PART III - DAWN
"The worst – the worst were those who played the game of thrones."
-SER BARRISTAN SELMY
"Who comes before the gods?"
The Weirwood creaked as sheets of ice snapped free of its heavy limbs. They tangled above, a mixture of shadow and starlight where the ice created twinkling pools and the hundreds of torches beneath bathed the rest in smoke. The ice fell in soft 'thuds' onto the snow around the Weirwood's base – a white hell that infected the North like a plague, thickening by the minute. Claws of crystal grew from every surface, gnarled and dripping like the silver fangs of an ice dragon.
One landed beside Brienne. It reminded her of the glass sculptures left on the beaches of Tarth after a storm – rivers of fire frozen on the shore and placed as decoration inside her father's castle. Their threads of chaos echoed around her. Fire. Ice. Fury. It was hanging in the air.
Thousands gathered in the Godwood – spilling onto the stretch of ice between the castle and the rise where the forest poked out as a shadow. Four armies glistened in reverence before the Old Gods. Stark, Wildling, Vale and Lannister. All settled beneath Winterfell's shadow. The unlikely bedfellows observed a peace while the wolves howled and the fires stoked high, smothering the land in a false dawn that muted their banners into a single hue.
Night. The moon hid under the clouds and all the world felt the clutch of darkness. Absolute. Thick. Tangible hell.
Lyanna Mormont stepped forward from under the branches of the Weirwood. Her dark eyes picked through the night. The Godwood was lit by lanterns hung from the pines in a fallen sky where all the stars had come to roost with the snows. The wind whispered through making them quiver.
"Lady Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed," Lyanna spoke the old words. "A woman grown and flowered, true-born noble and Queen of the North, she comes to beg the blessing of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"
Many hours after the ceremony, Jaime wandered the Godswood – reaching out to tap a lantern. He was enamoured with its flame trapped by roughly forged strips of iron. Its heat melted the frost from the tip of the branch giving a mummer's hope to the pine needles.
"You shaved your beard for the ceremony?"
Jaime reached up with his glove and stroked the smooth skin. It was paler than the rest. "Regrettably. Bloody cold without my mane."
"Lions need their manes." Brienne was sat beneath the Weirwood with a length of white lace in her hands. She was knotting and unravelling it. Pretty things fascinated her, mostly because they were beyond her reach. She'd never sit in a silk dress, waiting for a Lord's kind words or make vows in the presence of the gods. Those lords, so small to her now, were afraid – a sentiment Brienne encouraged. Fear kept her safe.
There were several other pieces of lace in the snow left over from the ceremony. "Liar." She added, picking another. He tilted his head curiously. Brienne continued. "You do not miss the grey. It betrayed your age, Ser Jaime. Two great stripes of it, right at your jaw – like a Blackfye."
"I am not afraid of my age," he challenged playfully, "any more than you fear your height."
And there it was – the hidden sea of truth and hurt disguised with a smile. They knew each other a great deal better than they let on.
"This is a problem though..." He lifted his golden hand. "The cold gets into the metal and burns my skin. I'll have to fashion another out of wood if I'm to stay here. It is the middle of the night," Jaime added. "Why are you out here on your own? Don't tell me you're sulking over Lady Stark's marriage because there's shit either of us can do about that. She chose her Lord with the same calm, frigid touch as a wolf picks its meat. In any case, it is done."
"I am doing no such thing. Lady Sansa has played her cards extremely well. He is a good choice – better than..." There were many names she could put there. Tyrion. Ramsay. Baelish. The Starks were not known for their political sense but clever hands had guided Sansa over the years. She was a new breed of wolf with incisors the size of most men's balls.
"Well – she has all three armies now," Jaime admitted. "And that rabble from the North."
"No word from King's Landing?" Brienne caught the sad tone in his reply. He shook his head. "Perhaps that is a good thing. If you've not been called then the Capital is safe."
"That, I doubt. There's war on the horizon and violence in the city. I was sure that Cersei would write to me. At first I thought maybe the ravens were dying but I see them in the sky, sailing in with the morning light. Even the white ones. Never seen those before. That unpleasant Bear – the Mormont – she says that they came from the Citadel."
The truth was that Jaime could feel himself growing comfortable in the snow – sharing a fire with the wildfolk and drinking on the ice while the Night's Watchmen told stories of silver bears and spiders with legs made of ice. On nights like this, he watched the pyres rage and sat for hours, searching the flames. It was not religion or prayer but peace. He'd been looking for it all his life. Odd, that he should find it here – lingering on the edge of untold violence but then his father always spoke of absolution in the moment of death – silence on the tip of a blade.
Jaime sank down onto the snow near Brienne. He was swaddled in a fur cloak lined with wild wolf. Perhaps everything became a Stark if you left it in the cold long enough.
"I know that she is going to die." Brienne looked up at his confession. He'd always been a frank man but the cold was dragging him deeper. "I've known it for a while. Cersei…" He was wistful, searching the skies between the cracks in the forest. "She was always raving on about this prophecy – crazy, incoherent shit some old woman in the woods when she was a child. I thought it was rubbish, naturally but she took it to heart. Held it there. Let it fester." Jaime pressed his gold hand to his chest. "I believe it fuelled her cruelty toward my brother. Tyrion killed our mother coming into the world but rage like that is born of fear not loss."
"Prophecy?"
"It started with her children – three. Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds." Two of his babies, cased in gold… He did not believe those words to be a lie any longer.
"Tommen is alive."
"For now and wearing a crown. A cub in pit of knaves… And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands around your pale white throat and choke the life from you. Charming."
"People should take more care what they say to children."
"Sometimes I think she forces Fate's hand. Would Mycella really be dead if Cersei's hatred of Tyrion hadn't placed him in a trial by combat, leading to Martell blood? My brother should have been left to inherit Castlerly Rock, as is his birthright but my father and sister do so love to torment him. I often wonder what kind of creature he has become out there in the world. He has taken up arms against his own name to ride the wings of a second Targaryen conquest and I'm not sure if I can blame him. Do you want to know what the true irony is?" For a moment Jaime looked like someone else. The man before the Kingslayer. "I'm her younger brother too. Maybe I'll strangle the life from her one day like I killed my king."
"Ser Jaime, I think we should go back to the castle..."
"No. I'd like to go to the crypts. See what all of that was for. I want to look on the child's face that drove Robert to such tides of rage that men by their thousands bled and died. An empire – dismantled – Houses left in flame. The scar of ruin still blazes across the land – smoking, fresh from fire."
"Jaime I-"
Brienne pried a torch from the stone, carried up the slate steps of the Winterfell crypt and out into the open. She lit the oil in one of the dying lanterns and tilted her head away as it roared to life. A glow circled her. Snow tumbled through the flame. A pool of water churned in the background with a layer of mist suspended above the surface. Animals shuffled through the forest, hidden by the night.
"Come on..." called Jaime insistently, from the bottom of the stairs.
Brienne descended the steps with one hand on the stone. Parts of it had crumbled onto the ground, replaced with roots from the Godswood above. They covered the surface like veins – shivering in the cold.
"These crypts spread underneath all of Winterfell and further, beneath the forest." Brienne stepped around Jaime, careful not to let the flame touch him. "The other entrance, where the dragon came from, was completely destroyed. Another hundred years and the entire crypt will be buried in rubble and forgotten. This way."
With every step they took the temperature rose. The walls wept with snow melt while long tangles of lichen whispered against one another. The first of the guardian statues appeared from a shadow in a frightening vision of stone. It loomed, without warning, sword in hand and a cold, dead eye watching the darkness.
"They're all through this place," Brienne paused in front of the ancient Stark. "One eye..." she added. "These were men of war. The Starks immortalised them down here to guard something."
"They should've put them at the Wall if that's what they wanted."
Brienne considered Jaime. "The last thing anyone wants is more dead men at the Wall. Have you even seen it?" He hadn't. "You should. It changes you. You stand there, beneath that raging silence and you realise that it's real."
"Of course it's real."
"No… You don't understand." Brienne faced him with the torch flaring up in the space between. "If the Wall is real – so too is what it was built to keep out. How terrified were those men to create a nine-hundred foot barrier from one side of the kingdom to the other? I can't stop thinking about it… It's in my dreams." She admitted. There was a chill in her voice. "Since I came back. No wonder we find the North to be a serious place. You couldn't live in the shadow of that and be anything else."
If Jaime was moved by her words he did not show it. Instead, he took the torch from her and pressed deeper into the tunnels.
"Oh gods..." Brienne stopped a while later at the sight of the broken statue. Lyanna Stark's stone corpse lay in pieces, pushed up against the wall. "Something – something must have fallen on it."
Jaime looked around. "The roof is sound. The walls, too. This statue was hit from the side and it's hollow." He added, kicking a piece carefully.
Brienne nudged him away. "Do not disrespect the dead."
"It's a pile of rubble."
"Even so. Jaime..." Her tone snapped sharply as he bent down and retrieved the statue's head. "Please put it back."
He held it level with is face and looked deep into the smooth ridges of Lyanna's eyes. "Well, I guess she was a looker," he admitted, "but the way Robert went on about her you'd swear she were the moon come to earth. Wait-"
Brienne snatched the head away from him and put it carefully with the remains. She paused. "Bring the torch down here."
He did and almost at once its light caught the edge of a silver chain peeking out from the ash. Brienne drew a dagger and slid the blade in. As it lifted, the object caught. Suspended on its length was a silver pendant featuring three dragons twisted together, each with ruby eyes.
"Prince Rhaegar… You don't think..."She looked more closely at the ash. "They buried him inside her statue."
"What are you doing with that?" he asked.
"I'm not going to leave it here for someone else to steal."
"You're stealing it now."
"I'll return it – to the Dragon Queen. It should be hers and perhaps a gift given at the right time will serve our advantage."
A rush of freezing air kicked up the ash into smoke and threatened to extinguish their torch. The flames struggled back to life but the chill refused to lift from their skin. "What was that?" Jaime turned around but found nothing but the swaying vines and endless stone. Rocks fell. Echoing. Footsteps. "There's someone here." Then whispers. Muted words. Arguing. Another glow at the edge of the tunnel.
"Podrick!" Brienne growled, holding her chest with one hand. He'd nearly given her a heart attack. "Bloody hell, what have I told you about sneaking around!"
"I'm not sneaking!" He defended.
"Seven hells, Bronn! What are you doing with Podrick?" Jaime growled, nearly as loud.
Bronn was in the middle of untangling himself from an amorous vine. "Keepin' an eye on this one." He pointed to Podrick. "Thought it was a good idea to go wanderin' about in the forest with all them wolves an' shit. I told 'im ter leave you alone. Any wolf that goes for yer better be bloody game, I said. Didn' realise it'd be a lion." Brienne and Jaime wore matching expressions of ire. "What are yer doin' down 'ere anyway?" Bronn looked around a little. "Not very romantic, is it? A mausoleum. Dead shit fuckin' everywhere an' all."
"Bronn, aren't you supposed to be watching out for The Hound? He's due back any day."
"What good's watchin' gonna do?" And to be fair, Bronn had a point. "Podrick's the one that needs watching. His honour is going ter get him killed. I keep tellin' him but he doesn' fuckin' listen."
"I told you, I'm fine on me own." Podrick was, however, freezing. He wasn't sure if it was the cold or the atmosphere that made his hands tremble.
"Well, congratulations – you've rescued us." Jaime dead-panned, stepping forward. "I'm going back to the castle to see if there's any of that feast left. Lady Brienne?"
"This way," Podrick insisted. "This tunnel finishes under the castle. Better than trying to make it across the ice at this time of night."
"Podrick – old women worry less than you." Brienne sighed. He was endearing though and more than once his attuned paranoia had saved her life. That's why she managed a small smile from the curve of her lip as they set off together.
"Bloody crazy down 'ere..." Bronn continued to mutter as they walked. With three torches alight, the world was much brighter. "Swear to fucking gods I saw a woman before."
"It was just the ice." Podrick insisted.
"Ice my cock. It was a woman. Crazy fuckin' eyes. Silver hair down ter her tits."
Podrick was shaking his head.
"Are they always like this?" Brienne leaned over, whispering to Jaime.
"Aye. Think that's why my brother sent them to opposite ends of the realm in the first place."
BRONZE GATE – THE STORMLANDS
Bronze Gate castle perched on a sudden rise, poking through the King's Wood with the Weed Water in front and the Narrow Sea behind. It was the final lurch of the Red Mountains and the last pale pink earth before the land gave way to black rock and river silt.
Friendly with the Martells, the castle had already dropped a Targaryen banner over one of the walls to welcome the Silver Queen. They kept a cautious eye on her armies which fanned out into the wood, too large to enter the town. Unlike the Lannisters, whose men ravished the villages on their way through, Daenerys was careful to leave nothing but footprints. She wanted there to be no cause to anger her potential allies. Her greatest concern were the two dragons, circling overhead considering where to make their roost. The guards eyed them warily too, cowering every time their shadows passed over the stone.
"Khaleesi..." Jorah nodded over to Drogon, who had finally settled by the river at the far edge of the town. He was drinking from the water, bowed over with his wings pinned back. He was gleaming, wet from swimming in the nearby sea. His weight was so immense that his paws collapsed the sides of the river.
"He is all right," she insisted. "They don't like the woods. The trees tear their wings. They'll fly back to the coast tonight."
"We can only hope. Viserion has his eye on those goats."
Daenerys was unable to deny that. "A few missing goats I can smooth over with gold. Children will be more of a problem, if he takes any of those. Varys must send word soon. We cannot linger here. You have to keep armies moving. Idleness is the death of conquest. Even the khals know that."
"He won't send word until Daario is in place," Jorah slid off his horse first. They were at the stone pathway that led to the castle with a small entourage of Unsullied in tow. The Queen's silver mare kicked restlessly at the stone. She was a Dornish horse, used to the sand. "Varys has studied King's Landing all his life. He knows how to take the city with as little bloodshed as possible, as you requested, while still removing your enemies. We will do well to follow his lead here. Unless you do not trust him."
"It would be foolish to trust anyone completely," she replied, also landing on the rough surface. "But it would be equally foolish for Varys to manipulate my life to this point only to kill me. He could have done that in the desert when I was a child. I may not know exactly what he wants but I know enough." She rubbed the thick neck of her horse then together, she and Jorah headed up the pathway toward the twisted bronze gates from which the town drew its name. They paled in comparison to the wonders they'd seen in the East but there was something about their defiance that brought a smile to her lips. "That is a Blackfyre banner..."
"I noticed that too…" Jorah eyed the restless piece of frayed cloth. As faux pas went, this one was impressive. "I do not believe they mean to cause offence. Most of the Targaryen banners were burned after Robert's rebellion. If we wish people to fly the correct standard we're going to have to make them ourselves."
"Ah… The parts of conquest no one warns you about."
Jorah managed a smile at the edge of his lip. "Every king must attend his paperwork. Raiding cities is the easy part. The detail is the difference between a fine ruler and a great one."
They were right to worry about Viserion. As soon as Daenerys slipped into the castle he took to the air and circled the paddocks at the edge of the forest. He scooped three goats from the pasture, one at a time, tossing them about in the air until their bleating was silenced by a crush of jaws. The skies rained blood and then on dusk they headed East, seeking the black sea cliffs to roost.
The Lord of the castle took Daenerys and the knight to a private room where they'd set out a map of the seven kingdoms. A battle map. It was not as beautiful as the table in Meereen nor the floor of King's Landing but it was up to date and at the moment that's all that mattered. Jorah strolled around it, inspecting each piece.
"Here is your problem," he finally said, pointing to Horn Hill. "There remain a great number of wealthy lords who stand to lose their holdings under your rule – particularly those first given that wealth by Robert Baratheon. Meanwhile the old lords you're trying to court from the Targaryen days will expect you to return those titles. You cannot do both. Robert's old men will never trust you. There is an immutable tide of blood in the way."
"Surely after the fall of King's Landing they will see that there is no future in their old allegiances?"
"Logically yes, historically no… People are passionate, illogical creatures capable of nursing a slight for centuries." Jorah replied. "It takes more than a single, devastating loss to change minds like that – if anything it encourages them to fight harder. You'll have to buy them off."
Daenerys scowled at her advisor. "And how much will that cost me?"
Jorah paced around the map again. "Too much. Half your wealth at least and that'll only serve you as far as the Neck. The North cannot be bought."
"I cannot ransom away my fortune to these lords..." Daenerys sank down into one of the chairs. Like everything in the castle, it was edged in delicate bronze work. "That money is needed to rebuild the empire – fortify it against the next war and most importantly, to feed the population. Aegon didn't buy his way into Westeros – he conquered it."
"He did a great deal of both, Your Grace," Jorah dared to correct her. "And he murdered hundreds of thousands of common people in the process. He may have brought peace to the empire but it came at a price you're unwilling to pay. You are not him, Khaleesi. You may have three dragons but you do not possess his ruinous soul. This is not the Dothraki Sea. Burn down a city in the East and you are a hero. Do that here and you are branded a tyrant."
She reached out and swiped at the board, knocking pieces of it onto the ground. Lions, birds, flowers and snakes scattered over the floor. Daenerys kicked at those in reach and in turn they rattled over the stone. She clenched her fist and slammed it onto the table. Her blood was rising against her skin. Rage tempted madness but Jorah knelt at her feet, collecting the pieces from the board. He lay them on his palm, treating them as if they were eggs stolen from a wild raven's nest.
"Aren't you going to scorn me, Ser?"
He did not. Jorah rose and placed each piece back where it belonged. His work was tender – either he cared about the state of the board or he was using it as a distraction, focussing diligently on the task so that he didn't have to meet his queen's eyes.
"We cannot buy our way to the throne," she repeated, pausing as he set another piece down. Daenerys noticed that his hands were rough from the recent battles. First Dorne then the Red Mountains. Westeros was going to make them war all the way to the Iron Throne. A curious smile ghosted over her lips. "We'll have to fight our way there, one lord at a time."
Jorah finished with the pieces and stepped back, facing her with his hands clutched loosely behind his back. "Diplomacy, Your Grace, does not have to equal coin."
"Do you remember, a lifetime ago, when we were wandering through the Red Waste?"
Jorah could still feel the heat of the sun in his skin. He dipped his head in reply.
"I'd have have gone to war with the Seven Kingdoms and all the realms of men with those precious few Dothraki riders at my back. There was never a moment of doubt. Dothraki honour the strong and abandon the weak. If they are riding by your side you know that they are yours, heart – soul – hooves. These armies of the West do not know who they serve. Mostly, I think, they serve gold."
"Gold is a fine master."
"Even the Unsullied…"
This time Jorah swayed. His palms went slick with sweat. "I thought you were speaking of the Dornish forces. What has happened," he added carefully, "to leave you in doubt of the freed slaves?"
"Grey Worm is gone."
"May the gods keep him."
"And his devotion died with him. Black Scale is a worthy battle commander – I dare say his is more cunning than his predecessor but there is ice in his eyes that I do not like. He may very well fight all the way to the Wall, Ser Jorah but what then? When the Winter dies and the Summers melt the snow, will the Unsullied take their leave of Westeros and sail back to Eastern shores? No. You agree… I think you've guessed the same as me. These armies that I've brought with me will have to find their place in Westeros. The Lords are smart. They'll see this final chapter coming and fight, tooth and claw, to stop it. Even the Lords who might support my claim will resist this eventuality."
Jorah was quiet. He didn't know how to reply to her because she was right. This war was going to change Westeros forever and he wasn't sure that he was ready for that. "To survive..." he started, unsure of his thoughts. They were running through the air, searching for meaning. He reached up and dragged them back, hoping to make some sort of sense of the chaos that they were creating. "...we must evolve or the dead will kill us all."
"And if the East kills the West, what will the fighting have been for?"
"Then there is something you must do, before you present your crown to the realm. A pact..." He added, when she did not follow. "An agreement between the armies you have brought and the people of Westeros. It has been done before, many thousands of years ago. Let us learn from history and strike the blow of peace before any blood is spilled. The lords fear your madness and your armies. Draw up this promise. Send it to every noble – fill the sky with wings… What is the worst that can happen? Men that already wished you dead still wish it. If some turn to your side, pledge their peace then you have won."
"And my madness, Ser Jorah? What of that..."
"Your visions are not madness and anyone who saw you walk from the flames thinks you a god. A god empress, even."
Daenerys softened. "Shall I style myself in the Eastern way too, Ser Jorah?"
There was another smile on his lips as he dropped his gaze to the floor, quietly amused. "I would not recommend it…"
"Empress of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Khaleesi…"
"I am teasing… I have quite enough titles as it is. They trail out behind me like sails from a mast."
"There is only one more title that you require." Jorah plucked a piece from the board and laid it in her waiting hand.
The Iron Throne. Its pointed edges stuck into her skin. The real thing was a vicious creation, bred form death and fire – a throne for a demon god. "Trust..." Daenerys mused again, rolling the word through her lips, ignoring the bitter taste of it in the back of her throat. "You will have to trust for me, Ser Jorah."
WINTERFELL – THE NORTH
Littlefinger paled at the glow of Winterfell peering out from the night. It was a monstrous thing – a black shadow surrounded by piles of burning men. A filthy shroud of smoke enveloped the valley leaving a putrid scent on the air. Oh… If Ned could see his precious castle now… It sickened Littlefinger to realise that a tiny, unacknowledged part of him, felt like he was coming home…
"The forest is lit..." Petyr added, as their horses traipsed through the re-frozen powder. The top layer of ice snapped against each hoof followed by the horse's legs sinking deep. "They only hang lanterns for weddings."
"If you say so." The Hound grumbled in reply. He'd put up with the Lord's noise most of the way back. All he wanted was a fire and deep cup of ale. His burned flesh was sensitive to the cold and it was getting colder.
As they crossed the frozen lake, Petyr paused to take in the view. The ice was like water reflecting the stars and the sickly orb of the falling moon. He stared into its depths, watching as dark shapes shivered beneath the ice and then lifted his gaze to the sky above and revelled in its infinite chasm. Coloured ribbons of light snapped across, fast as snake's tongue tasting the air. Rose. Lime. Lemon. Sapphire. The colours chased each other.
"Is that it?" Petyr asked, as they slid from their horses and handed them to the stable master.
The Hound was already on his way out. "That's it." Then he was gone – another shadow in the snow.
Petyr eyed his horse, giving it a final pet on the nose. It bucked against his hand softly as his glove knocked free a layer of frost from its fur.
The hours of night were over and the first breaths of morning already misting around Winterfell. Petyr felt himself a wretch and looked it too. Weeks on the road after his imprisonment had left his body a wreck of bone and skin. He looked shorter for it, swamped in his clothes which themselves wreaked of the road. He had gone to The Vale to become a king and returned less of a man. Backwards was not a direction he enjoyed.
When he reached his quarters, he hovered outside – laying his gloved hand on the surface of the door. It was the last barrier separating him from safety and he acknowledged it with a private nod.
His quarters were as he left them except the oil lamps had been lit and someone was burning incense in the corner. It choked in the back of his throat, reminding him of his whore houses where he used it to cover the stench of sex. A copper bath waited, newly drawn with steam swirling from the hot water. Petyr gazed at it wistfully and hurried himself, undressing with his eyes on the bath.
He was down to his tunic when a shadow at the corner of the room stepped forward.
Andar Royce was a reflection of his father, half-a-hand taller, broader with young flesh and arms used to wielding broadswords. They had met before, many times both while Petyr ruled The Vale and earlier, when he'd been a young boy from The Fingers. It took scant moments for the pieces to fall into place, each more sickening than the last until Petyr could barely find the will to breathe.
"Perhaps you should sit down, Lord Baelish. You've a pale look about you."
Petyr did not trust himself to speak – not while his mind was busy running calculations.
"Indeed, there's enough ice in your complexion one might think you'd joined the dead."
Still, Petyr did not speak. He felt naked, barefoot and shivering before the Lord.
"You need not look so fearful. I have come to inform you that the Lady Sansa Stark has declared you Hand of the Queen." Andar Royce held up a small, golden pin to the light. He twisted it, letting Baelish get a good look before he tossed it on the nearby bed. Petyr's eyes followed. Lingered a moment. He could have sworn he heard the echo of an executioner's axe. Finally, he returned to Andar who was not done speaking. "Of course you understand she could not tell you herself. The bride is indisposed at the present so I am here in her stead."
"The Lady Stark is-" Petyr began to say, even though he read the answer in Andar's eyes. That's how Sansa bought his freedom. That's why he's still alive. "Oh yes, of course." He immediately donned a professional politeness. All sweetness and honey. He even dipped his head in a bow and prayed the bile didn't reach his throat. "Congratulations, I believe."
Andar tipped his head slightly in recognition. "I shall leave you, Lord Baelish, to settle. I am sure you long for the rest after the journey."
And after the imprisonment at the hands of your father, yes. "That would be generous of you, thank you."
"We will speak further in the morning." Andar stepped across the room and approached Littlefinger. He was a shell of a man. Barely a nick in the stone. It was laughable, really, how whispers of his presence could frighten kings into submission. What was he now but a pawn – a withered one at that. He had come home to Winterfell to die, piece by piece, because he was too much of a coward to face the drop.
When he was close enough, Andar offered his hand. Petyr reached for it, trying to steady his hands which shook from the cold. Andar lurched forward, wrapping his enormous spread around Littlefinger's wrist and tugged him sharply. Petyr stumbled forward and met Andar's fist, right underneath his ribs. One cracked. He felt it go. Heard the snap in his ears. Littlefinger buckled, folding onto the ground in a pitiful lump of cloth. His hands crossed over his chest. He gasped for air like a small child.
Andar sighed. "You disappoint me." He watched while the other man choked on his own breath. Creatures like this had no hope of surviving the wars to come. Politics were a luxury of peace. "I assume we understand each other?" Andar inched toward Baelish, who shuffled away on instinct until he was clutching the edge of the bath. "You need only nod. Good. Tomorrow then. Sleep well, Lord Baelish."
As soon as the door closed, Petyr slid to the floor and rolled onto his back. Pain, exasperated by the cold, stabbed across his chest. Drowning. He could feel the darkness closing in from the edges of his vision. He needed to get into the bath and let the heat run through his veins. Then he could think.
Before he could move, the door opened again. Petyr tensed. The footfalls were soft. Not those of a soldier. He knew them. His mind was foggy but he'd seen the man trailing around after the imp. "Payne…?" Baelish rasped.
Podrick closed the door and eyed the mess on the floor. He'd seen worse in his years. Tyrion, particularly, had set himself in some right states after a night on the wine. "That's me." He replied, moving over to Lord Baelish. "Right," he added, kneeling down and lifting Lord Baelish's hand off his chest to have a look, "it is not half as bad as it feels."
"Forgive me but why are you here?"
"My Lady commanded it."
"Brienne of Tarth asked you to attend me?" Petyr was on his knees, using the edge of the bath to clamber back some dignity.
"When you've sobered up from the pain you'll work it out." Podrick assured him. "For now why don't we pretend that I'm your squire?"
Hours later, Petyr sat on the edge of the bed while Podrick wrapped a thick bandage around his chest. "You have to keep breaks warm up here," he said, as he tucked the bandage in place. "That's where the danger comes from – the cold getting into the bone. I've seen people die from less than this." When it was done, Podrick shaved Lord Baelish's beard and brought him blankets for the bed. The fire in the corner of the room smoked. Like everything else in this ruinous slum, it was broken. "Would you like me to pin it to your tunic?" He asked, holding up the pin.
Baelish shook his head and held out his hand, taking it from Podrick. He ran his thumb over the polished metal. He wanted to hate the token. It was, after all, a commiseration not an achievement. It is more than you had yesterday, he reminded himself, another rung – keep on climbing. He curled his hand around it and felt the metal warm. "Was it a fitting ceremony?"
Podrick was caught off guard. "Ah – yes. Traditional. Northern… I know that-" No. Podrick aborted that thought. He was used to speaking out of turn with Lord Tyrion and Lady Brienne. To do the same with Lord Baelish was a mistake.
"You may as well say what you think, Podrick," Petyr caught him, "the truth unsaid is still heard."
"Best not… I'm not – that is, I don't want to get caught up in – you understand. That is not why I am here. I serve M'lady and M'lady serves Lady Stark. Lady Stark – well… I'm here."
"Do you want to know what this is?" Petyr ignored his ramblings. He knew exactly what was going on in this castle. "This – Podrick – is the illusion of power. Illusion, like any common magic trick, is a powerful thing. It is a slight of hand. A breath of air baiting the edge of a cliff but let me tell you something. When you stand on that edge with your face at the sea and the drop below all illusions are banished. In that moment of clarity real power rears its head. When you look up on it, the sight will shake you to the core and hurl you onto the rocks."
Petyr turned to the fire. It has been so long since he'd seen the flames that he wanted to curl up amongst them. "The Kings and Queens of Old had no need of illusions."
Alone, Petyr sat on the bed in his windowless room, inhaling the heat and soot. He yearned for the poppy but feared his supply would be needed later so he endured the pain and meditated on the new world order. Power indeed. There were people in this world who had it.
At dawn, Ser Jaime found Littlefinger lurking around the castle wall, swooping about like a predatory eagle looking for a corpse to pick. He was older and a bit pale but so was every other Southern face lost in the snow.
"I must admit, I am surprised."
"Likewise, Lord Baelish. I heard you were nosing about in the North but I rather thought you had your eye set on The Vale?"
"I serve only my Queen, Ser Jaime," Littlefinger tapped the pin on his tunic. "As do you with yours."
"There cannot be two queens, as well you know."
"Three queens, apparently. Can't you hear it – the flap of wings?" Petyr was deliberately theatrical, keeping the air light. A Lannister army at their feet was equal odds. His particular fear was that their air of peace rested on a certain curiosity between Lady Brienne and the wounded lion. Such an unstable thought made Petyr nauseous. "I am surprised," he continued his original sentiment, "because all my little birds tell me there's a king tide coming."
"If Daenerys Targaryen comes for the throne, Cersei will be waiting for her." He replied, defiantly.
"Oh – she is coming. I wonder, if you are ever given the chance to look into her eyes, whose soul will you see? I'd wager there's a touch of madness. You don't think so? Interesting..." Baelish placed his hands on the wooden balustrade and gazed out over the snow. The scene was not quite so dismal in the light. "She's burned cities to the ground. Murdered entire ethnic classes. Fed her enemies to her dragons and ravaged the Slaver Cities of their gold. Look to the East – there's nothing but silence where she's been. Yes, Ser Jaime, King's Landing is on a knife's edge and Dorne has been laid to ruin. The dragon queen has friends in Westeros – powerful friends, even here."
"The North do not support Southerns, be they lions or dragons."
"How wrong you are – just like your father. It is up to you, of course but if you want our queen to live I'd ride South before the snows trap you here forever. When they start in earnest, none of us can leave."
"I know what you're trying to do, Lord Baelish but right now I'm the best friend you have in the world."
"May the gods help me then..." Baelish dipped his head. "A one-handed man in a storm of swords is about as much good as a torch without fire."
There she was… Momentarily distracted, Lord Baelish followed Sansa with his grey eyes as she crossed the square, draped in a silver cloak with her red hair billowing, littered with snow. She carried a short sword at all times, strapped around her waist and thick boots made for riding. Any aspirations she had of being a fine lady dressed in sheets of silk and hair plaited with roses had long vanished.
"She is still a Stark – if that is what you are wondering," Jaime added, on his way down the steps. "And he is not the Lord of Winterfell."
Baelish waited at the edge of the balcony. Alone, he felt the slight tremble that inhabited his hands. Turn around, he whispered, in his mind. Turn around.
