A/N: I am truly sorry it took me almost a month to post this new chapter. But also, please remember that I'm just one person who sometimes has other things going on in her life, or just needs a break from writing. I really appreciate your enthusiasm and kind comments, so please don't take this the wrong way, but I did have someone who left me at least ten reviews asking when this chapter would be posted. I'm glad you all like this story and are excited for updates, but I am only human and if you ask me that many times when the new chapter will be up, it stops being encouraging and instead comes across as excessive. I know that was surely not the person's intention and I would've just messaged them privately if they were not on anon, but hopefully you all understand where I'm coming from with this. I appreciate your reviews (they are what motivate me to continue) and I feel very badly when I can't get a chapter out as soon as I would like!

That being said, I am sorry this chapter took me so long and the next chapter will be up soon. I already have it 50% done, I just need to write two more POV's. Thanks for your support.

Brienne

She was surprised when Sansa asked her to teach her to fight.

The girl came to Brienne's room after their disastrous dinner with the king. "During the battle, I'm to be watching Bran, and I want to be able to protect him if anything goes wrong." Sansa explained to her. "Jon said that every man, woman, and child needs to learn to hold a weapon – am I to be an exception just because I'm Lady of Winterfell?"

So Brienne agreed to teach her. The next morning they went out to the godswood for privacy to begin their lessons. Brienne nearly did a double take when she saw Lady Stark leaning up against the heart tree, her hair pulled back out of her face, and her usual dress eschewed in favor of a pair of slim grey pants and knee high boots. Brienne had never seen her in breeches before. She tossed a wooden sword Sansa's way and the young woman barely caught it. "First lesson: catch the sword when I throw it to you. Coordination is important."

Sansa nodded, turning the practice sword over and over in her hand. "…How am I supposed to hold it?"

She had a lot to learn, and Brienne had a very short amount of time to teach her.

By the second day, Sansa had learned how to grip her sword properly and perfected her posture, and Brienne let her practice with one of the skinny dragonglass rapiers Gendry had forged. The sword was long enough to keep distance between her and the opponent, but light enough that Sansa could hold it easily in one hand. "You are not stabbing and you are not slicing," Brienne instructed her as they circled each other, Brienne having put aside Oathkeeper in favor of a smaller sword similar to the one Sansa was using. "This sword is made for thrusting. You need to put your weight behind it."

For someone who had never fought before, Sansa proved graceful. She was light on her feet, precise with her movements, but force was not her strong suit. Brienne knew she needed a different tactic. "This isn't working." She said. "You need to get angry. This may be a pretend fight, but during the battle you may have to face an enemy for real. You love Bran, don't you?"

Sansa nodded without hesitation. "Of course."

"And you want to protect him?"

"Yes, that's why I'm doing this."

"Good." Brienne said. "Think of that. If you have to, imagine that I'm someone else – the worst person you know, the greatest enemy you have in this world. Then, fight me again as if your life depends on it – as if your brother's life depends on it."

A steely look came to Sansa's blue eyes. "All right," She said. "Ready."

Whatever it was she was thinking of worked, because now Brienne could feel more force behind Sansa's blows. Their swords clashed and Sansa nearly lost her footing on a jagged rock but stayed aloft, quickly dashing under Brienne's arm to prevent herself from being boxed in. Brienne had an advantage due to her training and larger size, but Sansa was intelligent and quick-thinking. She thrust her blade downwards but Brienne deflected her blow, causing them both to stumble. Ultimately Brienne won again when she was able to pin Sansa against the heart tree, an arm across her throat, but it had been a close match – much closer than the previous ones. "Good," Brienne said. "You're learning. Let's take a break, and then we'll go again."

They walked out of the godswood and crossed through the courtyard, where Arya was in the midst of conducting lessons with the Northern girls. All around Brienne girls from the ages of ten to sixteen were engaged in various stages of combat training and she sidestepped two small redheads who were chasing each other around, wooden swords raised. "Do you think they'll grow up differently?" Sansa asked. "In a world where they can be whatever they want?"

Brienne smiled faintly. "I hope so." Brienne had been lucky, her father agreeing to let her wear men's breeches and train with Evenfall Hall's master-at-arms, but Lord Selwyn was not like most fathers. The thought of him made Brienne feel sad, and she missed him all over again.

They crossed towards the Great Keep and when Brienne glanced up towards the bridge between the Great Keep and the armory, she spotted Jaime and Lord Tyrion standing up there, observing the courtyard below. Almost immediately, Jaime turned his head towards her and met her eyes, causing Brienne to flush. He raised his good hand in a perfunctory greeting and Brienne returned the action, before quickly turning away. When she looked back at Sansa, the younger woman was now smiling at her knowingly.

They went inside, Sansa leading her back towards the kitchen, and Sansa greeted each of the cooks by name. One of the scullery maids poured them some mulled wine and Sansa swiped a heel of bread, hoisting herself to sit on the counter. "So," She said, handing Brienne a piece. "You and Ser Jaime are…?"

Brienne felt her face grow hot at the question. "Friends."

"Friends," Sansa repeated, but she was still smiling that same, smug smile. "I think he fancies you."

"No," Brienne blurted out immediately. "He doesn't. Can we change the subject?"

"I'm just saying that the way he looks at you is very…" Sansa took a sip of her wine, trying to find the right word. "…tender."

Brienne stared into her untouched cup, trying to focus on the cranberries and cloves floating in her wine instead of thinking about Jaime Lannister's eyes. You stupid girl, She silently chided herself. Have you learned nothing from Renly? He is not yours, you idiot, so don't you dare cry over him. "He's having a baby."

Logically Brienne knew that she had no right to be upset about Cersei's pregnancy. So what if Jaime hadn't told her? He didn't owe her anything. They weren't in a relationship, and gods knew they never would be. She couldn't blame him for not disclosing it to her, but despite that when she first heard that the queen was carrying Jaime's child, the news had hit her harder than a punch in the gut.

Sansa was silent for a moment, tearing the crust off her bread. "Yes, he is." She agreed. "But he's still here, is he not? Cersei's pregnant with his child, but yet he still disobeyed her. He knew what he was risking, what he was leaving behind, and he did it anyway." She raised an eyebrow suggestively. "Seems like there's something here that means more to him than Cersei."

It's just his honor. Brienne wanted to say. It has nothing to do with me. But she felt like her throat was too dry for her to speak and she took a long sip of her wine. Jaime was a good person, a loyal friend, but that didn't mean he loved her. She was Brienne the Beauty, the Maid of Tarth – to men she was a novelty, not a viable option. Gorgeous Sansa would know nothing about that. "I think Lord Tyrion was looking at you."

Now it was Sansa's turn to blush. "I doubt it."

"He was. I think he likes the look of you in those pants…"

"He was probably thinking about how strange I look, is all." She paused, a queer sort of sadness flashing in her eyes. "We…enjoy each other's company. But I'm still a child to him." Brienne could tell that Sansa wanted to talk about Tyrion about as much as she wanted to talk about Jaime.

From then on, they ate in silence.

Arya

"You need to stand sideface."

Little Gwyn Mollen, a fair-haired girl of twelve, looked at Arya with slow blinking grey eyes, a wooden practice sword clenched in both hands. "Sideface?"

Arya stepped forward and unsheathed Needle to show her. "It makes a smaller target, you see? Though I know you're already small…" Gwyn giggled, as did her sparring partner, a slim eleven-year-old named Marna who was one of the Flints – whether she was from the mountains, Flint's Finger, or Widow's Watch, Arya wasn't sure.

"You're small too, Lady Arya." Marna said. Even though she was seven years Arya's younger, they were the same height.

Arya nodded. "Sometimes being small is an advantage, though. You're swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow, quick as a snake…"

Gwyn's eyes lit up. "And fierce like a wolf!"

Arya grinned. "Yes, and fierce like a wolf." She resheathed Needle and took Gwyn by the hand to adjust her grip. "There, good. Now try again."

The two girls resumed – both of them now standing sideface, she noticed – and Arya circled the practice yard, checking on each of the girls' technique. Lyanna Mormont was fighting Wylla Manderly – they were the two most advanced of her students and had received their own swords from the dragonglass Gendry forged. Lyanna was currently circling Wylla, their swords hitting each other in a rhythmic clash. Fifteen-year-olds Berena Locke and Alysane Marsh had both proven to be excellent archers and were engaged in a competition to see who could hit the most bullseyes. Lysa Woolfield, who was only nine, was the youngest of all the girls but she demonstrated a bravery unusual for her age, and Arya grinned as she watched her win a match over thirteen-year-old Jeyne Norrey.

She snapped out of her musings when Gendry suddenly appeared at her side, covered in soot from the forge and carrying a box full of skinny dragonglass swords. "I, umm, made some more of these." He said uncomfortably. "Smaller grip, so they can fit in a girl's hand. I can distribute them, if you want."

Arya nodded stiffly. "Sure, I'll help."

They walked around the yard in mostly silence, Gendry giving the swords to the girls who were ready for them, Arya instructing them on how to hold the swords properly. Every once in a while she would glance at Gendry out of the corner of her eye, and more than once she found him already staring. "Listen, Arya," He finally said. "About the forge…"

Arya cut him off. "It's nothing."

"Seriously, I think I owe you an explanation – "

"Gendry, it's fine. It was…it was a mistake, okay? Let's not talk about it again. I just want to go back to the ways things were between us."

Gendry nodded and stared down at the ground. "Right."

It wasn't him that she was angry at, not really. She blamed herself for being stupid enough to think he may have actually had feelings for her. Why did I have to go and embarrass myself? She wondered. I had just gotten him back and I had to ruin it by kissing him. She wanted to forget that it had ever happened, but at the same time, the memory of his lips on hers…it hadn't felt like a mistake. Not to Arya, at least.

Finally they reached where Podrick was sparring with Lady Alys Karstark, who had seemingly recovered from her ordeal at Karhold and demonstrated a skill with a blade after only a few days of lessons. Podrick kept her on her toes though, avoiding her blows even if he still looked unsure of himself. The Hound sat on a crate nearby eating an apple – he had said training little girls was stupid and a waste of his time, but Arya noticed he still came out to the yard every afternoon and would begrudgingly help the girls' with their technique. "I have to say Podrick," Arya remarked, just as Gendry placed down the now mostly empty box with a huff. "You're much improved."

Podrick smiled at her, but did not lose his rhythm. "All thanks to you, my lady. You're the best teacher."

At Pod's words, Arya could see Gendry shift uncomfortably out of the corner of her eye. "I don't know about that. Lady Brienne did most of the work."

"It's true!" Podrick insisted. "You're smart, supportive, diligent…"

"Aye." Gendry said grumpily. "She's been very patient – helping you and the little girls." Podrick was momentarily distracted by his comment and he stumbled, allowing Alys to tap him on the shoulder and win the fight. "Oh, too bad." Gendry said, though it was clear he didn't really mean it.

What in the seven hells was his problem? One look at Gendry was all Arya needed to tell that he was annoyed, and that was enough to make her annoyed too. Podrick was just being nice to her. "Gendry," Arya snapped. "Can I talk to you for a second? Alone?" Before he could answer, she grabbed him roughly by the collar of his shirt and dragged him off in the direction of the forge. She slammed him against the wall a little harder than she normally would've, blinded by her anger.

"Hey!" Gendry said. "What did you do that for?"

"I don't know, why are you being a complete and total arse?"

"How was I an arse to you?"

"Not to me, to Podrick!"

At this, she could see Gendry's complete demeanor change, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "He was being inappropriate towards you."

Arya couldn't help but laugh. "Inappropriate? He gave me a compliment!"

"Because he wants to get into your breeches!"

"Oh right, because gods forbid someone say something nice to me without having an ulterior motive…"

Gendry looked away from her, scowling. "I didn't mean it that way. It's just obvious that he wants you. He's always trying to make you laugh…"

"Oh, how dare he!"

"…and complimenting you…"

"Such nerve!"

"…and he danced with you…"

Arya's brow furrowed. She didn't even expect him to remember that, yet alone be mad about it. "The night of Jon and Daenerys's wedding? That was four days ago. Why do you care?"

Gendry stared down at his boots. "No reason."

She had to laugh at that. "Clearly there is a reason! Why have you been acting so weird?"

Still, he said nothing.

Arya scoffed and rolled her eyes. She'd never thought about sleeping with Podrick or even kissing him, not once, but nevertheless who she was or wasn't with was not Gendry's business. It could've been. She thought resentfully. If he hadn't pushed me away…But the fact of the matter was he had rejected her, and that meant she was free to go for whoever she liked. Sure, she didn't like Podrick that way, but it was the principle of the thing. "I can flirt with or kiss or…or even fuck whoever I want! You're not my father, you're not my brother, you're not my husband. At least Podrick doesn't look at me as if I'm a child!"

Gendry stared at her for a long moment. "I don't look at you like you're a child." He said, in a quieter voice than before.

"Don't you?" Arya could feel her cheeks growing hot with anger and she focused all her attention on staring at the wall, not wanting to look at his face. "I don't need you belittling me, or telling me what to do. I…" She trailed off. "I gave you the opportunity to be my family, and you said no. You don't get a say in what I do with my life. Not anymore. So either shut up about it or leave, because I don't need a stupid bullhead boy telling me what to do with my life!"

It was a low blow. When she looked at Gendry again he had turned away, unable to meet her eyes. "Sorry." He mumbled, barely audible.

Arya felt bad for yelling at him, but she was too stubborn to give up now. In that moment, she had just wanted to hurt him as much as he hurt her, as petty as it sounded. She crossed her arms and huffed. "You know, if it bothered you so much, you could've asked me." She said. "You know, to dance. Maybe I would've even said yes." No, not maybe. Arya thought to herself. I would have. But she wasn't going to tell Gendry that. "I'll see you around." She said brusquely, stomping back over to where Podrick and Alys were sparring before Gendry could reply.

Still angry, Arya plopped down next to the Hound, who stared at her as he finished his apple. "You two having a lovers' quarrel?"

Arya glared at him. "We're not lovers." She said a little too emphatically.

The Hound rolled his eyes and stood up, throwing the core of his apple on the ground by her feet. "Seven fucking hells girl, you must be blind and stupid if you think that poor bastard doesn't love you." Arya opened her mouth to retort but before she could the Hound walked off to show Jeyne Norrey how to deflect a blow, leaving Arya alone to stew in her indignation…

Theon

He shut a single eye and gripped the bow as tightly as he could with only a thumb and a pinky. The bow wobbled in his hand, threatening to tip over, and Theon readjusted his grip, pulling the string.

The arrow launched and whizzed through the evening air, landing in the second to last ring on the target, not even close to the bullseye.

"Well," Jaime Lannister said, his arms crossed over his chest and his green eyes fixating on the accumulating pile of discarded arrows scattered on the ground. "That one hit the target, at least." From where she was sitting, Yara actually smiled and Theon thought she would've laughed, had she been able.

He threw the bow onto the ground in frustration, not knowing how much longer he could withstand their jabs. Yara had done nothing but sit by and stifle her smiles at his repeated failures, and Theon knew that Ser Jaime bore no love or compassion towards him, having only agreed to do this because Lord Tyrion had asked him to. "This is pointless." He proclaimed. "We've been at this for hours and I'm not getting any better. So if you're not going to help me, Kingslayer, then go run off and tell the king and queen that I'm nothing but a failure."

Ser Jaime's green eyes flashed. "Kingslayer, hmm?" He repeated dryly. "How original…" He pushed off the wall and Theon thought that he was going to walk away and do just that, but Ser Jaime only walked forward to lessen the distance between them. "Why do you say this is pointless?"

Was that some sort of trick question? Was the other man just going to revel in Theon's acknowledgment of his own misgivings? "It's been three hours and I haven't made one bullseye." Theon said. "I only have three fingers on my one hand, and I can't hold the bow properly with my other one. Every time I try, the bow moves and my aim is off. Back before I was maimed, I could shoot a dozen arrows a minute and they'd all hit the bullseye. I could shoot messenger ravens out of mid-air. Seven hells, I saved Bran's life once with my ability to shoot a bow! Now look at me. I'm a joke."

Jaime Lannister scoffed. "Look at her." He gestured at Yara. "Euron cut her tongue out and you don't see her moping around about it!" Yara nodded along in agreement and Theon resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Maybe I'm tired of losing things."

"Aren't we all?" Jaime Lannister replied, without missing a beat. "Every one of us here has lost things, boy, things that were near and dear to us. But we don't have the luxury of laying down and dying so easily." When he saw that Theon still wasn't convinced, he cursed to himself and looked down, rolling up the sleeve that covered his right arm.

Theon frowned. "What are you doing?"

The other man ignored him, his golden hand now in full view. Without a word, Ser Jaime unscrewed it and suddenly the hand was off, and now Theon had an unfiltered view at the stump underneath. It had healed over the years, but the skin was still puckered and discolored, a mess of scar tissue left behind from where Jaime Lannister's sword hand had been severed from his body. "My whole life I was defined by that hand," He said, and Theon couldn't take his eyes away from the stump. Since he'd lost his hand, Theon had never seen Jaime Lannister without his golden substitute. "When they took it from me, you know what I thought? That my life was over. That death would've been more merciful than this. But then someone whose opinion I trust told me that I had to live, and their words gave me the strength to go on. Yes, those bastards had taken my hand, but my life still remained to me, and I was not going to let them take that from me too. Do you understand?"

Slowly, Theon nodded. A memory flashed back to him of standing on top of Winterfell's walls, Sansa's hand clenched tightly in his, as he stared down at the snow bank below and braced himself for the jump. He thought of that night on The Silence, of his throbbing and profusely bleeding hand, how his arrow had stuck itself in Euron's eye socket, how he'd stood over the man as he coughed and sputtered and died. "I understand." He said, but then he paused, adding: "Will I ever be as good as I was?"

Ser Jaime smiled at him. "No, you won't." He said definitely, and Theon respected that the man did not deign to lie to him. He nodded at the bow on the ground. "Pick it up and try again."

Yara was watching him expectantly with wide, dark eyes. Theon took the bow in his hand and drew another arrow from his quiver, taking his time to assume the proper position. Jaime Lannister had screwed his golden hand back on by now and resumed his former stance. "Now," He said. "Remember what I told you. Don't worry so much about aiming for the bullseye – your body knows where it wants the arrow to go."

Deep breath. His arms were shaking and Theon did not move to fire the arrow, giving his body the time it needed to relax. His arm went straight and still, and he closed his eyes, trying to forget that he was even holding the bow in the first place. He used to always think of the bow and arrow as a part of his self, a natural extension to his arm, and he breathed in and out his nose and mouth. With the bow in his grip, it was suddenly like he had all his fingers again. A natural extension of the arm…my body knows where it wants the arrow to go…

This time, he did not try to aim, focusing all his attention on where his mind wanted the arrow to land. Theon opened his eyes and released the arrow just as he breathed out.

He did not look at Yara or Ser Jaime, and he heard nothing but the sound of his own heart beating rapidly in his ears as the arrow whizzed through the air and landed on the target – in the ring just outside of the bullseye.

For a moment there was silence, and then Theon was startled by the sound of clapping. He looked over at Yara and saw she was smiling at him, though it wasn't like her joking smiles from earlier. Small, tight-lipped and contained, it was a smile of amazed respect.

Ser Jaime nodded his head begrudgingly. "Better," He said. "Much better. You may not die in this battle after all, Lord Greyjoy."

For the first time in hours, Theon felt himself smile, and then he laughed. "Same to you, Kingslay – Ser Jaime." He looked over at Yara and found her raising her eyebrow at him, before nodding her head at Ser Jaime. Theon sighed and turned back to him, realizing what Yara must have taken issue with. "My sister wants you to know that I'm to be addressed as 'Prince Theon', not 'Lord Greyjoy', considering Queen Daenerys has agreed to grant sovereignty to the Iron Islands."

Yara nodded and gave him a look of approval, letting Theon know he'd picked up on her non-verbal clues properly.

Ser Jaime chuckled. "Very well then. Keep practicing. I shall take my leave of you now, Prince Theon." He nodded at Yara. "Your Grace. Goodnight."

Yara smirked.

"Goodnight, ser."

When they were alone, Theon drew a fresh arrow and was going to shoot again, but Yara stood up. "Tired?" He asked. She shook her head. "Bored of me already then?" Yara rolled her eyes in response and Theon laughed quietly to himself. "Thanks to Ser Jaime's instruction I may finally be able to protect you now, even if I am short one hand."

Yara closed the distance between them so she could smack him lightly upside the head.

"What, you object to needing protection?"

She smacked him again, a little harder.

Theon chuckled again and even Yara cracked a smile, but then he grew serious. "You will make a very good queen, you know that right?" She looked away. "I'm serious. And I swear, I'm never going to leave your side. Not again. You're my queen, and you're my sister. Now and always."

Reluctantly, his sister smiled at him.

And Theon thought this was something worth living for.

Samwell

"I finally got Little Sam to sleep."

He looked up from the hefty tome he was reading about the first Long Night as Gilly slipped quietly into the library. "I'll be up in a little bit to check up on him." He told her. "It's late, you should go to bed."

Gilly crossed the room towards him and leaned up against the desk where Sam was seated. "I sleep better when you're in bed with me. Come, you've worked enough for one night…"

Sam smiled and took her hand, pressing a gentle kiss along her knuckles. Her hair was loose and her nightgown was slipping down one of her shoulders, and he was tempted to forego his reading to spend the night with her, but… "I want to, but I can't. We need to find a way to defeat the Night King, Gilly, and soon. Bran could possibly find a solution, but he needs to know where to look. I have to find something, some specific event he could see…"

With a slight sigh, Gilly pushed off the desk and moved to sit in his lap, her legs straddling his waist. She was blocking Sam's view of his book and his rational mind knew he should tell her that he was serious, that he really had work to do, but Gilly's arms wrapped around his neck and he could feel her body against his groin. The warmth spreading throughout his body cut off his protests. "All the information in those books will still be there tomorrow morning." Gilly said. "You need your sleep. And I need you…" She brought her lips to his.

"Gilly, I can't – I have to – " But even as he objected, Sam deepened the kiss and his hands feel to her waist, pulling her closer to him. Even a man of duty still had needs sometimes…

"Come to bed." His lover insisted. "Wouldn't you rather have a warm, human woman than a dusty, old book?"

Sam's resolve wavered. "Yes – "

They were interrupted by the sound of the library door opening and Gilly immediately jumped off his lap, her cheeks flushed from surprise. Bran paused in the doorway as he wheeled himself in, his eyes flitting from Sam to Gilly and back again. "Should I come back later?"

Sam could feel his face turning red from embarrassment and Gilly also looked fifty shades of pink as she pulled her nightgown back on her shoulder. "No," He forced himself to tell Bran, the moment ruined. "Gilly and I were just…saying goodnight."

"Yes," Gilly agreed immediately and, blushing, she kissed Sam chastely on the cheek. "I'll be upstairs. Don't stay up too late." She said, before bowing her head towards Bran and quickly making her way out of the room.

Bran watched her go with a look of rare amusement on his face. "Saying goodnight, hmm?"

"We were." Sam insisted, but his voice broke over the second word, and he knew Bran didn't believe him. He should've known better than to lie to Bran – nothing could get past the boy who could see anything happening in the world at any time.

He froze when he saw another woman slink into the library, closing the door behind her. Though they had never been formerly introduced, Sam knew her immediately: red dress, red hair, red necklace, she was the one they called the Red Woman. "Samwell Tarly, I presume?" Lady Melisandre said to him with a coy half-smile.

Sam only looked at Bran. "What is she doing here?" He didn't like Melisandre on principle. He'd heard about the atrocities she'd committed, the people she'd burned alive in Stannis Baratheon's quest for the Iron Throne, and Jon had vowed to hang her as a murderer. Maybe Daenerys had convinced him to spare Melisandre for now, but that didn't make her a good person, or what she'd done any less vile.

"She told me she had something important to tell me," Bran said in his monotonous tone. "I brought her here to listen to what she has to say."

"I don't bite, Samwell Tarly." Melisandre said, slinking towards him with that same coy smile.

"No," Sam said. "But you do burn children."

He saw what he swore was a flicker of remorse cross her face, but it was gone in an instant. "Everything I've done, I did for the greater good." She said. "The one true god showed me the way, so that I could help Jon Snow in his destiny."

If you think Jon would've condoned you killing innocents, you're wrong. Sam wanted to say, but Bran spoke before he could raise another objection. "Gods," He said, wheeling himself closer to Sam's desk. "R'hllor is but one of many. Samwell here grew up worshipping the Faith of the Seven. And here, in the North, the old gods of the weirwood trees still rule. How are the likes of men to know who the one true god really is? All of us claim we have it right."

Melisandre looked perturbed, but remained firm in her position. "The Lord of Light is the one true god. He has shown me visions in the flames to help and guide me, here to this moment. He showed me a vision of you, in fact. You and the man with the thousand eyes…I thought you were servants of the Great Other. But you're not, are you? You spoke up for me, in the courtyard."

"I did," Bran said, while Sam watched on in fascination. "You see I have visions too. The greensight has existed in the blood of the First Men for many years, and the greatest greenseers could wear the skin of any beast and look through the eyes of the weirwoods to see the most hidden truths. There is greater knowledge beyond this world that some of us can tap into, but only rarely – and among those there are even fewer who can decipher what these fragmented images and pieces of prophecy truly mean. There are no gods, Lady Melisandre, only nature and the order of the world. Only men with powers so great and so terrifying that they've been deified in stories, so that their memories live on forever."

Melisandre's face had blanched and Sam himself sat, still from shock and confusion. No gods? He'd been raised to have faith in the Seven, taught his songs and his prayers, taught that those who lived well would ascend to the seven heavens after they died and those who disobeyed the gods would descend into the unspeakable horrors of the seven hells. He'd been losing his faith for years now – since he was a child he'd prayed to the Mother and the Father, asking them to make him brave and make him strong, to make his father finally love him as a father should love his son, and all his prayers had gone unanswered. But if they were all wrong, if there were no gods at all, then what did that mean for them? What did that mean for life after death? When he died, Sam wondered, what would happen to him? Would he just go into blackness, forget Gilly, forget Little Sam, forget all his family and friends whom he loved, with no hope of ever being reunited with them again? "What is the point of all this then?" Sam found himself blurting out. "If there are no gods, if all of his means nothing, then what are we fighting for?"

Bran turned to him and smiled, almost imperceptibly. "It doesn't mean nothing. Each of us has this one life to live, and that is what makes it so precious: a mother or father's smile, the sound of a sibling's laughter, the joy of holding a child of your own in your arms, of knowing a woman's love. Love, family, joy, friendship, hope…those are the things that are worth fighting for, because they are what are remembered of us even when we are gone, immortalized in the hearts of those we've touched. It is beautiful because it doesn't last forever."

Something about the words moved Sam in ways even he could not understand, but the Red Woman still did not look convinced. "Maybe your old gods are just stories," She persisted. "But the Lord is real. He is the one who can help us defeat the darkness once and for all. He's shown me things, things you can't even begin to imagine…" She paused and when her eyes met Sam's, it made his skin prickle. "He has shown me his Warrior of Light, his Azor Ahai reborn, who will save us all with his Red Sword of Heroes. He has shown me the sacrifices that must be made."

"Lightbringer," Sam said. "I saw it in this book…" He flipped back through the pages until he saw the illustration of a man driving a glowing sword into a woman's breast as she moaned with ecstasy and pain. "Azor Ahai ignited the sword by driving it into the heart of his wife, Nissa Nissa."

"Yes, and Jon Snow is Azor Ahai reborn. That is what I came here to tell you. Daenerys Targaryen is Jon Snow's wife, as Nissa Nissa was Azor Ahai's. Her fire of life is needed to forge Lightbringer."

Jon kill Daenerys? No, Sam would not believe it. It was ludicrous, and even if it were true, Jon would never do it – he loved Daenerys, and she was pregnant with his child. But Jon is honorable. Sam added silently to himself. If he had to sacrifice his wife to save the rest of the world, would he do it?

Bran looked at Sam. "I know. I read that book two weeks ago, Samwell Tarly. Lady Melisandre is right that Azor Ahai once lived, and he sacrificed his wife to forge Lightbringer – but she is wrong about who must be sacrificed now. There is more to the story. Does 'Nissa Nissa' sound like any Westerosi name you've ever heard?"

"No, it sounds like it's…" Melisandre trailed off. "…from Essos."

"Do you know why Azor Ahai's sword caught fire when plunged into Nissa Nissa's heart? It wasn't because she was his wife, it was because she believed in your god of fire. After her death her family returned to Essos and spread stories about what they had seen. Some called him Hyrkoon the Hero, Yin Tar, Neferion, or Eldric Shadowchaser. Followers of the Lord of Light called him Azor Ahai. But his real name was Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell. He was no prophet, just a man faced with an impossible choice, but the followers of R'hllor believed and that belief turned to fire in their hearts. This is why I spoke up for you, Lady Melisandre. I know that we need you if we want to win this fight."

Sam opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked at Melisandre and saw that a look of silent resignation had crossed her features. Their eyes met and Sam knew they were both thinking the same thing. "I've been ready to die for many years." She said solemnly. "If this is truly what must be done, then it shall be done."

"Other sacrifices must be made." Bran said, his voice grave. "I've seen – " Suddenly he stopped speaking and when Sam looked over at him, he saw that Bran's eyes had rolled back into his head, his hands clenching the arms of his wheelchair so hard that his knuckles turned white. He thrashed as he was overtaken by the vision.

"Bran?" Sam said. "Bran?" Bran still trapped in the throes of his vision, Sam moved to kneel before his chair and grabbed onto his arms to steady him. "What do you see, Bran? What do you see?" Behind him, Melisandre only backed away, looking appalled.

Bran suddenly snapped upright, his eyes returning to normal, and his breathing labored as he recovered from his ordeal. "The Night King – I saw him, he – two days, Sam, he'll be here in two days – "