SUMMERHALL RUINS – THE STORMLANDS
A queen walked into Summerhall but a god strode out with a scarlet dragon wrapped in her arms purring smoke. The heat had stripped away her dress leaving Daenerys naked against the wall of fresh air which fanned the flames behind. There was a roar coming off the stone as though it were screaming.
Drogon and Viserion shifted restlessly near the ruin, flexing their wings irritably as they caught sight of Ash. They had never seen another dragon and so lifted their noses, trying to catch her scent between the ribbons of smoke. Daenerys cast them a warning glance, demanding that they quiet which they did, dipping their heads toward the ground. They snapped at each other, knocking a few scales loose. Their bodies were swollen from feasting in the mountains, especially Drogon who had added half a dozen feet to his size.
A second figure emerged beside the Queen carrying nothing except a glowing greatsword. The intensity of the fire heated the milkglass blade into pale pink, like the final gasp of a sunset or the first embers of dawn. Jorah's skin was corrupted by ancient blood runes, scarring him like a roll of parchment, almost beyond recognition. Soot blackened his flesh while tracks of sweat created lightning patterns down his back.
Daenerys' army cowered before the scene, bending the knee so fast their limbs crumbled into the soft earth. This was not the first time that the Dothraki had witnessed Daenerys survive a fire but the Unsullied and Dornish soldiers had no words for what they saw. Any foreign allegiance – any breath of doubt – evaporated. Their hearts were hers. Their souls and their lives. They'd follow her to the end of the world and gladly vault into Death's waiting jaws.
Everything was silent except for the smouldering ruin of Summerhall.
Shaken, Marwyn sat with Quaithe. She had seen so many Targaryens burn that she had lost faith in the Queen's magic but there Daenerys stood – alive with her knight.
"Daenerys should be dead. They should both be dead." He muttered. "Who is she?" Marwyn grimaced at his peeling skin. It was agony. There were blisters forming on his arm where he'd brushed too close to the flames. He smelled like one of those vile R'hllor pyres stacked high with living sacrifices while his lungs choked on every breath. Death had come for him in that fire. He'd felt the end and the darkness beyond. For one moment all he had heard was the distant lap of waves against a drowned shore. "I have studied magic all my life," he fought each word from his throat, "from one end of the world to the next but this goes beyond recorded history."
"There were Valyrians who could withstand the flame from their dragons and a handful of riders who walked unharmed from burning fields..."
"Ancient Valyrians. Remarkable as that particular gift is, I am talking about the Weirwood… She set them aflame... It came from her."
"From the sword." Quaithe corrected. "It has its own heart of magic."
If anything, Marwyn was more afraid than ever. "Tell me… If we are to follow the Queen into battle, where will I be led?"
"You are either loyal or you are not, Marwyn." Quaithe replied.
"Oh, I'm loyal. Loyalist-fucker in the seven kingdoms but that does not answer my question."
"I suspect you can answer that question for yourself." Quaithe reached for Marwyn's arm and grabbed it, pressing painfully against his fresh burns. She hauled him closer and hissed the rest. "You are wrong to think I do not remember you from Asshai."
"You are hurting me! Let go!" He shifted but every movement threatened to tear at his flesh. "Reading that extract cost me everything..." It had been worth it – to run his hand down the fragile sheet and read, for himself, a direct translation of the prophecy. "Who is she, Quaithe? Daenerys is not Azor Ahai. That much I know."
"No, she is not." Quaithe released her hold on Marwyn and regretted her anger. She watched him cup his wrist gently and wince at a thick layer of skin that hung loose. "Let me see to that..."
"I'll see to it myself." Marwyn shook his head. He'd have nothing from the sorceress today. His maester robes stirred too many ill memories for her, especially in this place. "Who saved you from the flames?"
His question caught her off guard. "The Mormont knight…?"
"No. The first time. Who dragged you from the fire at Summerhall?"
"Another knight… The greatest to ever live, some say. All I remember were his sad blue eyes, searching the world but finding nothing but the sky echoed back."
"Ser Barristan Selmy was there… That explains his account of the night. He served with our queen too, until he was slain. Daenerys has attracted powerful allies and honourable friends. Until you decide to share what you know of her, that will be enough for me. Who am I to question the honour of such men? Wielding swords is an honest trade. At least knights look their kills in the eye before the head comes off. I've no patience for the whisperers – those that cling to the shadows of the world..."
Quaithe waited until Marwyn retreated toward the camp before adding, "It cycles – war – like the seasons. People too. The great ones – the ones that matter. They die and rise with the dawn."
His look was dark. She did not trust him and for the moment that left their wills at an impasse.
The Queen was approached by fearful Dothraki women who draped a scarlet cloak around her shoulders and led her down the stairs. Ash remained nestled in her arms, whipping his tail sharply from side to side. His spines caught her skin. The wounds appeared on Jorah's torso but the filth covered any trace of the scratches.
Jorah descended the steps on his own and dropped the fiery sword to the grass where it smoked. Darkstar was the only one who dared stand before him, offering him clothes. "Is she a god or a demon?" He asked, both sombre and shaken.
"Is there a difference?" Jorah asked, slipping his heavy black cape over his shoulders.
"And what does that make you? We saw you walk out of those flames." The hilt of the sword was so hot Darkstar had to wrap cloth around it to pick it up. "You are no dragon. What kind of sorcery have you employed? Is it a trick to tame her army?"
"Are you always brimming with such questions?" Jorah grumbled. He preferred not to speak at all.
"No, actually. I rarely speak but you have given me cause."
"It is the Queen's magic that saved my skin – not mine." In essence it was the truth.
They walked together into camp, following a little way behind the Queen and her ladies. Thousands of eyes watched their progress. Terror and awe were a powerful match for loyalty. Darkstar carried the sword, holding it away from his body as its heat continued to radiate. "Then it is blood magic."
Jorah dipped his head. There was no point lying. "The Queen is not a god," Jorah continued, "she was put here to challenge the gods."
"And we are to stand beside her, in defiance of these gods?"
"We stand in defence of life," Jorah corrected him. "It is a long road to Death's pale gates. If you live long enough, you will look upon them with your own eyes, swear the words and pass into the veil of shadows."
"You're hurt."
"Not really, honest." Sam replied, as Gilly fussed over him. "Mostly jus' soot an' all. See? Bit of singed robes an' that's about it. Ow..." His protest turned unconvincing when Gilly found a weeping blister at the side of his neck. "Except for that."
"She nearly killed you, Sam."
"Oh – I don' think that was her intention."
"That is even worse. She didn' care if you died."
"It wasn' like that." He insisted, hissing and gasping through Gilly's attentions. "Besides, it is not the Queen I'm worried about." Sam watched Gilly pull away from him with a curious look. "We're headin' ter King's Landing for a war. I might not know much about the Capital at the moment but I know more than I'd like about my father. If there's a fight he'll be there. On the other side ter us."
"You're worried that you might have to fight your father?"
"Not personally but… All things considered the Queen is like' to win and Targaryen conquerors do not 'ave a fantastic track record when it comes to keeping their old enemies alive."
"He sent you to The Wall."
"Yes."
"He stripped you of your family name."
"Aye."
"You hate him."
"I am at peace with his fate, Gilly but what about the rest of my family? They'll die too. For honour's sake." He shook his head. "I'm not sure I can live with it. Right at this moment I am helping a Queen, possibly even a tyrant, tear apart the kingdom when I should be in the North, with Jon, guarding The Wall."
"Listen to me, Sam." Gilly took his head firmly in her hands, making sure that his eyes met hers. "Jon sent you here to learn what you must to stop the Long Night. Your saw what the dragon Queen did. If anyone has the power to help Jon defeat those monsters it is her. To get her to The Wall we must first help her win King's Landing. Only when her lust for the throne is sated will she cast her eye in our direction. It is your job to keep her alive and mine – to keep you alive. So I am telling you – be careful how close to the flames you stand."
SHARP POINT – BLACKWATER BAY
"Is something wrong?" Tyrion inquired, when his drinking companion soured at the opening of a letter. He rarely saw the Spider take such offence at splotches of ink but on this occasion he was dismal.
"A name I hoped never to encounter personally has ensconced themselves in the Queen's convoy."
"Do I get a hint or is watching me guess your entertainment for the evening?" Tyrion was a half a dozen glasses into the evening's festivities and in such a bleak corner of the world there was little else to do. Though they occupied a spacious area of the castle it was wall-to-wall nothingness with a solitary tapestry, faded beyond recognition, left to break the monotone. The wide candles were left on naked tables and as night settled they bled over the surface – their innards glowing as the wicks sank.
"An Archmaester from the Citadel."
"I did not realise the Citadel had chosen to enforce the Queen's legitimacy."
"They haven't. Marwyn's a loner. An overtly ambitious, overreaching manipulator with a boundless talent for lies and a stamina in dishonesty I've not encountered since Baelish wiped his hands on the Crown's purse."
"So, you're fond of him?"
Varys' look dripped ire. "He is a practitioner of magic. Rumour has that he burned part of the Citadel down a few weeks ago – for reasons no one can ascertain – and now he's reappeared at the Queen's side."
"You're jealous."
"You're drunk. As usual."
Tyrion held up his glass in admonishment. "This? Are you joking? Piss-weak water from the bay, more like."
Varys was unhappy. "Rumour has it that Marwyn drinks about as much as you. You two would get along. Yes… I can almost picture the image in all its wretched detail."
"He sounds better and better." Though the assessment did not fit entirely well with Tyrion. He trusted Varys' judgement – often against his own otherwise he'd have told the Queen long ago about Missandei's grim fate. "He did not write to introduce himself, I take it?"
"No. That he did not. There's been-" Varys searched for an accurate word, "-an event. The Queen made camp at the Summerhall ruins and performed a magical ritual. Here – you can read the details for yourself." Varys leaned over, passing the parchment across.
"Another dragon?" Tyrion gasped. "How is that possible?"
"It's not." Varys snatched it back. "There was nothing left of the eggs in Summerhall. The place has been picked clean by thieves for decades. This is Marwyn's doing. I don't know how but it is. The last thing we need right now is an infant dragon. Three is more than sufficient to take King's Landing. Are you smiling?" He accused.
Tyrion was. "I have never seen a dragon new from its egg. The Queen's were monsters already when I laid eyes on them."
"Then you can look after it..." Varys muttered. "That's all it will be good for. Did you read the rest?"
Tyrion nodded. "The Queen is beyond your gently guiding hand. She has her own ideas about how to inspire hearts."
"That may be so but she still needs to inspire surly lords and wealthy foes. Those heads do not turn easily."
"Unless they come off..."
"Sometimes I forget that you are a Lannister."
THE EYRIE – THE VALE OF ARRYN
Lord Royce filled the throne, draping himself over the awkward construction while he waited for the castle doors to open. They peeled inward, dragged by two men on each side. Like everything else in The Eyrie they were construct of solid stone. He'd even seen the scar left in the mountain from their birth.
"Wings ride faster than hooves, Ser Clegane." Royce announced, as the enormous knight strutted across the polished floor leaving puddles. The sleet fell heavier outside, drowning the world with its misery. Clegane turned but Royce held the piece of parchment aloft. "The Lady Stark, Queen of Winter writes with an alternative to your noble sacrifice. One which I have accepted."
"I am 'ere for the Little-Cunt."
"And you shall have him. Take a seat. Wine – if you like. I am having Lord Baelish brought from the cells as we speak."
Petyr's initial strength had been dragged from his veins – sucked straight from his skin and now he laid on his back, the floor of the sky cell feasting on the remains of his pride. It was the perpetual cold. Ice collected at his extremities. It numbed his usual clarity leaving him adrift. That is what this felt like. Floating in the sea as a child, caught in the veil between the depths and the sun. Petyr managed the faintest smile. What else was life but a negotiation between extremes?
His thoughts congealed.
Mostly, he thought of Cat. His Cat – not the spiteful creature Ned turned her into with his boastings of infidelity. Stealing her into the North had destroyed the best parts of the Riverlands girl. He had watched it unfold from the shadows. Every year a little more of her was shut away until she was hard enough to face the rest of the Northerners as their equal and yet they treated her as an outsider. You were either the Blood of the First Men or Andal scum.
Then Littlefinger was in his brothels. Women and men writhed in every corner. Money trickled into his pockets while some of the braver whores took turns at ensnaring him. They were always unsuccessful. Only a fool fucked their own whores. He had no intention of awarding them such power.
Finally, he found himself staring down Cersei Lannister as she had her men drag him up by the collar and threaten his life. Cersei… Now there was someone he'd take pleasure in fucking. Fucking with their life… He wanted to see her empire crumble and be there as she choked on the ashes.
Slap.
Petyr's left eye opened. The world was a blur.
Slap.
Harder this time. The blood running from his nose was scalding. He sat up and fell immediately back to the stone.
'Fuckin' pick the bugger up already!'
The guards dragged him inside where the warmer air woke his nerves. He was stashed near a fire under guard while one of them fetched clean clothes. They were thrown at his feet shortly after. Ah, his old cloak… Petyr's mind was still partially frozen so he focused on defrosting his skin and dressing. He briefly wondered why it was important for him to dress for the occasion. He worried that it was in honour of his impending death.
'That's enough now. Take him."
Petyr clutched his face for a moment, digging his fingers into the sallow skin. He was sure that frost fell off or perhaps it was salt, crusted there from the storm-spray.
"You look like shit, Baelish..." An oddly family voice drawled, as Petyr was led into the stone holding area in the main hall.
The Moondoor was wide open, filling the vaulted area with an all too familiar chill. He twisted his head, seeking the source of the words. His first reaction was to laugh. The little bird's lap dog could only mean a trial by combat. "Did you come here to die, Clegane?"
"For you? Fuck that." Clegane replied, shifting. His sword was nearly as long as Baelish was tall.
The Hound was wearing full plated armour, giving away the truth. He was here for a trial by combat but someone had changed the terms. The smug curl of Lord Royce's lip filled Petyr with dread. Whatever the deal was, he'd have preferred to face the sword. At least steel offered a clear result.
"Lord Baelish..." Lord Royce invited the other man to step forward, which he did – chains dragging. "An agreement has been reached. The Lords of the Vale, hereby represented, have agreed to terms offered by Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Queen of the North. Despite ongoing suspicions of your actions your trial has been put on stay while ever the terms of the agreement are met. This is not a dismissal or a ruling. Should either party break ranks you will be re-arrested and brought before us, is that understood?"
Survive. "Yes. What are the terms?"
"They are of no concern of yours. Ser Clegane will return you to Winterfell. Take care you do so fast. The Vale is not a safe roost for you."
Petyr had to have his legs lashed to his horse. He gripped the reins, begging his strength to return. The mountain pass was treacherous. How easy it would be for the Hound to set him off a cliff. His dark beard provided a barrier against the worst of the howling wind but when the sleet started he realised how truly wearing Winter could be. It was wet – freezing – bone curdling…
"What were the terms?" He asked the Hound.
"No fucking clue," Sandor replied, clicking at his horse when it veered toward a patch of ice. The mountains around them looked as though they'd been cleaved apart by a battle between the sea and fire. Their black peaks were blades and the valleys so deep they hid from the sun. "I came 'ere to throw some poor bastard out that Moondoor."
"Trial by combat was the intention..." His eyes drifted to the landscape. "You'd have won."
"Of course."
"So why offer treaty?" Petyr shook his head. This didn't sit right with him. "Sansa must want something other than my head on my shoulders."
WINTERFELL – THE NORTH
Strings of snow-eagle feathers hung from the pines. They swayed with the snow, twisting and rocking. To them, Podrick added a few strips of white lace. He tied the delicate material in perfect bows on the lowest branches.
Brienne watched through the heavy snow. To her right, the scarlet leaves of the Weirwood creaked ominously under the weight of ice. It resisted the pull of Winter while the pool of heated water smouldered at its roots, reflecting the eerie scene in its black waters.
"Don' think he learned that from you." Bronn approached. Like Brienne he wore full armour with a ceremonial silver cloak lapping at his heels.
She was uneasy around Bronn but Podrick had already vouched for his honour and warned her of his manners. "Certainly not."
"Sometimes I think he's too soft for all this shit. He should be in the South – find a decent trade and a good woman."
"You are fond of him."
"Regrettably. A sentiment we share."
"This is no time for a wedding." Brienne leaned backwards, letting the tree's girth take her weight. She had begun oiling her armour to stop the frost sticking. The cold hid the stench of animal fat but not the dulled look.
"I knew that girl when she was a child." Bronn added. "Before the world ruined her. She was swept up in the will of ambitious men, endured the depths of cruelty for the sake of it but now she's the one changing the course of the tide. Take care that your desire to protect her does not take you out of step with her schemes."
"If I want your advice I will ask."
Bronn only smiled in reply. "I get it."
"Get what?"
"What he sees in you. Honour is most alluring to those who have none."
SUMMERHALL RUINS – THE STORMLANDS
"Are we going to talk about..." Jorah loomed at the edge of her tent. On the flat ground the structure seemed larger with its support poles strong, holding sweeps of red fabric in place. They were alone. The queen was dressed in a black robe with a fur-trimmed cloak clipped at her neck with a silver dragon claw. "There is no stepping back from what you have done." He continued. "This is no longer about a princess reclaiming her birthright. You have made yourself a god."
"I don't always have control of my actions." She admitted. "I went into Summerhall to stage the birth of dragon, not to destroy the glass candles or set the place alight. Certainly I am not a god." Daenerys turned away from Jorah, resenting the very thought that he could believe her guilty of such things. "There was something about that place, Jorah. You did not see. Rhaegar was there. He planted the white trees so that we could speak..."
"Rhaegar was a fool." Jorah cut sharply. "You must not follow his ghost. Let's pretend you are correct and he planted the Weirwood in the ruins of Summerhall. He was not a seer. Anything he whispered he did with false hope and no knowledge of who those words might reach."
"No this was important." Daenerys turned back to her knight. The writing in his skin had faded but even she had trembled at the sight of him, standing beside her in the flame. If she was a god then he must be a demon, dragged out of the fire to serve her. Those are the stories that rippled over the kingdom. "He asked me to look after his boy but Rhaegar's children are dead. The Mountain cut them to pieces. Everyone knows that. If there are other Targaryens – bastards – alive in the world, I must know."
"There are thousands of Targaryen bastards. You can find them in every Eastern port. When you walk the streets of King's Landing you will see their pale skin and violet eyes muddled with the crowd."
"Ser..." She addressed him firmly. "Do you know if my brother had illegitimate issue?" Jorah shifted uneasily. "Do you?"
"Suspicions are not the same creature as fact."
"You told me once of the Winterfell bastard. The Stark boy sent to The Wall… Surely this is proof that he-"
"I heed your caution, Khaleesi, to give voice to such rumours only serves to afford them power. Any child of Rhaegar's usurps your claim to the Iron Throne."
Daenerys set her fierce eyes on him. "But what if it is true? He may be my blood."
"You should speak to Varys." He deflected. "If anyone knows the truth of whispers, it is him."
"Jorah – you swore to obey me. That includes answering my questions. Is this conjecture or truth? Is Jon Stark a Targaryen prince?"
"I cannot un-say the words. I hold them back to protect you, not to disobey. You know that must be true."
She softened slightly but hated that he tested her patience. At least he took care to do it in private. "If I have to command you, you will regret it."
"No one knows if the child lived," he began, "or even if there was one. All the whispers say is that Rhaegar loved where he should not – a Stark girl. Eddard's younger sister, Lyanna Stark."
"Everyone knows that, Jorah. Robert claimed my brother kidnapped her against her will. Raped her. Killed her." It was a tale that she struggled to reconcile in her mind but Daenerys was not naive enough to discard it entirely. "You told me so yourself."
"Those are not the stories we repeat in the North. Robert Baratheon won the war. He spun the stories he wanted the realm to hear. His courageous fight for the woman he loved was honey to the ears of his soldiers but really, Lyanna Stark was Robert's obsession. Even after her death he'd ride to Winterfell and stare at her statue in the depths of the crypt. Lyanna was a skilled horseman, a dangerous fighter and arguably better than Rhaegar with a sword. This is not the sort of woman a man steals in the night. She'd have carved your brother up and left his innards hanging from the Godwood."
That earned a slight smile from Daenerys. She was attracted to danger as much as her brother, it would seem. "I agree. Most likely they stole away together."
"Forsaking honour." How well Jorah understood. For love they had lost everything – so had he. "But the child Eddard brought back with him from war could have been his own – with Ashara Dayne. That is the other version that is whispered and I assure you, it has its own compelling weight. We cannot know which is true without meeting the boy. Only a handful know the truth of Jon's birth and even fewer can prove it. One of them was my father but he is dead."
"Who else?"
"Howland Reed would know. Varys – very probably. Littlefinger might suspect but I doubt he has the proof or he'd have used it already and we cannot trust him enough to ask."
"What is it?" Daenerys nudged, when Jorah suddenly looked off to the side – considering something.
"Marwyn..." He whispered, almost in disbelief. "The Citadel holds marriage documents. If Rhaegar loved Lyanna he'd have taken her as a legal wife, as is Targaryen custom. There'd be a copy of the marriage certificate in the Citadel. Forgotten. Buried. Who knows... That and that alone would be required to prove legitimacy. Without it, Jon could never claim the throne."
"It is not there..." Marwyn admitted, seated around a table with the Queen and her knight. They had been there for many hours after he was pulled from his bed and sat down with a stiff drink. The candles were sunken corpses and the air muted with smoke from the dying camp fires. "Believe me, I looked. If there is a marriage certificate it was not kept in the Citadel. My guess would be Winterfell. Safest place in the realm."
"Winterfell is a ruin." Jorah replied. "Though I understand most of the crypts are intact. It may even be at Castle Black if my father was involved."
"Do you intend to destroy it?" Marwyn was met with two sets of piercing eyes. "That is what I would recommend, if I were you."
"No one is suggesting that..."
"Because Jon Stark is your nephew, my queen. I may not be able to prove it with a slip of parchment but his magic speaks for itself. Not only that but Leyton Hightower received a first hand account – from your father..." He added, directing the rest at Jorah.
DRAGONSTONE – BLACKWATER BAY 284 AC
Summer. The Queen lingered on her stone perch, watching as the waves chewed at the curve of black glass beneath the edges of the castle. A pool of hot steam exploded from one of the sink holes, throwing up a tower of boiling water. They howled from all over the island, venting the anger beneath Dragonstone. Their temper was nothing compared to the storm swelling at the edges of the horizon.
Rhaella let her goblet fall. It dropped into a watery grave with all the other bones. Were it not for the child she'd follow. In her dreams she smashed against the rocks. The voices of the sea came for her – climbing out of the darkness with their webbed hands and silver scales. They dragged her beneath the surface to live in the world of shadow and cold.
Ser Willem Darry appeared at her door. He watched the sickly queen withering into the walls. She was already a ghost. "My Queen," he whispered, full of warmth and despair. "I beg you, come away from the window."
She did not. "Is it true – is he dead?"
A distant rumble shook the sky and stone as if it were one heart. "Yes."
"How?"
"Your Grace..."
"How..."
"The Hand of the King, Ser Jaime Lannister. He put a sword through your husbands back and there he fell, across his throne." Darry hesitated, finding it impossible to read the Queen. He'd seen and heard the crimes against her body. If there was ever love in their marriage it had been beaten out of her. "Robert has crowned himself King of the Seven Kingdoms."
"My son is king..." Rhaella corrected him sharply.
"The Small Council will not support Viserys' claim. Robert Baratheon has an army at his back and stolen wealth to pay off your friends. You are alone." It broke his heart to say the words but to lie now would be fatal. The silence hung between them. Rhaella slid off the sill and stumbled towards the knight, struggling under the weight of her swollen belly.
"I will not run!" She hissed, one hand cupped under the curve of her stomach. "This is our home."
"You must..." He implored her. "I have sent for help. It will come soon. There are friends that Baratheon gold cannot reach. Loyal friends." The tears running down her face haunted him. "My Queen – let me save you. We will fight this but not today. Today we have to live."
That night the force of the storm tore down one of the stone archways. Dragon figurines broke apart while wild sheets of rain lashed the castle, shifting into hail so loud that the Storm god himself hid in fear. The Queen's screams cut through the hell. They were heard in every corner of the palace. The child was on its way amid the salt and smoke of the smouldering island.
Darry knelt in the foyer, facing the frightened eight year old boy. A huge inlaid dragon adorned the floor, twisted with three heads in the Targaryen sigil. Viserys was a slip of a thing, drawn and pale but with enormous bright eyes that watched the world. He didn't say much except through those eyes.
"Your mother will be all right," Darry promised. "This is how it is when a new life enters the world. You were the same. I was there that day. You were born in Autumn in King's Landing. I remember because the dried leaves used to blow in through your window. They made you laugh."
Viserys looked to the wall, instinctively knowing the sea to lie beyond. "The ships are breaking."
The remains of the Targaryen fleet littered the water, torn apart by the fury of the storm. Darry had never seen anything like it in all his years. The brutality of men had triggered the violent retribution of the gods. "Oh – don't you worry about that," he replied.
The Queen's screams stopped.
"We have to leave, Willem!" Illyrio Mopatis strode restlessly around the room with the empty throne of Dragonstone lurking behind. "Every second we wait Stannis inches closer. He is eager to please his brother. They are mad for blood. Both of them."
"I agree," Leyton Hightower was seated at a table nearby, packing away his parchments. "We have delayed too long already. The Queen is dying. I have seen it before. She is beyond our help but her children are not. We save the prince and princess, while we still can."
"Leave the Queen for Stannis? No!" Darry protested.
A heavy paw settled on Darry's shoulder. "I will take them myself, Ser..." Jeor Mormont promised. "Illyrio can guarantee our passage. Leyton will send word to Doran. When the world settles down, the children will be sent to Pentos with Illyrio." Illyrio nodded softly. Jeor continued. "For now, Braavos is the safest port but we have to leave."
Jeor Mormont entered the Queen's room. She lay on her birthing bed, surrounded by pools of blood that spilled from between her thighs. The wet nurse sat nearby, nursing the infant princess. The smell of death saturated the air. Rhaella knew it as well as him. He could see acceptance in her eyes.
"Are you to take my children, Mormont?" She asked, beckoning him over weakly. The windows were open but the skies refused to shift from grey. At the very edges of the horizon, the first Baratheon ships appeared.
"I will take your children to safety." Jeor promised. "Watch over them."
"All my children are dead..." Rhaella slipped a little further into the veil between words. "I see them beneath the water. All their sweet faces, cold. Eyes that never opened."
Jeor leaned down to the Queen's ear and whispered. A moment later, a tear trickled onto her pillow.
"Leave..." She murmured.
He nodded at the wet nurse, who brought the little princess over. "Bring only what you can carry and meet me on the pier..." Jeor instructed. As she left, he noticed Viserys hiding in the shadows. "Come here..." He said. The prince timidly entered the room – half-hiding behind the bear. His eyes set on his mother, watching her struggle for breath.
Ser Willem Darry stayed in the Queen's quarters, watching the ship skim over the waves – all its sails open to the wind. It was a light, fast vessel, racing the tide. It gave him some comfort to know that the Baratheon ships would never catch it.
"Ser..." The Queen gasped, arching off the bloodied bedding. It was nearly black.
"I am here." He promised, returning to her side. Darry sat on the bed and took her hand. Her skin was covered in dried blood and with no one else left in the castle, he took a cloth to her pale hands and wiped them down. "They are safe."
Rhaella was lucid again. The more clearly she saw the world, the harder her tears fell. They threatened to drown her. "Leave..." she begged. "Go while you can. I'll not see another dawn."
"Then I shall stay the night, my Queen." He promised. There were no ships to spirit him away. He'd chosen this.
"Did she live?" Rhaella asked.
"Oh yes. The princess is strong. Hightower calls her Stormborn – a fierce little thing she is too."
They were quiet for a while. For the last hour he'd been able to hear the bells of Stannis' approaching fleet. Not long now and they'd be on the rocks.
"I am not sorry that he is dead." Rhaella added, letting her head fall to the side. She squeezed his hand, clinging to the warmth of the living. "The King was sick. It is true what they say about us. Madness is in our blood. I feel it in my veins, Willem..."
His name from her lips drew Darry closer. "You are not like him – neither are your children."
"If you see Jaime tell him – tell him I forgive him."
"I'll do that," he promised.
"I'd have killed him myself if I'd had the strength."
"Rhaella..." Darry cupped the side of her face softly. She was drifting. Her eyes fluttering. "My Queen..."
He let her go.
The waters of Blackwater Bay were rough, tossing their ship about. Jeor left Viserys sleeping, clinging to his Night's Watch cloak. He made his way to the front where the other men laid against the walls. The furniture had been left overturned and splintered from the earlier violence of their passage but there were rougher seas ahead.
Illyrio held up a bladder of wine. "To fools and a foolish cause."
Jeor shook his head and lowered his body to the floor with the rest of them.
Leyton smoked one of his elegant pipes. "I am surprised at you, Mormont. Men of the Night's Watch, let alone the Lord Commander are not meant to meddle in the affairs of the realm. Is that why you skulked here in darkness?"
"I am ranging beyond The Wall..." Jeor shrugged. That is the story his men would tell. "As you well know, it is our duty to protect the realm."
"And smuggling a couple of dragons out of Westeros is your way of serving?" Illyrio lofted an eyebrow. His plaited beard twisted in his fingers. "It is between you and your tree-gods."
"Indeed. It is."
"What will you do with the other one?" Leyton pressed.
"Nothing." Jeor replied. "He is safe in the North. Robert doesn't know he exists and so has no cause to look for him. Ned will never betray his own blood and Catelyn's jealousy sold the lie. We are agreed, though..." Jeor looked carefully at his company. "I will care for the children in Braavos for a few years until Robert settles into his throne."
"Then I will take them to Pentos." Illyrio nodded.
"And when the time is right, my friends in the West will clear the passage for their return to Westeros." Leyton finished. "The eggs will be kept in my vaults as security until the children are old enough to take ownership of their birthright."
"There's always the bastard, if all else fails."
"What about Varys?" Jeor asked. He did not trust the Spider.
"He will stay where he is," Illyrio replied. "Keep his threads woven through the halls of King's Landing. If Robert decides to come after the children, we'll know. Varys also has an idea of what to do with your son – after the dust settles."
THE HIGHTOWER – OLDTOWN 287 AC
"Oh, do not look so forlorn..." Leyton wandered around his office, flicking through the pages of a book. His fireplace crackled cheerfully while his ravens went about building nests in the rafters. It was evening but the town beneath the Hightower was cheerful, brushing through the movements of Spring with carnivals blocking the pathways and heavy ships nudging into the harbour full of fruits from Dorne. "We have come further than I predicted. Or is it that you miss them?"
Jeor was tanned from his two years in Braavos and the voyage back to Oldtown. "I loved them as if they were my own," he admitted. He still saw the siblings in his dreams, running through the half-sunken streets of Braavos where they'd lived together in the Sealord's home, holding hands and thieving lemons. Those years in the sun were too brief and he remembered them with tenderness. "My watch has passed to Illyrio."
"And how is your own son?" Leyton pried. "You do not know, do you?"
"How could I..." Jeor gritted his teeth. Pain lurked beneath the surface of his calm façade.
"I want you to look at something, before you head back to your frozen hell."
"Is it a condition of my secret passage across the realm?" Jeor was at the mercy of Leyton's wealth.
"Why don't we simply call it a favour? Trust me." He added. "You will want to see what I have in my vault."
The contents of Leyton's vault was all Jeor could think of on the road to Castle Black. The truth, when looked upon, was worse than his nightmares.
When he reached the towering expanse of ice, he placed both his hands upon the surface and prayed.
"Did you find what yer were lookin' for out there?" Asked Thorne, strutting across the snow.
"We need to talk." Jeor replied solemnly, turning so that his back lay against the ice.
CASTLE BLACK – THE WALL PRESENT
"Can you read them?" Dacey whispered, pressed tightly against Tormund. The passages of ice beneath the castle had narrowed again, thickening with ice as the temperature dropped. They'd had to chip away the frosted covering to reach the rocks beneath. Even then they were obscured by the ice, trapped under an impenetrable layer of water.
"Parts o' it." Tormund wiped his glove over the surface. "Grave stones by the look. I seen 'em at the Fist of the Fist Men. They're used to stop restless spirits waking."
"Someone's buried under here?" Dacey frowned.
"A lot of someones..." Tormund showed her shadows of more stones at the edge of the ice. "It was probably open ground back then. No Wall. Jus' our luck this is a battlefield. Probably thousands of dead fuckers under 'ere."
"Long as those stones work…" Dacey straightened up, holding the torch away from their faces when the heat got too much.
"Is that why you brought me down 'ere? Ter look at a few old rocks?" Tormund was still wary of the bear. There was a wildness to her, born in the snows beyond The Wall. Living out there changed people. Civilisation disintegrated as quickly as honour.
"No, I wanted to fuck you – of course to look at the stones."
"I thought you might want to talk about him." Dacey turned away sharply and Tormund knew he'd struck a nerve. There was a Mance-shaped chink in her armour. "I was there when he died. Fuckin' Stannis and his ego. Wanted a Wildling to bend the knee. Baratheon fuck who knows nothing. Mance would sooner die and he did."
"They burned him..." Dacey felt the warmth of her torch more keenly. The only light between them in the darkness was its flame.
"Jon Snow – he put an arrow through our king's heart before the flames did their work. He died for honour."
"He died a fool..." Dacey hissed, making her way through the tunnel. Tormund had no choice but to follow her or be left in the chasm of night.
"Would you 'ave done it then – bowed to that cunt? I know bears and they know no-"
"-no king but the king in the North and his name is Stark. I know my own words, Tormund but you have no idea what how far I'd go to keep Winter from this wall. These petty games of words we play..."
Tormund reached for her arm but caught her cloak, dragging it off one shoulder. It was enough to stop her. "Mance told us that we all had to go South or we'd die. He stood there, facing a hoard that wanted nothin' better than to tear itself apart and polish off the corpses. He was king of them all. The monsters, the cannibals, the cowering mountain tribes and the raging fuckers from the ice drifts beyond the forest. Now, I've told them to come back to The Wall and wait for death and they followed – most of 'em."
Dacey knocked his hand away from her furs. "How far North have you been?"
"The edge of Thenn."
"Then you crossed the river. I followed the Milkwater for weeks to its birth in a glacier. You've never seen blue until you look into a wall of ice older than our precious realm. It's the ash, trapped in the ice half way up that wall of terror. A layer in time when the world burned. It gets into the water and turns it the colour of milk. There was no way to go North so I headed West, into the Frost Fangs – or whatever the mountains beyond Thenn are called. I didn't find anyone there to give them names."
"The Silver Scales," Tormund replied. "That's what the Thenn call them."
She nodded. "Aye – that is them exact. Covered in ice, the black stone beneath looks silver in the light. I went so far that the sun didn't set. It grazed in circles, removing the natural progression of time. For a while I thought I was dead."
"What did you find out there?"
"A man. Halfway between ice and fire."
"What is that smile for?"
"Fucking Starks, aye? They're everywhere."
"You found a Stark in the Frost Fangs?"
"Benjen. Always thought him a bit of a rake but he grew into his bones. He took me beyond the mountains to the ice fields. I 'ave no idea of how long we spent moving North. People keep talking about the lands beyond The Wall as though they're packed shoulder to shoulder with walkin' dead but that's not true. It's vast – beyond understanding and most of it holds nothin' but ice an' rock. Those fields could swallow Westeros whole." Dacey closed her eyes and rested against the tunnel. "I can still hear the whale songs echoing across the ice."
Tormund gently eased the torch from her hand. "I never heard of anyone go that far."
"It's a desert. Perfectly flat. We found a dragon head, buried in the ice with only half its face above the surface but still enough to dwarf Castle Black. It was the only thing for as far as we could see so we made camp against it. We thought it was made from stone – cut from the side of a forgotten temple but the heat of our fire melted the top layer of frost and beneath we found real scales, Tormund – patterned and sharp as a row of knives. Dragons like that don' live any more. But they did once. And they were in the snow. And it killed them." She shook her head. "Months later another ridge of mountains appeared only these were perfectly white, made from ice not rock – or some forgotten ocean caught in a storm as it froze. We never reached it… That is as far North as I have been. How can we fight the turn of the tide? We can no more stop the Winter snows than the Summer rains."
"We're not 'ere to stop Winter, Dacey. We're 'ere to stop the dead."
"Conquer death?" She asked, placing her hand softly on his shoulder. "We'll be smoke from the pyre, Tormund – a glow on the edge of night."
