband.

"As you wish." Jon stepped inside.

"Please my lord," Leonette said, motioning toward an empty chair by the fireplace.

"Thank you," Jon took a seat by the empty heart

"Did the king send you?" Ser Garlan asked.

"No," Jon said. A moment of silence passed. Jon shifted awkwardly in his chair. "Lord Willas and I had discussed holding a feast after the battle. For the men, you see, for the men."

"You want to drink and frolic while my brother lies in his deathbed?" Ser Garlan asked hoarsely.

"Of course not," Jon said quickly, he sighed. "I only spoke to Lord Willas a handful of times, but even in such little time, he earned my respect, and I have no desire to dishonour him, but this is a necessity."

"A necessity, hah," Ser Garlan's head returned to his hands.

Jon had no desire to repeat the arguments he'd made to Aegon again. Thankfully Leonette came to his rescue.

"Perhaps it is," She said. "The men need a victory. When was their last one that was unsoiled in some fashion? The Feast for Crows?" She shook her head.

"I won't force you to be there," Jon said. "Simply give His Grace access to your stores."

"Fine," Garlan said. "Fine. But I'll be there. For a few minutes at least."

Jon nodded. "Alright. Thank you mi'lord." Jon stood. "Will a day be enough time to prepare?"

Leonette answered for her husband. "A feast is never far away in Highgarden. That will be enough time, not for anything special, but enough time nonetheless."

"Thank you, my lady," Jon stood and have the future lord and lady of Highgarden a short bow. Then he left, trusting Lady Leonette to handle all the preparations.

The feast started soberly enough, but wine soon brought out the cheer in some people. Hams and geese, and platters of roasted vegetables took up the centre of the tables, while bread stuffed with dried fruit and nuts, wines, and ales took up the space around them. In the centre of the hall was a huge stag roasting on an open spit. King Aegon and his lords and commanders sat at the high table, granted a place of honour by Ser Garlan. Other notables were seated below them, knights filled the rest of the hall, while in the courtyards and fields outside, the common soldiery feasted under the night sky. The bounty of Highgarden had been laid out for them.

There would be only a few courses, while Highgarden's bounty was more than enough to feed everyone there wouldn't be a terrible amount of variety or memorable dishes. That's fine, Jon thought as he lifted his first cup of Arbor gold to his lips, wine and ale and song will suffice to raise morale.

Ser Garlan left midway through the first course of shrimp soup, clumsily asking Aegon's permission to go to his brother's side, which was courteously granted of course.

More food came fresh from the kitchens, sweet and fruity dishes, for the most part, followed by yet more barrels of wine. King Aegon drank often and deeply, something Jon had never allowed him, and now the boy was taking advantage of the feast to drink his fill. Jon shook his head and stood, aiming to clear his own head with a walk in the night air. He walked down the hall to the small door, and the hallway it hid that led onto the parapets.

The night air was surprisingly brisk for the Reach, the wind was from the north, and it was cold.

"I hadn't expected to meet anyone else here," someone said.

Jon turned. "Lord Varys." The bald eunuch was wrapped in a thick cloak. "Enjoying the party?"

"I could ask you the same question. Mmm. I never fit in at feasts, even during Aerys' day when I was his favourite, I'd leave as soon as I could."

"I remember," Jon said. "Aerys hated people leaving, thought it disrespectful, but you always got away with it. Why is that?"

"Because I'm useful, that's why Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon kept me around too."

"Their mistake."

"Indeed."

A moment passed before Varys interrupted the silence. "I have a report, something that needs to be kept private."

"Mhm."

"Lord Alester is doing an admirable job of keeping things quiet, but Princess Shireen hasn't been seen in the capital for weeks now."

It took Jon a moment before he could respond. "Is she ill? Speak plainly please."

"Not so far as I know, in fact, she isn't even in the capital."

"You kidnapped her?"

"Myself and Lord Baelish, mmmm, collaborated. I provided the means, and he provided the blunt instruments."

"Where is she now?"

"I'll admit I'm unsure, she was supposed to be in Pentos by now, but there's no sign of her or our agents."

"You lost a princess," Jon said dryly.

"So did Stannis," Varys responded.

"Why aren't you shouting this from the rooftops?"

"King Aegon has a certain reputation to uphold, one that would be undermined by such subterfuge. The news will get out eventually anyway, and Lord Alester's attempted cover-up might make it seem even worse."

"All the reward less of the risk."

"Exactly."

"What about your, blunt instruments? Who are they?"

"Pious lords who were displeased by Stannis turning to the Red God. They haven't been captured that much I know. When my little birds sing more songs I'll tell you."

Jon nodded. "Good. Let's not trouble our king's mind with this just yet."

"As you wish my lord Hand."

Jon lifted his hands from the parapet. "Will I see you later at the feast?"

"No my lord, I'm quite ready for bed."

"Then goodnight Lord Varys."

"Goodnight Lord Jon."

Jon turned on his heel and returned to the feast, the warmth from the hearths was welcome after the unseasonal chill. His eyes were drawn inexorably to the high table, where he failed to find King Aegon. He hurried up the hall, trying not to look like he was hurrying.

"An excellent display of His Grace's well… his grace," Petyr Baelish said with a smile as he stood to block Jon's path back to the high table.

"Yes, very nice. Humph," Jon grunted. He looked up, his eyebrow twitching. "Where is King Aegon anyhow?" He looked up and down Highgarden's great hall. There was no sign of the King.

Baelish hummed with a pleasant smile on his face. "Oh he left not ten minutes ago, m'lord."

"Alone?"

"No. He was hand in hand with a young lady."

Jon's heart sunk and he took a quick look around the hall. There, Princess Arianne was seated between Prince Oberyn and Lord Dagos Manwoody. Good, but if not her then who?

Movement caught his eye, Lord Mathis and Lady Bethany were looking around as well, both seemed to be a little more nervous than Jon would have liked. Jon left Baelish, walking past and studiously ignoring the Lord and Lady of Goldengrove.

He reached the small door closest to the high table.

"Who was with the king?" He asked the green cloaked guard.

"I didn't recognize her, m'lord."

"What was she wearing then? Any house colours? Symbols? Anything?"

"Black m' lord, with seven-pointed stars in silver on the bodice."

"Useless," Jon left the guard at the door and paced along the back wall of the great hall. He racked his brain for all the young women at this feast. None of the Tyrell cousins weren't present, but they hadn't come in the first place. Serra Rowan, he looked around, he didn't see her. His eyes shifted to the Lord and Lady of Goldengrove. Jon locked eyes with Lord Mathis. Jon jerked his chin in the direction of the door then looked at the empty seats the first where Lady Serra Rowan had sat and the other where King Aegon had been at one point. His gaze went back to Lord Mathis, who looked like he'd swallowed some spicy Dornish dish, his face was so red, beside him Lady Bethany was white with shock.

Tyrion

A week's march south of Castle Black and the great wildling host split in two. The greater part turned off the road, heading west, into the northeasternmost reaches of the Wolfswood. While larger it was also the weaker of the two halves. Morna White Mask led tens of thousands of women, children, the elderly, and a small number of handpicked warriors into the woods, while Mance kept the majority of the warriors with him.

"They'll take the Wolfswood," Jon said. "And the Stony Shore, and Sea Dragon Point. There aren't enough Northmen to hold it, all the warriors are gone to the south or to Robb."

"Or already killed by the Ironmen," Tyrion said. "Even from the grave, Balon Greyjoy makes things difficult for everyone."

"It'll be a damnable task to drive them out of that forest," Grenn said.

"It'll never be done," Jon shook his head. "The ancient kings of House Stark, drove the Blackwoods from that forest, only with aid from their greatest vassal, House Glover. Even then the wars took nearly a century. The Free Folk won't do that, none of them would help a Stark," Jon sighed. "Or Bolton take the Wolfswood again. At least not anytime this century."

"The only way would be to kill them all and resettle the land with Northmen," Tyrion said. "And that would be costly, to say the least."

"In men and gold," Lancel added.

"The only opportunity would be to catch them when they're all in one place when they're on the march," Tyrion said. "Scatter them, ride them down, and then send the clansmen and soldiers after them. Even then, there'd be trouble for decades."

"Mance will stop that," Jon said. "The people go to take their new lands, while the warriors wreak havoc."

"The wildlings will never beat an army on the field, even if they had ten times the numbers," Tyrion said.

"Mance knows," Jon replied. "He doesn't need to win. He just needs to not lose, to distract the Northern armies, while all his people claim their new homes," Jon bowed his head. "Mance Rayder has already won, all that remains is to find out how great his victory will be."

Tyrion sighed as they stood still for a few more seconds. "What's your plan then?" He asked Jon. "I can't imagine you want to help the wildlings."

Pyp perked up and looked between Jon and Tyrion. "If anyone catches us… We're dead."

"You'll be fine," Tyrion said. "A change of clothes and no one would ever know you were a man of the Night's Watch. The three of us," he waved at himself, Jon, and Lancel. "The people with the executioner's blocks will actually care about us."

Grenn snorted derisively but didn't disagree.

Jon sighed. "I don't know."

"We'll figure something out," Tyrion said.

Lancel squeaked, not unlike a mouse.

"That's the tiniest lion I've ever heard," Pyp said.

Tyrion snorted.

"It, it's snowing," Lancel said. He held out a hand and caught a snowflake.

Tyrion looked up and blinked rapidly as more of the little white bits tried to land in his eyes. The grey clouds had opened up and white was falling to cover trees and fields and castles alike.

Over the next week, Mance split the host further, again and again, sending raiding parties out to ravage and plunder, and splitting into smaller contingents that would move quickly over rough country. Tyrion and the other deserters joined Tormund Giantsbane as he led a tiny fraction of the great horde east. They broke from the main army and headed east, to the lands south of Long Lake, where Jon said Bolton, Stark, and Umber lands met.

Tormund kept no secrets from them, he assembled his force, five hundred or so warriors and spearwives, and told them what was happening over dinner. "A bunch of Rattleshirt's boys came running back to camp talking about kneelers in pink and red watching the woods and guarding the villages.

"How many?" A woman asked.

Tyrion watched Jon do a double-take as he looked around for the source of the voice. His girl again.

"Too many to fight Ygritte," Tormund said. "We're just going to tweak their noses, pull their ears, and keep them busy. Too busy to follow Mance south. Now drink lads! Drink!"

Despite all the ale and mead, the night passed uneventfully, and when dawn came the company of wildlings marched onward. Over the days of marching, the hundreds of warriors spread out, and as the miles passed by bands, and companies broke off to take their sow own paths fire and fear under the command of Tormund's son Toregg and his goodson Longspear Ryk. Tormund was left with only fifty and a hundred men.

Tyrion struggled to keep up with the pace of the march, his stunted legs ached with cramps, and after the first few days, he had to surrender his pride and ask one of the others to carry him. It was Grenn who took up that duty. The big man hefted Tyrion onto his back and kept running with hardly a sign of exertion. The endless forest of tall pines they trekked through was interspersed with holdfasts and villages that the wildlings avoided. He wasn't sure if the lands they were in now were sworn to Stark, Bolton, or Umber, but regardless each of those houses had raised their levies months ago and had left only the young and the old to guard their homes and farms.

More days went by, and they travelled past the shores of Long Lake, into what was certainly Bolton territory. The holdfasts here were better stocked with men. Dozens of banners flew from the towers of the holdfasts, most of them belonged to houses so small neither Jon or Tyrion could remember their names. But here and there were the banners of Karstark, Ryswell, Dustin, and Bolton, five of the greatest houses in the North.

"They all turned on Robb," Jon said quietly to Tyrion one night, as the leaves rustled in the cold wind. They were both bundled in their cloaks, with the potential for Northmen all around none dared to light a fire. "All of them."

"Not all," Tyrion said quietly. "No Manderly or Mormont banners, nor Glover or Umber."

"Not enough," Jon said. "Not with Mance on the wrong side of the Wall, not with… Not with flayed men defending the North instead of direwolves."

"If the flayed men are here, then at least they aren't fighting the direwolf elsewhere."

Jon shook his head. "The North hates the wildlings, Roose turning to fight them instead of Robb will only win him more men."

"And if Robb does the same?"

"That might help, but… it doesn't answer why Robb didn't come north earlier. The Night's Watch asked for help…"

"Honestly Jon, when the that once in a blue moon time came that the maester in Casterly Rock received ravens from Castle Black, they often went unopened. He probably never even knew that there was a threat."

Jon stood without a word, and retired to his bedroll, the cold wind rose to a howl for a minute before dying down again. Tyrion followed suit a minute later.

The next day, the scouts and skinchangers found a company of Bolton men travelling in the woods. Perhaps they were meant to be hunting them. The wildling scouts shadowed the company for the better part of a day before they made camp between two villages.

"A hundred or more," the scout said to Tormund as night fell. "A few ahorse, many few in mail, with swords and axes and lances."

"Then we'll catch 'em tonight," Tormund roared. "And take their metal shirts for our own."

Night fell, and they crept in close to the Northman camp, moving slowly over several hours so that by the time they were in sight, the first light of dawn was only a few hours away. There were perhaps a hundred of them, just as the scouts had said, camped in the centre of a clearing with their fires still burning strong despite the late hour, and most of the men were still asleep. The banners hung limp, and the dark disguised the symbol on them, but even so, the light from the flames was just enough to reveal the red and pink of House Bolton.

An owl hooted to Tyrion's left, a raven croaked to his right.

"Now," Jon said, he drew his bastard sword, the Valyrian steel blade was dark as sin, he slipped forward, the others followed, drawing their blades.

Tyrion hefted his crossbow, shivering in the cold night air, and followed as well. The tall pines cast long shadows. They crept to the edge of the clearing, then a warhorn sounded, and they charged. Tyrion aimed and shot his crossbow at a rising shape silhouetted by the fire, but his aim was false, the bolt missed, and the shape took of a man with a shield and axe. More war horns sounded, and the shouting was now raised inside the camp. Tents were overthrown and men hastily armed with shields, axes, and swords rushed out of them. A few had armour, perhaps those who'd been standing guard, but most were without their armour.

Tyrion rushed forward as quickly as he could, slinging his crossbow and drawing and his axe. The Boltons were forming a loose wall of shields near the centre of their camp. The wildlings crashed into them howling in fury and rage. Jon came in with Longclaw slashing and cutting with gritted teeth, Grenn, Pyp, and Lancel followed in behind him. Tyrion held back, unwilling to dive into the crush without need. Instead, he watched as the Boltons slowly fell back to the centre of their camp, hacking and chopping at the wildlings as their ranks tightened. Before long the wildlings were holding back, unwilling to press the Northmen who refused to rout. Within a minute a no man's land ten yards wide separated the lines.

One of the Northmen pushed through the press and glowered at the surrounding wildlings. He was a young man with blotchy skin and sloped shoulders, his broad nose, and ugly face sneered out from beneath his open visor. Pink and red decorated his surcoat.

"Savages," he cried. "Savages! Savages! Barely even human. You come to my father's lands to rape and burn, but when faced with Northern courage your true cowardice shows."

"Coward am I!" Tormund roared, brandishing his axe. "Then come face me you little shit! I am Tormund Giantsbane! Thunderfist! Horn-blower and Breaker of Ice! I speak to gods, and I've fathered hosts! What do you say to that bastard!"

"I am no bastard!" The Northman roared, in turn, brandishing a falchion. "I am Ramsay, the rightful heir of the Dreadfort, son of Roose Bolton, the Warden of the North!"

"You are a bastard!" Tyrion heard Jon shout. "Domeric Bolton is years dead and Roose has no other trueborn sons!"

"Who said that?" Ramsay shouted. "Who!"

"There my lord!" A spearman pointed his spear at Jon. "The one with the bastard sword."

Ramsay pushed his way through the press, getting closer to Jon, but never leaving the safety of his soldiers. Tyrion drew his crossbow again and began reloading, awkwardly fitting the goat foot lever onto the stock.

"Who are you!" Ramsay shouted. "That blade's too fine a weapon for one of these savages," he sneered.

Jon said nothing.

"He wears sheepskin cloak," a Bolton soldier shouted. "But his clothes are black all of them! He's a deserter!"

"There's another one!"

"And there the dwarf's all in black too!"

"Deserter!"

"Traitor!"

"You betrayed the North first," Jon shouted back. "Your father turned his back on Robb Stark!"

"And why do blackhearted, rapist, deserting scum care about the Starks?" Ramsay asked. "Where'd you get that sword eh, that's Valyrian steel isn't it?"

Tyrion, at last, hauled the lever off the crossbow and placed a bolt on the stock. He forced his way past some of the wildlings and aimed at the Bastard of Bolton. Again, his aim was off, instead of taking the bastard in the neck, the bolt bounced off his helm, making him shriek, and fall back into the enemy ranks.

A Bolton man acted quickly, throwing a spear in Tyrion's direction, but instead, it struck a wildling in the leg. Everything erupted in seconds, from the tense quiet of the stalemate to furious violence as the wildlings rushed forward, and the Northmen rallied to meet them. Shields and weapons crashed together, while spears and javelins went flying in both directions. Tyrion didn't charge in with the rest, he didn't fancy the idea of being trampled by either side. The wildlings charged, but they couldn't break the Northmen. Tyrion stepped away from the fighting, swiftly followed by the wildlings who'd lost their taste for fighting.

The Bastard of the Dreadfort was wildly swinging his falchion at Jon, who responded in kind with Longclaw. Lancel ran a Northman through but caught an axe blow on the shoulder and was pulled back by Grenn. Pyp was lying in the dirty snow, nursing his hip. Tyrion chose then to enter the fray, ducking under a wildling's shield, and swinging his axe at the shins of the naked Northman threatening Pyp. He fell, and a wildling jumped over Tyrion, and began laying about with a club, only to have a spear driven through his throat a second later. The wildling fell back onto Tyrion, knocking him to the ground, when he pulled himself free the battle line had shifted, and Pyp was gone.

Tyrion fell back, along with some of the other wounded wildlings, some but not all, many were so consumed by their battle lust that they ignored their injuries, the same held true for the Northmen, or at least, knowing that they had nowhere to run they kept fighting. The fierce melee eventually faded as the wildlings fell back once again, leaving dozens of Northern corpses on the ground, and more than a few wildlings as well. By now, the light of dawn was beginning to shine on the distant horizon. The Northmen, now perhaps half the number that there had been when the night started, still held their ground, near the centre of the camp. Stalemate, again, but the wildlings had had free run of the camp, so they took armour, weapons, and all kinds of loot and loaded it onto their backs and stolen horses. A horn blew, and the wildlings began to retreat, ignoring the jeering shouts of the remaining Northmen.

They ran for the rest of the day, heading deep into the woods before making camp on the bank of a small shallow river, complete with the water bubbling pleasantly over rocks. The sun was beginning to set. More than a few wildlings wasted little time before jumping naked into the river and then warming themselves on the fires their comrades had lit while taking stock of the loot.

For his part, Tyrion just sat and rubbed his aching legs. He had no plunder to keep count of, nor did he have any desire to squabble over baubles he doubted he'd have even considered being treasure before coming to the Wall.

"Pyp," Grenn shouted. "Pyp where are you!" The big man looked lost.

"Tyrion," Jon said. "Did you see where Pyp went?"

Tyrion almost shook his head but paused. "He, he was injured, but I lost sight of him."

"If he's not here…" Grenn sat on the ground, wiping away a tear, Jon sat beside him.

Arya

Gentle winds carried the Braavosi ship east into the Narrow Sea, then the slow turn north began. The going was slow and difficult, as the ship had to change its tack this way and that to catch the rare winds that came from the south. By and large, the wind most commonly came from the north, bringing the frigid air of the Shivering Sea with it. Not that Arya or Shireen ever felt the wind on their cheeks, their captors kept them locked inside the cabin and took turns watching them. Their only fresh air came from the rare minutes when freezing rain wasn't falling, and their captors would let the small cabin window be unbarred and open.

Three days out of Duskendale the storms began, they started small, though even that was enough to send the boat rocking this way and that, as waves slammed into the wood. The ship shuddered in the fury from the north. The storms intensified, growing stronger, and more furious. "The first of the great winter storms," Shireen said to Arya as they huddled in the cabin, trying to sleep despite being knocked this way and that by the wrath of water and wind all around them. The storms grew so fierce the ship turned back west, away from Braavos. Their captors were furious and argued about what to do.

"We should kill the captain and take the ship," Osfryd Kettleblack said, for the fifth time. Provoking Ser Jaime to groan in mock agony.

"And what do any of us know about sailing in a storm," Ser Bonnifer Hasty countered.

"That's what the crew is for," Osfryd said. "We force them to take us to Braavos."

"And what then?" Ser Triston asked. "Politely ask them not to call the guards and have us speared on the spot?"

"I know how to sail," Guncer Sunglass said. "And I say our captain has the right of it. This storm is but a petulant child compared to what it could become. We need a harbour's safety if we want to be anywhere but at the bottom of the sea."

Osfryd growled but said nothing. The ship continued west, seeking refuge at some harbour or another. Neither Arya or Shireen knew exactly where, save that they would likely land somewhere on the eastern coast of the Vale. Though that could mean Gulltown, Runestone, Old Anchor, or a hundred other little ports and harbours that were scattered up and down the rocky coast. They fell asleep to the sound of waves and shocks of thunder.

They must have found refuge sometime during the night, because Arya and Shireen woke to find the ship was gently rocking, rather than being tossed back and forth by furious waves. They could hear rain still falling, drumming harshly on the deck above and the water outside. The occasional crash of thunder warned everyone that the storm still raged.

Their captors were in the cabin, laying about, sleeping, and snoring. Arya rolled back onto her side, intending to keep snoozing until she had to stop. There was nothing else to do.

The cabin door opened with a bang. "Get up!" Osfryd shouted at the others. "Get up! There's something you must see."

"What's going on?" Ser Bonnifer asked.

Osfryd glanced at Shireen. "Best not to say here."

Ser Bonnifer looked at Ser Jaime. "I'll watch them," the kingslayer moaned.

Ser Bonnifer wasted no time jumping up and following Osfyrd out of the cabin.

"What's happening?" Shireen asked.

"I don't know." Arya rose from her sleeping mat and went to the small window, she pulled out the wooden stopper and gazed into the day. It was foggy and cold, and many other ships were in the harbour as well. The harbour was a small rocky place, and Arya could only see a hundred or so wooden buildings and a slim palisade wall, no great septs or castles or manors, just small wooden buildings, with the occasional tall one here and there. The ships were more varied, a few were tiny little things, fishing boats she thought, but others were huge. The harbour was filled with massive galleys, with huge sails, great banks of oars, and decks that bristled with scorpions. One floated barely fifty feet from their prison. Shireen pushed her way beside Arya and poked her head out the window as well. She gasped quietly and said. "I know that ship," and pointed at the one closest to them though to Arya it looked the same as all the others. "That's Wraith, Ser, no, Lord Dale Seaworth's ship. He's one of my father's bannermen."

Arya looked back to check on Jaime Lannister. The kingslayer had shifted slightly, but he still looked mostly asleep. "Can we trust him?"

Shireen nodded. "His father, Ser Davos, saved my father's life during the Rebellion, so he was knighted and then made a lord when this war began. Lord Dale has been a captain for years, and I've never heard my father say a bad word about him."

Arya nodded nervously. "Can you swim?" She asked.

Shireen nodded.

"We can make it then," Arya said. "To the ship, escape." She looked over her shoulder to see that the kingslayer was asleep, he huffed and rolled gently as the ship gently rocked at harbour. He grumbled and mumbled something in his sleep.

"Let's go," Shireen said, grabbing one end of a small chest and lifting it with great effort. Arya joined her and grabbed the other end. Together, they pulled it across the cabin and put it under the window. Shireen started to take off her clothes, and Arya quickly followed, stripping for her swim. Arya hopped onto the chest, grabbed the sides of the window with both hands, and pulled herself up, struggling to squeeze her skinny shoulders through the even skinnier window. Shireen grabbed Arya's feet and pushed, lifting her up and through the window. Arya pushed her arms through and pulled.

Arya was so focused on squeezing her hips through she didn't hear what was happening in the cabin. Suddenly Shireen screamed, and her hands were ripped away from Arya's feet. In their place, a large clammy hand grabbed her ankle. Arya kicked furiously, and the weak grasp fell away.

"Come here," the kingslayer growled, pushing his way closer and grabbing for Arya's knees.

Arya kicked furiously and pulled even harder. She flailed, trying to keep free of the kingslayer's grasp. She felt her foot connect on his chest, just under the ribs, and pushed with all her might. Arya was propelled forward, at just the right angle, and she went flying out the window, but the kingslayer, even sick, was as quick as a snake, he grabbed her ankle. Arya hung there for a moment, swinging from the kingslayer's hand, her chin smacked against the side of the ship. She scrabbled with her hands for purchase, and kicked furiously with her free leg, hoping to break free. But she hit her leg almost as much as she hit his hand.

"Little she-wolf," she heard the kingslayer growl. "I ought to-"

Arya would never know whatever the kingslayer ought to do to her because he suddenly cried out in pain and let go. For a moment, Arya felt suspended in the air, and then she was falling. The water hit her like a stone floor, less than a second after she was completely submerged, and then the cold hit her, even harder than the fall, the water was freezing. Arya flailed for a second, her fingers, toes, and face went numb immediately, and her arms and legs didn't wait much longer before they lost feeling as well.

Arya struggled back to the surface, her limbs flailing in the cold, her chattering teeth made her sound like a squirrel. She swallowed water by accident it was salty and so cold it seemed to burn as it made its way down to her stomach. She gasped and tried to swing her arms and kick her legs like she'd been taught. She could hardly feel her legs or her arms, and suddenly she wasn't sure what way to swim, she was all turned around, and so very cold.

Distantly, as if a thousand miles away, she heard a shout, and then seconds later a splash, water hit her head, but she barely felt it. What she did feel was a strong arm wrap her around the waist and pull her tight to someone big and strong. All at once the cold fog that had settled in Arya's mind seemed to clear, and she struggled to free herself, kicking, scratching, biting, and flailing, but the arm never let go. She found herself being pulled from the water. She kept struggling, but a hard hand struck her on the back of the head, and the man carrying her shouted at her in Braavosi.

He dumped her onto the deck the second they were hauled over the side. Other men of the ship's crew were standing ready with a thick towel and a heavy blanket. They wasted no time in scrubbing every inch of Arya, she tried to fight at first, but after a second it felt like her whole body was on fire. The shock from cold water to freezing air all but paralyzed her, and she went limp as the crew dried her as quickly as they could and then bundled her in blankets and took her out of the cold and into a warm place.

She must have blacked out for a little bit because she didn't remember getting a warm blanket or being taken down into the cabin.

"I told them my daughter wanted to see the warships," Osmund was saying. "And that the little idiot fell out of the window."

"And they believed that?" Ser Bonnifer asked.

"They acted like they did at any rate," Osmund replied.

"Good enough," Guncer said.

In the corner, Jaime groaned slightly and made a fist.

"What are you complaining about now?" Osmund asked Ser Jaime.

The Kingslayer growled. "The little bitch punched me in the balls."

Osmund laughed and ruffled Arya's hair. "The wolf pup bites."

"Not her the other one," Jaime growled and pointed at Shireen with one hand, the other still balled into a fist.

As one everyone in the room, including Arya, turned to look at Shireen, who Arya only now noticed had a cut lip and a growing bruise on the side of her face. Shireen sat cross-legged on her sleeping mat, her arms crossed and her face curled up in a scowl. She looks a little like King Stannis, Arya thought.

Shireen crossed her arms and said. "Ours is the Fury."

Osmund, Osfryd, and Osney all laughed at once, Osmund even harder than before. "Seven Hells Kingslayer this has got to be a new low, even for you."

Ser Jaime growled and put a hand on his sword. "Keep pushing hedge knight, I won't be sick forever."

As their captors began to argue again, Shireen sat down beside Arya and took her hand. Arya swept her arm out and wrapped her friend in the blanket as well.

Skahaz

The Wise Masters of Yunkai were in full panic after the defeat at Astapor. The Great Masters of Meereen were not much better.

Paezhar zo Myraq even tried to flee by sea to his relatives in Tolos, only to find himself running back to port with a hunting pack of Ironman ships behind him. These new western barbarians were the Dothraki of the sea, a hundred times more vicious than the pirates of the Basilisk Isles.

Skahaz merely snorted in derision as the disgraced Wise Master slunk back to his pyramid. Skahaz had more important work to do. Hurried meetings with masters and sellsword captains dominated his days, as he tried to wring order and consensus out of this disaster. The captains were the easiest part, they simply needed to be offered more money, and reminded, that whatever the dragon queen offered them, the Great Masters and Wise Masters could do better. The masters were harder, so many Yunkai'i masters had fallen or disappeared in the disastrous Siege of Astapor that the Wise Masters were in total confusion. The heirs of Yurkhaz zo Yunzak and Yezzan zo Qaggaz were at each other's throats as they competed for the fortune left to them, and without the leadership of either Wise Master, the Yellow City was in danger of falling into chaos. But for a clever man, Skahaz thought, chaos is merely opportunity.

Paezhar zo Myraq was merely the first to try to flee. With the sea lanes closed, a dozen or more cowards tried to flee by land. They'd have some excuse to leave many claimed to be taking their families on a day trip to their countryside estates. A trip from which they would never return, or so they hoped. It wasn't hard to find out who was leaving and when they planned to go. The Yunkai'i were not known for their restraint, and a day trip didn't require packing all your favourite tokars.

Skahaz would simply send a quiet word to the Tattered Prince and the Windblown, who would then collect the cowards on their journey. Their choice would be simple, return to Yunkai in total disgrace, or give up something in exchange for keeping things quiet. Skahaz's influence in the pyramids of Yunkai quickly grew, as masters returned from their countryside estates, having left their families somewhere safer, under the careful watch of the noble men of the Windblown.

When Skahaz thought the time right he called for a grand war council. A term he'd made up, simply an excuse to force the masters into a room and to force a decision upon even the most determined ditherers. They filed one by one into the great pyramid of Yunkai's council chamber. Skahaz didn't wait for everyone to arrive before he strode to the centre of the chamber, his cream and cerulean blue tokar swished over the marble tiles. As he paced back and forth a little as he waited for everyone present to sit.

"Cooking is an art," Skahaz said to the assembly of masters, both Wise and Great. "No two chefs will make the same soup the same way. There a hundred little differences between them, but both make perfection." He paused, seemingly for breath, but in fact to survey the response. Most seemed bored, a few looked hungry, and a handful looked interested. "But put two, three, or worse four of these great artists in one kitchen and the soup will sour. The hundred differences between them will snarl and tangle on each other. Ingredients will go to waste, and meat will rot as the chefs argue over how best to trim the fat."

"Get to the point!" Ghazdor zo Ahlaq of Yunkai shouted.

Skahaz ignored him. The Wise Masters of Yunkai had lost too much prestige and influence. Their slave soldiers had borne the brunt of the casualties at Astapor, and those slave soldiers that remained were led by Meereenese commanders. The long march back to Yunkai had given Skahaz plenty of time to reorganize the army, despite the protests of a few, and with their greatest heroes were dead or disgraced. He didn't need to convince them of anything, they were broken, divided, leaderless, and scattered, they were weak. The Great Masters of Meereen were the only ones here that mattered. Skahaz wondered how many others had figured that out, but the thing about emergencies is that it makes everyone want to be told what to do. He continued his speech.

"Of course we all know this. That's why we masters great and wise never buy or hire too many chefs, and if we have more than one, we build a new kitchen." That got a smattering of laughter.

Hizdahr zo Loraq stood and raised a hand. He waited for a moment for the laughter to pass. "Please Skahaz," he said. "We don't have all day would you kindly get to the point."

"Hmph," Skahaz cracked his knuckles to allow a pause for while he gathered his thoughts. "If it's so important to have such strict discipline in a kitchen, then how important must it be to keep an army in good shape?" Skahaz continued bullying over the excited shouting that was erupting around him. "Time and time again, our armies have failed and been beaten on the field. At Astapor every commander had their own idea of what to do, and each one failed! We must act as one! One army, with one commander, and one purpose!"

"The war council served well enough during the siege!" Faezhar zo Faez shouted.

"Hah!" One of Skahaz's puppets shouted. "If I recall correctly, the only commands ever given during that battle were 'get on the walls' hardly a glowing endorsement of the war council."

"I suppose you would nominate yourself as supreme commander?" Faezhar zo Faez asked.

Skahaz said nothing, he only smiled. No doubt a terrible sight for those forced to watch his ugly face's malformed grimace.

"This is simply an excuse for you to seize power!" Someone else shouted Skahaz didn't see who.

"And who else is there to command our armies," Hizdahr zo Loraq shouted back. "Astapor was a disaster, but it would have been much worse without Skahaz's leadership. He is the natural choice."

Skahaz worked hard to hide his smile as the masters began to scream and shout at each other. Those that Skahaz controlled had a look of resigned shock as chaos descended. He smiled as Hizdahr leapt into the fray, sowing chaos as the normal allegiances of the Meereenese houses were torn asunder.

Hours later, Skahaz returned to his chambers and reclined on his padded couch, letting his tokar flop around comfortably. Missandei sat on the edge waiting for any commands. Hizdahr didn't take long to arrive. He reclined on the opposite couch and flung a honeyed locust into his mouth. "That went well. The bit with the Green Grace was a good touch."

Skahaz hummed and took a locust for himself. "The gods bless those who bless themselves."

Hizdahr sat up. "I'm greatly honoured that you reached out for my support, and given the history between our families, a little surprised."

"Desperate times, my young friend, desperate times. I knew I could count on you to do what's best for Meereen and the House of zo Loraq." Besides, everyone knows zo Loraq and mo Kandaq despise each other if we agree, then it must be the wise course.

Hizdahr nodded. "The zo Loraqs have been men of influence in Meereen since the Doom. The chance to-"

"Stop," Skahaz said roughly. "Walls have ears, and things aren't settled yet. You're clever but still lack the wisdom years will bring you."

"As you say," Hizdahr said, without ill grace. "What's next for the Supreme Commander?"

"Winning this war," Skahaz said.

Hizdahr shifted slightly. "Against dragons? One alone destroyed the fleet."

"No," Skahaz said, plucking a date from a bowl. "Only two ships were scorched, the fleet fled rather than face it and a horde of barbarian pirates."

"Still… if she can control them?"

"If she can control them, then why not direct the other two dragons at the camp? Why wait for Astapor to be on the verge of collapse? Or unleash them upon the walls of Yunkai when they held before her?"

Hizdahr said nothing.

"No. Either she fears to lose her dragons more than she wants victory or she cannot control them." Skahaz squeezed his hand, reveling in the feel of the date being crushed. "Nevertheless, precautions will be taken." He grabbed a cloth and wiped the juice away. "She will march north, she must march north, and she must use the road. Ground that has been fought over twice now. She'll need to attack hard and fast, and there'll no time for sieges." He threw the cloth on the floor. "Time is on our side."

"I see."

"You want to know what I'll do, don't you?" Skahaz asked. Hizdahr nodded, and Skahaz chuckled. "I'm going to take every slave I can get my hands on and finally put them to good use."

"Doing what?" Missandei asked, speaking for the first time.

Hizdahr almost jumped, he'd clearly forgotten she was there.

Skahaz raised a hand to stop Hizdahr from chastising her. "Remember cyvasse," he said.

Missandei nodded once and returned to her silence.

"You give her too long a leash," Hizdahr said, sending a disapproving look at the girl.

"She is in hand," Skahaz said, dismissing Hizdahr's concerns with a wave.

"Hmm," Hizdahr shrugged and changed the subject. "What will you have the slaves do?"

"You'll need to wait and see," Skahaz chuckled again. "Just like everyone else."