Imry, Quentyn, Arya, Skahaz, Catelyn, Daenerys, Sansa, Melisandre

Imry

The Royal Fleet sheltered in the Fingers for the better part of a week, as they waited for the storm to pass them by. When the good weather had at last returned, Imry commanded the fleet to sail forth once more, and they made good time. An almost unseasonably steady northern wind delivered them south. They flew past Gulltown and Crackclaw Point with almost record speed, and then they turned west and turned into the Gullet, the strait that separated Dragonstone and Driftmark from Massey's Hook.

The fair winds began to weaken that far south but still came steadily from the north and took them across Blackwater Bay. The fleet skirted the Spears of the Merling King and, at long last, entered the Blackwater Rush. The river's swift and dark waters pushed against the ships, and the crews lowered the oars as the winds proved insufficient to carry the Royal Fleet back to port. Drums beat out a slow and steady rhythm and brought Fury back to King's Landing.

The detritus of battle had long since cleared away, and the squat tower Stannis had ordered built was almost complete. The ugly structure was at odds with the rest of the Red Keep, but the workmen had finished the tower, and through a Myrish Eye, Imry could see dragons lurking on the walls, aimed at the Blackwater Rush and Blackwater Bay. The breaches that King Stannis' dragons had made in King's Landing's walls were still visible as stretches of unsmoothed and rough new stone. The two towers that flanked the Mud Gate were still undergoing repairs.

The piers and docks had been repaired as well, and while merchant traffic was still slow, the riverside was still busy with fishing vessels. Barges from up the Blackwater came down the river, loaded with stone and lumber for further repairs, and grain, of course, grain to make bread to feed the half a million smallfolk who lived in the shadow of the Red Keep.

The Royal Fleet came to the harbour and tied to the long piers sticking out like fingers into the Blackwater Rush's swift and dark waters. Imry departed quickly, trusting the crew and the ship's mates to see to reprovisioning the vessel. He swiftly came ashore, stumbling slightly as his legs, unused to the stillness of land after so long on a ship, attempted to adjust for a sway that wasn't there.

"My lord," someone said.

Imry looked up, recognizing Ser Rolland Storm of the kingsguard immediately. "Ser Rolland," he greeted the knight.

"Lord Alester would have you come directly to the Red Keep, for a matter of great import."

"What's that?"

Ser Rolland sighed. "Something too important to say here. Please, my lord, follow me," he offered Imry the reins of a horse.

Imry took the rains and quickly mounted the gelding. He followed Ser Rolland through the gates, wondering what the knight was speaking of, but he was quickly distracted. Imry could sense it the moment he passed through the city gates, there was something wrong with King's Landing. The people seemed restive. Fishermen and crabbers that thronged Fishmonger's Square glared at Imry and his escort as they rode past and travelled up the Hook, the narrow street that would take them up Aegon's High Hill to the Red Keep.

The gates slowly opened as they came into view of the guards standing watch. Into the courtyard, they rode, and the gates closed quickly behind them. Imry dismounted, still stumbling slightly as his legs tried to adjust for a sway that was no longer there.

Alester Florent was waiting for Imry.

"Ser Rolland said you wanted to speak with me?"

Alester cast an appraising eye over the courtyard. "We'll speak about this privately," Alester said quietly and quickly turned on his heel, beckoning Imry to follow.

Imry hurried to follow his uncle.

"Where's the princess?" Imry asked glibly. He'd hoped to see his royal niece before having to depart again. "Busy with lessons?"

Alester raised a hand. "We will speak later, first follow me."

"Of course," Imry said as he trailed after his uncle.

In the comfort of the Tower of the Hand, Alester took two goblets shining with silver and lapis lazuli and filled them from a jug of wine. He passed one to Imry and then drank from the other. "Neither Shireen nor your sister are here," Alester said.

"Oh, then where?"

"Selyse has been sent to Dragonstone for her own peace of mind."

"Umm?" Imry asked. "Peace of mind?"

Alester rolled his fingers on the table. "She was most distressed," he said. "I thought a more familiar place would bring comfort," his stern tone left little doubt in Imry's mind whose comfort Alester was most concerned with.

"And Shireen?"

"You saw the state of the city?"

"The smallfolk seemed," Imry shrugged. "Restive, more than usual in any case."

"There was a riot only a fortnight ago. Septons preaching against the King and the Red Woman."

"That's treason."

"And when I sent men to arrest them, the riot began," Alester waved a dismissive hand. "It was put down, of course, since then I've made sure the High Septon is happy, and he's kept a lid on things. He was a Lannister creature when put in power, but he knows which hand feeds him now and that he shouldn't bite it."

Imry nodded, understanding his uncle's meaning. "And Shireen," he pressed?"

"Shireen was sent to Dragonstone with her mother after the riot, for her own safety, officially that is."

"Officially?" Imry asked quietly

Alester stewed slightly and took another sip of wine. "There was an attack, agents of the Spider, I think, they used secret passages and stole into Shireen's bedchamber and took her. They also took Arya Stark and freed Jaime Lannister."

"They… they took? Why does no one know? There should be a hue and a cry from Dorne to the Wall."

"A hue and cry that announces the failure and impotence of House Florent? I think not. Secrecy is our shield."

"The King," Imry started. "If he…"

"If Stannis discovers I hid this, it could mean my head," Alester finished.

"Then why hide it?"

Alester tapped his fingers on the padded arm of his chair. "Telling him means losing everything but my head," his hand clenched into a fist. "Three hundred years we have suffered the indignity of calling a house of upjumped stewards our liege lords. Stannis is our one chance to take what rightfully belongs to House Florent."

Imry nodded slowly, not truly following his uncle as he continued.

"Losing Shireen means losing everything. Without her, we have no ties to the throne."

"Selyse," Imry jumped to his sister's defence.

"Is tolerated by Stannis at best. With no children, he will set her aside in a heartbeat. No. We cannot rely on Stannis' goodwill. Only blood can bind Baratheon and Florent. Shireen's blood. She must be found. If she's found, then her kidnapping can be forgiven. Keeping it silent is no longer a sign of guilt and failure, rather it is but one part of a stratagem to find her."

"Where is she then?" Imry asked.

"At this point," Alester said as he poured himself a goblet of wine. "I think the possibility of her kidnappers being hidden in the city or somewhere nearby can be eliminated. Either they aren't here, or they're hidden so well that we'll never find them."

"So, what then?" Imry asked. "Give up?"

"Hardely," Alester drank some more wine. "It merely means searching further afield. Every ship that makes harbour in King's Landing, Duskendale, or Maidenpool, is recorded, or at least they're supposed to be. Far far too many to follow them all, but any travelling within the Seven Kingdoms can be ignored."

"Why?"

"If these traitors wanted to take Shireen to this false Targaryen, they'd have ridden overland, and that is a place my men have already scoured, ostensibly to hunt down bandits and deserters," he took a moment to drink some more wine. "And any other port is hostile to them, controlled by lords loyal to King Stannis."

"Or friendly at least," Imry said, thinking of Gulltown and the uncertain loyalties of Lady Arryn and some of her bannermen.

"Exactly," Alester said, tipping his silver cup to his nephew. "It still behooves us to search the ports, and I have as discreetly as I can, no, they must have gone further afield."

"The Free Cities."

"Captains will go each to Lorath, Braavos, Pentos, Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys. Officially as envoys from the court, but in truth to search for the missing princess."

"I will make the arrangements," Imry began.

"No," Alester interrupted him.

"No?"

"I will make the arrangements. There can be no mistakes."

"Oh, I see," Imry said quietly. "Who will go?"

"The smartest captains on the fastest ships, Aurane Waters, Bart Celtigar, Lamor Hardy, Gilbert Farring, Dale Seaworth, Lucos Chyttering, and Harwood Pyle. They'll leave before dawn tomorrow."

"And what will happen to the rest of the fleet?"

"You will take the fleet south and secure the Narrow Sea, and then go west."

"I'd heard rumours in the Fingers of pirates in the Narrow Sea."

"Allies of the Golden Company."

"The… the what now?" Imry stuttered.

"Right, you wouldn't know, of course, all that time in the North and at sea, some bastard boy from the Free Cities was crowned by the Golden Company, and he calls himself Aegon the Sixth. They invaded the Stormlands and led King Stannis on a merry chase through the Red Mountains and into the Reach, where Garlan Tyrell and Mathis Rowan joined their forces with his."

"What of the king?"

"He sent a raven from Horn HIll that he hoped to gain the loyalty of House Hightower by defending them from the Ironmen. Nothing since."

"Ironmen?"

"Imry, you can't keep asking a question every time I say something. Nevertheless, since you already asked, the ironmen crowned a new king, Balon's brother Euron, and have been ravaging their way south ever since, even Casterly Rock has fallen. Once the Narrow Sea is cleaned, you will go west and defeat the Ironmen."

"Yes," Imry said. "But what about the Targaryen?"

Alester laid his hands flat on the table. "We can do nothing for what happens in the Reach. Not now, in any case, King Stannis will fight his own battles, and House Florent will fight our own."

"And if the worst should happen?"

Alester smiled. "House Florent will survive. We always do."

Quentyn

The masters, to the surprise of many, Quentyn and Queen Daenerys included, had kept their word. As the truce was agreed upon, the terms soon followed. Neither Daenerys' army nor the Ironmen fleet would approach within two miles of Yunkai. In turn, no force of Yunkai or Meereen would come within two miles of the camp. The slavers would cease construction on their forts blocking the road to Yunkai, but could still improve the city's defences. Daenerys' army could fortify their camp but couldn't build siege equipment. The fleet and wagon train would no longer be blocked from bringing supplies to Daenerys' army. Lastly, the slavers, avaricious as they were, would allow a trickle of merchants to arrive in the camp, selling food and provisions at a high cost, but not a wholly unreasonable one.

The Unsullied and freedmen weren't idle either. Daenerys had moved her army's camp directly to the coast, where the Ironmen could easily land supplies and reinforcements if the slavers acted treacherously. Wood was in short supply, but earth and sand there was aplenty to make ditches, embankments, and ramparts of packed earth. If the slavers betrayed Daenerys and launched an attack, they would find a fortress defended by tens of thousands.

Quentyn took a wide berth around a latrine ditch as he wandered through the continuously expanding camp. He had no great desire to smell like shit the rest of the day, there was only so much even seawater, and sand could do when you fell knee-deep into human waste. He'd woken early and had broken his fast privately with dates and bread before going to take his walk around the camp. The Yunkai'i and Meereenese would not arrive until after midday. Queen Daenerys was in a poor mood of late and had no great desire to speak to Quentyn, Victarion, and his red shadow Moqorro made for bad company at the best of times, and Ser Barristan was hardly more than a step from the queen's side. With no company wanting him and no one else to speak of, Quentyn kept his peace and wandered his way through the camp alone.

There was Urri and his crew, Quentyn reflected, but he wasn't sure what kind of welcome he'd receive after his deception. The crew of ironmen had been friendly enough to Lewyn the shipwrecked, but what of Prince Quentyn?

He climbed a ramp of packed earth, taking the well worn track to the base of a watchtower constructed from parts of two carts. From this spot, he could see further over the flatlands and see the walls and pyramids of Yunkai peeking over the horizon. So close. He thought.

A clump of earth hit Quentyn's back. "Oi!" A familiar voice shouted." Your Princliness!"

Quentyn smiled. "Urri," he turned, and half jumped, and half slid down the slope. At the bottom, he clapped a hand on the ironman's broad shoulder. "It's been too long."

Urri shrugged. "You've been busy, princely stuff, I bet."

Quentyn sighed. "Less than you'd think."

"Oh?"

"A prince with no armies, no great skill at arms, and no lands…" he sighed again. "I think I'm little more than a pretty bauble sometimes."

"Better a bauble than shark food."

Quentyn chuckled a little. "If not for you, I would be."

"Bah," Urri shrugged. "How's your queen doing? We hear so little out at sea."

"The queen is… uh, is as well as can be expected."

"Mhm, it's never easy."

"What isn't?"

"Failure," Urri said plainly. "I was at the Siege of Pyke, I saw King Balon bend the knee to King Robert, almost as bad as when he'd lost his sons. Can't see why the dragon queen would be any different."

Quentyn nodded. "I suppose."

"Are we really going back west?" Urri asked.

"That's the plan."

"When are we leaving? I want to get Swift Blow beached and cleaned if I can."

"I don't know, there's supposed to be another round of negotiations tonight, depending on how they go…" Quentyn trailed off. "Well, such things are complicated."

"Far more than my head can manage, I'm sure."

"I think even if an agreement is made and a treaty signed tonight that you'll have enough time to clean Swift Blow."

"Good. I'll get the crew ready."

They walked silently together for a few more minutes, passing by freedmen, ironmen, and unsullied waiting and resting before taking their turn in their camp duties.

"You should come," Urri said. "Once your princely business is done, that is. Hard work does a man good, and there'll be fun and a fire after."

"I'll think about it," Quentyn said. He took a few more steps. "I want you to know, when this is done, when the wars are done, you and Swift Blow will always have a place at Sunspear. If you want it."

Urri turned toward Quentyn, his expression pleasant. "Thank you, I'll take you up on that someday."

"Once the wars are done," Quentyn said.

Urri chuckled slightly sadly and clapped Quentyn on the shoulder. "Aye, if the Drowned God wills it, that will be soon. Ah!" Urri shook his whole body. "Enough of this. We both have work to do, I think. We shall speak later," he clapped Quentyn on the shoulder again and turned to leave.

"Farewell!" Quentyn called after him and waved as Urri made his way back to the shore. He let his hand fall when Urri rounded a watchtower and left his sight. Quentyn sighed and checked the passage of the sun. Almost time, he thought, the sun was past its apex and was beginning to descend.

The envoys from Yunkai and Meereen arrived an hour after midday, their palanquins carried by dozens of slaves. Queen Daenerys and her court greeted them a hundred yards outside the camp. The two masters and their slaves then approached the pavilion set up for the negotiations.

Queen Daenerys took the central seat, flanked by Victarion Greyjoy and Quentyn, Strong Belwas, Ser Barristan, Aggo, Jhogo, and Rakharo stood in a semi-circle behind them. The Red Priest Moqorro stood off to one side, there at Victation's insistence.

Quentyn by now easily recognized which envoys had come. Today it was Hizdahr zo Loraq for Meereen and Grazdan mo Eraz for Yunkai. Each day a different pair of masters were sent, some were never seen again, but these two, along with Skahaz mo Kandaq and Ghazdor zo Ahlaq, were seen the most often. Their guards were pit fighters from Meereen, among the best warriors the two slave cities had to offer. These ones showed no reaction to Belwas, though several pit fighters had betrayed some recognition of him on previous days.

"Good afternoon," Hizdahr said as he took a seat on the padded stool his slaves had brought for him.

Quentyn smiled and nodded politely at the handsome master.

Grazdan mo Eraz simply scowled and wrapped his tokar more tightly around himself. The north wind was unseasonably cold for Slaver's Bay.

"Yesterday," Grazdan said. "We ended on the matter of your," his lip curled. "Freedmen."

"And what did the Masters discuss?" Daenerys asked.

"We will accede to your terms," Hizdahr said. "They will stay free."

"And I have only your oath?"

Grazdan chuckled but said nothing.

"A sworn vow before the Gods of Old Ghis, our hands bound in golden chains, and our hearts as well," Hizdahr said. "An unbreakable vow."

"Words are wind," Ser Barristan said quietly.

"Then stay," Grazdan said. "Stay and fight. That is the only assurance you have. If not? Then our words will have to do."

Queen Daenerys said nothing. "On the matter of Astapor," she began. "I have considered your offers and am willing to accept them with some conditions. Three hundred ships are not sufficient to carry me to Westeros, nor will I abide, leaving Astapor outside the scope of this treaty. I want the same protections offered to my freedmen offered to everyone within the walls of Astapor."

Grazdan mo Eraz grimaced uglily. "How many ships?" He asked.

Quentyn frowned slightly at the Yunkish man ignoring Queen Daenerys' concerns about the freedmen and Astapor.

"Six hundred ships," Daenerys said. "To carry as many freedmen as is possible."

"Six hundred is too much," Hizdahr zo Loraq said. "You would leave our cities with nothing."

"Better than leaving them in ashes," Daenerys responded.

"Four hundred and fifty ships," Grazdan mo Eraz said. "No more, no less."

"The masters will give up all that?" Quentyn asked.

Hizdahr smiled. "A small price to pay for peace."

Daenerys glanced at Quentyn before answering the masters. "Four hundred and fifty then."

Hours passed as further details were discussed and agreed upon. When the masters departed, it was with the promise that they would return with permission from their council to agree to the treaty on the morrow.

Night was falling when Quentyn came to the queen's own pavilion deep inside the camp. The three bloodriders sat outside by a fire, speaking to each other in their own tongue. As Quentyn approached one, Rakharo Quentyn thought, turned to face the pavilion and shouted something in Dothraki. Queen Daenerys answered in the same language. Rakharo looked back at Quentyn. "Go," he said with a shrug.

"Your Grace?" Quentyn made the honourific a question as he parted the folds and entered the pavilion.

"Prince Quentyn," Daenerys turned slightly to speak to him. A servant girl stood to the side, holding a brush. "You wish to see me?"

"I did, about the treaty."

"What of it?" Daenerys asked. "The words are said and done. The treaty will be signed, and there will be peace," she said quietly.

"I'm sure this isn't how you wanted to leave Slaver's Bay," Quentyn said just as quietly.

"Truth be told," Daenerys said. "I'm not sure how I wanted to leave," she shook her head. "I hadn't thought that far ahead. I saw the Unsullied, the slaves of Astapor, and… I knew that I couldn't just leave. But now that's what I'm doing."

"The treaty…"

"Words are wind," Daenerys said. "And paper and parchment can be blown away almost as easily. The masters will take their bloody vengeance regardless of what they said or swore."

Quentyn grimaced. "I fear your right."

"Then what am I to do?" Daenerys turned to face him fully. "Throw away this treaty and stay?" She shook her head. "Victarion would try to kidnap me, I think, he cares nothing for Slaver's Bay, and neither do you."

"I care for it," Quentyn said. "But not as much as I care for my family, as I care for Dorne."

"This isn't your land," she said.

"It's not," he confirmed.

"I've spent most of my life travelling. I've rarely stayed somewhere long enough to call a place mine."

"I'm sorry, your grace."

"Don't be," Daenerys said sharply. "I've made my choice, and I will take as many freedmen as I can back to Westeros, and pray that the masters keep their word."

"Yes, Your Grace," Quentyn said quietly.

The next few days brought the final terms of the treaty quickly enough. Astapor would be surrendered, and the freedmen within would not be taken anew as slaves. The wealth seized by Queen Daenerys and the freedmen would be returned if possible, a payment and compensation for their freedom, or so the masters said. The ships were couched as a gift, four hundred and fifty ships as the final tribute from Yunkai and Meereen to Queen Daenerys, to bid her well on the journey to Westeros.

Four hundred and fifty ships, plus the one-and-sixty ships of the Iron Fleet, the three ships Queen Daenerys called Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar, and the two-and-twenty ships taken at the Battle of Astapor, five hundred, six-and-thirty ships in total. Nowhere near enough to carry all of Queen Daenerys' followers. It would have taken all of Nymeria's ten thousand ships to take all the freedmen from the shores of Slaver's Bay.

The hundreds of ships were of all kinds of make, some were small fishing ships, but most were large trading vessels, cogs, carracks, xebecs, and trading galleys. Hizdahr zo Lorag's mocking words returned to Quentyn as the vast fleet assembled, a small price to pay for peace.

The smaller galleys and ships had beached themselves for easy loading, while the larger ones waited at sea for the longboats to ferry men and supplies to them. The fleet would travel to Astapor first to take on more supplies and freedmen there. The freedmen who remained would be kept under guard by the Yunkai'i and Meereenese, should Queen Daenerys fail to leave Slaver's Bay.

Despite the words agreed and written in the treaty, Quentyn feared greatly for the freedmen who would be left behind. Words are wind, he thought, and any man who traded in men could never be trusted.

It took a further three days for the majority of preparations to come to pass, and when the time came, Quentyn lined up behind the Queen with her other advisors as she addressed the freedmen.

"Not all can come with me," Queen Daenerys said sadly to the people who'd followed her for many miles and many hardships. She stood on a watchtower, overlooking the people, flanked by her advisors, and guarded by unsullied. Quentyn looked up, but the dragons seemed to be out of sight. "Not for lack of desire on my part, but simply for lack of ships. I ask not for volunteers to come with me, but for those who are willing to stay."

Quentyn bowed his head, feeling a kind of shame as Queen Daenerys continued speaking, her words being repeated and translated into half a dozen different tongues, and soon followed the groans and moans of despair of the freedmen. A few seemed ready to turn to rage, but then a different kind of shouting began, more desperate and emotional than any anger.

"What are they saying?" Quentyn asked.

It was Belwas who answered. "They ask for her to take their children instead of them."

Quentyn closed his eyes and did his best to close his ears.

When he opened them again, it seemed that hours had passed, and he was now astride the deck of the great cog called Balerion and was watching the shore slip away.

Queen Daenerys put her hands on the rail not far from Quentyn. She closed her eyes and opened them to look at the freedmen watching on the beach. "I will take as many as we can, just as they asked," she said quietly. "The children and the women."

The shores of Yunkai slowly slipped out of sight, and the fleet sailed south, beneath the beating wings of two dragons and with the sails filled with a gentle northern wind.

Arya

From the Fingers, the ship Arya and Shireen were trapped upon went almost due east, toward Braavos. Trapped inside the cabin Arya knew nothing of what happened on the rest of the ship, only that their captors sometimes came below, complaining of the cold northern wind.

Rough seas and rougher weather slowed the ship's passage over the Narrow Sea. Outside the hull, the winds howled like demons, and Arya could feel the chill even from inside.

"Cold as the Others breath," her captors cursed often and savagely, save for Ser Bonnifer, who rarely cursed at all.

Arya and Shireen spent their nights in the hammock they shared. Each night Arya waited for her captors to snore before beginning her prayer so quietly she wasn't sure she was even speaking. "Dunsen, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling," she breathed in. "The Tickler, the Hound, Ser Ilyn, Queen Cersei, King Joffrey, Roose Bolton, Harrion Karstark, Gendry, Bonifer, Guncer, Triston, Osmund, Osney, Osfryd, and Jaime Lannister

But eventually, Braavos came within sight.

"What now?" Guncer Sunglass asked as they passed under the legs of the Titan of Braavos. He was leaning out of the cabin window and looking up at the colossal statue.

Arya only got a glimpse of the Titan and the city it guarded before her captors had forced her away from the window. Arya and Shireen hadn't been allowed to leave the cabin since their escape attempt, and the window was only opened when at least two captors were present.

"Pentos," Ser Bonifer answered Guncer's question. "We charter a ship and go to Pentos."

"With what money?" Guncer asked. "We used almost all of it on this ship."

"The Iron Bank," Osmund Kettleblack answered. "We can get a loan from them."

"I doubt they'll take kindly to a collection of vagabonds such as us so much as stepping foot in their bank," said the Kingslayer.

"Might be some would recognize me," Osmund said. "I've done business with the Iron Bank before on behalf of Lord Baelish."

"And if all else fails, we can go by land," Ser Triston said. "Crossing the Braavosian Coastlands and Andalos."

What waits for us in Pentos? Arya wondered.

When she asked Shireen, the other girl asked. "Or who? I remember people at court saying Varys had friends in the Free Cities."

"Shush!" Osmund cuffed Shireen on the head. "Both of you be quiet."

Shireen flinched slightly but didn't cry. Instead, she grumbled silently. Arya glared at Osmund's retreating back.

The ship passed beneath the Titan and entered the lagoon, swiftly making its way to dock in a harbour on an island not far from the Titan. It rested there for much of an hour before a small boat came alongside, and men came aboard.

"Who are they?" Osmund asked as he peered through the reopened window.

"Customs officers," the Kingslayer said. All three of the Kettleblacks exchanged a look, and the Kingslayer sighed before continuing. "Tax collectors, taking their due before any ships come to port."

"Seven Hells," Osney growled.

"There'll be trouble," Osfryd quickly followed, glancing at Arya and Shireen.

"Not if we're quiet," Guncer Sunglass said. "Men like these don't like complications. Complications bring trouble. We answer their questions, do nothing rash, and," he nodded at the girls. "Keep them quiet," in the silence that followed, Guncer swallowed and continued. "I know a little Valyrian. I can speak for us if we need to."

Ser Bonifer nodded slowly. "Alright. Ser Triston, you'll be Lady Arya's father, Ser Osmund, you will do the same for the princess. We're comrades who lost favour in the Seven Kingdoms and wish to resettle in Essos. Just as we said to the crew."

The other conspirators nodded and settled down for a long wait.

The customs officers were thorough. From inside their cabin, they could hear people speaking, though the words were foreign to Arya's ear. Creaking footsteps also alerted them of the customs officers' progress through the ship. Until eventually, someone entered the cabin.

The Braavosi was a plump man with a broad, round face and a narrow beard, his dark grey robes dragged slightly on the floor and his head topped by a narrow purple cap, framed by grey hair.

Guncer Sunglass rose as he entered and quickly said something in Valyrian. The Braavosi smiled and answered in the same language. They spoke for only a few minutes, after which the Braavosi produced a piece of parchment and had Guncer read and sign it. Then he left.

"Well?" Jaime Lannister asked.

"No problems," Guncer said. "Merely needed to check our numbers matched what the captain said. We're free to go ashore."

"Thank the Seven," Ser Bonifer Hasty said as he quickly rose. "Get your things," he said. "Let's be ashore."

Their captors escorted Arya and Shireen onto the deck, and Arya got her first look at Braavos. It was a flat city, not like King's Landing on its three high hills. The only hills here were the ones that men had raised of brick and granite, bronze and marble. Most curious of all, there were no walls or gates. The streets and canals alike lay open and inviting. Everything was constantly moving like ants in a nest that had just been kicked.

The girls followed the knights as they shared a few brief words with the captain. A final bit of coin changed hands, and a boat was lowered for them. The Kettleblacks went first, then Arya and Shireen followed, Triston, Guncer, Bonifer, and Jaime came last. They carefully stepped into the crowded boat, and once they were seated, the Braavosi at the oars pulled and sent them skimming over the waters of the lagoon.

They docked in the nearest of the many small ports and harbours that dotted the city of Braavos. A small corner at the entrance to a canal, where half a dozen small boats were tied to the docks.

"The Iron Bank is near the Purple Harbour," Osmund said as he pulled Shireen close to him.

"Which way is that?" Bonifer asked.

"Just follow my brother," said Osney.

"Wonderful," Jaime moaned.

The Kettleblacks lead them through the web of streets and canals.

"Oysters, clams, and cockles!" A girl shouted as she pushed a cart.

Arya's head span as they entered the market surrounding the Purple Harbour. People rushed to and fro, here and there, many dressed in neat black and blue and purple robes, while others swaggered in all kinds of multicoloured splendour with slender water dancer swords at their waists. Arya's heart pined for a moment for Needle and Syrio and Jon.

Arya leaned over to Shireen. "Grab a clam," She hissed.

"What?"

"Just do it and then do what I do."

Arya grabbed a clam careful to do so when she knew the girl was looking.

"Stop!" The cry rang out. "Thief!"

People were turning their heads, and Bonnifer's grip on her shoulder went slack for just a second as he started looking around. Arya turned quickly, breaking free and jammed the sharp shell into his hand.

"Gah!" The knight cried.

Arya pushed past Bonnifer and toward Osmund and Shireen.

Shireen had tried the same trick with a cockle, but Osmund had slapped it from her hands and was now pulling her away as Braavosi heads began to turn. A pair of watchmen in black coats with truncheons in hand were approaching, following the cart girl's pointing finger. Bonnifer was looking for her, and Osfryd was almost on her. Arya changed directions and ran to a stall where dozens of slimy fish were for sale.

The dealer raised his voice and lifted a hand to stop her, but he was too slow. Arya grabbed a fish and threw it at a watchman like a dagger. It slapped him in the face. His partner charged Arya, shouting in Braavosi.

Osfryd met him first. "Get off," he pushed the watchman, who responded by swinging a truncheon at Osfryd's head. Guncer ran and tackled the watchman only to be set upon by the other. Bonnifer rushed in to help, and fists began to fly, and Arya slipped out from between them.

Osmund had a hand wrapped tightly in Shireen's black hair and was backing away from the growing chaos as more and more Braavosi mobbed Arya's captors, shouts of thief still rising. Arya skipped through the growing tumult as the Braavosi tried to pull the Westerosi to the ground.

One guard charged Osney and Jaime, only to find himself quickly off his feet as the hedge knight and the Kingslayer knocked him down. Arya forced her way beneath the legs of Triston as he and Osmund circled with Shireen between them. Steel flashed in the sunlight, and Guncer screamed in pain as a water dancer's sword ran through his arm. Osmund cursed and released Shireen to draw his sword.

One water dancer thought to challenge the Kingslayer. He moved just like Syrio, but Jaime Lannister was faster and contemptuously cut down in half a second. Two more water dancers followed their friend to the ground in as many seconds. Compared to the Kingslayer, the water dancers moved more like cold syrup. The crowd began to panic, some charged, but most fled. Arya and Shireen took each other's hands and ran.

"No!" Triston shouted. He leapt after them and managed to grab the hem of Arya's dress and dragged her to the ground. Shireen fell a few paces forward but quickly doubled back. Arya kicked Triston in the face, but the knight didn't let go. He stood, dragging Arya upside down and looking for Shireen.

The Baratheon girl stabbed him. Osmund's dagger, which she'd stolen from his belt in the chaos, went up to the hilt in Triston's thigh. He screamed, blood spurted from the wound, and Arya fell to the ground.

"Come on!" Shireen shouted. She took Arya's hand again and dragged her bodily to her feet.

They ran. They fled the square, oblivious to the growing shouts and alarm bells. They ran through alleys, ran across bridges that crossed thin canals, ran through more squares and plazas than Arya cared to count.

They finally came to a rest at the foot of a statue, a thin man with a book and a long pointed beard. The two girls looked furtively around. The square was packed, mostly Braavosi but others as well. Summer Islanders, Tyroshi with dyed hair, and more peoples that Arya didn't recognize. But there was no sign of Bonifer, Triston, or Guncer. Not a trace of Osmund, Osfryd, or Osney. And another of Jaime Lannister either. Arya breathed a sigh of relief like a huge weight had been taken off her shoulders for the first time in ages. Their captors had lost them, for now.

Shireen was trembling slightly. "Do you think Ser Triston is dead?"

"I… I don't know. Why?"

"He and Lord Guncer used to visit Dragonstone before the war. He… he wasn't unkind."

Arya had no remorse. "They weren't kind when they took us."

Shireen wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "You're right," she looked around the square. "Where now?"

"I… I don't know," Arya admitted, slumping down next to Shireen. Jaqen H'ghar's words seemed to float up mockingly. If the day comes when you would find me again, give that coin to any man from Braavos, and say these words to him—valar morghulis. "But I lost the coin," she murmured. Roose Bolton had taken it from her when he'd thrown her into the dungeons of Harrenhal.

"What coin?" Shireen asked.

"Nevermind," Arya said. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"We could go to the Sept," Shireen said.

"Sept?"

"The Sept-Beyond-the-Sea," Shireen said. "I read about it once, I think I remember where it is, and maybe we can get sanctuary there."

"Okay," Arya said. She remembered living on the streets of King's Landing and had no desire to repeat the experience in Braavos.

Shireen led them first to a harbour, and from there, they followed the waters, twice asking for direction from Braavosi, who answered in hand gestures, pointing, or broken and heavily accented Common Tongue. They eventually found the sept. It was on an island south of a canal and a larger island where dozens of other temples and holy places were located.

Shireen pointed at the largest isle. "That's the Isle of the Gods, named for all the temples there. The Lord of Light and the Moonsingers have the largest temples in Braavos."

They crossed the narrow bridge to an islet between the city and the isle that lay host to the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea. It was crowded with people, most of them sailors from Westeros, some leaving the sept, some going to it, others staying in the plethora of inns, taverns, and brothels that catered to sailors from the Sunset Kingdoms.

Another bridge joined that isle to the even smaller one where the sept was. The sept was made from grey stone, and a tall bell tower rose from each of the corners. It was much smaller than the Great Sept of Baelor in King's Landing, but then it was also far larger than her mother's sept in Winterfell.

As they walked closer, Shireen's pace began to quicken, forcing Arya to half-run to keep up with her as they entered the sept.

Arya squeaked and pulled Shireen's arm, dragging her out of the hall and into the shadow of a small side chamber.

"What-" Shireen began.

"Shh!" Arya hissed fiercely. She left Shireen and poked her head briefly around the corner. "It's Ser Bonifer," she whispered back. "He's speaking to a septon."

"Then we can't stay here," Shireen said.

"Let's go," Arya said.

They left together, slipping out of the sept and moving toward the bridge that connected the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea and the next island. It was a rocky knoll that rose directly from the grey-green waters. On it was only a single building, whose front steps went directly to the water. It had a black tile roof and was built of grey stone, and the doors were made of weirwood and ebony.

Arya looked back over her shoulder. She couldn't see anyone following them but didn't want to take any chances. "Come on," Arya said, and she pressed her hands on the black half of the door. It stayed closed. "Come on! Let us in!"

Shireen joined Arya in pushing on the door.

After a few seconds of fruitless effort, the door swung open silently. Arya stepped inside without worry, and Shireen followed a few seconds behind. The doors closed behind them and left the whispering north wind outside.

"I don't like this place," Shireen said immediately.

Inside the building, the temple, were statues. They stood along the walls, massive and threatening. Around their feet, red candles flickered, as dim as distant stars. The nearest was a marble woman, twelve feet tall. Real tears were trickling from her eyes to fill the bowl she cradled in her arms. Beyond her was a man with a lion's head seated on a throne, carved of ebony. On the other side of the doors, a huge horse of bronze and iron reared up on two great legs. Farther on, she could make out a great stone face, a pale infant with a sword, a shaggy black goat the size of an aurochs, a hooded man leaning on a staff. The rest were only looming shapes, half-seen through the gloom. Between the gods were hidden alcoves thick with shadows, with here and there a candle burning. There was a person here of there sitting on the many rows of benches shrouded in the shadows. The candles smelled weird, like some kind of incense.

"I don't like this place," Shireen said again. She was a few steps behind Arya. "It feels wrong."

In the center of the temple, she found the water she had heard, a pool ten feet across, black as ink and lit by dim red candles. There were stone cups along the rim of the pool.

"Arya," Shireen said more insistently.

Arya spun away from the pool to see Shireen standing before a tall statue whose face was obscured by a cowl. What remained looked more beast than man. The Stranger, Arya realized.

"What is this place?" Shireen asked Arya.

"A place of peace," a gentle voice said. "You are safe here. This is the House of Black and White, my children. Though you are young to seek the favour of the Many-Faced God."

Arya and Shireen spun around to see a tall hooded man enveloped in a blank and white robe step out of the shadows. Arya glanced at the statue of the Stranger. "Like the Seven?"

"Seven? No. He has faces beyond count, little one, as many faces as there are stars in the sky. In Braavos, men worship as they will, but at the end of every road stands Him of Many Faces, waiting. He will be there for you one day, do not fear. You need not rush to his embrace," the candlelight twinkled off his eyes as he shifted his gaze to Shireen. He approached her slowly and leaned in close. Shireen had her back to the statue and couldn't retreat, so she tried to stand straight as the priest leaned down.

"Ah," he said, one hand danced an inch over the side of Shireen's face. "You have been touched by the Many-Faced-God, but you spurned his gift."

Shireen clapped a hand to the greyscale.

"What gift?" Arya asked.

"Peace," the priest answered. "As I said, this is a place of peace," he approached one of the alcoves where a man lay unmoving. The priest pressed a hand to the man's neck. "The final peace. Do you fear death?" He asked suddenly.

"Yes," Shireen said hesitantly.

"A pity," he said to Shireen. "And you? He asked Arya.

"I…" words caught in Arya's throat.

"More the pity. Valar Morghulis," he shook his head. "If you are hungry, you may be fed, but then you must go. I think this is not the place for either of you."

"We have nowhere to go," Arya pleaded.

"There are many places in Braavos for two girls, more places than the House of Black and White."

"Follow me if you are hungry," he walked into the shadows.

Arya slumped slightly.

Shireen walked up beside her. "We should go," she said. Shireen looked at the still people that filled the alcoves. "Come on," Shireen took Arya's hand.

Arya followed, strangely reluctant, though she couldn't place why as they left the House of Black and White.

Skahaz

"Good riddance," Skahaz said quietly as he watched the sunset over Slaver's Bay. Though she was at least three days gone from Astapor by now, word had only yet arrived today. Skahaz wished he could have seen the last of the dragon queen's ships disappear over the horizon. The golden fray and long folds of his tokar flapped gently in the wind from the north. He smiled. "It's done," he said. "It's done, it's done," elation in his heart and a spring in his step, he turned away from the sea. He practically skipped his way across the room, joy in his heart, victory at last.

He clapped his hands and went to the cabinet in the corner of the chamber, opening the fine teak doors carved with harpies and chains.

He reached inside. "Somewhere," he muttered. "Aha," he pulled forth a green glass bottle. "Volantene wine," he said proudly. "Sweet and red," he filled a glass goblet almost to the top, and after a moment's thought, found a second smaller glass and filled it up a third. He took hold of both drinks and returned to the couch, where the cyvass game was in motion. "My lady," he set the small glass down in front of Missandei and then took a seat. He took a long sip of the wine. "Ah, nothing finer than this vintage."

Missandei cautiously sipped the wine Skahaz had served her. "It's good," she said after she swallowed.

"Of course it is," Skahaz said. "I paid five times as much for one barrel as Kraznys paid for you. Heh, finish that cup, and you'll be able to boast that you drank your worth in wine."

Missandei smiled slightly and took another sip. She then moved a piece on the board, one of her cavalry, into a position where it threatened both Skahaz's archers and catapults. The loss of either threatened to roll up his whole battle line.

Skahaz ignored the cavalry and put his dragon down beside Missandei's king, just where the cavalry had moved from. "You lose," he said and picked up his goblet again.

Missandei frowned, staring at the board, but she said nothing.

Skahaz drank deeply from his wine. "You're a smart girl," he said. "You'll learn quickly," he chuckled slightly and rose from the couch. Missandei stood as well. "No," he said. "You will stay here."

Missander froze. "Have I displeased you, my master?"

Skahaz chuckled again. "No," he paused and took a deep breath. "What will happen tonight," he said. "It is no place for little girls."

Missandei sat down again. "What's happening?"

"You will find out soon enough," Skahaz said cryptically.

Skahaz left Missandei in his chambers when he joined the gathering of great masters in a large hall on the Great Pyramid's thirty-seventh floor. There they would converse and plot and plan and drink before the main feast would begin, and they would join the wise masters five floors down in the extravagant Hall of Wisdom.

Only a few noticed Skahaz as he slipped into the room with its harpy columns and wide open terraces facing the sea. Skahaz let a slave pour him a new goblet of wine and weaved his way through the sea of tokars, jewels, silk, gold, and silver to the terrace. The north wind had grown stronger and was making the topiaries lining the terrace flutter.

"Is everything ready?" Skahaz asked Hizdahr when the younger man approached him.

Hizdahr nodded. "Everyone knows their place and their part," he said. "Oznak has the city gates, Grazdan the doors to the pyramid, and the others know their signals and signs."

"As long as everyone stays out of the Windblown's way, there shouldn't be any problems," Skahaz responded.

Hizdahr smiled. "No one will forget tonight," he smiled.

"For good or ill," Skahaz said.

"You're nervous?"

"Of course I am, one slipped word, one damn fool with a change of heart, and it could be our heads."

"You worry too much old man."

"Worry is why I lived to be old."

"Worry makes a man ugly."

"Heh," Skahaz forced out an irritated laugh.

Hizdahr smiled his sweet smile, raised his goblet and turned in a circle as he spoke to address the whole room. "To Meereen!" He shouted and was answered by a chorus of raucous and already half-drunk cheers.

Skahaz raised his goblet. "To Ghiscar," he said quietly. "To the future."

The great masters of Meereen gradually made their way down the pyramid's stairs to the Hall of Wisdom. The halls were busy with Masters crossing this way and that between the smaller rooms and private gatherings as they made their way to the Hall of Wisdom. After leaving the meeting of great masters, Skahaz went directly to the immense Hall of Wisdom. It was the centrepiece of the Great Pyramid of Yunkai and took up almost half of the thirty-second level of the Great Pyramid. The vast room was divided into sections by columns and fountains and statues.

Once inside, he quickly had a slave fill an empty goblet for him and found a fresh couch to recline on. The stuffed pillows were exceedingly comfortable.

Grazdan mo Eraz approached him.

Skahaz groaned and stood to greet him.

"The dragon's slaves are still in the camp," the wise master said. "I can have warriors there by nightfall tomorrow to seize them."

"No," Skahaz sneered. "No, we will keep our word. Give them land and tools to work it. Somewhere out of the way."

"Why?" Grazdan pressed.

"When trapped, a wild animal will bite off its own leg to escape. These slaves have tasted freedom, they are wild animals now, they must be tamed not trapped."

Grazdan still looked unconvinced.

"The dragon queen has left them, and their spirit for resistance is broken, but try to clap chains around them, and the spark will light anew."

"But-"

"No," Skahaz continued. "We will keep our promises, our vows, our oaths, land they will have, too much land work themselves. They will need help, and in a year, or two, or ten, then they will buy slaves or their own. And they will justify it, 'we treat them better' they will say, 'better they serve us than the masters' they'll tell themselves, and maybe it will even be true," Skahaz tutted. "In twenty and thirty years when these freedmen are old and dying, their sons and daughters will take up their place. Children now grown, who are used to being served, children who would come to the cities and look in awe at our luxury and wealth, children who are even perhaps related, no matter how distantly to us," Skahaz smiled. "Then, they will take up the whip themselves."

Grazdan smiled slyly. "You are a clever man," he said. "Clever enough that sometimes I worry... bah," Grazdan drank more wine. "Tonight is no time for such thoughts," he raised his half-empty goblet. "To peace."

Skahaz raised his own goblet to join the toast. "To peace."

They clinked gold and silver goblets then went their separate ways. Skahaz returned to his seat as the party started in earnest. Musicians began to play, singers sang ancient ballads of Old Ghis, dancers with silk ribbons frolicked half-naked on raised platforms, wine and food were provided in abundance, and the masters feasted.

Skahaz smiled and waved his fingers in time with the music as he watched the masters, wise and great, stumble their way through the festivities. Ghazdor zo Ahlaq had been supposed to make a speech, but the fat wise master had drunk far too much and could hardly stand let alone speak intelligibly. He tried, though. He made a dozen slaves lift him onto one of the singing platforms and made it partway through a slobbery sentence before slipping and falling hard to the ground to the laughter of all as he stood up unharmed a few seconds later. Skahaz chuckled darkly to see the man stumble off to vomit in a potted plant.

A new round of food entered, roasted duck slathered in honey sauce and filled with spiced stuffing. With the food, a new singer took the stage, and after a moment, the musicians took up the new tune. When the singing began, it was not in High Valyrian or any of the Valyrian dialects of the Ghiscari or the Free Cities, or in Old Ghiscari, it was the Common Tongue of Westeros. Skahaz laughed aloud as Chezdhar zo Rhaezn swore loudly and through a leg of honeyed duck at the singer. "Enough of this! I think we've had quite our fill of Western barbarism!"

Others laughed as well and quickly moved on, but the singing continued. Skahaz stood. The song was the signal and had been chosen because the barbarous tones would be unmistakable no matter how loud the masters were or how much wine was drunk. Skahaz stood, allowing himself to stumble slightly and lean on a column, feigning drunkenness as he made his way toward the exit. As the song ended and a new one began, others left their seats as well. Most were great masters of Meeren, though a few were wise masters of Yunkai, regardless of their origin, they were men and women who had their own tasks to perform tonight, Skahaz could have remained seated, but he wanted to watch from the gallery above the Hall of Wisdom.

Skahaz climbed a short flight of delicately carved wooden steps that looked like harpies in flight. The gallery was empty, save for the slaves who stood watch from above behind delicate wicker screens that kept them from sight. There they waited to run messages to the kitchens or stores for more of this dish, more of that plate, and more wine of this vintage, not that one. Skahaz slithered past the slaves to a prime spot. He peered out through the screen and smiled as he saw all the doors save one quietly close. Through the last door entered the Tattered Prince and his Windblown, fifty in all, armed and armoured, and facing down five times their number in Masters.

Muttering spread through the Hall of Wisdom as the masters noticed the sellswords.

"Begone!" Mazon zo Rhaezn shouted. "Begone! Dogs such as you have no place here!"

The Tattered Prince ignored him and drew a long piece of parchment out of his belt. "Grazdan mo Eraz," he read the first name.

Two of the Windblown stepped out of the line and made their way into the sea of tokars, pushing and shoving their way through until they found Grazdan and took him by the arms.

"What are you doing!" The wise master asked. "Unhand me," he demanded as the Windblown dragged him out of the crowd.

The Windblown dragged him free and threw him down before a warrior with an axe who quickly buried it in Grazdan's skull.

"Yurzahn zo Yuknaz," the Tattered Prince read out another name.

Nervousness quickly turned to panic amongst the masters, and they fled to the doors, only to find them locked to their flight.

Screams filled the hall and the Windblown set about their butchery. More names were called, and more Masters were dragged from the crowd to their deaths. Skahaz leaned on the balcony, enraptured in the carnage taking place below. The wise masters were defenceless, unable even to run without tripping over their own tokars.

Skahaz smiled as he watched. He knew each name off by heart. He and his conspirators had struggled long over who should live. All the names save one were wise masters of Yunkai, and that one was a good master of Astapor who had survived that purge.

Eventually, some of the great masters realized they were not being called and began to throw the wise masters toward the Windblown. Skahaz watched Faezhar zo Faez be run through with a longsword while an axe disembowelled Paezhar zo Myra. Blood and gore stained the floor of the Hall of Wisdom.

The wise masters tried begging to no avail, some screamed out promises of wealth and fortune if only their lives would be spared, and a few tried to fight back when the Windblown came for them, but forks and knives and fists wielded by the feeble and the untrained could do little against trained killers.

In only a few minutes of butchery, the greatest wise masters of Yunkai were slain. The Tattered Prince stepped through a pool of blood. His ragged cloak was stained with arterial spray. The doors began to open, and the great masters fled.

Once they were gone, Skahaz pushed and broke the wicker screen revealing himself to the Windblown. He met the Tattered Prince's eyes and said nothing.

The Tattered Prince rolled the parchment back up and returned it to his belt. "To the next pyramid," he ordered his men.

"Happy hunting," Skahaz called as the sellswords filed out of the Hall of Wisdom.

Skahaz took one last look at the sea of blood and bodies beneath him. He snorted and left. The slaves were either running in panic or standing still in shock. Either way, Skahaz ignored them as he followed the trail of discarded silks and tokars the great masters and other survivors of the Hall of Wisdom had left in their wake. Conspicuously locked doors and leadership from other conspirators seemed to have kept most of them in a single group. Though Skahaz did pass by a few stragglers, either sitting quietly or weeping.

He followed the path to the Hall of Glory, a place where the ancient victories of Yunkai were commemorated. It was filled with silent and stunned masters. Only those that Skahaz had trusted with the plan were smiling. Most of them were young, young and ambitious, men and women of ancient lineages, stymied from a place of power by the grip of ancients who should have long since turned to dust. But even that had been a source of strength. Lacking great positions or titles, they filled the lower ranks in the Meereenese hierarchy, and that had let preparations go by unnoticed. Skahaz took a seat near a bronze obelisk dedicated to defeating a Dothraki raid. Conspicuous for his still perfectly formed hair and unruffled tokar.

Reznak mo Reznak saw him and pointed an accusing finger at him. "You," he said. "You did this, didn't you?"

Skahaz snorted, laughed slightly, and stretched his arms.

"What have you done?" Reznak mo Reznak asked even as more great masters turned their heads. "Yunkai will never forgive this!"

"We have not ended one war just to have you start another," shouted Grazdan zo Ghazeen, his wispy white beard shook and trembled.

"Yunkai died today," Oznak zo Pahl shouted. The House of zo Pahl's scion had been a late but enthusiastic convert to Skahaz's faction. "The wise masters can take no vengeance."

"No more slowly dying," Hizdahr shouted. "No more sitting and sipping wine as the centuries slip by. The Old Empire is dead, and now a new one can rise!"

"The few wise masters left when today is done will know who they have to thank for their survival," Mazzara zo Ghazeen said from her couch.

"And who to fear should they step out of line!" Oznak shouted.

Skahaz could sense the mood beginning to change. "Astapor is broken," Shahnaz said. "Never to rise again, we all wanted our share of the spoils from the Red City, now we will not have to share with the wise masters. In fact, we can take a share of the Yellow City's riches as well."

Reznak slowly nodded. "That's it, then, you want to bribe us with the blood money of Yunkai. I had family in that room, cousins who were dear to me," he shook his head. "You want us to take their homes and their property?"

Skahaz shrugged. "The deed is done. Take nothing or take your share," he stood and addressed the whole room. "The wise masters were fools, we all know this, their walls crumbled even as they grew too fat to walk, their lands lay barren and unused, and even their city crumbled further, year after year. The same is true of the good masters of Astapor, now they are gone, burned away by the fury of the dragons, but Meereen still stands! Unburnt and her lands undamaged. Five wars there were between Old Ghis and Old Valyria, and five wars were lost by the Old Empire, for what can men do when great beats fly down from the heavens to turn lockstep legions burnt bone and ash? To turn great walls into smouldering ruins? The Old Empire of This could not stand against that, neither could Astapor, or Yunkai, or the legions of New This," he raised a hand. "But Meereen stood. It was our soldiers that stood the walls of Yunkai and defended it from the Unsullied assault. It was our soldiers who breached the walls of Astapor time and again," his voice began to rise. "It was Meereen who saved hope from disaster when the siege turned against us! When defeat loomed, it was us, the great masters, who made the plans that finally broke the scion of Valyria! Yunkai is simply our just reward!"

"Aye!" Hizdahr shouted, and others quickly joined him. The great masters of Meereen tasted wealth and reward and were reaching for it.

Reznak mo Reznak looked around furtively for support, but seeing little quickly changed sides.

Hours later, Skahaz returned to his chambers. It was so late he could see the first hint of pink in the eastern sky, the promise of sunrise. Missander was curled up in a ball on the couch. The cyvasse board was still on the table.

"We're all crows," he said quietly so as not to wake her. "" Crows feasting on the corpse of the harpy, the corpse of Old Ghis," he made his way to the balcony. "But no longer, from the ruin of this war, Ghiscar shall rise anew, and Meereen shall be the crown jewel," he laughed. The wine made him giddy. "And I shall own the jewel."

Skahaz leaned on the stonework and looked out across Yunkai as the Windblown led men in raids upon the other houses. The hostages Skahaz had taken from the wise masters would likely already be dead. Hung, poisoned, or simply cut to pieces. To his own surprise, he found he was humming the tune of the signal song. He looked to Missandei, sleeping on her side, and then looked back to the starry sky above.

He didn't check the cyvasse board or notice Missandei's final move, the one that took Skahaz's king and won her the game.

Catelyn

Robb came to her late in the evening before he was supposed to depart with his army to pursue Roose Bolton. He sat on the chair by her bedside and rubbed his face. "I'm tired," he said quietly. "Everything… just turns to dust in my hands… hand. Everything I've touched just… fails. I won a handful of battles, and people crowned me, called me the Young Wolf, and where have I led my people? I have led House Stark to be as low as it has ever been. Where can I go from here?"

Catelyn's heart ached, and she reached for her son, taking his hand when he didn't look away. "I'm sure your father felt such things. When your grandfather and uncle died when your aunt was taken, and Aerys called for his head," she squeezed his hand. "The winter of our house is here, but even the Long Night had an end. This will pass," Catelyn said as she tried to lift his spirits.

"I see no dawn," he said. "Just darkness. Even my dreams are dark. Dark and cold. So cold…"

"When darkness closes in around us, it's the Crone who lights our path," Catelyn said. "There can be no light without the darkness," those were words her septa had said to her long ago. They did not seem to comfort Robb much.

"Sometimes…" Robb started. "Sometimes I dream of Bran, and it's like he's trying to tell me something, but I can't quite hear. Trying to warn me."

"Of what?" Catelyn asked.

"I don't stay asleep long enough to find out," Robb laughed mirthlessly. "I'm too scared. Afraid of my own mind. A coward."

"No child of Eddard Stark could be a coward," Catelyn said gravely.

Robb half-smiled, a sad and scared smile but a smile nonetheless, but it faded quickly, and his now more familiar grimace returned. "I want you to come with me. To Hornwood and the campaign against Bolton."

"Surely, there is no place for me," she protested.

"I need you," her son said. "I need you more than I need anyone else. Without you, I am lost. I fear I'll forget who I am."

Catelyn took her son's hand. "I will come," she said.

And so when morning came, Catelyn had gathered her few belongings she thought were worth taking on the march and allowed herself to be loaded into the back of a cart as she waited for Robb to leave the New Castle.

As Catelyn waited in the courtyard of the New Castle, she'd spied Robb speaking quietly to Wylla through a window. Husband and wife spoke silently and privately inside the New Castle. She couldn't hear their words nor read their lips, but Catelyn saw in Robb's face that of his fathers when he'd spoken quiet words of apology to her after the few times he'd wronged her.

When Robb exited, his face was clear, and his eyes were hard. With the help of a squire, Catelyn was shocked to realize she didn't recognize, Robb mounted his horse and, with his one hand on the reins, pulled it in a circle as he addressed the lords and warriors around him. "The North has been hurt gravely," he said. "House Stark has been hurt. I have suffered wounds. But as I survive, so does the North, and so do we all. The winter of my house is here, but even the Long Night had an end. This will pass," he didn't shout and exclaim the words. Instead, Robb spoke with an iron certainty.

There was silence at first, but then it was broken by Maege Mormont, who lifted an armoured fist to shout. "Aye!"

"The King in the North!" A clansmen chief roared.

Spears and swords and axes rose into the air. "The King in the North!"

Catelyn thought for a second that she saw a ghost of a genuine smile untouched by remorse or despair cross Robb's face. It was the first time she'd seen him smile in far too long. Robb turned and rode his horse through the gates, leading his army on a march that would take them beneath the eaves of the Hornwood. They followed the detritus of Roose Bolton. Who seemed determined to leave as little as possible for Robb. The Bolton's, Karstarks, Ryswells, and Dustins had laid waste to the lands of House Manderly. A civil war is always the most cruel, Catelyn had thought as she watched another burned village pass by. Brother against brother, friend against friend, and neighbour against neighbour. With sadness, she remembered the short civil war that had gripped the Riverlands during the Rebellion, as some of her father's bannermen had chosen the dragon over the trout.

The army that Catelyn marched with was built from men who'd travelled across half the North to rally to Robb's side. There were clansmen from the Wolfswood and the Northern Mountains, Manderly men, and the remnants of the armies that had survived the Ironmen and Bolton assaults on Deepwood Moat, Torrhen's Square, and Winterfell. Men from Ramsgate and Widow's Watch, who'd fled the landings of Roose Bolton and Stannis' fleet. All counted, the host was a little over ten thousand strong, almost a quarter of them mounted. More remained in White Harbour, to hold the city in case of attack from Roose Bolton's allies in the east. House Ryswell and House Dustin had shown their banners among the Bolton army that had besieged White Harbour, their banners but not all their numbers. Some strength must have remained in the west.

Despite his best efforts, Roose Bolton had not had enough time to truly despoil the lands of House Manderly, and with supplies taken from White Harbour itself, Robb's army was well provisioned in any case. Progress was quick as Robb rushed north, hoping to catch the turncloaks before they reached the holdfasts and fortresses of Bolton lands.

Alas, the weather itself seemed to conspire against them, as cold winds brought with them flurries of snow, pellets of ice, and very cold nights that slowed even hardy Northmen and their mounts. It would come to pass that by the time the tired army reached the shelter of Castle Hornwood that Roose Bolton and his turncloaks had escaped beyond their reach. Robb convened his advisors, Catelyn included, and they all agreed to rest at Hornwood. To gather more supplies and give the men a chance to sleep and rest out of the cold.

Three more days passed before the walls of Castle Hornwood came into sight. It was deserted, deep in the namesake forest, the castle was stoutly built of stone and timber. Tall walls and taller towers rose high from the field covered in the new-fallen snow. The stone foundations were covered in moss in places, but the wooden walls that rose above them were clean, some it seemed were made from freshly hewn timbers. The results of one last repair and refurbishment before winter came, Catelyn surmised. The small town only a mile distant was similarly empty of human life. Even animal life was in short supply sheep, goats, cattle, chicken, and horses alike had disappeared from the Hornwood lands. No doubt taken by the retreating Bolton army. Lord Roose, as in the Manderly lands, was determined to leave as little as possible or Robb to feed his army with. Thankfully Lord Mandely had seen fit to outfit his royal goodson with as many provisions as he asked for, if not more. In any case, the thousands of clansmen from the Northern Mountains and the Wolfswood seemed almost at home under the boughs of the Hornwood. Each night the clansmen returned with fresh deer and fish and rabbits.

The journey had not been comfortable for Catelyn, her body, the parts of which she could still feel at least, were sore, and her mind was tired from so many days travelling over rough or nonexistent roads. A part of her wished to have stayed back in White Harbour, but the greater was glad that Robb, for his own reasons, sought to keep her close by. For whatever reasons, he shared with her, and a few she thought he didn't.

The army enclosed itself inside the walls, wood and stone defeated the wind, and wood cut from the abundant forests defeated the cold. Hornwood quickly came alive once more. Light and warmth and even laughter filled the halls as soldiers and servants made their homes inside the many rooms and corridors.

Late on the third evening in Castle Hornwood, Catelyn was stirred from her half slumber by a knock at her door. "Come in," she said, and she pushed herself upright in her chair, rubbing sleep from her eyes. The maid assigned to aid her quickly opened the door for the page who waited outside.

"My queen," the young boy bowed. "His Grace asks for your presence as soon as you can," he said quickly.

Catelyn nodded her acknowledgement. "Yes, of course, tell His Grace I will come."

The page bowed again and turned away, rushing back down the corridor. Catelyn followed a few minutes later. She moved much slower as the maid pushed her wheeled chair over the polished wooden floorboards down the passage lined with old heavy tapestries that showed decades and centuries of the history of House Hornwood, a House that with the death of its lord and heir was dead itself. Unless an heir performed an act of charity and took the Hornwood name, the long line of the Lords of the Hornwood would end in Catelyn's lifetime.

Catelyn eventually came to the quarters Robb had taken for his own, not the lordly quarters, those Robb had left empty, perhaps a gesture of respect for Lord Halys and Lord Daryn, father and son who'd both given their lives for his cause in the first days of the War of the Five Kings.

The door to Robb's chambers was open, and the maid pushed Catelyn inside and up to the table where maps and letters and parchments were scattered in a way that would have made Maester Luwin quietly shake his head had he still been alive. The maid bowed and then quickly left, closing the door behind her.

"Read this," Robb said as soon as the door was shut. He passed her a letter and choked back tears.

Catelyn quietly picked up the piece of parchment. She took a moment to note that the pink blob of wax that had sealed it was marked with the flayed man of Bolton. She put it down. "Any message from the Dreadfort cannot be-"

"Just!" Robb cut her off. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I shouldn't have yelled. Just read it, please."

Catelyn pulled the parchment flat and read quickly. The Bastard of Winterfell, the first words stood out boldly as she read on. Has made an alliance with the wildling horde of Mance Rayder. He betrayed the Night's Watch's sworn brotherhood and aided the wildling in their assault upon Castle Black. As she read, feelings of anger and a strange conceited self-righteousness came over her. I was right, she thought. Jon couldn't be trusted any more than Theon. The thought was quickly followed by guilt. Robb had trusted Jon, and here was trust betrayed, as clear as day. Jon and Theon had been Robb's closest friends. But even so. Bastards are born of deceit, she thought, she continued. Captured prisoners have made clear that the Bastard of Winterfell has entered this alliance to lead them to support his brother Robb the King-Who-Lost-the-North, and intends that the North will be divided between Robb Stark and Mance Rayder. Catelyn didn't bother to read the rest. She looked up at Robb and let the parchment fall from her fingers.

"You're right. It must be a lie," Robb said, his tone tense and shoulders hunched.

Catelyn sat straight in her chair. "Hother Umber wrote of wildlings near Long Lake. Scouts say much the same. There is at least a grain of truth in this."

"They aren't my allies," Robb protested. "No one can believe this?"

"Men will believe many things. Roose Bolton and his turncloaks will shout this as loudly as they can. They seek to turn the North against you."

"So, what then?" Robb asked. His voice was more than a little bitter. "Am I to fight Wildling and turncloak at once?"

Catelyn considered. "It's not my place to suggest strategy."

"But you understand people," Robb flexed his one remaining hand. "You warned me not to trust Theon or…" Robb went silent, unable to say the next name. "And I did anyway… and now?"

"Kill Mance Rayder," Catelyn said. "Kill him, and no man of the North can claim you allied with wildlings."

"A task easier said than done, the Night's Watch tried for years. If Bolton is beaten first?" Robb trailed off, lost in thought. "He wants me to fight wildlings instead of him."

"If you fight Bolton even as he fights wildlings, then what he says is true, in a fashion."

"It's a trap," Robb said. "Either way, Bolton wins."

"Yes, but one is a lesser victory. The North loved your father, and they loved him because he kept them safe. Give them a reason to love you."

"I can't," Robb cried. "Everything turns to dust and ash in my hand. Is this my curse? Will, the gods make me see the North reduced to ashes before they give me permission to die?"

"Robb!" Catelyn called sharply, hoping desperately to stop her son's ranting. "Robb please," she reached for him. "Please don't lose hope, I beg you, don't leave me as well."

Robb turned silently and embraced her, too tired even to cry.

"The Crone will light your path, my son, I know she will. Take one step at a time, just one by one, and you will find the light of the world again. It hasn't left you behind, I promise. You will find the light again."

She held Robb for many minutes before his grip began to loosen. "I will go to the Godswood," he said quietly. Catelyn's son stood and stepped toward the door. "Thank you for coming, mother. I'll have a page help you back to your bed."

Catelyn nodded sadly. "Thank you."

The page took her back to her chambers, where Catelyn fell into a fitful sleep.

When the dawn came, Robb was still in the Godswood, it had snowed during the night, and her son was covered in the white. He had knelt before the heart tree all night, his hand-stretched across the carved face.

He returned to his lords, not exhausted as he should have been but with a strange and quiet vigour. Catelyn watched from afar as Robb met his lords and quickly convinced them of his new plans.

"What happened to you?" Catelyn asked him during a rare moment alone.

"I went to the Godswood and then… it was like you said, I found the light again. I know now what I must do."

Catelyn frowned for months now, she'd prayed that Robb would recover from in torpor, but now it seemed he had done so far too quickly."

Daenerys

Groleo, captain of Balerion, had sailed the waters of the Summer Sea for many years, he knew the waters and the winds, and they made good time. Strangely good time to hear the sailors say as they followed, they sailed west from Astapor and then turned south around the Ghiscari peninsula past the Isle of Cedars.

"I can't count how many times I've sailed this passage," Captain Groleo said. "Never have I felt a wind blow from the north so strong, or have one be so cold, it's unnatural I say for these waters."

"This is good, isn't it?" Dany asked. "We will make much better time with this wind."

"Aye," Groleo allowed. "But it doesn't sit right with me. This time of year, the wind should be blowing east, at least three months at the best of times from Slaver's Bay to the Sunset Lands," he shook his head and made a holy sign over his heart.

"Lord Victarion said he made the trip in two months."

"Aye, with the east wind he would, but it would be blowing against us now," he made a holy sign over his heart again. "This wind is unnatural, and if it continues, could cut our voyage in half, at least."

"Half?" Daenerys asked, half-stunned in disbelief.

"Aye," Groleo said. "Aye," he said again and glared north suspiciously.

Daenerys ignored Groleo and turned to her other tasks. In Astapor, her fleet had taken on supplies as well as people, water filled hundreds of barrels, while salted meat and dense hardtack bread filled more of the hold. There were chickens as well, to provide eggs, even goats for milk, and fresh meat should the occasion demand.

"From Astapor to Volantis," Victarion told her when she took a boat to visit his ship for a meeting of her commanders and advisors. "Gather fresh supplies there and then due west along the coast of the Disputed Lands to the Stepstones and then there's naught but the Narrow Sea between Westeros and us," he charted the course on the deck of his ship, stools and knives and axes stood in for landmarks.

"Prince Quentyn," Dany called the Dornish prince forward from where he was waiting.

"Your Grace?"

"I look forward to meeting your father when we make landfall at Sunspear."

"Indeed, Your Grace, I am sure he will be delighted. The people will be as well. They will throw flowers in the air for your arrival."

Dany smiled slightly, reminded slightly of the similar celebrations that had happened in Astapor upon her return, but she banished them from her mind for the moment. "We will greet the Prince of Dorne and settle as much of the freedmen as we can there."

Quentyn smiled slightly. "House Martell will welcome them, just as it did Nymeria did with her ten thousand ships."

Dany continued. "With Prince Doran's support, I shall then cross Dorne and gather it's might for the war against House Baratheon."

"And what of Prince Aegon?" Quentyn asked.

Dany felt the attention of everyone present focus on herself even more so than before. "When the time comes, I will deal with him as he asks to be dealt with," her tone left no room for argument, though of those present, only Quentyn seemed inclined to press the point.

More days and weeks passed, and the fleet passed the southernmost edge of the Valyrian peninsula's ruin. From here, they would turn north again and travel the edge of the peninsula towards Volantis. The wind continued to blow steadily, though now coming from the northeast instead of due north. Groleo continued to complain even as they now made slower time than before.

Despite the queer weather, things were calm. There wasn't even a hint of the storms that usually formed and prowled the Summer Sea during the seasons' changing from Summer to Winter. Despite the disquiet the weather brought to captains and sailors alike, Dany felt well for the first time in months, as if a great weighted chain had been taken off her shoulders. Most of the time.

Dany leaned heavily on the rail of Balerion as she watched the sunset. As her thoughts spun and her heart ached for those she'd left behind in Slaver's Bay. She'd taken as many as she could, but it wasn't even half. Tens of thousands remained, and their lives and hard-won freedom were in the hands of the masters. She blinked some tears away, trying to set her guilt aside for a moment.

"I did everything I could," she said to herself. "Everything."

The words felt hollow, and when the sun slipped beneath the waves, she went restlessly to her bed. Sleep came hard, and when it finally did come, it was no respite.

Dany dreamt of an empty castle by the sea. It stood in the shadow of a mountain of ice. The castle stood abandoned and was falling into ruin, and it was inhabited only by a single crow. From the centre of the courtyard, she saw snow fall and fall and fall in great layers that stretched a hundred feet deep. She watched the crow fly this way and that, using feeble old wings with ragged feathers to try and blow the flakes away but never succeeding. The snow covered the halls, and stables, and the towers. Snow fell until there was nothing left but white, stretching out in all directions burying the crow even as it struggled to hold back the snow. The only feature left was the mountain of ice.

The crow broke free of the snow and landed not far from Daenerys. She watched as it became an old grey-bearded man, a spear in his hands, and a horn at his belt. The mountain of ice began to tremble and shake like a leaf in the wind. The man raised his head and screamed against the cold as it swarmed in around him, and all Dany saw was whiteness and cold blue light.

When Dany woke, Quaithe was in her cabin. The masked woman was shrouded in the shadows in the corner of the cabin.

"I am dreaming," Daenerys said. "You aren't here."

"You see me, you hear me, am I not here?"

"How could you come here?" Dany asked. "I must be dreaming still."

"Is there a difference? Are dreams not real in their own way? Or is this not a dream, and have I come to you by a darker path?" Quaithe asked when Daenerys didn't answer, she continued. "You have seen it? The ice and the cold, the spearman and the hornbearer? The last watcher?"

"Yes," Dany answered.

Quaithe nodded and reached behind her head to where her mask was fastened to her head. "Then it is too late," she pulled the mask free and revealed that her face was a bare skull.

Dany didn't scream, but she did pull her blankets tight around her and sit up quickly, her eyes went wide.

Quaithe stood and approached Dany's bed. Moonlight reflected dully from her skull made strange shadows around the cabin. "Too late to stop the march of winter, but yet perhaps not late enough to stop the eternity of night."

Daenerys blinked, and Quaithe was gone. She flung her covers aside and leaped from her bed, heedless of the hour for she was no longer tired. Daenerys gathered her robes around herself and went onto the deck of the ship. She soon found herself shivering though they sailed the Summer Sea and were south and west of Valyria itself. The wind was blowing, hard and cold, from the north, and bringing with it the a queer smell, like brimstone and ash, which she supposed might have come from Valyria itself. The ruined homeland of her ancestors was only barely visible as a distant mark on the horizon. No sailor dared go closer than absolutely necessary to the demon haunted seas that surrounded the ruin of Old Valyria. She ran to the prow of the ship and saw that the wind had made the waters choppy, and the fleet now rode those waves. There was light reflecting in the waves.

"Look there!" A sailor shouted in panic. "In the sky!"

Dany looked up and saw ribbons of light in the sky, blue and green and purple they were, twisting this way and that like they were dancing. The lights stretched from north to south as far as she could see. The lights were bright enough to turn the dark of night into twilight.

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan came running to her. The old knight had his sheathed sword in his hand and wore no armour, only a white nightgown. "Forgive my appearance. I heard you running and then the shouts."

Dany shook her head. "There is nothing to forgive ser," she turned her eyes back to the sky. "What are they? I have never seen their like before."

"The Northern Lights," Barristan answered. "Harmless, or so the maesters and the Northmen say. But I have not seen or heard of them being seen so far south as this."

"Northern lights," Daenerys repeated. "You said you've seen them before?"

"Once," he said. "On the Iron Islands, during Balon Greyjoy's Rebellion. Though even there, they were called an unusual rarity."

Daenerys considered what Barristan said and let her eyes fall from the sky to where the shadow of Valyria rose to meet the northern sky. "Captain Groleo is right," she said. "This is an unnatural wind, and I fear why that whatever sent it demands my return to Westeros and wants to hasten my journey."

Sansa

The fleet had shrunk. When dawn had come in Oldtown after the storm, it revealed dozens of ships missing, captains and lords who had fled in the night, unable to stand beside Euron Crow's Eye any longer. But it was as Euron had said, many had stayed, and now they were bound to him, be it greed or madness or some other reason they had stayed, and now their fates were tied to Euron, and now they obeyed without question.

The Citadel, home and prize of the maesters was sacked and burned, the great libraries and stores of treasures were ransacked as Euron took only what he wanted and left the rest for the Ironborn to despoil. Sansa had felt a twinge of faint memory, a man in grey with a chain who would have wept to see so many books burning. He'd taught her, maybe, she thought, her and other children, but it seemed very distant now, other than that Sansa felt nothing as she watched the Citadel be torn apart and all it's treasures be stolen or burned.

Ships that had laid at port in Oldtown were put to use. Trading cogs and sleek galleys alike were filled with loot to satiate Euron's followers. He had promised them Oldtown, and now he had delivered. And once the Ironborn had taken their fill of the treasures, the most valuable haul was taken, the tens of thousands of Oldtowners who'd stayed in their city even through all the madness of the attack and the storm, many were now forced onto the ships, stuffed into the holds like fish. Thralls and salt wives, Sansa heard the Ironborn telling themselves thus.

Of the armies broken by the storm, there was no sign. They appeared to have fled and were in no hurry to return. Three days were spent looting Oldtown before Euron demanded the fleet press on. They did so without question, for those who would have had already left. The ships departed, and under a cold north wind, headed south through the Whispering Sound. Once into the strait that separated the Arbor from the mainland, the fleet turned east, passing past the castle of Three Towers as the coast of the Reach slid past mile by mile, slowly rising into the hills and peaks of the Red Mountains that divided Dorne and the Reach.

They passed another bay, which the Torentine River emptied into, where the castle of Starfall stood guard between mountain and sea. The fleet passed Starfall, and then the Dornish coast began to slide past through the hours, rockier than the Reacher coast and far less green. Euron allowed the Ironborn freedom to reave and pillage as the coast slid past, and villages burned every day.

For all this time, Euron worked feverishly over the books and artifacts he'd taken from the Citadel. He allowed Sansa to ask no questions or to even be included at all in his work. What little she did see made her even more curious. The book Euron had claimed from the Citadel had once lain in a vault deep beneath the Citadel. It had no title that she could read, but the cover had many Valyrian glyphs. Euron poured over the book for hours into the night.

Euron refused Sansa access to his cabin, so instead, she wandered the length and width of Silence. She watched the coast slip by day after day and tried to ignore the increasing sense of dread that was settling all around her. Even her dreams were becoming more and more strange.

Sansa dreamt of a ragged old crow. Its beak was dull, and its claws were worn to mere nubs. It sheltered in the shadow of a tall bank of ice and snow. Trying to hide from the furious blizzard that raged all around. It tried to fly, and each time it was thrown to the ground by the wind, but it didn't stop trying. Again and again, the crow flew briefly into the air only to be thrown back to the ground. Sansa went closer, and as she did, the snowbank that sheltered the crow grew and grew and grew until it was hundreds of feet high. She strained her neck as she looked back to try and take it all in. When she looked around, the crow was gone, and a man had taken its place. He was old and grey and was dressed all in black. On his knees, he rested in the snow as Sansa watched him. Then she heard it, she had turned her back on the wall of ice, and now it had cracked. Huge pieces fell from above, and Sansa tried to run as the Wall came crumbling down and revealed the Heart of Winter.

Sansa felt her limbs spasm as she forced herself awake, her heart was beating like a drum, and her veins were alive with fear. She jumped from her bed, breaking the layer of frost that had formed over her, and crossed the cabin and then crossed back, pacing back and forth while she took deep breaths.

"Cursed dreams," she said as she tried to calm herself. "Cursed dreams." She shivered, cold from the frost, which still covered the bed half an inch thick.

Sansa rubbed her half-frozen fingers together. "Not a dream," she decided. She took a cloak and wrapped it around herself. She left the privacy of the small cabin Euron had given her aboard Silence. She shivered again when she reached the deck, the wind from the north was very cold and stabbed into her exposed skin like daggers. From the cabin, she made her way to the centre of Silence's deck. The few men of the crew who were awake were tending their tasks with silent drudgery and parted before her as she walked.

The moon was high and huge, and the sky was full of colours, greens and purples and blues and more. The colours twisted and turned like streamers in the wind. The northern lights, Sansa realized. "They can't be this far south," she said aloud. She couldn't remember how she knew that or where she'd learned that. "It's not possible."

"The world is full of impossible things." Euron's voice called out to her softly, carried by the night wind.

Sansa crossed the rest of the deck and approached Euron, where he sat with his legs dangling over the side.

"The Wall is dead," Euron said when Sansa approached him. His voice was cold and empty like all hope had left him.

Some part of Sansa had known this even before Euron had spoken. That was what had woken her, she'd felt the Wall die even as she slept. It was odd. She felt something, something more than the pulse of cold that had spread south, something inside herself, the shadow of a memory, a long face with brown hair, and snow. Someone she should have known, or someone she used to know? But now faded and distant, like many things from before Euron had come for her. Did she have a family? Sansa sometimes wondered. Who had named her Sansa? No matter, she thought, putting such questions aside as she strode upon the deck of Silence.

It was past midnight, and the stars and moon shone overhead, now joined by rippling gossamer lights of blue and green and indigo. The northern lights. Magic in the sky. Unknown this far south, until tonight.

Sansa looked down from the dancing lights to Euron. "What happens next?"

"The Night is coming," Euron answered. He was sitting on the edge of Silence, his legs dangled over the water of the Summer Sea. To the north, just visible as a shadow over the water and beneath the sky, was Dorne's rocky southern coast. "There is no time now," he said to himself. "I must act quickly." He looked up at Sansa and stood. He passed her a skin of shade-of-the-evening. "Drink," he commanded. "Your mind must be ready for what's to come. Night falls, and the Everstorm rises to meet it. Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, it must come. That's the only way. The cold can freeze and kill all else, but the storm survives."

Sansa drank, and the cold winds blew ever harder.

Melisandre

The two kings and their courts had agreed to retreat further north and make camp around an old town. The town had once been large and prosperous, but that must have been over a century prior. Hard times had since befallen it, leaving only empty buildings and a few dozen squatters. But it had walls of stone that had survived the test of time only partially damaged. Now tens of thousands of men rested inside the walls, with thousands more outside.

The two kings might have come to an accord, but there was still distrust, and the men of both armies had lost friends and brothers to the weapons of their newfound allies.

King Stannis made his camp inside the walls while King Aegon took shelter in a fortified camp outside the town. Both kings set a guard over the gates and the gaps in the wall. Some of King Aegon's advisors seemed particularly suspicious of treachery.

The Griffin was displeased at best by the turn of events, while the Spider was always to be watched. Neither Melisandre nor Stannis had forgotten the Spider's attempt on Stannis' life after he had taken King's Landing, and he was watched as closely as possible.

So far, the Spider had given little reason to suspect that anything was amiss. For the moment, it seemed King Aegon's spymaster was content to play the innocent man. But he could not hide from the Lord of Light, and Melisandre scanned the flames every hour to see what would come, but all she saw was snow and crows.

Days passed by the two camps, the kings, and their advisors made their plans. More men gathered at the camp every day. Not just stragglers and would-be deserters rallied by the riders and scouts sent to gather them, but also Hightower men. Lords and knights and their retinue from this southernmost corner of the Reach. Men who had heard or seen the great storm and now came to avenge their liege, defend their gods, or more simply because they were afraid and sought safety in numbers. These men who had sworn allegiance to neither king formed a third camp outside the walls.

The first to arrive was Lady Alysanne Bulwer, who came with her forces.

"Your Grace, Your Grace," the girl of nine said quietly when she greeted the two kings with a curtsy. "Blackcrown has called it's banners and has come to answer the royal call."

King Aegon spoke first. "Thank you, my lady," he said.

King Stannis fixed his eyes on the young lady for a moment. "Lord Casper Wylde will see to your men."

The young lady curtsied and departed, quickly hurried away by a knight and an older lady.

"Blackcrown is exposed to the Ironmen on the coast," Stannis said soon after. "Lady Alysanne has brought knights and soldiers, yes, but also the entirety of her household."

"She cares for her people," Aegon said.

"Others will come," Stannis said. "We must prepare."

And more came Houses Beesbury, Cuy, Mullendore, and Costayne.

Lord Martyn Mullendore arrived three days after young Lady Bulwer. He led his men and joined his nephew Ser Mark inside the town. He was one of the few who made clear where he placed his allegiance.

Lord Warryn Beesbury arrived the day after that and joined Lady Bulwer in their own, neutral camp.

Lord Branston Cuy, whose cousin Ser Emmon was a knight of King Stannis' Kingsguard, remained in King's Landing, joined the armies later in the week.

Lord Tommen Costayne was the last of the lords sworn to House Hightower. The Lord of Three Towers came with a large force and joined Cuy, Beesbury, and Bulwer.

The last lordling of note to arrive was Ser Alekyne Florent, son of Lord Alester and heir to Brightwater Keep. Handsome, despite his large ears, he brought close to a thousand men and supplies for thrice as many.

While the kings organized their armies, hundreds of outriders rode south to probe and watch Oldtown. As the week passed, many of the scouts returned with word that the city seemed to be abandoned by the Ironmen. Most days, the kings and their advisors were content to meet only briefly to inform the other of their preparations. The news about Oldtown demanded a more formal meeting.

"It could be a trap," Lord Edmure Tully warned.

"Euron Greyjoy has always been clever," Alexander Staedmon agreed. "It was his plan that left the Lannister fleet aflame during the Greyjoy Rebellion."

Jon Connington said nothing at first. Instead, he glanced at his king, who nodded in silent reply.

"We cannot risk another storm or whatever other witchcraft he would summon," Stannis said.

"I agree with King Stannis," Aegon said. "The risk of falling into a trap is too great. We must stay on our guard."

"Your Graces," Ser Harry said. "Why return at all?" The Captain-General of the Golden Company asked. "I would say that we have no more business there."

"There may yet be a sign of where Greyjoy intends to lead his reavers," Lord Jon responded.

"Or there may not."

"Lady Melisandre," Stannis spoke to break the divide between the Hand and the Captain-General. He regarded her for a moment. "What have you to say about this?"

"Magic is a sword without a hilt for those outside the protection of the Lord of Light, but a dangerous sword nonetheless, very dangerous. I will consult the fires," she finished.

King Aegon and his supporters shuffled nervously, save for Varys the Spider, who seemed very intent on looking unfazed. Stannis and his advisors were less disturbed. The king merely nodded and turned his attention to other business, matters of supply and forage, wagon and cart.

The Nightfire burned, fed by Melisandre herself, as the night slowly passed hour by hour and the stars wheeled by overhead. The moon, a pale imitation of the sun, shone as well, illuminating the world in grey and silver. The wind was from the north and was very cold. It blustered and blew, sending tents and cloaks flapping. Melisandre's red robes rippled in the wind, too thin to provide any protection from the elements, but she did not feel the cold. The fire of R'hllor kept her warm inside and out.

On most nights, Melisandre would have retired long ago, leaving the Nightfire to the care of trusted servants, it would not do to worry her converts and followers with her tirelessness and lack of hunger or thirst, but tonight was not most nights.

She could sense it. The battle being waged far to the north, the fury of the storm had wiped her mind's eye free of the darkness that had blinded her. She could feel the endless push of cold rushing south, feel it on the wind itself as it blew around her. There was nothing natural about the fierce cold that it carried. Everyone could feel it. Birds and beasts and men alike were set on edge.

She peered into the flames. There, a flicker of shadow and ash formed into ragged feathers, an old crow with a dull beak and claws worn to nubs. It could hardly fly as it perched among ruins in the shadow of a great white mountain. The crow climbed the mountain, hopping from rock to rock, higher and higher, wings flapping half uselessly. As the crow climbed, a fierce wind began to blow, around the mountain grew harder and faster, the mountain itself grew steeper. Still, the crow climbed, determined and destined until it reached the summit. The flames flickered, and the wind blew ash into the air, and Melisandre saw that the crow was a man. As she watched, the feathers began to morph and change, turning into a cloak, beak became a spear, and claws became a horn on his belt.

The mountain itself changed and became, and she realized that what she was seeing was a Hinge of the World. The Wall itself was before her, the flames flickered again, and she watched as the man in black raised his horn as the Wall began to crumble and fall to the earth.

Melisandre sucked in her breath. Her heart was beating like a drum in her chest. The wind that had been blowing steadily from the north for days fell away. She stepped away from the flames as they began to fall as well, dimming down into embers before her own eyes. Unfamiliar emotions filled her. Feelings of fear and panic, she'd long thought banished into the deepest parts of her mind rose again in full force. Though the fire was dead, there was still light in the night. She looked up and saw the sky ablaze with blue, green, and purple lights.

Melisandre closed her eyes as she felt the cold wind return, harder and stronger than ever before.

"My lady?" Someone spoke.

Melisandre turned, it was a camp follower, a wagonmaster she thought, and one of her converts.

"Death is coming for everyone and everything," she said, and then fell into a dead faint for the cold wind had stolen the strength of R'hllor from her.

The Watcher on the Wall

Through chattering teeth, he said the words. "I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come." For a moment, a single solitary moment, the freezing winds paused their ceaseless assault. The watcher forced his eyes open, breaking the fragile ice his tears had made that had sealed them shut. He forced his legs to move, breaking more ice that had formed around him, the result of tiny flakes of snow being driven into his body with force enough to melt, only to then refreeze instantly from the intensity of the cold. But the watcher had walked the Wall for decades, and the cold was a familiar old foe. He wore five thick layers of wool and fur and had wrapped no less than four heavy cloaks around his shoulders. He blinked again before he was able to see.

The night was as black as sin, clouds black and heavy with hate had covered the moon and the stars, and yet there was light enough to see, the cold light from tens of thousands of bright blue eyes that looked up at the watcher from the base of the Wall, shining with malice. Lights flashed in the north blues and greens, almost like the northern lights he'd watched for years, but somehow different. They were colder and crueller. The wind began to rise, so the watcher closed his eyes and began to say his vows, his prayer again. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

The fell wind from the north rushed harder and faster, bringing snow and ice and bone-chilling cold with it. He could feel the ice of the Wall beneath his feet groan and shudder under the ceaseless assault. His prayer started anew.

"Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

The cold wind lessened for a moment but didn't stop. So the watcher repeated his vows, again and again, and again. All night he stood atop the Wall, he was the shield guarding the realms of men, the sword in the darkness, the watcher on the wall, but he had the fire to burn the cold away, no light to summon the dawn, and no horn to wake the sleepers.

Dawn came only after many hours of darkness. The pale light that foretold the dawn also presaged the retreat of the dead. They seemed to almost melt away, like ice before the flame, disappearing into the Haunted Forest like ghosts. The wind outlasted the dead. If anything, it grew stronger, almost as if it was trying to blow the sun away and bring about the Long Night once again. The moment the sun crept over the horizon, the pale rays of light reflecting off the icy waters of the Shivering Sea, the wind died.

The watcher hung his head and made his way to the stairs, exhaustion dogging his steps. His feet dragged their way over the ice, and he looked forlornly at the cage and winch, wishing he could take it, but it was broken somehow, and he didn't know how to fix it.

The walk down the stairs got his blood moving and woke him up enough to do what he needed to do. He reached the bottom and walked through the yard of Eastwatch by the Sea. It was empty for the first time in his memory. He passed by the stable and heard the ravens cawing within. He'd locked them up there after luring them in with a horse's body. They're probably hungry, he thought. The room he'd taken for his own was in the barracks, a small room with a fire pit, easy to keep warm. A whinny greeted him, his mule, his oldest and now perhaps only friend, for everyone else was dead. The skinny old mule's ears twitched as he recognized the watcher. Skinny, but these days she ate better than the watcher. Were he a stronger man, he'd have killed and eaten the mule by now, but then he'd be alone. He paused at that thought and took a moment to gently rub the mule's neck.

The watcher ate a quick meal of a scrap of rock hard bread, a small chunk of cheese, and an old sausage. He counted what remained. Going forward, he'd need to forgo either cheese or sausage. There wasn't enough left to eat both, even just once a day. The wildlings had been thorough during their sack of Eastwatch, or so he surmised. The watcher hadn't been there when it happened. He'd been on the Wall with his mule and his cart. That had been his duty for over sixty years, hauling a cart of gravel from one end of the Wall to the other and dumping a shovel full of gravel onto the icy spots to keep the ice from getting too slippery.

The mule pushed her nose against his shoulder, not wanting food, simply contact, something that the watcher wanted as well. He gently scratched her behind the ear. "I need to work," he said roughly, his voice hoarse from overuse.

On the top of the barrel, he'd hauled to this room was a pile of papers and parchment he'd salvaged from the maester's quarters. Every morning he sat with them for as long could before exhaustion took him. Every morning he did his best to teach himself how to read and how to write, all with one goal in mind. To write a letter, wrap it around a raven's leg, and let it loose, let it fly to whatever castle it was trained to fly to, to warn people of the cold winds, to be a horn to wake the sleepers.

That was his routine, it had been his routine for… he wasn't sure how long. It must have been weeks, it must have been. In any case, it had been long enough that he could see the days growing shorter, the nights longer, and both of them growing colder. Each night his watch was longer and his chance to rest shorter. It wouldn't continue, it couldn't, before long a time would come when he would wake too late the wind would be howling, the Wall he'd stood on for almost all his life would shudder harder and harder until it cracked and broke and came tumbling down, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Tears in his eyes, the watcher grabbed the letter he worked on each day. He knew not the contents only that Cotter Pyke's seal graced the bottom and that he thought lords always made their mark at the bottom of the page. With that knowledge, he tried to decipher the mishmash of ink before him, as he had so many mornings before today. He could barely keep his eyes open, he kept almost falling asleep, and he had to keep restarting his line of thought. Maybe he spent hours trying to teach himself, or maybe it was only a few minutes. Either way, he went to his bed, tired and confused.

The watcher woke in twilight. He rose from the straw pallet he used for a bed. He was alone in Eastwatch now. He could have taken any bed in the castle, even Cotter Pyke's. But after more than sixty years atop the Wall, sixty years leading a mule and a cart filled with gravel to keep the top from getting slippery, sixty years of descending to sleep in a roll of furs and wool blankets. After sixty years, any other bed was too soft to sleep in. He swung his legs out of bed and stuffed his feet into heavy boots. He pulled a pair of thick wool shirts on and wrapped a black fur cloak around his shoulders. He tied the sword around his waist, pulled on mittens and hat, and then picked up his spear. He stepped out of the lonely longhall, where there was room for half a thousand men to sleep, but instead, there was only him and a mule. Outside, he felt goosebumps spread as the cold north wind washed over him. He ignored it. This wind really was just that, merely a wind. The true cold winds would rise with the fall of night, as they always did.

He did his errands, dragging one of the last bags of feed in for the mule, who thanked him with a head butt. He did the same for his captive ravens, who thanked him with screeching, pecks, and scratches. Then he climbed the stairs.

He stood Wall again. Praying the night away with the same vows he'd first said… he couldn't remember when he'd first said his vows, actually. It had been a long time ago. He hardly remembered why he'd been sent to the Wall at all. Something about rabbits maybe, he'd been so young, and now this life was the only one he'd ever known.

The night passed by around him, the fell wind roared, the Wall shuddered and trembled and cracked, and the watcher heard pieces of it fall away, worn loose by the wind. The Wall was dying. And far below was the endless tread of dead feet and screams like shattering glaciers.

Sunrise came, and today he stayed to watch that as well. The sun was low now, very low, but it peeked over the horizon and reflected off the ocean. It was beautiful in a way the watcher couldn't describe, perhaps a maester or high born lord could have, a man more learned than a simple old man from Eastwatch. But he knew beauty when he saw it, and this was it. He smiled slightly and sadly, his heart full of sudden loneliness.

Like every day he descended, he ate a sausage, he'd finished the bread yesterday, and tried to write. Tried and failed. He cursed himself, cursed his life, and cursed the Others. But he tried.

He must have fallen asleep trying, for when sounds outside woke him with a start, he was using the letters as a pillow.

It was a clatter of wood upon the ground that had woken him and voices. He wrapped his black cloak around him and, with his spear, slipped outside to confront the invaders of Eastwatch. The main yard between the longhall and the towers was empty, but he heard a pair of voices from around the corner. He crept as quietly as he could, his spear up and pointed forward. He took a deep breath and rushed around the edge of the longhall, his spear aimed at the intruder.

The intruder shrieked and dropped a basket. She was a young woman clothed in furs and homespun cloth. She'd dropped the basket, but in the crook of her other arm was a bundle of cloth wrapped tightly around her shoulders and waist, a chubby pink arm extended from the bundle. He grimaced at his own hesitation and pulled his spear away from the young mother.

"Gilly!" Someone shouted, and a big man in black rushed around the other corner. "Please don't! Please, brother," he begged.

The watcher turned his attention fully to the man. He was very fat and was dressed all in black. He let his spear fall to rest. "You're a man of the Night's Watch?" His growly voice asked.

"I am," the fat man answered. "I'm Sam, or Samwell Tarly, I should say, from Castle Black."

"Two names," he murmured. "Are… are you highborn?" The watcher asked, allowing hope to enter him for the first time in far too long.

"Yes," Sam said, clearly uncertain.

"Can you read?" He asked desperately. "Can you write?"

Sam nodded.

The watcher led them inside the longhall to the pile of letters and spare parchment he kept by his bedside. "I tried to teach myself," he said. "But I couldn't make sense of it. Just not clever enough, I suppose."

Sam sat down and began skimming through the papers. Gilly quickly sat beside him, putting Sam between her baby and the watcher's spear.

He felt another pang of guilt at threatening her. "How did you make it here?" The watcher asked Sam and Gilly.

"Th-through the Black Gate," Sam stuttered. "The old magic gate beneath the Nightfort, and then we followed the Wall to Castle Black."

"What about the wildlings?" He glanced briefly at Gilly.

Sam stuttered before he could get any words out, so it was Gilly who answered.

"We met a band on the road, they wanted to kill Sam at first but thought he was a deserter, some wanted to take me, but one of them knew me, Leathers his name is, he knew my father too and said I'd suffered enough," she shrugged. "So, they let us pass."

"Your father?'

"Craster," Sam said quietly.

He shifted slightly. He'd only gone beyond the Wall once, but even so, he was familiar with the name of Craster. "I'm sorry," he said to Gilly.

"We got to Castle Black," Sam said. "But it was already empty. Not even the ravens were left. So we kept going, to Eastwatch, and then…"

"Then the winds came in the night," Gilly finished. "Them and the screaming."

"The Others," the watcher said. "They come with sunset and leave with sunrise. Every night. The light of their dead eyes makes the forest glow."

"You've seen them?" Sam asked gobsmacked. "From the Wall?"

"Every night," he said. "I stand the Watch there every night," he shook his head. "It feels right somehow."

Sam nodded. "It felt strange…" he said. "Like the Wall itself was calling for me. I can, I will write the letters, send them south with the ravens."

"Then, you'll follow them."

"But," Sam stood. "I must stay, I'm… I made the same vow as you."

"They didn't," he nodded at Gilly and the baby. "You've taken each other this far, so go south before the worst happens."

"You can't think… the Wall can't just fall, can it?"

"It shivers from the cold every night."

Sam looked down, and Gilly hugged her baby close.

"Take the mule and everything else you can carry when you go."

"What about you?"

"I'll stay. Someone must keep the watch."

Sam nodded solemnly. "You have the Wall," he said.

"I have the Wall."

"Sleep," Sam said. "I'll finish the letters, and we'll send them off. Then we'll go."

"I'll make you something to eat," Gilly said. "It won't be much."

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you, brother."

He helped Sam and Gilly move the papers into the main hall. He bade them both farewell and then returned to his bed.

When he woke, it was dark, and they were gone. The stable doors hung open, and the ravens had flown off. The mule was gone as well, baring the fat black brother and the girl south. All that was left in Eastwatch was the watcher, a plate of cold food, cold meat, eggs of some kind, roots, and berries. Foraged food, wildling food, it was the best meal he could remember in years. He devoured it, not bothering to even warm it over a fire. He was so hungry he hardly noticed the other gift left to him. He'd seen Sam carrying it beneath his cloak, an old warhorn. With a closer look, he saw it was made from an aurochs horn, was banded with bronze, and had a chipped rim. Inside it was a spearhead made of dragonglass.

He took the spearhead and wrapped its base with cord and cloth for a makeshift dagger that he slipped into his belt. He took the horn and the cord and hung it from his belt. It was almost too late by then, and he hurried to take his place on the Wall. The sun fell behind the edge of the world not long before he reached the top of the Wall. Even so, he feared he'd be too late. Atop the Wall, he felt the cold wind rise, and the blue lights flash in the Haunted Forest.

"Night gathers, and now my watch begins," he said as the cold reached for him. "It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post," his teeth were beginning to chatter. "I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

His hands were clenched so tight around the shaft of his spear they hurt. His eyes were watering, and felt the cold freezing them even as they wept.

"Night gathers, and now my watch begins," he started again.

That night passed him by. Then another, then a third and a fourth, then they started to blend together. With no mule, no ravens, and no letters, he was all alone now, more than ever before. But even so, his heart felt lighter. He'd done it. A warning had been sent somewhere, at least. Any day now, some castle its lord far to the south would receive word of the Winter that was coming for them, and every night he stood the Wall was another victory. Five days became six or seven, six or seven became nine or ten, ten became a fortnight, and a fortnight became… he knew not how many nights.

Each night was longer than the last, and each day was shorter. He slept less and watched more every day. His eyelids grew heavier, and the climb too and from the Wall grew longer and harder. Each dawn and dusk, he was alone and felt more alone, though sometimes he could have sworn he was being watched by something, each day his nightmares kept him company. He knew not how he knew, but knew nonetheless that the terrible dreams of death and cold and misery were sent by what was beyond the Wall. Each night he woke as tired or more than when he'd gone to sleep.

He knew it would happen eventually. He wasn't surprised to wake, and hear the cold wind howling, to hear the icy screams of death. He still cried, and hot tears rolled down his cheeks as he stepped out of the longhall, knowing that it was too late already. The Wall was shivering and rippling like a sheet in the wind. Pieces were falling already, huge chunks that crashed and shattered on the ground, as he watched the lift come free of the Wall and fall hundreds of feet. It crashed into the stable, bringing the whole building down. It sent tiny flakes of snow into the air like a fine mist. One hand on his spear, the other limp by his side, felt the old war horn. He grabbed it and raised it to his lips. I am the horn that wakes the sleepers.

One blast for rangers returning. Aaaaaaahoooooooo! Two blasts for wildlings. Aaaaaaahooooooooooo! And three blasts for the Others. Aaaaaaaaahhhooooooooooo!

The Wall began to fall apart. Pieces the size of the longhall fell free and began to tumble through the air. Thousands of tonnes of ice fell. The ice crumbled as it fell, falling apart into smaller pieces. He turned and ran, and he fled Eastwatch even as ice fell and crushed stone and wood. But he couldn't run forever. A hundred yards distant, he turned back to face the Wall and stand in a silent vigil for the monument he'd spent his whole life defending. It seemed to happen quickly, but it still must have taken hours. He stood still, the entire time, locked in place, as he watched as the Wall died.

When it seemed safe, he approached. The air was filled with an icy mist, and shards of ice and snow were still falling. Then the wind rose. It came in hard, blowing swift and fierce from the north. It cleared the mist and the ice from the sky, and for a moment, everything was clear and still and silent.

But movement came quickly. A single pale leg reached over the summit of broken ice that marked where the Wall had once stood, and the first leg was swiftly followed by seven more. The watcher suddenly remembered the old stories about how the Others would hunt men with ice spiders as big as hounds and how often old stories were wrong. They were wrong again because these spiders were as big as horses. A team of six pulled a chariot behind them that slid over the broken ice as easily as it would a good road. More quickly followed, dozens of chariots carrying blue-eyed and beautiful figures. After the Others came the dead, not just men but animals and giants, huge mammoths with blue eyes as big as plates crunched their way over the ice. There was no end to the flood of death that advanced toward him. The blue of their eyes seemed to outshine the night sky. He looked up to take one last look at the stars, but all he saw were ribbons of blue, green, and purple lights streaking south like the scouts of an invading army. He'd often watched the northern lights while standing atop the Wall, but they'd never been so bright with cold malevolence before.

One chariot broke free of the others and made its way toward him. It stopped twenty paces away. Standing upright in the chariot were three figures, all of them far too elegant and beautiful to be human. They were tall and gaunt, with flesh pale as milk and eyes that shone like blue stars.

One of the riders stood out immediately from the others. She was beautiful, the most beautiful thing the watcher had ever seen, beautiful and terrible, like a malevolence given form. She rode on the chariot's right-hand side, a driver armoured in shifting colours held the centre, and the warrior on the left was dismounting. He leapt off the chariot, drew his sword, a thin crystalline thing whose tip flicked back and forth as the Other twitched his wrist, and approached the watcher.

Now that he was closer, the watcher could tell that the Other's handsome features were marred by a black scar that went from below his right eye to his chin. The watcher's own sweat froze as soon as it was formed, his legs trembled, and his bowels loosened, and he dropped his spear, but in its place, he raised his makeshift dagger of dragonglass. The Scarred Other let loose a laugh as cold and cruel as winter's heart.

AN: What? You thought the Others would politely wait for the human drama to be nicely wrapped up? Sorry to disapoint.