STARFALL – DORNE
"This is the place..." Their boat crushed up against the gravel shore. The rocks at their feet were as black as the ruined towers that smouldered above beyond the cliffs. Surrounded by wild water that was neither river nor sea, the island at Starfall was oddly quiet. It was as though the fire that cursed its walls would never entirely die. It smoked, leaving a slither of filth on the air.
Sam stepped out into the low tide and dragged their dilapidated vessel up the bank. Marwyn followed, struggling with the uneven ground. It was littered with the skeletal remains of fish while droves of gulls wandered like white sails, picking them clean.
"Yes, this is the place," he agreed, as they found the steps cut into the cliff. A sad length of chain swung in the wind. Marwyn gripped onto it as they climbed.
When they reached the summit, Sam collapsed over the short wall dividing them from the cliff's drop. There were more gulls up here but these ones had found something more substantial than fish to scavenge. "How many, do you think?"
"Thirty, at least," Marwyn replied, counting the corpses. "That we can see. The rest have blown away with the sea wind." Not entirely. Yronwood's men had left behind stains of ash which Sam and Marwyn stepped carefully around not wishing to offend the dead. "I'd always wondered," the mage added, placing his hand on the warm, black stone, "how this rock came about. There are no mines for it on record here or in the East."
"It looks like the base of the Hightower," Sam was left with grease between his fingers. "It's horrible."
"It's magic..." Marwyn purred, following a deep gouge in the stone where a set of claws had passed. "Or the residue of dead magic. Starfall was the keeper of a sacred relic from the Dawn Age," he continued, leading Sam inside the building. It continued to collapse around them, shedding soot and bone. More horrors lay in wait. Bodies, piled high and burned until their bones melted. This is what the dragon queen left in her wake. "There must have been protections over this place to keep such an item safe from pillage for thousands of years. I wonder if you've heard the stories of what strange and dark things befell any foolish enough to try and steal it? These are stories told to every Dornish child. They say the Palestone Tower is cursed."
"I had an old maid who used to tell stories like that. Gave me nightmares, she did. Her stories, as it turned out, were real. Why are we here?" Sam asked, stepping carefully over what looked like an arm.
"Call it a pilgrimage. Call it curiosity... I swore I'd stand where the last war died before the next began."
They made it to the top of the tower. Half the roof had fallen away leaving a gaping wound in the building. The wind ravaged it, tearing a few more pieces off. "Dragons?" Sam whispered, hinting at the damage.
Marwyn nodded. "The big one, so the villages say. Black thing – came up out of the water and burned everything. They're terrified it'll come and destroy the rest of the castle but it won't. I know where it's gone."
"To the queen – at the Sunspear. The last town we passed through said there was a civil war under way." Sam stopped to kneel beside the remains of a case. He prodded the ash with a piece of wood. It was a deluge of glass and iron. "You're right – there was a sword here but it's long gone. Marwyn? Marwyn what are you doing..."
The ungainly man gripped the filthy stone and climbed onto the window sill where Ashara herself had lingered before the fall. He could feel her soul. The dead – they left tiny tears in the fabric of the world. Marwyn reached out precariously to touch them. He longed to glimpse, for a moment, what was in their heart at that final breath. He was overwhelmed with her sorrow.
Sam tugged sharply on Marwyn's cloak. "Please, come down from there," Sam insisted. "You'll fall and then I'll have to explain it to Gilly. She's in a mood enough as it is."
Marwyn eventually stepped back from the edge. "Set your dragon down, Sam – over there where there's some warmth."
Sam slipped the bag off his shoulder and placed it gently on the ground. The contents shifted uneasily as he undid the ties and nudged the mound within. Slowly, a crimson nose inched out then all at once Ash slithered into the corner where the coals glowed. It stalked, around and around, drenching it scales in the soot.
"She's getting the scent of what she is," Marwyn explained. "Dragons are an isolationist species. Their eggs are left in clutches, deep inside mountain ranges. They hatch alone and crawl out into the world to fend for themselves. Many Targaryens travelled to the Far East to learn about them. Theirs were all dying in captivity, becoming smaller and weaker with every Summer. Some of those travellers believed that dragons learn their ways from magical impressions left by others of their kind. We shall never know if that's true, of course but we have to try something or the poor thing will starve."
Ash was too small to fly but the smoke in its throat had become a short burst of fire. She spent an hour stalking one of the seagulls across the shoreline while Marwyn and Sam looked on. Eventually, Ash spread her wings and pounced, talons out. It clutched the feathered body as it bled and writhed, shredding feathers over the rock.
Sam flinched at the terrible squawks until Ash coughed a tiny bolt of fire onto it. The dragon used one paw to hold the corpse still and then dipped its snout into the smoking flesh.
"Do you think it will grow as large as the queen's dragons?" Sam asked.
"Perhaps larger," Marwyn admitted. "This egg comes from Asshai where the creatures are wild. Hers come from Targaryen dragons bred in captivity for hundreds of years. Longer, even and inbred. Large as Drogon is, historically speaking, he is average. I hear that pale dragon in the North is larger. There are others out there from the black mountains beyond the Lands of Always Winter. They say those are the largest of them all."
"Silverwing... I think," Sam added. "At least, I did a great deal of reading while I was at Castle Black and the dragon in the North matches the description of Silverwing. It's possible that she is the mother of the Queen's dragons." Sam looked down at his little scarlet dragon. "Do you think Ash is safe? What if the other dragons try to kill her?"
"There's no way to know what they'll do. It's a risk. And you be careful – calling her a 'queen'. There is a sea of blood between Daenerys and the throne of Westeros."
They rowed with the tide, returning to the jetty where Gilly waited. Little Sam fussed in her arms. He was getting bigger every day with a set of bright eyes surveying the world. They were bluer than the ice.
"I paid our way on a ship." Gilly led them around the docks to the larger piers that reached all the way into the deep bay. Several ships knocked against the ailing wood while their sails sagged, preparing to leave. They boarded, with Sam turning pale the moment his feet met the deck. "He isn't so brave on the water," Gilly whispered to Marwyn.
"That is most impractical when so much water separates us."
Gilly laughed softly as the ship's ropes were thrown over the side and the vessel pulled away from the dock. A faint trail of smoke from the towers left a mark on the horizon. "He is not much of a horseman either. Though he may deny it, part of Sam is still a lord longin' fer the carriages of his father."
"Those soft things are at a close."
Gilly leaned against the rail with her child. She breathed the air deep and closed her eyes to the warmth. This would be the last time the sun would have the strength to warm her skin. The North was drawing her in, refusing to let her escape.
A pack of women draped in robes faded from years in the Dornish desert clustered around Marwyn's rotund form. They hissed at each other, tugging their hoods down. Red Priestesses. They were flocking into the light all over the realm. Their powers had been shifting since the emergence of dragons. It made them bold enough to preach – drawing curious eyes from the Dornish who were by default barely aware of gods.
Marwyn left them huddling on the shaded side of the ship as it left the mouth of the river and crossed the rough water toward the shipping lane. There were other sails on the perfect sapphire water and a haze of smoke in the North-East.
He found Sam bent over the rail, clutching on for life as the ship veered from side to side, knocked about by rows of waves that had raced across the Sunset Sea to break over the nearby reef.
"Not – quite – at the – moment..." Sam bent further, resting his head against the wood. Marwyn had been constant in his training since they'd left the Citadel.
"Yes, now – Tarly," he insisted. "You came all this way to train as a maester. I may have many faults as a teacher and engage in things I suggest you avoid but it is still my duty to ensure you learn. Learn you shall." He stepped back when Sam heaved over the side. "Though perhaps we might begin with apothecary..." For magic was no use against the ills of the sea.
WINTERFELL – THE NORTH
"Lord Robin Arryn is dead." Petyr murmured the words to himself as his mind caught fire. The boy is dead and Petyr's tenuous claim to The Vale's army had died with him.
"This presents a great problem for you..." Sansa loomed like a ghoul at the edge of his tent. The fire caught her trailing furs in a frightening shadow that grew larger as she approached. "I have ravens as well. My little birds whisper like yours do. Everything with a wing in the North will carry the same words."
Petyr considered tossing the paper into the fire but what good would that do him? He could no sooner erase the words than the deed itself. "Claimed by the Moon Door he loved so dearly," he replied. "His little body with all its fine clothes was broken over the mountains of The Vale before he had the chance to live. I dare say," his casual tone spoke of death and gain in a single breath, "it is somewhat of a calamity."
"For you-"
"For both of us," he corrected, catching Sansa's eye. "Their army holds this position and your safety. The lords of The Vale are selfish individuals with short eyesight and a worrying disregard for survival. It is only a matter of time before they recall their men and make a nest up in the mountains to wait out the war. I will not be able to stop them."
Sansa felt her chest clench. He was right. "Where does the line of succession fall?"
"Arryn is an unusually sickly house – very nearly extinct. Imagine that, even with blood of the Andals rushing through their veins nearly all have died young." Almost certainly by design. The usurpers of The Vale possessed patience not even Littlefinger could muster.
"Yes, though that is not what I asked, Lord Baelish." Her question was met with a darkening set of eyes. "Ah... no one. Arryn is finished."
"Whomever pushed that poor boy to his death considers himself worthy of the usurper's role. Their identity will not remain a secret for long." Petyr started to pace, thumbing the letter over and over. There were many options, none of which he particularly wished to pursue. The risks were stacked heavily against their success. "The timing could not be worse," he added. "I must ride for The Vale."
Sansa blocked his path. It was not like him to behave rashly. Unsettled, she placed a hand on his chest to still him. "You cannot possibly think to ride alone."
"You are right, Lady Sansa, I will require an escort I can trust. We have a mere flicker in time – the faintest disturbance in the veil of chaos to prevail. We cannot falter. To fail is to die."
Sansa withdrew to grip onto her own arms, folding them across her chest. Winter eroded more than the stone walls. He desperate. The North unnerved Littlefinger. He'd brushed too close to death within its bounds. She could read it on his face and in his eyes. Sansa wondered if her mother had seen it too.
"Take the Mormonts." She advised. "If nothing else, they serve the North. Come... Are you afraid to ask?"
"You are their queen, not I."
Even in their dire position, Sansa smiled at his misplaced fear. "I will speak to Lyanna myself. You – well you better have a plan. I can only deliver you to The Vale. It is up to you to take it. Do not fail, Lord Baelish..."
She is strong, Petyr found himself staring long after she'd left. Within the Winter snows, Lady Stark had become the Queen of Winter itself. Beautiful as well... He was painfully aware that for all his careful scheming, Sansa could tear his world to shreds. It both enamoured and terrified his stone heart. When he looked at her he saw death. His own.
"You are not going to offer an objection?"
Sansa and Lyanna stood among a hail of black feathers. The young Mormont was feeding the ravens, tossing hand-fulls of fatty off-cuts from the last hunt. Beaks tore at the flesh, fighting wildly.
"Should I?" Lyanna asked, finishing. "I trust it is not a request you make of me lightly."
"No. It is not."
"And that it is somehow necessary to preserve your safety?"
"Yes."
"And the security of the North?"
"Of course."
Lyanna's eyes were small but also sharp. They split apart people's souls. "Seven can go and to that number I recommend you add a dozen Wildlings. Bloodyaxe is a reliable leader. I would also like to speak to Lord Baelish myself as a condition of this loan before he rides to The Vale."
"I can hardly refuse you, Lady Mormont."
"Interesting..." Lyanna observed, as they descended from the only undamaged tower in Winterfell. They kept the ravens there so they'd be safe from the marauding packs of wolves that had moved into the forest, following the trail of corpses. "Now that your brother, Lord Snow-"
"Stark. Lord Stark..."
"Stark," Lyanna corrected herself, "has travelled South, you believe your authority has diminished. I'll tell you what I see," the Mormont continued, blunt as ever. If it wasn't an actual punch to the face, it was a metaphoric one. "Your sway over Winterfell is tenfold when you stand alone. The time for Kings has come and gone. Listen to the whispers on the wings of our ravens. Queens are rising – you among them."
Sansa brushed snow from her eyelashes. "It is difficult to see as you do when the snows are falling and the people in Winterfell starve."
"My Lady..." Lyanna set down her bucket of scraps and traipsed over the ice-locked ground. "If this plot succeeds, we will be making Petyr Baelish a very powerful man. Neither of us will have the strength to challenge him, perhaps for years. Before you create something, make sure you possess the means to its undoing."
A shiver ran through Sansa's skin that had nothing to do with the cold. "I have no choice. His power is the key to our security. What else can we do?"
"There are always choices, Lady Stark. My offer of assistance is yours to do with as you wish. Lord Baelish is not the only person who can mount a horse and ride South. Whatever you choose... The Mormonts will always serve the Starks as we have done for a thousand years." She dipped her head respectfully.
"What is this, Lady Mormont?" Petyr asked, as he was handed a roll of parchment. He unravelled it to find a list of names scrawled in the young ruler's hand. It was clear that she had prepared this herself without the consent or knowledge of her counsellors. He read through the names – suspicion shifted to certainly. It was a list of the dead. Petyr scoffed. "Are you proposing I kill all these men?"
The early morning light was soft. It left the sweeping drifts of snow around Winterfell a blushing pink. Serene in its beauty, a man could lose himself in view and forget the wolves gathering behind and there were plenty of wolves. They howled at dusk, gathering into packs whenever night crept over the curtain of the world.
"I propose nothing, Lord Baelish," Lyanna replied. "These are the men who must die if you want to walk away with The Vale's army. Show it to my men when you are past the forest. They will not have to look far for those names. Each one will be on his way to the great council meeting that is held to decide the legitimacy of succession."
"Is this a trick? Encouraging me to kill noble lords so that I might incriminate myself?"
He is an idiot. Like all men, his ego weighed heavier than his balls. "Lord Baelish, I am killing these men. You are being given a crown so that you might protect the North but do not find yourself under any illusions. Betray me and Winter will feel like a dream of Spring."
Baelish wisely tucked the list inside his sleeve. "The North is fortunate to have you as a warden. Not many are up to such cold tasks."
"Fierce deeds create fierce people, Lord Baelish," she warned. "Or so my maesters caution."
Podrick watched the party leave in a rush of hooves and steel. They were absorbed by the Wolfswood and replaced by the perpetual stillness only found in a world locked by ice.
He'd taken to wandering through the Godwood during these moments before the sun cleared the pines. The half-light made the world seem like a dream that might vanish under his touch. Podrick was drawn to the flame-leafed tree with its howling face. Saplings shot up around it, peaking out of the snow.
He habituated a comfortable rock by the steaming pool. While he sharpened his sword, he told the face stories if only to give Brienne's ear a rest. Talking kept him calm.
The sword across his knees was nicked from Brienne's constant training. At first the Lady of Tarth had been reluctant to encourage Podrick in an activity he so clearly lacked talent for but now it was essential to survival. She had become serious – snapping if he lost focus. Every now and then she'd hit him with the dull edge of her sword and send him flying into the snow before growling, 'Again!'
Brienne wore that same look of ill-patience when she appeared by the entrance of a Stark tomb.
"I have been searching for you since dawn," she grunted, climbing out of the pines. They dragged across her head leaving wet hair plastered sharply against her forehead while thick layers of fur hit her ankles. It was a soft, golden brown and swelled with the breeze. The heat from the pool made the ice crack underfoot. "You'll freeze – always sitting about in the bloody snow. No sense at all."
Podrick's rock slid along the edge of his sword, drowning the air in a sorrowful note. "It's warm an n' all by the pool. Better than the castle. No matter how many stones they put back in them walls, it's still a draughty maze."
Brienne eyed the remaining turret through the trees. "You're not wrong, Podrick but it is closer to being a castle today than it was when we arrived. For now, that will have to do." The steam from the pond reached her as a bank of vapour. Instinct drew her closer. "Unnatural," she nodded at the water. "You have to wonder what else is down there to keep the ground boiling in weather like this."
"You mean other than that dragon?"
Reluctantly, Brienne took her place beside Podrick and examined his work. He was uncommonly good at wearing down a blade.
"You never sharpen yours," he noted, nodding at Oathkeeper.
"Valyrian steel does not blunt," she ran her thumb tenderly over the gilded handle. "Even the oldest of their kind are as sharp as they day they were forged. Magic, some say."
"That blacksmith would say otherwise. He's making one as we speak. Gendry let me watch. What? Why are you laughing?"
"Make a Valyrian blade? You think he can? You have been led astray."
"He reforged your sword from the Stark blade," Gendry replied. "And his master was trained in the East where these things are not entirely lost. Besides, he doesn't strike me as the type to brag about something he can't do."
"I don't care if he forges another Iron Throne so long as he keeps out of trouble. Lady Sansa needs him alive."
"To auction him off at a later date..." His tone dropped.
Brienne fixed him with a stern look. "Or marry him. What – you haven't considered it? If Sansa weds a Baratheon with a claim to the Iron Throne, there's a chance to unite the kingdom without more bloodshed."
"I'm sure the Lannisters would have something to say about that. She's still wed to one of them."
Brienne eyed her golden sword. "Indeed. I am sure they would." Even now she thought she could see their golden cloaks scattered between the swaying pines.
"Forgive me, my Lady, but I will not ride out in weather like this." Ser Davos referred to the state of uncertainty among the men rather than the threatening cold. He was still dressed in his travelling clothes with a heavy purse strung around his waist for the ride South. His horse waited at the wall, pawing the stone.
"My brother is expecting you."
"Lord Snow would not look on me kindly if he heard that I had left you here in Winterfell at a time like this. Littlefinger may not be everyone's idea of security but without him skulking about I can't help but feel our position is vulnerable. The men of The Vale in your service have developed a certain reverence for you and Jon but they dislike the fierce cold and have an uneasy view of the land. A betting man would side with desertion. I've seen it before."
"And if the worst befell us?"
"You'd be easy pickings. Recalling the Wildlings and what's left of the Houses loyal to you would not be enough."
Sansa raised her hand to stop him. "I agree. This position cannot be defended without The Vale. I was serious about honouring my pledge. Whatever happens, I will find a way to remain inside Winterfell – in the crypts if I have to. Now please, Ser Davos, go." He would not. "You defy me?" Sansa asked, more confused than angry.
"Ay, I do," Davos replied.
There was no swaying him. "If you insist, can you organise for provisions to be moved to the crypts? Quietly – of course. I don't want word reaching any of The Vale's men that I am preparing for their desertion."
This time Davos nodded, bowing to her will. He left the Wolf Queen in the claustrophobia of the crypts and emerged in the centre of the square. Winterfell was rising around him, stone by stone. Every morning the walls met the sun, a little higher than before. The dull 'clank' of the blacksmiths was a constant march. Gendry worked alone at the largest forge, churning out swords. He caught sight of young Lyanna Mormont crossing through the mud while he tended his horse. She stalked the world and it offered no resistance. Part of Davos wanted to think of her as fondly as he had done Shireen but the Mormont clawed at affection.
"I know..." Davos cooed at his horse. "Thought you were going South to the warmth, didn't you? Well, not yet."
The horse – deathly black with a silver patch on its forehead, flicked her ears sharply in reply.
Brienne walked the edge of the forest trailed by a group of Wildlings. They were hunting rabbit, deer and anything else foolish enough to show its fur. Deeper, she could hear the constant growl of wolves feasting. There were hundreds of them in the surrounding wilderness. Every night they grew bolder, sneaking into camp – taking horses and men too drunk to stand. They were all dragged away into the black. A flicker of gold.
A Wildling jumped across her path, diving into the snow with his arms outstretched. He scrambled back to his feet with a squirrel writhing frantically in his grasp. He grinned at the poor thing maliciously then snapped its head to the side and handed it to one of the others.
"I can smell them," Bronn said, as they moved through the forest. It was thickening around them to the point of choking. Their horses struggled, ploughing into fresh snow that was nearly waist deep. Soon, the paths North would become completely impassable. "Death smells different when it's frozen."
"That's the wolves..." he replied, making sure the army kept itself close together. "They've got a stink about them when they form large packs. With all that's happened recently, they've become a plague. There..." The trees ahead were beginning to thin. Beyond them lied a bowl of ice and snow with a castle crumbled at its heart. "It looks sad," Jaime remarked, signalling for the army to hold back.
Bronn followed, using the heavy limbs of pines to pull his legs out of particularly deep sections of powder. They crouched into it at the ridge, keeping out of sight.
"Tha' was definitely a dragon," Bronn pointed out the terrible scars left on the building.
"Surely you don't believe that story – a dragon coming out from underneath a castle?"
He nodded. "I believe it 'cause it's true. One of them women in the tavern at Fairmark said she saw it."
"Oh well then it must be true. Dragon or not, their walls aren't back to strength. An attack would be easy..." Jaime trailed off mid-thought. There was a party of hunters a few hundred yards away walking the perimeter of the forest. "Brienne..." he breathed.
Bronn narrowed his eyes and inched forward, craning his neck. "So it is. Big cunt – easier to spot in the snow than the grass."
They retreated their position and Jaime drew his men away from the edge of the forest before they were spotted. All afternoon they remained there in silence while Jaime wandered, lost in thought. He was stopped by a stern hand on his shoulder.
"I know what you've come to say, Bronn and I don't want to hear it. Not now."
"Yer do want to 'ere it because we're all freezin' ter death back 'ere." He refused to move. "The way I see it, there's another option. Yer don' have to start a slaughter an' yer don' have to kill her either." That's what had his cock in a twist. Greatest knight the kingdom had ever seen. Ruthless kingslayer. The golden lion. Jaime was all of these things and yet he hid in the shadows in fear of her blood.
"All right..." Jaime turned roughly to Bronn. "What are you suggesting?"
"A quieter approach. You can serve your sister and keep your word to Eddard's wife. You can even keep 'er if yer do this right."
The crypts of Winterfell were full of mist and unexplained howling winds that blasted through the tunnels fast enough to snuff its torches. It is the heat, thought Sansa, as she braced herself at the entrance of another tunnel. The warm air below was warring with the freezing currents above and where it met – chaos.
Her Small Council had made their nests in empty tombs, warding them with straw. At least the constant rush of air kept the stench of lamp oil at bay. A guard nodded as she approached her quarters. Within, there was no fire, a single bed pushed against the wall beside a stone casket and a deep crack in the rock where a few broken tiles had fallen and smashed. Their remnants crunched underfoot as she lit another lantern. Sansa was growing to love the darkness. There was safety in it. The feel of solid stone on all sides was all the comfort she could hope for.
A hand came from the darkness and wrapped around her mouth. Sansa fought wildly. As she was dragged backwards, another arm came up, crushing her waist and lifting her from the ground. The smell of sweat and leather hit her face. A soldier. She reached out for anything – swiping at the table.
As quickly as it began, it stopped. A loud blow landed on the man that held her, knocking them both onto the bed. Sansa rolled, falling off the bed onto the floor. She could hear fighting above – heavy fists striking over and over. She reeled around, picking up her fruit knife from the table.
There were two men brawling in the back of her room, weaving in and out of the weak lamplight. They were both large but one was immense. His long hair whipped around as the two of them locked arms and tried to force each other against the wall. Her breath died on her lips.
"Ser Clegane..."
The Hound had the upper hand, linking his arm under the other man's chin. He pushed up, gripping tight until the man's eyes rolled back and he went limp. Sandor Clegane dropped him carelessly onto the bed. The girl was staring – finally seeing him after these past days he'd spent lingering around the camp – watching over her.
"As you see," he replied, staying at the edge of the light. "Little bird..." he added. Moments passed and the great beast of a man found himself kneeling to the ground, his head dipped forward. He'd been to the depths of the gods' fury since their last meeting and he wore it on his face. So did she. His head lifted. Who broke his little bird? "I came looking for you, months ago, with a gift." Still, she had said nothing. "Your sister."
"Arya?" Sansa found the words in the back of her throat. "Arya was with the Brotherhood Without Banners – in the Riverlands..."
"That is where I found her," his words were awkward. "She was alive last time I saw 'er." A darkness lay over the young Stark. Sandor recognised it. He'd waded through it countless times himself. He had been right. The world came for and snapped both her wings. Now she was a raven with the taste of blood.
"W-why are you here?" Sansa asked, still gripping the small knife.
"I am a knight," he replied, "an' there are no kings worth serving. Thought I might as well serve who I please."
The knife slipped from her hand and fell to the stone in a clamour. She remembered their last meeting with such clarity. The ravages of war outside her window. The harbour burning. A green hue in the darkness and the distant screams of dying men. She should have gone with him that day. He'd have taken her North to defend it and instead of wedding Ramsey she might have tied him to a pyre.
"There it is..." Sandor continued, looking past her facade. "Violence. You are a killer now."
"And who is that?" Sansa stepped closer to the man that lay in the bed.
"That one is a Lannister man," he replied, prodding the man's back. "Seen him a few times. A favourite of the Kingslayer."
"A Lannister – this far North?"
He shifted uneasily. "There's a whole army of them out there in the woods," he warned. "They've got the numbers to take Winterfell but they've held back. Now we know why. They sent a man to kill you." He unsheathed his sword. "We should send them back the head."
Sansa reached out to take his arm. The light touch stilled Sandor. "No. Leave him. I want to hear what he has to say before you string him from the castle wall."
The ropes crushed his ribs. Bronn pushed against them, breathing deeply of the cool air. His wrists too and his legs. All of it was lashed together and then again to the chair. A groan dragged from his lips. His head felt like it had a couple of holes in it.
"This is impolite..." Bronn muttered, blinking back gravel from his eyes. Must've been out for a while.
"You tried to kill me."
The Stark girl had grown into a woman. She towered above most of her company in the room – except the dog-knight. "I came here to negotiate," Bronn insisted. "In confidence."
"Why would you negotiate? You've an army in my woods and the advantage of our castle's current state. It is no secret your man could take us."
Davos and Podrick stood to one side, Brienne the other. It was her that Bronn's gaze fell on. "I've a message from Ser Jaime Lannister. This he swears on the oath he made over a sword that soldier of yours carries."
Brienne shifted uneasily. Podrick offered a half-smile at his old friend. It was all he could do for the moment while they lingered on opposing sides. "I – I think – perhaps, we could hear his words. At least."
Davos was the most suspicious of them all. He warned against it but found himself standing among old friends and uncertain allegiances. Everything's a bloody mess, he thought, as the ropes were loosened enough for the man to sit which he did, hissing complaints at the state of the chair.
"Jaime Lannister didn't march this army all the way up North because he wants to pick a fight," Bronn began, "he was sent 'ere by his sister. Cersei's a mad bloody cunt," he added, off hand, "and she thinks you killed her son, the king. She'd kill every last soldier in the realm if it meant your head on a spike or your body danglin' outside her window."
"I did not kill the king," Sansa protested, trying to fight the tremor in her hand. An army at her gates and she unable to hold her position. "Though I am beginning to wish that I did."
"I believe you," Bronn shrugged. "He was a right cunt as well. Someone was bound to do it. More importantly, Jaime does not believe you did it either. He made a vow – to your mother – that he would see you safely home."
"I am home..."
"Yes but you are a long way from safe, Lady Stark."
She shook her head. "I do not understand what you are offering."
Bronn's gaze continued to shift between Podrick and Brienne. They knew him well enough to hear the truth in his words. "He offers a mummer's dragon. A piece of theatre. An illusion sufficient to keep Cersei's rage at bay. Offer no resistance to the Lannister army. Let them hold Winterfell in name and no one needs to die."
Fury rose in her eyes. "Winterfell belongs to the Starks..." she hissed. "We ripped it from the Bolton's at great cost. What makes you think we'll lay down and let a Lannister have it? They killed my father. My mother. My brother..."
"Because, My Lady, if you let the Lannister army inside these walls Jaime swears that he will use his men to defend it and allow you serve as warden of the North. Then, when Cersei's eye is drawn elsewhere, he will leave. He swears it." He turned to Brienne and repeated. "Swears..."
Podrick was left alone to guard Bronn while the rest discussed the offer. "He hit you hard," Podrick pointed to the bruise ravishing Bronn's forehead.
"Hurts like hell."
"Bet it does." An odd pause. Podrick stepped closer the knelt on the ground in front of the chair where Bronn was tied up. "I'm sorry – about this."
"Me too. I didn' plan on getting smashed in the face. That ugly bugger came out of nowhere." Another pause. "Good to see you alive. Wasn' sure you know, watching you ride off. Barely mount a horse last I knew."
Podrick laughed. "I've seen things up here that you wouldn't believe but Bronn – Lady Sansa won't agree to the deal. You're asking her to submit to a man whose family has cost her everything she loves. It's a crazy idea."
"My idea, thank you very much, young Podrick. It was a damn sight better than havin' us all out there bleedin' in the snow. If I'm going to die I want it to be somewhere warm. With a view. Perhaps by the sea. There's no glory dying knee-deep in fuckin' ice drowned in leathers. How can you tell once corpse from the next?"
Podrick shook his head in amazement. "You worry about the wrong things. How many men do you have?"
"Enough. Podrick look – if this goes to shit..."
"I'll be standing in the snow," he replied sadly, before Bronn could finish. "She'd face him too, you know. Brienne is a hard one. You and I both know who walks away from that."
They were interrupted by Sansa and her party. She took another look at Bronn. "You served my first husband, Tyrion Lannister." She waited as he nodded in reply. "I remember. He spoke of you quite often. Of all the things he said, he never once had cause to doubt your loyalty. I am going to take you at your word that you believe this offer to be true."
"However..."
"However... I have an unusual request to make in return."
The horses aligned in single file across the front of Winterfell. Every hand that could hold a sword joined them in a motionless display. Protected by the forest, no one could see Jaime's men, freezing and tired, falling over their own feet.
As Jaime broke from the shadows he stared at the old, broken corpse of a castle and found no will to fight it. Its legacy was greater than petty battle. Even in disrepair Winterfell commanded something of all who looked upon it. Instead of heading toward it, Jaime turned right and made his way across the ice toward the Godwood alone.
Brienne was waiting for him beneath a rugged Weirwood, so heavy with snow that it dipped its branches into the steaming pool beneath. She waited with one hand on Oathkeeper.
Jaime lifted both his hands at her obvious unease. "How can I earn your trust?"
She wasn't sure it was possible. His blood and his heart lay in the clutches of golden claws. Brienne prepared herself.
"I am here to find out," she replied. "That is far enough, Ser Jaime." He stopped obediently but there was sadness in his eyes. "About the late king – you should know how sorry I am – for you..." He held up a hand, begging her to stop. "Regarding your offer – I believe you. If nothing else, King's Landing will need this army very soon. Wasting men in the North could be fatal for your nephew's throne. I also believe that you were serious about your pledge to Catelyn Stark. I even believe that you will allow Sansa to rule as Warden of the North while your men hold Winterfell because you are tired of politics and senseless death."
"Then I do not understand, why has Lady Stark not agreed to my terms?"
"I asked her to wait until we could speak." This time, it was Brienne that closed the distance between them, coming within a few steps. Jaime was drawn out, thin and paler than before. Months in the snow wore through his gold cloak. Kings. Soldiers. Wildlings. They were all just men in the end. "If you are going to hold the heart of the North, you need to understand what has happened and what might come to pass while you are here. We are fighting our own war – against the dead."
His face dropped. A mixture of denial and confusion. "Is that a Lord or-"
"The Wildlings you've no doubt seen in our camp are among the last alive. The Night's Watch allowed them to flee straight through the gates at Wall but not before a devastating battle took place at the Northern harbour of Hardhome. It was a massacre, Jaime."
"It wouldn't be the first."
"And when they were dead," she continued, begging that he let her finish, "their bodies were lifted from the ground and set again to fighting. This is the Winter that was promised. The Wall holds back the dead – for now but sooner or later they will find a way into Westeros and Winterfell is all that will stand between the empire and destruction."
"Dead men cannot return, Brienne. These Northerns, they see a lot of things in the snow – things that aren't real. It's the cold. The maesters think it's sends them mad."
"Lord Snow was slaughtered before the entire Night's Watch. He was dead for days before the Red Witch raised him. He's alive for all the world to see. Dead men are rising, Jaime, if only you could see... You and I are from the South. Magic isn't in our bones. That does not change what I have seen and if you stay here, you will see it too. If I am to trust you – you will need to trust me. Jamie, if you stay, will you defend Winterfell and your oath?"
"From opportunistic lords or hoards or the undead?"
"Both..."
"Do you believe a time will come when you and I are on the same side?"
"I dream of it," she admitted, "when the snow falls heavy and the blue roses grow. There are times I long for the Great War where we can stand side by side."
A long time passed before either of them spoke again. "I'll be spending some time here, then, waiting for the snow."
"This is weird..." Bronn and Podrick sat side by side at the table for the evening. Their cups were filled with mead and several fires were stocked into life, warming the Stark feast hall. The chandelier sat empty above, its candles laying in pools of wax on the floor. "Lannisters sitting with Wildlings."
Podrick agreed, nodding while he sipped his drink. The two cultures could not clash more violently. The pinnacle of civilisation had met the ocean tide. "Is it just me, or are the divisions of men breaking apart in the North?"
Bronn flinched. "You sound like Tyrion." He smirked. "Bet you he's still alive an' all. He found his dragon. Mind you, it'll be a hell of a mess when he returns to Westeros with it. You'd think a man so fond of history would know that dragons are bad news." Not that anyone had ever been able to stop that tiny lion from doing anything. "For the moment I'm satisfied with this drink and that fire. It's all any of us can hope for at the moment. We might die in this ruin if it gets any colder."
"When Winter comes to kill you – it bangs on the door."
Bronn looked into the depths of his cup. "There's no time for riddles at the end of the world."
Across the hall, Sansa offered Ser Clegane a plate of wild boar. Though he was still tall and broad, he'd been whittled down to skin and muscle, living off wolf meat. His companion bowed low to her. He wore the gold cloak of a Lannister but introduced himself as a Hornwood.
"I know you," Sansa frowned curiously.
"Yes – well, of a sorts. I came to Winterfell in my early teens for the Festival of Ice. You were polite enough but your sister hit me with a pine branch." Clegane found this greatly amusing. The Hornwood cleared his throat and continued. "I deserted the Lannister army. They have not noticed yet but it'd be best, I mean, I request that you allow me to serve under your protection. I ran from the Lannisters not out of fear but to avoid killing the men of the Riverlands – your kin, My Lady."
She agreed but insisted on his gold cloak which she tossed into the flames.
MOUNTAINS OF THE MOON – THE VALE OF ARRYN
There was a resonance to the sound of hooves pounding their way across the ice. It echoed off the leering cliffs which struck through the ground and clawed at the sky like sets of knives. Some leaned over the road, casting shadows that went for miles. While beneath one of these colossus, Petyr looked up. Its underside was a nest of moss, desert succulents and lichen with arms of shocking green that reached for the ground.
Ahead, these violent intrusions into the world transformed into mountains, twice as high as any near Winterfell. The Vale was nestled among these terrifying, impossible peaks. Lines of pines tried to scale their flanks but died as soon as the black stone sheered near vertical. Even the snow, which had been falling heavy in recent weeks, struggled to hold onto the cliffs. It left them more black than white – a shadow on the horizon ahead.
At their back lounged the grey water of The Bite. It was whipped up by the winds, capped with foam and the three islands at its heart nearly impossible to make out from the fog that kept to the water – except for their volcanic peaks. Those three formidable cones loomed over the mist as though rising from the clouds.
They kept off the King's Road. These days it was full of the desperate, a thousand prying eyes and a Lannister army.
The Wildlings tugged their horses to a stop as the track ended. Petyr gave his horse a gentle kick, moving to the front of the convoy.
"Quietly now," he warned. "The Mountain Tribes of The Vale are beyond these ranges."
Even the Mormonts and Wildlings wondered how any civilisation could survive in a ruthless place like this. "How long since you've been this way?" One of them asked.
Petyr kept a tight hold on the reins as he searched for the goat track that ran through the mountains. "When I was a boy. It is the only other way into The Vale. Dangerous as it is, we've more chance against the cliffs than the murderers stalking the roads. This place will dissolve into anarchy – if it hasn't already."
The boy, Lord Robin Arryn, had always been a commodity for Petyr. A useful piece in his game that he could control with relative ease. The boy lacked a father or anything resembling a friend. With the withering Lords of The Vale his only competition, he'd won Robin over easily. Now Petyr wondered if those moments of feigned affection added up to something more substantial. He thought of the unforgiving mountain rocks and Robin's tiny head smashing against them. What must he thought as he fell? Did he believe he was flying?
They paused in the throat of a mountain. Ahead, The Eyrie appeared, balanced precariously where the clouds wandered. It was an impossibility that men had forgotten how to build.
"See the lights?" Petyr pointed to the clusters of light appearing along one of the mountain tops as dusk drew to a close. "These are the Lords of The Vale closing in on the castle." His entourage suddenly felt inadequate for the bloody task ahead.
The boy's coffin sat in the centre of the High Hall of the Eyrie. It was empty. Draped in lavish silks and a flourish of heather in a false show of despair. Petyr's stomach dropped at the sight. He wondered how many empty coffins lay in his wake? This one wasn't his. He reached out, pressing both his hands to the old wood. His eyes closed and to his surprise a prayer left his lips. The Old Gods stirred. He could feel them, brushing against the floor where a thin layer of stone separated the palace from the fall.
"Lord Baelish..." One of the lords approached. There was a gathering of them near the throne at the top of the stairs. Trying it out, Petyr thought cruelly. "I did not expect you to pay your respects in person. Winterfell is a great distance."
"My son in law's sudden death is greatly distressing," Petyr replied. "And unexpected."
"The boy had a fascination with the Moon Door. This time it went to far."
Petyr sized up the lord. He was average height but broad and strong with arms built for lugging axes around. "And with his death left The Vale in a difficult position, one which you wish to resolve quickly." The lord nodded. "There are many ancient houses in The Vale, all of which can trace their right to contest the seat. How to decide?"
Part of Petyr could feel the men on Lyanna's list expiring as they spoke. Their throats slit. Bodies tossed from windows. While he lingered with these lords on familiar ground where they felt safe, his men were decimating their protection. Soon, the lords would be defenceless. Petyr marvelled at how easy victory was if you were prepared to do the unthinkable.
"If you wouldn't mind I'd like some privacy to say a few words to the boy before he is buried. He was, after all, family." And Petyr was within his customary rights to demand it. All he needed was those conspiring men to take their whispers to another room. When they were gone, he returned to the coffin. At least there was no corpse to rest those haunting painted stones upon. Those cold eyes staring into nowhere sank into his nightmares. He dreamed of faces hidden by them. A wall of death. Those he'd killed and those he loved. "You weren't meant to die," he whispered. "That much I can be honest about. You were her nephew and she loved you – I misjudged your keepers."
Several of the stone doors lining the room ground across their tracks. Shields scraped against the armoured hands that held them. Boots marched in double file, perfectly orchestrated through each of the doors. Petyr spun around to see the guard of honour file in and circle his position leaving him with nowhere to run but the Moon Door. He could feel its presence behind him. The breath of cold air at his neck.
The Lords of The Vale followed their soldiers. They assembled in a line, each with eyes agleam. Their prey was cornered. Patience won.
"Lord Baelish, we were expecting you."
Those faces, Petyr scanned the lords, they should all be dead by now. Where had his escort gone? What became of the Bears and Wildlings?
"Of course," he replied, treading carefully. "I would not miss the funeral of my son in law. Dear, beloved child of-" Petyr was stopped as one of them raised their hand.
"That is quite enough of your false mourning cries. You may look like a man – sound like a man but Baelish, we all see through your mimicry. The late Lord Eddard Stark warned us about you. We have strived, from that moment, to protect his surviving daughter from your schemes and restore peace to our neighbouring realms. We seek to avoid the war you long for."
Blindly, Petyr reached backwards, placing his hand on the coffin to steady himself. He could feel the jaws of the trap snapping shut around him. The Lords of The Vale had lured him.
"Did you expect to find us a disorganised, warring mess, clamouring for power? I suppose you did. The Vale survives because of order. We have had succession plans drawn up for decades, kept in secret. I, Lord Baelish, am the new Lord of The Vale and you will remain here as our guest until we are ready to bring you to trial for the murder of Lady Lysa Arryn and conspiracy to murder Lord Jon Arryn."
"No..." he protested weakly. Petyr was grabbed roughly by two of the guards. He struggled against them as they disarmed him of several daggers and the note tucked into his sleeve. The kill list was handed to the Lord of The Vale who brandished it as proof of Petyr's plan to murder them all.
"In the cells, if you please." The Lord of The Vale repeated the command. "The rest can go, as agreed."
"No. No. No..." Petyr repeated, over and over as he was dragged from the room into the Eyrie cells which slanted toward the raw drop. Thousands of feet. Who could know. He clutched the walls of his cell to preserve the feeling of security their stone held. He could not think of the drop beyond the edge of the stone. Every time he did, he saw Lysa fall – her boy as well. I have been traded, he thought darkly but in exchange for what, he did not know. It could not be Sansa's doing. For all the darkness that lurked below the surface, she'd never toss him on the mercy of The Vale. Not after rescuing him so valiantly the first time.
WINTERFELL – THE NORTH
Lyanna waited in her tent, preferring to remain closer to the world. Many had set up homes in the crypts but a deep chill ran down her legs whenever she set foot in that place. Perhaps it was because the statue of Lyanna Stark stood beside her bones or that it had the wreak of a thousand years of death.
Her tent flap was tugged back frantically as the messenger entered, tripping over the mat on the floor and managing to knock a lantern at the same time. Lyanna calmly begged that he steady himself before continuing. She'd not have disarray around her. There was plenty of time for that when the war began. "Speak... I am listening."
"From the Lords of The Vale," he panted. "The terms you set out have been agreed. They have Lord Baelish in their cells and are returning the men sent with him – as agreed.
"...and The Vale's army?" she prompted impatiently. "That is the material point. Speak up..."
"Agreed as well. They are on loan to Lady Sansa, in honour of her father and for the sake of fostering peace and trade between the Northern frontiers and The Vale. They are, however, for show not blood."
"Show is all I require," Lyanna sighed deeply. "I presume you have a message for their general?" He nodded. "Then go to him now."
Show was all Lyanna required because she knew full well that when the dead came, every man would be on his feet with a sword in hand. Allegiance and order were all for nothing when the gods come marching. There was one final message to be sent before she left to find Sansa. Lyanna settled herself at the chest serving as her desk and penned a note to Varys informing him of the Lannister army's position in the North. The Captial, for the moment, was weak enough for their dragon queen to sink her claws into. Dragons were not the Mormont's natural allies but Lyanna was prepared to do anything for the war lurking beyond The Wall.
