THE SUMMER SEA

Varys rarely allowed his attention to wander from Rhaegal. The dragon lounged on the ship's deck, unmoved by the steady patter of warm rain across its scales. Water folded between them, collecting in a lake around the creature before it rejoined the air as steam. It was a passing whisper of a storm, hardly shadowing the afternoon from the rich golds and reds that loved to play in the sky above The Summer Sea.

The first distortions appeared on the horizon several hours ago. They will little more than tiny bumps against the waves but soon they would grow into the fractured cliffs that littered the Arm of Dorne and its thousand disputed islands. It was beautiful albeit entirely inhospitable. Varys remembered it as a wretched place of screaming gulls and marauding pirates with the stink of sea-things left to decay on the rocks. With the smoking ruins of Valyria to their right it was difficult to ignore the physical manifestation of destruction which magic inflicted on the realm.

"You don't fancy magic, do you?" Tyrion had been watching Varys for some time – particularly the way the spider leaned over the ship's rail with his ochre robes billowing like wings. Most of the crew kept below deck, out of the rain. Tyrion had come up to deposit another load of fish for their guest. A well fed dragon was less likely to bite – at least, that's what he chanted to himself as he set the barrel beside the creature.

"Would you," Varys replied, as Tyrion joined him, wiping rain from his face, "if you were me?"

"Magic folk are always after dwarves. As a pleasant slaver once told me, our cocks are worth more than a ship." There was an awkward pause and a despairing sigh from Varys. There was too much talk of cock with the imp. "Our world is what it is, however much we learned folk may disapprove."

"We disapprove with cause," Varys defended. "I've seen it, you know, that great ugly stain of a castle granted to Baelish."

"Harrenhal?"

"That's the one. A twisted pile of rock and ash with a view to the swamps and their Isle of Faces. Worst place I've ever been. Believe me, I've found some steps of hell in my travels across the Narrow Sea. All those Weirwood trees the Northern men revere..." They resided in Varys' dreams. Pale wooden ghosts. "Faces of the dead peering on the world of the living. Gathering secrets for the gods men forgot. They should have burned them all."

"Baelish will never see that castle while a Bolton lives. Last I heard it was infested with them. Tricky thing, the North. It's a squabble. Nobody appreciated the Starks. I'm sure they do now."

"Littlefinger will never take up residence inside those walls," Varys countered. "He thinks they're cursed. Try to imagine it – the largest outpost in Westeros and it sits empty because men fear the murmurings of gods."

Tyrion smirked. The rain turned heavy but the sun cut through a break in the clouds, casting a stream of shattered colour which bowed over the water in front. "The castle is empty because it costs a fortune and is a bitch to heat. Men fear their pockets over the fickle gods. It's also a fucking ruin."

A heavy dragon tail slid against the wood, flopping over the ship's rail beside Varys – who startled. Sick of dragons, Varys took his leave and descended below deck to dry off.

"He gives me that look too," Tyrion assured Rhaegal.


WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH

Hooves charged at the powdered snow, sinking in search of the cobbled surface. The Kingsroad tracked from one end of the realm to the other but today it lay beneath a blizzard's corpse. Early morning broke as the horses entered the pine wood, climbing the hills that encircled the protected valley. Bodies lay in every corner. Most appeared as outlines in the snow betrayed by a glint of bloodied armour. A few shivered, groaning at the day. So much for the Lord of Light, Petyr thought. Stannis Baratheon's banners were caught in the limbs of the pines, torn to shreds by the savage Northern wind.

Winterfell lay as smoking ruin. In the distance, Ramsey Bolton and a small guard of men rode East to the Dreadfort.

"Do you wish to send men after the Bolton bastard? Easy pickings." His general asked, stalling his horse on the edge of the rise beside Littlefinger. After a long march, they were hungry for war.

"Let him run," Baelish replied. "That veil of protection he flees toward will unravel soon enough. Half their army will defect when they learn the bastard's at the helm." Outside the walls, Bolton's pack of wild dogs feasted on carrion and hunted the living. "Kill the dogs first."

"At once, my Lord."

It was a spectacular sight. Winterfell had cracked like an egg and birthed a dragon. What violence. Such unbridled chaos. It gave his eyes a curious shine. Petyr didn't hunt control at the edges of the world – he wanted to fan the flames of upheaval and rule over whatever emerged from the ash.


Silverwing's fire had melted the fields of snow around Winterfell, turning it into an eerie lake – sucking in the remains of war. Overnight, it froze into a dangerous veneer of blue which mirrored the cracks in the face of The Wall and the sapphires embroidered into Littlefinger's chain. It was a delicate creation, crafted with silver songbirds on every third length. A subtle declaration that he'd clawed his way up a few more rungs on the ladder.

His men rounded up the surviving Boltons from the smouldering stronghold and brought them before Lord Baelish. He immediately ordered the highest ranking man killed. His general carried out the order swiftly, pushing his sword straight through the soldier's back and out his chest with pieces of torn flesh clinging to the sword. The body was left to fall against the wall, left in the process of dying while Petyr addressed the prisoners.

"Cold, isn't it?" Baelish began, dismounting his horse. "I remember weather like this when I was a boy. It was a particularly long Winter. Some of the things that blow in from the sea – unimpeded by our walls..." He'd witnessed storms shake castles to their core. "You've seen what happens to walls," he gestured at the burned remains of Winterfell, pressed at their backs. "The trouble with being feared is that you forget what fear really is. I see three houses that should know better than to keep company with petty murderers. Particularly you," Baelish approached a guard wearing a Tully signet ring.

"My Lord..." The Tully guard sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face. "Please-" he begged. "Ramsey, he took my girls. Burned my lands in the North. He-"

"Sh..." Petyr gently pressed his gloved finger to his own lips. He knelt down beside his bannerman, placing a free hand protectively on his shoulder. "I understand. The Boltons they are – ruthless, violent people that dominate with terror. You did what you had to do for your family. I admire that. Defying your lord is a brave thing."

"My Lord..."

"I forgive you." Baelish's voice was so soft it would put a lady's silk to shame. "What is your name?"

"Walker Fraist, of the lowlands."

"Walker Fraist of the lowlands," Baelish's arm snaked all the way around the shaking man, "all I want to know is what happened to the Stark girl and then you can go – find your children if you can."

"Sansa Bolton?"

"Stark..." Petyr's voice wavered sharply for a moment. "I left her here, you see and I promised her mother that I would look after her. Is she alive?"

Walker nodded. "Yes. Alive. She jumped from the walls with the bastard's creature and fled North. They sent search parties but she has help. All the Boltons found were the bodies of their men."

"How long ago was this?"

"A day, no more."

Petyr squeezed the man's shoulder reassuringly. "Thank you, Fraist of the lowlands. I will not forget your honestly. Now go..."

"Thank you, my Lord." Walker started to stand as Petyr pulled away. He made it as far as his knees before the blade ripped through his neck, severing a pulsing artery which immediately washed the grey wall with a thick coat of traitor's blood. Walker pawed at his neck, drowning.

Baelish watched impassively, handing the knife to one of his men who cleaned it in the snow and handed it back. "Cowards."

The Godswood rustled beside, flanking the castle. Littlefinger thought he saw a hint of red from the Weirwood tree. He remembered it perfectly and the stolen day he'd sat beneath it reading stories of the ancient wars to Catelyn – the heavy book spread over his knees and her violent red hair tangled across his shoulder...

"Kill them all."


A CAVE – BEYOND THE WALL

Bran's view was obscured by the godswood. Crimson. Ochre. Lakeweed-green. Smears of white. They collapsed atop one another. An endless blur of life and death. Then stone walls, jutting above the canopy. Breaking apart. Crumbling into the ice. Swallowed by Winter. Winterfell. Home.

He reached forward, lifting a pine branch. Days fled, as if time wrestled with itself. The castle walls went up and down in a moment, forged and destroyed, over and over. All at once. It was in limbo until a shadow of early Northerners reversed through their time and the bricks that built the first castle undid until a lone Stark stood at the heart of the valley, contemplating the view. Bran the Builder. He was a huge creature with broad shoulders, trailing beard and draped in direwolf furs.

A step forward caused the godswood to surge around Bran's body, expanding to conquer the valley and reach into the hills behind, eating away the snow. It rained. The Weirwood gasped and unravelled into a sapling.

Bran woke.

He was in the depths of Bloodraven's cave, surrounded by hungry roots. They twisted down from the ceiling, grasping at anything that lay in the darkness. Bloodraven was somewhere else. Though he was fused to the Weirwood seat, his eyes were white, rolled back into his head and into some other time. That's when Bran noticed the macabre song. It was a faint hush on the filthy air, coming from deeper in the cave.

Not wishing to wake the old man, Bran dragged his body over the dirt floor and through the piles of bones. They smelled of rotted flesh and fresh grass. Weirwood sprouts unfurled from the filth, all green and oddly alluring.

Deeper. Dirt became rock as he found the backbone of the cave system. Natural pits dropped away, nearly invisible. The only source of light came from glow-worms, suspended on delicate beaded strings. They swung gently in mammoth constructions, almost a city of stars strung out across the roof. Bran found himself on a narrow bridge of rock with chasms either side. Roots withered into them, trailed into nowhere. He could not see where or if they ended.

On the other side, Bran emerged into curved room naturally eaten into the rock, walled entirely with Weirwoods. They had amassed into cocoon-like structures, some older than others. Inside each one Bran saw the face of an ancient man, eyes rolled back, flesh pale and soft. Greenseers. Dozens of them, entombed alive. The lonely song came from this place, echoing out from the human husks. Bran closed his eyes.

A dragon. Black as the hearth. It lay by a river amid towering Southern figs. Mournfully, it sang at the Weirwood tree, digging its heavy body into the mud and tangle of mangroves.

Gone. Replaced by a shallow swamp, water to his knees. Bran passed through a forest of pale Weirwoods and their ghostly reflections in the still water. Children of the forest disappeared behind the trees as he approached. Shadows. Whispers. And then there were the terrible faces. He thought he saw them move. One of them looked like him. It was screaming.

Waist-length silver hair. The gleam of armour. Brynden Rivers stood before him amidst the forest which bowed away from his figure as though he were a god. He appeared not as a corpse nested in the dark but as a youthful knight, Hand of the King. His fine jaw was obscured by a raven's mark. The crimson smear matched his eyes. Unlike his siblings, there was fire burning in them. He rested his claw-like hands on the hilt of a Valyrian sword.

It was the first Targaryen warrior that Bran had even seen. They were nothing like Old Nan's stories or the scrolls of his maester. At first Bran thought those harsh eyes were fixed on him but Brynden was looking past the apparition.

Bran turned.

There, beneath the weeping bowers – a Whitewalker. He heard a sword unsheathe.


WOLFSWOOD – THE NORTH

Sansa brought her scrap of a convoy to stop. The pines were thick and the snow – thicker. The North was taking on its true form, embracing the return of ice and the quiet that came with it. Brienne was first to alight her horse, tying the restless creature to a tree's girth. The creature stood mutely in the cold, shivering its enormous muscles.

"My Lady," Brienne helped Sansa from her horse. "Are you all right? Podrick – fetch another blanket from the -"

"No... It's not the cold. It's this. Running. Why am I running from my home?"

"Your brother is at The Wall. You have many enemies between here and there. If we linger, the Boltons will find us."

Sansa set her dark, winter eyes on the Southerner. "This is my home," she replied. Sansa could hear Littlefinger's words, whispered to her the day he'd left her to Ramsey's will. Stop running. The world was not going to save her, she'd have to do that herself. Her father would do it. Rob did it. Was she not of the same ilk as her siblings? She was a Stark. "I will not run."

"I swore to your-"

"I know," Sansa stopped the large knight before she could finish. "And if you wish it, I release you from your vow. Whatever waits for me back in Winterfell – it is not your duty to face it. Go home to Evenfall and to your poor father."

Brienne shook her head. "I swore another oath, to you, Lady Stark. If you wish to return to Winterfell, I will take you there. So will Podrick."

Podrick nodded dutifully, clutching a rug. "Aye."

"My Lady Sansa..." It was a quiet voice from her left. Sansa turned to find Theon standing in the snow. He held his horse firmly by the reins. The beast was gentle, nudging at the ruined coat barely covering his shoulders, able to smell the hay from the barn they took shelter in earlier. "If you stay," Theon continued, "you will need an army to survive. The Boltons will be back. Ramsey is – well 'crazy' seems to kind a word for what he is. He would skin the world if only to watch the heart stop."

"Where do you find an army?" Sansa asked, looking to the wilderness that surrounded them. "My brother raised one but those were different times, before the North fractured. Who is left to rally?"

"What if I brought you one?" Theon offered, stepping closer. As the days passed he had started to shed the fearful creature Ramsey made of him. "Let me sail. I will ride West, through The Rills and find a ship at Blazewater Bay. The winds are savage and fast, your grace. My father and sister are not unreasonable. A Stark is preferable to a Bolton, I will make them see that."

Brienne was suspect. Everyone heard tales of the Iron Born. They pillaged and raped their way to the throne and stayed there, like an unsightly growth of barnacles on a ship's keel. Their ways held fast through many kingdoms. It was not in them to fight a noble war.

Theon caught the knight's accusing look and approached. "I know, believe me. This is not an empty deal. I will offer them information in return. Ramsey was not careful around me. I know how to topple the Dreadfort and conquer the Bolton's amassed fortune inside. There's enough there to buy a new fleet. It will work."

Sansa eventually took Theon's trembling hands in hers. Neither of them were whole but they would be again, one day – or die trying. "Greyjoy," she deliberately used his house name, "your place is home. Next time I see you, it will be with an army at your back. Now tell me, who are you?"

Theon steeled himself, inhaling deeply of the freezing air. He was more Northerner than Iron Born. "I am Theon Greyjoy."

"And what are your words?"

Winter is coming... He thought to himself. Those were his words. "What is dead may never die."

"They killed your name. Now you're immortal. I will take no vengeance on your house. Our blood is for the Winter."

"Winter is coming."

She took his hand – squeezed it tight in hers. "Winter is here, brother."


Brienne spun her horse, chasing something in the air. Words. Not even. Thoughts... They were part of the winds, caught in the snow. Whatever it was rattled the horses. They bucked against their rein with a burst of sharp whinnies. She petted the neck of her horse to hush it.

The woods were not empty. An army crashed out from a sunken track beside them, picking their way through the dense clusters of ancient pines.

"I see them," Sansa whispered. The army had not spotted the three horses keeping to the shadows but they would soon, if they did nothing.

"Do you recognise their banners?" Brienne asked.

Sansa searched for a banner and found it – vanishing around the trunks of trees as the army marched. It was the distinctive sky-blue of Manderly with their foreign fish-god. "Manderly – my father's men." Brienne tried stop her as Sansa moved to ride toward them. "They are loyal to my father. The North remembers. They owe us a debt."


The Manderly's rallied to the last Stark along with the fleeing survivors of Stannis Baratheon's army. They were joined by tiny forest villages reeling from the Boltons' blood lust. All pledged their allegiance while the Manderly ravens flew to those loyal in the North and soon the smaller houses despatched men to join the emerging army. It wasn't only that Sansa was a Stark – rightful heir to the ancient Winterfell stronghold – it was that the Boltons were murders, destroying families, burning villages and plundering castles. The North was being flayed without the Starks. A few greedy houses facilitated the massacre, growing rich on murder. The North was tired of it and ready to rally behind anyone who might stop the Boltons.

"My Lady Stark..." A Manderly commander rode up beside the young girl. Her red hair was returning, fighting against the black disguise. He could not help but note how very like her mother she appeared. Her countenance though, was quite Eddard Stark. She marched that horse like the snow was hers. "A raven has come."

"Another house pledge?" she asked.

The commander lowered his eyes, focusing on the hooves sinking into the snow. "No... It is news from The Wall – from – from Lord Commander Thorne."

Her brother was dead.

Sansa let the message fall onto the ice. Her face was one of stone, unmoved by the news. Now she truly was the last Stark.


WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH

At Winterfell Sansa found an army sprawled over the icy ruins. It was huge. Thirty-thousand men shivered in the cold displaying green songbirds on their chests. Lord Baelish and the balance of The Veil's army. Sansa recognised them at once and felt her mood take a turn toward Winter. He left me with that monster, she thought, to be bought and sold like a common goat. Is that what she was to him – livestock?

They met on the battlefield alone with the ruins as their backdrop and the mountains, their ceiling. Littlefinger had a changed countenance. He left his army at Winterfell and Sansa's lingered along the edge of the godswood. Her ferocity grew as he drew closer. If it weren't for him – if it weren't for him she'd be dead... It was as sobering thought, one that held her tongue as Littlefinger reached her. He stopped – a surprisingly soft smile on his lips. Without a word, he knelt on the ice in front of Sansa, never taking his eyes off the Northern woman who looked so very like her mother.

"Sansa Stark..." Baelish very deliberately reverted to her old house name. "I have been misled terribly by the cruelty of a once loyal house. Here, alone, I have come to beg your forgiveness for my part in the whole affair – believe that I arranged your marriage to Ramsey Bolton with a view a return to your rightful home and position. Had I known-" he hesitated. There was truth in his words, undeniably, "I'd have razed the castle before leaving you here. If it is the last thing I do, I will punish Ramsey for the evils he laid on you – I swear it."

It was snowing again. The weather could barely hold out a day before giving into the passing drifts. "You swear that you did not know?"

"On your mother's life."

He would not have said those words lightly. Sansa considered the man at her feet. His army sprawled behind, lined temptingly along the ruin. When she offered her hand, forgiveness was implied. As Sansa was led toward Winterfell her army of mismatched Northern houses followed.

"Who are they?" Littlefinger inquired after them. She explained and he smirked with pride. "It is one army now."


Midnight. The moon found a way through the passing clouds, lighting the dark trees and the pale snow. The armies formed an isle from Winterfell to the godswood, all the way to the sprawling fire-touched carpet of Weirwood leaves. Those ancient trees were the embodiment of fire and ice with frozen roots and a burning crown. Sansa walked it alone with the soft cries of distant wolves. Her wolf was gone, now she was the wolf.

The men held candles. It transformed their number into a dazzling ocean in the dark. Winter roses fell in tangles from the pines, blown about by a gentle wind. Some were knitted through her hair amidst stray snowflakes.

There it was – the imposing apparition of the Weirwood. Its bowers bled into the pines while one, horrific face sat at its heart, carved into the wood by some forgotten thing. Lord Baelish waited with Brienne and Podrick. The rest were Northerners who knew the old words. A hushed chant started in the crowd. They were prayers to the old, mysterious gods of the snow that had kept the North safe for thousands of years.


Podrick was mesmerised by the voices of the soldiers. They way they said their words, over and over, it was almost a song. A hymn to the gods. A tide rising and falling. The Lady Sansa had been reborn. She strode towards them, eyes fixed on Littlefinger – a man Podrick knew chiefly by reputation and Tyrion's stories. It was only here that he saw the true man. Tyrion had always said that you could never be sure what Littlefinger wanted but Podrick could see the answer quite clearly. He wanted her.

When Sansa reached the end, more words were said. One of the knights had made a rudimentary crown from Weirwood twigs. It was a dangerous, unsightly thing but something shifted in the North when it was passed to Littlefinger who placed it on Sansa's head declaring her Queen in the North.


THE SUMMER SEA

Littlefinger old friend. Varys' laid the scrap of paper on the table, unfurling its tattered edges which bared damage from a storm. He ran his soft hands along the parchment. He was signing with a new mark – Protector of the Veil, or so he thought. The Veil remained one of the only corners of the world that lacked a need for protection. It was an artful mess of cliffs, good for nothing save conspiring and oh how his old friend conspired. Varys could feel the calculations seeping from the text.

'If you find yourself in the region, take of my wine. The Queen's husband is welcome at our hearth.'

"The Queen's husband is dead," Tryion noted, some time later. He nudged the odd bit of paper away, not quite sure he wanted to get between a spider and bird.

"He means you."

Tyrion blinked. "Me?"

"For a lion, you don't have the sharpest claws in the realm... Sansa Stark remains your wife by law."

"Queen?"

"In the North. She's taken up the historic title and assembled an army of loyal Northern houses. They rallied around her cause the moment the Boltons fled Winterfell. Ramsey is a difficult pill to swallow after Roose."

"My wife – the queen?" he was still trying to understand. "Wait – am I -?" Tyrion nearly dropped his glass.

"Technically? Probably... I believe that all depends on whether you intend to join their cause or rally to your old house. More wine?" Tyrion nodded and held his cup out. "King Consort, would be more correct in this case. What shall I reply?"

Tyrion choked on the sickly wine. The barrels had been aboard the ship so long that they had begun to turn. "Careful what you whisper to Baelish... He's always had an eye on my wife. I heard a few whispers of my own in the capital."

"It would be rash to kill you out of jealousy."

"Gee – thanks. We know nothing about that man."

"I know what he wants."

Tyrion smirked into his wine. "Do you? I doubt it. What?"

"I haven't even got to the best bit."

Tyrion's eyes widened and he refilled his cup. He wondered how Varys was going to top a surprise coronation. Shortly after he spat the wine out altogether. "Again?"

"A silver dragon destroyed the stronghold of Winterfell. It lays in ruins, covered by an unseasonally heavy snow."

"Clearly a lie."

Varys reached behind him and emptied a small bin full of parchment, ready to burn. "Too much smoke. The creature has been seen all the way to The Wall where it vanished into the lands beyond. My history of Westeros is a bit shaky-"

"No it isn't."

"-but there are only a few dragons unaccounted for after the war. Judging from the description, this must be Silverwing, Queen Alysanne Targaryen's dragon. It was always a wild thing, let us hope that it has vanished for good. If this creature is still alive, she would dwarf the dragon sleeping on deck."

"Look – I've tried to move him but..."

"I wasn't nagging. Let sleeping dragons lie, I always say." Varys suddenly pushed his stool out from the table and stood, taking a measured bow at the woman standing their door. "Lady Missandei."

She nodded in kind, uneasy with the two Westerosi advisers speaking alone in hushed tones. "The ships are lowering their sails, preparing for the pass through the Arm of Dorne. Do you want us to raise the banners?"

Varys nodded.

"Will it work?"

"I dare say the realm has not slipped so low into depravity that they would attack a Braavosi merchant fleet. We cannot afford to get into a war on the sea. If anyone spots Targaryen banners it'll be a free-for-all, floating buffet. Is there nothing you can do about the dragon?"

Tyrion shrugged. "What do you want me to do – hmm? Hide it under a sheet?"


Tyrion muttered foul words the whole way to the deck. Nervous sailors laid out a torn sail. It was a huge sheet of canvas, flapping in the crisp wind. In the distance he could see the first of the scattered islands, remnants of The Arm of Dorne. It was a mess of ocean, littered with a thousand unnamed fragments left after the cataclysm that split apart the earth.

"You're mad..." Varys whispered, with something akin to amusement. He'd witnessed the imp do a lot of stupid things but this had to be loitering toward the top of the list of 'activities likely to result in death'.

"It'll be fine..." he hoped, rather than believed. "Cheer up," Tyrion added, when Missandei joined them with a distinct cross line set into her forehead. She had a rare talent for projecting disapproval – something he'd learned during their High Valyrian lessons. "It will. Rhaegal is a kitten." Varys' look worsened and Tyrion decided to quit while he was ahead.

The sail needed the help of a dozen sailors to carry it over to the dragon. Rhaegal hadn't left his spot in the two days since he'd landed. Every now and then he growled at the gulls brave enough to land on his back. They lined up along his spines, cawing at the ocean breeze. He was a conspicuous addition to their fleet – especially the long, thick tail draped over the bannister, twitching at the spray. His scales were a deep, forest green and exceedingly beautiful. Before attempting to drape the fabric over him, Tyrion laid his hand on the dragon's snout.

"Are you going to be a good dragon?" he asked. Rhaegal replied with a dubious trail of smoke wafting from his nostrils.