AN: Not gonna lie guys, this chapter is relatively short, but I've left you guys hanging for a while now so you're getting a chapter anyway, before I get dragged back into the the whirlpool that is the Masters-level workload.
"Jon!" hissed Sam, glancing around furtively. Jon looked warily at Sam, raising his eyebrows – he liked Sam, he really did, but he wasn't made for sneakiness. Sam gestured at Jon to follow him, and Jon sighed, put down his drink, and followed. It was obvious that Sam wanted Jon alone – Dacey and the Smalljon had only just left Jon to pack the rest of their goods, ready to ride out at dawn.
"What's going on?" asked Jon.
"Just a little further," said Sam, leading Jon out of the yard and just past the tree line. There, sheltering behind a particularly full fir tree, was a girl, one of Craster's daughters. She startled as Sam and Jon appeared, but relaxed slightly as she recognised Sam. She remained agitated, though, her brown eyes ridiculously wide – she looked so desperate that it was if the gods had fashioned her specifically to evoke the protection of others.
"We're not meant to be talking to Craster's daughters," Jon hissed at Sam.
"She needs help!" said Sam. "She's pregnant, Jon."
"Please, I can still run," said Gilly. "I only just found out. My baby, if it's a boy -" She hesitated.
"Craster will give him to the Others," finished Jon. Gilly nodded jerkily, her hand curving protectively over her still-flat stomach. Jon grimaced. He couldn't leave her to that, nor could he condemn an innocent child to the White Walkers. "Alright," said Jon. "Alright. Can you meet us just north of the keep when we leave? Is that safe enough?"
Gilly nodded, her expression solidifying into one of steely determination. "It'll have to be."
"You're now under the protection of House Stark," said Jon. "I'll keep you safe until we can return south of the Wall, when you can choose your own path – I'll take you to find work in Winterfell if you want, but you can stay with your people, or leave entirely, if you want."
"My -" Gilly hesitated again, but Jon knew who she was referring to.
Even though there was no one around but Gilly and Sam, Jon still dropped his voice. "Once we've treated with the Wildlings, Craster will never take another wife. We will take your sisters to safety south of the Wall, and he can either take his chances here with the White Walkers, or face the King's justice. He will never see another son born."
Gilly stared at him, her eyes gleaming with tears, her breath coming in heavy. "Truly?" she whispered.
"I swear it on the old gods and the new," said Jon. Gilly covered her mouth with her hand, tears beginning to run. Sam rubbed her shoulder gently. "Sam, we need to get back. We're to ride out any minute."
"You'll meet us north of the keep?" asked Sam. Gilly nodded, sniffling.
"Be careful," said Jon. She nodded, seeming unable to speak.
When he finally mounted his horse, Jon had never been so relieved to leave a place behind. Everything about Craster's keep seemed tainted by the knowledge of what he did to his own children, sons and daughters both: the rafters creaking with the weight of what they had seen, the waters poisoned by despair, the food spoiled and rotten. Jon would give up the little safety the building had provided with pleasure if only to escape the creeping disease that infected every corner of the place.
Gilly found them after only five minutes after the party had left, stepping out of the trees. "Gilly!" Sam cried out.
"My lady, I'm sorry, but -" began Mormont.
"I've placed her under the protection of House Stark," said Jon. "She will ride with us."
Mormont pursed his lips. "On your own head, be it."
Sam scrambled off his horse, but Dacey beat him to Gilly. Dacey was the only woman amongst the party, and Gilly seemed relieved to see her, giving her a tentative smile. She smiled more truly when Sam hurried up to her.
"You can ride with me, if you like," said Dacey. "It won't be particularly comfortable, but…"
When Gilly hesitated, Sam said, "You can trust Dacey. She's wonderful, and far better in a fight than me. You can ride with me if you like, but -" Sam glanced down at himself and shrugged with self-deprecating good humour " – Dacey's probably the better bet."
"Thank you, Dacey," said Gilly. Dacey led Gilly back to her horse, swung herself up into the saddle, then stuck a hand down to help Gilly up. Gilly grasped it and pulled herself upwards, gasping as she settled behind Dacey.
Dacey nudged her horse forward until she was riding beside Jon. "Tell me, Snow," said Dacey. "Do you make a habit of rescuing maidens?"
"Well," said Jon. "My sister always did make me rescue her from the terrifying monster keeping her captive in a tower. Of course, the monster then was always my other sister."
Dacey laughed. "I'm sure your sister will be very proud when you tell her."
Sansa was already proud of him. Even after all these months, it was still strange how she looked to him. The other Jon had been her king and her saviour. He had taken back Winterfell for the Starks and brought the Wildlings to safety, south of the Wall. She trusted him to make the right move, no matter how much she had stressed over him before he had ridden out. Jon just hoped that he was as worthy of her faith as her Jon had been.
The days passed slowly, a long slog of passing through the snows. The snow fell higher in the Haunted Forest than Jon had ever seen it fall in Winterfell, but it reminded him of the stories that Old Nan used to tell, great snowdrifts that could bury a man if not a castle. He rode alongside Dacey, Gilly and Sam most days. Despite being a Wildling, Gilly had seen less of the world than any of the others, and she spent her days gazing around in wonder as Sam told her endless stories about the history of Westeros.
On the third day, Jon watched as a member of the Night's Watch spurred his horse forwards to catch up with Mormont. Jon nudged his own horse forward just enough to catch what Mormont was being told: "There's someone following us."
Mormont nodded, but gave no orders. As night began to fall, they set up camp for the night, Sam assuring them it wouldn't be much further to the Fist. Mormont beckoned Jon over to him.
"We've had Wildlings following us most of the day," said Mormont. "A scouting party most likely – there doesn't seem like enough of them to be anything larger."
"What do you want to do with them?" asked Jon.
"If we leave them, we'll likely have our throats slit as we sleep," said Mormont. "But if we kill them…"
"It won't be a good start to negotiating with Mance Rayder," finished Jon. "So we capture them, as best we can."
They collected a few more men – and Dacey, who had no patience for anyone who suggested leaving her behind – and left the inner circle of the camp. There was no one to be seen in the trees, but that didn't mean much. The Wildling weren't like the southerners, colouring their clothes to match their allegiance to a House or brotherhood: they dressed to blend into their surroundings. Jon eyes flicked from tree to tree, bush to bush, wondering what was real and what just a Wildling hiding.
"We don't want to hurt you," said Mormont calmly, his voice ringing through the trees. "If you surrender now, we'll give you quarter, and we'll take you back to your king."
Someone scoffed. Then, half a second later, someone burst out from behind a boulder, axe in hand and screaming. The other Wildlings threw themselves into the fray, too fast and too sudden for Jon to count them all, but even he could tell there weren't enough to hope to win.
A Wildling thrust their axe at him. He blocked it with his sword and kicked, hitting them in the stomach and sending them sprawling backwards. They were on their feet in an instant, axe back in their hands, but they didn't have time to fully regain their balance when Jon pushed his advantage, hooking the axe where the blade met wood with his sword and wrenching it clear of the Wildling's grip. It flew out of reach, and Jon pushed forward, his sword coming to rest at the Wildling's throat.
The Wildling stumbled back, eyes narrowing at him. "Kill me," she spat – because that voice had to be a girl's voice. "Burn me after. I'm not kneeling to you."
"I don't want to kill you," said Jon. "I'm trying to make peace with the Wildlings."
"Then why are you with the crows?" she spat, jerking her head at the Night's Watchmen.
"Because they're the only ones who can guide us beyond the Wall?" said Jon. "I don't need you to kneel. I just need you to not attack us until we can give you back to Mance Rayder."
She eyed him warily. "You'll want us to kneel, though," she said. "That's what all you southerners do. The Free Folk will never kneel."
"We want you to survive the Long Night," said Jon. "Everything else is negotiable."
She still didn't look like she trusted him, but she reached up, her movements slow to show she wasn't planning anything, and tugged her hood back. Her red hair tumbled from it, revealing a long brain that had seen damage during the fight. "Who are you, then?"
"I'm Jon Snow," said Jon, lowering his sword. "Son of Eddard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell. I'm here on his behalf to make peace with your king. And you?"
"Ygritte," she admitted, spitting the word out reluctantly.
Dacey appeared at his side. She had traded her weapons for rope. At the sight, Ygritte jerked back. "We're not going to kill you," said Dacey, with a roll of her eyes. "But we can't have you stealing our knives and slitting our throats in our sleep." Ygritte took another step back, her eyes narrowed. "Look, we've got another Wildling girl in our camp under Jon Snow's protection. You can either have your hands bound for a few days or you can join your friends." Dacey jerked her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of three other Wildlings, all dead. Only one other Wildling beside Ygritte had survived the fight. "And based off how warm your reception was, I don't think we can risk burning your bodies and alerting other Wildlings where we are," finished Dacey.
Still glaring, Ygritte thrust out her arms but didn't move any closer. It was Dacey who had to close the distance between them to bind her hands together, and pat Ygritte down to check for more knives.
"If it helps," said Jon, "we have another Wildling to keep you company."
From the glare she shot him, it did not.
"We could make you a squire," offered Sansa.
Arya rolled her eyes as Gendry fumbled his way through a polite refusal. Gendry didn't want to stay in the Red Keep, and she couldn't blame him. Cersei and Joffrey would be out for his head if they ever noticed one of Robert's bastards running around, and most of the other lords around would treat him like shit for his low birth. And besides, who would be squire to, anyway? No one knew about Brienne's knighthood, and she wouldn't wish Jaime Lannister as a master on anyone. The amount of knights in the know was running rather low aside from those two.
"D'you want to go back to smithing?" asked Arya, swinging from her place sprawled on the soft chair by the window up into a sitting position.
"Where else can I go?" asked Gendry.
"You could set up your own shop," suggested Arya. "Or we could probably get you a job in the smithy here in the Red Keep."
Gendry shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Staying in the Red Keep isn't the best idea."
Arya pictured Joffrey's reaction to finding a blacksmith that looked more like Robert than he did and winced. "Maybe not."
"Perhaps," said Ned, entering the room, "I have an alternative." He had only just arrived back from the Small Council and had spent the past few minutes scribbling down his notes in his solar. Now, he took a seat next to Sansa and looked to Gendry. "The Seven Kingdoms will need all the dragonglass it can get. I'm arranging trade agreements with Dragonstone, but it still needs to be shaped into weapons. Dragonglass hasn't been used for weaponry since before the Andals landed at least. There's one blacksmith in all of Westeros that has experience with working dragonglass – you."
"What do you want me to do?" asked Gendry cautiously.
"You'll set up a shop," said Ned. "We'll make orders from you – arrowheads, spears, swords, anything. We can begin stockpiling dragonglass and sending it north to the Wall."
"If we could make it fashionable," mused Sansa, "if we could have lords across Westeros having things made out of dragonglass – we might be able to get more smiths working with dragonglass. It'll take work away from you, Gendry, but it'll lighten the load and speed up production."
"You could take apprentices, too," added Arya. "That would speed things up as well."
Gendry looked between them all and asked, "How would I even start this?"
"We can provide you the money to set the shop up," said Ned. "Once the orders start coming in, you'll be self-sufficient, I imagine."
Gendry's jaw set. Eventually, he said, "Thank you, Lord Stark."
With Ned's meeting finished, he and Sansa were readying to leave for the Kingswood with the dire wolves in tow. Sansa was already dressed for it, and Lady and Nymeria were both waiting by the door. Arya watched enviously as her father and sister took her dire wolf out, ready to ride out for something other than this damned city.
Arya, though, had other things to attend to.
"I would have thought you'd leap for a trip to the Kingswood," commented Gendry.
"Can't," said Arya. "I need the Tower at least somewhat empty for an afternoon, and this was the easiest way to get the men out of the way."
Gendry looked at her warily. "What are you planning?"
Arya grinned. "Come with me."
She led the way into the Hand's bedchambers. They were larger and more spacious than Arya's own, though that wasn't surprising. Ned's belongings were only half unpacked, scattered across the room. He hadn't much time to spend in the Tower of the Hand, and even less to spend in his own chambers, thought Arya with a twinge of dismay.
Gendry shifted uncomfortably. "Are we meant to be in here?"
"After we parted," said Arya, "I – I didn't always run with the best people, Gendry."
"I figured," said Gendry. "You don't get that dangerous without running with dangerous people."
Arya took a deep breath. "Some of them – the last group I was with before I started going home – they taught me how to get in and out of places undetected," she said, keeping her voice low. "How to get in, how to avoid notice when you're there."
"And – why is that important to us standing in your father's chambers?" asked Gendry.
"Because Maegor the Cruel had secret passages into the Red Keep," said Arya. "Now, the F – the people I was with taught me that secret passages can be used for one of two reasons: as an escape route if the castle if ever taken – that's usually the reason they're built – and for people to spy undetected."
Gendry looked around, understanding dawning on his face. "And of course the Hand of the King is important enough to get an escape route."
"And is important enough to be spied upon," agreed Arya. "If there's secret passages in this Tower, then it'll be in here or in Father's solar." She gestured widely around the room and added, "Secret passages will be hidden under rugs, behind tapestries or bookshelves."
"And you want me to move that shelf over there," said Gendry, nodding at the shelf in question, next to the bed. There wasn't anything on it – Ned wasn't the type to have too many knick-knacks, and anything Jon Arryn had kept had been cleared away well before.
"You're quick," said Arya. "I knew there was a reason I kept you around."
Gendry rolled his eyes at her, but pushed up his sleeves and went to move the bookshelf. Arya busied herself shifting the rug on the floor – it was a bear's skin, the fur fluffy enough that it would hide any trapdoors underneath. There was nothing there but smooth wooden floors.
"Shouldn't your father have been told where the secret passages are anyway?" asked Gendry, straining against the shelf.
Arya shook her head, even though Gendry wasn't looking. "I doubt the Baratheons even know where most of the secret tunnels are," she said. "Varys probably does, but why give up an advantage like that when you can use the tunnels to spy on everyone?"
"Nothing here," reported Gendry. "The solar?"
"Not yet," said Arya, pulling the rug into place. There was one more place to check. The Faceless Men hardly gave an exhaustive list of places to search for hidden doors, but they had taught her the kinds of places they were hidden: quiet places, part of the room that most people didn't see, obscured by anything and everything.
There was no fire burning in the hearth. It was a warm day – uncomfortably so – and the fire had been doused early in the morning, as the sun rose. The ash was cool to touch and easy to sweep away under Arya's hands. There, hidden from the eye by flames and cinders, was the trap door.
"Got you," whispered Arya.
"Now what?" asked Gendry.
Arya took hold of the handle and heaved. It came open easier than she had expected, coming loose so quickly and suddenly that Arya nearly overbalanced and fell. Stupid, thought Arya, annoyed at herself. Varys' spies probably crept through here looking for information all the time.
This is risky, she thought. The little birds could be anywhere in the secret tunnels and passages, and any one of them could see Arya and report her to the Spider. The entire façade Arya had built up for the Southerners would crumble and one of the most powerful players in all of the world would begin to understand what Arya was capable of.
She remembered her face being pressed against Yoren's chest as she was forced to look away from her father's murder. She remembered the Waif chasing her through Bravos. She remembered Littlefinger leaving Sansa's letter for her to find, playing her like a fiddle. I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, she thought. I was the only Stark to survive the Twins. I trained under the Faceless Men. I looked right at Tywin Lannister and told him he could die. I can do this.
She braced her hands against either side of the trap door and neatly dropped inside. She popped her head back up to look at Gendry. "Are you coming?"
Gendry shook his head, exasperated but smiling. "You've got no sense of self-preservation."
"Well, I've survived this far," said Arya. "Come on. Where's your sense of adventure?"
"I'm coming," sighed Gendry. "But only because your sister would probably murder me if I didn't."
"If you say so," said Arya. "Grab the candle." And with that, she ducked back into the way between the walls.
Across the Narrow Sea and in another Sea entirely, it was dark. The sliver of a moon that shone above them barely provided enough light to see by: instead, Daenerys Stormborn was guided only by the torch held by her bloodrider.
She watched impassively as Mirri Maz Duur was bound to the pyre. Of all the people in the world, Mirri Maz Duur was not one whom Daenerys could summon sympathy for. As Jorah made his way back to her side, she took the torch from Rahkaro and lowered it to the kindling. The pyre was alight at once, the flames spreading around the outer circle, then to the centre, then, at last, to Drogo himself.
Daenerys turned to look once more at her Khalasar. There were no more slaves, not here. In this small corner of the world, she had brought freedom and justice. But she had no desire to stop with a single Khalasar.
She took her first step, then a second. The flames licked at her dress, her legs, her face, but they did not burn her. Mirri Maz Duur had begun to scream, but Daenerys did not flinch. In the centre of the fire, where the flames burned their hottest, she knelt to hold the dragon eggs.
The pyre continued to burn, growing into an inferno as the moon made its way across the sky. The eggs were blisteringly warm in her hands. As orange light began to blaze across the sky, the smoke began to clear, the pyre giving way to only ash and dust: a life for a life, a fire for a fire.
In the midst of the devastation, covered in soot, the sun shining brilliantly on her silver hair, Daenerys Stormborn rose to her feet, once more the Mother of Dragons.