A/N: Apologizes for the delay! I'm in a cram season for spring quarter, but I've made use of the extra time to jot down more notes and plan out more plot. I promise more regular uploads soon. (When summer hits y'all are going to be swamped by my writings)
The Winged Wolf
The world is a white, misty expanse. Bran begins to feel a slight wetness on his body, and decides that it's time to leave.
He lets out a caw.
Diving out through the cloud bank, the wind a sheer pleasure through his feathers, and his wingtips spread out wide to catch the last few wispy thermals of the day. Bran blinked his eyes, the sharp avian vision bringing into focus the train of men and horses below him.
Not quite a full army, but a strong northern warband that would be the speartip of his brother's march south. The giant raven let out another screech as the Twins rose in the distance, angling downward towards its destination.
Winter is Coming.
The King in the North
Jon sat in the makeshift command tent, the raucous sounds of a camp being unpacked ringing through the cold evening air around him. He pored over the papers in front of him, written tallies of the numbers of men- Close to three thousand, rations- only enough for four weeks, and horses- five hundred war mounts, a thousand packhorses. A sudden headache snapped him out of his focus on the papers. He was recovered from the weakness that had plagued him before he crafted Blizzard, but every second he wasn't holding the frozen sword he felt so exhausted.
Or perhaps this was just how normal living felt in comparison to the elemental fury of wielding the true ice weapon.
He looked up at two men who had presented the letters and themselves as his military commanders. The young knight on the right cracked a nervous smile.
"Ser Medrick Manderly" he had introduced himself as, with a big grin on his face. The Manderly cousin had continued to enthusiastically shake Jon's hand when they had met outside the Twins, adding that "it was an honor to finally meet the King".
In stark opposition to the cheery young man was the grizzled northman beside him. Jon recognized the older man as Robett Glover, brother to Lord Galbart Glover. A hardened veteran who had marched with his brother Robb, he'd only offered Jon a knuckle to the brow and a grim nod upon arrival.
"My sister didn't send much with you did she?" spoke Jon, with a wry half-smile. Ser Medrick's nervous grin died on his lips. Robett remained singularly unamused.
"No. Not enough to take the Riverlands." replied the Glover lord. The Manderly knight hissed something about titles to Robett, who answered with a grunt. Jon couldn't blame him, the last Stark King to lead him south ended up dead with Robett held hostage. Medrick turned back towards Jon to offer him a wince and a shrug.
Jon held back a sigh. Surely Sansa could have spared a bit… more.
"Not enough men to take the Riverlands, but perhaps enough to rally the Riverlords to our cause. And they won't be going in alone." he said.
Robett raised an eyebrow. Medrick leaned in, curiosity sparking in eyes. "It's true then? We march with the wights? There are none so far south as White Harbor. Your Grace's Living Wall was the first time I'd layed eyes on them."
The older man cut in. "How many of the dead men go with us?"
"Twenty thousand. Any more and we leave the border weakened."
A thoughtful expression spread across the Glover lord's bearded face. "The corpses, they can match a living man in combat? How well can you command them?" he peppered Jon with queries. "My King." he quickly tagged on at the end.
"The wights are strong, but they can't wield weapons well. I can direct them myself, but the Others are much more adept at it. And the Others are quite intelligent, I'll have them follow your commands on the battlefield." answered Jon.
Medrick suddenly spoke up. "And is it true you can raise more, Your Grace? From the dead." The young man was unusually serious. Robett echoed the Manderly knight's severity.
When Jon finally found his voice, it came out quite hoarse.
"Aye." he swallowed thickly, mastered his emotions. "Aye, I can. And it will be necessary that I do, if we are to succeed."
The three men sat in silence for a moment, a somber mood filling up the command tent. The grimness stretched on a bit longer before Jon put his palms on the wooden table and made to dismiss the other two. "My lords-"
"Ah! I'd almost forgotten!" Medrick suddenly stood up. Just as suddenly, he clapped his mailed hands over his mouth, looking mortified. "My King, I beg your forgiveness for the rude interruption!"
Jon waved him on. "There's nothing to forgive, my lord. Please continue." The knight offered him a bow, and then his countenance brightened up again.
"I'd forgotten to show you the surprise. The Lady Sansa omitted it from the papers because we weren't sure they'd be ready in time for the expedition."
"The surprise?" Jon was quite puzzled. What else could Sansa have in store for him?
Ser Medrick bade him to follow him out of the command tent and walk towards the edge of camp. Robett Glover brought up the rear as they strolled through the expanse of canvas tents and soldiers, a few of whom offered a bow and quick "My King" or "Your Grace" at the sight of Jon. Soon, the three of them cleared the camp and saw what was standing in formation along the road.
Jon had to admit, he was quite stunned at the sight.
A column of iron titans, a solid wall of metal and flesh.
By the Gods, Sansa's outdone herself. Armored Giants.
At least a dozen of them, each one with a simple breastplate, closed helm and greaves, blown up to Giant proportions. They held crude weapons, great clubs fashioned from whole trees, gargantuan stone sledgehammers, and two of them had oaken steel-reinforced tower shields large enough to cover an entire squadron of men- or to enough to crush an entire squadron of enemy soldiers into paste.
"My King, we only had enough material to gear twenty giants, but they are an awe-inspiring sight are they not?" Ser Medrick exclaimed proudly. "We even had enough left-over metal for their shaggy beasts!"
"Indeed." There were five mammoths, each one with steel war tusks. "How did you even manage?"
Robett stepped in with the answer. "We melted down the scrap collected from the Bolton men. Reforged them into the sets of armor and one big bloody sword."
Quite. The largest Giant standing was standing in front of the group, and strapped to his back was a colossal greatsword the size of three men. The giant took a few lumbering steps towards Jon, and lifted the visor on his helm to reveal a familiar face.
"Snow." he rumbled in greeting.
"Wun Wun!" Jon called out in return. Last he'd saw of his old friend, he was striding off alone towards the Frostfangs to find any surviving clans. Jon was glad that the Giant had succeeded in reuniting with his people.
Wun Wun lifted one enormous fist and pounded it proudly on the white direwolf etched onto his breastplate.
"Captain Wun." the giant corrected him.
Jon felt a feral grin stretch across his face. He turned around to the two officers behind him. Both Manderly and Glover visibly straightened up when they caught sight of his expression.
"The men can rest for the night. Make sure the equipment is in good shape." the men nodded at him. "At dawn, we march south."
They promptly strode off into the camp, and Jon noted the ease which Ser Medrick bellowed at the soldiers with, and Robett Glover's calm and quiet confidence so reminiscent of his own father. Wun Wun grumbled something to his fellows in the strange Giant's dialect of Old Tongue as the Giants began to encamp, and Jon finally felt a sense of assurance settle over him. He would see his goal to completion. Perhaps Sansa had left him in good hands after all.
The Wise Drunkard
Tyrion gulped down another glass of Dornish Red. He slammed the empty glass down onto the Painted Table, right over the Reach. Daenerys sat on the other end of the massive stone slab, a wry smile tugging at her lips.
"Is this what you've been doing the whole time I was gone?"
He fixed her with a glare. "What possessed you to leave in the first place? The whole council was in an uproar. You even had me worried."
Daenerys' face softened. "I know. Your concern is touching. And it's the only reason I'm allowing you to yell at your Queen."
Tyrion reminded himself that his liege was a still only a young woman, and bit back his scathing remark. It helped that he remembered what it felt like to be within the range of a dragon's jaws. Instead, he settled for a sanctimonious harrumph and kicked his feet up onto the Summer Sea.
"I wasn't the most concerned anyways. I'd half a mind that poor Grey Worm would try to swim out to slay the King Jon Snow himself, when I saw the expression on his face."
Daenerys looked rueful as she answered him. "You can't lash at him so, Tyrion. The fact that I was chained is a great insult to not just me, but all those I have freed in Essos. Grey Worm and Missandei both were quite agitated." She her voice suddenly changed pitch. "Tyrion, I distinctly recall telling you to stop drinking."
Tyrion stopped midway through refilling his glass with the pitcher of wine. He narrowed his eyes at his Dragon Queen.
"I deserve this. I kept the squabbling army from falling to pieces in your unexpected absence, and I didn't even need Ser Barristan to kill anyone to accomplish it." He then proceeded to keep filling his glass to the brim, though the telltale look of bubbling anger on Queen Daenerys' face made him stop at three-quarters full.
Good enough.
"So, tell me about the King in the North. He chained you as an insult? Seems odd coming from the solemn Jon Snow I remembered traveling with- I suppose the passing years and a kingship will change any man."
"No, you might not be wrong. I greatly doubt King Jon intended to purposely disgrace me by placing me in manacles. He seemed too… guileless for such subtle politicking. He had the chains stricken off the second he met with me." Daenerys recalled.
"Ah, the famous Stark honor. His father was the same way, right up until he got torn apart by the sharks in the capitol." he raised his wine glass in remembrance for the late Lord Eddard Stark. Daenerys grimaced at his jape, before quickly changing the topic.
"What are the recent developments with the war?"
"Our armies crawl up the Roseroad. Cersei will have to meet us soon, she'd be a fool not to attempt a choke at Bitterbridge. The Greyjoy lad sent a raven saying he's chased Euron Crow's Eye into the Summer Sea… at the cost of a quarter the Iron Fleet."
"Ser Barristan mentioned an attempt on Dragonstone."
Tyrion scoffed. Barristan was such a stick in the mud. "It was nothing. A few ships sailed our way, and the dragons torched them. Varys has confirmed with me that the Royal Fleet is still in tatters." He eyed Daenerys from the side. "I don't suppose Ser Barristan told you anything else?"
"No, but he did say you had something important to tell me." she raised a single eyebrow.
"Of course, he leaves me to deliver the bad news." he sighed.
"Tyrion."
Tyrion cursed under his breath. "Highgarden was sacked." His Queen furrowed her brows. Uh oh. "My brother rode around Goldengrove to avoid the army and met up with a contingent from the Westerlands, led a lightning raid. They'll be holed up with the wheat and gold at Casterly Rock soon."
"My Lord Hand, was it not your idea to send the majority of the Reachmen to march along the Roseroad?" Daenerys' voice took on a dangerous edge.
Tyrion was quick to mitigate damage. "Lord Garlan and his sister escaped safely, along with most of their household knights- they'll soon meet up with the Unsullied rear guard."
Daenerys thought for a moment before continuing in a much calmer tone. "This isn't a total disaster. Send word to Lord Garlan to stay with the rear guard for now. He and his sister are safest with them until we can spare enough men to safely hold Highgarden. Let the commander of that Unsullied legion know that his Queen commands him to make for Crakehall."
Tyrion stood, confusion clear on his face. "What? A single legion of Unsullied to attack the West? They haven't enough men to take-" he stopped as the the realization hit him like a post-harvest festival hangover. "The King in the North."
Daenerys smirked.
"Tell me he didn't bend the knee already." he pleaded. Daenerys' smile dropped from her lips. "Oh thank the gods, if you'd managed that then I'd be out of a job."
"My Lord Imp, you really are testing me this day." He bowed. Daenerys clucked at him before continuing. "King Jon Snow has not bent the knee to me, because he doesn't fear my power. He commands great power of his own. But we will see if that changes when we meet again at the lion's den."
"What?" he had a bad premonition.
"It is time for us commanders to join with our armies." Daenerys smiled a dragon's toothy grin. "Why, Lord Tyrion, it just occurred to me that you've yet to experience flying on dragonback."
The Wild Wolf
Sansa had somehow managed to remain a bore.
Don't get her wrong, her older sister was a marvel to behold. The years had turned Sansa into a breathtakingly beautiful woman, and the hardships she had endured forged her into a spirit as strong and sharp as steel. Sansa was the Lady of Winterfell.
Still, such a bore.
Arya had finally come home, home to Winterfell, and Sansa refused to let her help the family. She had been horrified when Arya told her about the justice she'd exacted at the Twins, but Sansa couldn't hide the spark of satisfaction in her eyes when she elaborated about what Arya had subjected old Walder Frey to.
So why was she so against her going out to do the same again?
"Because the Vale is a completely different place! It's not just a single castle, the Eyrie is the most secure fortress in the Seven Kingdoms. And Lord Baelish is not Old Walder Frey."
"You said it yourself that we couldn't send more help to Jon because Baelish is poised to strike the North as soon as we're open. By the way, I am furious that he somehow managed to be gone the exact time of my returning. The faster I fix our problem in the Vale, the sooner I can go with our forces to meet up with Jon." Arya wanted to show Jon that she learned to use Needle properly. The last time she had seen her older brother was when she was barely still a tot- back when their family was still whole.
Nymeria must have sensed her distress, because somewhere out in the Wolfswood a massive pack of wolves howled.
Arya shook off the bad memories. The pack is together again. And they were stronger than ever. Bran was a greenseer, Jon could command wights and White Walkers, and Sansa was in charge of the entire North. And Arya- well she was just Arya. And when she wasn't- she got very, very dangerous.
"Arya! Are you okay?"
She snapped back into reality as Sansa gripped her shoulders. Her sister's big blue eyes were drilling into Arya's grey ones. "I'm fine, I just got distracted for a moment."
Sansa looked doubtful. "I know we talked about your abilities. I know you can take care of yourself. But I'm already dealing with Jon out there, I can't have you leaving too; running where I can't help you."
Arya reached up and gripped her older sister right back. "Sansa. You have to trust me. I can help you, I can help Jon. I'm capable of much, much more than you know. You have to trust me."
Sansa breathed in deep, and when she exhaled she fixed Arya with her "Lady of Winterfell" look. Arya sighed. Time to give up for today. Of course she could just slip away whenever she wanted, but she wouldn't betray family like that.
"You should trust her, Sansa."
Arya giggled. Because family would always come in for the save. Sansa turned towards the doorway in astonishment. "Bran!"
Their younger brother wheeled himself into the room. His stoic face tinged with just a slight amount of bemusement.
"Arya speaks the truth. She's capable of much more than you realize. We should place more trust in her. Like Jon would, if he were here."
"Bran, she wants to leave for the Vale, after she just got back."
Sansa brought up good points, but Arya wasn't worried. From what Arya's observed since her return to Winterfell, Bran rarely lost arguments these days.
"Arya can solve the issue in the Vale quicker than any other methods we have available to us. The faster it's handled, the sooner we can go to Jon. And believe me, the threat is not over yet. Jon will need us soon."
Sansa bit her lip in concertation, but Arya could see that the day was won. They had a duty to serve their King, and an obligation to support their eldest sibling.
"I'll go pack my bags."
The King in the North
He spotted the writhing swarm of men far beneath him, looking to his eyes like so many ants. He could hear brief snatches of yelling and screaming as the humans sorted themselves into battle lines, sounds caught between the roar of the wind.
A storm was brewing.
He winged around in the air and started flying back the way he had come. Before he could get very far he was suddenly dropped back into his own body.
Jon blinked rapidly, straightening up from the slouch that he had been in while his mind inhabited the form of the giant raven Bran had sent him. Jon could still recall the contents of the small slip of parchment attached to it's leg.
This is Farsight. He's the largest raven I've found in the True North, and I didn't name him purely for a jape. He's got the sharpest eyes of any bird I've flown in yet.
Jon knew what his brother was aiming for right away, he was no fool. Jon had been slacking on the usage of his warging. Every time he tried to spend time in the skin of a creature, the absence of Ghost was a piercing pain in his chest that made Jon quit the attempt.
He recognized the raven as Bran's way of bringing him out of the grief, and so Jon would honor his wishes and attempt to bond with the bird.
As if on cue, Farsight came circling down from the sky, landing on Jon's left shoulder and pecking away at his hair.
"Shoo!"
The raven let out an indignant caw and fluttered a few feet away to nest on a tree branch. Somehow, Farsight managed to fix Jon with a peevish look. Jon let out a sound of exasperation.
"Look, I'm sorry I broke out of the warging so suddenly. I'm not used to ravens." he said. Farsight replied with a squawk.
Jon rubbed at his forehead. "I'm talking to a bird. I am going crazy." He could feel another headache coming on. He summoned a bit of a shimmering true ice and let it play over his hand. The feel of it cooled the pain in his temple, and the sight of the shifting colors was mesmerizingly beautiful.
The enemy approaches. We are in position.
The chill voice of the Others brought him back to the present. Jon mounted his stallion, a hardy Free Folk mount with a dappled grey and white coat. He rode back towards the war camp and quickly found Ser Medrick and Lord Robett Glover.
"It's time."
The two commanders quickly spread through the camp, notifying the men as quickly and quietly as possible. Soon, a steady stream of hard-eyed northmen flooded out of the encampment, each one armed to the teeth and grim-faced in preparation for the carnage soon to come. Bringing up the rear was the steady thump-thump of Giant feet on the ground, and flanking the entire group were dead silent shadows ghosting through the darkness of the woodlands.
Blue eyes in the night.
The Masked Wolf
The rather nondescript man stepped off the boat as it docked at Gulltown. He looked west towards the Eyrie and grinned toothily. He swung a leather bag packed with dried rations over his shoulder and set off along the western road. Time to do what he did best.