STEPSTONES – BETWEEN THE NARROW AND SUMMER SEAS

Lining the highest ridge on the rocky outpost, the Dothraki began their war-whoops, screeching and wailing at the sea-mists. The horses kicked and reared up against the boats. Seagulls startled, taking to the air in a veil of white noise. Crashing waves tore pieces from The Stepstones. Ropes creaked with the strain of restless hulls, lashed together.

Fisherman paddled canoes in the shallow water. Grey Worm leaped from one of them, swimming ashore where her clambered up the rocks, ignoring the graze of shells and bone. Salt ran off his back leaving sticky trails down his skin until he reach the summit of ravenous peaks. From the other side, an ocean wind hit his face. He gripped the black rock, bracing himself against the fierceness. There. Edging out of the mist. The tips of sailing masts and a pair of dragons casting shadows over the water.

'Kahleesi! Khaleesi! Khaleesi!'

The voices chanted in the wind, rising like the daily tides. Weeks of starvation had left Dothraki and Unsullied bones stark to the skin. Their hides were tanned making each jaw of teeth all the whiter as they lifted their arms with prayers to Vezhof and the forgotten gods of Lhazar. Those that perished lay withered amid the shattered rock along the shore. Gifts for the sea.


Varys' amusement at the childish hand was short lived. Lyanna Mormont wrote with such determined frankness that he could not tell if she was poor at hiding her ambition or frighteningly brilliant – a wicked mix of her parents whose weaknesses she lacked. It was safer to assume the latter.

Mormonts were not known for their political intrigue and yet for an otherwise insignificant outpost clasping at the world's nethers they routinely played the rest of the realm with a heavy hand. Skirting around the edges... Present if not complicit. Here they were again. A new king had risen in the North and a bear by his side. A queen in the South – a bear by her side.

'Spider,

We have ourselves a problem. Today, with Bolton bones under our horses, we look further North. The Wall is quiet and vastly under patrolled. The Bastard Snow, who goes by Stark – now King, intends to fight an army of dead who will breach the realm if we do nothing.

Look after the Southerners for us. We have no ambition beyond the protection of the Seven Kingdoms. It is as it was for a thousand years.

Lyanna Mormont.'

Lady Lyanna neither cared for pleasantries nor did she ask for his help. She told him what needed to be done. Varys respected the honesty, mostly because she was right. Although a war with the North might weaken King's Landing for Daenerys' conquest, the effect on the realm would be disastrous. A blind man could see that if everyone died for a banner there'd be no one left to rule. An empty throne room was of no use. Whatever Varys wanted – he didn't want that. Excessive violence had been the ruination of more than one monarch.

'Little Bear,

You be keeper of the North. We'll join you when we can. So it was for a thousand years.

Varys.'

He wrestled the reply onto one of his birds and tucked the creature under his arm. Calmly, Varys left his cabin and climbed onto the deck which was concealed by a fresh layer of salty mist rolling over the rails. With a final whisper, he threw his crow into the air where the creature spread its wings and climbed, avoiding the pair of dragons sailing above. Beyond, a perfect sky. A glimmer of hope, perhaps – or the last breath before the fall.

"Is that it?" Varys asked, as Tyrion approached. His footing was firm upon the deck and the usual vapours of fermentation were gone.

A bulbous dagger of rock, freshly collapsed into the shallow sea masked a larger, docile shore behind. A rise of basalt capped with a thousand feathered individuals squawked at their approach. Soon those cries gave way to chants. They could hear the Queen's name in the air, as though the wind itself were whispering.

"We're about to tack around and enter the harbour," Tyrion confirmed. "The queen is below getting ready. Mormont is finalising invasion plans with the Dornish prince."

If Varys had a brow it would have curved. "And how is that going?"

"Well their disagreements have not yet escalated to violence so – well, I think."

"The Queen has to marry eventually."

"Of that, our miserable knight is quite aware. This one is not so bad. A bit – insipid perhaps but there doesn't seem to be any malice to him." Shattered outcrops of rock passed by their ship. They could hear the rough waters breaking against their charred remains. It was all very beautiful in its destruction. Tyrion seemed distracted by it. "Do you ever imagine our ancestors walking across this part of the world, all those years ago? Before it was torn asunder by Children and their songs."

"Your ancestors," Varys corrected. "Mine were sensible enough to remain in the East. We always thought Westeros was more trouble than it was worth. Sad old piece of frozen rock, crawling with all manner of beast. Why bother?"

"The same might be said of the throne." Tyrion smirked, fixing the clasps on his cape. Varys spoke with such disdain he could almost picture him as a high born lord. Who knows. Maybe that's exactly what he was before someone got to his cock. "Probably not far off with that. Here we go. You might want to hold on to something."

Both men reached for the rail as the ship listed. Its sails fell flat, swung against their heavy logs then bloomed in the opposite direction. The vessel cut against the water, curving astride the tide as it made the narrow pass into the harbour.

The Queen's fleet was within, nestled safely in the arms of rock.

"How far to Dorne?"

"A day thereabouts," Varys replied. "The Prince says that we can make port at the tip of the continent and rest the horses. We risk losing them if we sail straight onto the Sunspear. The Dothraki will want to ride and rid themselves of the sea."

"I'll fetch the Queen." Tyrion bowed lightly at Varys before ducking below deck. The Queen's quarters were open and he found her in the final stages of dressing, adding a silver clasp to her hair which had grown longer over her travels. "Your Grace, your fleet is intact and happy to see you. Grey Worm is signalling. We'll moor beside them shortly."

"No one is to leave my boat – do you understand?" The Queen turned around and tussled her hair. Her tone was sharp.

For the first time Tyrion saw Daenerys as a Targaryen. Here, with the scent of conquest heavy in the air, she was the image of Aegon but instead of steel she fastened jewels about her pale figure. She had no need of fancy swords when her weapons had wings. He wondered how much blood she'd shed to seat herself on the Iron Throne. All of it. Fire was rising in her blood. The coin – tipping toward the other side. "Yes but why?"

"The Faceless Assassins come from Braavos where our ship was causally moored for several days. How do I know that there are not more on board, hiding in plain sight? There aren't any in this bay, of that I am certain." She was quiet for a moment, taking a red shawl which she wrapped around her shoulders. "Tell me, advise me, would it be wise to risk importing a murderer then dragging them across the seas in close confines at this delicate moment?"

Tyrion – closed the door. He leaned against it, eyeing the queen. "I'm not sure I understand you."

"You understand me." And now Daenerys' eyes were cold like her father's, piercing through Tyrion as eagerly as a dagger.

He honestly wasn't sure that he did. "You – wish to kill the crew of this ship?"

"Sink the ship..." Daenerys countered. "These are dangerous waters. Accidents happen. They can be arranged."

"Drown them? A whole ship just to be sure? In all probability, Your Grace, none of them are what you fear."

That might be true but Daenerys gambled with more than her own life. Her fate was locked to the future of the realm. What was a handful of men to the survival of the world? Philosophers could argue for years about the value of life but at the end of it all, survival was a game of numbers. She had to play as though spending coin rather than men's souls.

"And I'm splitting our party." She continued, ignoring the sullen countenance of her advisor. "I won't have all my council aboard one ship in the final leg where the seas are rough and thick with pirates. The Dornish Prince and Grey Worm will sail together as they have much to discuss. You'll have a ship to yourself, as will Varys. Take the ones with the lower Unsullied generals and make sure you have a clear line of succession should anything happen to Grey Worm. I'm sending Missandei and the Northern girl to our Dothraki commander. He's an honest brute and a bit of a shit but Missandei can communicate the invasion schedule to him while we're enroute. His Common Tongue is so-so. Mormont will stay with me. It's only as far as Dorne, Tyrion. You need not look so alarmed."

Tyrion was giving her that resigned look of worry he'd come to know well through their travels. It wasn't so much her decisions that troubled him, it was that she kept their reason close to her chest. Even now she lied.

"Then, when we are in Dorne," Tyrion added, lingering with his hand upon the door, "will you tell me what your plans are?"

"You know what-"

"No, your true plans. A fool could see that you are on a path and it isn't leading to the Iron Throne. If you want people to come with you, I'm afraid you must share the destination."

The Queen was silent. He was right. She understood that but to tell the men what she knew before the first war would be a mistake. They had to keep their focus. "Do as I have asked and in Dorne, we'll talk again."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Tyrion left, closing the door behind him. When he was gone, Jorah emerged from the alcove behind Daenerys' wardrobe. In warmer waters, he'd left his long jackets aside and stood in a fresh, pale yellow shirt with thick straps holding up his swords. One of ice and one of steel. He left nothing to chance with the possibility of another assassin.

"Will he do it?" Jorah asked.

"Of course he will," Daenerys replied, turning to her knight. "He's perfectly capable of murder when required, as is Varys. Besides, I'm not wrong. You are sure that there is one more assassin in our crew?"

Jorah nodded. "I am. I've searched but – who could know when they change their faces? That kind of magic is forbidden for a reason. They worship dark gods."

"They can worship the sun itself for all the good it will do them when the tide comes in."

"Careful, Your Grace," Jorah handed Daenerys her final bracelet. Instead of accepting it she held out her arm for him to slide it over her delicate hand. "Killing is necessary, no one will disagree but never let them see you enjoy it. There is no need to give your enemies reason to..."

The bracelet slipped over her wrist and Jorah found himself holding the Queen's hand gently. Daenerys looked up at him with quiet amusement. For all they'd been through – the things they'd seen and said... Yet he hesitated at such a simple thing. It was only a brush of skin.

"I am not my father," she assured him.

"I understand," Jorah whispered, slipping away from her. Though he often believed that it took a certain kind of madness to claim a throne. The boat was rocking beneath them, riding the rougher waters at the gates of the natural harbour. "But you are a dragon, Khaleesi. The Westerosi fear bloodshed. Kill who you need to. Pay the rest. Mourn all who shed blood beneath your banner. After you win – and you will win," he assured her, "they will all be your people."

"Is that the Northern way, Ser?"

"Depends which North. Some folk eat their enemies alive and lay their skins outside the castle walls. Not us..." he added, with a patient smile. "We mostly chop wood, fish and sit on the banks of the frozen shore weaving nets."

"Had I my time again, I might choose that life," Daenerys held his gaze a moment before turning away. "Go. You're supposed to be with the Dornish Prince."


As the boats were switched over, Grey Worm waited on deck. His eyes searched and found Missandei as she traversed one of the planks running between the fleet. There was a strange girl in front of her, grasping at ropes with a slender sword silhouetted against the glare.

He waited for Missandei to lift her head and cast her gaze in his direction. She did not.

Grey Worm sank away into the ship.


It was a terrible thing. As the fleet pulled out, one of the ships caught its anchor upon the rock. Fuelled by strong winds, the force of the drag ripped a hole in the side. Water poured through, knocking over the sailors nearest the fatal tear.

Frantic calls started. Men screamed at each other. Chaos reigned as the prow twisted sharply and smashed into the rocks. Then the waves started, scrunching the wooden hull into the savage shore until it dusted the shoreline.

The other ships were already in the throws of leaving. Caught in the rough winds they could not stop to help. One by one they tacked into the wind and slipped out of view until finally the last ship sidled by the stricken vessel. Daenerys stood on deck, watching as men fell helplessly into the water where they were washed against the shore or were savaged by the waves. A few climbed onto the island, bloodied and dazed. They laid over the rock like seals, bleeding out as the sun finally cut through the mist and warmed their faces.

The dragons, who had spent the last few hours perching at the harbour's gates, launched into the wind knocking a hail of rubble free with their talons.

Tears slipped down her cheeks which she neglected to wipe away. When she turned to her own crew they saw her enormous, sorrow-filled eyes. They grieved with her, their queen. Knelt as she lifted her arms and whispered prayers to the fallen.

Jorah watched love swell in the hearts of those that followed her. Good. They must never see the other side of her.


THE IRON ISLANDS – THE NORTH

Theon Greyjoy stood upon the splinters of rock with the freezing tide dragging against his boots. In the distance, the five castles of Pyke leaned awkwardly atop their broken sea stacks heading, inevitably, toward the waves. That is how the Iron Born lived, between land and sea, precarious in life with watery graves.

The boat which brought him fled, vanishing behind him amid the odd hue of purple left by the failing sun. Their was uproar on the air – war or celebration, it was impossible to tell from this distance.

His question was answered as he rounded on a sea cave, picking his way across the treacherous fall of rocks at its mouth where the waters had pulled back to reveal all manner of wriggling sea thing gasping for salt. Over the next rise came a scramble of Iron Born, tossing their bags of weapons first. At their head was his sister with a wild look written into the lines around her eyes.

They met. Asha on her knees in the sand and him, destitute above. Theon offered his hand. She took it, as though he were a ghost of the sea, washed up with the storm. A trail of blood was left over the rock, running out of her leg. Some of the men with her bled in kind and together, they picked up their things and hastened back the way Theon had come, rounding the bay toward the quiet harbour where the better ships were kept.

Others joined them, unfurling sails and clambering over the groaning decks. He tried to call to her – ask what had happened but there was no time for talk. As the boats pulled out a shadow appeared on the weathered rocks. Victarion, their brother stormed in front of the others, the salt crown knotted in his hair. His clothes dripped and half were stained red.


SANTAGAR – THE BROKEN ARM

"Do you see it?"

Daenerys leaned over the rail, pressing her stomach against the firm barrier. She narrowed her eyes at horizon until the line of water gave way to an unnatural rise. Soon after, sand dunes the size of mountains separated themselves from the sea and she nodded.

Westeros.

Their ship sailed at the front of the fleet. Behind them, Dornish sails joined the Targarayen ones already full with a fresh Northern wind. "We've been travelling so long, the thought of a few nights on solid ground are welcome." Said Jorah, beside her.

"I agree." The Queen absently rested her hand on his arm. She did not recognise it for the cruelty it was. Even her lightest, passing affection hurt. The closer they drew to the sun-kissed shore, the further she slipped away. "You despair, my Lord."

Sometimes she called him thus in jest, having found amusement in it since their time in the furthest reaches of the North. There he was a king. The thought of it made her smile and so, when they were alone, she fell into the habit.

"That's not the word for it," he replied, pausing briefly to glance at her pale hand against his sleeve. "Westeros is a tangle of blood and wounded pride. We're stepping onto a board half covered in shadow. Varys and Tyrion are our eyes. Pray they see clearly."

"I've given up on prayers, as have you."

Now her head, tilted against his shoulder. Her hair rippled across his back. "I am not sure that it could be called prayer but sometimes I think of the Old Gods. I don't imagine they understand what we say when we kneel under bowing Weirwoods and rave on but perhaps, very occasionally, they notice our presence and lift their eyes to let us pass."

"Don't you ever worry that maybe the gods wish us to die? They could be selfish and want the world for themselves. When we pray we wake them, cause them to stir. Then the waves, wind – fire and ice strike us down until we fall quiet again."

Jorah watched Dany as she spoke. Her eyes were on the water but a layer of ice lay over them. He knew that she dreamed terrible things and that there was truth in those visions. Somehow, in their passage from one world to the next, she had aged. "Have you seen our end? You would not tell me if you had," he realised.

"I've seen enough to understand what needs to be done."

"Your Grace, I will follow you wherever you wish. Under the waves. Through the fires." Jorah would follow her through death if that is what it took to see her sit that throne. "I – I don't need you to tell me."

"Then do not ask me again." The ship caught the crest of a wave and threw Daenerys off balance. She hissed at a sudden flare of pain where the rail grazed the sliced skin beneath her bandages. "No need to fuss," she turned away when Jorah reached for her.


Dorne was a harsh mistress. Her rising dunes were a mirror of the restless ocean and where they met, crystal channels of water had been cut into the sand. Flat-bottomed boats paddled into their mouths, laden with fruit and spice. Palm trees dotted the passages, sticking up with halos of green. Crocodiles lazed on the banks while flamingos stepped cautiously nearby. A little further on, square buildings built of mud rose in an odd conglomeration. Santagar boasted a regular burst of civilisation wherever water gathered. There as no city as such. Their inhabitants were wanderers and bound to the Martells only loosely. Tread carefully, Varys had warned them.

The fleet pulled into a calm stretch of water where there was a bit of a gravel warn into the sand. The Dorthraki unloaded the horses first, letting them gorge on a line of grain. Tyrion wandered off his boat and squinted at the burning orb that had taken residence in the sky. The heat was shocking, worse than Slaver's Bay. Somehow the dunes mirrored the relentless burning back onto them and without a breeze to hurry it away, the land baked. Varys was next, sweating straight through his silks.

It was the Queen who emerged as a mirage. Wearing nothing but a slip of orange silk and sandals, she strode over the ground with every eye on her. Her people kneeled as she passed. Even the horses stilled.

Her eyes swelled with unshed tears which caught in the sun. Westeros was beneath feet. She stopped, dragging the precession to halt as she knelt in the dust and placed her hands on the burning surface. Tears hissed where they fell. Daenerys closed her fists and rose, letting the sand slip into the wind in two great veils.

Jorah remained behind. Emotion welled up in his throat as he watched the Queen slowly turn to the rise of dunes. Yesterday she was a child, bartered to a Kharl. As the only figure still standing, Jorah stepped toward her. When finally she looked to him, he whispered. "Welcome home, Your Grace." Then, as her breath caught, he too knelt.

Varys and Tyrion, side by side in the dirt, never dreamed of such a thing.

"Dorne bends the knee to Westeros – next the stars will fall," Varys whispered.

Tyrion nodded to a red tear across the Northern sky where a comet pushed in chase of the sun. "They don't fall," he whispered. "The stars bleed for her."

The dragons were off hunting in the sea but soon they would return and strike fear into the caravans lingering at the outskirts. Prince Quentyn Martell joined Daenerys and together they met the litter sent ahead to escort them to the village.


"Is it as you imagined?" Quentyn asked, when he and Daenerys were sat together in the lush interior of the litter. The rest of their party walked behind, including Jorah whose outline was visible through the curtains of silk.

"Dorne is – stark," she settled on. "Harsher than I thought. It goes a long way to explaining the iron will of its people, which is famed even as far as Valyria."

"We are not so poor as you might think. Inland, over those dunes, there are rich river flats and red soil. Sand is replaced by lemon orchards, terraced down rocky slopes as far as you can see. I was born further South where the deserts themselves are tamed." In another world, if their wills were not already settled, they might have made a good match.

Varys and Tyrion were in another, trailing behind.

"Is it the heat or are you nervous?"

Varys patted his scalp again, wiping lines of sweat off it. "You need not be quite so indelicate," he assured Tyrion. "And you'd be wise to cast a nervous eye over things once in a while."

"Dorne is a friend."

"Dorne is as complex as King's Landing. This stop is essential for the survival of the army but if our hosts are opportunistic and daring enough the reigning prince might take advantage of our ships. The sooner the Queen's dragons arrive, the better. I never thought I'd say it but I feel safer with those marauding savages in the air."

"So long as they behave." Tyrion thought back to the ruin that now lay at the heart of Braavos.


The road was long but the last part of the journey was spent alongside the canal where it was cooler and the palms swayed with heavy loads of dates. Daenerys slipped into a sleep, propped against the cushions. Quentyn glanced over to her. Moonlight cut her face. Her eyelids twitched as did her hands. He frowned, hesitantly lifting his hand to feel her brow. It was unnaturally warm and she was murmuring things he could not catch.

Quentyn reached over the Queen and opened the curtain, whispering to catch the knight's attention. The imposing Northern man loomed closer.

"The Queen..."

Jorah leaned in and saw her deep in a dream. "Let her be..." Jorah whispered. "Targaryens dream differently to us." Then he tugged the curtain back and left Quentyn with her.

For all his life he'd heard and quickly dismissed the mystical qualities of the world. When you lived in a harsh lattice of sand and salt, swirling fantasies served no use. He was a man of war and beauty but sitting beside the young queen he witnessed a glimmer of those songs the elder witches sang and thought what if they were true?

When they arrived at the low-lying palace he helped Daenerys out and they walked in together to greet the other prince. A first cousin, Quentyn was wary of his blood. There were skeletons in the dunes that could tell a history of violence if they hadn't died with their lips sewn shut.


WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH

Lyanna stroked the feathers on the crow, letting it pick seed from her open palm. The invasion of King's Landing must be imminent for the Spider to be so cocky in reply. Quite an achievement for a man that lacked the equipment. She tucked the message into her sleeve and shooed the bird off to sit with its kin on the bare branches of a dead Willow. Like Stark's Tully bride, it did not belong this far North.

"Again, My Lady?" Her swordsman asked, waiting in a cleared patch of dirt for her. Lyanna nodded and picked up her sword, spinning it to gauge the weight. "You've been practising."

"One must, in times such as these," Lyanna replied, taking her position opposite. She could not rely on men to save her if they were all dead in snow drifts. "How are our wounded?"

Their swords met – slowly at first. Up. Left. Parry. Up. She matched each movement. "Healing well. A couple of weeks and they'll have a swords in their hands again."

"So we lost eight in all."

"What troubles you? Eight is far less than I expected. Your council thought that we would lose them all."

"Logistically speaking," she ducked, avoiding his blade, "how long would it take to move everyone off the island?"

Her man hesitated, which was to his detriment. Lyanna hit him with the side of her blade to punish his hesitation. He stumbled back, regaining his balance. "It has never been done."

"That is not what I asked you. Besides, it has," she assured him. "All I want to know is how long?"

"Into the long boats?" The man rubbed his side and lifted his sword back to the she-bear. "A week, at the outside."

Her reports indicated that the Bay of Ice was on its way to freezing solid. If that happened, a bridge to the Lands of Always Winter would leave them helpless to roving parties of savages and anything else that called those wiles their home.

Before they could speak again, the bells of Winterfell rang. The remaining Northern lords and all their commanders descended into the heart of theruins where Jon Stark waited. The White Wolf paced in front of the gathering crowd while Sansa Stark remained as a statue, pale and fierce with snow gathering at her feet. The days were getting colder. Fresh flurries swirled about. Lyanna felt them settle on her cheek as she dug her sword into the snow and waited.

Petyr was the last to arrive. He slipped into the back of the crowd, climbing onto a small fragment of castle wall left in the courtyard. He perched, like a bird, his eyes on Sansa. She nodded in his direction then turned purposefully to introduce her brother.

Before he had the chance to speak, a fresh nightmare of wind howled through Winterfell. It was as though the ghosts of all the dead that lay as smoke and ash around them had come back to scream at the living. Jon stared past the crowd toward the mountains. North. He could feel the bones shift and rattle ever closer.

"You are all here because you want to know what comes next." The wind again, driving ice into his face. "It is tempting to crawl back to our homes, lick our wounds and settle in for the Winter as we might of done a hundred years past. We cannot.

"Winter is coming." Jon Stark lurched forwards, imploring the crowd with his words. The fierceness of the cold helped his cause. "I come from The Wall – as do some of you." Though most of the Wildlings had left to claim their castles and recover their strength. "I won't pretend that you haven't heard the stories. Let me assure you now that they are true."

The crowd of Northerners shifted, gripping their weapons in natural fear.

"The Night's Watch stood with the Wildlings on the shores of Hardhome and watched the cliffs fill with an army of the dead. Pale corpses rode horses into the fray. Their ice-made weapons shattered our steel and tens of thousands of Wildling bodies lined the snow. As we escaped into ships their dead commander lifted his hands -" Jon mimicked the Night's King, stretching out his arms. "- and the bodies of our friends rose. Dead. Alive. Their eyes blue as the sky. That is what waits us in the winter winds.

"They do not stop. They do not sleep. Every day they grow as our loved ones are picked from their graves and added to the ranks. A wall of ice won't stop them. There's a reason our ancestors built castles against the ice. If we run now and seek shelter the night will come and with it all the terrors the priests whisper in our dreams."

Melisandre listened. Bringing back Jon had left a stain on her. Now, when she dared to stare at the heart of flames she saw blue eyes and rotten flesh. Sometimes, if she looked for too long, the flames extinguished and left her in the cold.

"I ask the Lords to ride home. Gather every soul who can raise a sword and head North with provisions. We meet at Castle Black to fulfil our ancient vow. The rest, send South. Ride as far as the Riverlands or The Vale."

As Jon vanished into a crack in the castle wall while the Lords murmured amongst themselves. Sansa felt her skin chill. Disbanding, even temporarily, presented a great moment of weakness. If ever there was a moment to steal the North away it was now. Even a lowly house could manage it if the armies split. Littlefinger certainly sensed it. Why else did he stare at her with such intensity?


"They think you have gone mad," Davos opened, the only one who would speak. "It's happened to kings before after a bloody battle."

Jon stood by the fire, held alight partly by Melisandre's spells. "Far from the first time I have been accused of it."

"Those men fought to rid themselves of Bolton butchery, not to be led blindly into the freezing North. They fought for peace and you are asking them to march onto war. Worse than war. Forgive me but for most their numbers are so low, they risk annihilation of their linage. You are a compelling figure..." Davos tried to assure him. The resemblance to Stannis' position was eerie. A man with a doomed cause. "And the gods must want you alive but-"

The Northern King was brooding. He wished others could see what he had, then they might understand that there was no room for discussion or politics at the end of the world. "They'll all die if they don't." He muttered in frustration.

"I agree but we have to make them believe that."

Sansa, Petyr, Tormund and Lyanna sat along a block of fallen wall. There was a knock at the door. Glover joined them with Manderly and Umber on his heels. The new Karstark commander nodded as well. When they were settled, Jon gestured at Tormund who stood and took his place at the centre of the room. It was difficult, appearing before a council of people who'd spent their whole lives wishing him dead but he weathered it because his people depended on their decision.

"Bein' this far South of The Wall with you lot..." Tormund began, his eyes meeting each and every soul in the room. He'd never felt more alone than now, in a den of wolves that wished his bones shattered and sinew split. "It's no secret we spilled blood for centuries." Tormund even caught a glimmer of pain in their eyes. He wondered if Free Folk had killed any of their family. The young bear, almost certainly, yet she was steady as The Wall itself. "Before tha', in our oldest stories, we were the same. The first men had no kings an' neither did we. Our homes were in the forests and river plains. We still share somethin' – aside from all tha' makes us different. We're alive.

"What there Snow says is the truth. I was there when them bones came over the cliff. You can' imagine the sound it makes when they hit the ice. First came the mist – like that of a storm only there were no wind t' drive it. Then it was -" The powerful figure of the Wildling king the other Northern houses feared shook. "I seen many things but that one day – the slaughter. You're worried about your people. Your homes. Mine are gone. If we wait, the cold will thin us out. Then, when we're scattered and weak, the last of us will die. Those are not the stories I've heard of the North. You cunts can stay here and wait for death if you like but we're going back to kill those sons of dogs and this time, they'll stay dead. If we have to die, it'll be with an axe in our hand."

Then, Tormund did the unthinkable. He spoke the Northern words.

"Winter is comin'!"

It continued on for hours. Politics reigning over sense. Petyr listened but true to his promise, said nothing. It was a good thing too for his preference wavered between help and hindrance depending on the speaker. Oddly, it was the fire witch that he settled on. He watched keenly as she stared into the flames. He could have sworn that sometimes, if the light was just right, her youth flickered and a withered creature took her place – sick with terror. He made a point to corner her alone.

His chance came later, when the meeting had finished and its members disbanded. Sansa and her brother remained in the room, arguing in whispers as wolves did. Petyr tracked the witch to another corner of the castle. Aside from a crack in one wall it was mostly intact.

"You may as well come in if you intend to linger," Melisandre called through the door. He came in but not far, choosing to lay against the stone beside the door as if he hadn't decided to come in. "Such an odd creature you are," she hissed. "I doubt even you know what you're about, sliding from bed to bed. What? Nothing to say?"

There were no flames in this room except a single lantern hanging from the wall. It rocked, scraping against the stone with its fragile light threatening the darkness.

"What you do not realise," she continued, when his silence endured. "Is that I have seen your whole life in the flames. Your secrets. Your dreams. That flame-haired girl from the Riverlands whose hand you held one Summer. I've heard what you whisper beneath the Godwood."

Petyr pressed himself against the freezing Winterfell wall. He didn't want to think about Cat. Where was she now? Eyes made of glass. Drifting below the water or frozen by Winter's claws, forever locked between worlds. Her beautiful flesh turned soft. No. He would not think of Cat.

No more than a child, thought Melisandre as she shook her head at the cowering boy. His eyes were the same sad, scared doors from the past. His life was made of straw – a gamble that would soon end.

"Now is the time for you to find your honour, Lord Baelish. If you have any left. Life is only for the most deserving at times like these."