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At the end of the last chapter, I should have mentioned that this one takes place several months later.

Chapter Thirty-Two: Small Mercies

"It's not something any of us wish to contemplate, your grace, but it must be done." Maester Wolkan slid the paper across the table as he spoke. "These are uncertain times, to phrase it lightly, and the North has already suffered the misfortunes of instability for too long now."

Margaery could hardly contradict him. She picked up the document and read it over by the unsteady light of a flickering candle. With pinpoint precision, the wording of the decree enabled the seamless succession of Prince Cregan in the event of Robb's untimely death. It appointed a ruling council on which she had a purely ceremonial role. Wyman Manderly would be Lord Protector and Wolkan had taken the opportunity to solidify his own role at Winterfell by appointing himself a seat at the high table of government.

"But Robb won't die," said Arya, fixing Wolkan with a hard look. "Everyone's tried to kill him and he's survived them all. Why would he die now?"

She had the look of a child who still believed the mere act of preparing for one eventuality was the first step along the way to making it a reality. As if it was something they shouldn't even be contemplating, let alone legislating for. Suddenly appearing uncomfortable, Wolkan shifted into the light and looked at the girl beseechingly. In some places, it was treason to even imagine the death of a king. Having held her own council, Margaery saw fit to step in and spare him the effort of justifying himself.

"The Maester is right, we need to cover all eventualities," she said, reaching for her seal. "I'll sign this document and affix my seal. Then I want it put it away somewhere safe, and we will think on it no more."

She was already holding a stub of green wax over the flame of a nearby candle, while Wolkan fetched her seal. But Arya hesitated before affixing the seal of House Stark, troubling her lower lip with her teeth. A habit she still indulged at times of anxiety and worry. Her eyes were wide and shining, bright. It was as if the act of affixing each seal was a nail being hammered into her brother's coffin. It should have been touching that she couldn't imagine a world without her brothers in it, but it needed to be done. Cruel to be kind.

"Maester Wolkan, can you check the babies for me, please?" she said, glancing up at the Maester. "I seem to remember Lady Walda mentioning Lord Domeric having a rash and I'm worried it might catch on to Cregan, too."

Taken aback by the sudden command that had nothing to do with the matter at hand, Wolkan looked at her askance for a moment. She smiled, adding an air of friendly politeness to the request until he realised he was being discreetly removed from the room. "Thank you," she added, as he headed for the door at last.

Arya watched him leaving, too. Her dark grey eyes softened as the sound of the chains receded down the corridor outside. Once out of earshot, she sank into a chair beside Margaery. "It's almost like they want it to happen. Especially him."

"Wolkan?" said Margaery.

"He served the Boltons!"

The context of Arya's concerns suddenly became a little clearer. In Arya's eyes, it mattered not that Maesters served castles and not families; Wolkan had cooperated and collaborated. An unforgiveable sin compounded by the fact that Roose Bolton had brought him down from the Dreadfort.

"If I am honest, I'm looking forward to the arrival of our new Maester and then Wolkan can be sent packing back to what's left of the Dreadfort," she admitted. "But Arya, that's why I need your help now. If anything should happen to Robb, Cregan will be vulnerable. He's barely six months old – "

"Which is why Robb should be here," Arya cut in.

"Robb had no choice, so now we must limit any damage that may come from his death. Cregan is vulnerable and he will be at the mercy of whoever his ruling council is," she explained, then paused for breath as she picked her next words carefully. "Arya, you helped to bring Cregan into this world, he drew his first breath while in your arms. As he grows into manhood, he will turn look to you for help and protection as much as he does Robb and I. But he needs you now to safeguard his future, should the worst happen."

Arya made no immediate reply, but she sat straight in her chair as her expression hardened – her resolve gathering. Beside her, the candlelight flickered on a draught and the distant sound of a baby crying drifted down the passageway beyond. It didn't sound like Cregan, but Margaery stiffened all the same.

"If anyone should come between my nephew and his inheritance, I'll gut them myself," said Arya, her gaze not wavering from Margaery's.

"Then pre-empt the necessity for bloodshed and formalise that same inheritance," Margaery replied, smiling all the same. "It'll save a lot of misfortune in the long run."

The shadows on the wall swayed as Arya moved, reached for the seal of House Stark and affixed it to the document. Her movements were jerky, sudden, as if she wanted it over and done with quickly. She had none of the fluid dexterity with which she practised her sword-craft. And as the grey wax dripped onto the parchment, she managed a wan smile. "Do you really believe I helped with Cregan's delivery?"

"I was there, remember?" Margaery laughed.

The colour rose in the girl's cheeks at the well-meant jibe. "Of course. But all I did was catch him before he hit the cobbles."

Margaery's smile widened. "Yes, while all those big, gruff men stood around like stuffed sheep and not knowing what in seven hells to do."

The atmosphere lightened as the wax seal dried on the succession and a natural silence fell between them. Margaery lapsed into thought, weighing up whether she should or shouldn't say what was on her mind. But she had to. "I might be needing your help again, soon."

Arya looked up from the document she had signed. "Is there another decree to sign?"

Margaery shook her head slowly. Hesitant, she added: "After Robb left, I missed my time."

Although still mystified, the younger girl's expression cleared quickly as the penny dropped. "Already? So soon after Cregan? Are you certain?"

"It's been three months," she said, waving one arm dismissively. "If it is so, then I'm … happy. We need Stark heirs and one was never going to be enough."

But it was soon. So painfully soon after the last. Even Arya's expression reflected her own concerns, but she did not say anything. At least, this time, she was living in a comfortable home and not being hauled from one battle camp to another. Small mercies, she thought to herself as she concluded their business matters.

With the succession dealt with, they parted ways at the door of the solar that had once been Ned Stark's. Before, when she first arrived to deal with this matter, she opened a desk drawer and found a miniature portrait of a young and beautiful girl. It wasn't Catelyn Tully either, but a name on the back simply read "Lyanna". Unaccountably moved by the sweetness of the late Lord Stark having kept his sister's likeness for so long, Margaery had simply put it back where she found it and got on with the evening's business.

Now that business was over, she wished to be with her son. She strode toward the nursery, growing concerned as the baby's cries grew louder. Fearing they had been left alone, she picked up her pace. Her footsteps ringing down the deserted stone corridor as she hastened onwards, not stopping until she reached the large nursery that annexed her own chambers. She swung open the heavy oak door and froze on the threshold.

No fewer than four maids had crowded around Cregan's crib, all fussing and cooing over him while Domeric Bolton was left alone and screaming in his crib. A crib which had been removed to a small antechamber. A fraction of a second too late, the maids realised Margaery had entered the room and hastened to clumsy curtsies at the sight of her.

"What are you doing?" she demanded of them. "Where is Maester Wolkan?"

One of them, at least, had the decency to look abashed. "The Bolton child was disturbing the little prince, your grace, so the Maester moved him and instructed us to watch over Prince Cregan. He said he'd soon settle."

"Lord Bolton," Margaery corrected the girl, looking her dead in the eye. "You three, leave the prince and attend to my lord. Give me my son."

She motioned for the embarrassed girl to follow her into her chambers, where they could speak privately. Meanwhile, Lord Domeric continued his crying as the others hesitated before attending him, as if he carried some terrible contagion. But the closest thing the baby had to a terrible contagion was an unfortunate family name.

"How long has this been going on?" Margaery asked, once they were in her chambers. Cregan balanced on her hip, still gurgling happily.

The embarrassed girl's embarrassment was unabated. "None of the nursery staff like him, your grace. Not after … well, you know, because of his father."

Margaery sighed, letting her eyes drift closed as a sudden tiredness overcame her. She understood why no one was keen to keep a Bolton about the place. But Domeric was an innocent infant, completely ignorant of what happened before he was even born. If it happened again, she would have to dismiss them all. But what was Wolkan playing at? She wondered. Proving his newfound loyalty to House Stark by way of an act of cruelty to his former master's last surviving relative. It didn't sit right with her. Then the cries finally ceased and she sincerely hoped they hadn't smothered him.

The coast was just a sliver of land, like someone had drawn a crude line over the horizon. Made hazy by the thick sea mist, Daenerys had to squint to keep in focus. As the captain of the fleet navigated the treacherous Step Stones, slowly and methodically, it gave her plenty of time to just watch. That had to be the arm of Dorne she was looking at. She could see the huge inlet, curving into the mists and out of human sight. The Stormlands, she thought to herself and smiled distantly.

Her home. The place she had been trying to find her way back to since her conscious memory began. Elusive and out of reach, there had been so many times when she thought she would never live to see that sliver of a coastline. Past the Step-Stones, she could make out bumps and dips that might have been hills and valleys. Day by day, the features of Westeros revealed themselves to her as if in a slow-moving dream. And she watched, transfixed and lost in thought, as she came home.

"Dorne."

Jon's voice nudged her out of her reverie. When she turned, she found him standing right beside her although she had not heard his approach. Something he realised himself as he gave her a knowing smile. "Those will be the Red Mountains, there in the far distance," he added.

Before, when she was still wandering the Essosi continent like a lost fart in a whirlwind, she always imagined she would be exultant at the sight of Westeros. She pictured it in her head: the fleet of ships with silk sails snapping in the wind, the dragons circling overhead and the troops amassed all around her, preparing for the land invasion. But, as always, the reality turned out to be somewhat different.

As she watched the realm materialise from amidst the sea mist, it showed her only the enormity of the task she faced. Viserys had lied. There was no welcome committee, there were no multitudes of people drinking secret toasts to the lost Targaryen. There was just a huge, vast realm full of apathy and indifference to her cause and a yearning desire for peace at whatever cost. She was just another contender to an already over contested throne, looking to carve it up to her own liking.

"When I was younger," she said, turning to Jon. "I used to think the hard part would be getting the army and the boats. Back then, I could only see the obstacles between me and this shoreline." She gestured in the distance, to where the cliffs rose from the choppy waters of home. "But this isn't the end. It's not even the beginning of the end."

Jon was quiet for a moment, his gaze directed just as hers was. At the coast and the cliffs. They were so close now, they could hear the gulls wheeling over the distant fishing boats bobbing on the tide. "But you knew there was something past those obstacles, didn't you? You knew you would overcome them, at some point. You never lost faith, otherwise you'd still be drifting over the Great Grass Sea."

"That's true. It's not like I suspected Viserys was lying about us being royal born. I always knew these wars would come eventually. It was just the act of getting here."

"And you were alone then," he said. "After the Khal died, what did you have? A few Dothraki stragglers and baby dragons. Now you have the Unsullied and you have the North and the Reach ... and you have me."

Her gaze snapped away from the coast and turned to Jon, giving him her full attention. "And you?"

He shrugged, making the statement seem almost casual. "I've come this far by your side, and I have faith in you. I want to see this new Westeros, built by your hand."

It had been three months since they sailed out of Meereen. During that time, they had shared a boat and lodged in cabins that annexed each other. Sansa was meant to be in her cabin but had swapped at the last minute. Daenerys didn't know why, but she was glad of it. She was fond of Jon, and this long voyage had proved invaluable in getting to know him better.

They dined together each night, talked frequently and discussed everything from politics in Westeros right down to their families and the things they liked to do when not carrying the fate of a nation on their shoulders. There was something refreshing about him: a highborn but not a lord, not even a legitimate son. On the surface, he had everything but in reality, he had little of real substance to call his own. He wasn't some petty lordling who could rely on his family name to see him through life. Everything he had, like her, he had fought tooth and nail for. When she pointed this out to him, he merely ducked his head and modestly deflected the praise.

As such, his seal of approval meant much and more to her. "Thank you."

"Well," he said. "You can't be worse than Cersei Lannister, can you?"

Daenerys laughed. "Quite possibly the smallest compliment a Queen ever received, Lord Commander."

That evening, when the temperatures dropped the skies turned black, they returned in doors. So close to the Westeros coastline, the dragons had to be kept under control. They would be seen, Daenerys had little doubt about that. She only hoped the coast guards would see them progressing due North and think better of starting any trouble. All the same, they sent the Ironborn on ahead to deal with any unwelcome interceptors and they trailed in the Seabitch's wake.

All the same, she stayed with Jon as they travelled north across the Narrow Sea. They taught each other the games they played as children, each of them ignorant of the others due to be raised on opposite sides of the continent. He regaled her with the stories his old nurse maid once told him. Some were silly, some were funny, many were full of knights and damsels and others were frightening. The Age of Heroes, the Children of the Forest and the First Men. A few, Bael the Bard and others, he learned North of the Wall, from his time among the wildlings.

Viserys had been so obsessed with the Targaryen name, he had neglected to tell her the stories that formed the tapestry of Westerosi culture. Now, as the realm itself took shape outside her cabin, the culture and the history came alive inside it as she listened to him recounting the stories and legends. She watched his face by the light of a lantern, so close together in a confined space their bodies touched and shared their warmth. She did not mind; she had never felt so at ease with anyone before.

The days passed. The Ironborn sank a dromond flying the Lannister standard, but little else of importance happened. Word in Braavos was that the Queen was in seclusion. They moved on, sailing past the Mountains of the Moon, where Jon had been reunited with his sister at a time when he believed she was probably dead. Using a different name and her red hair dyed chestnut brown, he almost failed to recognise Sansa. It was there, too, that the temperatures dropped noticeably. No longer could Daenerys go out on deck for any length of time. The oarsmen worked harder just to keep the warmth in their flesh, pulling them onwards through stormy seas. The sea mists thickened to fogs, shrouding the coastline and the rains grew more violent. On land, she knew it would be snowing heavily.

"We're almost home," Jon assured her, one evening. "We'll disembark at White Harbour and make our way to Winterfell from there."

Previously, she would have argued the case for pressing on to Eastwatch. Now, however, she was grateful for the landing farther south. Her foreign soldiers needed to acclimatise. She needed to acclimatise. Then there were the long nights to get used to. The days were short, in the north, and getting shorter the more distance they covered. Out on deck, it hurt to even breathe.

Once again, they stayed together in her cabin and ate together. After which, he slept. She didn't think he meant it to happen, but she couldn't bring herself to disturb him. He must have been exhausted, as they all were, nearing the end of a seemingly endless voyage. She watched him for a moment, as his breathing evened out and went as far as to remove his boots. Oblivious, he slept on and Daenerys realised she was far happier having him here, rather than anywhere else. Even when unresponsive.

He slept through the night and she resumed her watch, at the porthole this time. The harbour was close enough to see the fur wrapped men running about the pier, although the light was poor. Distant lights still shone on land and Jon finally stirred.

"We're here," she said, turning toward him. "White Harbour."

His movements were stiff after a night on a cramped pallet bed, his jaw dark with stubble. But she could see the smile on his face. "Welcome home, your grace."

Relief washed over her as a horn sounded, announcing their arrival to those on the harbour. When it was answered by another, much more distant, she knew she had made it. Finally. At last. The long-expected exuberance flickered in her belly; she had sailed into something beyond her imagining. Something terrible. She knew that. But, just this once, she allowed herself to be very happy.

She crossed the room to where Jon climbed off the pallet bed and stretched himself out. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him square on the lips. A kiss to set the seal on the beginning of the end.

The ice dragon shone overhead, the blue eye twinkling bright in the clear sky. Throughout his few years in the south, he had forgotten how beautiful it could be. Still, it was primarily a navigational tool – an old trick Luwin had taught him many years before. Follow the rider's eye to go north; follow the dragon's tail to go south. And going south had done him few favours.

Old Nan once told them the breath of the ice dragon was colder than any normal ice, instant death to anyone unfortunate enough to be in its way. Those old hearth stories felt a million miles away as they set up camp beyond the Last Hearth. Their progress had been slow and laborious. The moon had turned at least four times since they left Winterfell but, in truth, he was losing track of time.

The weather had grown worse, leaving great tracts of the Kingsroad impassable until they found a way around the obstacles. Once beyond the Last Hearth, there was nothing until they reached Mole's Town and Jon told him that had been laid to waste. Next stop after Mole's Town, to his relief, was Castle Black.

He reminded himself that it had been snowing in the Riverlands when they had left Riverrun. That was over a year ago, so he should have guessed how bad it would be in the North. If they managed to get a fire going at all, just one gust of wind from the north was enough to put it out again. They had lost animals, too. Horses had fallen in the cold and simply not been able to get back up again. It was only a matter of time before men started to do likewise.

However, the raven followed him. It croaked out random words, ill-formed demands of corn. Robb flicked crumbs at it, watching him dive into the snow in chase. He set up camp beneath a weirwood tree and dreamed of Bran. He was older in the dream, the age he would be now and not the seven-year-old boy Robb had left behind at Winterfell, all those years ago. Bran tried to speak to him, but they were so far apart Robb couldn't make out the words. He was awoken by the raven pecking at his face, making impertinent demands for more corn.

"You've survived worse than this, nephew," ser Brynden pointed out, one night. "It is bloody cold, though."

He always did have a knack for tasteful understatement.

"At least half the realm isn't hunting you down, this time," the old knight added.

Robb had to laugh; the man had a point.

Their journey progressed. Every second step he thought of Margaery and Cregan, and all the others they had left behind. He wondered what they were doing now, no matter how mundane. Brushing hair or cleaning teeth, feeding the dogs or taking the air on the battlements. As he journeyed, he could make out a large white structure spreading out on the horizon. He though it was a range of hills at first, but the top was too even. It looked too man-made.

The closer they got, the wall seemed to grow bigger and bigger and bigger. Until the vast, glittering structure dominated the skyline, casting its vast shadow over them all.

"So, this is it then?" Brynden was looking up at the top, shielding his eyes from the distant sun. "This is the world's end."

"Not quite," Robb answered. "The lands beyond the wall are actually about the same size as the rest of Westeros. That would make us about half-way to the world's end."

Slowly, Brynden turned to look at him, eye-rolling as he did so.

"What?" Robb shrugged. "It's true."

But whatever chatter they had going between them, it soon petered out as they drew closer to Castle Black. The main keep towered over the other buildings and dwellings. Halls, common halls, and barracks dotted about the yard. There was no curtain wall, hemming it in from the south, because the brothers had no need of one. They were not involved in southern politics, so had nothing to fear from southern armies.

All the same, there was something about the place that made Robb feel uneasy. There was something not right.

"No smoke," he said to Brynden. "Not even from the castle keep."

He couldn't pick out each building from a distance, but one of them had to have been a forge. The fires in the forge would have been burning non-stop, yet nothing gave it away. The only wisp of smoke he saw came from beyond the wall.

"No people, either," Brynden pointed out. "I know they're under-manned, but there's no one down there at all."

They had sent men to the wall after defeating the Boltons. Robb had forgotten the exact figures, but it was well into the hundreds. Now … nothing and no one.

Not far behind them, the northern armies amassed. Robb glanced over his shoulder, as if making sure they too had not dematerialised. Reassured they were all present and correct, he sent for Ser Garlan and Ser Jaime. Only when they were together, did Robb lead the way down to the castle. A mile or two at most, the journey seemed to drag regardless.

Many of the out-buildings were abandoned and looked as if they'd been that way for a while. From long before they arrived. A rudimentary wall had been constructed at the south side, but it was dry stone and already tumbling down. Another, an old barracks if Robb guessed correctly, looked charred and blackened. The four men exchanged glances, the looks on their faces perfectly conveying the strangeness of the situation. Even the silence felt loaded, as if there was a storm brewing just beneath the surface of it.

Just as they drew level with the outermost of the disused barracks, five men in black burst from behind the drystone wall and trained arrows on them. Startled, Robb's horse reared and tried to stumble back. Ser Jaime and Garlan drew their swords, before the watchmen realised they were outnumbered by several thousand. One of them looked over the banners and sagged with relief.

"Pardon us, your grace," he said, still looking over the army. He seemed dazed, even though he clearly understood he was not under threat. "We thought you were … well, never mind."

"Never mind!" Jaime repeated, frowning as if he'd sucked on poison. "Of course we bloody well mind- "

"It's fine," Robb cut over him. "Just tell us, what's going on here? Where is everyone?"

"And who are you?" Garlan asked, looking down from atop his destrier.

"Acting Lord Commander, Ed Tollet," the watchman replied. "There's much to tell you, my lords. None of it particularly pleasant, I might add. Come with me, all of you."

He meant the four commanders: Robb, Jaime, Brynden and Garlan. Robb assured them he knew of the man, Jon having talked about him often. As they dismounted, Ghost came bounding out of a nearby building where other men had sought shelter. Robb still couldn't understand why they feared an attack from the south but let Tollet explain the situation himself.

"Ser Alliser Thorne declared your brother a deserter and put a price on his head," Tollet explained, leading them to the base of the wall. Once there, they began climbing a set of steep steps built into the wall itself.

"He can't do that," said Robb. "I summoned Jon and I sent him to Essos to bring the dragon queen home. Seven hells, even Stannis gave him permission to leave."

"So, where is this delightful man now?" asked Jaime. "Bring him to us and we can explain the situation. He and the Lord Commander can kiss and make up as soon as he gets here."

"Is Jon with you?" asked Ed, eyes widening in hope.

Robb was loath to disappoint. "No, but he's sailing back from Meereen as we speak. That was the last I heard, four months ago."

"And he's bringing the dragons?" the urgency was hard to miss.

"Yes, as I understand it. But what of Thorne? Where is he?"

"The Shadow Tower," Lord Commander Tollet answered. His hand came to rest on the pommel of a sword, the head of a white wolf with red ruby eyes. Jon's old sword, he thought. "After declaring your brother a deserter, he tried to have all Jon's remaining supporters rounded up and put on trial. He'd have had the lot of us hanged, had he had his way. In the end, he took all his men and marched east, to where he is now. Every day I think he'll come back and finish us all off. He could if he so desired."

"Great, so the Night's Watch is now at war with itself," Garlan sighed.

Sharing his frustration, Robb huffed indignantly. "And every man just joined Thorne's side and marched off into the sunset with him?"

"There was a deciding factor, your grace," replied the Lord Commander.

"More to the point," said Jaime. Like the others, the steep climb was leaving him breathless. "You said Thorne had orchestrated something of a coup against Jon's supporters, but stopped at the last minute. Why? Why didn't he see it through to the end?"

Tollet made no immediate answer, focusing on getting them to the top of the wall. The height was dizzying but the exercise warming, bringing the feeling back into Robb's legs.

"The deciding factor," Ed repeated as they neared the top. "I'm afraid Thorne had some gate-crashers at his revolutionary party, your grace. Go on, I think you need to see this for yourself."

He nodded toward the balustrade that ran along the edge of the wall. Cautiously, Robb approached it with the other three surrounding him, and looked down. It took a minute to decipher them and, at first, Robb took them for part of the landscape – a large, oddly coloured lake. They were huddled together, thousands, numbers beyond counting. Jammed together, but spread out over the plains beyond, a vast army of people. Silent and perfectly still, their skin was colour of frost. Only the laboured breathing of his companions broke the terrible silence.

"Seven fucking hells," Jaime gasped, transfixed by the sight.

"What are they even doing?" Garlan asked, peering through a far eye. He lowered the device and handed it to Robb.

Uncertain whether he wanted to confront them, he lifted it to his own eye and trained it on those closest to the wall. Magnified, he could see that some were missing limbs, others had chests torn open and some had half their heads missing. Many wore black rags, covered in frost and flapping stiffly in a brisk wind. One thing they all had in common: they should all have been completely and utterly dead.

Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.

I decided to not go with that whole boat-sex thing for Jon and Dany. I didn't like it in the show and wanted something more slow-burn for this story. Hope that's okay? Anyway, I hope updates for this story will become more regular now. This chapter wasn't as difficult as the last. Anyway, until next time, take care and thanks again.