THE SUNSPEAR – DORNE

The jetty ended in crystal water. All the horrors of yesterday had washed away leaving perfection etched across the shores of Dorne. Daenerys' fleet scattered over the horizon – sails billowing – the desert sun baking their wooden decks hard.

She waited at the end where planks gave way to water, inhaling the sweet air while admiring the ancient city. It had risen from calamity and glittered as though it were made from shards of the sun. To her left, the last vessel bobbed calmly against the dock. Its sailors untied lines of rope, dropping sails from towering masts while their captain bellowed his logs out to the men. Varys was aboard stuffing unhappy ravens into dozens of cages leaving a constant veil of black feathers in the air. One of them caught in Daenerys' hair. She picked it free, twisting it between her fingers until the quill snapped.

Tyrion ambled toward her; the last to arrive. He stepped carefully around the places where Drogon's wrath had burned away the pylons, keeping a bottle of wine safe against his chest. Tyrion held it up to the queen as he approached.

"Nearly forgot this," he grinned, cradling it protectively. "I have it on good authority that this is the only gift Varys has ever bestowed. Naturally I treasure it."

"Wise..." The Queen drawled, with an uncommon air of diversion. "As you face a long voyage alone in his company. Now," she invited Tyrion to turn away from the ship so that their voices might be carried into nowhere, "you understand that these ships will arrive in King's Landing ahead of the army? The passage overland will not be easy for us. I am trusting you to see that Varys keeps to his word while I am gone. There is a great deal to be done."

"Do not agonise, Your Grace," Tyrion insisted. "We will do all that you have asked." He bid her farewell, dipping to his knee before he moved in the direction of the plank stretching up to the ship. Daenerys stepped across his path in a sudden wall of silver. Her tiny hand pressed against the wine. "I am not insensitive to the death of your niece."

Tyrion's throat tightened. How long had she been waiting to bring up Myrcella?

"It cannot have been easy being here in Dorne or facing Ellaria's snakes. I am sure my spies whisper the same suspicions as yours."

He swallowed a ball of despair before replying, "I find it difficult to support a crown that murders young girls over their blood but then I remind myself that every house in the kingdom is guilty of this crime. I would be left stateless." And who was he to judge? He was a murderer himself. "Yes – you are correct, I admit to meditating on poor Myrcella for a good long while last night. Mostly when I look at the sea. She died on the waves dreaming of home and love as all young people do. She never had a chance to be poisoned by the world."

Tyrion recalled that feeling vividly. The joy of first love. His had lasted barley a day before being dashed across the floor of a whorehouse.

"The last thing she wrote was a letter to Cersei full of affection for Dorne and its people. I do not believe she wished to see them turned to ash for the crime of one angry consort. In a way, Myrcella's death is my fault. Oberyn died for my life. Myrcella in payment for his. Things would have been simpler if I had held the sword myself."

His guilt, while misplaced, was useful so Daenerys let him keep it. "I was inside the tent when my brother died," she shared instead. "My hands never touched the gold which boiled his head nor did I suggest the punishment. Still... it was within my power to save his life."

"And you chose not to."

"I watched..." There were nights that his questioning eyes visited her. "I had known since we were children that Viserys had to die. When he did, he died full of anger and lies – jealousy and madness. He'd have made a terrible king."

Tyrion rolled the smooth bottle within his hands. The queen's tone and absent look unsettled him. At times he sensed madness in her but then, on days like these, she was as serene as the sweeping sands around Dorne, unmoveable against the ocean tide. "I'm not sure I-"

"The choice was made before that moment. To succeed I had to eliminate the last of my family, cold as that may sound. You face a similar horror on the other side of that sea. Tyrion..."

"Yes, Your Grace?" His voice wavered.

"Are you ready for what awaits?"

"I try to be," he replied. "I must be."

"You and I are very different creatures. Passion drove you to murder your father. You will need to find it again."

Daenerys held his gaze for a long time before she allowed him to pass then lingered on the dock until Jorah finished with the men and joined her. Together, they watched the boats clear the reef before turning their backs on the sea.

"Come, Your Grace," Jorah offered his arm so that they could begin their walk down the jetty. "Everything is ready for our immediate departure."

"What will Varys do," she asked, "if he sees Tyrion falter?"

Jorah dropped his eyes to the cracked planks of wood beneath their feet. "Kill him, I imagine. He has come too far on this path to risk defeat. You already know this or you would never have let him get on that boat."

"He has an insatiable lust to see his sister murdered – that drives him forward. His brother is too far North to be caught up in the conflict but the King? His young nephew?" Daenerys shook her head. "It's not in him to kill the boy."

"Is it necessary – to kill him? King Tommen is very young."

"I was younger than he, Ser Jorah, when I was cast out into the world. Robert Baratheon was right to want me dead. You and Varys saved me, now the kingdom will burn."

Jorah was patient with her murderous words. "Saving you has given the kingdom a chance to survive. Letting him live might promise it a future."

Daenerys' eyes shone like his ice sword. "Varys will make a promise on the boy's life. Then I will command that he break it." They made it to the stone steps, ascending until a platform of marble greeted the sun. There was a thick black streak running through it like a crack of lightning in reverse. "I have not been able to stop thinking about what you said," she added, "about Varys. Dismantling the empire and setting me on the throne are two very different desires – indiscernible from one another. When King's Landing falls the question of which outcome Varys yearns for will be asked again."

Jorah cupped his hands under her elbows, dragging her toward him until they were facing each other with the sea behind. He searched her eyes, finding cracks in her confidence. She has always been so blindingly certain of their future but the closer she grew to the Crown, the darker her shadows became.

"Listen to me, Khaleesi. If Varys considerings betraying you for even a moment he will find himself lashed to the walls of the Red Keep for all the kingdom to see. I made him that promise long ago."

Her hands slipped forward to his chest. He was wearing his steel breastplate with a pair of dancing bears beneath her hands. Many times he'd offered to change it to a set of dragons but she refused. Every time her life hung in the balance she'd seen those silver bears pulling her back from the abyss. "You should not threaten our friends so openly."

"I said it with my eyes..." He promised.


Tyrion folded himself into a narrow cabin below deck. He had spent so many days of his life on the sea that the gentle rocking beneath his feet was beginning to feel like home. Having no home was almost a comfort. If you had nothing then there was nothing to fear losing. Tyrion stopped, resting his hand on the table in a moment of clarity.

He has nothing.

What a terrible revelation...

"You look paler than usual," Varys intruded, poking his head through the door. "Something the queen said?"

"It had more to do with what was implied." Tyrion wondered if it would be in poor taste to drink Varys' wine so early on the voyage.

Varys rustled up a leaf of genuine pity for the other man. He dragged his hand gently down the door, stepped into the room and closed it behind him for privacy. "I already promised you to do what I can for the boy. Until we arrive in King's Landing, I cannot accurately judge the state of affairs. The mess changes day to day."

"Daenerys already suspects us of imaging a plot. The queen will know if we succeed and not only will she hunt the boy down and kill him – she'll hunt us as well. The only way to save Tommen is by convincing the queen to let him live. Betraying her on this front is a mistake. The Lannisters cannot rule if the world is to survive but that does not need to include wiping the name from existence."

"Well, dear friend, I hope you have a plan, plenty of ravens and some ink for this mission of yours. Meanwhile, I have letters of my own to send to our new friends in King's Landing while the sailing is fair. Lady Olenna Tyrell is most keen to be free of her golden shackles. Oh – I thought you might want to know, one of those damn dragons is following us. The green one. I think you fed it too much on the way over and now it is somewhat attached."

"Rhaegal?" Tyrion pushed past Varys and clambered on deck, lifting his head to the sun where he found the beautiful creature cruising beside them. "You foolish dragon... Go home to your mother!"

"As you see," Varys joined him. "He will rather spoil the surprise of our arrival so I have instructed the captain to take a wider approach, remain behind the curve of water."

Varys remained on deck, strolling in endless circles. He'd always been a 'walker'. It served him well in the Capital. Moving things were harder to assassinate and while more eyes observed a wandering man, each set saw too little to make anything of it. On a ship there was no escaping those watchful eyes. The Unsullied preferred to stare endlessly at the water. He wondered if their minds retreated to their years of torture. They were not the unthinking, uncaring monsters of stories – they were men, all of them and the freedom Daenerys offered brought the unexpected burden of emotion.

He wished he could drown himself in the waves like they did but Varys was a haunted man. A long time ago he had lost count of the bodies put in the ground under his name. Their corpses blurred. Dozens. A hundred? Who could say when his knife was subtle, slaughtering indirectly through suggestion. Except for one. There was nothing indirect about Illyrio. It was his eyes that he saw in the water. The unmistakable reflection of betrayal.

"Be at peace, my friend." He whispered at the waves. They rose in a salty-froth, biting at the hull. "Or I will dash your soul on the rocks."

The queen's pale mare bucked at the sweeping twists of sand chasing each other across the desert. They lived and died in the wasteland beside as the army pushed towards the mountains. She recognised the lay of the land from above but at the ground progress was a crawl which frustrated her.

Her beast was flanked by Jorah's speckled stallion and the Dayne's Dornish mountain horse that was two hands taller than any other. Slighter in build with narrow legs, the creature skipped over the sand, rustling its blonde mane. Two of her dragons circled ahead, casing the mountain cliffs for a perch to nest. There was nothing she could do about Rhaegal. He was a wilful dragon with a mind of his own.

The Dothraki were comfortable in their saddles, finally rid of the iron horses. This land reminded them of home but Daenerys wondered how they'd fare when weather turned and the snows began. They'd have a taste of it, crossing into the Stormlands. For now, they searched for the great desert river and when they found its strip of sapphire in the ochre dunes, they stopped the horses and let them drink while the men pitched camp.

"How many days of this?" asked Daenerys, standing beside her beast while it dipped its head into the water. She ran her hands over its coat, brushing away a layer of dust. With the Dornish men added to her numbers, her army was vast even without the bulk of Unsullied.

"A week," Ser Jorah replied, dismounting, "until we are through the Prince's Pass and onto the Dornish Marches. Avoiding Yronwood adds a few days to our journey but a fight there after so much blood is of no use to anyone. House Blackmont has shifted allegiance to the Martell banner, abandoning Yronwood now their lord is dead. They write to offer men and board on our way through the great gates."

"No," Daenerys turned to lay against her horse. She liked the feel of its heart beating against her skin. It reminded her of the sun and stars... The wolf girl appeared at the edge of the water, kneeling at the back to wash. Always alone.

"That will offend them," he warned. "It is customary after a battle."

"I might agree with you if I wished to conquer Dorne but taking their men would carve a gash through the Martell army. Ask them to publicly support my claim and send them one of the smaller chests of jewels as a token of our gratitude. We will declare them friends and allies and forget all that went before. Distant bonds of peace are easier to maintain if they are bought. The other minor houses will hear of our new friendship and pledge men. Those we will accept. We grow our number without the risk of hostility. Why are you smiling, ser?"

"You are as wise as Twyin, ruthless as Aegon and beautiful as the Summer wind. The kingdom does not stand a chance."

There was a gentle breath between them. "Or," she countered, "I have foolishly turned away a generous offering from a new ally."

Except the queen was right. By the time their convoy touched the flanks of the ranges, soldiers from the nearby villages flooded in. The Dornish were eager for a war with a kingdom that had tried to tear them apart for nearly a thousand years.

"Why did you bring the Stark?" Daenerys asked, finding her attention drawn to the child. There was more darkness woven through her soul than any of the warlords riding beside. "Surely the ships would have been safer if you intend to return her to the North unharmed."

Jorah did not like to talk about Arya. "She asked to go with the fleets," he admitted, to the queen's confusion. "Arya has never displayed an interest in anything. It worried me. This way I can keep an eye on her."

"You are worried about what she might do."

"To Tyrion, mostly. He is uncle to the king that killed her father and an unwanted husband to her sister. Who knows what she'd do left alone on a ship with him. There are the gates," Jorah brought his horse beside the queen. The scrap of road narrowed ahead between two chalk cliff faces. They towered high with an impasse of rock either side for as far as they could see. A Blackmont guard manned the fort and accompanying tower behind a set of Valyrian steel gates which stood at nearly fifty feet. It was obvious they had been ripped from a forgotten palace and forged into the rock then melted with dragon fire. Flying from the castle window was a snarling red Targaryen banner. It was old, made in the rule of her ancestors. To see it now, given life...

The Blackmont men lined beside the gate and bowed to the silver queen. They searched the sky but could not see her dragons. Instead their cries echoed through the cliffs like ghosts howling.

The gates opened and the path North was clear.


"We're too late..." Sam cursed the towering city. He'd dreamed of The Sunspear for so long but now all he felt was a sinking pit of disappointment when he watched the light play on its beautiful curves. "Nearly a week, according to the rice merchant. We'll never catch up with an army overland."

"We could follow her fleet," Gilly struggled to keep Little Sam in her arms. He was big enough to wander around and wanted to be out in the world. "It is no secret where they are headed."

"And meet them in the middle of a firestorm? We have to find the queen before the fighting starts."

Marwyn laid a map over the deck. They sank to the floor together while the infant incessantly grabbed onto the edges of the parchment. "There's somewhere else we know the queen will go before King's Landing." he pointed to Summerhall. "We take another boat to Wyl, there's a man leaving tomorrow with some leather and then follow the Boneway all the way to Summerhall. He says he has made the trip himself many times. There are demons in those walls the queen must face."

"More boats..." Sam groaned in dismay.

"From there we are on foot," Marwyn assured him. "Granted, the Stormlands are a bit of a mess without the Baratheons but I dare say a Targaryen army on the road might quiet things down a bit."

"Quiet things down?" Sam eyed Marwyn as though the Targaryen madness had swept across his eyes. "The Baratheons killed the Targaryens what makes you think they'll let them march through their home lands?"

"Dragons, my dear Sam. Dragons. You wait and see how fast old ills are forgot when the skies fill with wings and flame. Aegon taught the realm fear. It sank so deep into their bones that children are born with their eyes fixed East, waiting for their return. Daenerys will work her way from the South and none of the Seven Gods can stop her."


Sam walked the walls of The Sunspear until he found the forgotten stairs carved directly into the rock. He sat down, gripping the dust as he descended. The drop gripped his heart. Ocean wind ripped at his tattered cloak – sending it out beside him like the torn wings of a dragon. A third of the way down the rock wall he found the skeletal remains of a Weirwood. Dead – old and weathered by the storm, it had woven its roots through the foundations of the Dornish city.

"Night gathers..." Sam whispered to the broken thing. "And now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death." He remembered the vows he had broken. The world had meant nothing to Sam until he'd knelt in the snow and given himself over to the Night's Watch. He thought of his brothers at The Wall, standing against the bitter cold, night after night. "I will stand there again," he promised the pale wood. "Sometimes you have to travel South to return North. I made other vows – vows to Gilly and Little Sam – to keep them safe but Marwyn is right. There is no safety except at the edge of danger. Jon used to say that the Weirwoods listened to every prayer – all I pray is that he is right if not, all us poor wretches are howling at the darkness."

Its bones rattled in the wind. Another dead thing caught between the desert and the raging sea.


WINTERFELL – THE NORTH

Sansa stood in her father's tomb for hours. The drip of ice formed tiny rivers between the flat tiles while thick strands of flowering moss tumbled from the ceiling creating a wet curtain. Perfect droplets of water caught in the leaves. They scattered her torchlight like stars until inevitability froze them into pearls of ice. Every now and then they fell as tears, shattering on the stone.

Her father's statue was surrounded by rubble and white powder. His dead eyes watched over the darkness. Sansa wondered if the day might set when she'd spent longer with her hands fixed on the cold stone of his grave than in his living arms. Her fathers face slipped into dream. His voice – a vanishing whisper. Soon she'd forget his scent and all that was Eddard Stark would pass into shadow like the rest of the stone kings beneath Winterfell.

"I know what you would do..." she whispered. "Lord Baelish was no friend to you. I have heard the stories. I know all his betrayals. The secrets he shared with my mother. The suspicions you never thought to have." Her gloved fingers scraped the lid of his tomb. It was cold and unyielding. Sansa did not speak to her father but to herself. "I have been handed a victory without the burden of a dangerous man and yet... And yet..."

The yet caught in her throat like a Winter chill. And yet Petyr was a man of faults with a heart like any other. Could she punish his loyalty with betrayal? Did allowing this trade make her weak or strong? There were no answers in the crypt. "Part of me wonders whether it is wise to make an enemy of Petyr."

She envisioned another set of eyes staring out from the stone. Lord Baelish and his sweeping cloak left to rot in the Eyrie. For all their faults the Lords of the Vale were not murderers. There would be a trial. A public display made of his crimes. They'd take pleasure in dredging every detail of his malice without a murmur of his goodness and there was goodness in him. She had witnessed it ripple to the surface. At the close, death was inevitable. The Mockingbird would feel wind beneath his wings before the fall.

Sansa felt it already.

An empty tomb and a broken bird.


"Ser?" Sansa sought out her dog-knight when the ruined halls of Winterfell fell quiet. She found him sleeping by a crack in the wall, seated with one eye on the snows outside. It was near dawn. The moon had vanished behind the mountains while the fogs were at their thickest. He stirred into life as her lantern neared. "You asked me when you arrived what you could do to serve."

Sandor blinked soot from his eyes. His little bird was a Queen of Winter with her pearl dress and wolf fur dragging on the floor. She was harsh, like the ice creeping across the stone. How fortunate Joffrey never lived to see her made woman. "Aye, m'lady."

"Ride to the Eyrie. Offer Lord Baelish your sword in a trial by combat. Bring him back here, alive. You are to be my Queensguard, Ser Clegane."

"Tha' will anger the Lords of the Vale," he cautioned, shifting against the rock. He possessed none of the pretence of the other knights.

"A man like Lord Baelish is wasted on the rocks. If you do this, he will be without power and indebted to me."

"He'll be wounded an' dangerous. I seen him in King's Landin' when the world threatened to fold around him. Your father's death was his solution."

"Lord Baelish will not kill me. I have my mother's eyes."

That she did. A dead woman peering through living flesh. Sandor wondered if that would finally drive the mockingbird over the edge.


A pair of horses ploughed through the fog leaving the white air swirling.

"What do you think that was about?" asked Jaime, pouring steaming water into a pair of cups. The bitter pine tea was odd at first but lately he found comfort in it. Every night he spent in Winterfell he felt a part of his old life falling away, shedding like scales from a fish before filleting.

"Lady Stark wishes to retrieve Lord Baelish."

"And you disapprove..." he observed carefully. The frost on his beard flaked away as he lifted his cup to his lips.

"You don't?" Brienne scoffed. They sat side by side on the roof of the partially collapsed turret. It was open to the snow and subject to a significant slant but on mornings like this, with the sun about to inch into the world, there was a special moment of peace that both of them craved. Somewhere in the forest, the last wolf howl died.

"Lady Stark is not the first person to do something inexplicable for love."

"That has little to do with your interest. You want Lord Baelish back in Winterfell."

His transparency to her unnerved him. Cersei was birthed in the same hour, shared every heartbeat and yet their desires were concealed. Brienne opened his thoughts as though she'd plucked him from a maester's shelf. "Yes... I'd rather Lord Baelish were here."

"You are inclined to kill him." It was a statement rather than a question. "Dare I ask what he did to offend you in particular?"

He set his cup down on the stone. There was a heavy scent of smoke mixed into the fog, trailing over the land from the pyres surrounding the castle. "Baelish killed my son."

Brienne stiffened. Of course she knew of his children but to hear it from his lips...

"Cersei... she has it in her head that either Sansa or Tyrion conspired to murder the king but her logic is clouded by hate and drink." Jaime shied away from the bottle. Liquor only served to make the voices of his nightmares louder. "She'd blame my brother for the Winter snows if they came early and as for the Stark girl? When the king died your lady was a frightened child."

"I understand Lord Baelish is a depraved snake of a man but do you think has it in him to kill a king?"

"It is no accident that he vanished with Sansa moments after the act. He was prepared with ships waiting in the harbour beyond view. At the very least, he was aware of the plot. It served his purpose and as he has proved, Baelish is not afraid to kill for a crown. Ask her if you do not believe me."

"And now you believe he'd move against Lady Stark when the time came?"

"No – not his red-haired beauty. Baelish is going to kill Eddard's last son. The bastard."

"Jon Stark?"

"Is that what they're calling him now? Yes. As I understand it, the fate of the realm lays in the balance of his life. Lord Baelish cannot be allowed to murder the Stark heir so regardless of Lady Stark's inclination, Baelish must die."

She wondered why he suddenly cared what happened to the North. Surely he did not hold any affection for the frost-kept mountains? "And you want to be the one that holds the blade."

"It is my right – as was yours taking Stannis Baratheon's head. I am not the only kingslayer on this rooftop."

They drank their tea quietly for a while. If Bronn and Podrick had ever wondered what happened to them they'd long since stopped looking. Brienne exhaled forming a cloud of vapour that lifted above their small fire. "Pretend for a moment that I agree..."

"Mmm..." Jaime watched Brienne carefully. She was loyal and his desire to murder Baelish was directly against Lady Stark's wish. It could tear apart their fragile alliance in an instant.

"The timing would be delicate. Lady Stark is right about one thing – Baelish is useful to her cause." She waited to see if he understood her meaning. Eventually, a smile touched his lips, one that only she could command of him.

"Pretend I agree." He laid his hand on the melted wall beside them. The rock bore a deep gash where a dragon claw had slice right through the granite. "I still find it difficult to picture the story you told me of the Winterfell dragon," he admitted, changing the subject. "The evidence is all around us but even then... My brother would have loved it. He was obsessed with dragons when we were small. He used to pester my father to borrow books on them from the Citadel. It was the only thing father indulged him in. We'd go hunting for eggs in the sea caves near Casterly rock."

"Did you find any?"

"Not even a bone. The only thing we found in those caverns were runes and a few rats."

"Daenerys Targaryen is coming for the Iron Throne... You'll see dragons then."

"Do you know where she is?"

"I cannot talk about that – you know this." She looked away. There was something heartbreaking in his eyes. Their honesty was limited to the will of their monarchs. "I just wish – wish that..." She felt his hand on her arm. "If you ride South you will die. No army can stand in front of three dragons and live."

"I have to ride South, when the time comes. For Cersei and Tommen."

"I know you do."

Brienne looked at his hand clutching lightly at her sleeve. "I have to remain here."

"I know you do... Why do you look at me like that?" He asked, when Brienne searched his face. She swept every crease around his eyes and found something in them that unsettled her. She did not answer and he did not let go.


Lyanna Mormont made no effort to hide her part in Lord Baelish's capture.

"A letter from Sansa," she replied to Ser Davos' unuttered query. His constant presence at her side was a mystery to Lyanna. What interest did Stannis' man have in her? "She asks me to meet her in the Godwood."

"Well, you did trade her pet lord for an army without asking."

"True enough."

Which is why she obliged, taking her horse across the ice fields alone to the wood beside the castle. It was becoming more difficult to pick it out from the surrounding wilderness as the snows continued. In a few weeks from now the North would simply be white.

Lyanna dismounted and dragged herself through the knee deep powder until the hot springs appeared. With bedrock underfoot, she wandered the edge of the steaming pool, waiting for the Stark. They thought themselves above the other Northern houses – self proclaimed keepers of the North. In reality, they were butchers and war lords that policed the unruly clans whose harsh environment would forever leave them pitched against civilisation. Only those who lived in the extremes such as the Mormonts and kin of the Night's Watch truly felt the march of Winter approach.

"Do you serve me, Lady Mormont?" Sansa asked, as she arrived behind the Weirwood tree. The face snarling from the trunk bled fresh tears.

"I serve the North," Lyanna replied defiantly, more aware of the sword on her hip than she wished. "And in this I served you well."

"You may well have killed Lord Baelish if my man cannot win his freedom." Sansa could hear the sharpness in her words. They were coloured with emotion that had no place in manners of survival. Perhaps that is why she felt small beside the stoic Mormont who could weather hell itself.

"All the better but if he lives, he has lost his claws, my lady."

"That was not your choice to make. What good is a powerless lord to me?"

"What good is he at all?" The bear quipped. "If you are seeking an apology..."

Sansa gripped her face, wishing to tear it off. "I do not know what I seek. A part of me wishes you'd killed him outright. I know what it is to be trapped in a cage. Better to be in the ground."

"All of my family are in the ground."

"All I want," she recovered, "is for you to tell me of your intentions. This time, the truth. I will have honesty in our alliance. My father taught me the value of honour-"

"Eddard Stark is dead." Lyanna interrupted. "Jon Arryn is dead. Jeor Mormont is dead. Your brothers. Your mother. Our maesters and countless bannermen. Honesty killed them. When I was handed the fate of Bear Island at seven I swore to set aside the shackles of their ghosts and submit to survival. I pledged myself to the North. I will serve you, Lady Stark, until the dead rip my skin from the bone."

"I am blind to him..." Sansa breathed. "What if I asked you to be my ears – to whisper truth when I cannot find it? No one can survive the Winter without help. I am – I am asking you, Lady Mormont, to help me."

Lyanna's hand slipped from her sword. She stepped off the black rocks around the pool and entered the soft snow where she withdrew her sword and knelt at the queen's feet. Her hands lifted the blade toward Sansa.

"Are there words to say?"

"No, Your Grace. It is done."


"This place is fucked..." Bronn ripped feathers off a wood duck, tossing them into the fire. It smoked furiously, choking Podrick who stepped away in disdain. "Makes you bloody wonder, doesn' it – why anyone bothered warring o'er it in the first place."

"People war over anything," Podrick replied. "War for the sake of warring if they've nothing else to do."

"Yeah well next time one of our lords gets it into their head to war it should be somewhere warm. A fucking desert. Dorne was a'right. Riverlands were a shit-pile of mud. What about Highgarden, eh? Fucking paradise."

"I've missed this," his reply was drenched in ire. "Your infinite wisdom cast into the world."

"Don' come at me like tha' 'cause your lady's screwing my lord."

"They're not... Oh never mind." Bronn was not able to understand the delicacy of the situation so Podrick gave up trying to explain and turned his attention to the birds. "We should be hunting some of those wolves. I saw them this morning, lined up along the edge of the forest. Hundreds of them. I don't fancy your odds if Ser Jaime decides to march South."

"If you want to hunt one of those mange things, be my guest. I'm 'avin' duck."

Podrick tried not to look into the creature's glassy eyes as he held its neck over the board and hatcheted it off. With four hideously mis-matched armies watching over Winterfell the castle was turning to a putrid slurry. The sound of steel hitting stone echoed through every second of daylight while the walls were rebuilt. Wildlings taught the Southerners how to make swathes of cloth out of animal hide while the locals pitched tents on the ice surrounding the castle and fished the frozen river beneath.

"I will die here..." said Podrick, his hands covered in freezing blood from the duck.

"What rubbish are you on about now?"

"I feel it. One of these nights you'll toss me in a pyre and watch me turn to smoke."

"If you die," Bronn began, quite seriously, "I'll go an' find whichever blasted god can be bothered with your prayers and drag you back 'ere. I ain' fighting the wars to come without you moanin' the whole bloody time. Wouldn' be right."

Despite everything, Podrick grinned and laid his hand briefly on Bronn's back. The towering man ducked away from the touch.

"You got blood 'n all on me now."


"Well?" Davos Seaworth waited at the edge of the Godwood for the Mormont lady. "I told you she wouldn't like your plan."

"You worry about the wrong things, Ser Seaworth."

"I'm not a Ser..." he reminded her again.

"And you should be half way to Jon Stark's side. He'll need your dry council amidst all the flowery words of the Southern lords and if you do not go, who will write to us of our lord's progress?"

"Aye..." She was right but he was reluctant. "Cannot someone else go?"

She took his offered hand and together they walked across the open fields of snow while her horse followed dutifully. Lyanna felt Davos slide on the ice, unsteady on his feet. "Ask my blacksmith for spikes on your boots," she offered. "You'll never outrun the dead in those."

"I'll do that," he nodded. "I thought of somewhere else I might go. I'm not sure how many of the Southern stories reach this far North. There was a great battle, on the Blackwater. Tyrion Lannister set the night on fire with wildfire."

"Even the Wildlings heard those stories. They say King's Landing burned like the sun."

"The way I see it, fire is the only weapon we 'ave against this army coming from the North. There are not enough forests to burn so we'll need to find something else. Lady Stark has the Bolton coin. Old Town and its maesters covet vast stock piles of wildfire. Why not buy it, tip it o'er the wall and set the snow alight?"


THE EYRIE – THE VALE OF ARRYN

Lord Baelish backed away from the cusp of stone separating permanence from the abyss. A gale of wind howled from the Narrow Sea and slammed into the granite walls which such force there were nights he swore he felt the castle sway. He pressed himself into the furthest corner and crouched, drawing his robes around himself to stop his limbs from freezing. The view stretched on forever. A vast chasm at the foot of the castle followed by sharp, black peaks then a second layer, dusted in snow and scattered in the valleys – a strip of water. At night he could see the glow of market towns dotted over the vista. When the sea fogs swept in there was nothing at all. Endless oblivion.

Tyrion never spoke of his time in the Eyrie and now Petyr was left to wonder if it had been like this... He could not sleep. They did not feed him. The wine was sour and the frequent beatings from his jailers served only to remind him that the worst waited on the other side of the Moon Door.

Perhaps he should choose his own fate. Farewell life of his own volition.

Emboldened, Petyr scraped himself off the stone and crawled to the edge of the cell. A fierce torrent of wind kicked him in the face. He forced his eyes open against the onslaught. His heart raced. Hands shook. No... If his end lay on the rocks he would make the gods wait. While ever he breathed there was hope.

The days blurred together until a lowly knight dragged him from the cell and tossed him into a smaller room inside the castle. This, at least, had walls. He found himself clinging to them – relishing the simple pleasure of vertical stone. Clothes were thrown in his direction so he dressed, transferring his mockingbird pin to his collar. An unfamiliar beard scratched across his hands as he washed his face. There was just enough light for him to make out his reflection.

I look like my father, he realised. A man who spent less years in the world than he had.

That night, his trial began in the heights of the Eyrie.


KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS

Tycho Nestoris descended the cobbled wall from the city street and wove through the narrow pathways in the rock, heading for the beach as the tide pulled away. The waters left a stretch of rubble littered with broken, rusted remnants of warfare. The Battle for the Blackwater... Nameless conflicts which were even older. Occasionally he stepped over the skeletal remains of limbs left unclaimed. Any jewels they might have worn were picked over daily by the starving wretches amassing in the city.

Without loans from the Iron Bank, the city was in the process of consuming itself. Crime filled the streets with blood. Starvation bred disease and the people, too tired to rally against their masters, slumped on the roads in defeat.

He wasn't interested in the city. Tycho moved quickly until he fell under the shadow of the Red Keep. There was a nest of sea caves above and sewers covered with iron bars. He climbed as far as he dared then whistled at the depths. Footsteps followed and then a cowering servant who unlocked one of the water courses and handed him a torch.

The roar of their flames folded double against the low tunnel. Tycho ignored the warm water sloshing at his knees and focused on the curve of light ahead. At the other end he found a solitary welcoming party.

"Welcome, Nestoris," Olenna opened her arms to the sewer, with all her jewels glittering, "to the Capital."


"It is worse than I thought," he admitted, when they were safely tucked away in one of the dungeon cellars. He held his sleeve across his face to dilute the stench while the Queen of Thorns remained unaffected. She had been living with the shit far longer. "Although last I heard you were a captive of the High Sparrow."

"The High Sparrow and I came to an arrangement," Olenna replied.

"Does that arrangement have anything to do with him locked in the Sept of Baelor? It is of no consequence to me. I am not your jailers."

Olenna laughed, picking at the stone walls. Her fingernails were like thorns and her features wrinkled beyond measure like the rings in a tree. She had seen too much of the world to be either impressed or surprised by it. "The Iron Bank are jailers to the whole world," she assured him. "Or you were, until recently. Everyone, I fear, has heard about your run in with the dragon princess. Your presence here tells me that some of of those stories are true. I must admit that I was surprised to receive your invitation. If a Targaryen is coming for the throne of Westeros I'd imagine you'd support her claim. Targaryens are good for business. Conquest does wonders for the coffers."

"We are supporting her claim," he assured the Tyrell monarch. "For all their proclamations, Lannisters do not possess any gold they did not first borrow from us. The Baratheons burned through money as if it were Wildfire and the Blackfire rebellion bankrupted a thousand years of conquest. Incredible – how fast empires are plundered. You... The wheels turns over and over and yet the Tyrell fortune replenishes with every passing Summer."

"That is because we build our fortune from the land. Our farms are more constant than feuding nations."

"Constant – yes... That is the word I was looking for," Tycho slid his hood off his head. He could not settle his nerves anywhere outside Braavos. "A Targaryen empire birthed in fire is going to need some stability."

"Did Varys put you up to this?"

"No... but I imagine he'd try if ever we were to meet again. You are a good investment..." Tycho did not think of Olenna as a rose so much as a forest of thorns. He could not unravel any hint of her intentions toward him. There was every possibility she might decide to offer him up to Cersei to ransom the bank and break the starvation of the city. She'd be terribly disappointed. He was gambling that Olenna's vision looked further into the future. "When Illyrio died at sea, the Lannisters and their Baratheon king lost their main smuggling ring and the primary source of income. Oh yes, we know about that. As we have taken a position of refusing all loans until the outstanding accounts – which cannot be paid – are settled, the Capital has next to no revenue. Now – here is the part you do not know..."

Olenna leaned forward. "The part that explains why you have taken an interest in our fate?"

"Essos is in ruins – besieged by a flesh-eating plague that has cast cities into darkness. Everything East of the Painted Mountains has fallen quiet. With nothing to raid, an enormous fleet of pirates have amassed and made the journey to Dorne where they partook in the sacking of The Sunspear."

"The Sunspear fell?"

"Reports are difficult to come by but a civil war sprang up, spurred on by the Targaryen's presence. The pirates joined the fray, by all accounts on the Targaryen's side and then withdrew their ships from the harbour and set off North – towards us under some kind of understanding with Daenerys."

"Pirates are of little consequence to a guarded peninsula like us."

"Pirates create chaos. Look at what the raiders of the North have done to the Western coast." Tycho nearly choked on the foul gust of wind. "Is there nowhere else we can meet?"

"That depends on whether you wish to catch Cersei's attention. Her madness grows daily – shadowing that poor boy of hers."

"The pirates have their eyes set on a far greater sight than the crumbling walls of the capital. They've no use for a throne – only gold and where better to find gold than the ill-defended harbour of -"

"Braavos..." Olenna finished for him. "Oh dear... I am presuming the queen's dragons put a sizeable dent in your security. If I were a pirate, I'd sail toward the largest treasure house in the world too. You have seen my position here in King's Landing. My daughter is tied to the empire by marriage – and its debts. My son has sunk into hiding after the butchery of the religious order that has infected this place like your plague of the dead and Cersei is all but ruler in name – and she is swept up in her own paranoia so much so that I hear here whispering of green fire as she stalks the halls at night. What is it that you imagine I can do for you?"

"You paint yourself as a helpless bystander but you, Lady Tyrell, are a kingmaker. Having not fancied the previous king you made yourself a new one but his weakness was both his allure and his danger. The Faith of the Seven have been kept at bay by strong kings and the moment a boy sat on the throne they embedded themselves in your garden like a weed. At this moment you have a daughter on the throne but you also have a son. The dragon queen from the East will need a king. I can bargain with her to name that king your heir and a peaceful transference of power if you distract this pirate hoard with rosy promises. Make contact with the savages. Bargain on behalf of the Iron Throne. We will pay directly for our protection with a healthy cut for those that barter in our name."

Now who is making kings? She mused. "It is a lovely plan, Nestoris – attractive but not even Cersei will fail to notice a pirate fleet blackening her shores. She is mad not blind."

"Pirates desire more than gold. They feed off blood. Offer them the Sparrows. Cersei will not only approve. She will thank you for it. Hand her the throne and I will gift you the empire."


PRINCE'S PASS – THE RED MOUNTAINS

It was the roof of the world. At their peak, the Red Mountains parted to reveal the velvet carpet of the Dornish Marches. To their left, the rises of Nightsong and Horn Hill loomed lazily from the iridescent green flats and beyond them, the blur of Highgarden's coloured poppy fields. The mountain ranges of Storm's End were a shadow on the right – a mess of volcanic stone and moss-drowned valleys while the great expanse of The Reach stretched endlessly ahead. It was difficult to imagine, standing on the cusp of Dorne, that such a thing could finish but it did. Beyond the curve of the horizon the snows waited and all the horror of her dreams.

"We will have to fight our way through the marches," Darkstar warned, joining the silver queen and her knight at the front of the army. "Dornish men have died across these fields for thousands of years and more of their kind in our mountains. They'll have spotted us at the last pass. Nightsong fort is the keeper of this road. We will see their lights when the sky darkens."

"I have no intention of wasting men on the road to King's Landing," Daenerys replied. She levelled a meaningful look in Jorah's direction and then turned, leaving the knight and the Dayne to the view.

"What does the queen mean by that?"

Jorah nodded at the shadow of Drogon high above. "The queen means to proceed as her ancestors. She has studied the history since she was a child and understands the best way to conquer the minor forts in on the back of a dragon. I imagine, by the time we pass Nightsong, it will either have dragon banners rippling against the castle walls or smoulder in ruin." He heard a second dragon cry on the air. His heart raced as Viserion joined his brother, tearing at the clouds.


"You look worried, Ser..."

"He won't settle..." Jorah replied, reaching for Viserion's wing. The dragon had his snout in the dirt, pushing firmly at the ground – snorting the dust as he searched for lizards.

Drogon chirped at his mother, setting his enormous golden eye on the queen. She stood beside him, reaching to his face which she stroked gently until that eye closed and his calls turned to a faint rumble – like thunder inside the mountains.

"Riding has helped tame him," Jorah added, watching the queen with her dragon. "In fact, I think he is quite fond of it."

"That is why you are coming with me," Daenerys smiled softly. "Viserion is not used to his harness – the Dothraki have remade that strap twice after he tore through it. If he does not take to it you will need to ride him bareback."

"I almost prefer it," Jorah admitted. "At least I can have faith in my footing." For the moment, he persevered with the saddle – climbing up the lengths of leather until he swung his leg over and set it in the specially fashioned stirrup. Viserion shook his head making his entire body quake. He arched forwards, puffing smoke into the lizard holes which turned the ground around them into a smoking hill. The red lizards burrowed deeper as the dragon's claws scratched furiously at the dirt. "Steady..." he murmured against Viserion's scales.

"Even standing so close," Daenerys added, walking calmly up Drogon's outstretched wing, "he is difficult to pick out from the mountains. Every day a new marble of colour bleeds through his scales. It is as though he is changing to match the world."

"He is a predator, hiding. Drogon has no inclination to hide." Although, as Jorah watched the regal dragon lift the queen onto his back, he realised that in the black mountains behind Asshai he'd be entirely invisible. "Quaithe has not woken. She mumbles foreign words in her sleep. Only the Dothraki witches will sit with her. The others think that she is cursed. Whatever she dreams, she has fallen too far into the lands of mist."

Finally, Viserion dragged a screaming reptile out by the tail. It thrashed wildly around the black curve of a claw embedded in its back. Its cries pierced the air. Jorah had never heard anything quite so desperate – so brutal. It wailed and wailed as the jaws came down over it and then the world was quiet.

Viserion's wings pulled back together. His shoulder blades contracted, lifting Jorah and his harness several feet. The reins tightened in his hands as the leather wing tips towered overhead. Gold. Red. Cream. The colours danced across his scales as he snapped his wings back down and forced the air at the ground. Together, he and his brother pushed off the edge of the cliff and a moment later they were falling together. Jorah copied Daenerys, laying his body down against the dragon so the violet rush of air slipped over his body. He could feel the lift inflating Viserion's wings like the sails of a ship, buoying him in the air. The army appeared as a glistening blur on their left as the dragons raced each other toward the ground. Jorah slammed his eyes shut s the waterlogged marches approached.

The impact never came.

At the last breath, both dragons veered sharply, rising as fast as they had fallen.


MANTARYS – THE LANDS OF THE LONG SUMMER

Pins made from sapphire, ruby, emerald and pearl held the yards of yellow silk around Pol Qo's cone-shaped head. Across his traditional ochre robes he wore a red sash with embroidered dragons. Their twisted forms had meaning beyond the new silver queen. Dragons once ravaged the plains of his ancestral home. They were symbols of fear and power. His throne was made of polished dragon bone – now empty and gathering sand.

Behind, on the edges of Sea of Sighs, the columns of Mantarys had collapsed into the water like teeth in the jaws of a Cracken. Red water lapped at the fleet, swollen with flowering weed which moved in great swirls where sea snakes the size of trees made their daily hunt from East to West.

Every tree that touched the water died, bleached and collapsed into the sea. A few fleeing vessels scampered ahead of Pol Qo's newly acquired fleet. They would catch them by nightfall and burn their boats. His sorcerer had set fire to the besieged city with a clap of his hands, terrifying all who saw his curved fingernails scrape through the dirt outside the walls. The demon men of Mantarys were nothing but inbred, sickly creatures with hideous deformities caused by the poisoned water. Pol Qo himself killed a man with five arms and another with a single yellow eye in the centre of his forehead. They fell like all the rest. Bone and skin. The stone dragon heads atop their great temple were hacked free and mounted at the city gates as a warning.

Dragons had returned to the world.

Pol Qo hissed in High Valyrian, eyes fixed on the gaping catastrophe of mountains on the other side of the sea. He wondered if eyes watched from the ruins of Valyria. If the ghosts of dragon riders filled the sky with anger. For now it remained a stain on the horizon – a grey smear.


THE SUMMER SEA – EAST OF VOLANTIS

"They ain't coming," Theon leaned against the rail. There was a red blush to the water where the enormous mouth of a river spewed forth the tortured waters of the Sea of Sighs.

"Pol Qo's army stole the fleet at Mantarys. Mantarian ships moor in the Sea of Sighs. There are only two ways out of that landlocked sea. East or West. If he intends on sacking Volantis, he'll head West – right here. So we wait."

"And if he went East he will sail right by us along the Summer Isles and reach Westeros with a week's head start. We'll never catch them."

"I can always tell when a man's in a hurry. No. Pol Qo is sailing West. We wait."

And so they waited with their stolen fleet. Ironborn, sleeping on the waves. They had no home to return to that would no first have to be made with blood. Victarion sent Asha frequent ravens, reminding her of the torture that awaited should they meet again. She could not help but feel that her uncle longed to flay their limbs and salt their skins, leaving them to hang along the shore of the Iron Islands. What's done was done.

"How many ships did Mantarys have?" Theon asked, later that night. They sat on deck playing cards with their lanterns burned low.

"Not as many as Pol Qo would like. They will lay heavy in the water. He is not looking for a fight on the waves. The ships are merely a passage to the next war. He'll be cautious, meeting a fleet of our size out here in the water."

"That is why you are flying the flag of peace. It'll be just our luck that those savages have never heard of peace."

"Those 'savages' to which you keep referring speak fluent High Valyrian – the queen's language. More than half are the descendants of the greatest empire ever known and the rest could tear apart the Iron Islands in an afternoon. Treat them with respect," Asha cautioned, "or they will kill you. They have no patience for games. There – see the lights?" She stood up and tossed her cards on the table. A set of lights had appeared at the mouth of the river, staring out from the black. "Ships."

"Do you remember," Theon breathed, as he came to stand beside her in the darkness, "what it was like to die? When the old man held us beneath the water as babes and waited for our lungs to choke..."

"Of course not, brother."

"I dream of it. The cold. The darkness cut apart by the pale halo of the sun. I can feel my heart stop and the salt burn through my body. And then, in the last gasps of life, their song starts. The wretches beneath the waves. Half-woman, half-fish beckoning fools to their doom. Tentacles wrap around my limbs and drive the last breath away and then there is nothing but the cold."

Asha's eyes were on Theon. There was a darkness there she did not like. "There is nothing in the sea, brother, that sings a song like that."

"The sea gods are real," he continued, staring into the black. "They raised their armies from the dead sailors and raided the lands of the living. Our uncle sits on their poisoned throne. What is dead may never die."

"What is dead may never die..." Asha whispered the mantra.

Another light appeared in the dark, this time further South. The gaping islands of Old Valyria shook, clearing ash from their throats. Then, from deep within the Earth, fire made its way up the old mining tunnels and erupted from one of the mountains. Like a star rising in the dawn, it cast long beacons of light over the water. Several minutes later a roar of thunder hit their ships.

"What gods are those?" Theon breathed, ducking as the roar reverberated through the wood.

"Olds gods."


NIGHTFORT – THE NORTH

Edd marched out to meet the army approaching from the East. A foot beneath the powder at his knees he could feel the slate bedrock, smooth and slanting away from the towering wall of ice. If the snows ever melted the entire North would become a desert of pitch – a sea of dragonglass.

Cub and several of the other Night's Watch men joined him. There they stood, side by side breathing mist into the dusk.

"Lord Reed," Edd dipped his head as the man slipped off his grey horse. He led the reluctant through the snow toward the black cloaks. "I heard yous were comin' but I didn' believe. No place for river lords 'ere."

"There is always a place for a man with an army," Howland Reed replied. They were scraps of men, barely able to hold their heavy cloaks off the snow. Winter was eating them alive. "I am here for my penance, same as you. The King in the North sent me to help. Tell me how to help."

Edd's eyes were wide as he looked past the lord to his sprawling army. They shivered in the cold, falling under The Wall's shadow. The convoy had been walking beside it for so many miles that the awe had worn off leaving behind a dull clench of dread. He did not know why but every time Edd looked to The Wall it became a fraction shorter.

"Man the fort – same as my orders," Edd finally found his voice. "The Black Gate is the passage North. We're 'ere to make sure nothin' comes through it."

Reed's gaze drifted to the boy beside. For a moment he became trapped in Cub's eyes. He'd seen them before on another face. Infinite depths that held aching chasms of ice. A Prince of Winter. "It is larger than I envisioned," Howland finally drew his attention back to the looming silhouette of the Nightfort. Capped in several feet of ice, its edges were blurred against The Wall. "My men will have space to spare."

"Fuckin' cursed corpse of a thing..." Edd shook his head at the castle. "Nothin' but misery and death. Make yourselves at 'ome."

Howland did just that, spreading his men through the castle – sending others into the woods to hunt. They brought back bear on their first evening, slaughtering the beast beside a raging bonfire. The heat began to melt the front of the castle. Edd watched it warily, worried the old beast of a fortress was held together by that ice.

Cub kept to the fringes, more interested in the soft chink of fresh snow against the surface of The Wall than their new guests. He sought out solitude. Drifted to the flanks where stone met ice. Stars spun overhead, piercing from the dark. He imagined waves of bones washing on the other side of The Wall, rising up the surface – brimming at the top.

"Boy..." Howland approached the Night's Watchman cautiously. He was a wild thing, cowering in the shadows. "You a Northern runaway, then?"

Cub shook his head. "Southerner, Ser."

"Lord..." Howland corrected. "Dornish?" He added, noting the accent.

"From the mountains."

Perhaps his suspicions were wrong but then the boy would turn his head again and Howland swore there were ghosts in his eyes.

"Not many of you kind venture this far." Howland offered Cub a piece of meat from the bear. "Even the Northerners keep clear of The Wall. There's little up here but Starks, Bears and Freefolk."

"And the dead..."

A chill ran through Howland's blood.

That night, Cub climbed the ice stairway cut into The Wall. At the top he found hundreds of frozen corpses, left where they'd fallen. Their flesh frozen solid. They stared out into the night with perfect glass eyes. Like a painting in a grand palace, the Knight's Watch bodies clasped their swords, even in death. They should burn those bodies.

"Aye fuck..." said Edd hours later, standing beside Cub. "They just left 'em here..." He knelt down beside one of the grim figures. The frozen man was shorter than average but sturdy with thick arms and an even thicker beard. Terrible scars crossed his face with curdled blood. This one

"Is he from The Long Night?" Cub asked in a whisper.

"Nah... That were ten thousand year ago. He ain' that old. Look at his cloak..." The uniform of the Night's Watch evolved over the centuries. "A few 'undred years – maybe. No more." And yet he could have died last night. "Must 'ave been a Wildling raid by the look of them arrows."

"We can't leave them here. When the Others come these men will wake."

"They're frozen solid," Edd replied. Each body was cocooned in layers of ice. "But you're right. They can' stay 'ere. Walk the Wall a while – see what else is up 'ere."

Oblivion. White – endless – frozen – hell.

He stepped through a small stone keep and onto the next frontier of ice. This time it was free of bodies. Cub looked along the line of ice with The Lands of Always Winter to the left and the sweeping frozen moors of the North on his right. Strange, how the ground appeared to have been melted before being covered in sheets of ice.

Ahead, the ice moved.

Cub went for his sword, drawing it against the cold. It moved again. A small bundle of fur propped up against the ice. He edged closer. Gripped his blade. "You there!" he shouted, when he realised it was a man. Not much of one. The huddle rocked back and forth. A hood slipped back revealing a thick grey beard. It was half frozen and flecked with blood. "S'all right..." Cub turned the edge of his sword away. The creature looked mad. "Come on – away from the edge. See this cloak?" He pulled at his black cape. "I'm a Night's Watchman. We're in the fort below. There's food an' a fire..."

The crazed man was not as small as Cub first thought. As he picked himself off the edge of the wall, he towered over Cub with broad shoulders and fierce arms. Starvation thinned his figure but the muscles clung to the bone. "Night's Watch?" The man stammered, latching onto a moment of clarity.

Cub nodded. "Night's Watch. We're here to protect you no matter wha' you are. Doesn' matter any more so long as you're breathing, you're one of us." He sheathed his sword and offered a hand instead. "Please... You're the only one we've found alive."

Dorin Fell took Cub's hand and found himself returned to the living.