Winterfell

I shouldn't be here, Bran sours as he's looking out from his window onto the wide expanse of the North. I should be with father and Arya and Sansa in King's Landing, admiring Balerion's skull and eating all kinds of Southron food, see the tourney they talked about. But that's a fleeting dream; he can't even walk.

And now there's only two Stark's left in the whole North if what he heard about Uncle Benjen is true. Only him and Rickon ever since Robb left on a mission to rescue their mother. "I should be with him," he complains to the halfwit Hodor. "I could squire someone and become a knight, the wolfknight they'll call me! If I could walk, would I make a fine warrior, Hodor?"

"Hodor hodor."

"Why can't you say more words," he sighs.

Being the oldest Stark in Winterfell, Bran now carries the great responsibility of being its Lord. He saw how it changed Robb from a kind and playful brother to be almost cold at times. Will I turn like that? he wonders, making drawings on the glass pane. He may now be a Lord but the boy still yearns for his mother's embrace, his half-brother's playful japes, his sisters' constant tricks and complaints… He even misses Theon, the annoying one who felt like an older brother to him. The one who abandoned him for the Greyjoys at the Iron Islands. "Hodor, me and Theon are family, right?"

"Hodor."

"And Jon is family?"

"Hodor."

…

He'd rather not idle much longer in his room lest he falls asleep, and by the Old Gods he needs to stay awake. He saw too much in his dreams, too much. "Hodor, bring me to Meera's and Jojen's room. Maybe they know some games you can play as well."

Walking through the quiet afternoon halls, he hears some loud talking coming from his father's solar. Signalling Hodor to stop and for Summer to stay quiet, Bran listens in on their conversation.

"…the boy would be fine?" asks the gruff voice of Ser Rodrik. "We'll be having the harvest festival in one more month. The Lords and Ladies who stayed behind will want to see the Stark leading them, but the boy…"

"Is troublesome, I know," replies Maester Luwin's calm voice. He can hear some clinking of cups. "But we must have patience. Even Lord Eddard wasn't born knowing the intricacies of Northern politics, especially being a second son. He may be somewhat slow on the lessons, but he will grow into the direwolf cloak."

"But how much longer, Luwin? The boy still cries in his sleep and is now too scared of his nightmares to do much of anything! Admit it, the boy's weak." Weak. That statement causes much pain in Bran's heart, but he listens on with wet eyes. "Gods forbid, Luwin, what if Robb…"

"Now what did I say about voicing ill thoughts?" the maester cautions. "He'll be fine, Rodrik. The young Lord is quick on his feet and has many brave men by his side."

"And women in mail," the master-at-arms scoffs.

"If there's someone to blame it's the Lannisters, not Robb's bannermen. Were it not for their actions, Lady Catelyn would be home safe and sound and Robb would have no need to march South. But trust my judgement, Rodrik. Bran is smart, he'll adapt."

"Gods, I hope you're right, Luwin."

I hope you 're right as well.

With a gloomy heart, they knock and enter Meera's room. "You're here early," says the older girl with a smile, one that brings much-needed warmth to his cheeks; he still refuses the Greyjoy's notion that it's love. Her brother Jojen is busy helping to mend the net they used for the previous hunt with Theon, broken through by some particularly vicious rabbits. Bran is plopped down on her bed with a sigh. "Did the maester's lessons bore you?"

"I don't have any lessons today," he replies. It seems that each new topic the maester introduces is harder and more confusing than the last. And at times, Bran's eyes would simply glaze over what was shown and said. Not good for a Stark, he chides himself. I need to focus like Robb. "Do you really not have maesters in Greywater Watch?"

"Why need it?" answers Jojen, pushing away Summer from trying to bite the net's rope.

"We're crannogmen, Bran. My father knows the Neck better than any Southron maester," Meera laughs as she ties up the loose strings on her net. "We also don't have ravens. Why use it when Greywater moves? Did Lord Stark not tell you about our customs?"

"No, he did. He explained many things to me, like how Lord Howland Reed helped him at the Tower of Joy. It's just… I'm supposed to be with him in King's Landing, learning how to become a knight or be a better Stark. But now," Bran grimaces, patting his numb legs. "And Robb is gone too, on a mission to get mother back from the Kingslayer." He knows that his father once told him not to trust the Lannisters, yet he's still in disbelief that the gallant Kingsguard Ser Jaime would do such a thing! Why kidnap mother!?

"So what will you become?" asks Jojen. "A wolf with broken legs can't be a knight."

"Jojen!" Meera smacks her brother's back.

"I know I can't become one," Bran agrees with the Reed boy, sparing him much of his sister's scolding. "Maester Luwin said I could become a maester like him, but that would mean travelling to Oldtown. I've never even been South like my sisters, so how would I do that?" And a part of him knows that they can't offer him anything on magic, proclaiming his greatest interest as nothing more than fairy tales and child's play. Magic is real! Lady Momiji can fly so why can't I?

Summer licks the boy's hand, easing his worries. Jojen, a fellow dreamer like him, confides that: "Your dreams can make you more, Bran. Use it!"

But the Stark boy shakes his head. Just remembering those nightmares gives him an unbearable chill, colder than any night in the North. He still remembers the demon's words, their sharp laughter, the smug remarks. "The demon," he gulps, "the demon said everything I know is a dream. And that when the dreamers wake up, mom and dad and Robb and Jon and Sansa won't be there. I won't be there. We'll just be… A dusty pile of books and a shining box of lights," he whimpers. "Is-Is that the future, Jojen? You said dreams can see the future!" He shakes the Reed boy who keeps a calm face. "What… What did it mean by that?"

Taking Vran's arms off, Jojen pinch his chin in thought before asking: "You said there was a crow, right? A three-eyed one?" Bran nods, remembering how disappointed the bird had been when he made the decision to open that accursed demon's book. "I saw something similar when I was younger."

"Really?"

"It was one of those nothing dreams of trees and leaves and bogs. I saw it perched atop the tallest tree in the world and it looked at me with such sharp eyes that I thought it would kill me. But then it uttered 'not you' before flying away. I never saw it again," the boy concludes. "But you did. You saw it multiple times in your dreams, Bran. It spoke to you. If it's the same one, then it wants you for… Something."

"You did say the crow warned you not to talk with the demon," says Meera, sitting beside the blushing Stark. "And maybe the crow's right. Have you ever heard stories of demons telling the truth, Jojen?"

"Only lies for blood and names."

"You both sound like Theon," Bran laughs. "Yeah… Maybe I should try to find him again. He flew away once I opened the demon's book, so maybe I could ask for forgiveness…"

"If it sought you out then I doubt it would abandon you that quickly. Perhaps it's hiding in your dreams, watching from afar to make sure you don't do any more mistakes," Jojen assures, "but I still wonder why you specifically. Other than the crow and demon, do you have any different dreams?"

Bran looks around Meera's room, trying hard to remember anything other than the nightmares… Then he locks eyes with the direwolf. "I once dreamt I was Summer."

Jojen and Meera look surprised by his answer. "And what did you do as Summer?"

"I… I don't remember," he shakes his head. It was like a normal dream to him, so vivid yet nothing more than mist in the morning. The direwolf looks confused at the mention of his name. "Is it important?"

"Maybe…"

"I think it's better to clear our heads before coming to a decision," says Meera, righting her clothes before standing up. "We've not gone to the Godswood today. Want to come with us? You're the Lord of Winterfell, after all."

"Yeah, let's."

Summer is the first to enter the Godswood, running around the autumn leaves and trying to catch resting birds and squirrels. The air is fresh here with the slight hint of age coming from thousands of years of packed earth and leaves. Though they've been here before, Reed children are in awe at this place's size.

Various trees grow in the Godswood, but none as large and old as the weirwood heart tree sitting in the centre, surrounded by pools of hot water that tastes faintly bitter. The Crown Prince once said the tree's sap-filled face scares him and Bran can't help but agree; not many would be comforted by its twisted expressions. And yet at its base is where Bran learned about the Old Gods with his father, watching him work on the Valyrian steel sword Ice. Hodor places him in the little nook of roots, his father's usual seat. After some prayers, Meera traces her hand on the tree's red sap. "Some say the Children see through weirwood eyes," she muses, "and speak through crows and ravens. But I don't know if they're still here."

"Osha said some are, Beyond-the-Wall," Bran replies, remembering the many wild tales the wildling woman spoke of. "And if Robb confirmed that there are the…" A cold wind brushes his neck; he dares not to say the word.

"Then maybe the Children are real, hiding beneath the snow or some unknown crannog," Jojen finishes, sitting beside him and skipping a pebble across the spring's surface. Though the boy is only four years older than Bran, at times he would look wiser than even Maester Luwin. "I think that's the case with your dreams, Bran. The crows, the warnings, even the one about your direwolf… I think you're a greenseer."

"A… A green what?"

"Greenseer," Meera repeats. "They're dreamers like Jojen but far more powerful. Some say they could enter animal skin better than any warg, see the future clearer than any sages… At least, those were the tales," she shrugs. "They're as present as giants and the Children."

"But you might be one, Bran. Ancient Kings of the North could warg to direwolves, and added by your prophetic dreams… Remember this," the Reed boy looks directly at him, his green eyes gleaming like a summer forest, "speak to the three-eyed crow. If it refuses, chase it down. You may be broken here but you're a direwolf in your dreams. Catch it. Nip its tail if you need to! They have the answers, Bran. I can only give you so much."

"Becoming a greenseer…" Looking up through the heart tree's canopy, he sees the faint outline of the red comet. Taking a few deep breaths, all his worries seem to melt away. He has a goal now, something he can be. I can't carry swords like Robb or be studious like Maester Luwin… But I can dream! I can see the future! I can be Lord Greenseer! Wait- "Can greenseers fly?"

"In the bodies of eagles and crows, yes," the Reed boy answers.

So that means I can fly alongside Lady Momiji and not get hurt! That's when a bright idea pops into his head. "Hodor, put me up on the branches!" And ever so compliant, he follows the order much to the bewilderment of the Reeds.

"Bran," Meera looks at him oddly, "what are you doing? Wait, be careful!" she exclaims as the Stark boy pulls himself up even higher on the branches. "Why are you climbing up!?"

"Maybe if I sleep on a weirwood I'll have the crow dream again," he says excitedly. After all, that's where crows roost, right? And isn't the Children linked with weirwoods.

"I don't think it works that way," says Jojen, sharing a concerned look with his sister. "You can still have dreams on the ground. Or maybe on the tree's roots? It's safer!"

"…Oh."

"M'lord, what are you doing?" asks the wildling woman Osha, here for her usual late afternoon bath in the hot spring. "Aren't you… Not allowed to climb things?"

"I'm trying to see the future," Bran replies, "but I think I did it wrong."

"…D'you need help to get down, M'lord?"

"…Please don't tell the guards."

"I think they already saw you. I'll get you down myself," the wildling groans before preparing herself to climb the tree.

As he waits for his rescuer's arrival, Bran can't help but feel anxious to dream again. Will he scream awake like before? Or will the crow fly away, never to meet again? He shoves those thoughts away; after all, it'll do no good to wonder before he even tries. I'll surprise you in King's Landing, father, he smiles, watching sparrows fly from Winterfell's towers. I can promise myself that!

Flea Bottom

Davos never really met Lord Stark before; only the occasional glances and nods of heads in the early days after the Rebellion. The man's solid sense in honour and justice was even more renowned than that of Lord Stannis, and perhaps rightfully so. Would he have supped with my likes if we were in the same hall? he wonders, looking down at Eddard's pale face wreathed in fragrant wilting flowers. Would a man like that spare my life after decades of smuggling?

"Gods, the Stranger took him too early," his son Dale tuts, placing a lit candle among the many that have burned through the night. Members of the Stark household guards are here as well, offering prayers and tears for their dead Lord. Silent sisters are always near the body, their veiled faces offering no hint of emotion as they replace the old flowers. "I always thought of him to be older, yet he was five years younger than you, father."

"A saying goes 'a man ages five years with each family death.' There's a reason why the Starks were involved with the Rebellion, Dale. The Lord's sister, brother, father," Davos shakes his head. "I do not know of more Starks, other than his children and Tully wife."

"Do you think it was him that did it? The old Kingsguard?" asks his son.

He knits his brows at the question for he never considered the gallant knight who once played with the little Lady Shireen for someone who would kill Lord Stark, let alone his fellow Brother and the King. Even with his demand for a trial by combat, many of the commonfolk still hold him in high regard. Which means someone else had a hand in their deaths. Lord Stannis once voiced to me his suspicions about King Robert's children, but the exact manner of it… Davos clutches his pouch of bones and gives a silent prayer.

"Father, do you think it was-"

"Hush. Not here," he glances about the gathering crowd. "There are rats in these walls. Come, let's take the Ladies for the lights."

They meet Lady Mokou and Shireen in front of the altar for the Maiden, though the way candles shine upon the statue's face reminds him much more of the burning of the Seven at Dragonstone. Unlike her father and mother who converted for R'hllor, the little girl is dutiful in praying to the Seven. The same can't be said for Lady Mokou who stands awkwardly at the side, fiddling with her hands and not making eye contact. Like how I was when I first sailed to the Free Cities. Strange Gods, strange lands, strange people. "Finished with the prayers, Ashley?"

"Mhm," the girl stands up before timidly grabbing Lady Mokou's hand.

She's getting better, Davos smiles, and Lady Mokou can talk easy as well. "I hear the lights are starting soon. Wouldn't want to be late for that, do we?"

The four exit the main Sept, though Davos' bad leg slows them down. He's not used to this newly bought cane nor does he like the cost. "But it's better for your leg," says Dale. "Less weight on it."

"I'll trust you, son," he sighs. Descending to the great marble plaza, the shimmering holy lights grace the sky in all their colourful glory. People kneel to pray all around them, but Dale decides to lift Shireen to his shoulder for a better view. As a green beam brighter than wildfire cuts right above the crowd, Davos can only mutter "Sevens grace us." Lady Mokou is nonplussed by this. "Seen a lot of these back where you came from?" he jests but is surprised at her nodding. "Truly?"

She lists each one as "fire magic, elemental magic, fire magic… Divine magic that blue one, I think," she remarks. "They're a common sight back in Gensokyo. Can be annoying at times."

"A land full of magic and gods…"

"You're not wrong about that, Dale," Lady Mokou chuckles before pointing up. "Look, some poor flock doesn't know what they're flying into." Barely visible in the evening sky is a group of birds, geese most likely. About a dozen are burned in a flash as the lights cross over the birds. "We use these spells for duels and battles, though mostly non-fatal as we wanted it to be beautiful rather than destructive. But these," she clicks her tongue, "I know I've seen them before, I just don't remember who it was…"

"So the Healer of Flea Bottom, the Messengers of the Seven, and the Saviour of R'hllor went into a bar," Dale jests, spinning round-and-round to the little girl's laughter. "Such a question for maester to ponder at."

"Perhaps the Gods saw it fit for divine intervention, whatever that means," Davos muses. If so, how does Lady Mokou and the Healer fit atop all of this? Is she the Warrior's Maiden then with her fiery might? And the Healer is of the Crone for her knowledge and wisdom?

"Don't you remember it was the Red God who summoned her?" his son retorts. "Maybe up in the North the Old Gods summoned someone else to be their champion. Hells, they might be preparing for war."

…

Davos doesn't like that ill talk. He had seen his fair share of human battles, one fought with wood and steel and flesh. None are ever as glorious nor gallant as the bards sing, and the smell after the battle lingers for many years in his nose. He knows of fairy tales and the Others, even tales of the Storm King Durran Godsgrief and Azor Ahai from Melisandre's many prayers. All those have at most two gods, but for all of them to descend and wreak havoc upon the world… A knot turns in his stomach, tainting the once wondrous lights.

Without warning comes the odd ringing of bells and shouts from their right. "Demons!" they say, "the Great Sept has been corrupted by demons! By those of the Red God, the Others, the Stranger!" Most of the commonfolk grumble at their preaching but many others are drawn to it, curious. "The Warrior shall slay the demons, the Smith will fix the Realm."

"Red God. Heh, they're calling for you," Dale chuckles, earning a jab from Lady Mokou. "No need to be violent about it."

"Isn't the Stranger an aspect of the Seven?" asks Lady Shireen from her perch. "Why is that septon saying it's bad?"

"No one likes death, Ashley. Even The Song of the Seven does not mention Him."

"But some people yearn it," Lady Mokou adds with a melancholic look. "Like it or not, it's a part of natural life. Without it…"

Ignoring the Lady's words, Shireen continues peering through the crowd. "Hmm… Ah, I see Gold Cloaks!"

Shit. "Let's go, Dale. We can't be dealing with them right now," Davos commands before cutting his way out of the crowd, past Baelor's statue, and down Visenya's Hill. Right on time too as a stream of Gold Cloaks close in on the crowd, dispersing the prayers before trying to detain the shouters. With Shireen back on her feet and hood over her head, the four walk down the Street of the Sisters. "Well, that was certainly interesting," says Lady Mokou.

"You get a few of those lackwits now and then," Dale laughs. "Father, remember that time when I was-"

"Pardon, good man," a stranger taps Davos' shoulder. He stops in his track, quickly deciding whether to talk or turn and whack them with his cane…

He decides on the former. "Why disturb us?" he asks but is taken aback upon seeing the teary-eyed small girl the stranger is gripping. In his other hand- "Is that my coin purse?"

"Aye, this is," the older man hakes it, creating a loud jingle. "Was watching the lights, I did, and saw this bloody urchin," he squeezes the girl's wrist and make her cry out, "snitch up your purse and ran away. But caught her, aye, caught her I did."

"S-Ser, I did not," the kid whimpers. She looks even younger than Shireen. "I was just-"

"Silent girl!" the man smacks her with the coins. "The Gold Cloaks will have a-"

"I think that's enough," Davos cuts in, chafed by the man's roughness. "Coins," he says and the man tosses it over, looking at him with some curiosity. "And let the girl go," he adds before taking out a few groats and giving them to her. "For your troubles, kid. Run along now."

"T-Thank you, sir!" she beams before scampering away into some alley.

The man scratches his head, a confused smile on his face. "Heh, not good to give an urchin those-"

"Are you done, good man? My family would like to go home for the night."

"Oh, apologies! Never meant to hold you up. Well, let the Seven bless your day," he laughs before parting. Davos watches him walk away to the night and into a nearby brothel, his steps a bit too quick for a man with nothing to hide.

…

"That girl didn't look like an urchin," Dale whispers, "because someone like her would have bitten than man's arm off. I know I would."

"And any purloiners would know to cut the purse rather than steal it," Davos adds. "I don't like that man either. Looked too long at my hands… He must have noticed us from your little carry back at the Sept."

"You mean someone's onto us? Shit!" Lady Mokou curses.

"What's going on?" Shireen asks, looking a bit worried.

Davos gives his son the coin pouch. "Go to the inn and give the innkeep a payment for the night. Try to pack our supplies. I'll meet you there." With a nod, Dale runs off. "Lady Mokou, is anyone watching us?"

She looks around and shakes her head. "They're either not here or skilled in their tracking. Hopefully not the latter."

"And so it'll surely be," Davos clicks his tongue before picking up his pace as the three continue down the Street of the Sisters and into Flea Bottom. With the evening light, it's hard for him to spot anyone that might be following them. With my leg, it'll take me us a bit to exit through the Iron Gate and towards my hidden skiff, he thinks as his cane dig into some mud. And that's if the Gold Cloaks don't recognise us.

"Where are we heading after this?"

"Home." And that means sailing across Blackwater Bay, circle around Massey's Hook, and into the Stormlands towards Cape Wrath. That doesn't account for the possible storms they may meet along the way, especially after the one a few days ago. Unfortunately, his fears are justified for he can smell a hint of rain beneath King's Landing's sweltering haze. "We must be quick, or else our journey will be rough."

Luckily for them, they encounter no problem walking to the inn. The tavern is filled with the usual unique characters and Davos sees a familiar foul-mouthed sellsword in the corner, talking to his buddies. "Saw your sonny running. In a bit of a rush?" he cackles as another sellsword laughs while dusting off his large hat.

At least they're not heckling us. "Innkeep, my son gave you the coins?"

"Aye," he flicks into the air a few coins before stuffing it down his breeches. "Bit sudden, ain't it?" he chuckles. "But na worries, e'ryone got their own things. Upstairs."

Entering their room, he sees Dale pushing all their clothes into a bag. "No time to be neat," he smirks before tying it off. Davos latches the door behind him. "Ah, Lady Mokou, catch!" She's surprised by the sudden dagger in her hands. "Flames AND a blade are useful in tandem. I think. I don't know how, but I'm sure you'll figure it out."

"Hmm, been long since I fought with a blade," she says, twirling it in her hand. "Nothing for Shireen?"

"I have my sword," says Davos, strapping the belt and scabbard to his waist. He's not much of a knight but it'll do. "Gods be good, the Gold Cloaks will let us through. If not-"

"I'll create a distraction." Lady Mokou snaps her fingers and a spark of flame comes out, causing the little girl to yelp. "I'll be careful, of course. No need to burn down this city."

"Go with Lady Mokou, Shireen. You'll be safer." And faster. "Dale, once on the skiff set the sail for-"

"Father, I know how to sail. You taught me!" he laughs before putting on the bag. It may look heavy but Dale is a strapping lad; his time on Black Betha grew his muscles. Davos can hear the soft pattering of rain hitting the window, meaning muddy grounds and cold nights. It's now or never. After making sure nothing is left behind, Dale push open the door and-

*SLASH*

Hand.

All stare in horror at what was Dale's right hand, now nothing more than a bleeding stump at the wrist. Shocked, the young man stumbles backwards before falling over screaming, clutching his bloody arm.

His son is-

"DALE!" Davos rushes over to his son and tries to pull him away from the door but is immediately stopped by the entry of armed men. One of them holds a bloody sword while another bears the grinning face of the sellsword from before; Davos backs away, unsheathing his short sword. Some of them look too well-dressed to be mere hires.

"Heh, some 'farmers' you lot," the sellsword jeers before kicking Dale hard in the ribs, earning a pained wheeze. He grabs the cut hand and throws it at Davos' feet, splattering his boot and cane with his son's blood. "Keep it, buncha fucking liars."

"Good evening, Ladies and Sers," says the last man to enter the room, his swagger paired with a large hat and a smoking pipe. No, Davos has seen him before. Those green eyes, that silver hair, that green cape…! "My name is Aurane Waters, the Bastard of Driftmark. Forgive my men's rudeness but we do want this to be quick," a wicked smile plaster his face as he blows smoke at Davos; it smells of sweet herbs and lies. "Under the command of Lord Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone, you are to surrender and hand over the two captive ladies. Do so," he gives a pitying look at the bleeding Dale, "and you Seaworths will be alive to see his justice. You have my word on that."

"Words are wind," Davos seethes, "and yours are nothing but smoke, Aurane. Why would Lord Stannis trust you when he could have sent Lord Monford for his daughter? Or Ser Axell or Ser Hubard Rambton? Why you!?"

The Bastard's grin grows wider at the questions. "Men, grab them and-"

"DUCK!"

A whirling fire lance nearly hits his head as Davos drops to the floor. Engulfing one of the sellsword, Lady Mokou throws more of them to drive them back. Some hold up their shields while others writhe and burn in the growing blaze. Taking the chance, he crawls to his son and drags him back by the leg. Gods, his legs are warm! My son is alive!

But his cheer is cut short by a sudden sword swing, the metal leaving a burned scratch on his cheek. "What!?" Davos exclaims, jumping back for he sees standing figures within the fire. Though the sellswords lie black and burned on the scorched floor, the shielded men bear no marks on their clothes. The Bastard laughs as he lowers his cape, the only thing singed being his feathers. "How did-"

"Would you look at that, Melisandre was right!" Blowing out the flames with his cape, Davos spots many strange paper inscriptions stitched to the inside. Wait, they were on Lady Mokou's red clothes. Do they prevent burning? Magic!? He sees even more of them attached to the soldiers' shields and armour. "Little Lady, come with me," Aurane beckons with his longsword, but Shireen hugs Lady Mokou tighter. "Please, Shireen. Lord Stannis cried upon learning of your kidnapping."

"Liar! Father never cry!"

Davos watches his son twitch, his good arm reaching for the belt. A few spots on the wooden walls are still aflame, leaving burned holes as it licks up to the ceiling. "Nay, he did cry, little Lady. I saw him cry when he learned of Lady Se- AAGHH!" the Bastard screams as Dale's dagger digs deep into his left boot, letting blood seep through them. Righting himself with a bloody smile, the young man goes for his stomach.

But the Bastard is quicker.

With a single thrust, the longsword disappears between Dale's shoulder and neck before sticking out of his stomach, red and dripping. He tries to grip and attack but with a sickening sword twist… He drops the dagger.

Dale.

His first son. His Eldest. The one who stole his way through Flea Bottom. The one with a wife waiting back on Cape Wrath. Dale.

And now he lies still, stamped by the Bastard's bleeding boot. "Gods damn it, fucker got me," he spits on him before stabbing again, earning not even a twitch.

…

Nothing matters anymore. Not his wound, not the mission, not the growing flames. With sorrow in his heart, Davos charges sword in hand for the Bastard's neck. But the soldiers are trained and blocks his blade; soon two are on him, his weapons nothing more than a wooden cane and a short sword.

Tears mixing with sweat, he swings them left and right to no avail. The only blood he draws is his own as a sword's broadside bashes him on the jaw. They pin him to the now hot floor and he can see Dale's pained expression so near to his own. They shout commands to his ears but all he can think of is his son.

Dead.

"GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER!"

Breaking eye contact with Dale, Davos can only watch as Lady Mokou struggles against her fireproof assailants. The man who grabbed Shireen's arm is in turn grabbed by the Lady on the visor, her flames bursting forth from inside his armour. She kicks the Bastard before engulfing them in a fireball, pushing away the fearful men. For a moment he thinks they have a chance to escape, to drive them back and run away.

Then a stray sword swing cuts her skull and- Davos closes his eyes, only hearing the dying flames and Shireen's wail. Oh Gods, oh Gods…

"Steff," he hears Aurane's shout, "what did I tell you about harming her!? She told us to bring her back unharmed!"

"S-Sorry Milord, it was not-"

"Look at her head and tell me which part is intact, Steff. There goes my chance at a Lordship," Aurane groans to the crying of the little girl. "You know you have to answer to her fires, right? And with the arrival of Lord… Wait, what the-"

"SHIELDS UP SHIELDS UP! Move back, Milord!"

Feeling no hands holding him down, Davos sits up and sees something terrifying. Lady Mokou's dead body writhe and twitch as tendrils of orange flames wrap around her kraken-like, resealing her wounds and regrowing her long white hair. So scared are the soldiers that they don't have a hold on Shireen—she runs to Davos and he hugs her tight, both of them backing away from the body.

When the fiery wings sprout from her back, all hell breaks loose. The Lady lunges at the men like a shark, grappling and scorching them with burning intensity. She manages to get her hands around the Bastard's throat before being chopped off, but the flames grow them back and she continues her relentless attack. Davos tries his best to shield Shireen as her flames burn through the walls and ceiling, letting in the cold Autumn rain. He can even hear shrieking from the floor below. Realising the direness of the situation, the Bastard retreats with only one survivor in tow. "COME BACK HERE YOU FUCKING-"

"Lady Mokou!" Davos shouts, pulling her out from a fiery rage. As the rain cools her skin, the flames around her dissipate to reveal her spotless body and the burned tatters that were Marya's dress. Standing tall before him, he sees not a Lady but the Saviour of the Dawn. "You… You can heal? You can heal yourself?"

"Yes," she answers, giving him a bright hope.

"Please, oh Gods, please heal my son, Lady Fujiwara!" he prostrates before her, tears flowing from his face. He knows his son is dead, a burnt mess from the fighting, but Lady Mokou can heal him, right? The Saviour of the Dawn can bring back his son? "Please, I beg of you! I'll do anything!"

"Please," Shireen pleads along with him, "I don't want Dale gone. I don't want Ser Davos crying!"

"I… I can't."

"Please, oh Gods, he was…"

"Davos, I'm sorry but I can't. I-I can't revive others." Her warm hand pulls him up to a shaking stand. When he looks at her face, all hope of getting his son back shatters. Though the rain drenches away the blaze, none of it quenches his anger, this feeling of betrayal in his heart. Why be a Saviour when all they can do is burn? "Dale is gone. I'm…"

Davos slaps her hand away before wiping at his tears, now mixed with the rain. Seeing her hurt expression, he mutters: "Sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean…" But his words get stuck in his throat as he falls to his bed, sobbing.

Dale is gone.

…

…We can't stay here. I will… I will mourn later. "Lady Mokou, please turn Dale to ash," he whispers. "I can't bring him back to Cape Wrath." Shireen squeezes his left hand, comforting the mournful knight. "And after you get dressed… Fly us to the skiff. It'll be the first time you fly, Lady Shireen, aren't you excited?" he tries to cheer the girl before vomiting at the smell of burnt flesh. "Sorry, sorry I-"

"It's okay," Shireen hugs him, "it's okay, my knight."

As he watches Lady Mokou burn away his son, Davos grips hard the bones in his pouch—they crack. No prayer comes to his lips.

Marya, forgive me. Our son...