Countless members of the Unsullied had already fallen. The attack had taken them completely by surprise, a disadvantage that had proved fatal for so many. Their bodies littered the floor, their blood joining together to form a twisted river that flowed into the drains. The Sons of Harpy had taken a heavy hit too, their lack of proper skill being their undoing. They thrived in chaos and the narrow alley was in pure disarray. Another Unsullied fell, his throat being slit as he plunged his spear into the back of another enemy. Grey Worm was surrounded; he had proven the toughest to take down, their leader showing a dogged resilience in the face of death. Not today, he thought, as an image of Missandei of Naath flashed across his mind. He quickly took out two opponents, with one swing of his spear, already coated in the hot blood of men. Yet they just kept coming and he began to take the occasional hit, a slice across the back of his knee temporarily bringing him to the rocky floor.
Ser Barristan Selmy had arrived at this point, stabbing one Harpy in the back and taking another down with a laceration across the stomach. His numerous years on the Kingsguard had brought him the earned reputation of being a masterful swordsman, and he showed his talent by taking out three more of the savages in quick succession. But his issue was his numerous years, his reactions slowed down ever so slightly yet this had a large cost. One Harpy managed to catch him across the back of his hand, the dreadful sting and welling up of blood distracting him, allowing another to drive their knife slightly into his front. The knight tumbled to his knees and looked over to his compatriot, in the same predicament, as he felt the looming shadow of death surely envelope him.
There came a bright flash of searing blue light, blinding everyone as it surged through the alleyway, knocking the fighters down to the floor. A hooded figure stood at the entrance, clutching on to what seemed like a metallic staff with a blue energy like thick wisps of fire placed in the top. His face was shadowed by the hood so Selmy could not make out who this mysterious figure was. One man clad with a golden mask, covered in specks of blood, charged towards the person, but a swift swing of the staff took him out from behind his legs, causing him to fall heavily to the floor on his broken back. The mask was removed, almost with what seemed as care, before the tip of the staff was gently placed on the surface of his skin. The energy swarmed around the body, the alleyway now filled with the screams of the soon to be dead, taking apart his skin piece by piece until all that was left was a steaming husk of bones.
The rebel fighters, seeing their comrade fall in such a gruesome way, attempted to flee. Barristan swiped at the legs of one, bringing him down with ease. The figure simply raised the staff and the light soared through the air once again. The Harpies dropped. Their simultaneous thud as they hit the ground resonated over the tight location, echoing with an occasional, sickening crunch of bone. Selmy was still on the ground and placed a hand against his stomach, seeing the crimson fluid taint his fingers as he inspected the wound. As he slowly lost consciousness, his vision fading to a blur, his potential saviour stepped towards him and crouched down to his level, removing his cloak hood to reveal his haggard face.
"Who…are you?" the knight sputtered as everything went black.
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The small boat slowly made its way along the calm water, drifting peacefully along with the quiet. Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island sat at the back of the vessel, controlling its direction as he observed their surroundings. He had now known exile twice; once when he fled Westeros all those years ago, and, more recently, after being banished by his queen for betraying her. His khaleesi. Since then, he had stumbled through the world, clumsily, without any proper aim. The way she had looked at him, as if she hardly knew him anymore had broken him even more than he had expected. His pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Despite himself, he couldn't help but be proud of the woman, the ruler, she had become compared to that tiny, meagre girl he had initially met. Another ruler would have had him executed on the spot - by letting him leave, was she hinting that she still cared for him? It was a thought that both gave him hope and haunted him.
After that day, his wanderings had led him to Pentos, where he whiled away his hours in brothels, never touching what was so blatantly on display, just drinking away his misery. Every drop seemed to take him one step further from the heartbreak. It had been a long time since he'd been able to enjoy the bitter taste of ale, although enjoyment was the last thing he felt. It was in one of these brothels where he had spotted his redemption. It hadn't been difficult apprehending him to say the least, and he had immediately set sail with renewed vigour and hope.
His redemption was beginning to stir. Tyrion Lannister woke up with an almighty pounding within his skull. It took him a good few moments to get a bearing on things, the grogginess from the brief first encounter with his captor leaving his usually wise brain a little slow. He first noticed the crystal blue water surrounding him. Was he drowning? No…no he was on a boat. A pathetic little dingy really. He looked towards his companion and was met with impassive cold blue eyes, giving away nothing about his plans. He recognised those eyes. Blue...cold...snow...North. He attempted to get up but then realised both his legs and arms had been bound by thick rope. The old man obviously wasn't wary of a fight ensuing, probably just apprehensive of him wriggling away. At least his size had some benefits, he thought to himself.
Though he doubted he'd have any opportunity to get away. Despite those eyes being firmly focused on evaluating the landscape, Tyrion knew they were still acknowledging him. And it wasn't like there was anything else to distract him, wherever they were. It was quiet. Silent. He hadn't known this level of peace since being trapped in that fucking box, although he realised that wasn't that long ago. He again looked towards his new associate and got the same lack of interest as before. This was going to be a dull journey.
"You know," he started, "it's going to be a very long journey that we're going on. We may as well talk to each other to pass the time." Nothing. He got nothing in response. No words, no movement, no recognition that he had said anything. At least Varys was somewhat entertaining at times. He was beginning to miss the eunuch. He once again looked across the water. He didn't recognise where they were, which was surprising since they were obviously heading for Kings Landing and his sister.
"Do you expect my sister to reward you handsomely for my return? She'll be happy of course but the whole bounty on my head thing is just a ploy. My family are in quite a lot of debt, to put it lightly - they can't afford to pay you, even if they wanted to. I'd suggest we head back, I much prefer my head where it currently is."
Tyrion's ramblings had done enough to finally get a reaction from Jorah. He seemed confused about what he had said. He's not a simpleton, is he? Tyrion questioned. He didn't want to be stuck sailing with an idiot; he'd end up killing them both out of mercy.
"I'm not taking you to the Lannisters," Mormont replied "I told you, I'm taking you to the Queen. The True Queen, Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons."
That surprised the imp. Maybe he wouldn't be dying any time soon, although he had heard tales of her dragons. He'd make a nice snack for them, he presumed fearfully. But then who was this man that was working for her. She was in Meereen, quite a bit away from where he had been kidnapped. Then it clicked.
"I thought I recognised those eyes! Old man, obviously Westerosi in origin, wandering around the Eastern lands. Clearly loyal to this Targaryen girl. I've heard stories about you, Jorah Mormont. The forgotten man, chased out of the mainland, betraying your own family. Yet you found yourself in good company again, helping her rise up in the world. What are the Dothraki like, by the way? Always been interested…sorry, off topic." He glanced at the old bear; there was emotion there now. Sadness, deep in his eyes. "Yet you're not with her. You don't sound like the sort of man who would just leave her side. So you were made to. By her, of course, you'd listen to no one else. You messed up again…".
It was at this point that Jorah's lip slowly turned into a snarl. He was about to knock the irritant out when his eyes caught the approaching ruins. Tyrion followed his eyeline and his own widened in disbelief.
"Valyria," he whispered. The once great city still looked magnificent in its desolate state. He'd grown up with stories about the grandeur of the thriving metropolis and the gargantuan dragons it had homed. The size of it was impressive, obviously a wonder when it had been alive. He thought of his home and how that would look turned to ash. It'd probably improve the stench. He remembered a poem about the Doom of Valyria and started mumbling it to himself.
"They held each other close and turned their backs upon the end.
The hills that split asunder and the black that ate the skies;
The flames that shot so high and hot that even dragons burned;
Would never be the final sights that fell upon their eyes."
"A fly upon a wall, the waves the sea wind whipped and churned —
The city of a thousand years, and all that men had learned;
The Doom consumed it all alike, and neither of them turned," Jorah finished. He smiled sadly at Tyrion, who was pleasantly surprised that the disgraced knight knew the tale too. As they drifted closer to the stone ruins, Jorah swore he saw something move slightly on one of the buildings. He was now apprehensive as they approached. Only one group now lived in this graveyard of culture. The silence from before seemed to be amplified as they sailed past the first building and under the archway. Jorah placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready for what was to come. Tyrion was now highly aware that his extremities were bound in rope.
A splash to their right signalled the beginning of the attack. Two more quickly followed, as Tyrion scrambled towards the centre of the boat.
"Stone men!" Jorah shouted as he unsheathed his sword, swinging it quickly to take out one of the approaching enemies. One made it onto the boat before he plunged the metal through the heart of it, sending it to a watery grave. It was mercy on his part, they were no longer men, hadn't been for many years by the looks of it.
"Untie me!" Tyrion screeched, crawling away from one. Jorah took it out but was too preoccupied to stop to deal with the Lannister. A stone man grabbed the rope that held Tyrion and began to pull. Try as he might, it was just too strong for him, and he soon fell off the edge of the boat, plunging into the water below.
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The snow was falling heavily around the Northern outpost. Castle Black stood defiant next to the Wall, the first line of defence against the oncoming storm. The storm they used to fight, the one they had just finished fighting, was the wildlings but the few that had survived the battle now lived in close quarters with their 'enemies'. A new storm was approaching, Jon knew, but he had to weather the final winds of this one first.
Jon Snow trudged on through the snow and mud as he approached the room that held Mance. Stannis, after he had saved them from defeat, had offered the leader of the Wildlings the option of bending the knee or dying. Jon knew what the realistic outcome was but he still felt that he should at least try to save him. He had grown fond of the surly old man, in awe of the talent he held to bring together so many Northern tribes in a united front. That sort of diplomacy would be crucial if they were to win the war against the dead.
He knocked on the wooden door as he arrived. It opened quite quickly and was surprised to find that Rayder wasn't alone. Ser Davos Seaworth stood by the door and gave Jon a brief nod of the head. He hadn't spoken much with Stannis's Hand but he seemed competent enough. He mentally planned to have a discussion with him when the time was available, it'd be good to know who you were working with.
"May I speak to him alone?" Jon asked. Any attempts to persuade Mance would be made more difficult with any other people present.
"If I may be so bold, Snow," Davos responded, his Scottish accent thick compared to Jon's Northern brogue "I'd like to stay an' watch. Act as a representative of Stannis, he wants unity as much as you and I do."
Jon just gave a nod to the request and the ex-smuggler moved to stand in the corner, not wanting to get in the bastard's way. Jon turned his attention to his main target. Mance hadn't paid any notice to the entrance of Jon, which didn't come as a surprise. Rayder was an unassuming king, especially compared to the ones he had known that ruled in the south. He guessed that was the difference between the two regions - one liked to live a life of luxury, whereas the other worked to get the job done. He didn't speak much but, when he did, he didn't mince his words, wanting to get straight to the point, and this occasion was no different.
"I know why you're 'ere," he grumbled "and I know why you're doing it. I appreciate you carin' so much about ma fate but you have better things to be doing."
"We both could be working together to accomplish these better things. You know what's out there, that's why you brought together the Free Folk. You understood that they couldn't survive what's to come, well they won't be able to survive if you die.". Jon argued in response, expecting a rebuke that eventually came.
"They'll have you once I'm gone,"
"I'm not one of them - why would they listen to me?"
"There's somethin' about ya lad that encourages me. You care about em, us. That makes you a fuckin' darn sight better than most southerners.". At that, he looked over at Davos, who glared back, prompting a small smirk to form on Rayder's face.
"Be that as it may, I'm not you. I'm not the one who brought together over 90 tribes, something that has never been done before. We need you, Wildlings and men alike, to take on this Winter. Just...bend the knee to Stannis and then we can move on and prepare our next course of action".
"No." came the blunt reply.
Jon was beginning to get annoyed at the lack of progress he was making. He was pacing along the length of a table, wondering what he could do to save the situation.
"Why? Why can't you do this one thing, to save your people. Only you can convince the Free Folk to leave their homes before it's too late. If you don't do this, all those people will die. Men. Women. Children. So why won't you? Is it pride?".
At that, Mance interrupted - "Fuck ma pride!" he bellowed, "It ain't got nuthin to do with ma pride. Us free folk don't see any reason to have one person being o'er mighty than everyone else. We don't make people bend t'others. So I won't do it for a fuckin' southerner either. I know you mean well kid but you're fighting a losin' battle".
"I think i should interrupt here fellas," murmured Davos, who had slowly approached the two bickering men, "I thought this might be an issue so I discussed it with Stannis beforehand. He's willing, on good faith, to accept you won't see him as your king. What he still wants is you to bend the knee.". Before Mance could argue, Davos plowed on. "Ah, before you complain, it won't mean anything. It'll just be a signal of alliance between us two groups of people, and an agreement that you will allow your people to fight on behalf of the rightful king Stannis Baratheon when he requires them to do so.". With that, Davos stopped and waited for Mance's reply. The silence seemed to last an age as it echoed around the cold room. After an eternity, Mance nodded.
"I'll have to explain the goin's on to ma people so they understand what's going on."
"That's perfectly reasonable," answered Davos, who shared a mightily relieved look with Jon as they preceded to exit the room. Once they were outside, cloaks now billowing in the icy wind, Jon couldn't help but send a wry smile towards the sailor.
"You're one hell of a hand, Ser Davos."
"Aye," came the short response, as Davos returned the grin, "and you'd better remember it."
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Cersei Lannister stood on her balcony, looking over her city below. Because it was truly her city. She worked behind the scenes, so often the puppet master. Joffrey had been a much more difficult animal to tame but he had been poached from the world too soon, dying in her arms as his skin blistered and purpled. Tommen was much more malleable, her claws sinking into him as soon as he was on the throne. Yet that Margaery had come along and seen the potential for influence too, and had outmaneuvered her quite admirably. That meant that one of her puppet strings was slowly becoming frayed, and the rising of the Faith of the Seven threatened to cleanly snap the other.
Then she had to deal with the growing threat of Dorne. That stupid wench Ellaria had taken Oberyn's death to heart, even though it had been his own foolishness that had got him killed. You didn't see her agonising over the death of her guard, the Mountain, did you? she thought irritably. Yet she knew her precious Myrcella remained in Dorne, and that meant trouble. She knew the Dornish, when they weren't whoring around, they loved to seek vengeance, and her daughter made the perfect target. At times, she wondered how her father had coped with spinning all these plates. Another thing on her mind, the death of the great lion, Tywin Lannister, shot dead by her brother, although she believed that they couldn't be related. Surely.
As she moved to the table, she looked over at her guest. Her brother, Jaime. Her love, the one true constant in her life that made all the pain worth it. Yet his eyes looked hollow, lacking their usual gleam. He looked tired. He had returned to her a different man, half the man really with his missing hand.
"We need to get Myrcella," she began, taking a sip of wine as she spoke, "she can't stay in that vulgar place any longer. Our family is being torn apart by forces within our ranks and outside, we need to be together more than ever."
Jaime looked at his sister. She had changed in the time that had passed since he'd been with her. More cynical, more bloodthirsty. She was like a caged animal, striking at anything that came close, and she was being continuously poked and prodded. "Don't you think I know that?" he replied, frustrated at the situation they found themselves in.
"Then what do you say is our next option?"
"I'll send a ship for Myrcella. Put some of my best men onboard, it should be enough. Say that her mother wants to see her. She can even bring that Dornish prince she's with if she has any objections."
"You won't go get her yourself? You're her father!"
"You said it yourself, we need to be together right now. But…"
Cersei had stood from her desk and strolled over to the man in the centre of her room. She grabbed his good hand and moved it to hold her face. She locked eyes with him and moved in for the kiss when...he abruptly moved away from her. He sidestepped her attempts to pull him back, putting distance between the two of them.
"What's the matter with you?" she questioned frantically. Of all the things that were going wrong in their lives, she banked on their relationship not falling apart. This couldn't be what it seemed like.
"I...can't. We can't...be doing this...anymore," he whispered, tears beginning to form in his eyes, "you've said it yourself Cersei. The Faith are circling in, they want blood. If they catch wind of anything happening in this city, they're on it without a second thought. That High Sparrow is delusional in his beliefs but his beliefs are incredibly strong. He won't stop till the city is in his control. And what would stick out more like a sore fucking thumb than us two? The fucking incestuous siblings, fucking one another in the Keep overlooking the city. We're not safe anymore."
Cersei couldn't quite fathom what he was saying. Her own tears began to well up at the corner of her eyes but she thought them back. She was losing everything but she would not let slip her pride and dignity.
"Then what do we do? How do we go on from this position?"
"I'm going to leave. Now. Explain it all to Tommen, will you? He wouldn't understand my leaving."
"You can't leave!" Her anger was beginning to spill over. "You can't leave me! Who do I have here? Father's dead. Clegane is dead. Joffrey is dead. Tommen is slipping away from me. The only people here are circling around me, waiting to pounce the moment I show any sign of weakness. You can't leave." She ended on a whisper as her facade slowly fell but, as Jaime failed to give a meaningful response, her mask was placed back on. "Are you tired of me? Bored? What are you going to do? Travel up through Westeros, visiting every brothel to get your fix. I bet they'll be able to put your gold hand to good use."
Jaime was quite shocked at the outburst, although her anger wasn't that much of a surprise. "I'm...not sure where I'll go. Just...away from here. I'm truly sorry Cersei, I hope you understand why I'm doing this at some point." He edged towards the door, before stopping as a glass smashed against the wall not too far from where his head was. He looked back at his sister and his mournful look was reciprocated with one filled with pure contempt. He didn't risk worsening the situation by saying anything else, and he exited the room, leaving his family and what remained of his honour behind.