Winterfell had lost all its charm since the Boltons' arrival. It was a much darker place now. Maybe it had something to do with the encroaching winter, or maybe it was all down to their cold grasp leaving a mark on the castle. In the courtyard, numerous soldiers were huddled together, trying to keep as much warmth by being in close proximity. Winterfell was a ruin but the ground provided them with a good source of heat; people didn't know how, despite the embrace of Winter, the hot springs in and around the area kept going. They didn't question such a blessing.

In the room that the head Bolton had commandeered for his main base of operations, stood that very man. Roose Bolton was of average height but was still an imposing figure. His deep, commanding voice made lesser men quake when they earned an audience with him. He was currently stood in front of a roaring fire, looking into its flames to see if any answers came to him. The fall of the Lannisters with the death of Tywin had left him in a vulnerable position, one that could be exploited if any of the previously Stark-loyal bannermen turned against him. At this point, they had had no reason to disobey them; he had ensured enough fear was put in them to keep them loyal. He had been attempting to teach this skillful art of diplomacy to his bastard son, Ramsay, for a number of weeks but he was often too preoccupied to listen. It'll get him killed one day he bitterly thought. He contemplated if that would be the worst thing to happen.

The man in question was also stood in the room with him, looking out through the window at the land they now owned. Conquest had fed his ego well but he had an insatiable appetite. He longed for the chance to win another battle, being holed up in one place after such a victory was beginning to become extremely, painfully dull. It was one of the main reasons why he had enjoyed so much torturing Reek. To have another man, if you could even call him that anymore, bend to your will without question gave him a rush of power that he greatly enjoyed.

Both of their musings were broken as the new maester knocked on the door. He stepped in when told to do so. "A raven just arrived, my Lord." He handed the note, still with its seal on, to Roose before shuffling to the back of the room.

"You may leave," barked the older Bolton, receiving a quick nod and then the sound of frantic footsteps. He broke the seal and then read its contents, his dour expression getting darker with each word it seemed. When he was finished reading, Ramsay sent him a curious glance. Roose chucked the piece of paper into the fire before answering.

"A warning. From the new commander of the Night's Watch. Stannis Baratheon seems to have taken a new approach after his naval disaster. He's holed up at Castle Black, and intends to siege Winterfell from our grasps." Ramsay smirked at this. The conflict he so dearly wanted was on its way. "And that's not even the main thing. He's resorted to an alliance with people from beyond the wall, someone called Mance Rayder, who claims to have united most of the tribes. He also has won the favour of Eddard Stark's bastard child, Jon Snow."

That news made the smile on Ramsay's face grow. Oh, he'd love to slay a few of those savages. And then that illegitimate fraud. "Then let them do so father. We'll meet them on the battlefield and make them wish they never stood against us."

"And why would we meet them on a battlefield?" his father questioned, disappointed in the boy's lack of military knowledge. "We have a fortress that, if defended properly, is nye on impossible to get into. No sane commander would leave such a tactically beneficial base."

"But there is no glory in that!" Ramsay was incredulous at his father's lack of fire. "This is an opportunity to show the rest of Westeros what we aim to do to those who oppose us."

"You are my son. I don't doubt that." Ramsay smiled, surprised at the sudden reassurance but that quickly disappeared with the next sentence. "But you are not my military advisor. The bannermen need to be kept by our side, the likes of Umber and Karstark. Sending their men out needlessly will only serve to spark an uprising which would end with our heads on spikes. And I'd make sure yours would be the first to go."

Ramsay contemplated continuing the argument but instead opted to stalk out of the room, slamming the door behind him. He may act as though he is a man Roose thought but he is still just a petulant child at heart.

The young Bolton stormed towards his quarters, intent on taking his anger out on his latest prize. When his father had told him he would be marrying, he had expected some fat, ugly piece of meat for him to produce his own heirs. Instead, he had been pleasantly surprised to see Sansa Stark; young, beautiful, with long, red hair, he thought she was perfect. To play with, that was. Although they were yet to be married, he presumed he could still have some fun if he wanted to.

She was set on his bed, playing the role that was expected of her - the obedient girl who would never question her betters. She flinched slightly as the door swung open, before composing herself as her love strolled in, a sadistic smile on his face. Between him and Joffrey, her time with men had not been a fruitful one. But her resilience had grown greatly; she was no longer that stupid, little girl who had dreamed of being a princess. No, she was going to be a ruler.

Ramsey tutted as he circled her. "Your brother is being very naughty"

Sansa hadn't expected to hear about her half brother. In truth, she hadn't had chance to think about him since her departure to Kings Landing. Although she had never truly been close to him, possibly because of her mum's apparent hatred towards him, but she did miss him now. Her silence as she thought about her family past prompted Ramsay to continue.

"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?

"Of course not, my love," she answered truthfully.

"Good, good," he leaned closer towards her. "Because I would be greatly displeased if you were going behind my back."

"I would never do that. Jon isn't even my brother. I have no business with him. My loyalties are with you." She hoped that he failed to register the slight hitch in her voice as she spoke. He looked at her for a few seconds, and she felt that she had slipped up. But then a smile went across his face.

"Then everything is fine. Just how I want it to be." He looked her up and down. "You're looking a little dirty, my love. Why don't I order you a bath to be run, let you relax for a bit. Winterfell isn't the most pleasant of places."

"That would be nice," hoping that this pleasantness was genuine.

"I'll get Reek to help you. I'm sure he'd love to…." His smirk belied his intentions but, before she could plead with him, he was gone from the room. She sat in silence for a second, stopping a tear from rolling down her cheek. I have to get out of here.

xxxxxxxxxx

The small fighting pit was nothing spectacular to look at. A relatively large semi circle of sand sat in front of a small wooden stage that was draped in red curtains to protect the watchers from the searing heat. There wasn't any room for a public audience, this was solely for a private party. That fact concerned Daenerys, as her mind drifted to the prospect of past lords putting on their own fights, watching their own slaves fight to the death for their entertainment. She suspected that the reward for winning was a continued existence, if you could call being a slave a worthwhile existence. She was still against the idea of watching people in brutal combat but Varys had advised her to attend. When the people see that you accept and partake in their interests and culture, then you will be endeared to them he had said. She didn't have an argument for that. She was tired of being under the constant threat of the Harpies; if this went someway to reducing the potency and frequency of their attacks, then she would grin and bear it. She also reassured herself somewhat that at least the people who would fight today would be doing so of their own volition. But are they just slaves to what history has told them they should be? she wondered. She couldn't reverse her decision now - that would probably make the situation even worse.

Daenerys was currently sat on the largest chair provided, placed in the middle of the stage. It was incredibly uncomfortable but she put on a brave face to please the few lords that were in attendance. She had invited them out of good will, an attempt to thaw their icy relationship. But it angered her that some of the men around her could be behind the attacks. Retribution would have to wait for now. A hand was placed on her shoulder, and she looked up to see Daario checking whether she was okay. Her thoughts had left her in a rigid position but Daario just expected it was down to the upcoming spectacle. When she gave him a reassuring smile, he sat back down in the chair closest to her. Varys remained stood off to one side, no expression displayed on his face. This is just a distraction he mentally sighed there are other things we need to be focusing on. On the opposite side of the stage was Missandei, who was still grief-stricken after the recent loss of Grey Worm. Although they had not had many moments alone, she had cared greatly for the warrior. She only wished that he had found peace after such a difficult life. Her glum expression matched those of the rest of the group, a polar opposite to the jovial laughter coming from the lords. Daenerys tapped impatiently against the arm of the chair. Hopefully it would be a short fight.

Jorah looked through the only window provided in the small waiting room. She was there. And after even all this time apart, she hadn't changed. She still looked the same, still held herself in that composed manner of a Queen. He didn't particularly like how close Daario was to her but he couldn't complain. He had lost the right to stand by her; he would fight to win back that honour. The room had a rancid stench of sweat and mud. You could tell that it had only been used for slaves in the past. The only luxury was the bench that Tyrion was sitting on, his legs just scraping the ground as anxiously eyed the other four men there. A few of them had snarled at him once or twice, presuming he would be the easy target when they all got out into the pit. He looked between them and Jorah; quite a few were a lot larger than the Bear, and also a lot younger. He worried that in his attempts to win back Daenerys, he had been blinded from the realities of life. He was an old knight, probably knew how to fight, but would he be able to match the athleticism of those currently eyeing them up?

A great big mountain of a man stomped into the room. A hush descended on the group. He gestured to the group of four men who were sat closest to the door and then pointed to the entrance to the pit. They got up immediately and barged each other until they were through the door. Jorah was concerned that he had missed his opportunity. He couldn't let it pass him by so easily.

Daenerys perked up as four men clad in shoddy armour proudly walked along the centre of the arena, lining up in front of the stage. They each bowed at her and then stood, expectantly. She creased her eyebrows, wondering why they weren't getting on with it.

"Clap your hands," Hizdahr whispered to her, quickly leaning into her from his position, where he had been talking to the other lords.

"Excuse me?"

"You need to clap your hands. To show that you accept them to fight for you."

"Oh...right." She did so, and the men moved to get into position. They quickly split up into pairs, their individual battles ready to begin. One man, a muscular specimen with short hair, charged at his opponent, wielding a dirty sword. His eagerness was his downfall though. The other man, more nimble than the brute, sidestepped the onrushing attacker, tripping him up with his leg and spear. The larger man's momentum sent him tumbling, as he twisted to try and right himself. Landing on his back, before he could get back up, his throat was sliced by a dagger the other had got out from somewhere in his pants. He stood a moment, watching the blood trickle down the neck as his life left his eyes. That was until he felt an agonising pain, looking down to his chest to see the point of a sword protruding out. One of the other fighters had seen the opportunity and had taken it to devastating effect.

Jorah watched as Daenerys flinched at the brutality. If he could take down the other two without killing them, she would hopefully respect his skill and lack of blood lust. "I need to get out there," he said quietly to Tyrion as he stepped over towards him.

"No way. You weren't chosen yet. It isn't worth you getting beaten to a bloody pulp."

"It might be my only chance." Jorah was resolute. He put a helmet on that was on the bench and, before the guard could question what he was doing, he smashed him in the face with the hilt of his sword, knocking him unconscious. He walked outside, keeping the sword close to his side as he approached the two remaining fighters.

Daenerys wasn't expecting another fighter to emerge into the pit and it seemed that the organisers weren't either, but they had been easily shrugged aside by the newcomer. She watched as he interrupted the current fight, taking out one of the men quickly with a short jab to the face. He then faced off the remaining opponent, parrying a burst of attacks with his longsword.

Jorah was waiting patiently as the other man flaunted flamboyantly. He was trying to impose himself on the Mormont knight, attempting to appear the stronger of the two. Jorah wasn't at all bothered by the tactics and, getting past one swing of a sword, he tripped the man over and pierced him to the ground through his left arm with the spear the other fighter had dropped when he had been beaten. He looked up to the stage and saw Daenerys looking towards him, a pleasant smile on her face, impressed with how easily he had won without the need to kill anyone. The organiser of the event looked around, anxious about what had just played out before he walked over to Jorah and raised his arm in the air.

"And what is the name of the man that has the honour of fighting again in the Great Pit of Daznak?"

Jorah was now incredibly nervous, not knowing what sort of reaction he would get. He slowly lifted his helmet, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. He'd gladly fight 100 men than see her anger directed at him. Yet he eventually mustered the confidence to look up, and his worst fears came true. The look she gave, one initially of surprise, turned to disgust and hatred.

"What are you doing here?" Her tone was low and dangerous. "I ordered you to leave this city and never return. I remember specifically telling you what the consequences would be if you did." Jorah again bent his head, sorrow filling him, but before he could respond, they were interrupted by the arrival of Tyrion, who had thought now was the time to save the bear from the full force of the dragon's ire.

"He came because of me, your grace," he said loudly. He enjoyed the way Varys's eyes widened in brief shock before he regained his composure. Daenerys looked at him, far from impressed.

"And who might you be? Why are you so important that he went against my orders?"

"My name is Tyrion Lannister." She glanced over to Varys, who nodded his head in confirmation.

"I've heard a lot about you. My new friend here has spoken at great length of your capabilities, your apparent way with words." He smiled gratefully at the compliment. "If that is the case, use those words to convince me to not have him executed right now." Jorah's head sprung up at that, alarmed at how callus her voice was.

Tyrion paced for a moment, wondering where to begin. "I have had the misfortune of being captured by Mormont." Not the best start thought Jorah. "And I have now been in his company more than I would have preferred." Was he trying to get him killed? "Of all our time on our journey, it sickened my how much he spoke of you, when he actually chose to talk that is. I know that he betrayed you, and that can't go unpunished, but I don't think I have seen any other man so truly devoted to someone as Jorah Mormont is to you. I have come to grow fond of him, maybe just because of the lack of other company. He may be old," hurtful, "sour" I am not, "and sometimes a great bore," that's just not fair, "but I wonder if you will find anyone more loyal to serve you."

Daenerys didn't respond immediately as she contemplated his words. "You're right," she finally said, giving Jorah hope. "He did betray me. And did not inform me of his crime until I forced it out of him. That certainly goes against your comments about any loyalty he has for me."

"He loves you!" Tyrion shouted, a last throw of the dice. That caught her off guard, and she took time to search his blue eyes questioningly. Although he would not admit that fact, she could see the truth in his eyes. Her composure faltered slightly as she came to terms with this revelation.

"Even if that is the case, I can't accept him back. Not now at least." She beckoned over two soldiers. "Take him away and lock him up under the temple. I'm sure he'll get along with those already there just fine. Then maybe I can determine properly the extent of his loyalty." The soldiers walked over to the despairing knight who gave himself up willingly, and they slowly marched him away. "As for you," she directed this at Tyrion, "I believe we have a lot to discuss. What better time to begin than the present?"

He nodded his head and walked with the group as they made their way back to the temple, sending a wry smile and a wink to Varys.

xxxxxxxxxx

Jorah was marched along a dark, narrow corridor, a soldier either side of him. Although Daenerys had reacted with disdain to his arrival, and she now knew about his feelings, he still had a bit of hope. He wasn't dead. His head was still firmly on his shoulders. That fact alone was the only thing keeping him going as he was forced further into the heart of the pyramid. The air was musty, with the only light coming from a few dim torches in need of relighting. His sword had been taken off him pretty much straight away; he didn't like how unprotected he now felt. If the guards wished so, they could kill him here and no one would know. Daenerys wouldn't be too fussed about the accidental death of her betrayer.

He was made to stop at a wooden door. A slit was in the middle of it, most probably used to communicate with whoever was inside and pass through whatever food they were allowed to have. One of the soldiers produced a large, rusted key and inserted it into the lock. As the door was slowly pulled open, a booming voice could be heard from within the darkness.

"About time!"

Bruda had been sat in the cell for nearly three days now. He had been beginning to regret his decision to help the new queen. This was why he didn't get involved. People just didn't understand him. His powers. What he wanted. Frankly, what he wanted was a bit of company. It had grown lonely and tiresome all those years travelling around by himself. He had left Westeros a couple of decades ago and had not returned. It wasn't the time yet. But that moment was fast approaching. If he survived this current predicament.

He had hoped that of all the people to understand him, the Dragon Queen would have the best chances. He knew that his fate was entwined with her. And yet she had thrown him in a cell. And the conversation had started so pleasantly as well. It was incredibly frustrating. So when he heard footsteps approaching the tiny room he was holed up in, he had expected the Targaryen to be coming to discuss matters more thoroughly. Not a dejected looking man in armour. And Jorah had not been expecting anyone else to be imprisoned with him.

They both gave each other curious stares as Jorah was pushed in, the door slamming shut moments after. The knight remained standing and so the warlock got to his feet, extending his hand in greeting. Jorah tentatively took it.

"Bruda," the mage spoke gruffly.

"Jorah," came the reply. When he heard the name, Bruda's eyes widened slightly but Jorah couldn't see that in the dark. Jorah thought that the other man (he didn't know how old he actually was) didn't seem to be too menacing so he was curious as to why he had found himself locked up. Bruda, apparently, had the same question.

"What did you do to get yourself in here?"

Initially put off by the bluntness of the question, Jorah realised that, right now, his only option to avoid going insane was to talk with him. "I tried to use my position with the queen to get back my freedom in Westeros. Went behind her back. She obviously didn't like that but she sent me away, didn't kill me for some reason. I returned because I'm a fool so here I am."

"I'm sure she'll come around. She seems a bit fiery that one, for good reason I guess. But I bet she'll forgive you. Like you said, you're not dead. That can only be a positive, Mormont."

"How did you…?"

"Your eyes. I know them. Bear Island is a fucking cold place. No wonder you chose this climate."

The response seemed too practiced, too rehearsed, which unnerved Jorah but he couldn't help but laugh a little at his comment. But if he started reminiscing about his past, then he would lose focus on his present situation.

"Why are you here, then?" Jorah asked.

"Are you hungry?" This change of subject perplexed the knight. He couldn't help but think that he was though. He hadn't had a proper meal since Pentos. He nodded but wondered what good dreaming of food would do now.

Bruda reached behind him. Jorah made out a faint glow coming from where his hand was and was then astounded to see a bread roll appear with a small plate of meats and cheese, along with a flagon of what smelt like ale. It was heavenly. But he was apprehensive to take any. Magic. He thought back to Qarth and how Pyat Pree had tortured Daenerys. It now made sense as to why Bruda was down here.

"I wouldn't want to poison you. Them soldiers don't visit too often so I'd be left with your rotting carcass for a while. No thank you. Take some, eat. You and Daenerys have had an encounter with warlocks before?"

"Aye," he answered, whilst ripping some of the bread off. "Back in Qarth. One tried to take her dragons, got burnt to a crisp."

"She mentioned that. Not the burning to a crisp part, which isn't good for my confidence. We're going to be here a while. I need you to understand that I am not like them. For one thing, I'm a lot older. And so wiser. And it would be wise of me not to get on the wrong side of that woman."

It was something about the sincerity with that he spoke that made Jorah believe him. He didn't have much choice but to, really. He gave another nod.

"Good. Thank you. Now tell me, have you just not noticed it or are you purposefully ignoring it?". The question was asked as he pointed towards Jorah's arm.

Greyscale.

xxxxxxxxxx

The snow was falling hard as they continued to trudge on. They were headed towards the main camp of Wildlings situated by a large lake and surrounded by mountains. It was a difficult trek then, as a result, to get there. But it had to be done. Otherwise the army of the dead would be bolstered once again, and this time by the thousands. The Night King and his followers were unrelenting, never taking time to stop, never taking time to choose their victims. It gave them the advantage over the morality of man.

Jon was heading the expeditionary group. Tormund was by his side, not speaking much. He wasn't really a man of words. But men of words wouldn't last long in this unforgiving wilderness; Jon knew they would likely need his brute force if they were to survive an ambush. Ghost trailed behind the pair, blood red eyes surveying their surroundings. His senses would be crucial in detecting attackers before they gained the upper hand. Walking slightly on his own was Mance; he had taken the decision out of their hands regarding his involvement despite his recent injury. Jon knew that he would be needed to persuade the tribe leaders but he also worried that, if a battle ensued, he would prove to be a fatal liability. Their numbers were mainly made up of free folk fighters. They had hand picked the twenty-or-so men, choosing the largest and most imposing of the lot. This would serve to not only deter the members of the tribes they were meeting to try and fight them but also give them a good chance in the face of a battle.

Jon held his thick cloak close to his face. The cold seemed to be getting worse, its icy grip slowing taking its hold. He couldn't believe something could survive here yet, when he looked at his ginger comrade, he seemed to be thriving in the climate. He was observing the large man when he noticed the faint hint of heat. Something that he was dreaming of but surely couldn't be real. They weren't close to the camp of the wildlings. Mance had told them that they would all be grouped together as this would give them the best chance of surviving. So why was it then that, as they stopped to look across the snow covered fields, they saw a fire roaring? An orange flame that stood out against the white. And it was surrounded by a huddle of three men.