BRONZEGATE – THE STORMLANDS
Another night drew in another storm. They built over the waters of Blackwater Bay and thrashed themselves against the mountains. It was akin to the tide, rising and breathing over the land nightly regardless of the quarrels between men.
Violent streaks of light stabbed at the ground, flashing above before vanishing into nothing. The boom that followed sent Gilly to her knees. It vibrated in her ribs and shook the walls of the castle where she and Little Sam took refuge. They stayed in the cells where the wild weather could not reach them. The darkness and colossal breadth of stone was a comfort. Besides, she'd seen her fair share of prison cells. Compared to the animal-skinned hut of her father, this was almost pleasant. To distract herself from the rumble she surrounded herself with scrolls, books and candles that the maester of the castle allowed her to read. Learning the Common Tongue was her salvation. She'd been loath to leave the citadel with all its shelves of knowledge.
Ash stalked nearby, chasing rats. It loved the darkness which was filled with the scratch of rodents. She practised hunting. Stalked the artificial night of the dungeon. Every now and then Gilly heard it leap off a stone ledge and land in a puddle of wing and tail. Ash was not much bigger than a rat herself. Who knows what Ash'd do if she actually caught one of the rodents. The silver queen had decided that the cells were safest place for the tiny dragon to roam.
Little Sam curled up on the pile of blankets, sound asleep. Gilly turned another page in one of the old books. She was reading about the history of King's Landing. There were many things that she did not understand. Descriptions of customs, clothing and weapons that she had no base to compare. She read about the birth of the city, built out of wood and mud by the first dragon, like any common hearth in the North. The South, was no so different except that they'd enjoyed more time away from Winter to build. What she'd originally believed to be the creation of gods was just the product of time and peace.
"Have you seen it before?" Darkstar announced his presence as he descended the steps into the dungeon, carrying a torch.
Gilly looked up from her book and saw his slender figure, so unlike the Northern men to which she was accustomed. "Seen what?"
"The great city of Westeros. Have you been to the Capital?"
She shook her head. "No. I seen Oldtown though – an' Dorne. Walked straight under The Wall."
Darkstar set his torch in one of the iron holsters attached to the wall. "I've always wanted to see The Wall." He admitted. "I want to go beyond it – to the furthest reaches of the empire."
"What for?"
"To see what's out there..."
"Nothing but snow an' death..." Gilly sighed, flicking another page of the book. It fell open to reveal a painting of King's Landing, blushing pink against the parchment. "Soon as you see what's beyond The Wall you'll want ter come back to the warm waters o' the South."
"I am the last of my line. There are only two duties remaining to me. Raise children and guard the sword of our house for the generations to come."
"Then what are yer doin' in the company of the dragon queen?" Surely that was the most dangerous place to be?
"Guarding the sword. Her ice-knight carries it." A rustle against the stone distracted Darkstar. He turned, eyes picking through the darkness.
"Careful. The dragon is 'ere playin'. The Queen did not want it causing trouble above until it's tamed."
"A dragon cannot be tamed."
"These are the storms I was born in." Daenerys sat on the window sill, despite Jorah asking her not to. The wind propelled the rain onto her but she did not move – allowing it to drip from her clothes and boots as though she were a grotesque carved into the castle. "I thought I'd enjoy them more." The emotion was stronger than that. She hated them. They were not like the storms across the Dothraki plains. Those she felt in the ripple of the long grass and smelled upon the air. They sang songs of freedom and violence – the very soul of the horselords. These storms were vengeful. Full of the Old Gods' wrath.
Jorah stood beside her, leaning on the wall and close enough to reach out if she were to slip though he'd never admit to that. It was late in the evening and he'd long ago laid his armour on the floor and pulled on a woollen shirt. The layers of fur and leather suited Northern men, as if they were born to wear it. "They remind you of your mother's death..."
"Yes..." Daenerys breathed. "I keep thinking about her laying in that place. Dying as her empire crumbled into the sea. I know my father was mad but she was mad too – with sorrow and drink." She startled softly at Jorah's hand coming to rest on her knee. A moment later, she placed her hand over his.
"By all accounts, Your Grace, it was circumstance not blood that sent your mother into madness. Even the Kingslayer was sympathetic to her situation. It is because of love for her that so many mismatched men of the realm fought to save her children from Robert's blade – even against their honour."
Daenerys brushed her thumb across the back of his weathered hand. "And this, ser Jorah, is serving me against your honour as well?"
"You know the answer to that." He replied quietly.
"What kind of love makes us betray that which we should honour?" She questioned the storm. It answered with another clap of thunder, like the snap of a dragon's tail.
"There is no use unpicking the world," he warned, "for it will unravel and leave you with the threads of anarchy. Better to live, best you can, with the contradictions rife in your soul."
"I understand your words," she whispered, as the wind kicked her silver hair back across her shoulder. Another shower of rain ran down her clothes and bit down to her skin reminding her that she was alive. "But what do I do when forced to choose?"
Jorah looked to her seriously for he had asked himself that question many times. "You will only know the answer to that when it faces you."
"You chose once before – defying the command of your king."
"Aye. The choice was as clear then as it will be for you. Do not waste your time fearing the challenge."
She closed her eyes against the storm. As always, ser Jorah was her wisest council. Varys and Tyrion, they fancied themselves men of knowledge but their minds were clogged with other people's words and schemes. They lacked Jorah's clarity which was born amid the silence of the snow. "Did you send the raven to Tyrion?"
"Yes, several hours before the storm. We've been granted a blessing with the fall of Casterly Rock. Cersei will not enjoy that stab at her vanity."
"And Daario?"
"Sailing with his pirate hoard into King's Landing as we speak. Invited, can you believe, by Cersei herself to deal with the religious crisis. Olenna's ploy worked. Cersei thinks she's hiring un-guilded sellswords to murder a flock of Sparrows. We let the violence play out and Daario ingratiate himself inside the Red Keep and then..."
"And then it starts..." Daenerys finished.
"We'll march tomorrow and keep the army in the Kingswood. All you have to do is keep a handle on the dragons or they will spoil the surprise. Come out of the rain, Your Grace," Jorah whispered. "You're fire proof – not water resistant. There's no point in you catching some Southern illness."
Daenerys wondered if he could feel her cold in his bones. There were no rules regarding how blood magic worked. She doubted that Quaithe knew the extent of the magic wrapped around their skin. Whatever the truth, she allowed Jorah to drag her off the ledge and back into the warmth of the room. He walked her over to the fire where he stood behind her and reached around, unlatching the silver clasps that held her fur coat. With the barest flick of his fingers, it slid off her shoulders and into his hold. Jorah walked it over to one of the stone chairs where he hung it to dry. It rained from the trim, turning the stone beneath black.
"You are freezing." Jorah muttered irritably. He'd not felt her this cold since they'd been in the North. "Some time soon we will need to fashion warmer attire for the army. Your Dothraki will freeze before they reach The Neck in their loin-skins and the Unsullied cannot continue to wear their armour on bare skin. Metal burns as surely as fire when things get properly cold."
"There's no point making clothes until we take the Capital." She quietened as he returned to stand in front of her and work her heavy leather tunic off. She'd already done a fine job of ruining the leather but her clothes were made for war, as they should be. Indeed, Jorah often though those early years with the Dothraki had left her with the eternal appearance of a warrior. "Wet right through." He scorned further, as he reached the under dress.
"Shall I sleep in the fire?" Daenerys teased.
"Like Ash? That dragon has a love for the flames that even your children cannot claim. I think she was born in the fires of The Shadow Lands. I-" He had gone to say something else but Daenerys laid her arm on Jorah's shoulder and tipped her body forwards, balanced on her toes.
Her lips silenced him, stealing that final breath. It was unfair, she knew but her will was not always as rational as his. Perhaps it was as he'd said, an unreasonable conflict to want ice to cure the cold. Eventually his arm rose to cup her back and take the weight off her feet. In these debates she'd always win.
"Quiet now. She's comin' o'er..." Gilly warned.
They sat together in the cell amid the rustle of flame and parchment. Darkstar had been helping Gilly read for many hours as the storm rumbled off into nowhere. Darkstar could hear the creature creeping up on him. One clawed foot after the other placed upon the stone and the occasional sweep of scaled tail.
"Does she mean to pounce upon me?"
"Unlikely..." Gilly replied. "Ash is curious, like any child."
"Tell that to the rat."
"Place your hand out – like this." Gilly showed him and Darkstar copied. "Now stay still and you might be lucky."
"It is a mystery to the Dornish how the rest of the realm could have forgotten dragons." He said, as they both waited. "They were not beasts of obscure legend like the unicorns of Skagos or the mercreatures stealing sailors from their ships. Real scars of their existence can be seen all across the land, from Westeros to Essos. Their bones lay in the Red Keep and some eggs are kept in private collections. Many famous people through history were murdered in their flame and the entire foundation of the Seven Kingdoms was built on the wings of dragon conquest."
"I can." Gilly replied quietly. "People forget a lot of things. Where I lived, ev'ry time a male child was born, men made of ice came out o' the woods and took them. Real creatures. Though most o' us had seen them and their children were taken, the camp continued as though it were not real. A delusion. A lullaby of silence to make the nights bearable. Maybe the Southerners don' want to remember dragons."
"A lot of people died. More than any of these books will ever say." He was thoughtful. "We're living in the hush… A tiny fraction of the world has been left standing after thousands of years of slaughter. Our cities are nothing to the Empires that came before and even Westeros – this oddity of conquest – is a slip of itself before the fall of the dragons. But," he reasoned, "their deaths purchased what we call civilisation so on balance, I'd say it was a price worth paying. Oh – hello..." He felt the little crimson paw touch his palm. Ash was about the size of the rat she'd taken down but lighter. Like birds, dragons had hollow bones that helped keep their weight in check. She was curious too, blowing smoke over his skin with a surge of warmth. "She's getting redder..." He remarked, trying not to move as the dragon encroached. "I never imagined they'd be so beautiful. Those books fail to mention it."
Ash really was stunning. She had more in common with a jewel than the remains of a bonfire. Even as she tilted her head from side to side, her scales shifted colour, never able to settle.
"Sharp spines..." He nodded at the curved black protrusions.
"The knight doesn't think anyone will be able to ride her. Watch out..."
Darkstar flinched as the dragon bit down into the soft flesh beneath his thumb.
"Gettin' a taste of yer. Stay still."
It wasn't easy with the fangs embedded in his flesh. The dragon tried to drag his hand backwards into the shadows – growling and hissing. "Are you certain?"
Gilly's face was stuck somewhere between a frown and amusement.
"No – no enough," Darkstar reached over with his other hand and picked the creature up. It did not let go but at least away from the ground it could not tear at him. "Do they always chirp?" He added, after the little thing had calmed down and made himself a nest inside his palms.
Gilly shrugged. "This is my first dragon. You would have to ask the queen. She raised three." She foraged through her satchel and withdrew a length of cloth. "Here..." Gilly shifted closer and wrapped the fabric around the hand Ash had successfully chewed. "On balance, I think she rather likes you."
"Typical. Dragons showing their affection through acts of violence."
"You look a bit like one of them," Gilly added, tying off the bandage. "With the-" she pointed to his long strip of white hair. "Like the queen, I mean. An' the eyes." His were purple, like amethysts.
"I'm a Dayne, not a Dornishman." He clarified. "Our house is ancient and small – founded before Dorne. Who knows, maybe the dragons came to Westeros more than once." No one really knew.
"He's my third," Gilly nodded at Little Sam, who was sleeping peacefully. She was thankful that he'd taken after her and not Craster. "My others were taken by the ice creatures – two little boys. I'm not sure I want to go back to the North. What if they are grown into those hideous things? What mother should face such a thing… I dream of them sometimes, wandering in the snow. Soulless. Mindless. Corpses in service of a god I don' understand. Is there anything more terrible?"
Darkstar was yet to see and understand the scourge of death that had taken over the top of the realm but he had seen one of the creatures with his own eyes and lost. "Do you need to travel North?"
She nodded. "I cannot leave Sam on his own and he must go North to join his king." Gilly drew her knees up to her chest. "Sam doesn't know about the other children."
"Why tell me?" Darkdstar asked, holding the dragon closer against his chest as it settled.
Gilly returned her gaze to Little Sam. "I cannot stand secrets," she whispered. "I've never mourned them – those two little children. That was not the way of those beyond The Wall an' I don't want him thinkin' about that when he's out fightin'. You don't believe he fights? No one does but he killed one of those dead things. Only a handful of men in all of history have done that an' he did it for me."
Marwyn, Quaithe and Sam maintained an awkward amnesty inside a tent pitched alongside the river. Sam felt as if he'd been appointed mediator between the two creatures. One – a practitioner of magic and the other, an avid purveyor. Instead of being natural allies they were distrustful of each other.
"What did you do to the old cunt, then?" Marwyn asked, as his hands wrapped around the bowl of unidentifiable stew. "Blood magic for sure but nothing I've ever read. Walking out of fire like that? No. That is no common spell."
"There are many things for which you remain uneducated." Quaithe replied, staring devoutly into the flames. She'd been withdrawn since the events of Summerhall. Those memories long buried were breaking the surface. She could not close her eyes for fear of being drowned by fire.
Sam shifted uncomfortably. It made no sense in his mind for them to quarrel. "I recognised some of the symbols on Mormont's arm," Sam cleared his throat. "Church of Starry Wisdom? Only, I saw it in a book."
A little surge of pride rose in Marwyn. Most students pretended to read the ancient scrolls he assigned. This Night's Watch man actually did or he got his woman to do it. "That's what our Targaryen friend practices – among other things."
"Isn't it – I don't know, a dead religion?"
Quaithe scoffed – Marwyn grinned. "Religion of the dead, perhaps." Marwyn corrected. "Asshai is a place where many things the world forgot are still practised. Though I take your point. That particular religion was always considered 'fringe' after it brought about the end of the world..."
"That is a misconception." Quaithe's eyes cut through her mask. "Though the stone, I grant you, is a sickly thing."
"Which you left in the hands of a pirate… One of the most important relics of the ancient world. No wonder the realm believes Targaryens to be mad. What was that save madness of the highest order?"
"It was deeply considered care..." She snapped. "The last thing you want is the Bloodstone falling into Daenerys' hands too early. If the pirate turns sick and murderous – what is the difference but if the queen were to fall under its magic then she may not make it to the start of the Great War. You want to see the world aflame? That's the surest way to achieve it."
"I agree with you that the queen must be kept away from it but why not keep it yourself?"
"Because I heard its whispers… They are strongest for those that know how to listen. There is no one less able to guard a thing like that than me. Except perhaps you, Marwyn, for you view it as a thing of beauty to be worshipped and we both know how that ended last time."
"Sorry – I realise I'm the illiterate child in this tent but what is this Bloodstone?" asked Sam.
"The Bloodstone is a small black stone that legend says fell from the sky a very long time ago."
"Oh – we have those up North an' all. There's a bit of it in the library at Castle Black. Some of the old maesters said a star fell and hit the lands near The Wall before there was a wall – 's why there's nothin' but black glass beneath the ice."
"Similar but this stone's strange. Has a magic of its own. Like the most expensive whore in the establishment." Marwyn had coveted it for a long time. "I believed it to be a fable. It does not sit well with me that some pirate plucked it from nowhere."
"All these years studying prophecy, Marwyn and yet you learn nothing." Quaithe scorned. "I let you read the pages of the old stories – to look upon witch-words whispered while the Empire of the Dawn still breathed. Why make the trip across the world in that wretched boat if not to believe?"
"What were the words?" Sam asked, innocently. Quaithe hissed them for him. "Jon was brought back by fire for a purpose. Perhaps this is it."
Perhaps… Quaithe mused, but her and Marwyn knew better.
"Careful with 'purpose' Tarly." Marwyn warned. "When the gods hold the purse strings the world burns or drowns. Our gods are wracked with violence – all of them. This new found reverence is a product of a long Summer. When the Winter comes, men will remember what it was like to fear."
"I've not forgotten fear," Sam insisted. "But convincing everyone South of The Wall that the dead are coming for them is impossible. How do we show them that these violent gods have returned?"
"There's no need." Quaithe murmured through her mask. "That is what the queen is for. Her armies follow her regardless of belief because they are bonded by something greater."
"Honour – love?"
"The very same fear." She replied. "Only a fool would love a dragon." That is why dragons married dragons, back through time.
Jorah broke from her lips when his hip hit the edge of the stone table. She'd backed him into it – pushed him across the room with her fervour and strength few attributed to her. Daenerys' delicate hands were on his chest, smoothed over the woollen jumper – curled in it. There was only a moment before she leaned in and kissed him again, mouth open against his with more force than before.
She was exactly like a warrior, he thought, blood high before the battle. He managed to turn them around and lift her onto the table. Her hands grabbed the bottom of his jumper and dragged it off his body in a rush of fabric – then his shirt, the cotton left to fall to the stone. Here she paused, tracing her fingers across the strange markings that Quaithe had left upon his skin. It was not the future she feared. In her dreams it was never him that died. It was her eyes that glassed over with the Winter chill and her hands that clawed under the ice, trapped on the other side of the veil with screams only she could hear.
"You walked out of the fire with me," she noted softly, as her lips pressed a series of kisses to his chest among the scars that crossed it like spider web – uneven, pearl scratches. "Not a burn."
"Blood Magic." Whatever that entailed. He felt more than he let on. "It manifests in unpredictable ways."
Daenerys understood that better than most. It was a lesson learned in the desert with a screaming witch and a horse's blood. A child ripped from her and turned to ash. Yes. Blood Magic was fate's coin. "Have you agreed to my request?"
Jorah dipped his head. Her legs had wrapped around his body, holding him in place if he'd felt inclined to flee. "I have but without the saddle." He insisted. "Viserion does not like it and I'd rather him not be trying to shake me off. What do we do with Rhaegal?"
"Let him stretch his wings. Of the three, he is least likely to bring about a hell storm."
"Indeed, that crown lays with Drogon."
"Is there no one special, then – back home?"
Ash perched on Darkstar's shoulder with her tail threaded through his hair. Even if he'd wished to move he could not untangle the spines from his hair. Gilly shuffled over to help, unpicking the dragon from him. "There was," he replied, "but she died."
"I'm sorry..."
"At the battle for The Sunspear. She was a princess and a fighter." He spoke of her warmly. "To what end? The gods tossed her aside with the rest of the dead. Some say the deserts surround Dorne because the earth is poisoned by blood. Superstition to be sure but there is no denying the crunch of bone beneath the sand."
"At least your dead stay in the ground." Gilly replied, prying the dark and silver hair out of the dragon's spines. "There we go." She held up the wriggling dragon. "Do you mind fetching the cage?"
He retrieved it from the far side of the room. "You're not heading into King's Landing when the fighting starts, I trust?"
She shook her head. "No – I'm to head onto Dragonstone with the other party where we'll await the queen."
"Is that wise with the pirates?"
"Loyal to Daario," she reminded him, "and we will have an army of our own."
"I used to keep lizards," he added, as Ash was coaxed into the cage for the night. "There were many in the sands where I grew up. They were easy enough to catch."
"Why?"
"They were my friends," he explained. "And for the longest time I convinced myself that they returned my bond of childhood affection. That the occasional seeking of comfort in my presence was friendship."
"What was it?"
"A misunderstanding. I fear dragons are similar. We may befriend them – love them, even. Teach them tricks and think of them as we do the horse and dog but they will never be these things. They are dragons..."
WINTERFELL – THE NORTH
"Ser Jaime, a raven."
Jaime's eyes cracked open, displacing a fresh layer of frost trying to knit his lashes together. His golden hand had been abandoned for a wooden replacement made or ash-coloured Ironwood while every Southern man now wore armour covered in layers of leather and fur. The snows weren't just falling, they were biting at anything that breathed. Even the pine forest had begun to crack under the weight of ice with trees tumbling through the night. They retrieved their corpses every morning and cut them up for firewood.
"You're up early," he took the sealed message from Brienne. She lingered nearby, standing in the snow looking over the Godwood. Smoke and rank festered in the air but at least Winterfell's walls were starting to climb again.
"There was another wolf attack at dawn," she replied. "A dozen men were sent out to chase them off. One came back short an arm. Vicious things. I've never seen anything like them."
"Then you've clearly never met a Direwolf." Jaime snapped the wax seal and unravelled it best he could with his new hand. It was going to take some getting used to. "Those ugly bastards are rumoured to be the size of horses."
"Snow had Direwolf at Castle Black. No one ever said it was that big."
"Then it was a puppy." Jaime assured her and then fell silent as he read.
"You all right?" Brienne turned to face the frost-covered Lannister only to find him paler than the ice clinging to his hair. "Something's happened. What's happened?"
He pried himself off the ground. "I have to leave at once."
"Leave? You can't leave. There's another blizzard on the way. It'll be ten bellow by noon. You'll bloody freeze! Oy!"
Jaime stopped when she grabbed hold of his cloak. "I guess you'll find out anyway." He reasoned, though he was inclined to tell her everything which was a truly bad sign. And so he told her about Casterly Rock and the hoard of Ironborn pirates crawling over his home.
"You still can't go." Brienne insisted. "It's not just that we need your men here in Winterfell, they wouldn't survive the road back in weather like this. Not a Southern army. You'd loose a third to the cold."
"I'm not taking the army." Jaime shrugged her hand off his shoulder.
"Then-"
"It's only me. I have to ride to King's Landing. Cersei is surrounded on all sides. I cannot leave her and Tommen with the enemy at the gates."
"But she hasn't written to ask that of you. You'll be in defiance of her order."
"So be it."
"Jaime..."
"That is my son." He proclaimed boldly. "I must go."
Littlefinger winced as he slid his arms into his cloak. The warm garments hid the bruises well enough but the cold made every knock a deeper agony. It ate away at the smallest chink in a human's armour and tore at it like a lion.
Casterly Rock was a hovel for inbred pirates to which he was able to draw a bit of enjoyment. Chaos. Unpredictable and thrilling. The more pieces that fell off the board the easier the others became to move. That's why it was such a shame that meddling Lyanna Mormont had managed to shore up the North with irritating success. Being played by a ten year old was no one's idea of a good time but vexing as it was, there was no way to remove her without introducing serious risk to his own safety. He'd have to work in compliment to her which meant he had to find out what she really wanted.
He made a point of walking Winterfell's courtyard. A show of strength against the brutish Royce. He didn't much like the look of the Hound either. That creature sulked about at the far edge where the wall met the lean-tos. A man comprised nearly entirely of cold stares and, what he presumed to be, murderous thoughts. Sansa kept him within range. Her guard dog and so Littlefinger was ever so careful not to antagonise him.
"You tend the ravens yourself?" Littlefinger asked, when he came across Lyanna in the snow with a pair of cages and flock of ravens picking seed out of the ice. She was airing them, to keep their feathers free of disease. If you left the birds in squalor they died fast.
"As you see, Lord Baelish." Lyanna replied. She was aware that he was aware that she'd betrayed him and yet they chose to talk about the weather. "You can probably appreciate how good it feels to stretch your wings..."
Baelish's eyes were as cold as Winter.
Lyanna merely smiled.
"Ah, mister Payne." She turned to the crunch of boots in the snow. "You've found it then."
"Just Podrick, m'lady," he replied, approaching with a bucket. "Lord Baelish." He dipped his head when he caught sight of the man lurking beside her. Baelish took his leave. "You shouldn't be talking to that one on your own." He added. "He's not-"
"-to be trusted? Aye. I know. Try to remember, Payne, I'm the one with the sword."
"Speaking of which." He set the bucket of fresh water down and the birds dived on it immediately, drinking and cleaning themselves in the warmth. Then, he undid his cloak and drew his sparring sword.
"That's what you brought – a blunt sword?" Lyanna drew her own sword. Its edge was true and sharp.
"I thought we was practising?"
"We are." She assured him, taking the first swing.
"Is it true – what they – say – that common – steel is – no – good?" His words were interrupted by the strikes of metal against wood.
Lyanna nodded. "True enough. Valyrian steel is near impossible to come by and that new smith won't be able to make enough of it in time even if he's half as good as Davos insists. That leaves the rest of us with obsidian."
"You can make swords out of dragonglass?" He asked, amazed.
"Of course but it won't hold up against a common sword. Too brittle but I guess it doesn't have to. Daggers are the strongest but I'm not sure I fancy getting close enough for hand to hand with a walking corpse. You?"
"I'm no good at it, me," Podrick replied. "Still learning this thing. Lady Brienne tries with me. She needs me alive, you see, to look after the horses and I'm a half decent cook."
They both interrupted their sparring session with a soft laugh. "I am certain her concern stretches further than that. Are you sure she is not a Bear?"
"You'd think. Tall as heck with the same stubborn loyalty but she's from Tarth – an island, like you, I guess. I meant what I said before – you should be careful of Lord Baelish. Tyrion, my first Lord, he taught me a great deal about the one they call Mockingbird but chiefly to steer clear of his interest."
"Lord Baelish is floundering," Lyanna replied. "He needs to carve himself out a fresh niche. He'll sniff at every person of note before the day is out, clawing for a breath of purchase as power slips away."
"You are very wise for someone so young." Podrick rested his sword in the snow. "I mean that as a compliment, m'lady."
"I know you do," she assured him. "Not a malicious bone in your body. That is your oddity." With that, Lyanna swung her sword at him – knocking the wooden sword he was using as a prop from beneath him sending poor Podrick tumbling face first into the snow.
"I – I thought we was resting?" He lifted his head out of the freezing powder. The little Bear was smiling.
"Winter does not rest, Payne."
Sansa descended the crumbled steps into the crypts. They were permanently lit with workers ferrying supplies into the spare chambers to survive the Winter. That was their original purpose. The bodies came later… Along with the stone guardians and nameless faces that stared into nowhere as Sansa passed. Her past laid heavy in the air. The entire history of the Northern kings could be counted with the step of her feet.
The huge figure ahead of her stood with one hand on the marble casket. His fingernails scratched away a flare of moss that had taken hold within a crack. Life leeching off death. He could hear his Winter Queen's soft footsteps. She'd always been a little bird, hopping lightly on the gilded floors of the Red Keep. He'd tried to save her then, when she was surrounded by all manner of predator but now she'd become one of the wolves guarding her sheep.
Sandor turned and then ran his gloved hand through his wisps of hair so that they covered the scars. He dipped his head.
Sansa lingered at the entrance to the small tomb. The irony, that he should be lit only by firelight. As the years dragged on she was beginning to understand him better and with that came the realisation of his fears. Littlefinger was wrong. It was not what people wanted that was important – it was what they feared. You needed to know both to rule.
"Do you have it?" Sansa asked.
"Aye. I 'ave it." Sandor replied. He retrieved a folded cloak and a sword from the coffin and presented it to Lady Stark, who took it with outstretched arms. "If you are sure."
She tightened her grip on the items. "I've thought of little else these last days."
"There are other ways, Your Grace, to get what you want."
This time it was Sansa who dipped her head to him.
He hated their pale skeletons and blood-soaked leaves. He hated the faces that howled from their flesh. He hated the whispered prayers that fell onto deaf wood and most of all, he hated what they stood for. Cracks in the fabric of reality… Gateways to unprecedented knowledge which no amount of scheming could pry at. When he leaned against their pulsating bark he heard nothing but the great silence that would one day take them all. The worlds of magic rejected Petyr, just like the Starks.
Petyr Baelish felt Sansa's presence behind him. That was a talent she shared with her mother – one that unsettled him. He turned and knelt in the snow, showing submission to his queen in the North. They'd not spoken since he'd returned and although he knew Lyanna to be at fault with his brush against death, Sansa's intentions were clouded in fog.
"Please get up out of the snow, Lord Baelish." Sansa began. He rose at once but could not free himself of all the snow. It stained the bottom half of his cloak white. "Welcome back to Winterfell."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
She felt for him – she did. Sansa knew what it was to survive one's enemies and he had the look of it about him. He was softer. Withdrawn. Careful, even of his words with her. "I did not know."
His eyes were drawn to the second, ill-fitted sword at her waist and the bundle of cloth under her arm. "I deserved it."
"Perhaps you did." Sansa agreed. "But from these unfortunate events, Winterfell owns the Vale's army outright. We are safer today than we were yesterday."
"And you, Sansa." Her name trickled off his lips before he could stop himself. Too familiar, he reminded himself. "Are you safer today?"
"If by that you mean my new husband, he is far from the worst I've endured."
Petyr could not bring himself to debate that point with evidence of his bruises after the suffering Sansa endured under the Boltons. If Royce felt the need to beat him to maintain his position so be it. He'd say nothing. "The Lady of Winterfell plays the game well." He complimented instead.
"I learn." Her eyes were those of the wolf. She saw things as two worlds – prey and protection. When Winter came one had to decide if they were a threat or a creature to save. Where Littlefinger was concerned, her heart and mind were in constant flux.
"You are wiser than any Stark that came before."
"A thinly veiled insult?" The edge of her lip curled. She was rather amused with his slights. It was his version of humour that the rest of the world overlooked. "Being aware of faults is the first step to overcoming them. Speaking of which..." Her gaze drifted to the Weirwood behind them.
The snows had fallen heavily during the night, covering the last of the twisted roots while the only evidence of her wedding was a solitary length of lace blowing against one of the lowest branches. It did not escape Littlefinger's attention.
"Tell me, Baelish..." Sansa began, as she approached both him and the tree until she was close enough to place her hand against the surface. It was warm to the touch. "What would you suggest as a remedy for someone who cannot free themselves of drink?"
Littlefinger shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back. His silver pin caught the light for a moment. "Take it away from them – best you can."
Sansa nodded. "Something my first husband may have benefited from."
It was Littlefinger's turn to smirk. "True enough. Why the question?"
She offered him the parcel of fabric from under her arm. He took it from her and, upon closer inspection, realised it was a Night's Watch cloak. Then, before he could ask, she undid one of the belts from her waist and placed the sword horizontally across the cloak so that Littlefinger was left holding both.
"My Lady, I am not sure I understand?"
"I imagine not." Her eyes dropped to the snow. "And it was not my original intention."
"Sansa?"
Her eyes dragged up to his as though held back by the sea. "You told me once that it was your wish to serve me."
"And to love you..." he reminded her.
That was evident in every look and measured word. It was the one attribute in his character that Sansa had never been given cause to doubt. What begun as transferred affection for her mother had evolved into a creature of its own. Twisted as it may be, his love for her was real.
"Then I must ask a service of you. Shall we call it, 'a leap of faith', Lord Baelish."
He looked between her and the collection of items in his arms. "My Lady…?" And that was when he heard the rustle of wind through the leaves of the Weirwood. Oh. Oh… "You are serious?"
"Your drink is the game of power," she explained. "I am taking the glass away."
"I cannot."
"You swore to serve me, Lord Baelish. I ask that you kneel here, before the Old Gods and say the words – pledge yourself not to a crown or a queen or even to love but to the protection of the realms of men."
He picked up the sword. It felt ridiculous in his hand. The last time he'd attempted combat it had resulted in the obliteration of his love and life for which he still bore the scars. "How can I serve you if you banish me to the Wall? That is the punishment of a traitor, Your Grace."
"This is not intended as a punishment. Can't you see? I want you to live. The greatest threat to your life comes from the whispers of royal halls not the army of the dead. You are the smartest man I know..." And this time she placed her hand upon his shoulder. He leaned towards her, as ever unsure of her intentions. "To serve me best I wish you to use these gifts of strategy where I require them most. If the Wall falls we all die. The games end. Crowns are buried. Birds fall from the sky and spiders withdraw to the shadows. Help them… The Northern men and cast of criminals. Help them to save me."
She was serious. Her eyes glossed with unshed tears and something he had not expected – fear. Sansa was not banishing him at all – although many would see it as that. Then the words came to his lips and with them the truth. "The North remembers..."
Sansa slid her hand from his shoulder to clasp gently at his neck. Married or not, he'd managed to steal away her soul and he'd take it with him – to the edge of The Wall. "If we survive, the pretty picture in your mind will slip from the folds of unlikely fantasy and land upon the snow."
He trembled at her touch. It was a promise of marriage. A coded admission of love. "Yes..."
"Yes..." she echoed him. "Here..." Sansa took the sword from him and slid it from its sheath. The blade was smoky-grey, rippled like oil dropped into water. "Valyrian steel. I had the smith you brought from Lys make it specially. See?" Her thumb brushed over a mockingbird carved near the base. She had made sure that it was his sword – a family sword and the start of a dynasty should he live. A cluster of sapphires were set into the Weirwood handle. "Brienne told me once that every sword needs a name."
It was the blue jewels that caught his attention. They shimmered like Sansa's eyes and the flourishes of colour in the snows around Winterfell. "Winter's Rose..." he replied. "That is her name."
"A beautiful name." Sansa agreed. "May she serve you well in the war to come."
Petyr turned to the Weirwood tree. "I do not know the words."
