THE SUNSPEAR – DORNE
Rhaegal's scales were agleam with seawater. It rained from the tips of his wings as they spread toward the sinking sun. He dragged his head backwards in a mournful cry. Throat open. Waves rolling far beneath. How like the forests of kelp he looked, green and silver, shivering off pearls of water. His soul was shattered into three and those fragments soared far as night threatened.
Tyrion crept closer, inching along the Sunspear toward the dragon like a worshipper lost in prayer. 'Give him a cloak and chain!' Tywin had said of his imp. 'His books are his gold. Stories are the debt he owes.' And what a story Tyrion replied with, eyes on the beast. He was content that he'd leave a few volumes for history to ponder once his golden curls were buried.
"Sh..." he whispered, ducking his head in submission when those scales rustled with hostility. The dragon had kept a long sliver of its pupil on Tyrion ever since he stepped onto the stone bridge thrust out of the Sunspear's main tower. "Aren't you beautiful..." He cooed, meaning every word. From lethal talon to curved fang, Tyrion was in love. "No maester could capture a soul like yours in their dreary scrolls. Fear holds their poet-tongues still."
It was a one-sided love affair. The dragon swept its tail across the rail leaving scratches in Dorne's dusty shell. Rhaegal was torn between the sea and the desert, with one sibling lost in each. Tyrion knew how he felt. His own were scattered across the world.
"Easy – easy." Tyrion dropped his shoulders lower. "What's wrong with you today?" Rhaegal repositioned himself on the cusp of stone, preparing to take flight. "It's only me. Remember?" They had spent so many weeks together on the ship, he had thought they shared a bond. Perhaps bonds were like smoke, thick and prying at one's eyes then gone with a breath of air.
Rhaegal lifted his gum to bare the full length of his fangs. Smoke hissed from his snout, mixing with the sea mist. He was restless, bucking away from Tyrion's well meaning hand as it approached his nose. Without warning, the dragon startled. Rhaegal lifted to his full height and unfurled both wings again. One of them clipped Tyrion, who was sent flying over the Sunspear's promenade. The fall tore away his silk sleeves leaving one arm a bloody mess and a great smear in his wake.
"Rhaegal?" Tyrion's heart hurt more than his arm. The dragon dove off the balcony. Tyrion groaned.
"Are you all right?" Missandei must have been close by for she was on him in moments, carefully helping Tyrion to sit. "Nothing serious," she assured, "looks worse than it is. You must be careful – dragons are wild creatures. It is known everywhere in the East."
Tyrion was infinitely more surprised by Missandei's presence than Rhaegal's ill temper. "I have not seen much of you since Grey Worm... I – I was starting to worry for you. I understand he was a dear friend." It was difficult to call it 'death' without a body to offer the gods.
Her hands stilled on Tyrion's ruined sleeve. Carefully, she met his eyes. "He was a dear friend," she agreed.
A foreign silence settled which Tyrion broke with a question. "What brings you out here so close on nightfall?"
"The Northern girl wanted to look at the dragon." Missandei glanced around but the Sunspear was bare. "Gone again. It is easier to mind rats than that wolf. Let me help you inside."
"That is a common complaint made of Northern children. They're used to the wiles." His eyes kept checking the empty balcony. "There's something wrong with Rhaegal. He's the quietest of the queen's three dragons but lately he's snapped at every shadow. No – I'm all right. Please don't fuss. I can walk."
"Perhaps he senses a battle approaching?"
Tyrion nodded. "Of course. Doran predicts Lord Anders Yronwood's men will make it to the beach in three days. You could probably see them at the foot of the dunes if one had wings."
"What are we doing fighting a war in the sand? The queen's war is at King's Landing."
"Every conqueror from the Dawn to yesterday has been faced with wars they did not intend to fight. It's a bloody road we've chosen. Targaryens chase conflict as readily as they produce peace and I'm afraid Daenerys is not one to shy away from whatever she believes her destiny to be. She is, for better or worse, a mythical creature. We haven't had a queen like her for two hundred years."
Missandei shook her head. "That is where you are incorrect. The queen is mortal and more fragile than you know. She breathes and she bleeds. Even Targaryens die."
Arya spent the last hours of dusk chasing crabs across the sinking tide. She loved the way they moved as synchronised clouds of chaos which she could manipulate with a strike of Needle. Cut off from The Faceless Men, she'd gradually drifted toward her first violent passion – Water Dancing, only this time the sea foam clipped her bare feet as she parried and spun. A flap of wings gave her pause. The green dragon paraded around above the waves, disappearing under its surface where the sea-gods lived. She kept her distance. Ice was made to float above the water.
When the keepers of the city lit oil lamps along the wall, Arya abandoned the beach. She scurried up and over the volcanic flows exposed by the tide before climbing the outside wall of the roughly constructed bridge. Its stones were so old she could feel their age grind against her flesh before she tumbled onto the road, scattering a patrol. They barked at her in Dornish until she vanished into the safety of the city.
The Sunspear reminded her of Winterfell. Aside from layers of dust and scented smoke, there was a flicker of magic woven into the buildings. Although many of them had been left to ruin, they bore hints of their illustrious beginning. Half-destroyed frescos peered out from alley walls. She sidled up to one, placing her palm on the inlaid glass.
"Nymeria..." Arya said, making out the image of the Rhoynar queen. "Where is my Nymeria?" Lost. Roaming the frost forests of the North. In her dreams, Nymeria was alive and feasting on the flesh of fallen Lannisters.
She was shooed from the alley by a bar-keep and quickly sank into the thrum of the city. Its taverns and brothels overflowed as the Dornish prepared for war. They liked to fuck while they tied their spears – mixing poison with wine, sex with steel. Brightly coloured banners with embroidered dragons flapped in the stiff ocean wind, thrashing against the stone walls leaving a haze of dust over the crowds. Arya left it all behind, climbing into one of the thousand tunnels eaten into the bedrock. They slithered underground, intersecting a dozen times. It was a labyrinth thick with vermin, beggars and priests of R'hllor.
Eventually the tunnel became a staircase. Arya ascended until they ended in a set of iron bars. She wrapped her small hands around them and dragged the grate aside. Clambering into the cellar of the tower, she closed the passage and squatted in the shadows until the cook shuffled away.
Free, Arya roamed the castle as she had done in her home.
"A girl is curious..."
Arya spun so fast she stumbled over her own feet. For a moment she had thought – but of course not. He was a thousand miles away, across the sea. "Prince Doran..."
He was walking, taking fragile steps along the hallway where the archways let in the moonlight and the dust in equal measure. The prince kept one hand on the stone at all times to steady himself. "Lady Stark, I believe."
She nodded and dipped her head as she'd been taught – though the image rang false. "I-"
"I do not mind that you wander the castle," he interrupted. "Curiosity is welcomed in these parts. I watched you play on the sand earlier."
"It is not play," Arya insisted, her hand brushing Needle.
"Water Dancing is a great skill if it can be mastered. You, I think, had a teacher once."
"The greatest of them all. He is dead."
"Many good men are dead," Prince Doran took another step toward the young Stark. "Your father included."
"Were you waiting for me?" Arya asked, when she realised that the arched windows overlooked the beach where she had been practising.
"I have a piece of advice for you," he admitted. "Wolves belong in the North. The games of the South are not of their concern. Stark is an ancient house, much like ours. These squabbles are a distraction from the greater game. I have a message from someone who would see you home. A little bird in the North."
RUINS OF VALYRIA – THE SMOKING SEA
Daario turned Yin's black stone over and over in his hand. It grew cold as he sank to his knees on the deck, eyes rolled back in featureless orbs – lips chanting an unknown tongue. First he saw a ring of ice, brilliant blue with a carpet of bones frozen in the water below. Undead, they scratched at the underside of the frozen lake, clawing toward a pale figure who moved as a breath of air, over the surface. Silver hair. Sapphire eyes.
His view shifted.
The deck of his ship reappeared – a brazen barrier of wood between the mist and ruins of Valyria peeking out of the jungle.
"Daenerys?" he whispered.
His queen was dressed in silver, perched on the rail. Her eyes were made from pearls but amethysts hung around her neck in heavy chains. Blood soaked through her gown as she inched backwards, tilting at the edge. He reached toward her – too late. Daenerys tipped over the side of the boat and vanished. Daario lunged forward, grasping at the wood. He scrambled onto the rail and peered into the silent waters. She was lost to the ice, her body scattered into a million crystals which sunk toward the depths.
"Daenerys? Daenerys..." he cried, about to follow. A strong set of hands hauled him away, slamming Daario onto the deck without mercy. Daario's world shook. Cracks appeared in his vision. The flawless night was replaced with putrid sea-smog which curled into his lungs. Strings of lanterns struggled in the gloom. He sat up, heaving for air.
"This is no place for a swim, sellsword." Quaithe warned, through her layers of gold. "As some priestesses say, 'the night is dark and full of terrors', though in your case, I think the terrors are closer to your heart than the water." She reached down, taking Daario's hand in hers. Firmly, she unfolded his digits to reveal the bloodstone taken from Yin. Quaithe visibly trembled. "You should not have this."
Daario stared dumbly at the polished black rock in his palm. "I do not remember holding it tonight," he admitted. He looked around the empty deck. It was late. The few spotters required to navigate the waters were at the far ends of the ship while the sailors hummed sad tunes from the sails, unfurling another sheet of canvas. "I was in my cabin. How did I get here?"
Quaithe helped him from the ground. "It is better we speak elsewhere."
In his cabin, Daario placed the stone into a box. He stared for a moment as if checking it could not grow legs and water off. Quaithe circled the room lighting candles. When she was satisfied, she settled on the bed beside him.
"I took it from the palace in Yin," Daario replied, to her unasked question. "I cannot think why other than a force compelled me to bring it. Surely it is only a rock?"
Quaithe glanced fearfully at the source of her recent nightmares. "It is part myth. Part fact. Part curse..." She refused to touch it, already drawn to its saturating power. It wept from the stone, poisoning the air. "It was made to sit in the hilt of an ornamental sword that has since been lost. The stories that survived say that this stone belonged to the Bloodstone Emperor himself. It was his favourite possession, scavenged from the far edge of the world where shadows breed with wyverns. These things are buried so deep in time that all we know is to let them be. Better that they sleep."
Daario shook his head. "No," he replied firmly. "This stone called for Daenerys. I don't know how or why but I must bring it to her."
"You are not the only one it has gifted with dreams," Quaithe warned. "Since I met you my nights are drowned in blood. I've seen my lover's face in a tree – bleached and old. A sea of corpses where his roots tangle and a wolf clawing at the bark until its sap spills out. There's a cave of ice at the far end of the world from which the gods watch our foolish games." Quaithe turned away suddenly as the image of Bittersteel's frail body was sliced in two and sent into smoke filled her eyes. When they opened again, she realised it was nothing more than a dying candle. "There are creatures made from ice and death chasing a crippled boy through the snow. They hound him like a flock of crows." The words made her shiver. "My gift of sight is not meant to be like this and you should not have one at all."
Quaithe left the bed, moving to the window instead where she laid her head on the ship's hull. Against her ear, Quaithe timed her breathing in step with the lap of Valyria's waves. The moon illuminated the mist while the ruins quietly crumbled into the water. The forests of these shores were far from dead. Life hummed, buzzed, shrieked and sang through the darkness. Somewhere, concealed by the fog and shadows, were the cursed men made from stone.
Finally, she admitted the worst of her dreams. "I have seen a tide of blood lap at Dorne's shore... An army lingers, restless at her gates." Quaithe shook her head in dismay. "That is as far as I see."
"Dorne is under siege?" Daario asked, alarmed. "The Crown has not raised a hand to Dorne since a dragon fell from the sky. Surely they wouldn't..."
"The banners at the gate are not Baratheon or Lannister. The princes of Dorne war like the sea and sky."
"And Daenerys is trapped in the middle."
"If my dreams are to be believed but-"
"Dreams are only dreams," Daario repeated, he knew the warnings well. "I can feel it though – can't you? The world is heading toward war."
Quaithe dipped her head in a nod. "One way or another. We are divided by a million cracks. The scholars know that peace is purchased in blood. We are all in debt. It must be paid."
Daario pointed at the world beyond the porthole. "We cannot move any faster through these ruins," he added. "The passage is clogged with shallow bars and submerged buildings." He extracted a map from the dresser drawer. The waters around Valyria were poorly marked by a few brave pirates that dared to challenge the gods. This map was created by them then bought from the black market. "It's at least a day's sail with a steady wind until we reach the Narrow Sea. Another three or four days to make eyes on the Sunspear. Let us hope that your visions have given us the time we need to make the journey."
"What if we arrive at Dorne and your queen is not there? You are commanding pirates, not sailors, on the weight of a dream. They will want their payment one way or another." Quaithe worried they might fancy blood over gold.
"They have their payment in the belly of these ships," Daario reminded the priestess, gesturing at the heavy girth below their feet. Even now she hung low on the water line, dragging her way through the cursed waters. They were in no state for a sea war.
"And if there are no enemies to fleece, they'll sail away with those heavy ships and leave you and the queen with nothing."
"Not nothing," he assured Quaithe. "I'd love to see them try and take the dragon. Why do you keep looking toward the stone?" He added, when Quaithe remained silent.
She dragged her eyes from its brooding surface. "I cannot decide if it is something we need to win the greater war or if it plots to destroy our cause. Old magic has unknowable masters."
"The Bloodstone Emperor fought against the Long Night."
Quaithe nodded carefully in reply. "True. He was also its cause, if the songs are to be believed. Make of that what you will."
THE RED MOUNTAINS – DORNE
"This place is old," Jorah whispered, standing in front of the cave wall. The desert light crept far enough into the abyss to make out a wall of elaborate sketches which stretched from the roof to the floor. Etched directly into the rock, they were further embellished with ochre and charcoal. "The style is unlike anything I've ever seen."
Northern ancestors preferred illegible runes to pictures and even the oldest surviving civilisation had their buildings and gilded walls. This text was rough, made by a desperate hand, dying in the desert.
"Here..." He lifted his hand to a curve representing the ground. Above, a fire sailed overhead. "Your red star. Everywhere we travel, it appears."
"What if the red star is like the Winter?" Daenerys asked, standing beside him as she re-tied her clothes. "Coming and going as it pleases."
Jorah lowered his hand to the rest of the image. The world was on fire. Black scratches denoted swords, scattered in their thousands over the rocks. He stepped away, unsettled. "I am beginning to feel that history shadows us," he murmured. "For what reason? What is it trying to say?"
Northern men were drenched in suspicion of their gods. "It is teaching," Daenerys dropped her voice to a whisper. "If only we might learn."
They tried to understand, rummaging around the caves for many hours but the voices murmuring in their ears were drowned by the vast chasm of time dividing them. "We don't have time to linger," Jorah finally caught Daenerys lightly by her elbow, tugging her away. "Yronwood will have despatched men to hunt us while we're vulnerable on the ground. Close your eyes, pray to Drogon if you must. We have use of his wings."
Daenerys did as he bid, sitting on a protrusion of rock outside the cave while the sunset lingered, leaving the horizon ablaze. When he finally came, they climbed onto his back and then all three of them suddenly dipped below the rock, vanishing into the air.
THE SUNSPEAR – DORNE
Tyrion braced himself while his arm was wrapped in swathes of scented cloth by the Dornish doctors. Varys observed with his usual ambiance of detachment.
"Ageon's original fort sits in the heart of King's Landing, entombed by all her vulgar establishments. I saw it once – when the sun caught a rough edge. It reminded me of an egg cracking." Varys relaxed onto his silk cushion considering the smoking pipe he'd refused earlier.
Tyrion winced as the bandage was tied by the Dornishman's nimble hands. "Whatever has brought you to this idle point?" He asked, after the man had left.
Varys shrugged. "Nothing in particular, only this stone beast standing between us and Yronwood's army is much the same. Built by the Martells. Encased by the Rhoynish. Buried by Dornish peasants. Yes..." He trailed off, unsure if he was calmed by it.
It took a moment for Tyrion to catch up. "You're actually concerned that we might die here..."
"Only a fool could find courage in this mess."
"Aren't you going to sharpen your blade?" Asked Tyrion, nodding to the armour and weapons laid out on the table for Varys.
"And what would be the point in that?" He asked calmly.
"I'm sure you could find a few reasons when you're staring down a blade."
"There is only one thing worse than dying in futility. Looking ridiculous doing so. Speaking of which..." he hinted at Tyrion's arm.
"I'm worried about Rhaegal," Tyrion replied. "It's not like him to snap. Missandei too... What do you believe happened to Grey Worm?"
The question took Varys by surprise. "He is dead, obviously."
"Obviously," Tyrion agreed. "It is strange though. He was devoted to the queen. Honourable. Devout, even. Men like that are often the first to find harm."
"You believe he was killed by something more than a crocodile or thief?"
"I've thought about it, that's all."
"...and if not the local wildlife, the threat is remains among our number."
"Maybe."
"Statistically, there are always going to be spies and traitors on any side," Varys replied. "You may be right. Perhaps Grey Worm found one of them. There is little we can do about that on the eve of battle. One traitor is an inconvenience – an army low on moral is a disaster. We should take a scroll from Quentyn's library. I hear he's swamped the city with coin and wine. They'll fight like savages."
"The Dothraki have joined him. They're finally having a good time. War becomes them."
And what, Varys wondered, did the queen intend to do with her scavengers when all was said and done?
KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS
Lines of starving citizens filled the streets, drawn from their homes by the overwhelming drive of hunger. They headed en masse to toward the Great Sept of Baelor where they wailed for days and beat their fists against the closed doors until its wood was tarnished with blood. The generosity of the Iron Bank had run dry. The harbour was full of empty ships, knocking together with gulls tearing feathers off each other. The roads to the West and North were transformed into tracks of misery for those abandoning the city. From the South, soldiers marched bringing what little food could be sourced from nearby farms. A Sparrow, brave enough to stand on the street and give his sermon was dragged from his alter by the crowd and eaten.
The Tyrells watched the heart of the kingdom burn.
Olenna's instructions to send their bounty North had been carried out before the remaining Lannister army arrived. They found empty silos and a wall of swords, all of which left a smug curve to the aging matriarch's lips as she was marched before the High Sparrow.
He was beyond his wits, pacing over the sept floor in bare feet. His rags hung in ever increasing disarray, mirroring the deteriorating state of the capital's affairs. She made an oath to herself that if he started quoting scripture to her, she'd let the whole city starve to death, right to the last screaming child.
"I take it that the well of Lannister gold has run dry?"
"Let us do each other the credit of speaking plainly," the High Sparrow replied, turning to face Olenna. He held a small box made of silver in his hands.
"Cersei has refused to help and so you are left with me. Unfortunately for you, my two grandchildren are imprisoned by your institution of barely veiled tyranny and so the likelihood of a successful negotiation for my grain appears to be at an impasse. The city starves. Your popularity and ultimately your power, dwindles."
"Too plain." The box was placed on alter in front of Olenna. "Though it is true that you have the ability to save these poor starving wretches. Hear them?" He asked, looking absently toward the walls. Indeed, there was an ever-present thud thud thud on the air. "They cry out for their gods – I feel their pain." The lid on the box was opened slowly. "It tears at my heart. The people of faith are one." Its contents was revealed. Olenna's countenance remained unchanged save a flicker of acknowledgement across her grey eyes. "If they bleed, so too must those that rule them. If they weep. We weep. That is what it means to rule."
"Then I look forward to watching you starve..." replied Olenna coldly, as she snatched the box and tossed it through the open window into the abyss. Whomever that ear belonged to, it could not deter her from this course. Submitting now was death. Of that she was sure.
Eventually the High Sparrow had her thrown into the cells. Old and aching in her bones, Olenna hunted through her robes until she withdrew a lock-pick. She slid it into the door and with the practice of a royal lady, released herself from captivity.
Moans escaped from the doors in the makeshift prison. She listened carefully, slipping from shadow to shadow until a shallow set of groans brought her to a stop. This door was unlocked with candlelight creeping between the cracks. The hideous drawl of a sermon festered in the air. Olenna waited for it end then, as the door shifted open, she forced all her weight upon it. The door smacked into the Septa, knocking the woman onto the floor inside the cell. Olenna entered the room and collapsed onto the woman, wrapping her hands around the pale neck until the life died away.
With a body on the floor, Olenna searched the room only to find her grandson cowering in the corner with a filthy bandage wrapped around his face, bled through where his ear should have been. Anger rose in her throat but Olenna calmed herself.
"Loras..." She commanded firmly. "Loras, stand up!"
All he could do was weep. He was a cluster of bone, swaddled in filth.
Cersie occupied her seat in the Red Keep as though it were a throne and she a mad god revelling in the hungry screams. The High Sparrow had stripped her of any flicker of power. Her friends in the Iron Bank were gone and she had no lingering fondness of religion while her only ally, albeit it a hostile one, had now been thrown in a cell. People were trailing away from the city like blood from a wound, traipsing North.
Wine sank from her glass to her throat while her mind lingered on the emerald ocean lapping beneath the city. Gradually, the stupor of alcohol left her lying on the floor, laughing at the thought of a sky filled with ash and a sea made black with the wings of sparrows.
WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH
Lord Baelish laid both hands on the freshly built wall. His rings clinked softly on the freezing stone which barricaded the castle from the South. Beneath, every man chipped, hauled or placed more stones into the wall, rebuilding Winterfell stone by stone. Most were salvaged from the burned castle creating an odd patchwork of mismatched soot. It did not matter, so long as it held.
Inside, forges glowed and the air filled with endless beating of steel. It was a hive led by a wolf. He imagined himself King of the snows, Lord of the ice. Winterfell was not particularly helpful in his greater cause but it was a personal victory. He stood not on the shoulders but on the graves of those that made him bleed. His crown was one of red fur and deep eyes.
"Fuckin' snow!" Bronn dragged his legs out of the knee-deep powder, cursing every step. As soon as they'd cleared Greywater Watch, the weather took a turn for the worse.
"I don't remember it being this bad," Jaime admitted. They were on foot, giving their horses a break. The rest of the Lannister army ambled along behind like a gold blanket. "I guess the old fool was right. Winter is coming."
The sun hardly managed to lift from dawn to dusk while the night was left to stretch for hours. In every town they passed, the fires along the walls were dying. The roads, what little of them they could find, had iced over. Even the King's Road was obscured beneath metres of white powder. Whispers of a conquering Targaryen circled the air in every tavern and brothel – according to Bronn.
"She's a looker," he'd added helpfully, as they marched onwards. "And she's got dragons. Big fuckers. We don't have any of those unless you count that Sparrow. He fucked us good. Wouldn't mind something hot about now. All this bloody ice is getting in my boots. You've gone very quiet."
"I've had my fill of dragons," Jaime admitted.
Of course. Bronn nodded in acknowledgement. "Still, makes the battle a bit more interesting."
"You wouldn't say that if you had to face one of those creatures in the field. A true dragon would turn you to ash where you stood. Cock and all."
"Nah..." Bronn shrugged it off. "I'd be all right, me. I'm good with animals. Blimey..." He craned his head to the side as they entered another forest. This time they could hear the pine trees quaking under the weight of a recent snowfall. "Any of those limbs give out and we'll be a feast for wolves."
Jaime agreed, giving the order for the army to proceed quiet as death into the forest.
That night they slept beneath the ancient pine trees with their tents strung between enormous girths. Snow squirrels landed on the canvas sheets, sliding across the taught surface. Jaime lay awake beside Bronn, concerned the other man's snoring might bring the fragile world of ice down around them. Eventually exhaustion dragged him into sleep.
Every night it was the same. Jaime dreamed of Tommen surrounded by a crown of blood and Cersei laying naked on the floor with ash spilling from her lips. A tide of wine crashes over them both. Then the flames lick up. Steel slices through the fire and the flames die. For the rest of the night he is left in darkness until a pair of sapphires blink at the night. Brienne of Tarth. His body shudders. Jaime wakes to another frozen morning.
The Hound and his pet hung back, keeping to the shadows as morning cracked over the pale sky. Winterfell, in all its ruination, lay sprawled in the snow like a corpse picked apart by ravens. Not for long. Soldiers worked like ants, dragging the castle back together. Their fires were brighter than the sun giving the innards of the castle a welcoming glow. The heat melted the snow, leaving a black stain around the base of the castle. Similarly, the hot springs in the God Wood kept the small lakes melted and the trees green. A stag placed its hooves carefully in the snow, ears twitching with voices on the wind. The Hound could hear them too. There was a heart beating in that place. Somewhere, beneath the layers of stone, was a wolf queen.
"Like I said," the young Hornwood lord pointed at the castle, "Winterfell. She's not as I remember her. I heard the stories, we all did, about a dragon burning it to the ground. I didn't believe them." It wasn't only the castle itself. In the fields of snow that surrounded it, the Northerners had piled bodies high and turned them to ash. Pyres remained, smouldering.
"And now you do? Could've been that Bolton war."
"No... I've only seen rock melt like that once before. Harrenhal." But unlike that doomed fortress, Winterfell survived.
The Hound pried himself from the ground with a rustle of armour. He gestured at the forest. "You can go."
The Hornwood Lord stood perplexed. "Leave?" he asked. "Leave to where?"
"Wherever the fuck lords go."
"I have nowhere to go. They'll think I'm a deserter. If I return to the Lannister army I'll lose my head. If I go home my father will march me back to the army and I'll still lose my head. The South has gone to shit and the harbours East are awash with hoards fleeing King's Landing. There's no food. There's no land." He turned to the ice-locked castle. "May as well stay here. I could help you." He tried not to take offence as the Hound scoffed. Defiant, the lord removed his golden cloak and let it fall to the ground. "I brought you this far."
Steam lifted through the Godwood. Creatures ducked between the icicles hanging from pine branches. They swayed in the freezing wind, threatening the ground below. Sansa stood before the Weirwood. Its bark was marred by a new scar driven straight between its eyes. Sap bled into the snow leaving thick pools of scarlet which froze. She knelt, digging some of it out of the snow. She held the horrific, molten creation in her hands. Stone forged of blood. Tears of the gods. The face in the tree had changed.
Sansa startled.
Footsteps fell heavy in the snow behind, approaching from the direction of the tombs. "Who's there?" She asked bravely, clutching the handle of her knife. The figure stepped into the light, appearing on the other side of the hot pool. His figure was obscured by the mist. "Name yourself."
"Begging your pardon, M'lady..." Gendry dropped to his knees. His Baratheon hair was black as night. "For the intrusion. It was the only way I could speak to you alone."
Sansa withdrew her knife and kept it in her hand. She straightened and with renewed fierceness, drew closer to the smouldering waters. "Why would you wish such a thing?"
"I have information about your sister," he replied. "Information I believe you may wish to keep private." Gendry remained still although his knee began to freeze. His home was in the glow of a forge. Heat gave him life. His bare arms were agleam with dried sweat and soot.
Sansa lifted her hand to the man. "I am not so alone as you may think." She gestured to the air and a moment later Brienne and Podrick emerged from their hides, swords raised. Brienne, in particular, set her steely gaze upon the man. A breath in the wrong direction and her Valyrian sword would find his heart. A third figure which she did not expect, appeared beside the man. "Davos?"
"Ay, Lady Stark," Davos Seaworth dipped his head respectfully. "Please," he lifted both hands, "this meeting is of my doing. Come."
With her guards close, Sansa circled the water and met Davos and his man in front of the collapsed entrance of a Stark tomb. She rested her gloved hand on its decrepit stone before all four of them descended into the tunnel beneath. Torches were lit. The ice that lined the ceiling and walls quickly melted into a river at their feet.
"What is going on? I thought you rode out with Jon." Sansa asked Davos while staring at the young man. She could not place why but he had a likeness to someone she'd met before. He was smeared in ash and his leather wreaked of smoke. "Is this one of Baelish's blacksmiths?"
Davos nodded. "He is. An excellent smith Gendry is too. He studied with one of the greatest in the land. As for your brother, I promised to catch him up. I know the way."
"And you have word of my sister?"
This time Gendry nodded. "A fighter. Strong, like the old Stark. Arya and I parted ways many years ago. She rode with the Brotherhood Without Banners. They roam the Riverlands, picking fights with the scavenger brutes that have filled the void of power. I am not like her. My skills are better set to use forging the swords men wield."
"Then Arya is alive?" Sansa could scarce believe it.
"When I last saw her. Healthy too. If I had money to wager, I'd say she is alive still."
Sansa was calm for a moment but the pieces before her did not fit neatly into place. Brienne felt it too. She could read her knight's cold look. "Why hide in the shadows? You could have come forward at the castle..."
Gendry did not know how to find the words so Davos spoke for him. "Things are more difficult than they appear, my lady. The Red Witch your brother keeps has a wish to kill Gendry because of who he is. Others too, might seek to take advantage."
The Red Witch, who was making her way to The Wall with the bulk of the army. Sansa took a a measured step closer to the young man. "And who, exactly, are you?"
"Blood of kings..." Gendry replied. "The witch is crazy. She thinks my blood can turn the tide of war. Look how that turned out for Stannis. My Uncle died a fool's death because he put stock in the ravings of magic." His eyes settled on Brienne. "His end was deserved."
"Uncle..." Brienne whispered out of turn before she could stop herself. That made him Renly's nephew too.
That's why he was familiar. "You're one of King Robert's bastards..." A nod confirmed it. Sansa felt ill. Robert and his kin were the cause of her father's death. "You should not be here."
"M'lady," he proceeded gently. "My father may have been a king but he left my mother to die. I never met Robert. I was raised by my mentor. He taught me how to fashion weapons in every style." He paused, lingering on Brienne's blade. "Even Valyrian steel. Your knight holds one of the pieces we worked on, cut from your own family sword. I was there when it was melted. I didn't come here for a fight – I came here to make steel. Where the world is headed, you will be needing a lot of it."
Sansa agreed to protect Gendry and to keep his identity between the four present. He was right about one thing, they needed high quality weapons if they were to stand a chance against their enemies. Gendry returned to the centre of Winterfell where his fires burned. Davos headed South to join Jon. Brienne and Podrick escorted Sansa back to the castle where they skulked about in the crumbling rooms. Brienne could not stop touching her sword after that. It was a strange feeling, to meet the man that birthed it.
"What do you think?" Brienne asked, as Podrick lit the fireplace.
Sansa brooded against the opposing wall. "Whether he wishes it or not, a bastard of Robert has a claim to the Southern throne. That could be useful."
"You're going to keep him to make use of his claim?" Brienne was unsettled.
"That is how the game works – and I have the last Baratheon."
KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS
Olenna forced her grandson to stand. The boy trembled, propped against the wall with rivers of dried blood staining his skin. His pupils were large, deprived of light for weeks under the Sparrow's tyranny. His golden hair was streaked with silver while a thick scab on his forehead covered a branding mark left by one of their inhuman trials. She had no time for pity.
With force, Olenna dragged Loras out of the cell. "Where is she? Where are they holding her? Loras. Where is your sister? Loras – you fool of a boy. Speak! Loras!" She grabbed his shoulders and shook him violently. Nothing. Loras had become a shell. Weak – like his father. Olenna often resented him for it. The Tyrells required strength – inner strength... Without that they were dead on the bush.
"They keep her this way..."
Olenna reeled around, started by a small voice. Tommen had draped himself in a peasant cloak and followed Olenna when she was summoned by the High Sparrow. He'd listened at the door as they spoke calmly of the starvation of his realm and then followed her further into the sept.
"Young king, this is no place for you!" Olenna hissed in a whisper. She meant well. However terrible his mother was, the boy had shown nothing but kindness to her granddaughter.
"Do you want to know where she is, or not?" Tommen replied. "I miss her too," he admitted, as they walked. "Every day." It was clear that he had walked this path many times. "I've visit her – when the sept is quiet."
"Why are you helping us?" Olenna asked, as they drew near Margaery's room.
Tommen was perplexed by this question. "She is my wife," he replied, "my queen – my life. You want what I want. Her freedom."
Poor, poor boy, thought Olenna. He'd bought into the fantasy, seduced by Margaery's charms. She was truly sorry for what lay ahead for the young king.
"Here," Tommen said, in front of a thick door made of iron and wood. He laid on the ground, lining his eye to the crack between the door and the stone. A moment later, another eye appeared on the other side of the crack. Margaery.
