DD

by Renato1235

gwegweg

1. Chapter 1

Through Summer's eyes, Bran saw farms and cabins that had been raided by small parties of wildlings that had crept over the Wall, the corpses of men littering the ground and women and children raped and savaged.

More and more refugees made the journey to Last Hearth, but not all of them made it. He could feel the mood in the castle become more and more grim as the weeks turned into months. They tried to keep the reports away from Bran, but he still heard them. Sometimes it was wildlings who would rape and murder freely as they roamed, or Bastard's Boys from the south who would leave brutal displays of mutilated bodies. Slowly, Bran started to hear of smallfolk that would just disappear entirely. Shepherds and hunters in the woods that would vanish without a trace.

"Mullen Holdfast went quiet two nights ago," Mors reported one evening in the great keep, his voice low and furs still wet with snow. He had only just returned. "A whole family gone in the night. Two hunters the day before that."

Hother shook his head. "This ain't a subject to be spoken of in front of children," he muttered, with a discreet nod towards Bran at the other end of the table, his voice low.

Bran still heard it. The dogs had better ears. "No, tell me," he called loudly. "I need to know."

Hother and Mors shared a glance. They had been arguing less and less since the plan formed, at least. "Riders along the kingsroad found the Mullen holdfast empty," he explained. "No bodies, nothing. Travellers pass that holdfast daily, so whoever hit them did it very quick and very quietly."

"Wildlings?" Bran asked with bated breath.

"Must be, that far north," Hother said with a nod.

"Except nothing was stolen from the home. No damage and no sign of a fight," Mors growled darkly. "They just vanished . There are some queer bandits around Cragspeak Point."

That seemed to unnerve Hother more than anything. The old man chewed his leg of mutton in silence, while Mors promised to send out three hunting parties to search for the brigands. Hother suggested to send four.

Jojen was fast asleep as Bran returned to his room. Meera was awake, watching him as the serjeant hoisted him back into bed. "Are you okay Bran?"

"Yes," he said, wishing he believed it. "We're going to be heading to Winterfell shortly. We're going to go save my sister. I'm going to go home and everything will be alright."

Jojen didn't reply.

Bran closed his eyes and felt himself slip away. It was a comfortable, familiar feeling by now. There's something around Cragspeak Point, Bran thought. He focused upwards as the world twisted, and he tried to push himself into the body of a raven or a crow. Instead, the birds seemed too agitated, and Bran felt himself falling downwards.

He felt the earth around him. Bran forced himself to stay concentrated and centred, pushing himself forward through the roots of the earth.

The world was obscured and distorted from a different perspective. Bran was used to such dreams, but this time he wasn't sure exactly what he was looking through. The world twisted into something vague and dreamlike. No, a nightmare.

Bran dreamt of death - the Stranger itself - limping across the snow. A figure of black and white. Bran could see it, and he remembered the hidden, shawled statue that stood in his mother's sept. His mother had never prayed to the Stranger, there were never candles

lit under that statue, and all Bran remembered of it was a dark figure looming in the dark.

Bran saw a man in a black cloak gasp as he swung an iron sword back and forth, lashing and striking with desperate fury. He wasn't fast enough. Instead, the man fell as a sharp white blade skewered him through the chest. The wound hissed and spluttered.

The corpses littered the snow. Two dozen brothers of the Night's Watch. It looked like some of them had tried to run, but none of them ran fast enough. The man with the iron sword had been one of the last and most stubborn to fall.

He saw the Stranger look downwards at the corpse with disdain, before pulling out its sword and limping away. It was a creature tall and sinewy, with skin half as white as dappled ice glittering in the sun, and the other half blackened and scorched as if it had walked through a fire. It looked wounded, injured, with half its face burnt off and one arm hanging uselessly at its side. It walked with an inhuman grace despite the limp. It barely left a trace in the snowdrifts.

The final man in a black cloak tried to hide in the roots of a tree, trembling and wailing. He didn't hide well enough. The Stranger hunted the man down and stabbed its crackling white sword through his chest.

Those are sworn brothers, Bran thought, thinking of Jon. Men of the Night's Watch being murdered. He could see the outline of the Wall in the distance. It looked too far away from Castle Black though, so these men must have been running from Eastwatch. They had been running as the Stranger hunted them down and killed them in the night.

The creature paused. This is a dream, Bran told himself. This has to be dream .

"I see you," it said suddenly, to nothing but the empty wind and forest. It wasn't speaking the Common Tongue, but somehow Bran

could still understand it. "I see you, little boy hiding in the trees."

It turned and paced, face still hidden in darkness. "You look… you look 'scared'," it said slowly, its weird, echoing voice rolling over the word. "I was scared once. They said that I was scared. They said that I had been a boy once. A son given to the cold, left to die in the snow. I was given over to something greater, I became something greater.

"Scared. Scared," the Stranger repeated. It stepped forward, approaching the trunk of the tree. "Warmth is always scared before it dies, why? My liege tells me of fear, but I don't understand. What is fear, and what is death? Why do you want to feel those things? Yet you must do, if you continue trying to resist. To resist the gift of immortality."

Hands like ice touched the bark, and Bran felt himself shiver. He felt the world freeze. He saw an eye that shone like a cold blue sun. " I see you. "

Bran woke up gasping. He felt the cold sweat stinging his eyes, dripping down his brow. His whole body was shivering. The room had been warm, but now it just felt so cold.

"Bran!" Meera called, rushing to his side. "Bran, what's wrong?"

"I saw it…" he heard himself mutter. "It saw me…"

Jojen was awake too. It was well past the hour of the wolf, but the crannogman looked wild-eyed and frantic. "Focus Bran," the boy hissed. "Tell me what it was. Do you know whereabouts you saw?"

He blinked, still shivering. Just that gaze… its gaze alone had left him cold. It felt like something inside of Bran's chest was frozen. The Stranger, Bran thought, still wheezing for breath. That was the gaze of death itself.

They all heard the sound of a horn echoing through the keep. A faint sound coming from the Walls. An alert.

"That's a war horn," Jojen muttered, and the whole castle seemed to tense. He heard footsteps charging outside. Men reacting in panic. "The perimeter…?"

"We're under attack?" Meera asked sharply, hand going for her trident. "Boltons?"

"No," Bran wheezed. " Worse ."

Author Notes:

Just to clarify some of the more subtle differences between here and in canon. In canon, the Boltons gathered their army and allies at Winterfell in force to prepare for Stannis' attack. In this story, though, there was no campaign in the north from Stannis, and so Roose Bolton could take his time, so he went to take Torrhen's Square and others from the ironborn before Winterfell. Bolton forces were split and Ramsay was sent to Winterfell ahead of Roose, which led to Ramsay's wedding not happening instantly as it did in canon. Without Stannis, there's been no open rebellion to the Bolton's rule in the north, instead there's more simmering from disgruntled lords.

Doesn't really make a difference, I just thought I'd comment for anyone trying to place the timeline.

Chapter 22

Chapter 22

The Gold Queen

"This is madness," the Queen said firmly, throwing the parchment on the ground, beneath her gold-and-crimson high seat by the Iron Throne. "What, will have we to discuss grumpkins and snarks next?"

Qyburn smiled apologetically. "I am sorry, Your Grace, but the reports-"

She snorted. "-are either lunacy or conspiracy. I have yet to decide which," Cersei said. "Do they seriously expect us to believe in ice dragons?"

Grand Maester Pycelle hesitated. "From a learned man's perspective, the current stance is split," the old man wheezed. "There is some evidence to suggest ice dragons either exist or used to exist, and a minority in the Citadel believe that they still might survive in numbers. Legends from Cannibal's Bay in the Shivering Sea, for example, say that ships that enter find themselves trapped forever as the sea freezes behind them. Maester Margate famously theorised the possibility that-"

Cersei snorted and rolled her eyes, causing Pycelle to sputter and trail away. Lord Qyburn was all smiles and explanations, but the Grand Maester was shifting in his seat and the others on the small council seemed fairly uncomfortable too. Cersei felt like slapping them; did they really think that the realm was now under invasion from magical ice dragons?

It wasn't so long that the Wall was giving reports of moving corpses and white walkers, she recalled. The audacity of the lies coming from that place astounded her. Did the cold freeze their wits?

No, Cersei decided. Far more likely it is some scheme of some sort . Who was scheming was harder to guess. The Night's Watch had strong ties to Winterfell, so maybe this was some ploy on behalf of House Stark. Stannis had headed straight to the Wall, so he was a likely conspirator too. Another name that kept coming up was Cotter Pyke, so perhaps this was because of ironborn defiance too.

Too many enemies, too many lies. She instantly distrusted any reports coming from that cold place.

"Your Grace…" Lord Qyburn cleared his throat slowly. "… there have been ravens from across the north, particularly the Shadow Tower, Karhold, Last Hearth, White Harbour, and down to Winterfell. The details vary, but the message… they all report that a large force of wildlings have broken through the Wall."

"How many?"

"The letters seem to suggest between ten to fifty thousand, Your Grace."

Cersei scoffed. "These are the same reports that claim 'ice dragons', I take it?"

"Ice dragon, singular, Your Grace," Qyburn corrected. "It is described as with a hundred-and-fifty-foot wingspan, white scales, and a breath that can freeze oceans."

"I wonder why they didn't throw in tales of armies of unicorns and mammoths as well?" She slowly took a long sip of Arbor Gold from her goblet. "It seems obvious that these reports have been exaggerated beyond all rational sense. I expect five thousand wildlings, at most, would be a more reasonable number."

"Not so long ago, Lord Commander Mormont was reporting a host of a hundred thousand under a… Mance Rayder, if I recall," Ser Harys Swyft wheezed. "He sent many ravens concerning it."

"More likely some frightened fool has counted double," said Orton Merryweather. "Or is puffing up the threat so we will not think them craven."

"And the fact remains that the Wall has been breached," Pycelle insisted. "Lord Bolton is calling for aid."

That made her stiffen. "The north raised in revolt against us, and now they have the audacity to call on the crown to save them?"

"Lord Bolton is-"

"The Warden of North. It is his job to keep the north in order, not mine."

"But, Your Grace, if the realm is threatened…"

If," Aurane Waters interrupted, glaring at Pycelle haughtily. "I remain unconvinced that any of these reports are genuine."

"There are more letters streaming in daily," Pycelle warned.

"Yet it seems to me to more likely be a ploy; they give us reports of some massive army, and expect us to race to their aid," Waters pointed out. "A foolish trick to draw our armies and fleets away from us, to leave us more vulnerable to real threats. All the houses that gave you those reports are traitors or fools."

Cersei smiled approvingly. Aurane Waters had proved himself a good choice for her Grand Admiral. Pretty, agreeable, and he knew who he was loyal to. "Exactly. They're trying to exaggerate a threat." Ice dragons - absurd! She shook her head. "I consider those letterslittle more than hearsay and ridiculous rumours."

There were nods around the table. "There is one detail that many letters agree on," Lord Qyburn added. "They say that the leader of the wildlings is a man named Jon Snow - the bastard son of Eddard Stark."

Cersei paused, blinking in genuine surprise. Then she chuckled, actually laughing. "Eddard Stark's bastard?" She said incredulously. "Turned… what is that ridiculous title? 'King-Beyond-the-Wall'?"

The thought of Eddard Stark, the great, honourable Eddard Stark, having a bastard had always made Cersei smile. She tried to recall him from their visit from Winterfell, briefly recalling a dark haired, long-faced, sullen little boy. She had seen little of the bastard, truth be told; Catelyn Stark had tried to hide him from sight like a ugly wart.

Eddard Stark had been so ashamed of him that he sent his bastard to the Night's Watch, she remembered. "This… Jon Snow? How old is he? Sixteen? Seventeen? I thought he took the black."

"Seventeen, I believe, and yes, he did."

So that made Eddard Stark's dishonourable son a deserter as well as a traitor. Perfect. "Bastards are fiends by nature," Orton Merryweather said, drawing an evil gaze from Aurane Waters. "I suppose this one is trying to follow in his half-brother's footsteps."

"And I am sure he will end up lacking a head as well," Cersei said dismissively, but she was still laughing to herself. What a perfect final insult to Eddard Stark's disgraced legacy: his bastard son invading the realm with savages. She had no fear of some bastard boy, with savages and tall tales of dragons.

"I hear that wildlings are savages, Your Grace," Ser Loras Tyrell said, clad in his white cloak standing by the table. Cersei cast him a foul look - the Knight of Flowers should learn to stay quiet. It still irked her that the Tyrell boy ended up on guard duty next to Ser Osmund Kettleblack. "And an army without discipline is no army at all. No wildling invasion has ever lasted long."

"True, true," Ser Harys Swyft said. "Surely the threat has been overstated."

"Yet the rumours are disturbing," Grand Maester Pycelle said with a gulp. "Perhaps we should-"

"Your blood must have turned to milk, if you are intimidated by tales like that," Aurane sneered at the old man. Pycelle flinched as if slapped.

"It seems to me that this is an opportunity for Lord Bolton," Cersei said. "His realm faces a common enemy, one that will unite the tenuous loyalty of his vassals. The wildlings have been foes since times immemorial, and so the north must come together to face them." She paused, taking another sip of wine. "Yet we shall not be unreasonable. After Ser Jaime's campaign in the Riverlands is complete, part of our forces shall march to the Neck to relieve them."

March very, very slowly to the Neck, she thought to herself, and a small part at that . She had no interest in sacrificing Lannister soldiers unduly. "Very wise, Your Grace," Orton Merryweather bobbed.

The north was no great concern, truth be told. It was an empty, cold wasteland. It didn't provide food or great trade. In winter the north would be frozen shut, and Cersei had no interest in committing so many of her men to such a needless conflict. Not when they were already so thin on the ground, and so many more immediate threats around her.

No, the true threats were from the Tyrells, those power-grabbing whores. And from Stannis, as meagre as his forces now were, or even from those blasted peasant 'sparrows' and the dirty smallfolk that infested her city. The Martells also concerned her, the treacherous snakes holding Myrcella as they did.

She thought over it. Still, the north was very delicate, and she had growing concerns over House Bolton's suitability as wardens. "Tell me," Cersei said, "what of the Stark boy that came back from the dead? Brandon Stark, I believe?"

"House Umber has offered him in trade. I do not know of his situation after the news of the wildling invasion," Qyburn said, apologetically.

"Has his identity been confirmed yet?" She remembered Bran Stark quite clearly, from a long time ago. The boy that liked to climb.

"It has not, Your Grace."

"That deal has not changed," Cersei decided. "If Last Hearth truly is under threat, then this Brandon Stark must be brought south to King's Landing with all haste."

"Would not execution be a simpler method?" Aurane Waters said with a frown.

Ser Harys and Orton Merryweather looked appalled at the suggestion. Queen Cersei only smiled. "A ten-year-old boy? Do not be barbaric."

No, I want this Stark kept alive and well as a hostage in King's Landing . If House Bolton proves treacherous to them as well, then keeping the last son of Stark to replace them would be useful. Perhaps this Brandon Stark would be meek, useful and easily groomed. And he's a cripple too, she recalled. A cripple must be very easily held captive - absolutely perfect .

Most of the small council seemed satisfied, but Grand Maester Pycelle still looked nervous. "Your Grace, if Lord Bolton requests aid then we should consider-"

"No, the matter is settled." Cersei shook her head. "We cannot commit any significant forces north, not when there are so many threats closer to home."

"You refer to the ironborn?" Ser Loras asked with a frown.

I was thinking more of the Tyrells, you clutching thorns . "I mean Stannis Baratheon," the Queen said, moving swiftly onto the next

issue at hand. "I find this letter from House Celtigar of Claw Isle far more concerning. Is it accurate?"

"I think so, Your Grace. Stannis' ships have indeed been spotted past Claw Isle, heading south towards the Blackwater."

Lord Celtigar is our guest and hostage at the Red Keep, Cersei recalled. The letter had been penned by his wife, and she did not think they'd risk his well-being.

"Then Stannis is retreating back to Dragonstone," Ser Loras said, leaning forward quickly. Well, of course .

"Can we stop him?" Waters said. "We have four dromonds ready to sail, and if the Redwyne fleet is blockading Dragonstone…"

"That letter was penned three days ago," Qyburn reminded. "Taking into account how the crow flies and deployment time, I expect Stannis may have already reached Dragonstone or is about to."

Ser Loras Tyrell looked unhappy. "Then there could be a battle happening this moment on Dragonstone."

Aurane Waters met his gaze. "And if Lord Paxter Redwyne fulfils his duty, then Stannis will never reach the castle."

"We have a force laying siege to Dragonstone, do we not?" Orton Merryweather said, looking nervous. "Two thousand men, if I recall."

"We sent messages and ships to alert them as soon as the news came in, last night," the Queen reassured. "Lord Redwyne has already been informed, as has Lord Tyrell. We have deployed what reinforcements we can spare, but it could well be that there is naught else to do until news arrives."

"So we will just sit here and talk ?" Ser Loras fumed.

Mind your tongue, boy . "Yes. Whatever is happening is happening many leagues away, and we must plan for it," she said coolly, turning

back to Lord Qyburn. I will have to see about removing Ser Loras from small council meetings . "How many ships did the spotter report?"

"Eight cogs and galleys, Your Grace."

"I recall that Stannis left with twenty-nine." Eight ships - that was what? Perhaps a thousand men? It was hard to judge.

"He did indeed, Your Grace."

"So it is true?" Orton Merryweather frowned. "Stannis was defeated in the north?"

"Either by the wildlings or by storm, the reports are uncertain," Qyburn admitted.

She took a deep sip from her goblet. "Then once again Stannis has been proven a craven!" She proclaimed. "He was defeated at Blackwater and fled north, only to be defeated in the north and flee back here! He has barely a thousand men left and half a dozen ships. How many times must this fool bounce around the realm trying to incite treason, before his men finally desert him and his so-called claim?"

She felt like laughing at the thought of Stannis running backwards and forwards across Westeros, or the thought of Eddard Stark's bastard - ha! Stark had a bastard! - turning savage wildling king.

"That is true, Your Grace," Grand Maester Pycelle said in a laborious voice. "And yet the fact remains that Dragonstone may have just been reinforced by another thousand men. The castle will not fall easily."

"Then we can starve him out, if we must," Cersei said. "Stannis' meagre forces cannot match our fleet."

"Dragonstone is a strong castle," Waters warned. "And its stores are large. It will not fall quickly either."

"We should have stormed it when the garrisoned was weakened," Loras pouted.

"Lord Redwyne has Dragonstone blockaded, has he not?" Cersei said with a shrug. "The Redwyne fleet should intercept Stannis' ships. There may well be no reason for concern."

The discussion continued for a while, but there was little to be done. Stannis' army was finished, but annoyingly he still held two of the strongest castles in the realm. Both Storm's End and Dragonstone were under siege, yet both might still last months even against far superior numbers. The Redwyne fleet was two hundred warships strong, yet ships alone could not conquer a castle like Dragonstone.

It was the hour of the bat when the talk finally eroded Cersei's patience and she retired for the night. During the siege at the end of Robert's Rebellion, Dragonstone lasted for a whole year with a garrison of less than a thousand, and Cersei cursed the thought of spending a whole year with Stannis breathing down her neck.

With luck, a raven would come reporting that Paxter Redwyne had successfully routed Stannis before he reached the castle, but none came during the night. That useless fool Redwyne, weak like a sour grape .

The next morn, she held court and the whole keep was whispering about news of Stannis' return. Ser Desmond Redwyne, some second cousin and commander in the fleet, could only give feeble excuses. "It was the wind!" the aging Ser Desmond protested. "A freak squall took Stannis' ships in past the blockade, and no fleet of warships can defy the wind. We could not stop them, Your Grace."

She scoffed. More likely Lord Redwyne had grown lax on his duty patrolling the Blackwater. "And the garrison at Dragonstone?" she demanded.

"They were ambushed in the middle of the night, Your Grace - Stannis came in too fast, and the warning did not reach them in time. Stannis broke the siege and reached the castle."

She dismissed him angrily. Two thousand westerlands men ambushed and broken. Perhaps Redwyne did this on purpose, just to weaken us further, Cersei simmered. Lord Redwyne sent amessage promising to redouble the blockade, but it left her in a foul mood.

Enemies, enemies all around me .

Two days later and she was only just retiring for the night, feasting on wine and lemon cakes when she heard footsteps marching to her chambers. Her door knocked, and Ser Osmund Kettleblack entered. "Urgent news, Your Grace."

"Stannis? Has he been defeated?"

"No, from the Reach. Highgarden claims reavers moving against them. They've taken the Shield Isles," Ser Osmund reported, unable to suppress a tired yawn. The hour was late. "Queen Margaery has called an emergency small council session."

She has done what? Cersei downed the last of her wine in an irritated gulp. Little brat should learn her place .

The small council was already gathering in the shadows of the Iron Throne. It was the hour of the owl, or around about, and Cersei was left feeling stiff and weary as she walked through the gloomy double doors. Despite everything, she couldn't allow the girl of a queen to host a small council session without her, so Cersei had to rush. Her hair was left tousled and uncombed, and her bodice felt lax and pudgy without her usual handmaids to tighten it properly.

The hall felt rumpled and confused. She passed Boros Blount and Meryn Trant, who seemed to be sleeping on their feet. Loras Tyrell and the darling little queen were wide awake, though, looking

hassled by the news that just arrived by raven. Dark wings, frustrating words .

"Why is it that these damnable birds insist on arriving at such an hour?" she muttered irritably to Pycelle.

"Ravens do prefer the dusk, Your Grace," the old maester tottered, walking quickly with rackety bones.

A thousand ships! " Cersei heard the little queen exclaim, her voice echoing through the cavernous throne room. "Your Grace, this must be answered fiercely !"

Her eyes narrowed. She dares say 'must' to me . So the ironborn are gathering against the Reach, in large numbers too, though claims of a thousand ships was met with doubt from the small council. The new king of the Seastone Chair, Euron Greyjoy, had launched an assault of the like that had not been seen since the days of Dagon Greyjoy.

"The reavers come in strength," said Margaery Tyrell. "Lord Hewett and Lord Chester are slain, as well Lord Serry's son and heir. Serry has fled to Highgarden with what few ships remain to him, and Lord Grimm is a prisoner in his own castle. The iron king has raised four lord of his own in their place."

"I see Stannis' hand in this," Cersei declared. "Balon Greyjoy offered my lord father an alliance, this new king has clearly made one with Stannis. Stannis returns just as his new allies launch a raid on the west, attempting to divide us."

Pycelle frowned. "Stannis and ironmen have long been foes."

"And yet clearly they have joined forces. By raiding in the west, he hopes to distract us from a renewed assault from Dragonstone."

Lord Merryweather nodded eagerly. "He is more cunning than we knew. Your Grace is clever to see through his ploy."

"And we will not rise to the trap." She smirked, turning back to the little queen. "The Shield Islands belong to the Reach. It is for Highgarden to answer this."

"The best part of our power remains with our lord father, though," Margaery said, with Loras standing behind her. "We must send word to him at Storm's End. At once."

"Absolutely not. I will not let Storm's End fall into Stannis' grasp again, not after the failure Lord Redwyne suffered at Dragonstone. The siege of Storm's End must remain strong and the Redwyne fleet is required in the Blackwater."

"You Grace," Loras Tyrell bowed. "From those strongholds on the Shields, the ironmen threaten Oldtown and the Arbor. With ironborn raiders on the warpath, they can sail up the Mander into the heart of the Reach, as they did of old. They may even threaten Highgarden itself."

"Then you must roust them," she said irritably. "But Lord Tyrell's and Lord Redwyne's forces remain in service to the crown."

"Yet Stannis has eight ships," Margaery protested. "The ironmen have a thousand. Our fleet is more urgently needed in the Reach."

Our' fleet? She stiffened. The Redwyne fleet belongs to the crown, lady. As do you. Not the other way around.

"Your Grace, the siege of Dragonstone may take a year or more," Grand Maester Pycelle warned, in a low voice. "The siege of Storm's End perhaps just as long…"

"But you would allow such a knife at the capital's throat? I forbid it. The crown forbids it."

"But you must-" Margaery protested, and Cersei's patience finally snapped.

Enough! " she snapped, and the word rang and echoed through the cavernous hall. Margaery recoiled, Loras jumped to his sister's side. "Mind your tongue and remember your place, girl - I am the rightful queen and you dare to command me? "

The room turned deathly silent, Margaery's delicate little face paled. Cersei could have growled. There was a long pause that no one dared fill.

"Your Grace…" Pycelle stammered nervously. Cersei glared around the room at the speechless expressions and she forced her fists to unfurl. Her nails dug into her palm like claws. She deserves to be snapped at, little slut.

"The hour is late," Qyburn said coolly, his hands hidden up his sleeves. "I fear it is all too easy for passions to run hot where the security of the realm is at stake."

"Indeed," Cersei growled, with a lingering glare at Margaery. She turned to Ser Loras, because at least his effeminate face was easier to look at than that doe-eyed slut. "… How many ships does Lord Redwyne command?" she demanded.

"Two hundred warships and galleys, Your Grace," Ser Loras replied with hesitation.

"And with enemies on both sides, it appears we must divide our forces. Equally." She turned and paced, scratching her chin. "Lady Tyrell, in return for the crown's leave to abandon their post, your father and Lord Redwyne must relinquish command of one hundred vessels of the Arbor to the Royal Fleet."

"One hundred," Margaery repeated quietly. "You would halve our fleet."

"Seems only fair, does it not? I am sure that a hundred fine warships shall be more than sufficient to drive back the ironmen, as exaggerated as their numbers surely are." Her voice was hard. "The

remaining vessels must remain in the Blackwater, under the command of our Grand Admiral."

There was a stunned silence. Aurane Waters blinked in surprise, and then grinned. Margaery Tyrell's mouth stammered briefly. "You expect my father to confiscate half of Lord Redwyne's fleet?"

"It is a Lord Paramount's prerogative to command his bannerman's forces, is it not?" As it is for the crown .

Aurane Waters nodded in agreement. "It seems very reasonable to me," he agreed with a nod. "Overly reasonable, in fact, to allow so many ships to leave the capital in such a crucial time, and yet Your Grace is generous. We must combine the Redwyne vessels with the Royal Fleet. Together we can blockade Dragonstone and keep Stannis contained."

"Exactly. I am sure that Lord Mace will understand the need as well - especially since Stannis threatens the very city where his own daughter resides."

Margaery hesitated, but Ser Loras placed a hand on her shoulder.

Cersei just smiled sweetly.

They would whine, but they had no good reason to object and Cersei would enjoy trimming the Tyrell's thorns a bit. Doubtless Redwyne would leave his own captains and officers, but under Aurane Waters' command they could see about filling the ranks with more… reliable men.

Any man sworn to the Tyrells over the crown is a man who cannot be trusted, she thought quietly. If they are not culled, the roses might well overgrow the whole kingdom .

Yes, she decided, growing more satisfied with the idea. Let this Euron Crow's Eye bleed Highgarden for us, to put them in their place

Cersei would have to stock up on wine, though. The capital may well lose its supply of Arbor Gold for a time.

The small council meeting ended with forced pleasantries and tired chatter. Little Margaery barely said a word, while Pycelle whined and hobbled away to draft up the royal decree concerning the Redwyne fleet. Cersei smiled and excused herself, dress sweeping across the ground as she bid them all good night.

The meeting actually left her in a good mood. The reavers were concerning, but the thought of Highgarden facing such a threat was appealing. That, and the excuse to steal half of the Reach's navy made her smile.

She could have returned to her own apartments, where Taena Merryweather shared her bed, but Cersei was suddenly in no mood to sleep. Instead, she walked the inner courtyard, heading towards the burned husk of the Tower of the Hand. She stared out over the blackened stone of the Tower, the wreck looming in the faint moonlit courtyard.

First Starks rose against us, she thought, then the riverlands. Then Renly, and then Stannis . The Tyrells were grasping, and her own city was being overrun by peasants under this new High Sparrow. There were ironborn reavers in the west and wildling savages in the north. Why is it that this whole realm seems to be falling apart, everyone trying to steal what is mine ?

There were no shortage of enemies around her, Cersei thought with a grunt. Enemies trying to steal her crown, steal her kingdom, or steal her children. She would have to see about playing those enemies off against each other.

She had a serving boy fetch her wine from the kitchens. It felt apropos to savour the taste of the Arbor. She spent the night lingering around the courtyard, staring out over the godswood highlighted under the dark moon. There was a chill in the night, but she didn't mind.

Very quickly, it seemed, she saw the faintest shimmer of dawn over the horizon. Cersei spent the night enjoying the serene of the

godswood, with Ser Osmund and Ser Boros standing guard. The serving boy continued to fetch more wine. Arbor Gold was something to be enjoyed at night.

Above, in the holdfast, she caught the glimpse of dark wings coming and going from the rookery. Slowly, she decided to retire. Her head was tingling pleasantly, and she was Queen. She could spend the morning lazing in her apartments.

As she stomped up the serpentine steps, she saw a bearded figure waiting for her. Grand Maester Pycelle was twitching as he approached hesitantly, holding a piece of parchment tightly. Cersei had no patience left for him. "What is it now, fool?" she snapped.

The old man was flustered, out of breath. "I have just received a letter, Your Grace… it is marked from your brother."

"Jaime?" She breathed a sigh of relief. "Good, then I expect Riverrun has fallen by now. How goes his campaign in the riverlands?"

The maester twitched. "No." Pycelle gulped. "Your other brother. This letter is signed Tyrion Lannister."

The Griffin

Jon Connington had never been an easy sleeper. At night, he stared at the stone walls constantly, thinking intently about every risk, every peril and everything that could go wrong. Come morning, he pulled himself off his slab of a bed, dressed in velvet and steel, and walked out the door.

He was met by the sounds of steel and boots ringing through the courtyard. The marble buildings of Lys stretched over the horizon, and the waters glittered in the morning sun, while the harbour churned with the sounds of war.

The Golden Company was preparing to set sail again.

Lys had been only a short stopover from Volantis, but still too long for Jon's liking. The city of Lys was too soft, too bright, too perfumed. Too many of his men seemed too content to linger with the bed slaves and perfumed gardens of the Free City. Everywhere he looked he saw soft men, house slaves and extravagant luxuries.

Jon detested such things. That feeling of weakness lingered over the city like a stench. I should be nearing my homeland now, to wage war, not waiting idly in this place .

They were docked at a private harbour on a smaller archipelago of Lys, overlooking the merchants' ships flowing in and out of the white city. The harbour was owned by one Magister Illyrio of Pentos, who had strong connections to Lys too. Many of the city's magisters had been understandably nervous when the Volantene fleet carrying sellswords approached, but they had managed to smooth it over. It gave the Company a respite to restock and resupply before Westeros.

Jon had argued against the idea of a stopover altogether, instead pushing to go straight across the Narrow Sea for the Seven Kingdoms. It would be too risky, he had said, and it wasn't so long ago that the Golden Company had been hired to fight Lys. As it happened, he had been outvoted and then proven wrong, which left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The magisters had been all too eager to accommodate the Company, to see them on their way. There had been gifts to placate them, and they had managed to recruit other sellswords to their campaign, all the while stocking up on all the weapons and armour that the famed tradesmen of Lys had to offer. Eventually, Jon's complaints of 'this is costing us time' had to fall silent when he realised they could gather up to two thousand more men from a short stop.

"My lord," a squire wheezed, rushing to meet him. A young boy, with a thick, fluid Lys accent, and the silver blond hair of Old Valyria. Even commoners had the features of dragonlords in Lys. "A message from

Black Balaq. Four more ships from the rear flank have arrived at East Docks."

"They have arrived." After the hard voyage out of Volantis it had been doubtful whether any more ships would make it through the storms. "Has he reported casualties?"

"Few. One ship is crippled. Most survived - including fifty more elephants."

He nodded in approval. The Company's elephant cavalry had always carried the most risk during the journey. They had kept the majority of the elephants in the rear flank of the fleet. The huge beasts were logistical nightmares, but they'd be so worthwhile when they reached the open field.

"Have me updated when a full headcount comes in," he ordered. "Send word to Balaq to report to me with all haste." They would probably be up to nine thousand by now, at least. Only three of their ships had been completely lost.

"Yes, my lord." The squire hesitated. "Also, my lord, Lord Tyrion requests your presence."

" Requests my presence?"

"He is breaking his fast in the solar. Along with Captain-General Strickland and the King."

Jon's eyes narrowed. It was well-known among the Company now, but to hear word of King Aegon babbled so carelessly… "Guard your tongue, boy. His presence is not one to be babbled around," Jon said. "Who are you?"

The squire turned nervous. "Oshio Sathma, my lord," the boy said. "I am the cousin of Magister Sathma. Lord Tyrion recruited me for your noble campaign, my lord, to squire for Commander Strickland."

Under his gloves, Jon's hands tightened. The dwarf had spent far too long making deals with the fat magisters of the city. His mood turned foul. "The crown's catspaw would kill our liege if they knew," he growled. "Secrecy is paramount, and loose tongues cost lives."

"Begging your pardon, my lord."

The Golden Company had already overrun and dominated Illyrio's walled compound. Oshio Sathma led the way through the maze of extravagant Lysene architecture. Doubtless any squire of Harry Strickland would never see battle, only wine and highborn guests, hethought bitterly. Yet Magister Sathma must have still made some sort of deal with the dwarf.

It irritated him to no end that the dwarf was babbling about the king's identity to every merchant lord of Lys. Does he not know that Aegon's identity must be kept secret until we reach Westeros? He risks losing our advantage - we cannot allow them to prepare for this invasion .

I should never have taken the Lannister with us . A month ago Jon could have easily taken the blasted dwarf's mutilated head, but the imp was a wily creature. While Jon had been busy with the goliath task of arranging transport for ten thousand men, the dwarf had been making plans of his own.

As Jon crossed the parapet marble walls, he glimpsed Ser Brendel Byrne and Ser Laswell Peake preparing horses and men. The sight made him frown, moving away from the squire and down to the courtyard confront the men gathering. Byrne and Peake both made a good sight; strong, handsome, dressed in finery. Both were highborn soldiers with rich gold bands across their arms.

"Sers, our departure is soon and this compound is on lockdown.

Where are you heading?" Jon demanded.

"Into the city, my lord," Peake replied with a grunt. A hard man, an exiled Westerosi lord. "Magister Allyios is hosting a soirée, and we

have secured invitations. We are to attend."

Jon bristled. "We should be preparing for set sail again and you wish to dawdle for parties ?"

Ser Brendel looked confused. Ser Laswell's eyes flickered. "Magister Allyios comes with a fleet of trading ships behind him, Lord Hand, and he has been looking to expand towards to the Seven Kingdoms for years. We attend this party now, pay respects, and we are to ensure a dozen trading vessels of provisions sailing with us."

Jon's eye narrowed. "And who gave you that order?" "Lord Tyrion, my lord," Peake replied, mounting his horse.

Of course. Jon had no patience for such politics and flattery, but the dwarf seemed to live off it. There had been a few orders now given without his knowledge. The dwarf seeks to usurp my campaign.

The Lannister had arrived to the Golden Company as a prisoner, a curiosity. But the dwarf had sharp eyes and a sharper wit. He found a soft spot and pushed himself in.

At first, Jon didn't think much of it when the dwarf started talking to Harry Strickland without him. It kept Homeless Harry's cowardice away from him as Jon had been managing the fleet out of Volantis. But then, Tyrion Lannister signed up with the Golden Company by himself, squirming under Harry's thumbs and escaping Jon's grip. He was a prisoner no longer, he became a member of the Company and Jon had no valid reason to object.

Soon after, though, Harry had the idea of promoting Gorys Edoryen to quartermaster, while Tyrion stepped up to the job of company paymaster. Jon didn't realise just how influential the position of paymaster was.

The Captain-General Harry Strickland was weak and spineless with bloated feet. Tyrion Lannister made decisions that the general didn't

want to.

Many of them had been good moves as well. The dwarf gave enough bribes to smooth their passage out of Volantis. He had also weeded out the bad sailors and officers in the crews offered by the Triarchs of Volantis. Tyrion had also insisted that the wives, sons and daughters of Volantene captains travel on different vessels. It gave the Volantenes so much more motivation to keep the fleet together.

It had been Tyrion who had pushed for stopping at Lys, and he manipulated Harry into the idea as well. Jon was Hand of the King, but not even he could easily argue with the commander of his army. He couldn't risk a schism within the Company.

They made the journey out of Volantis in good time, through storms and all. Without the dwarf, it could have been so much worse. Tyrion Lannister had taken over many of Strickland's duties, and quickly proved his worth in the Golden Company after the voyage.

Still, it wasn't lost on Jon how all of his allies ended up on different ships. Whenever decisions were to be made, Jon's supporters would be coincidently out on patrol and the discussion inevitably ended up going wherever the dwarf wanted it to go. The Lannister allowed Harry more time to soak his feet, eat plums and count coppers, and in return Harry became the dwarf's own little puppet. He may as well put motley on the Captain-General and use him as a fool .

The Golden Company was sworn to King Aegon and Jon Connington was the Hand of the King, they should be following him . If it had only been Harry, then Jon would have been in complete control.

Still, Tyrion neatly placed himself between Harry Strickland and the officers, and between Aegon and his army, all the while gradually pushing Connington out of the picture. So long as the dwarf continued making good decisions and proving a capable tactician, however, Jon could not easily object.

Except this should be my campaign. My redemption. I am the commander. Yet the dwarf steals my power and my influence with his blasted meddling behind the scenes.

There's a reason dwarfs are malformed, twisted creatures. Cursed in the eyes of gods and men. Jon's eyes were dark as he marched up the room to the king's solar. He heard laughter and the chinking of glasses. There were five men in the king's solar around the table, chuckling over Lys wine early in the morn, and guards standing outside.

"… About fifty savages surrounding us - trapped in the Mountains of the Moon, just me and my poor sellsword," he heard a voice laugh. "This big one, the leader, comes up and asks me how I want to die. And I reply, 'In my own bed, with a belly of wine and a maiden's mouth around my cock, at the age of eighty'!"

Laughter. Jon heard the unmistakable sound of Harry's guffaw. "I'm sure that that would be a scene!"

"How did you survive?" That was Aegon's rapt voice, leaning over to Tyrion's side.

King Aegon sat at the head of the table, and yet everyone was still focused on Tyrion by his side. Streaks of blue still stained the King's silver hair. The dwarf sat drinking a very large glass of wine from the castle's rare stock. "Survive? I hired them," Tyrion laughed. "A savage is a very useful thing to have by your side, Your Grace."

Jon stepped sourly into the room. Blasted dwarf. Sometimes Tyrion antagonised Aegon, sometimes he was all charm and tall tales, but the young King had begun to the seek the Imp's opinion. Working his way into the boy's head with every fanciful story and clever jest. Jon had been so proud of Aegon when he announced that he would sail against Westeros, but then he heard that it had all been the Imp's scheme. Oh, he's a cunning bugger, I'll grant you. I should have thrown him off the boat .

"A savage is just a savage. Barbarity is all too common, it's men of honour that are rare," the Hand of the King said as he stepped into the room. Jon turned his gaze from the dwarf, bowing to the king.

King Aegon had already washed the blue out of his hair, sitting at the head of the table, young, proud and handsome. "Your Grace."

"Ah, my Lord Hand!" The dwarf said the greeting as if he were the butt of a jape. "How are you? Did you sleep well?" He took a large sip of wine. "In my experience, though, men of honour have very tight lives and brittle deaths. A bit of savagery, however… a bit of savagery can last you a lifetime."

The solar was well-cushioned and decorated. It was the king's solar, but the dwarf sat like he owned the place. Jon remained standing. Aegon had a large goblet of wine as well and the alcohol left his cheeks flushed. Jon glared at his young liege.

"You should not be drinking, Your Grace," he warned.

"Why not?" Aegon said, but they were the dwarf's words. "I am man grown, I can drink if I wish."

"It is early and there is much to be done. We mean to sail in two nights."

"Then please, Lord Connington," Tyrion offered. "Take a seat. Take a glass. We were just reciting some old war stories."

The two other men around the oak table, Ser Tristan Rivers and Ser Castor Stone, were laughing and drinking too. The scene was a disgrace. The drunken dwarf, Homeless Harry propped up on pillows, and Aegon going along with it all.

"There are duties to attend to," Jon said, voice like ice.

"But it is an important duty here!" Tyrion protested. "It is a duty to enjoy the free moments, the times of peace. You learn more from tales over a glass of wine than you do from charging blind."

"Hear, hear!" Harry agreed. "More haste, less speed, I always say."

That is the commander of my army. You put Myles Toyne to shame . "My lord speaks the truth," Castor Stone said. Another of the dwarf's catspaws. Castor was a young landed knight, hungry for advancement, young, eager but undistinguished, lowborn and with no place at the king's table. Why would they even permit such a man to speak? "Sharing tales of battles over a drink is a long-honoured tradition."

"And what battles have you ever fought, my lord?" Jon said to the dwarf. "What great feats do you have to your name?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised," he said. "I was regarded as the finest foreman of the drains of Casterly Rock in my youth."

"Drains. You managed drains ?"

"Oh, you jest, ser." He looked wounded. "But the drains of Casterly Rock are not for the weak of heart. So much gold being flushed away each time my father sat on the loo, it would jam something terrible…"

He shuddered dramatically. Harry chuckled, and Ser Castor Stone laughed loudly. "Mind," Tyrion continued cheerfully. "I did become quite skilled at flushing out filth."

"Indeed." The edge in Jon's tone caused the laughter to stop. He focused on the dwarf with cold blue eyes. "It is barely dawn. You are drunk. You detain the king and the Captain-General with this foolery, while there is business to attend to. Have you forgotten why we are here? It is not for wine and japes."

Aegon blinked. Jon's voice rarely turned so hard with his king. Aegon was like a son to him, but there was no time to be coddled. "There is a war to be won," he warned, with quiet fury as he turned to Aegon. "Now put down the glass."

The room stiffened. With just a few hard sentences he silenced them all. The full intensity of his glare focused on the dwarf.

"You mockery," Jon said, his voice low. "You seek to waste the King's time at this crucial hour?"

Aegon averted his gaze, shamed. He slowly pushed the glass away from him. The dwarf just shrugged. "I thought it would be educational."

"On how to act a disgrace?"

"No." Tyrion slowly extended a beefy finger to point at Ser Castor. "On how to spot a spy."

The room froze. With his other hand, Tyrion took another sip of wine. "It's always useful to tell bad japes, Your Grace. Tis the ones who laugh the loudest that you should be most suspicious of."

Castor blinked. "What is this?"

"This is treachery. Your treachery." The dwarf pulled out a small folded piece of parchment from his tunic, handing it to a stunned Aegon. There was a seal showing a white winged chalice on the front. "That is a letter written by you detailing our numbers, ships and infantry. You entrusted it to a merchant in Lys headed to King's Landing."

The young knight looked flustered, off-guard. "I wouldn't… I would never…"

"You would. I have the proof right here, from your own hand. You are the bastard son of Lord Hersy of Newkeep. You think that by siding against us you could be legitimised by the crown for your services. To claim your father's seat." The dwarf took another sip. "I suspect you've been so eager to drink and laugh so that you could eventually play poisoner and assassinate someone. The King most likely. Did my dear sister reach out to recruit you?"

Castor protested, but the guilt was written all over his face. He was caught off-guard and intoxicated by wine.

Jon's hand went to his sword, but Ser Tristan Rivers was faster. Castor tried to charge out the door, and the knights collided. Tyrion clapped his hands and two guards stomped in and dragged the knight away screaming and red-faced. He kicked the table, spilling expensive wine over Myrish carpet.

"Was he truly a spy?" Aegon shouted. The young man couldn't hold his wine, he also sounded drunk. "What is to be done with him?"

"Execution is the only way to treat treason," Harry Strickland blustered.

"Executed? But then we'd only have a corpse. A corpse is a fairly useless thing, Your Grace." The dwarf's voice was smooth. "Instead, let's keep him alive and keep him writing letters. That way, we can be sure that King's Landing knows exactly what we want them to know."

The dwarf stood up, waddling with a glass of wine still in his hand. He looked at Aegon. "You see, Your Grace, that's the purpose of having these little sit-downs. Some battles are won by spilling blood, others by spilling wine."

Jon looked at him, and back at Castor Stone. How much had the spy reported? Their numbers, their plans? That Aegon was alive? He had been counting on more of an element of surprise, if the Iron Throne already knew…

He turned to tower over the dwarf. "You should have come to me. His betrayal could have been handled diplomatically."

Tyrion looked wounded. "But, my lord, it was."

Is this a ploy? "Let us see this letter of yours. What evidence do you have that Castor was a spy?"

"Evidence? Poor Castor there was approached by an agent of the Iron Throne during the first night in Lys, who offered him the deal. After that, Castor wrote two letters direct to King's Landing via peddlers and merchants detailing our movements, all of which were eagerly accepted. The third letter is in my hand, however, and the fourth will be one that I will dictate." He nodded. "You are welcome, of course, to interrogate all of the witnesses and unwitting accomplices who saw Castor snooping around. There is plenty of proof to his guilt."

"And what of Lysono Maar?" Harry demanded.

"Our spymaster must have missed Castor, I'm afraid. I handled it for him." He turned to the table. "Please could you grab that goblet before it falls, my lord? It's a horrible tragedy to waste good wine on the carpet."

Harry blinked, and then laughed boisterously. Tyrion laughed as well. Aegon eagerly asked questions, while Jon stood stiff, glaring at the dwarf.

This was planned, Jon thought with quiet fury. Of course it was. The dwarf invited me to the solar knowing full well I'd object. He then named Castor as a spy in front of everyone, making me seem the fool while everyone praises his cleverness . He works to shame me .

The Hand of the King hesitated, glancing around. The spilled wine stained the carpet like blood. I had assigned Castor Stone to the king's protective guard. I had thought him young, but bold and a good man. I let a double-agent come within sword's reach of my king…

The dwarf excused himself quickly, claiming he had paperwork and payslips to complete. He trundled away with a bottle of wine to his quarters.

Jon went to go see Castor Stone. The man was babbling excuses as Company soldiers stripped his golden armbands and threw him into

the wine cellars acting as dungeons. He spent the hour questioning the man, demanding to know exactly who recruited him and what he wrote. After only a few punches from the interrogator, Ser Franklyn Flowers, Castor was left a wailing mess.

He just watched, fuming quietly. There should only ever be one answer to treachery . It disgusted him to have to keep filth likeCastor alive.

Before long, the news had spread and any who even knew Castor Stone came quickly to denounce him and deny their own involvement. Jon knew there must be accomplices who, knowingly or not, had helped Castor send those letters away. Jon would see all who slacked or assisted either lashed or hung.

Still, it was the thought of the smirking, ugly face that really caused Jon's teeth to grind. Jon's posture was as stiff as stone as he walked to seek out the Lannister.

Jon had assigned the dwarf one of the dankest, cramped storerooms in the compound as his quarters. He had intended it as a slight, but Tyrion didn't seem to mind. The dwarf fit quite snugly into the small office, while Jon was left gritting his teeth as he tried to squeeze himself through the door.

"My Lord Hand!" Tyrion grinned, and bowed. He still held the bottle of wine. "You honour me with your presence. Are you here for your payslip?"

Jon's eyes narrowed. "I promised you once that you would die before you touched a bottle of wine again."

"You did indeed," he agreed. "Awfully foolish of you to do so, if I may say so myself. Why make a promise when you have no means of upholding it?"

I could gut you. I could split your malformed twisted skull in a single cut . Back on the Shy Maid, he certainly could have done so too.

Nobody would have objected to an execution when the dwarf had been Jon's prisoner. Now, though, Tyrion Lannister was a listed man of the Golden Company and under Harry Strickland's protection. As feeble as the coin-counter was, Jon still needed the Captain-General of the Golden Company. The dwarf had too many friends in the Company, and he was gaining more every day.

Focus. Patience. But Jon had little patience left. "How did you know that Castor Stone was a spy?" he demanded.

"I thought that would be obvious," the dwarf said with a twisted frown. "I was the one who hired him to spy."

Jon's hand clenched in his glove. The tips of his fingers felt numb as they hovered over his sword in its scabbard. "I was the one who hired a mummer in Lys to approach him, pretending to be a Lannister agent," Tyrion explained. "I put the idea in his head that he could sell information to the Iron Throne. He then sent the offer directly. I also paid mummers to approach several serjeants of the Company, but you'll be relieved to know your sellswords are a loyal lot. They all reported their encounters to our spymaster, and two of the mummers almost died making their offer, actually."

Jon glared. The dwarf's voice was slightly slurred and intoxicated, but smug. "Castor Stone made the choice and sent off the letters all by himself, however," he continued. "Nothing that my dear sister wouldn't learn anyway, and it verifies him for when we send the false information through."

"And yet each time you talk of Aegon's existence you give the enemy more time to prepare. You have been dealing and talking to the magisters."

"Yes. I have made our ventures seem like a grand quest of legend. Many magisters are quite eager with the idea, just as they were during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. I wager we could recruit another thousand reinforcements from Lys alone." He scratched his chin. "With the support of Lys and the wealth of all the

cheesemongers behind us, we could buy more mercenaries, sellsails and pirates into our venture."

Jon's face twisted. "I intend to put the Rightful King on the Iron Throne and you talk of recruiting pirates."

The dwarf just shrugged. "A soldier is a soldier. And I also hear that my sister has stopped paying the Iron Bank of Braavos. We make our case properly and the Iron Bank will be more than happy to finance our efforts to put the realm to rights. That is all support which can make or break any campaign." He smiled. "So yes, that is why I wanted to stop in Lys."

"So you claim," he growled under his breath. "But you've been spending more time with whores than anything else in the city."

"Oh yes, the whores are important too," Tyrion agreed, taking a deep gulp. "I was wondering if Lys is where whores went. Your soldiers have been enjoying the whores as well."

The Hand of the King hesitated. He's a cunning creature . "Mind your place, dwarf. You have no business giving orders to any of my men."

"Yet you've been so busy." He grinned, noseless face wrinkling. "And the men have been following."

That's what disturbs me the most . "And who gave you the authority?"

"I am the paymaster now. Sellswords follow those who pay them, even in this Company."

First he takes over as paymaster, and then takes the job of spymaster and commander. A month ago, Jon could have killed him, but now? Damn him, he's made himself indispensable .

The Hand of King considered his options. Killing him seemed so tempting and so satisfying, but also useless. It felt like he did when

Jon agreed to work for the Spider; simply talking to the fiend was slimy, disgusting.

"What do you want?" Jon said finally. "No more games."

"Me? I'm a creature of simple desires," Tyrion said. "I want my right as Lord of Casterly Rock, of course, and I have already agreed to share the wealth with all faithful friends who help to place me there. I could be King Aegon's most loyal retainer in the west." He paused to think of it. "Oh, I also want to rape and murder my sister."

Jon's face twisted. He likes to make people uncomfortable. Do not raise to the vulgarity . "You wish to rule."

"Rule? No, I have no interest in ruling. If we're considering just rewards, though… well, I did quite enjoy my time my time as Master of Coin. I would be satisfied taking that position again." Liar .

"Reward for your service?" said Jon, his voice a quiet sneer. "And which service is that? Undermining the campaign? Distracting my officers?"

"Have I not been helping? I think this venture stands a very good chance, truth be told. We have ten thousand loyal and seasoned men and the realm is torn. If Dorne declares for Aegon, with some financial support from the Free Cities, and if we convince my sister to make a few bad moves…" He mused, and nodded. "Yes, I think the Golden Company could finally succeed this time."

He motioned at a letter on his desk. "Speaking of," Tyrion continued, "when we reach Westeros, I wish to send this letter away to King's Landing, Casterly Rock, and perhaps a few other select places. In the spirit of spreading disinformation."

Jon looked suspicious, but picked up the parchment. It was written in a smooth, practiced hand. The words were fancy, pompous. The first line read; 'Lord Tyrion Lannister, son of Tywin, Rightful Lord of Casterly Rock and falsely accused and sentenced, return to reclaim

my rights and lands with the assistance of the leal and just men of the Golden Company of free brothers'.

Jon paused, lips moving as he tried to make sense of it. "This letter is lies and slander. You would claim that you hired the Golden Company?"

"We have the benefit of surprise. Let us offer a distraction from Aegon Targaryen altogether," the dwarf said. "Instead, let us spin the tale that Tyrion Lannister recruited and hired the Golden Company, joining up with Jon Connington, to retake possession of Casterly Rock. We present this to the Seven Kingdoms as a Lannister invasion, rather than a Targaryen invasion."

He seeks to usurp my whole invasion . "This is a coward's and a fool's game to seek recognition that is not earned." Jon's voice was hard, and bitter. "You have no place leading this campaign, dwarf. None ."

"But if that letter is sent then Cersei will believe that I am responsible. And her response to that will become the same as it has always been wherever I am concerned; irrational." Tyrion grinned. "My sister is a very predictable woman. Mention my name rather than Aegon's and I guarantee you she will destroy herself."

Jon shook his head. " No . The realm sees you as a murderer and kinslayer. We must unite the realm behind us. You could taint the image of the whole campaign."

"And yet if the Tyrells believe that this is a Lannister problem, rather than their problem, then they are going to be far less willing to rally against us. The forces of Highgarden would prefer to sit back and let us bleed the Lannisters first. And my brother Jaime will be reluctant to lead his armies against me. Cersei will spit and scream and become more and more unreasonable, and will only succeed in driving everyone away." He held up his stubby arms. "With a few letters and a small lie, I could break the realm apart."

That I believe . His eyes narrowed. "And what of Aegon?"

"King Aegon Targaryen stays in the background, quietly rallying support with Dorne and mustering his forces. When the bodies start to burn and the realm sees the options they have, they will raise for Aegon instead."

Jon's lips curled, but he paused before replying. "The battle plan is solid," Tyrion continued. "Your intention to take Griffin's Roost is a good one. We seize the castle, establish ourselves across the stormlands and Cape Wrath, raising forces among the disgruntled storm lords. Let the Tyrells bicker while we reach out to Dorne, and then Aegon starts gathering banners to him. The true threat to the Iron Throne goes unnoticed for as long as possible." He nodded. "You lead the men in the field, I can manage the papers and the letters, while we both leave Captain Strickland plenty of time to soak his weary feet."

"You're not doing this for King Aegon. You don't care about him, or the cause. You just want to gain everything for yourself."

"Doesn't everyone?" It was jape, but those mismatched eyes were hard.

Jon hesitated. The dwarf was clever, but… "No." He shook his head. "I will not suffer you derailing this campaign. Mind your place dwarf . Manage the payslips, but if I hear of you giving orders to my men again then I will have you flogged."

"Well, isn't that a shame." Tyrion sighed. "I only mean to be helpful. After all, I think you need someone like me."

"You think wrong. No one needs you."

Yes father…" he muttered so softly under his breath, before smiling and saying, "but surely the strain of managing such a campaign must be taxing for you alone? With your condition?"

Jon froze. He felt his shoulders stiffen. Mismatched eyes narrowed at him, unblinking. He has a piercing gaze too . "What are you-"

" Greyscale . How is your hand, Lord Hand?"

No… he can't know…

The dwarf chuckled, standing up slowly. "You think nobody would wonder why a man who shunned alcohol would suddenly start drinking the bitterest wine every night in his chambers alone? Let me guess, did you think that asking for a pot of vinegar would be too obvious?" He chuckled. "Did you also wonder whether wearing thick leather gloves even in the heat of Lys would go unnoticed?"

Jon shuffled his hands, twitching. Tyrion scratched his chin. "And, thinking back to the Bridge of Dreams, there was so much panic when I fell into the water but nobody ever stopped and checked you, though you pulled me out, did they? Did I ever thank you for that?"

The silence stretched out. His head whirred. Jon took a deep breath, his shoulders shaking slightly. "Who else knows?"

"Nobody, as far as I'm aware. Most men are very oblivious creatures." He tutted. "But let's keep it discreet, hmm? No need to create an unnecessary panic."

Oh, the bastard…

"Do you see why you need me, Lord Connington? Why, if I were flogged, who knows what I might shout in my pain? If I were killed, who knows what letters I might have squirrelled away previously?" His voice was almost soft. "And how long would the King… or any of the officers, actually… suffer a man in such close proximity who is carrying such a horrendous disease? That does not seem healthy for you, Lord Hand."

Jon forced his voice to harden, but he could feel the situation slipping out of his control. "What do you want?" He demanded lowly.

"Nothing. I'm here to help ." He cocked his head. "I just hope that you are not going to object to my help any further. Let us work together."

The bastard .

"I'm not unsympathetic." The dwarf smiled, while Jon's jaw tightened and his mouth seized. "You are loyal, capable, and I understand why you would keep your condition discreet. You wish to see your life's regret redeemed at all costs, and I am hardly one to judge."

He paused. Jon kept quiet, unable to reply. "If you wish," Tyrion offered, "I could arrange some training accident in the practice yard? Perhaps something that could sever your hand cleanly, and raise no suspicions."

Jon's gaze flickered. The dwarf caught it. "Ah. Or is it already too late? Both hands infected, I take it?"

He nodded without a word. The bastard dwarf. The conniving little fiend .

"Ah, my sympathies," Tyrion said kindly. "I can understand your wish to accomplish something with the years you have left."

"If you try to blackmail me again, you will see your own death far before I do," Jon promised darkly.

"I would never dream of it. I only want to reach a compromise between us."

Never compromise . A lifetime of war had taught him that. "Compromise is for the weak and the craven. The only thing that matters is certainty." He kept his voice low. "I will see Rhaegar's son taking his place on the Iron Throne before I go."

"And I am here to assist," Tyrion smiled widely. "Mayhaps this could be a glorious partnership, then? Together we may accomplish what

one alone cannot?"

You have no use. You are just too awkward to dispose of. Was this what Lord Tywin felt? Still, Jon just nodded curtly.

Tyrion paused. " However," he said, "there is yet another concern. Even if we could take King's Landing, and the Iron Throne, our forces will have difficulty holding the Seven Kingdoms together without assistance." He shook his head, and tutted. "Even if Aegon triumphs in the field, we will need Daenerys to secure the realm for the Targaryen regime come again. We will need her dragons."

"I am aware. She will come to her nephew's aid. For now Queen Daenerys is distracted in Meereen."

"So she is," Tyrion said with a nod. "And thus we must give her a reason to come west all the sooner. Rest assured, I will provide one. The cheesemongers of Lys are well-connected."

Jon didn't reply. This dwarf and his schemes could threaten everything I've worked so hard to achieve, he thought bitterly. Blasted cursed little fiend .

The dwarf stood up with a smile, motioning to the door behind him in a small gesture. Jon glared at him furiously. "I look forward to working with you, Lord Connington," he said with a short bow. "But forgive me if I do not shake your hand."

Alayne Stone

The Vale of Arryn stretched beyond her. The Gates of the Moon was a hard castle, drab and pale, but sometimes the view alone made it worthwhile. Alayne stood on the battlements of the keep, watching out over the valleys and sharp peaks. She could see low hanging clouds rolling across the mountains, and the Tears of Alyssa sprinkling down the Giant's Lance.

The wind was so cold she had to wrap herself tightly in her woollen furs. She was wearing a thick wool dress with an overcoat, but the wind had a bite to it. Winter is coming. They had made the descent down to the Gates of the Moon barely a fortnight past.

Snow blanketed the heights of the Giant's Lance above, but below the mountain the autumn lingered and winter wheat was ripening in the fields. From below, she could hear the laughter of washerwomen at the well, the ringing of steel on steel from the knights at their drills.

"You should not stand so close to the edge, my lady," a voice called. She turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered and rough man looking at her with concern. "It is dangerous."

"Ser Jorah." Alayne lowered her head respectfully, just like she had always been taught. "How fares the castle?"

"Very well, my lady. Lord Baelish is to return later this evening."

"That is good. He has been gone so long I was concerned he would miss the tourney."

"I doubt your father ever would."

"Lord Baelish," Alayne chided. "You should address him as Lord Baelish, ser."

"Forgive me, my lady."

"That is quite alright, Ser Jorah."

The knight lowered his head respectfully, stepping back. His hair had been balding when he arrived, but now he had shaved his head entirely, somehow making himself seem older and wearier. His face was weathered by lines and old scars. He was a big man, formidable and fearsome, but there was a certain softness in his eyes as well.

Lord Baelish had gifted the knight with a fine steel plate engraved with the likeness of a bear's head, its maw gaping on the centre, with

greaves and gauntlets to match as well as a thick brown velvet cloak. Somehow, the finery seemed almost awkward on him. He had been in boiled leathers and dull iron when he arrived.

Ser Jorah was most certainly not a comely man, but Alayne could understand why Randa enjoyed flirting with him sometimes.

"Do you mean to compete in the tourney for the Winged Knights?" She asked.

He shook his head. "I think not."

"You and Ser Shadrich are both not, then." She looked at him curiously. "Why not? I hear you were quite the jouster. You won the tourney at Lannisport."

"That was more fluke than skill, my lady. And this tourney is for the Knights of the Vale, I doubt I'd be welcome."

He's uncomfortable, she noticed. Shifting on the spot. Alayne had to learn quickly how to spot the little signs. "A pity then. The Brotherhood of the Winged Knights could use warriors of such skill."

"I am sure there are plenty in the Vale."

Personally, Alayne didn't really want Ser Jorah as part of Robert's private guard either, but it was good to stay respectful. She had envisioned the Brotherhood of the Winged Knights as Lord Robert's personal kingsguard - eight of the most noble knights sworn to protect House Arryn. Each knight could walk proud as the strongest in the Vale, a mantle that both kept the Lord of the Vale safe and the knights loyal. Ser Jorah would be a good protector, no doubt, but he would do little to appease the Vale lords.

There were many that questioned the exiled knight's presence, and his loyalty to House Arryn. Lord Baelish had been all too eager to bring Ser Jorah in, however. "Ser Jorah is a simple creature," he confided to her once. "A man of little intelligence and low ambition.

Varys used him for years on the promise of one day letting him come home. He provided quite useful and reliable information."

"Yet why is he here now?" She had asked.

"Oh, he has nowhere else to go. The Spider is no longer around to pay him, so he came to me instead," Petyr laughed. "His Queen kicked him out, and the Starks are dead. He wants to return as Lord of Bear Island and I can help him get there. Like I said, very simple, but useful enough so long as you prod him in the right direction. The man is too straightforward to scheme."

Some of the Vale lords had grumbled about the exiled knight, but Lord Baelish had hired him as a personal guard and kept him out of the way nicely. He doesn't know who I am, Alayne told herself. Sansa Stark and Jorah Mormont had never met, except perhaps when she had been a very small child.

But still, sometimes she caught him staring at her, curiously. Then again, she found more and more gazes of men lingering on her. As she grew, her body became more womanly and Alayne knew that she was turning heads more often recently. Still, somehow there was something different in Ser Jorah's gaze. She wondered if the knight had a lady he fancied.

Perhaps she was just on edge for the upcoming tourney. The tourney where I will meet my betrothed, Ser Harrold Hardyng . It wasa fortnight away, but the date loomed. Even the sight of the grand mountains and immense expanse of the valley could barely calm her fluttering heart.

Alayne loved it here. She felt alive again, for the first time since her father… since Lord Eddard Stark had died.

"If you excuse me, ser," Alayne said with a curt bow. "I should return."

"Of course, my lady." It looked like there was something else the knight wanted to say, but he didn't.

Lord Petyr returned late that night. There was no warning or announcement, just a group of riders from Gulltown returning to the castle near dusk. The next morn Alayne met her father breaking his fast in the lord's dining hall, feasting on porridge, mint leaves and summer fruit while sorting through parchments scattered across the table. His eyes were red and tired and he looked quite annoyed.

"It really is becoming quite irritating," Petyr muttered as she approached, not looking up from his papers. "I thrive on chaos, but at a certain point it becomes too much even for me."

"What is the concern, Father?" Alayne asked.

"Oh, many things. We all knew that Queen Cersei would destroy herself, yet her brother giving her an extra push was really quite unnecessary," he sighed, muttering under his breath. He looked over two rain-soaked parchments, both marked with a seal bearing a white winged chalice, before pushing them to one side. "And very annoying. Cersei has issued a 'royal decree' commanding the stormlands, the Vale and Dorne to muster men for the defence of the crownlands."

"Truly? She has?"

"Indeed. She demands it. Quite strictly too," he said with a humourless smile. "Apparently our dear Queen believes that the best way to fight a war is by starting three more."

He normally laughed and teased more around her, but now just Petyr looked weary. "Is that why you have been gone for so long, Father?"

"In part. And yet the most truly concerning situation," he said slowly, lowering his voice, "is the one developing in the north. It appears that land is in dire straits. Sooner or later we may just have to cordon it

off at the Neck." Petyr paused, glanced at her, and frowned. "Actually, tell me Alayne, what do you remember of one Jon Snow?"

Alayne blinked. Petyr very rarely even referenced her former life. She didn't want to talk about it. I am his daughter, and we don't speak about this out loud. Why is he mentioning Jon? "Jon… youmean my half-brother?" She whispered. He nodded. "… I… he was my fath… he was Eddard Stark's bastard."

Just the thought of her old life made her shiver. Remembering Winterfell again brought back so many old feelings.

"Could you describe him for me?" Petyr pressed. "I want to know more of this Bastard of Winterfell."

Why is he making me remember these things? "Um… dark haired, narrow face, grey eyes." She remembered a boy of fourteen. "They would say that he looked like his father."

"No, I care little for his appearance. Describe him . Describe his personality. Was he loud, angry? Temperamental or calm? Sensitive or reserved?"

"He was…" Alayne hesitated. "Sullen, quiet. Jon used to constantly compete with Robb, or tease Arya. When it was just his siblings Jon would be lively, but with my mother or with any guests he would turn sour. Especially as he became older. He didn't laugh so much."

"The life of a bastard among highborn." Petyr scratched his goatee, fingers drumming. He turned over a few parchments so she couldn't see them what was written there. "Jon Snow was resentful, then? Did he curse his trueborn siblings?"

"No." Alayne squirmed slightly. "I don't think so? He would play with Arya, teasing her. He used to truss up her hair something terrible, and mother would spend hours trying to comb it straight. And Jon and Robb were constantly challenging each other. Jon was the

better sword and he would always win in their spars, but Robb was the better lance and the better rider."

"And when Jon was sent off to the Night's Watch?" Petyr insisted. "To be exiled from his home and disavowed by his father. Did that leave Jon bitter?"

"No. No, Jon wanted to take the black. He insisted on it. Uncle tried to dissuade him, but he said that even bastards could rise in the Night's Watch, that…" Even a bastard could prove his worth .

Her throat jammed. Jon is the only family I have left. My last living sibling . "… I never knew Jon very well," she admitted. "Mother neverwanted me around him. We rarely talked, we never had much to do with each other. He was a bastard."

And so am I, now.

"Indeed." Petyr looked at her critically, eyes sharp. "In my experience, every man or woman is defined by two features: the things they love, and the things they hate. Answer me, sweet thing, who did Jon Snow love, and who did he hate? And where does his family fall on that spectrum?"

Alayne gulped. "Arya. He used to love Arya." Her lips pursed. "And Robb too. As for hate… I don't know. Maybe Mother? Jon never liked the way Mother treated him."

"Hmmm… one last question, and please consider it carefully. Do you think the bastard brother that you knew could grow to be a cruel man? Could he be vengeful, evil even?"

"I… I do not know," Alayne admitted. A year ago, she might have replied "No", but she had learned not to underestimate cruelty and its wickedness.

"What a pity," Petyr muttered, musing.

"Why are you asking me such things?" she asked. "What is Jon to you?"

"It appears that Jon Snow is causing waves in the north. And in quite a spectacular fashion too," Petyr said, keeping his voice low. "Many of my plans for the north threaten to be undone by a bastard that I never even knew existed. So now, I must decide whether to try to stem the tide, or let the chaos run its course."

"Jon is on the Wall. He joined the Night's Watch."

Was on the Wall," he corrected, and then paused. "Well, he still is on the Wall, but he's most certainly not a sworn brother anymore."

"What has he done?" she asked, voice trembling. Seeing Petyr so concerned made her nervous.

He forced a smile, but then seemed to hesitate. "Nothing you need concern yourself over. Forgive me, sweet Alayne, it has been a long trip and I am quite tired. I should not have pressed my burdens onto you."

She just stared. Petyr smiled again, before standing up and retiring to his study. He kissed her on the lips before he left. Alayne wasn't sure what to do. The corridor was silent as she walked away.

Jon, she thought. What could Jon possibly have done at the Wall that could make Petyr so concerned?

She felt numb as she retreated to her own chambers. She passed Ser Jorah and Ser Shadrich, their eyes on her as she walked quickly through the hall. Maester Colemon found her to say that Sweetrobin was calling for her, but Alayne was in no mood for the lordling's attention. Instead, she claimed she had a headache and excused herself to her chambers.

In her room, she closed the door and collapsed into her mattress.

She felt tears in her eyes.

What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me, that even the thought of Winterfell again makes me cry?

The wound left by her family never healed. It was more than a scar, it was like a missing limb. Like the loss of her brothers, her sister, mother and father had cut something away from her.

I am not that person anymore. I am Alayne Stone, betrothed to the heir of the Vale. I am happy here. I have a new life .

She would have to clean herself up before leaving her room. She could not allow anyone to see her cry.

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Sam

They locked and barred the tower door. The captive brothers of the Night's Watch were split between the storerooms, barracks, stables or cells of the castle, with no more than ten per group. The wildlings would lock the doors and stand guard outside, ensuring no sworn brother could even try to assemble or move against them.

We're captives now, Sam thought with a gulp, captives in our own castle . He supposed it was better than being executed, but from the look in some of the wildings' eyes he wasn't sure that they wouldn't be.

Sam ended up confined in the rookery, along with Maester Aemon, Clydas, Bowen Marsh and Othell Yarwyck. There weren't enough bunks, so Sam had to sleep on the floor by the fireplace. The wildlings had already ransacked the tower for anything that could be used as a weapon, right down to the quills, as well as stealing anything of value. They would have stolen Aemon's chain too, except the old man refused to part with it even under threat of violence.

It was a bitter night. The next morning was bitter too. Bowen Marsh paced constantly, convinced that the wildlings would have them all executed. Did I make a mistake releasing Mance Rayder from his cell? Sam wondered. Edd will tell all the others what I did, and they will curse me for it .

Come evening, a double-chested man built like a keg pushed through the doorway, flanked by two others. The whole rookery froze in fear. The wildling looked around the quarters. "You," the wildling ordered, pointing at Sam. "Fat boy. Come."

Sam squealed. "Come where?"

Now ."

The wildlings had axes. Sam's hands were trembling as the man grabbed him and dragged him roughly out of the room. Nobody else said a word, and the wildlings barred the door behind him.

The wildling frogmarched Sam out into the courtyard. The snow was thick underfoot. He had never seen Castle Black so wild - thousands of wildlings were hollered around campfires in the castle grounds.

Celebrating and feasting on the sworn brother's stores. The scene looked mad, savage, highlighted by fires in the black night.

Sam glimpsed a fourteen-foot-tall figure stomping around the grounds, roaring. A giant. The sight made his knees so weak the wildling had to kick him to keep him moving.

He's taking me to the King's Tower, Sam realised. Jon?

His heart was in his mouth as he was walked through the reinforced oak and steel doors, and up the stone staircase. It wasn't Jon waiting for him behind the desk in the solar, though; instead Sam saw a gaunt, pale figure cradling his fingers. Mance Rayder looked at him and just nodded. The heavyset wildling grunted as he stepped away from Sam.

Sam could only stare. It had only been twenty-four hours, but Mance looked so different. Gone were the foul rags and filth; now he had been washed, and dressed in wool and leather. Three guards in the room stared at Sam suspiciously.

"Tarly," said Mance, his voice still raw. He looked weary but alert. "Samwell Tarly, I hear?"

Sam could only nod.

"You are of House Tarly, I take it? What is it, Horn Hill?"

"Yes," Sam said weakly. "Lord Randyll Tarly's son."

"Indeed. I trust you can read and write?" Sam nodded. "Good, I need you to write a letter for me, Tarly. Several, in fact."

Sam hesitated. "Who to?"

"Denys Mallister, for now," said Mance. "The Magnar of Thenn has already left for the Shadow Tower, and I would like to encourage the good ser to surrender. You will write how all of the sworn brothers who surrendered here have remained unharmed."

That was a lie, for Sam knew of at least three who had been executed and five who had been beaten, but he nodded in any case. Mance dictated the words and Sam wrote them. It was a very firmly worded message, short and to the point. There would be a few hundred in the Shadow Tower against several thousand. Afterwards, Sam read it back, before placing it before Mance to check. Mance couldn't even hold a parchment with his ruined hands.

Sam could feel the wildling guards staring at him with evil eyes. He couldn't stop trembling. "How are your brothers?" Mance asked finally, as his eyes roamed over the parchment.

"Scared," Sam replied truthfully.

"Understandable. Also necessary." Mance looked up at him with curiosity. "Answer me, Samwell; why did you release me from those cells?"

"I was afraid for my brother's lives, Your Gra… um, my lord…?"

"Spare the titles, they aren't due," said Mance. "But that was an awfully brave act for a scared man."

"I was awfully scared."

A pale ghost of a smile passed over Mance's face. The former King-Beyond-the-Wall looked at him critically. "Indeed. You need not

return to the maester's quarters, Samwell; I want you by my side."

Sam's eyes widened. "You want me to be your steward?"

"No." He shook his head. "I want you to be my deputy. I have been granted command of Castle Black, and I'm choosing you as my lieutenant."

Sam stared with disbelief, stammering to try and form words. Mance just shrugged. "You proved yourself smart, and capable, and I want smart and capable men next to me. You clearly care for your sworn brothers, but you can work with free folk too. So yes, you'll do as my second-in-command."

"… No," Sam gulped. "You shouldn't, this… this looks like a reward." Mance's brow raised. "A reward for freeing you. I don't want a reward for freeing you, my lord, I don't want anything." The sworn brothers will hate me. Despise me. I will be joining the wildlings in their eyes .

"The 'reward' is an offer," Mance replied coolly. "If you believe that you can help those who you call brothers - to help me help them - then you will accept the position for them. Otherwise, I will give the position to a capable free folk instead, who may not care as much for the black brothers as you would."

"But… but…" Sam squirmed, meeting Mance eyes. He didn't have the appearance or the rank of a king, but he had the gaze of one.

"You are scared of what your sworn brothers would think of you working under me," Mance said sharply. Sam could only nod. "Then that is your choice. But I think you will do what is for the best of the Watch. As you did before."

There was a pause. Sam shifted on the spot, staring at the worn but rich carpet of the King's Tower. It was already filthy from wildling boots. "Where is Jon Snow?" Sam asked finally.

"Away, preparing for the march against the Shadow Tower. I suspect he will be back shortly, however."

Sam nodded, biting his lip. "There is something you must know…"

he murmured. "Castle Black was attacked, the Wall breached…"

"Ah. You mean the white walker that escaped south."

Sam stared. "You know?"

Mance nodded. "From interrogating the prisoner." That phrase caused Sam to squirm. How many fingers had been broken? "I heard the tale. Jon… ahem… King Snow was quite concerned. The Night's Watch may not have had the manpower to mount a search for the Other, but the free folk do. Once we are secure in our position, there will be free folk raiding parties hunting the creature down."

His mouth stammered. "Normal swords won't hurt it," Sam said, remembering what the three-eyed crow told him. "You need Valyrian steel or dragonglass."

"Snow said the same thing," Mance said, narrowing his eyes. "Valyrian steel is in short supply, but we have two dozen or so obsidian arrows, and a few daggers. They'll be spread around our best hunters and archers."

Sam blinked, struggling to respond. Mance cocked his head. "Was that why you chose our side when taking the castle? You wereconcerned about the true enemy?"

"In part," Sam admitted. "But there's more."

He hesitated. Mance's eyes narrowed. "Yes?"

I have to tell him, Sam thought. He had to tell him everything that happened, but… "You'll think I'm crazy," Sam promised.

"I will reserve judgement on that. Now what has you so concerned to speak?"

Sam bit his lip, well-aware of how it sounded. "Have you ever heard of a person called the last greenseer?" he asked hesitantly.

Mance didn't reply. Sam told him everything that had happened that night. Unlike every sworn brother in the castle, Mance sat and listened.

Jon

His grey destrier pounded through the snowdrifts, while Jon's eyes were peeled in the distance. Fourteen other riders galloped besides him, some with spears but most with willow longbows. The snow-ploughed plains leading up towards the mountains stretched out in front of them, dappled with white-capped sentinel pines.

Ygon Oldfather had gifted Jon the speckled grey and black destrier when he arrived at Castle Black. Doubtless it had been taken from the Night's Watch stables, but it was a strong mount with a good temperament, and Jon had been grateful. Jon was even considering taking the horse to warg with - the ability to skinchange into a mount seemed very appealing - once the animal was more comfortable with him.

"These mountains clans of yours," Hatch called to Jon as their party stopped. "Are they going to be an enemy?"

"Perhaps." Most likely . "The mountains clans are old, dating back to the First Men themselves. They've been fighting against wildlings for time immemorable, and they won't be happy to see so many pass," Jon replied.

"And this is the place?" Ygon Oldfather called, a one-eyed, aging warrior who rode as strongly as a man half his age.

"Aye," Jon said, pointing out over the foothills leading towards the northern mountains. Grey-green sentinels, spruce, fir and soldier pines littered landscapes. "Clan Norrey keeps a holdfast nestled in the hills just over the ridge. They have long been friends to the Night's Watch; there is regular trade between them and they've came to brothers' aid more than once." He shifted his grey to have a look, trying to remember. "Further over the valley are the First Flints, the Wulls, the Burleys and Liddles. Clan Wull is the most powerful of the clans."

"And how many men do they have?" Hatch asked.

"Three thousand fighting men in total, perhaps. Some regard the mountain clans as primitive, but my father once said that the north had none more loyal and steadfast than them."

"Three thousand," Hatch murmured. "We could take those numbers easily."

He shook his head. "No. If we fight every force against us then we'll lose men quickly. We will treat with the mountain clans, not fight with them. We will approach Norrey under a truce, and then negotiate with the rest."

"Easier said than done," Haldur Two-Notch called, the most keen-eyed of them as he scouted over the pass. "There are bowmen waiting on that ridge. At least a dozen."

Jon frowned, squinting at the rocks and outcrops where the man was pointing. A faint slurry of snow obscured the scene. "I see nothing."

"Aye, they're wearing white cloaks," Haldur explained. "But you can catch them when they move. There'll be another bunch over on that side, by those rocks, and probably another group in the trees there and there."

The horse whinnied, as it paced over the clearing. Jon tried to follow where the raider pointed. Parties overlooking the uphill approach,

Jon realised. The mountain clans had no castles, but they knew how to fortify the terrain. If we bring our horses much closer into bow range then things will be bloody .

Haldur looked like he was having similar thoughts. "Snow, you could lose two hundred men against two dozen up those slopes," he warned.

"You've seen tactics like this before?"

"I've used tactics like this before," the lean man scoffed. "If they know what they're doing, there'll be pitfall traps and rocks rigged as well. You want to get into those mountains, you can't use horses. You need men on foot moving slowly in small groups with bowmen of our own."

Jon nodded, staring out over the distance. "And then that would guarantee a fight."

"If they want a fight then we'd be better off giving them one," Ygon called.

"Not today."

Jon had wanted to make contact with the mountains clans, to offer peace, but those bowmen would be more likely to shoot first and talk later. He seriously considered moving forward anyway under a branch of truce, but he had no idea how they would react. It's too risky, he decided. At least with this group .

"Alright, we fall back for now," Jon ordered. "We need scouts with horses on the plains here, to watch for any force of men coming against us. I'll arrange an envoy to head for the mountain clans." I need to find free folk with the right temperament to broker peace between age-old enemies . Difficult . "They know we're here, but let'snot drag ourselves into a fight."

He glanced around, causing his grey to shimmy. "There's a tower fairly close to here," Jon said to Hatch, pointing. "A place called Queenscrown. It's a ruin, but it's defendable. Hatch, I want you to put together a force to hold Queenscrown, to form a perimeter across the Gift."

Haldur and three other men agreed to linger to scout the route to the mountains, and Jon promised to send reinforcements to them shortly. Hatch turned to head back to Castle Black to gather the men.

Ygon Oldfather nodded, clutching the reins of his mare. "Aye. Back to Castle Black, then?"

"Not yet," Jon said. "I sent Soren Shieldbreaker south down the kingsroad with a group of men to scout out Last Hearth. We ride southeast, and see if we can meet up with them."

There were nods, stirrups whipped and the horses neighed as they started a quick gallop down the plains. There were so many who could be rallying against them, Jon needed to reach out gingerly to each northern house. Worrisome, particularly with the looming threat of storms. The last thing he wanted was to end up snowed-in at Castle Black while the northern houses rallied against the free folk. A truce must be brokered quickly .

House Umber and the mountains clans were the largest concerns. Both were significant forces, both with plenty of reasons to despise free folk. The Boltons and the Iron Throne might rally tens of thousands against them, but they were further away while Last Hearth was very close.

They rode until late evening. Everything was hectic managing the campaign, but it was worth the trip just to scout the landscape alone. Every valley or hill, Jon imagined how he would fight a battle there.

He saw the group of wildlings camped by the edge of the kingsroad, huddled into the forest. Horns blew as watchers spotted Jon's party. Soren Shieldbreaker's warband was mostly on foot, but large

enough to secure a location by the road, but with orders to hold position and fortify rather than assault.

Soren Shieldbreaker met Jon as he dismounted, with a deep nod. "Snow," the raider greeted, grey whiskers flecked with frost. "No dragon?"

"Sonagon is roosting at Castle Black," he replied. "I'm here to check on the situation."

"Situation," Soren grunted, clutching his axe in his hand. "You mean freezing our asses off sitting here? You said I wasn't to attack."

"You're not. You're to hold the road," said Jon, dropping to the ground with a wince. "Has anyone scouted out Last Hearth yet?"

"Aye, I sent four of my men forward to your keep. No return yet." He paused. "However, I did pick up a few stragglers around the forest. They were heading your way."

Jon frowned. Spies? Scouts? Soren Shieldbreaker led the way to the centre of the camp, and Jon saw seven men fastened around a tree with hemp rope that knotted and bound and across their wrists. All of them were men, the eldest looked over forty, the youngest barely seventeen. They wore old, ruined leathers and woollen jerkins. They aren't dressed like soldiers, Jon thought.

"Were they armed?"

"One was. With a bow," said Soren. "Said they were hunters."

Jon paused, looking between scared eyes and shivering bodies. These aren't enemies, these are smallfolk . His hands clenched."Why are they in binds?"

Soren frowned. "You said not to kill anyone."

"And why do you view these men as enemies at all?" Jon demanded.

"Well, they ain't free folk, are they?"

Some of the captives were shivering and weeping. They were trapped, bound to a tree with no fire to warm them. A few had bleeding wrists from the rope.

Release them," Jon ordered harshly. "We will not terrorise smallfolk. There is no need."

They're not free folk, Soren had said. The wildlings viewed anyone who wasn't them as an enemy; they would treat commoners the same as they would enemy soldiers. We will not last long if that attitude prevails .

If the wildlings terrorised smallfolk, then the lords and highborn would never, ever treat with them. Jon highly doubted that Soren would have unbound the men even after the free folk marched out. Even if Soren followed Jon's orders and didn't kill, they would happily leave these men bound to a tree in the wilderness.

I only discovered this because I happened to stop by, Jon thought. The wildling army was already occupying two castles and several villages around the Gift. How many other commoners are being treated this way?

The wildlings gruffly cut their prisoner's binds. The hunters looked scared out of their wits. I must be more careful, Jon cursed. This is the wildlings' nature, and I must work harder to overcome it .

"Hail," Jon called to one of the men, stepping forward. Jon's guards huddled protectively around him. "Where are you from?"

One of the eldest, a thin, gaunt man with a heavily wrinkled face like gnarly bark, gulped nervously. "We don't want no bother. Just passing through, we never… we never knew…"

They stared at him with pure fear. "These men were too zealous, I apologise," said Jon, glancing around. "But you were still trespassing

and we have valid reason to beware spies. Now answer; where are you from, and where were you heading?"

"Mole's Town," the man muttered shakily. "I have two sisters there. My name's Yorrick, m-m'lord. Three of us are from House Forrester, another four stragglers picked up along the way. We were heading to Last Hearth, when…"

His voice, glancing around the armed wildlings surrounding them.

"When what ?" Jon demanded.

"Fighting, m'lord," another of the group said. He was a younger boy, with a stocky, podgy build, red face and wide pale eyes. "We heard fighting at Last Hearth, and we don't want no part of that. I joined the group to get away from it, safety in numbers."

"Fighting. Who was fighting who?"

"I don't know… I never got close enough to see," he said shakily. "If it weren't, well, you, then it must have been flayed men."

Jon paused. Boltons attacking Umbers? "What is your name?"

"Harlow, m'lord," the younger man replied uncertainly. He bowed his head again quickly.

"Please," Yorrick begged. "We are three hunters, one crofter, and two farmers. We don't mean no trouble."

"And these men could tell your northern lords exactly where we're camped and how many numbers we have," Soren Shieldbreaker warned.

"Let them. It is hardly a secret and I imagine a dozen other scouts will have done the same by now. The best scouts are the ones you don't see." He turned towards the captives. "Yorrick, your sisters are safe. Mole Town is under our occupation, but no one has been hurt." That I know of, he thought grimly. Might need to check . "If you wish,

I can take you to her. My party will be returning to Castle Black in any case."

Yorrick didn't respond, but he still looked scared. Harlow's mouth hung open. What am I going to do with them? Jon cursed. Forcing them away could be a death sentence in war-torn lands. And there is a white walker on the loose.

He made the decision quickly. "There will likely be fighting in these parts, and I wouldn't see anyone caught up in that. If you wish, you can join me to the camp at Castle Black. If nothing else, I can offer a meal and a fire for the night."

Soren looked unhappy, but he didn't say anything. All of the wildlings just glared. The men didn't reply either, just nervous nods. Jon caught Harlow staring him intently through the corner of his gaze. They still think they're prisoners, Jon thought. Perhaps they are .

Still, panic among the smallfolk was the last thing Jon needed. I need to set a precedent, to make sure the wildlings can get along with the northmen rather than fight them . It was a task that wouldonly get more urgent the further south his army expanded.

Jon ordered some men to escort the hunters up the kingsroad, and told Soren Shieldbreaker to hold his position. News of fighting at Last Hearth was unsettling, and Jon couldn't charge into an unknown battle.

Perhaps I should take Sonagon to Last Hearth, he thought. Jon could feel the dragon now, roosting atop the tower at Castle Black. Sonagon would sleep, but then he would need to fly again. Too much to do and not enough time, Jon cursed.

He debated returning to Castle Black, but the thought of those men's treatment gave him pause. There were three other perimeter hosts led by Gerrick Kingsblood, Morna White Mask and Haldur Bullspear. Jon took a dozen riders to tour the other hosts, to check how they

were treating any northmen they encountered. I won't let any claim ignorance as an excuse for raiding .

Before long, the whole of the Gift would be under wildling control. My control . Expanses of vast, untamed forests, crags and mountainsfifty leagues south of the Wall that Jon somehow needed to manage.

He spent the rest of the day riding through the plains and flurries, between the forests all the way up to Sable Hall. Morna White Mask reported coming across two abandoned homesteads, but little sign of any northmen moving against them. There was a chill hovering over the land that threatened a cold storm.

By the time he finally headed back to Castle Black, it was dusk and the setting sun threw long shadows across the snow. Castle Black was a shadowy silhouette in the distance, flooded by the wildling camp spilling out of it.

Castle Black was already overflowing. In the courtyard, they were only halfway through excavating the sealed tunnel to open the gate again, but already more and more free folk were already waiting on the other side ready to come through.

Jon heard the activity in the castle from the plains, stirring his destrier into a gallop. He heard the horn blast as the watchers saw him, but it sounded strained.

Sonagon was snoozing atop his perch, a white shape draping over Hardin's Tower. Hardin's Tower was a large tower with a dangerous lean, and the dragon roosted on the broken roof by using dragonfire to form a nest of ice around the top. Jon could see the glittering white ice glinting in the sun, cracking through broken stones.

Jon knew something was wrong as soon as he approached. He heard shouting, and saw men rippling across the perimeter. Jon's hand instinctively went to his sword, but it didn't look like there was any fighting. More panic.

As soon as his grey rode into the courtyard, Jon heard mutters and saw suspicious glares. The whole camp was silent, everyone looking at him. Shivers went down his spine.

"What happened?" he demanded, to no one in particular. His guards looked confused too. "What's going on?"

He dropped off his horse. Everyone avoided his gaze. He saw Val's blond hair whipping as she glared at him. "Snow," Val growled. "What the bloody hells are you playing at?"

"What are you talking about?" Jon replied, eyes narrowing.

Mole's Town, Snow," she snapped. "Why did you do it?" "I did nothing."

"Your dragon did."

It didn't take long for him to mount up his horse again and ride out down the road. Others followed. He could see wafts of steam in the distance, men scattered about the road. He heard somebody wailing.

As soon as he passed a bend in the road, he saw the jagged plumes of ice and torn up ground.

Behind him, in the distance, Sonagon was still sleeping on his tower, but the dragon's snout and claws were filthy. Jon's breath froze with the sight of the icy spikes jabbing out of the earth where Mole's Town used to be.

Oh no no no…

Jon stared across the field, at what little remained of Mole's Town. He felt his hands clench, his shoulders stiff. The cold had warped and distorted the earth itself, the whole ground swollen and cracked. Wooden buildings had to exploded and then frozen into twisted, jagged ruins.

Only this morning he had passed by the small village, and now there wasn't a building left intact. The destruction looked hours old, but the ice was still steaming.

His grey whinnied, nervous to move any further. Death and destruction was as thick as the cold in the air. Jon's mouth hung open, head spinning.

There were men gathered around, but nobody seemed to approach the icy ruins. Jon heard a spearwife sobbing by one of the frozen spikes. Her hands were bleeding from trying to scrape uselessly through the wreckage.

The air felt so cold that it hurt in his chest.

"… How many?" Jon asked with a pause, dreading the answer.

"Forty-three, by my count," his man, Wulf, said with a grunt. Free folk cautiously surrounded the icy ruin, everyone staring back at Jon. "Maybe some got away, but I doubt it."

Half of Mole Town had been underground, but Sonagon had destroyed it in a single explosion of dragonfire. Afterwards, the dragon had dug the ground and ice upwards to eat the frozen bodies. The earth was jagged from where huge claws ripped open the exploded buildings.

Mole's Town had been small village, but there was barely anything left of it.

Jon's heart was beating. His grey shimmied in the icy field. " Who ?"

Wulf scratched his lip. "Let's see… a dozen whores or so that didn't run, some farmers, a couple of children." Children . His heart skipped a beat. "A few free folk from the east coast. I think two or so Night's Watch deserters as well. They were all in the village when your dragon attacked."

"The free folk? What were they doing? Raiding?"

"Nah, guarding. Most of Mole's Town fled before the battle, but some lingered. Mance offered them all protection, sent a few of his men to guard the place. The Night's Watch been visiting there too - Mance said that the crows could keep the whores, to help calm tensions."

Why didn't I feel it happening? I wasn't close enough to Sonagon, or was I too distracted?

He felt like screaming. He wanted to scream. Forty-three dead, their bodies scorched by ice and then devoured.

If any raider or sworn brother had butchered forty-three men, Jon would have had them hung. But how on earth am I meant to punish a dragon? Am I fool enough to try?

He stared at the destruction of Mole's Town. Why did Sonagon do such a thing?

No, that's a fool's question too . Sonagon did it simply because he was hungry. That was his nature. The dragon had no concept of laws, or even right or wrong. Humans might as well be cattle to Sonagon. The dragon had eaten men before, during battle. The only difference was that Sonagon recognised some humans as 'these men will feed me' and others as 'these men are food'.

Sonagon must have become peckish as he snoozed, flew off, and then went back to sleep. He killed forty-three men as easily as a terrier would kill a pack of rodents.

"I met some hunters in the forest," Jon said slowly. "I had men escort them back to Mole's Town." Yorrick had two sisters.

"Oh aye, they're dead. I think that's what tipped the dragon off - it must have seen men approach and got curious."

"All of them?" Jon demanded. "They're all dead?"

"I think three of them went ahead into the camp. Only the ones who lingered in Mole's Town died."

Only the men visiting their sisters .

Sonagon knew through Jon that Castle Black was his. But Jon had thought nothing about any humans in Mole's Town, outside of the castle. As far as Sonagon was concerned, the village had just been a convenient little pantry of forty-three tasty snacks.

How many others had the dragon eaten? How many hunters in the woods, or farmers in the fields? None that Jon was aware, but it was only a matter of time.

I had only been away for such a short trip too . The dragon had seemed so content roosting over Castle Black when he had left.

He heard screaming. A woman was shouting at him. She looked over forty with a leathery face and tears running down her cheeks. "You bastard!" The woman screamed. Jon recognised her; Zei, a whore from the brothel. "You did this! You bastard! You bastard! "

The woman looked grief-stricken, charging at Jon. A few of the free folks drew their blades. "No!" Jon snapped. He glanced at the woman, but breathing deeply and unable to speak

She picked up a stone, ready to throw at him. Wulf scowled, jumping off his horse to restrain her. "You bastard!" Zei bellowed. " YOU BASTARD! "

There was no choice and nothing he could do. Jon turned and rode back to the castle.

She is right to demand vengeance too , he thought hollowly. But what can I do? Chain the dragon? Lash the dragon? Execute the dragon? Sonagon would kill Jon himself if he tried. There were no chains strong enough to hold a beast of Sonagon's size, not here.

No, the fault is mine, he thought coldly. Sonagon is just an animal - a smart animal, but a beast nonetheless. He's my responsibility, I'm the one who should be lashed.

Anyone who hated him, and there were many who did, just received forty-three additional reasons to do so.

I can't leave Sonagon again , Jon thought. Ever. I have to stay by the dragon's side constantly . It had been fine north of the wall while Sonagon had been injured and didn't move so much, but now Sonagon was becoming more restless.

And when the food runs out? Sonagon could eat as much as a small army all by himself. There were many free folk to feed, and the Night's Watch rations had already been depleted. Come winter many men would starve at this rate, but with Sonagon they might not reach winter at all.

First, they were already sacrificing livestock to feed the dragon.

Soon, they would have to start killing horses too.

All eyes were on him as the riders rode into the castle. Jon kept his face hard. I can't show emotion, can't show weakness.

He glimpsed Sam staring at him from the steps of the rookery with an expression of horror on his face. He saw Bowen Marsh, Donnel Hill, Hairy Hal and Pypar lingering by the Flint Barracks with angry, resentful glares. They looked too scared to even raise their voices with so many wildlings around. All eyes seemed fixed on him. We have only just convinced the first of the sworn brothers to resume their duties rather than stay in chains, but what man of the Night's Watch would work with wildlings now?

The men of the Night's Watch were outnumbered fifteen to one. Two hundred men of the black were still in Castle Black. Another seven men had joined Ser Alliser on the chopping block in the first two days, but after a few futile revolts or protests most had settled in simmering resentment.

The Shadow Tower was the last holdout for the men of the Night's Watch, but not for long. Both Tormund and Sigorn were leading forces to take the Shadow Tower. Ser Denys Mallister refused to surrender, but he couldn't last. There was little doubt that the Shadow Tower would break.

Tormund sent word that there could be up to four hundred men holding the Shadow Tower, men who had fled west all the way from Eastwatch as the Wall fell. Combined with the two hundred men held in Castle Black, Jon guessed that there were fewer than six hundred sworn brothers left.

Only six hundred. There had been a thousand, when Jon joined. Doubtless more would fall when they took the Shadow Tower. The Night's Watch might well have been cut in half.

If only they had yielded, Jon thought. If only they had yielded and seen the true enemy. None needed to die at all . It was a bitter thought.

He saw Mance Rayder waiting for him outside of the keep. The man was clean-shaven again, still with a gaunt face, yet he looked much fuller wearing a thick hauberk and leathers. He wasn't quite walking by himself, and still with a severe limp. He wore thick gloves to hide broken fingers. Maester Aemon had tried to treat Mance's poorly-healed fingers, but Jon doubted if his hands would ever be the same again.

"Snow," Mance said, his voice hard and arms folded. "A word."

Jon was fumed quietly as they stepped aside. Mance winced as he tried to stagger forward. Jon saw the eyes watching him. "It won't happen again," said Jon.

"Is that so?" Mance grunted. He kept his voice low because of those watching. "How many?"

"Forty-three."

Mance thought about it. "Five leagues further south, your dragon would have reached the first areas of farmland and homesteads. It could have quite easily been five times that many. A bit further still, and that's Last Hearth. That would be a banquet for the dragon, I suspect."

"I said, it won't happen again," he growled.

"And you'll swear that, can you?" said Mance. "Promise it on your honour?"

Jon didn't reply. "Course not," Mance grunted. "That's because it's a dragon and not even you can control it all times."

"I won't let it happen again," Jon growled, eyes blazing.

"Words are wind, Snow. We need actions." Mance met his gaze with hard-worn eyes. "If your dragon needs to eat, needs to hunt, then I'm sure we can find hordes of enemies, but not whores and children."

"I'll fly Sonagon to Eastwatch," Jon promised. "I'll double feeding times. The host there and the fishing boats could supply for him."

"For a while," Mance agreed. "But no matter what, sooner or later there are going to be a lot of folk starving - but that dragon needs to eat ."

Jon couldn't argue with that. "How bad is this?"

Mance snorted. "Well, it won't be a picnic," he said dryly. He hesitated. "But we can handle it this time. They'll be a few angry and a lot more worried, but we can handle the deaths of some whores and farmers. Though if it happens again…"

"It won't." Jon hesitated, with a gulp. I must make sure of it . "How many chains are in Castle Black?" He demanded.

"What?"

"Chains," Jon insisted. "What are the thickest chains do you think we could have forged? Enough to hold a dragon?"

"Oh no." Mance shook his head, eyes wide. "You cannot be serious. You mean to chain your dragon? Here?"

"Forty-three people are dead, Mance," Jon growled.

"And how many more will die if that dragon is chained when we need it?"

"That doesn't make it right!" Jon snapped. "There must be justice. Lives need to mean something. How can you just brush off murder because it's… it's inconvenient ?"

"I don't bloody know what's right," Mance hissed. "And lower your bloody voice. But I do know that if you try to chain that dragon up, then that ain't going to end very well."

His jaw clenched. Mance looked down on him, with a curt nod as he walked away. "I can handle the men, Snow, but you need to take care of the dragon. Sort it out."

My father would surely execute any beast that killed forty-three people, Jon thought.

Jon wanted to hit something. It would be easier if he could. If this was a fight he could handle it.

Jon glimpsed two of the hunters he met - Harlow, he recalled, and one other - gaping upwards at the dragon with open mouths. Jon might have approached them, but what would he say? I'm sorry my dragon has just eaten your companions?

Instead he walked on, needing time alone. The shape of Hardin's Tower had never looked so foreboding.

Jon spent a long time pacing in his bare quarters as night fell, staring upwards, through the stone and ice towards where Sonagon slept.

He wondered if the dragon even knew what he had done. Probably, Sonagon just wouldn't care.

Jon wasn't in control of Sonagon, not really. The dragon tolerated Jon, even followed him, but Sonagon would still have his own way more often than not.

Aegon and his sisters brought dragons to the realm three hundred years ago, he thought suddenly. The Valyrians rode dragons for centuries. Someone must have had this same problem before.

Now how did the Targaryens of old used to keep their dragons under control? It was hard to say, when the last Targaryen dragon died a hundred and fifty years ago.

Jon paused, as the idea came to him. He changed out of his sweaty riding leathers into wool and furs, and then broke his fast on dried meat rations from his bags. He had no inclination to wait for his guards, so he moved by himself.

He walked quickly out into the courtyard, heading towards the rookery at the far end of the castle. He knocked twice, and the door opened quickly. Jon took deep breath, forcing his body to stay steady.

"Just a minu - oh," Sam gasped. Jon saw Sam's face widen in shock at the sight of him. His mouth stammered.

"Hello Sam," Jon said softly. "I would like to speak to Maester Aemon."

The rookery was one part the free folk stay clear of. After settling in, they had left Maester Aemon, Sam and Clydas mostly alone. There were no guards posted on them, they slept in their own quarters. The ravens were important, but the free folk were unused to sending letters.

Still, Jon wondered if Sam would ever stop staring at him like he barely knew him. "Who is it, Samwell?" Maester Aemon croaked from the room.

"Umm… ermm… King Jon, maester," Sam squeaked, stepping aside. Sam seemed nervous even just being in his presence. Do I really frighten him that much now? "Your Grace."

"In private Jon is fine, Sam," said Jon, stepping inside and nodding. Gods it feels so long since I was last here. How things have changed - it feels surreal . "Maester."

"Your Grace," Aemon said with a blind nod, shuffling to his feet. His old bones seemed to creak. "Although I must admit, I am uncertain of the honorific to use. They call you king yet I do not believe anyone bows, or that you wear a crown."

"I ask for neither," Jon said. "I am king because I rule, and that's enough. So long as they obey, then I don't see the crown as important."

Aemon nodded. "Very well. But if I may say so, men must see respect being acknowledged for it to be solidified. The crown and the courtesies exist for a reason. I would advise you to either take a crown or do not, but don't try to live in limbo."

"And do you have a problem with that?"

"Me? No." The maester's wrinkled hand clutched his chain. "I am but a maester. It is my place to obey and to teach; never to rule and never to judge. For better, or for worse, you are in charge here, King Snow, and I will acknowledge that." He lowered his head respectfully.

"Sam," Jon turned to his friend. "I hear that you have been working with Mance."

Sam nodded meekly. He hardly looked like the picture of a wildling leader's lieutenant, but Mance seemed to be satisfied. He paused. "I

also heard the tale you told Mance," said Jon, his voice low.

He blustered. "You did?"

"Aye. Mance told me last night." You met the greenseer too.

"Mance didn't believe me," Sam squeaked.

"He did," Jon promised. "I told him to." Sam's eyes flickered. Maester Aemon didn't seem to react. "… We will talk later, Sam."

Jon suspected that the three-eyed crow had saved Sam because he had known Sam was Jon's friend. He must have wanted Sam to pass on the information to me, Jon decided. The three-eyed crowwas clever and powerful enough to control events like this.

It made Jon wonder how many other strings the greenseer was pulling. There were too many coincidences that Jon was starting to suspect the greenseer's hand in. Mother Mole's prophecy, the support he had gathered at Hardhome, the wildlings flocking to him… the three-eyed crow could have easily been manipulating events. Now did the greenseer also manipulate Stannis and that Red Woman into attacking us? Jon mused.

It was a question for another day. He had to focus.

"I am looking for books on dragons," Jon said, glancing around. "There are old tomes here, are there not?"

"Ah, of course. Come in," Maester Aemon said, shuffling with his cane. "I have been expecting that you might stop by."

"You have?"

"Hoping, is a better word, perhaps." Maester Aemon walked slowly, towards the staircase heading downwards into the lower stacks in the wormwalks, leading down to the vaults. Sam hesitated in the quarters, unsure as if to follow. Eventually, Sam lingered behind.

"How much on dragons?" Jon asked. How to control them?

"Too little," Aemon sighed. "And too much unsorted and undocumented. Yet I have a selection of books prepared that may be of interest. Samwell has been assisting me. The Citadel would be a better source for dragonlore, yet the Night's Watch has its archives too."

The air was cold, but still and dry. Jon saw gloomy stacks of bound shelves looming below him, stretching outwards into the vaults of Castle Black. Each shelf was sealed; some with markings on them but most blank. He heard rats skittering in the darkness.

The maester stopped to motion at a lantern hanging on the wall. Jon paused to pick the rusty thing off its hook, lighting it before moving down into the narrow, dusty corridor. Aemon seemed to count the steps in the dark.

"The gods continue to be cruel, it seems," Aemon mused softly. His voice even sounded like dry paper. "All my life, I have longed to see a dragon. And now, there is one right outside my very door, but alas, I am unable to see it."

Jon wasn't sure how to reply. "I… I am sorry." He paused. "You are Aemon Targaryen. You have studied dragons?"

Obsessed over them, in my youth. I was first drawn to the path of a maester as a means to discover more about them. Before I took the black, I would even say that I read every tome on dragonlore in the Citadel, bar one."

"Bar one? Which one?"

"' Blood and Fire '," Aemon said wistfully. "' The Death of Dragons ', a manuscript which only the Grand Maesters themselves are allowed to lay eyes on."

He kept working towards a dusty oak at the far corner between the stacks, with a dozen half-burned tallow candles and four neat stacks of leather bound books. Some of the older books were wrapped in old vinegar-soaked clothes to preserve them against the cold, and the dust was so thick that even Jon was wheezing. Aemon sighed.

"How I miss my sight…" he muttered, his hands fumbling softly in the gloom. Jon blinked, reaching for another candle. "May I present the single most precious book in this collection," he explained, pointing to an old, black bound tome four inches thick. "' Dragons, Wyrms and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History ', by Septon Barth, Hand ofthe King for Jaehaerys I Targaryen. Please be gentle, this book may well be one of the last two complete copies in the world."

Jon blinked. "Really?"

"Indeed. Too many tomes like such were burned under King Baelor's zealous reign. This tome I stole from the Citadel archives before coming north, so many years ago. In my arrogance, I believed that my own safekeeping was better than any in Oldtown." His voice was slow, laborious. "Yet I could never part with this book. Brynden did love it so."

Jon froze. Brynden. Brynden Rivers? He didn't say anything, but there was a knowing edge to Aemon's tone.

He hesitated, glancing over the leather-bound cover. The tome was so large and thick it might be used as a shield. "What does this book say? What are wyverns? Or wyrms?"

"The wyverns of Sothoryos are great winged lizards. Not as large or as long-lived as dragons, and they do not breathe fire, but they are still fearsome beasts. The firewyrms of Old Valyria are thought extinct after the Doom, but they were great serpentine creatures that would live in volcanoes, burrow through earth and could produce intense heats." His wheezing voice was quiet, but the whole library was still. Jon had to focus to listen. "It has long been theorised that the very first dragonlords of Old Valyria bred wyverns and wyrms

together to produce the dragons we know today. Some scholars suspect the use of blood magic, yet such theories are unpopular to the modern historian."

He hadn't heard that before. "I… I see." Dragons had been bred? "So wyverns were fireless dragons? And wyverns are still alive today?"

"Presumably, though the swamps of Sothoryos are hardly the most accessible. While dragons were known to fly halfway around the world, the wyverns had smaller wings and were far more territorial. I know of no claim of ever being able to tame a wyvern."

"And what of… what was the name? Firewyrms?"

"The wyrms are thought extinct, alas," Aemon said shuffling around the stacks. "Either they are extinct or deep underground. The great firewyrms have not been seen since before the Doom, as the Fourteen Flames of the Valyria Freehold were the only place in the known world where the wyrms would ever come to the surface. Thus it is thought they were left extinct in the cataclysm."

"I have never heard such things."

"Tis not common knowledge," Maester Aemon admitted. But you are no common maester, are you? As both a Targaryen and one of theoldest men alive, Aemon must have had access to histories like no other.

"So the Valyrians actually created dragons from these two different creatures?" Jon asked, entranced.

"Once, thousands of years ago, perhaps. There is no way to be certain. There is other evidence - the blood pits of Gogossos have long been reputed to have produced unnatural creatures and twisted hybrids under Valyrian rule. The basilisks of that area are another creature that are theorised to have been created by Valyrian

crossbreeding and blood magic. My view is that very few of the monsters of the old empire continue to roam, but some linger."

"And what of ice dragons?" Jon asked. "Is there any mention of them?"

"Not in Septon Barth's accounts." Jon wondered how many times the maester must have read that book before his sight failed. "The only veritable reference of ice dragons I have ever encountered came from a theory from Maester Margate supposing the existence of dragon subspecies. Cannibal's Bay, north of the Shivering Sea, has long since been held as an example of ice dragon activity. Unfortunately, few ever return as witnesses from that place."

The maester scratched his beard, shuffling forward between the stacks of books with small steps. "Margate has often been dismissed as an… imaginative maester," Aemon explained slowly. "He claimed that the term 'dragon' should be considered a genus, not a species. The Valyrian firebreathers were but one form. He referenced the old lore of ice dragons to the north, sea dragons of the west, and even the rumours of the shadow dragons of Asshai."

"Sonagon is an ice dragon."

"Indeed. The very first verified creature, in fact. I shall have to write to the Citadel confirming such." Aemon paused, wheezing softly. "And yet yours is not the type that Margate described. In his work, Margate was very clear; that the ice dragons north of the Shivering Sea were winglessand could not fly, hence why they are not widely known. The ice dragons that he wrote of were more related to the sea dragons of the west rather than the Valyrian stock."

Jon paused, thinking about it as he flickered through the titles of the books. Yes, he thought. Sonagon was a Valyrian dragon first . "And what is your view?"

"Me?" Aemon mused. "I consider wolves."

"Excuse me?"

"A hunting hound and a wolf appear very different animals. Yet most maesters agree that they share the same lineage and can even crossbreed. A direwolf and a dog seem drastically different, yet perhaps not as much as the appearances may suggest," Aemon explained. "I think of the shape of the ancient dragons - the firewyrms and the sea dragons - which were all recorded to have long, serpentine bodies and stubby limbs, and I think that perhaps the Valyrians created an offshoot when they bred the first flying dragons from wyverns. They all, however, remain very similar creatures."

"I see," he muttered, lighting a candle carefully as he looked between the stacked books. "May I?"

"Your Grace, I consider you the strongest authority on dragons in the world today," Maester Aemon said with a soft smile. "Any knowledge this place has to offer is yours. Modern knowledge on dragons is patchy at best, but perhaps we can see some blanks filled in."

How long has it been since I just read a book? The last time had been at the libraries of Winterfell, sat next to Maester Luwin. He opened the leather cover of Unnatural History very gingerly. On the front page, a dark three-headed dragon was stamped, curled around itself. The Targaryen seal. The parchment was very thick, but the ink was faded and so cursive that he could barely read it.

"It has been decades since anyone other than myself has read that book," Maester Aemon muttered, so quietly Jon barely heard him even in the gloom. "The last person to do so was a prince…"

Jon turned the page, squinting as he skimmed over the words. An excruciatingly detailed sketch of huge dragon - wings outstretched and its features annotated - dominated the double pages. The caption marked it as 'Balerion the Black Dread'.

Septon Barth's details and observations were absolutely precise and pristine. The first pages of writing were a mixture of his studies of the Targaryen dragons, their behaviours, diets and mating habits, as well as a good chunk of history and supposition.

Dragons require a very high iron content in their diet due to their metal rich bones, Jon read. They produce incredibly little excrement as there is little their stomachs cannot burn. In groups they establish very strict social hierarchies, but alone they become incredibly territorial. They are extremely responsive to the phases of the moon, and well-known for becoming aggressive and broody under the full moon. Barth suggested that this was a mating cycle, as it was observed that dragons living in isolation rarely showed the same characteristics.

A dragon's natural lifetime was unknown. Balerion lived to two hundred years old before appearing to die of old age, but there was fairly significant evidence of other dragons living much longer.

Anything that Jon didn't understand, Maester Aemon would linger by his side. He began to realise that the maester was more knowledgeable than any book.

Three tallow candles burned one after another as Jon sat and read in thick, comfortable silence. He felt the stiffness between his shoulders slacken.

Jon was working through a description of dragon vulnerabilities. Contrary to popular notion, dragon could not be slain by attacking down its gullet - Barth wrote that "death comes out of a dragon's mouth, but death does not go in that way". However, Septon Barth considered the eyes and snout of a dragon their largest vulnerability, citing the death of Meraxes during the First Dornish War.

"What page have you reached?" Aemon asked quietly, after a long pause.

"Twenty-seven."

"Pages thirty and thirty-one could be of interest to you."

He turned the stiff parchment. At first, all he saw was a long list of names. Jon frowned. At the very top of the list, were three names: Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya Targaryen, marked with Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar. "This is a list of dragonriders."

"That is correct," Aemon nodded blindly. "That is a list of all known dragonriders of Barth's time. And what do you notice?"

He paused. "Most of these are either Targaryen or Velaryon."

"Yes. Many have attempted to tame dragons, yet a mature dragon will generally bond only with a few men over its lifetime, and usually only those of a certain bloodline. It is one of the reasons that the dragonseeds became so valuable during the Dance of the Dragons. Old Valyria created their dragons through blood magic, and through blood they kept control of them." Aemon paused, his face hard. Jon guessed what he was implying. "Have you considered that you might be of Valyrian blood, Jon?"

"Aye," Jon admitted, with a quiet grimace.

"Indeed. Now isn't that curious?"

"My father was Eddard Stark," Jon sighed. "I know of the dragonseeds; there are many Targaryen bastards still lingering. More likely than not my mother was some fishwife or washerwoman somewhere with a drop of Targaryen in her." Maybe my mother had silver hair . Perhaps that was why Lord Stark had been so ashamedto tell him of her.

"That is possible," Maester Aemon said, but there was something in the old man's tone that Jon could not quite place. The old man sat quiet for a while.

Jon glanced at the old man. "Have you tried to approach Sonagon, maester?" he asked curiously.

"I have indeed. Your dragon reacted quite poorly to my presence. I heard it snarling, and poor Samwell had to push me away quite quickly for fear it would attack. I have not left the building since."

So Sonagon objected to Aemon . Surely if it was Targaryen blood that was required, then Aemon has more than anyone? "I could escort you to Sonagon," Jon offered. "You should have the chance to touch the dragon."

"Yes," he said with a deep sigh. "That would be most welcome. I am an old man, but I would so dearly love to touch a dragon's scales before I go."

Jon grimaced quietly, glancing back at the book. Septon Barth wrote that dragons were creatures of magic and chaos, he recalled. So why do men idolise them so?

"May I ask," the maester wheezed after the long silence, "what has you so troubled, King Snow?"

He hesitated. "I killed forty-three people today."

The old man paused. "Ah. So I hear."

There was quiet again . Was that his only response? Aemon didn't seem to feel the need to say anything more. Jon glanced at him. "They died because of me . I made a mistake - a mistake that seemed inconsequential at the time, and forty-three people died. I don't know even know their names." His voice quivered. "And it was solely my responsibility."

"Yes," Aemon agreed. "It was."

Jon sighed. He wondered if there should be more outrage, guilt, or rage at the statement. It felt like there should be. Instead, there was nothing but quiet in the cold stacks of the library.

"It's going to happen again," Jon continued. "I know it is. Maybe not with Sonagon, but maybe a wildling party will raid and rape a village because I wasn't there to keep them in line. I try, but I can't be everywhere and hundreds of people are going to die because of it."

"Yes. Most likely." Aemon just nodded.

"I don't even know what I'm supposed to feel about that," he muttered. "How can I, when everything I do or don't do is going to cost lives? What sort of choice is that?"

"One which you must face every day," Aemon said softly.

A humourless smile passed over Jon's face. "Then I don't see how I could win."

"You cannot. You will most definitely lose," the maester muttered. Jon blinked. "It may be a disastrous loss or it may be a small defeat, but eventually you will lose. Every king or queen there has ever been must roll that dice, and, although many would pretend otherwise, the outcome is all too often beyond their control. You are not in control of everything, and sooner or later you lose."

"That is…" Jon hesitated. "I don't know what to say to that."

"It was what you accepted when you took this duty," Aemon said. "It is a truth that every king must one day accept. The best rulers are the ones who accept it early."

Jon didn't reply. His hand stroked the stump of his missing finger. " Be prepared, King Snow," the old man continued. "Prepare for thedefeats more than the victories and that will place you in good stead. Accept the losses but work to reduce the next one."

"That is easier said than done, maester."

"Yes," he agreed. "Most things are."

Aemon hobbled to restack and wrap the books, treating Unnatural History with delicate care. "And what would you have me do?" Jon asked.

"That is for you to decide," the maester replied softly. "But whatever it is, you cannot do it alone. If you continue to attempt to take sole responsibility regarding everything, you will simply fail all the faster."

Jon opened his mouth, but then held his tongue. "I would suggest a crown, King Snow," Aemon said. "Take your crown and force othersto bow, no matter how uncomfortable it may make you. Give them order, and expect them to serve."

"My army is free folk. They will not bow to me."

Grey eyes passed over him. "Then you are doing something wrong."

He didn't reply. The old man winced as his knees cracked, hobbling weakly. "I must retire for the night," Aemon apologised. "It was very good to talk to you, Your Grace."

Jon paused, watching him go. He snuffed out of candle and walked out in the dark. The maester is over a hundred years old, he thought quietly. He is a very wise man .

It was dark outside. The hour of the bat, or later. He hadn't realised how long he had spent in the library, but he was still barely a tenth through Septon Barth's book. I had forgotten how much I enjoy reading , he thought, rolling his shoulders. It has been so long since I just sat behind a book .

He saw Sam waiting nervously for him by the door to the rookery.

"Jon, I…" he stammered.

"I know," Jon said, his voice low. "I'm sorry for putting you in this position Sam. You are just trying to do your duty. And so am I, Sam, believe me."

Sam's mouth paused, hesitating. "Ty and Jeren spat at me today. I passed them at the mess hall and they spat at me," Sam mumbled. "I have been spending my time hiding with Maester Aemon because the sworn brothers spit on me at every chance they get. They call me traitor for siding with the wildlings, and… and they're right. I feel like a traitor. Sworn brothers died because I tried to do what was right and they curse me for it."

"I know, Sam. Believe me, I know."

"But it's not alright, is it?" he muttered. "The Night's Watch are going to be captives and I'm walking around free and working for the man in charge. I know those men, Jon - they are my friends - and now they despise me."

Jon grimaced slightly. They were his friends too. "And yet it doesn't matter what they think. We have to do what is right, Sam."

"And is this right, Jon?" His voice was a whisper. "People are dead . How many deaths can you justify because it's all for the greater good?"

His mouth opened, and then closed. "I don't know," Jon admitted. "But I know we can't give up now. We do what we can, and then we try to do it a bit better."

Sam shuffled. "I can handle the northern lords, Sam," Jon said, wishing he can believe it. "I can work on keeping Sonagon controlled. I trust Mance to keep Castle Black running and the Wall manned, and I need you to help find a solution. I need to know more about the Others. I need to know how to defeat them."

"Dragonglass," Sam muttered. "Or Valyrian steel."

"Aye. So we need more of both. Much more. If there's a spell that can stop the Others, we need to find that too. I need to trust you to help me with that."

"And all the rest that must be done?"

"We find others that we trust too."

Sam just nodded weakly. Jon offered a smile, before stepping out into the bonfire-filled courtyard. "I will talk to Mance about those spitting on you," he promised.

"Alright, Jo…" Sam stifled, and straightened. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Val

She still wasn't used to the thick stone walls and hard wooden rafters overhead. Just being in the castle made Val feel uncomfortable as much as anything. The giant man-eating monster that snoozing overhead didn't help either. Hardin's Tower was at the edge of Castle Black, but there was absolutely nowhere you could go where Sonagon was not in sight.

She could feel the mutters through the castle after what happened to Mole's Town. Four dozen men and women dead. "This place is bloody loony," Val heard one spearwife saying to another. "That beast is a monster. We need to get out of here."

"Fuck, you want to run?" Her partner muttered. "You know that King Snow don't take kindly to free folk that split off."

The spearwife looked ready to object, then a woman wearing a white stone walked by with a pot. Everyone held their tongue when talking about the dragon while around those with white stones.

There were mutters and apprehensive stares wherever she went. The far more concerning ones to Val, however, were the wildlings that simply accepted the deaths, no question asked. She had overheard another spearwife saying, "the dragon killed them, so they

must have deserved it." Those who viewed Sonagon as a god would not accept that the god could ever make mistakes.

People are dead and those kneelers just swallow and accept it, Val cursed. She did not know what she would prefer, but the thought of so many just taking that view sent shivers down her spine.

Perhaps I should take a place on one of the hunting parties, she wondered, to get away from the bloody beast . The main reason she didn't was because Mance was still weak and needed her aid. Val was in the armoury taking stock of swords and arrows for Mance, when she heard footsteps totter down the steps.

"Oi," a man with a big bushy beard and an axe on his waist called. "The King wants you."

She grunted. "Aye? And what does Snow want of me?"

"No, all of us," the free folk called, motioning to the others in the room as well. "He's summoning every leader who isn't on duty. At the Shieldhall, at noon."

Val bristled. Summoning? "And what does he want us all for?"

"Not a clue. Just be there."

She dropped the tally and headed on outside. True, she could see the castle stirring with news.

King Snow invited every free folk leader, as well as sworn brother officers, to an assembly into the old Shield Hall. Val heard the mumbles as the summons went out, and then soon it seemed like half the men and women in Castle Black were cramming into the great hall. They had to stack the tables and dais out of the way so they could all fit, and even then many were spilling out the double doors. Val had to push her way through.

The sworn brothers were sat at the very front of the hall, under guard. Many of crows were given a wide berth, none of them had weapons, and they were all either wide-eyed or glowering.

The Shieldhall was a great feast hall of dark stone, cold and damp, and from the old dust it looked like it had been rarely used. A few free folk had been sleeping in the hall after the occupation, but they had to be shifted as the boots marched through. There were worm-eaten rafters overhead, and she glimpsed rats going mad with the sound of the ruckus.

Val only glimpsed Snow briefly, but then the crowd parted to let him to the front. He wore dark wool and ringmail, his longsword on his hip and a rich shadowskin cloak over his shoulders. The crowd murmured as he passed.

Val saw crows glaring at him with hate, while other free folk lowering their heads, but none said a word. Val could see a mixture of devotion, admiration and anger moving through the hall.

Mance sat at the top of the hall, one of the few sitting, watching quietly. Snow kept his face hard, pausing to talk to men briefly, moving towards the front. When he turned to speak, the muttering in the hall silenced.

Like a king, she realised. This was the first time he had ever assembled everyone like this. Like a king holding court.

"Friends," King Snow said in a clear, stiff voice, stretching out over the hall. "Be at ease in my hall. We are here together - united against a common foe. There will be more battles ahead, but we will fight them for a better future."

There was something that sounded like a snort coming from one of the sworn brothers. A man could have lost his head to a free folk's axe for that, if Snow hadn't raised his hand. "But this is not the time for celebration," he continued, his voice hard. "Now is the time for

unity, to come together to overcome the challenges we must face. For the future of the free folk. The future of the living."

He kept it short, and his voice hard. To Val, it seemed the type of speech he may have spent all night rehearsing. "And for the future of the free folk, I must put affairs to rights," he said, pausing as he looked around the hall. "Furs of Old Mother's Crock, Hatch the Halfgiant and Haldur Two-Notch, please step forward."

She saw the group stir. The three men looked confused as the bodies seemed to part around them. All eyes were staring. "Furs of Old Mother's Crock," King Snow continued, pacing. He motioned at free folk boy in the corner to bring forward a bundle of items. "For your sound counsel and leal support, I offer you Furs this mammoth tusk spear as a symbol of gratitude." The spear was longer than a man, the boy struggled to lift it. It was wickedly curved and carved with patterns and runes. Furs hoisted up the weapon looking confused. Jon just moved between them, pacing.

"Hatch the Halfgiant, for your steadfast loyalty and valour in the battle of Hardhome," he continued. "I offer you this steel warhammer worthy of your might." The weapon took both hands even for Hatch to lift it. It was a large spiked warhammer, not particularly large but dense and heavy, with an auroch's horn handle banded in bronze. "Haldur Two-Notch, for your swift answer to the call to arms, and exceptional leadership of the reserves, I give you this weirwood bow, may it serve you well." It was small bow, like a hunting bow; smooth and unadorned but fine. "For your service and more, I hereby appoint you three as the first of my Dragonguard."

Val blinked. Dragonguard? What the hells was that? By the looks on their faces, no one else knew either.

"From this moment henceforth," King Snow continued. "None but the Dragonguard may approach Sonagon without permission. The Dragonguard will be an elite rank in battle, and will take the duties of care towards the dragon. To protect the dragon." He paused slightly. "And to even ride and lead the dragon in my absence."

Hatch the Halfgiant had an expression of total dumbfounded shock on his face. Val heard the ripples spreading. The king had to raise his voice to speak over them. "There will be more appointments to the Dragonguard in the coming days. I urge all those that consider themselves worthy to step forward and prove it," he announced. "It will be a rank given to only the most loyal and brave of my allies."

He's treating us like southrons, Val realised. Handing out fancy titles and accepting us to jump for them. She expected - wanted - others in the room to laugh at him for it, but instead they seemed quite serious.

"There must be just rewards given in return for good service," the king said, almost shouting over the din of mutterings. "Now, I intend to allocated some of the rewards. Mance Rayder," he called, turning to face the man, "I hereby formally appoint you as Lord of Castle Black, Keeper of the Wall. Let it also be known that I appoint Sigorn, Magnar of Thenn, as Lord of the Shadow Tower, and the Lord of Bones as Lord of Eastwatch."

Mance didn't react, but his eyes narrowed. Snow turned, pausing as he picked out faces. "Old Man Harwick," he called, "I hereby appoint you Lord of Deep Lake, to hold and fortify the castle with your men. Ygon Oldfather, I grant you Sable Hall to the East. Haldur Bullspear shall take Hoarfrost Hill. Each will receive a suitable command, and the duty to man and fortify the castles."

King Snow kept on talking and there were more names, but Val was distracted by stirring that sounded like a brawl taking place between sworn brothers and free folk towards the back. King Snow kept his voice hard and spoke over it. "Soren Shieldbreaker, I appoint you Lord of Oakenshield, and Lady Val of Whitetree, I appoint you Lady of Queensgate."

She froze. Queensgate? Lady Val of Whitetree? What is the fool thinking?

Val would have confronted him there and then, but as he stopped talking the crowd seemed to surge towards him. Jon Snow's voice bellowed as he demanded order. It seemed like every free folk pushed past each other to talk their king. She heard voice demanding their own appointment, crying out of their own worth. Fools calling for the attention of their liege.

She slipped out of the hall and paced. From the talk, she heard that Snow had been giving or promising gifts to those that support at him. Val could have growled. We're free folk, she cussed. We should not be jumping for attention like southron fools.

The whole castle was stirring and talking. It was only hours later that he finally left the hall, but there were still so many men shuffled around him that Val couldn't even approach. Finally, Snow retired to Hardin's Tower, and Val followed.

She saw the white tail swaying from atop the tower. Normally she tried to avoid even going near that dragon, but this time she had no choice. There were guards at the tower doors that she had to push her through, and walked into a bare and dusty tower of rotting furnishings and crumbling stone.

Snow's quarters were on the third floor. The rooms had collapsed, so he took what used to be the landing of the spiral staircase as his chambers. Val saw a mattress that had been brought up from one of the living quarters, and a fireplace over the broken stone and rubble in the corner, but his quarters were still bare. Like Snow had hardly had time to sleep in them.

There were voices. He wasn't alone; Val saw an aging woman, and a very scared heavyset boy standing before Snow and two guards.

The woman was weeping. Red eyes glaring at the floor. "… ry sorry," she heard the king saying. "Rei, the deaths of those at Mole's Town were not at my command, and I am truly sorry."

The whore, Rei, stifled but didn't speak. Val stayed quiet, but she saw Snow slowly pull out a leather pouch from his pocket. "I will pay the gold price for any who lost kin and friends at Mole's Town," Jon continued. "These are gold rings that should see you in good stead. Wherever you want to go from Castle Black, I will see you there in safety."

Rei paused, staring at the pouch. Very woodenly, she reached out to take it, but she didn't meet his eyes or even say a word as she turned and left. The pouch jangled.

The king's eyes looked sad, but he turned to the other one. He was a gormless, pudgy southron man wearing leather and wool, who had wide eyes and a fearful expression. One of the hunters who he had brought in yesterday, she recalled.

"Harlow," she heard the king say to the boy. "I take responsibility for your friends' deaths, it was… regrettable." Snow's voice twinged. "Do you know of Yorrick's and the others next of kin?"

The hunter, Harlow, stammered. "I do not, my lo- Your Grace. We were just travellers for a short time. I did not know him well enough to deserve such."

"Indeed," Snow said almost… disappointed. Sad that he could not make amends? "Very well."

The man gulped. "What is to happen to me now, Your Grace?"

"Whatever you wish. You are not a prisoner here and you have committed no crime." He turned to walk away. "I am deeply sorry for your companions' deaths."

Harlow seemed to hesitate, bowing. "I heard that you were looking to reach out to the mountain clans?"

"That is correct." The king's eyes narrowed.

"There is a goat track I know of, it won't be defended. If you want to reach Clan Flint, it will take you straight to their holdfast safely," Harlow said. "I'm a hunter, I've used it before."

"Really? And are you willing to share it with our parties?" Snow said. The man nodded eagerly, and for a second a bright grin split his features. "In return for…?"

"Safety, Your Grace? Shelter?"

"Of course," Snow said with a firm nod. "You will have it."

The man grinned brightly, and then bowed low before skittering off down the stairs. He made a fool of himself bowing so deeply he nearly stumbled. Val watched him go, before stepping up towards Jon.

"Will you expect all of us to bow to you like that, 'Your Grace'?" Val stepped, folding her arms.

Jon appeared to hesitate. "It would be appropriate, my lady." He nodded at the guards. "Please give us a moment."

The men nodded and stomped away. The room felt quieter. Something about him seemed to relax as she approached. He had been standing so stiffly.

"Well, look at you, all kingly," Val scoffed. "I told you I don't want no fool's title, Snow."

His eyes narrowed. The bruises around his cheeks were nearly faded. "And yet you deserve it anyways. You have given me good service."

"What? You expect me to call myself… what? 'Lady Val of Whitetree'?" Val muttered. "Those names mean nothing, Snow. You could proclaim yourself the king of whatever hill you like - it's meaningless unless you can sit on it."

He paused, stepping towards her. "And if the ranks are nothing, then why do they bother you so much?"

She stepped towards him, until they were less than two yards apart. He was an inch shorter than her. "Because you're treating us like we're southrons, Snow."

"You are south of the Wall," he noted.

Her lips curled. "And 'Dragonguards'," she said tauntingly. "You need a group of men with fancy names around you to protect you? Wipe your ass too, will they?"

"The Dragonguard will be to protect Sonagon , not myself. The dragon rarely interacts with anyone but me; I want that to change. I want Sonagon to be familiar with more people, and a group to watch the dragon when I cannot."

"You want to prevent another accident. Stop your dragon from killing another village."

"Aye," Jon agreed. "I am trying."

Her eyes narrowed but she didn't reply. King Snow lowered his head.

Lady Val," he said, stressing the title, "I will ensure you are given a capable command. A command with proper ranks and authority. Good fighters and spearwives, that will follow you alone."

"And then what? You expect me to go to Queensgate?"

"I thought it would suit you. Queensgate is not far from here, yet it is a strong castle. Bring your sister and her babe, you could shelter them there. I do need good officers to hold the Wall."

"Is that me," she said, with a slight grunt, "another of your officers ?"

She caught the flicker in his gaze. "… What would you rather be?"

Val stopped, meeting his grey eyes. He looked uncomfortable. He's younger than I am, she thought. It was hard to tell his age from his hair and the way he held himself, but sometimes he let himself slip. He was around eighteen, and she about seven years older. She gave him a sweet smile, and stepped backwards.

"I'll let you know," she said. "I ain't going to Queensgate. I'll stay here and I'll help Mance, but I won't go off to a ruin like Queensgate."

He hesitated, seemed to bite his lip, and then nodded. "Very well, my lady. I'm sure Mance could use your support."

"I'm sure," she replied, already turning to walk away.

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Samwell

"Tell me about the Other," Sam asked, his quill poised over the parchment. He tried to make his voice sound firm. Mance had ordered him to try and talk less like a boy, with more force and much less stuttering. The free folk across the table stared suspiciously. "As much as possible. How much do you know of it?"

There were half a dozen of them, men and women, their furs still damp and muddy from just returning to Castle Black. For a moment, Sam thought the raiders weren't going to answer, but then the heavyset man behind Sam - Wulf - gave a quiet grunt.

One of the raider's eyes flickered. "It's a vicious bugger," he said. He was a short man with two scars over his cheek and a hunting bow cradled in his grip. "Cunning too. Arwin's party spent two days tracking it west, before realising it left them a false trail. The thing has been haunting from here to Eastwatch - any holdfast, farmers or scouts are being targeted one by one."

"It's trying to create as many corpses as possible," Sam gulped. The thought of blue-eyed dead sent shivers down his spine. "How many wights have you burnt?"

"As many as we find. Not as many as it killed," another raider grunted angrily. "I reckon it's raising everyone it slays and then burying the bodies underground. Storing its army in the snow until it needs them."

The first man nodded, his eyes bitter. "Aye. It's been roaming south for weeks now. It's probably killed at least two hundred. It could have killed more, but it's being very careful too."

Two hundred. There was an army of at least two hundred wights somewhere, biding its time. The reports of missing scouts and abandoned holdfasts were increasing. More and more of their parties had encountered moving corpses on the roads. It was an army that only ever became bigger.

But we're prepared for that, Sam tried to tell himself. The wildlings were all on the lookout for the Other, and there were dozens of hunting parties searching for it. They were scouring the woods burning as many bodies as they could find. Two hundred wights could raise a lot of mayhem, but not against experienced men cutting them down.

"And the Other?" Sam insisted. "Has anyone seen it?"

Their gazes darkened. "No," a raider muttered as he chewed a chicken bone. "Nobody's seen it. Nobody's seen Malvern and lived, anyways."

"Malvern?"

"That's the name the hunting parties are giving it," Wulf interjected. "

Malvern - it means death in the Old Tongue."

The memory of blue eyes flickered through Sam's vision, causing him to twitch. "We ain't seen it," one of the hunters continued. "But we've felt it. You can feel the cold when it's nearby. It makes the air itself colder."

Sam nodded, gulped, and then made a scribbled note on his parchment: ' do the Others have powers over cold? ' "Really? It controls the cold?"

"Oh aye. I don't know what that thing does, but you can feel its presence in your chest, it gets harder to breathe," a man muttered grimly. All of their eyes were dark. "That's the only way you know you're getting close. When your blood freezes. One night, we were so close that our fires froze over, and then a cold mist dropped upon

us. We had to huddle together and Malvern slipped away. We couldn't follow it in the fog."

He made another note: ' ability to summon fog? ' "You mean it created a fog to hide itself?"

"Aye. But that's nothing. Marv's party swears they got so near that a flurry appeared out of nowhere. They lost two men to a snowstorm that came and went in a flash. No human can match it in weather like that, but Malvern keeps on moving."

Ability to create flurries? Immunity to cold. ' Sam scribbled quickly. "But you can catch it, right?" Sam squeaked. "You can kill it?"

A couple of them shared dark gazes. "It's injured," a spearwife muttered. Sam noticed that didn't quite answer the question. "Most of its kind don't leave any traces at all, but we think Malvern is limping. We can track it, usually. But it's also careful - it doesn't even go near the hunters, like it knows."

"You have dragonglass weapons," Sam muttered. "It knows you do and it's keeping its distance."

He made a note; ' it's not invincible '. Only one dragonglass arrow would be enough to kill the creature, but it had no reason to make things that easy. Sam flustered slightly, flicking through the list of questions he made. "Does it eat? Drink? Does it need to sleep or rest?"

"We think it hides during the day," a man shrugged. "Malvern only seems to move and hunt at night, but it moves fast."

Vulnerable to daylight/warmth? ', Sam jotted. He kept on going with the questions they had made, even as the raiders started to scowl. These men had been out hunting for weeks now, and had only returned to Castle Black when their supplies became critically low.

"So is that your job, crow?" the scarred hunter grunted. "Bloody writing ? Too scared to swing a sword?"

Sam squirmed in his seat. "Watch your tone," Wulf warned darkly, from behind his chair. The raider grunted, but didn't reply.

Writing is important, Sam wanted to protest. Jon asked to know as much as possible about the Others, and how to beat them, and that meant trying to collect everything the free folk knew. Sam was interviewing hunters, and there were even orders out to capture a moving wight for study. Sam had to gather information; he was thinking about sending his research to Oldtown to see if the maesters could assist.

Sam continued with his questions because that was his job, but the raiders didn't stop glaring at him. If it wasn't for Wulf standing behind Sam, he had no doubt the men would have spat at him and left already. Wulf made an imposing sight, standing stiff with folded arms.

When Sam was finally done with his lists, the free folk stomped off without a word. The man with the scars gave Sam a spiteful glare as he left the room. Wulf shifted slightly.

"That brat was giving you the evil eye," said Wulf, after the door closed. Wulf's hand went to his axe. "Say the word and I'll teach him some respect."

"No, no," Sam choked, shaking his head quickly. "Please don't, tha-that's not needed."

Wulf frowned, but didn't reply. He thinks I'm weak too, Sam thought. Jon had asked Wulf to act as Sam's bodyguard, but there was derision in Wulf's eyes when he looked at Sam as well. The wildling was a big man, almost as broad and stocky as Sam was, but Wulf was head and shoulders taller, far more muscular than fat. A gruff figure coated in ringmail and hides.

Wulf had never once acted as anything less than devoted to being a bodyguard, but his constant presence scared Sam as much as much anything.

"How many warbands are out hunting for Malvern?" Sam asked, glancing down the list of scribbled notes. He outlined that name - Malvern, the single Other south of the Wall.

"Right now? A dozen or so. There would be more, but we don't have enough dragonglass to risk it," Wulf replied.

"A dozen," Sam repeated. "So many?"

"Aye, a rumour's going around that King Snow has promised a place on the Dragonguard to whoever kills Malvern. There's no shortage of raiders eager to claim that."

Sam had seen the Dragonguard. There had been a dozen or so chosen for the position, and they were already walking around like kings through the castle. It was a position offered to whomever proved themselves, open to all. A chance to be near the dragon. No wonder so many were eager for a chance to become one of them.

But still… a dozen warbands hunting a single Other and none of them had even come close.

Maybe we're trying to catch it the wrong way, Sam thought. A white walker is too strong, too fast and too smart to easily be caught, especially with the growing storms hampering the hunters' movements constantly. The Others could walk through the cold and the snow far more easily than any human.

But what if we trap it? Sam wondered. We know it's targeting small groups, so what if we disguised a group of wildlings as farmers, and armed them with obsidian weapons, small enough to be hidden? The Other was too strong, too cunning; taking it by surprise might be the only way to easily kill it.

Sam would have proposed the idea to any of the raiding parties, but in all likelihood they would dismiss it just because it came from him. Instead, he would have to try and find a chance to talk to Mance. I might have been appointed as second-in-command of the castle, but I sure don't feel like it .

It was nearly evening. Sam went to the mess hall near the time of the bell, just so he could try to avoid the sworn brothers, but he still passed Pyp and Hake in the courtyard. All the brothers in black gave Sam evil looks, but at least nobody tried to spit on him with Wulf walking behind him.

When he sat down with a bowl of turnip stew, he caught a mutter of whispers in the corner. He saw a red-faced Bowen Marsh talking to Wick Whittlestick in a quiet hiss. There was some brief argument, and a glimpse back to Sam. Bowen Marsh had been removed as Lord Steward two days ago for refusing to work with wildlings. Afterwards, Bowen had been sent to work in the kitchen chopping turnips. Now Sam had to take on the duties of Lord Steward. As well as half a dozen other roles .

After a pause, Bowen hobbled over and sat down opposite Sam, his eyes narrowed. There were bruises on his face, Sam noted. Many sworn brothers had suffered similar beatings.

"Samwell," Bowen muttered quietly, with a nervous glance at Wulf across the table. "A word?"

"I shouldn't be talking to you," Sam muttered, not meeting his eyes.

"I just want a word, Tarly."

"There've been too many words already."

"They bar my door at night, Tarly," he muttered. "I cannot leave the kitchens or the mess hall. They beat me if I stare too long. I'm not even allowed sharp blades for the turnips. You are the only man in a black cloak who moves freely around the castle."

There was disgust in the former Lord Steward's eyes. He hates me too, Sam realised. They all hate me. He's only talking to me because he has no choice .

"A word, Samwell," he muttered darkly. "You write all the letters. What is happening at the Shadow Tower?"

Sam hesitated. "The Magnar of Thenn is laying siege to the tower. It is expected to fall shortly. I wrote Ser Denys the final offer of surrender that he's going get. They will take the castle, with or without prisoners."

Bowen Marsh's gaze darkened. "And what of the mountain clans? The Norreys and the First Flints are the Watch's allies."

"King Snow took his dragon and a force of men to the First Flint Holdfast, and then all around the mountains clan's villages. I hear the clans will yield."

Jon's great-grandmother was a Flint, Sam recalled suddenly. He heard that they were calling him 'the Snow'.

"And House Umber?"

"Last Hearth was attacked by Bolton forces weeks ago." Bowen's eyes twitched. Sam paused, begging the man. "Please. It will be easier if you make peace."

"Peace?" Bowen choked. "The wildlings don't know the meaning of the word. Every night those thugs come into our quarters, just to beat someone new." The man's lips curdled. "You hear what happened to the miller's girls, Samwell?"

Sam fidgeted. "They were children," Bowen hissed. " Children . Right up until some wildling thug decided to take them for himself. They'll do the same to every girl in the north."

"They won't," Sam murmured, averting his eyes. "Jon won't let them."

Bowen just scoffed. "Have a look at what's left of Mole's Town and tell me what Jon Snow won't do."

Sam couldn't even look the man in the eyes. The thought of Mole's Town made him squirm.

Bowen Marsh stormed from his seat. For a moment, it seemed like he was about to spit on Sam as well, but then Wulf stood up. Bowen hesitated, glanced at Wulf, before turning and marching away.

It isn't so bad, Sam tried to tell himself. The monster who took the miller's girls had been punished for it, eventually. Some wildlings were taking advantage and going, well, wild, but Jon's law kept most of them fairly tame. Bowen Marsh and the others only had a rough time of it because they refused to concede, but there were other sworn brothers who were starting to work with the free folk. Sam repeated the thoughts to himself, trying to make himself believe it.

Sam returned to his books. Come evening, a raven arrived, and he was summoned to the solar in the King's Tower. Sam stumbled up the staircase, and saw Mance frowning over his desk.

"Tarly." Mance nodded at him. "There's been a raven from Karhold. I need you to draft a reply."

"Is there news, my lord? Lord Karstark sent word?"

"No, the Weeper," Mance said with grunt. "The Weeper has just taken Karhold."

Sam's mouth stammered. "So quickly? I…" He knew that the Weeper led five thousand men from Eastwatch, but for a castle like Karhold to fall? "Did Jon order him?"

"No. The Weeper's orders were to defend Eastwatch from Karstark forces mustering, not to raise a bloody assault," Mance said darkly. "And yet the Weeper claims that the battle was won swiftly."

"How could Karhold fall so quickly? It is the strongest castle on the east coast, is it not?"

"The Weeper's host marches with five hundred giants, Tarly." Oh .

Sam took the letter, beginning to read aloud. It was written by Karhold's maester - maester Tybald -but stamped with the bloody fingerprint of the Weeper.

"He says that Karstark forces tried to hold the Grey Ford against them. There were two thousand, though mostly farmers and other rapidly-mustered smallfolk," Sam read quickly. "At night, the Weeper led a sortie three leagues south, swimming the river at the mouth of the Grey Cliffs and raiding their flank. Karstark forces scattered, and then they fled altogether at the sight of giants approaching."

Sam gulped, eyes flickering through the scribbled handwriting. "Lord Karstark retreated to Karhold, but the Weeper followed," he read. "The giants broughts heavy bows and mammoths."

"Aye," Mance grunted. "Giants rarely use bows, Tarly, but when they do they're fearsome. A giant is thrice as big but ten times as strong as a man. You call them bows, but siege weapons is a better term."

Sam remembered relaying orders from Jon about those weapons. The first of them had been scorpions salvaged from Stannis Baratheon's wrecked ships, but then the wildlings had started enlisting villagers and smallfolk to build more for them. They were bows that put human longbows to shame. Yes, that would be an overwhelming force.

"Lord Cregan Karstark surrendered," Sam read. The parchment was stained by what looked like tears. "Both him and his wife Alys are captive in their castle." He gulped as read the final line, glancing at Mance. "My lord, the… the Weeper wants to execute Lord Cregan and take Lady Alys for himself."

"Aye. And won't that just send King Snow into a fury?" Mance sighed. "Write a reply, Tarly, and hope that the maester has a very firm tone of voice when reading it back to him. Tell the Weeper that we're in the south, we play by southron rules. You don't kill hostages and you don't steal a man's wife unless your king gives you permission to."

Sam nodded. Mance winced as he tried to move his fingers, drumming the oak desk. "I'm not sure if Snow is going to be happy or not," he muttered. "The Weeper has got himself a brand new castle, but I shudder to think how many of those smallfolk the man actually spared. And when Rattleshirt learns that the man ran off ahead all by himself…"

"Rattleshirt?" Sam asked.

"The Lord of Bones sent a letter as well." Mance motioned across the desk. The parchment was filled with squiggles, like a child's writing. "Aye, it appears Rattleshirt has been teaching himself to write. Now Rattleshirt and the Seal Admiral have been launching raids against Skagos, like they want to conquer the island all by themselves. News of the Weeper's success by himself will only embolden them further."

"He's attacking Skagos, my lord? Truly?"

"Aye, and Rattleshirt is a fool if he thinks the stoneborn will fall easily. The Skagossons have always been half-wildlings themselves."

"Skagos is sworn to Winterfell, is it not?" They rode unicorns there, to hear the tales. An island of cannibals.

"Only on paper. When was the last time Skagos ever offered men to the north's defence?" Mance shook his head. "The Starks waged a hundred wars against the stoneborn. Even the Kings of Winter broke their jaws on that isle more than once. Eventually, they agreed that they 'bend the knee,' and occasionally the stone lords pay lip-service to those old oaths, but Skagos is and always has been its own land. It just wasn't worth the trouble to keep on fighting it each time they rebelled, and they rebelled often. It's the very furthest corner of the north."

"And the Lord of Bones wants to conquer it? Why?"

"Oh, wildlings and stoneborn have had a bloody history. They raid us almost as much as we've raided them." Mance thought it about it. "We must write another letter convincing Rattleshirt to keep away from that island until they've got a dragon to assist them. Let's not use the word 'order', though, Rattleshirt won't like that."

There were more letters to be sent. Sometimes it felt like Sam could see the panic in the north spreading from the rookery alone. Messengers reported fighting from petty lords at House Forrester's Keep, raiders breaking away from the host across farmlands, a roadblock at West Mill Road, and murders up and down the kingsroad.

We only learn of about a tenth of all the battles and skirmishes happening, Sam thought, at best, and only if we're lucky. It was sobering realisation of how much violence must truly be happening across the north. The wildling's invasion had truly begun.

From Hardhome, Mother Mole and her followers were moving south. Scouts reported Varamyr Sixskins bringing a group of fifty wargs and skinchangers to the gates of Eastwatch. Tormund Giantsbane reported groups of free folk already waiting across the Gorge, and a message from the wildling host at Shadow Tower saying that they were only waiting on King Snow's dragon before assaulting the castle.

"Should we send reinforcements to the Shadow Tower?" Sam asked with a gulp.

"Why bother? It will be over by the time any get there," Mance said with a shrug. "It likely already is."

"But we can't let any more sworn brothers die," Sam warned, thinking of the greenseer's warning. "If the men of the Night's Watch fall so does the barrier."

"Then the easiest way is to just bring in more men of the Night's Watch," Mance replied, giving him a cool stare. "There will be five hundred free folk taking the vows and wearing the black cloaks by the turn of the moon."

Sam blinked. "You're… you're replacing sworn brothers with free folk?"

"Aye. Convincing men to give up women and sit on a wall is a tough sell, but I can do it. The word spread that King Snow wants more volunteers for the Watch and he will look after the families of any who steps forward, and suddenly we've got plenty of recruits."

"And what about the existing men of the Watch?" He asked, with a lump of lead in his stomach.

"They'll either have to learn how to get along, or face the noose," Mance said. "That's the only way this was ever going to work, Tarly. They're the ones who have to bend here, not us."

Us', Sam thought. He wasn't even sure what side he was on anymore. Why does that thought fill me with dread?

Mance looked at him, musing. "You'd be a capable Lord Steward, you know that Tarly?"

He stammered. "Excuse me?"

"You should spare a thought to where you want to end up. One way or another, the Watch will be lacking commanders," Mance said, "but they could do a lot worse than choosing you as Lord Steward."

Lord Steward. Sam heard his father's voice ringing in his ears. No son of House Tarly will be a servant . "I would not, I…" he mumbled."I am not experienced enough."

"Who is?" Mance said humourlessly. "I will not stay on the Wall myself. I may be Lord of Castle Black now, but I have no interest in ever wearing a black cloak again. As soon as the Wall is secure, I mean to go south with my wife and son. I will recommend to Snow that you are considered for Lord Steward."

Sam opened his mouth, and closed it again. He paused. "And what of the next Lord Commander?"

"Likely some free folk will be given the role. Probably one that the king chooses. I very much doubt any of the existing members are willing to step up for the role now."

A brand new regime for the Night's Watch, Sam thought. The wildlings had won.

Sam didn't say a word as Mance dictated the letters. They were running out of ravens for Eastwatch, so instead Mance had to entrust the message to a runner. Afterwards, Sam watched and acted as scribe as Mance coordinated patrols and assigned commands for the Wall.

In less than a week's time, they would have the largest new recruitment ceremony for the Night's Watch in living memory. Five hundred free folk would head north before a heart tree to take the black. If Jon really wanted the Wall secure, Sam considered, there could well be thousands more very shortly. The wildlings were wholly abandoning the Lands-Beyond-the-Wall.

At dusk, two riders galloped along the Wall from the west. Messengers from the Shadow Tower, the scouts relayed. Sam's heart was beating as the two men were brought quickly up to the King's Tower. The wait even as they stomped up the staircase was excruciating.

"We bring word from King Snow, Lord Mance," the wildling man said, stepping into the room.

"Aye?" Mance's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "And why didn't Snow send a raven?"

"The Shadow Tower has fallen."

Sam's hands were twitching. "How many casualties?" he asked. "Did the sworn brothers surrender?"

The man frowned. His companion shook his head. "No, we mean literally fallen," the man explained. "The dragon wiped that castle off the map."

Jon

Jon gasped as the warm water hit him. He swashed the steaming water into his face from the bucket, trying to wash out the weariness. After flying for so long the chill had gone deep into him, his hands still hadn't stopped trembling.

"You alright, Snow?" Hatch asked. Jon could only gasp, spitting hot water out of his mouth.

… snow and screaming whipping through the air, stone crumbling…

Jon nodded weakly. "Have the men prepare Sonagon's evening meal. The dragon will expect it."

Since joining the Dragonguard, Hatch had taken to wearing a steel cuirass with a white serpent painted on the centre. He bobbed his head.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Your Grace. Jon had started insisting more on the use of the title. Right now, it didn't feel deserved. The sound of screaming, groaning stone and hissing wind still echoed in his ears.

His face was pale as he staggered around the courtyard. Jon's clenched fists were trembling. His Dragonguard rushed to prepare for Sonagon, clearing the crowds backwards. There were already thirteen members, all of them armoured and rushing towards Hardin's Tower. He had made two appointments just last week when he named Toregg - Tormund's son - and Bullden Horn.

There was still space for more. Guarding the dragon was a tremendous duty and Jon didn't want to restrict the numbers in the Dragonguard. Above him, Sonagon growled as he shifted on his perch hungrily.

Jon saw Grenn approach him, looking disturbed. How much had Castle Black already heard?

"Jon," Grenn sounded scared and shaken. "What happened?"

He bit his lip. "There was an accident at the Shadow Tower."

"Ser Denys?"

Jon just shook his head, pushing his way past. Grenn was left standing confused, stunned.

Jon's staggered stiffly across the courtyard. He met Mance, Val and a few others waiting for him.

"Snow," Mance called. "We got your message."

"It was a mistake," Jon said. "The Shadow Tower… it was an old castle."

"What happened?" Val asked.

He looked around at dark eyes. "Sigorn's and Tormund's forces were camped outside. Ser Denys was insistent on holding siege against us. I flew Sonagon in to break their defences." My mistake . "The sworn brothers panicked. I dropped Sonagon onto the keep, and the dragon breathed ice-fire over the courtyard to scatter the barricades."

"And?"

Jon shifted. That moment flashed before his eyes. "The dragonfire is very, very cold. The stone cracked, and the foundations were already crumbling. And then when Sonagon dropped on the roof, the weight…"

The Shadow Tower was one of the oldest castles of the Watch. It was built overlooking the Gorge, to keep watch at the edge Wall and over the Bridge of Skulls. The main keep had been a single tower of black granite, nestled over the grounds and outbuildings where the Watch put up their last stand.

That scene replayed constantly, haunting him even on the journey back. Between the snows and confusion, Jon hadn't even known what was happening until he heard the stone groaning…

He shivered. It hadn't even been a battle.

Mance had a dark look. Mance had served at the Shadow Tower, Jon recalled.

"How many?" Mance asked quietly.

"Some managed to escape the tower. The Thenns pulled everyone from the rubble that they could." Jon nodded. "There were about a

hundred survivors."

And three times that number dead. The Gorge was so deep that they would never even be able to recover the rest of the bodies. The Shadow Tower took a good chunk of the cliffs with it when it fell.

"Dammit," Mance cursed, hands on his head.

"What of the Bridge of Skulls?" Val asked.

"Tormund took it. The Night's Watch tried to collapse the bridge when the army approached, but they didn't have time. Tormund is heading back here with the sworn brother survivors while Sigorn stayed to man the remaining structure."

"The Lord of the Shadow Ruins," someone guffawed. Jon shot the voice a foul look.

"Come on," Val murmured quietly. "Go get yourself cleaned up."

Jon shook his head. "No," he muttered. "I want to talk to Maester Aemon."

Two of his Dragonguard, Haldur Two-Notch and Urwen Rockfist, tried to escort him, but Jon waved them away. He needed time to think.

The image of a great black tower slowly tilting and screaming flashed before his eyes. Even as it fell, there had been men inside who refused to flee.

He found Maester Aemon waiting for him, boiling a pot of herbal tea.

"Your Grace," the old man said, and bowed. How does a blind man know it's me? Jon shut the door behind him.

"How did Aegon the Conqueror capture castles with dragons?" Jon demanded.

Aemon paused. "The Shadow Tower…" he said.

"My fault. My mistake," Jon muttered. "The castle was old, the tower crumbling, the Builders haven't been properly manned in centuries, and I… I just brought a dragon straight in, I didn't even think…"

"I see." The words were soft. "Your Grace, have you rested?"

"I can't, I…" It felt like there were tears stinging in his eyes. "I need to know what I did wrong. What I should have done better."

Aemon paused. "Your Grace," he said, "have a cup of tea."

Jon wanted to protest, but then Aemon gently steered him to the table. The two cups touched the old pine table.

Jon stared at the table. With everything that had been happening, it had been days since he had even sat down.

It feels like a lifetime ago when I was at this table, trying to convince Aemon to take Sam as a steward. Now, I'm a king struggling to fight a war on a dozen fronts .

Jon could feel the stress getting to him, like a knife in his gut. Three hundred men dead because of a stupid mistake…

"Is the Bridge of Skulls secure?" Aemon asked quietly.

"Aye. There were still enough outbuildings to house Sigorn's troops," Jon said hollowly. All three gates were now open. There had already been wildlings across the Gorge waiting to cross. When the Frozen Shore clans crossed too, his 'army' could well reach fifty thousand.

"I see," Aemon nodded. "And what of your search for allies?"

"Clan Liddle and Norrey cursed my guts," Jon replied with a sigh. He spent a week in those mountains before rushing to the Shadow Tower. Maybe I rushed too fast . "Nobody likes wildlings. But nobody seems to like Boltons either. I said I was the son of Ned Stark, and

that I could hurt the Boltons for them. Clan Wull at least considered an alliance, and the First Flints agreed to allow my hosts passage. They all saw Sonagon and I don't think they'll move against us."

He paused. "Scouts say Last Hearth was sacked by Bolton forces. The Weeper conquered Karhold, and I think Lord Karstark may be willing to make an alliance. Otherwise the best chance for allies may be House Mormont or Manderly."

"And then you mean to fight against House Bolton?"

"Aye. They won't accept us." And they murdered my brother .

Aemon just nodded, blindly shuffling along to his chair. Jon held his cup but didn't drink it. He spent a long time just staring at the liquid. "How did Aegon Targaryen conquer castles with dragons, maester?"

"His dragons rarely did," the old man replied. "A dragon is far more suited to demolishing a castle, like at Harrenhal, rather than taking one. Aegon used his dragons to destroy, and to force lords to concede or burn. Aegon and his dragons… changed the game, so to speak. Nobody at the time knew how to fight them." He paused. "If you want to learn more from Aegon's example, however, you'd be better served looking at his failures."

"What do you mean?" Jon frowned.

"It is very easy to think of a dragon as invulnerable," Aemon said softly. "It is not. But that is a mistake that even the first Targaryen conquerors made. They grew so comfortable in their success that they became lax. They became overconfident enough to siege a castle from dragonback without suitable ground support, and thus Meraxes ended up with an iron bolt through its eye."

"The First Dornish War." The first ever dragon death in Westeros. "How did Dorne survive Targaryen dragons?"

"Oh, many reasons," Aemon sighed. "House Martell learned their lessons by watching the folly of the Reach, stormlands, and westerlands. Dragon wars require a different type of tactic; the Dornish learned quick to never amass troops in numbers. They learned that dragons themselves could be nigh unstoppable, but the support troops that the Targaryens relied on were anything but. A dragon alone can destroy, but it cannot conquer.

"Eventually," Aemon mused, "it became a matter of simple economics. The Targaryen newly forged kingdom was just too fresh and too unstable. Their dragons could do much, but they couldn't rebuild trade, establish a stable government, or appease a population. Aegon the Conqueror ran out of resources to continually invest in a costly war in Dorne, so he was forced to retreat bloodied into order to secure what he already had. A thousand pinpricks killed a dragon, so to speak."

"I… I see." The Boltons might well use the same tactics against me . "Do you have any books on the First Dornish War?"

"Let us see what we can find, Your Grace."

Aemon hobbled slowly to the stairs. He didn't bother with a lantern, but Jon picked one up.

"May I ask," Aemon asked. "Why do you wish to learn so much, Your Grace?"

His lips pursed. "Because I want to do better."

The maester just nodded. "Then I believe we have an account from Maester Yandel in our stores, who provides a study of the use of dragons during the Dornish War."

It took a while to pull the dusty old tome from where it had been wrapped up in the stacks. Jon lifted the book down when Aemon's hobbling knees failed him.

"I will fetch a bowl of hot water and a pot of stew, Your Grace," the old man wheezed.

"You need not-"

"I insist." The maester was already walking back up the stairs. "Wash, ease your mind and relax. You will not be disturbed."

Jon bit his lip, but slowly sat down on the chair. Somehow, the quiet gloom of the vaults felt comforting. His eyes were red and weary, but he gingerly opened the book.

The candlelight flickered, wax slowly dripping down the stem.

I should have done more, he thought quietly. I could have gone to the Shadow Tower sooner, before they had a chance to seal themselves in. I could have approached slower, more carefully…

Even if I just waited for better weather, I would have been able to see the tower falling . I was too impatient and too late .

Maester Yandel had a slow, cursive hand. The words were long and laborious. Jon felt his eyes drooping as he started to read.

Three hundred brothers died at the Shadow Tower. There must be fewer than four hundred left.

The candle slowly burned downwards in peaceful silence. His muscles ached after moving and riding for so long.

He heard footsteps behind him. "Maester," Jon called. "Are there any books on the Second Dornish War? What of the Young Dragon's campaign whe-"

Suddenly he felt metal chain wrap around his throat. Jon gagged.

Arms thrashed. He pushed back, but strong hands held him down.

He heard his attacker grunting.

"Quickly!" A voice hissed. "Kill the bastard."

More footsteps behind him. Couldn't breathe. His face turned red.

His whole body lurched, kicking back.

The chair toppled. His feet kicked the table roughly. Parchment scattered, and the candle toppled.

His attacker fell backwards with him. Sweet, sweet air hit his lungs, and then they were crashing into the ground. Bodies rolled in the dark.

Figures. Multiple figures. Jon barely managed to gasp and then someone was on him. A heavyset man grunting and wrestling.

"Kill him already! Kill the bastard!"

"Watch the door!"

"I'm trying, he's squirming!"

Something sharp in the man's hand. Metal. Jon managed to grab his wrist before it stabbed into his chest. It didn't seem like a dagger, it was round and sharpened. A sharpened spoon.

Jon felt the edge press down against his chest. If it wasn't for his leathers, it would have skewered him. The man was on top, trying to push the crude edge downwards, while Jon desperately tried to hold the man's hands up.

A blow. His teeth rattled. One of the other men kicked his face. They rolled, thrashing…

Jon couldn't breathe. His vision blurred, panting… He felt the metal edge jab into his stomach.

The world rumbled. Jon could barely hear it over the sound of his heart.

"Kill him! Bloody kill him already!"

"For the Watch!" a voice cried. "For the Watch!"

Something big and heavy crashed into his face. Jon fell.

In the distance, he heard screaming. Roaring. The ground was trembling, the stacks shaking. He smelt smoke. Burning parchment.

Jon dropped, and the attackers were on him. Multiple men, lots of feet and blunt objects crashing against his body as he fell. Jon couldn't even feel the pain, not through the panic and fear…

"For the Watch! For the Watch!"

He glimpsed a flash of blond. A sharp cry. Suddenly, warm blood was hissing.

He couldn't even make sense of it. He was too busy gasping on the floor while the bodies thrashed. He heard shouting, and sharp bloody strikes of a blade.

Val, he realised suddenly. He recognised her blond hair striking, face twisted in fury. There were half a dozen men, but she had a sword and they didn't.

Flames hissed. The table he had been sitting at burst into flames from the toppled candle. Ancient tomes scorched in dusty flames. He saw Val kick a figure backwards, where he burned, thrashed and screamed. Wick Whittlestick, Jon recognised suddenly. He could recognise these men. He saw Sweet Donnel Hill scream and fall.

In the light, Jon saw Bowen Marsh fall backwards, crying. "Please, please!" he begged. "It's for the good of the realm!"

His skull splattered and Val's sword jammed into his head.

Jon was gasping, struggling to breathe. There were other bodies stomping down the steps. He heard screams as bodies were being

hacked to pieces.

He saw a podgy young boy flailing as he tried to wrestle a man in a black cloak. He was about to be overpowered, when two wildlings rushed to his aid.

The attackers were being killed quickly, but the everything was shaking…

A figure heaved Jon upwards off the ground. The ground was still trembling. "Your dragon!" Val screamed. " Calm your bloody dragon down! "

It took two men to pull him up the stairs and out of the rookery. Jon's vision was still spinning.

Outside, it was absolute pandemonium.

He heard wood and stone raining downwards. The ceiling was shaking. The rookery, Jon realised. Sonagon had ripped the tower of the rookery apart.

They opened the door, and then the figures yanked Jon backwards as a stone gargoyle crashed into the porch. Heavy wood splintered, stone crumbled. The whole structure shivered, ready to collapse.

There was a scar over the courtyard. Sonagon must have tried to tear up the ground to reach him in the vaults. He could feel the dragon raging.

Calm down, Jon pushed. Calm down! They're dead! They're dead!

Sonagon roared so loudly the whole Wall quivered. Those moments were absolute panic.

The dragon didn't relax, and instead took to flying restlessly above. It felt like the whole castle was screaming. Sonagon felt my pain and panic too. He really didn't like it.

His throat felt raw, bruised. I nearly died. Sonagon went mad.

"Snow!" He saw Hatch and a dozen others stamping towards him clutching weapons. "What happened? What happened?"

"They tried to kill me," Jon muttered, still wheezing. "They tried to kill me…"

He could see the bodies littering the floor. All with black cloaks. Some had tried to run, but they never escaped the building. Eleven of them in total. Val had been first through the door and killed four, and the other wildlings hacked apart the others.

Many of their faces were barely recognisable through the blood and gore. Then, Jon glimpsed a short figure with large eyes, wide eyes and an axe through his gut.

"No…" Jon muttered, staring at the lifeless corpse of his friend. " Pyp ?"

Pyp tried to kill me. Bowen Marsh and ten others tried to kill me.

Those moments were frantic, replaying in his mind.

Once Pyp chased me down as a friend to stop myself from forsaking my vows. He was a friend. How could he try to kill me?

"We're sorry, Snow!" He heard someone shout in the chaos. "They slipped past and ambushed the guards. Killed a man with a sharpened spoon."

"Maester Aemon," Jon demanded, head spinning. " Maester Aemon, where is the old man?"

They found the maester lying crumpled by the pans, blood dripping from his head. Lifeless grey eyes stared upwards. The old man was scattered and crumpled as if he had tripped.

Jon felt the scream jam in his throat.

Eleven men slipped into the rookery to try and kill him. Six went down into the vaults to do so while the other five stood guard by the stairs.

It looked like the maester tried to stop them. It didn't seem a deliberate murder; instead it looked like one of them pushed him and the old man fell and cracked his skull.

His whole body was trembling. He saw Val, panting for breath with blood on her sword and streaking through her hair. Jon was still shaking.

"… What… what happened?" Jon wheezed.

"Your dragon went berserk," Val replied. "Nobody knew what was happening, but then I heard someone shouting that you were being attacked."

His eyes were wide. "You saved me."

"Aye." Her eyes were hard. "And if I hadn't, that dragon would have slaughtered everyone in this castle. Snow, you be more bloody careful."

Sonagon had been trying to save me too , he realised. Except the dragon didn't understand how, so it went mad trying to reach me .

Mance took him, brought him to the King's Tower. Behind him, it looked like the rookery was ready to collapse. There were orders to evacuate everything they could just as the walls started to crumble.

Jon took a deep swig of ale from a leather pouch, trying to calm his shaking nerves. Aemon. Gods, Aemon couldn't be dead - he was the last Targaryen in Westeros, the oldest man alive. How could a man like that die just because someone pushed him?

His mind kept replaying that moment. There hadn't been any escape plan for the attackers. Pyp, Bowen, Wick, Donnel… they all wanted

me dead so badly they were willing to die for it .

"We found three other crows who helped those bastards escape the kitchens. Killed another guard too," a man reported later, his voice angry. "They worked with the conspirators, keeping the guards distracted so the others could slip out to try to kill you."

"Who?" Jon croaked.

"Their names Jeren, Hake and Rast."

Gods I know those men. Jeren was a recruit alongside me…

"Are you sure?" Jon demanded. "Are you sure they were a part of it?"

"Oh aye. The one called Rast had a man's bite mark on his wrist from where he strangled the bloke."

Mance gave him a dark look. "Snow," he muttered. "No matter what these men were to you, you know what has to be done now."

Jon stared at the floor. "Place them in a cell."

" Snow -"

"I'll execute them myself in the morn," Jon snapped. "Just place them in a cell."

Mance lips tightened, but he nodded. Outside, the castle felt frantic.

Mance's men and the Dragonguard had to seal the King's Tower.

"How many?" Jon asked finally. "How many died?"

"The conspirators killed two, three if you include the old maester," said Mance. He paused. "And then your dragon probably killed two dozen or so when it became enraged. I'll tell you exactly how many when we find the bodies."

Jon's hands tightened into fists. He didn't reply.

"We need to deal with the crows, Snow," Hatch warned. "They tried to kill you."

"Some of them tried."

"And how many of the others are going to try again?" Hatch said. "We don't need those crows and they're not going to work with us. Say the word and they'll be dead."

"No," Jon growled.

"And what? You want to keeping staying in the same castle as men who hate our guts?" another voice growled. "How did you think this would end? There must be blood."

There were mutters of approval "Enough!" Jon shouted. His jaw clenched. "Leave the room."

He saw angry scowls. "… You heard the king," Hatch said, folding his arms. "Everyone out."

Shuffled footsteps traipsed through the door. At Jon's nod, Mance lingered in the room. "How do you want to play this, Snow?"

He stared out of the shuttered window. "Start by picking up the pieces. Keep the Night's Watch men out of the way until tempers cool. Compensation to the families of all those who died and rewards to Val and all the others who came to my aid."

Mance nodded. Jon's shoulders felt so tense. "And Maester Aemon deserves a proper funeral," he said quietly. "A cremation - that's the Targaryen way. He was a good man, he didn't deserve to…"

Jon paused, trying to focus. "But keep the sworn brothers alive," Jon continued, muttering. "Weed out any that look like they're going to cause trouble and send those away. They'll work with us, they will, as soon as tensions calm."

"Aye. You stay in the King's Tower tonight, Snow." Jon was ready to object. "This tower has thicker doors and it's easier guarded. I don't trust Hardin's Tower after your dragon gave it a whack."

Jon bit his lip, but nodded. "I can't keep Sonagon in the castle, can I?" Jon muttered.

"No. You need to keep that dragon well away from everyone else. We should have moved it out a long time ago."

"Aye." But where can I keep him? "Tormund will be here soon with his host. Keeping so many wildlings, crows and Sonagon… it aggravates things. As soon as Tormund arrives we'll march out."

"It would be easier if we killed the crows," Mance noted.

"You want to do that?"

"No. Just pointing it out. It would be easier."

Jon shook his head, but didn't reply. Mance didn't push the subject. "Where will you be marching to? Winterfell?"

Jon just nodded. Home . "Aye. I will have to. The Wall is yours Mance. Keep it secure."

"Aye." He folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. "But take my advice, Snow. That's a dragon . It's good at destroying and little else. Give it something to destroy."

Val

She watched as the free folk cleared the ruins of the rookery. A single tail whip from the dragon had sent granite and wooden beams across the courtyard. It took the giant Wun Wun to hoist up the great chunks of stone, while men scrambled between the debris.

Hardin's Tower had lost a good chunk of stone too as the dragon had thrashed, and then there was the huge gash through the wards where the beast tore up the ground. The earth was jagged and gouged from where giant claws and teeth had torn and ploughed up snow and stone.

Two minutes of rage, and the whole castle trembled.

Sonagon wasn't here now; the beast had left to hunt. She had seen it flying away north beyond the Wall, and the castle sighed a breath of relief to see it go.

Val saw the bodies of the dead crows being dragged out. Jon Snow insisted that the old maester should be given a proper funeral pyre, though all the others were taken behind the logging house and burned in a shallow pit.

It's a queer thing, Val thought, to watch men whom you fought being carried out . In the moment it had been nothing but rage and bloodlust. Her shoulder still ached from where one of the big crows had tried to claw at her.

A messenger, a boy with wide eyes and a white stone, told her that Snow demanded to see her. Her jaw stiffened, but she nodded and headed off to the King's Tower while the boy ran off to other raiders. Val paused as another three raiders trundled up the stairs besides her. There were four Dragonguards standing stiffly at the entrance to the tower, and another three by the king's door. Cool eyes watched her as she passed.

She found Jon Snow waiting for them. "Val," he nodded to her and the others. His throat was still raw and bruised. "Boyd, Hal, Erik." No one spoke, but Snow just limped forward, and slowly dropped a sheepskin pouch onto the table in the solar. There was a metallic thud. "You all came to my aid, and good service should have good reward. Take yours."

From the pouch, he poured out a mismatch of dull bracelets onto the surface. Silver armbands, Val realised. They were unpolished, but rich. The free folk had little coin, but there was still wealth enough.

She saw flashes of avarice in the expressions of the men next to her, and they quickly bowed, muttered to Jon, and walked away cradling the sliver. Val stared more suspiciously, but she took one of the bracelets in any case.

"You should take more than one, my lady," Jon offered. "You killed four men by yourself."

She paused, then took two. They were both forged for thicker wrists than hers, but she could barter using them. "Aye," Val nodded. "You pay silver in exchange for your life?"

"I already tried to give you a castle, but you refused," he said with a dry smile.

She tutted, but let the issue drop. He looks tired, she realised. Very tired and worn. Now when was the last time he slept? The king seemed to always be moving and working, she didn't think he ever took time to relax.

"… It is that southron you should reward," Val said, as she started to walk away. Fair is fair . "The one you brought in. I heard him shouting for aid. Everyone else was running from the dragon, and he was the only reason I managed to get there in time."

"Then I must reward him too. Care to join me, my lady?"

She paused, but nodded. He wrapped himself up in his cloak and had a quick word with his man, Furs, before following Val. Three of his Dragonguard stomped down the stairs behind them.

"You mean go to everywhere with your guards behind you?" Val asked.

"I think that would be wise."

So did she, but she didn't say anything. The dragon would have killed everyone in the castle if something had happened to Jon. The rumours of what had happened yesterday and had already spread, and she wondered briefly if anyone would dare attack the king now.

The camps outside of Castle Black were sprawling tents of cloth and hide, with fire pits dug into the ground, littering outwards from the Tower of the Guards. As soon as Snow even stepped foot towards them, Val felt the murmur pass through the camp and wide eyes staring up at him. So many people all looking and muttering. Even refugees who weren't fighters had made the trek along the Wall to Castle Black with their host, to follow the dragon. Every single person seemed to have a white stone on their furs.

She passed a carving of white bark in the shape of a dragon, sitting at the very centre of the camp.

So many eyes looking towards her like that made her nervous, but Jon either hid it better or didn't feel it. Towards the fringes, there were tents of those that weren't free folk, villagers that had been captured by their army or forced to flock to Castle Black nevertheless for food and shelter. It didn't escape Val's notice that everyone who wasn't free folk was at the back of the queue whenever food was handed out.

Jon saw the boy first; the pudgy young man named Harlow. There was a wound across his forehead from where he had tried to fight the assassins. Val just nodded. "Aye, he's the one."

For a second, Harlow looked scared witless as Jon approached him. Between the crowds, Val couldn't catch the words, but she caught the look of absolute astonishment on the boy's face as Jon extended his hand.

She hung back and watched. Harlow looked stunned, but the king said some words and Harlow nodded, and grinned. Val caught the

mutters from the reactions, though not what the king said.

"What did you say to him?" Val asked as he turned back. His Dragonguards escorted Harlow out of the refugee camps.

"I offered him a place on my Dragonguard," Jon replied simply.

"You did what?" Val smirked. "That boy is gormless. I saw him try to fight against one of those crows and it was absolutely pathetic. He is no fighter."

"Yet he still tried," Jon said as he walked. "While everyone else was running mad, Harlow was the only one who thought to chase after me. I would be dead if not for it." Jon shrugged. "And he helped me greatly in dealing with the mountain clans. I know he's brave and resourceful, and I don't think he's scared of Sonagon. He'll do on my Dragonguard."

"And yet he's not exactly a warrior."

"I need more than just warriors."

"And how many are you planning on appointing?"

"As many as needed. The Dragonguard needs stewards and stable-keepers as much as anything." He shook his head. "No, the Dragonguard won't be my version of the kingsguard. It will be a rank open to anyone from commoners to knight."

They were heading back into the castle, muddy slurry underfoot. There were light flecks of snow in the air. "I don't know what a kingsguard is, Snow," Val said with a frown.

Jon blinked. "They are the royal bodyguards of the Iron Throne, the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Ah, now that would be that fancy place down south, the big chair that the little boy sits on?"

"Tommen Baratheon," Jon nodded. "He is king right now. But the kingsguard is an ancient brotherhood, founded three hundred years ago by Aegon Targaryen."

He must have seen the confusion on her face. "Aegon Targaryen," he repeated, with a frown. "The Conqueror? Do you not know of the Targaryens?"

"Snow, I know how to track a hare under three feet of snow and how to herd a bull mammoth away from a village," Val said, irritated, "but don't be surprised if I know little of your southron names."

He blinked, and then smiled. He had a soft smile. "Forgive me, my lady," he said, bowing his head. "The Targaryens were first dragonlords in Westeros, those who built the Iron Throne and conquered the Seven Kingdoms."

"Dragonlords," she repeated. She'd heard there had been more dragons that went extinct, but she never really knew the truth. Such things were little more than idle rumour north of the Wall. Or they had been, until Sonagon appeared. "Like you?"

"I suppose so." He shifted. He didn't sound comfortable saying so.

Val was about to ask more, but then he paused and headed up the stairs towards the Flint Barracks. Val caught figures coming out to watch him. The Barracks seemed to shuffle.

Val heard the words he gave to a free folk through the doorway. "All Night's Watch men get double their current rations," Jon ordered. "The curfew is still in place, but from now on they have permission to move around the castle freely."

She heard the brothers mumbled. What is he thinking? Val cursed, stepping into the cramped and dirty barracks. The Dragonguard shuffled, trying to squeeze in and follow him.

Jon walked straight up to a thick necked and broad-shouldered crow, a head taller than Jon. Still, the big man looked nervous, shuffling on his feet. He had a blunt and honest face.

"Grenn," Jon said quietly. "Did you know that Pyp was plotting to kill me?"

The big man's voice sounded choked. "I did not," he mumbled. All of the free folk around him were staring hatefully.

Jon didn't reply. Something about the silence demanded answers. "… Pyp was angry, Jon," Grenn muttered. "He… we… had friends at the Shadow Tower. We had brothers who died in the forest. And then you come along with wildlings and dragons and there's death everywhere…"

A free folk growled, moving to strike Grenn. Jon raised his hand, glared at the wildling, and motioned for Grenn to continue. Grenn gulped. "I saw the blue-eyed dead in the woods, I did," Grenn continued nervously. "But I don't know what they were. There were mutters going around that the wildling sorcery was responsible for them, and the Red Woman did say that you were evil…"

His voice trailed. The room was quiet. Jon just paused, and nodded. "You're right," he said slowly. "… I've been expecting the Night's Watch to come around, as I did, but I've given you no reason to do so. No reason to trust me. I'm sorry Grenn, that's on me. I could have done more."

The crow blinked. Jon just continued in a firm voice. "Grenn of Duskendale, I name you to my Dragonguard. I offer you a full position in my service," he said, as the room muttered. "If you believe that my motives are foul, then you can stand in my presence during the day and you can see that they're not."

Grenn's jaw dropped open slightly. He looked stunned. Some free folk looked ready to object, but Jon's gaze turned hard. "Furs, give

Grenn armour and weapons as suitable," Jon ordered. "And a room under the King's Tower."

He turned to walk away, passing a cold look over a few free folk that were glowering at him. "I also expect free folk to watch their manners around the men of the Night's Watch," Jon said, warningly.

Some of them tried to object. His Dragonguard pushed their way through. Val heard Hatch the Halfgiant bellowing for them to get back. Val hesitated, lingering away at the bottom of the barracks.

"Are you a fool?" Val muttered as he approached. "The crows try to kill you and you name one of them as your guard?"

"Grenn didn't. I know Grenn, he's a good man."

"You knew the others too."

His glanced at her as they walked. "Grenn is strong and good with animals. He's honest, and he's brave. Aye, I'd trust him as my Dragonguard." He nodded "And I appointed him for the same reason I chose Harlow. I want to fill the ranks with more than just free folk - it has to be free folk, sworn brothers and northmen come together."

Val narrowed her eyes, but didn't object. They were heading into the King's Tower. Guards opened the double oak doors for them, and they trundled up the staircase. Val lowered her hood.

"There'd be a spot on the Dragonguard for you too, my lady," Jon noted, "if I thought you'd accept it."

"And what? So I could spend my time looking after a dragon?" Val snorted. "I want as little to do with that beast as I can, Snow."

"As you wish."

He shrugged his cloak off as he limped into the solar. The air was cool, and he moved to light the fireplace. Val lingered, looking at him

curiously. He is constantly so busy, she thought, folding her arms. When was the last time he relaxed?

"So these dragons of yours? There were more, at one time?" she asked. "How many?"

"At one time? Dozens. The last dragon in the south died over a hundred and fifty years ago."

"And they were as large as yours?" She said doubtfully.

"Some as large, perhaps, but none larger I think." He paused, hesitating. "I have a book I can show you, if you're curious, my lady."

"I cannot read, Snow."

"There are pictures too."

From underneath the desk, he brought out a heavy, dusty tome of yellowing parchment. The cover and some of the pages looked recently scorched, charred by fire, but others towards the front were still legible. Jon treated it with the utmost delicacy. "I intend to find a maester as soon as possible." He sounded sad. "To transcribe as much as possible before more is lost."

He opened the cover. The faded squiggly lines and runes looked nonsensical to her. He turned the page again, and there was a sketch of a dragon with wings outstretched flapping over the double fold. Val peered over his shoulder. It was a strange thing to look at something so large that had been drawn so small.

She pursed her lips. "So this what you southrons do then?" she muttered. "You write words and draw little pictures of big things?"

"Aye, I suppose we do."

He turned to a page showing a dragon's maw and teeth as it gaped open. She had to admit, they were good pictures.

She peered over so she could see, trying to trace the ancient pencil strokes. Val ran the tips of her fingers over the dry parchment. Jon smiled softly.

"So these old dragons," Val muttered. "You said they died. Died how?"

"There was a war."

"A war of dragons?"

"Aye. The Dance of Dragons, it was called. The Targaryen civil war. Where once there were dozens, after the war there were only a few, and none that produced healthy offspring." He walked, moving to sit down. He sighs when he takes weight off his leg, she noted. "That was the start of the Targaryen decline."

"These Targaryens," she mused. "Dragonlords. Does that make them kin to you?"

A flicker passed across his face. "I don't know," he admitted. "But the last Targaryen in Westeros died yesterday. He was an old man. He fell and cracked his skull."

"The blind maester." Val glanced at him, trying to read his expression. Whenever he had deal with trouble his eyes could turn hard like grey iron. Slowly, she watched as they softened like fog. "… So he could have been your family?"

"I'm not even sure," Jon said, with a hollow smile. "But it felt like he was."

Val paused. "Lives should be celebrated, Jon Snow," she said, her voice turning softer. "Lets raise wine to the blind old man."

He looked surprised. "I shouldn't," he said, biting his lip. "There are duties to attend to."

Jon seemed strangely nervous. Val smiled sweetly.

"The castle can survive one evening without you, I think." She leant backwards on the chair, stretching outwards. "Tell me about these dragons."

Jon hesitateed slightly, but he smiled. "Aye, alright."

"I think Mance stashed a bottle of wine in the cupboard there." Val pointed.

"Will he mind us taking it?"

"We're wildlings, Snow," she said as she stood up. "If we steal his wine, then it's his own fault for not keeping it properly."

She went to fetch two wooden cups. There were glasses, but it still felt so weird for her to drink out of glass. Jon smiled as he uncorked the decanter, and the smile looked out-of-place on him. Like he wasn't used to it.

"To Maester Aemon," he said quietly. Their cups clunked.

Snow talked about dragons, about Targaryen history. He mentioned names like Aegon, Dareon, and Aemon, the Conqueror and the Dragonknight and wars in places that she couldn't even place. Val laughed, and drank wine, noticing how his eyes lit up slightly as he talked.

It was good wine too. Probably something the old Lord Commander had been saving. Thick southern wine, lighter and fluffier than the hard northern stuff she was used to. Not so bad, she mused, as she downed the last of the cup with a small belch.

For some reason, Jon seemed very amused by that. He burst out in quiet chuckles. "What the hells are you laughing at?" she demanded.

"Nothing," he chuckled. "Nothing, my lady."

They went through the wine quickly. Darkness was falling outside, the smell of smoke from the camps heavy in the air.

"… so when King Daeron declared to announce another campaign on Dorne, his advisors thought him mad," Jon was saying. "They reminded him that that Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters failed twice trying to conquer Dorne and now the Iron Throne had no dragons. Daeron replied, 'You have a dragon. He stands before you'."

"Wow," said Val. "He sounds like a pompous little shit."

That caused him to chuckle. "I suppose he does. But he was the Young Dragon. He was a great tactician and leader."

Her head cocked. "You sound like you admire him."

"I do. I used to read stories about his campaign with Robb. We used to pretend we were Daeron the Young Dragon and Aemon the Dragonknight." He paused, a pained expression over his face. Eyes flickered. "… And then Robb led his own campaign. He became the Young Wolf."

He seemed to pause. The wine left his cheeks flushed. "You have a dragon," Val said, lowering her voice.

"I do, but I cannot…" He trailed off, and then shook his head. "Forgive me, my lady, too much wine on an empty stomach. I will have Beth bring us up a meal."

"Beth," Val repeated. "Is that the lass with the mousy hair always tottering around you?"

"Aye. She and the others have been tending to my meals and clothes." He stood up, walking towards the door.

"I'm sure. That's because she wants you to fuck her."

He blinked, gaping. "What, she's not…"

"Snow, she's a free folk. No free folk girl would ever bring a man food without expecting that man to take them too."

He shook his head. Gods, is he blushing? "They are just being helpful."

"Sure." She rolled her eyes. "Although I am surprised she's kept at it even after she must have heard about the… you know."

"The what?" he asked, baffled.

"The snip-snip," she said softly, with finger motions. He gaped at her. "Well, they do geld you when you take the black don't they? I imagine they must cut it off so you don't miss it when you're on the Wall. It explains a bit."

Jon looked flustered. "I am not a… they didn't… who has been…?"

He paused, and blinked. "… Are you teasing me?"

"Never. Perish the thought, Your Grace," she said innocently.

It seemed like he was trying to respond, but his mouth just opened and closed a few times. He shook his head. "… I will see about food, my lady," he said finally, turning to walk away.

Val just smirked, dropping the cup on the table as he left.

She waited. She heard voices outside the door. Somebody shuffling up the stairs.

"What is going on?" Val called, pulling herself up. There were mutters from outside; somebody must have come up to meet Jon.

She creaked open the door. The voices were very low. She saw the fat crow - Samwell - standing nervously by the landing. In the torchlight, Jon's face suddenly seemed hard.

He's clutching a letter, she saw. "Oh, one of your birds have arrived?" Val called. "Where from?"

Neither of them replied. Jon's hands were trembling. Val moved closer.

The letter was smeared in pink, she noticed. She couldn't understand the words. "What is going on?" She asked, lowering his voice.

Without a word, Jon dropped the parchment on the ground and stormed away. She could see his shoulders trembling.

Sam squirmed, fearful. Val reached to out to grab him.

"Oi, crow," she demanded. "Sam, right? What was in that letter, Sam? What the hells did it say?"

He quivered. "… I shouldn't…"

"Tell me." Now what would make Snow react like that?

Eventually, Sam conceded. He picked up the parchment and he read out loud;

"Bastard. False bastard king. You steal my realm, bastard. You and your savages and your dragon. I know all about you.

"Your sister Arya has been telling me about you. She tells me that you used to love her. She told me that she used to mess up her hair. She told me about the little sword you gave her. That you would play with her. Now, I play with her.

"She's my wife, and when I hurt her it is your fault. I make her scream your name. Sometimes she calls for you to help her.

"I hurt her. I rape her every night and cut her every morning. For all of your crimes and lies, I make your sister suffer and cry for them.

"Come and see, bastard. Come and see what I'm doing to your sister.

"I want you gone. Take your savages and go back north of the Wall, but leave. I want your dragon. Surrender the beast to me. Every day

you are in defiance I will hurt your sister a little bit more. Come and see.

"Challenge me and I will cut out your bastard heart and feed it to her. "Ramsay Bolton, Trueborn Lord of Winterfell."

There was a long silence. Sam gulped. "There was something else," he muttered, lifting up a wooden box with a shrivelled, severed thing inside of it. "It came with the envelope."

Val looked. She cursed in the Old Tongue. "That's a nose," she muttered. "The nose of a young girl."

Without a pause, she pushed past Sam and strode after Jon. The snows were thick, she had to force her way out into the grounds. She saw him barge his way into Hardin's Tower and storm up the staircase. The guards looked confused.

When Val followed, she heard a short, sharp scream. There were short, dull impacts. Fists punching against the wall.

She had never seen him look so crazed. "… Jon…" she called softly.

His breaths were haggard. He was pacing constantly, restless as a wolf. For a while, Val didn't think he would reply.

"He has my sister," he growled, punching the wall again with an angry growl. " My sister ." She walked forward hesitantly. "I know of that man. Ramsay Bolton," he spat, between deep, trembling breaths. "The man is a butcher. A dog. And he has Arya ."

"Your sister," Val muttered. "How old is she?"

He stopped. "Twelve. I have not seen her in three years."

I am sorry, she almost said, but she held her tongue. He wasn't looking for sympathies right now.

"They cut off her nose," he growled. "Ramsay Bolton. Bolton . When he married Lady Hornwood he imprisoned and starved her until she had to eat her own fingers. And they married Arya to him?

"They murdered my brother. They killed my family. They torture my sister ." He screamed, slamming his fist against the stone again. Sheheard something crack.

"I think that wall has had enough, Snow," she said. Her voice turned hard. "You done?"

He turned to her. There was no softness in his gaze now. " What ?"

"Go ahead, keep beating the wall. While you're breaking your knuckles, your sister is being raped."

"Don't," he warned.

"Fuck hurting yourself over that prick," she snapped. "Don't waste your rage against a wall; savour what you're feeling right now, keep it in your heart, and then put it through that bastard's skull."

She stepped forward, pushing into his space. She kept her gaze locked on his.

"He's got her," Jon muttered. "She's a hostage, he'll kill her…"

"Then take her back," Val challenged, raising her chin defiantly. "Take your justice. Take your vengeance. Take their heads and take their balls. You're a wildling, Snow."

She took another step forward, keeping her eyes on his. Gods, her heart was racing. The air felt so tense, savage…

"If you want something," she said, "all you've got to do is take it." The moment froze. In the background, the fire hissed.

He lunged at her aggressively, his body pushing into hers. Val felt herself smirk just before their lips smashed.

His body was against her, pushing her back into the wall. She could smell the thick pang of wine on his lips. She could feel him, drunk and full of desire.

They broke for air. His breath was husky, shallow, panting in her ear. Jon seemed to hesitate, until Val grabbed him and pulled him into her. She bit his lower lip so sharply he winced, which seemed only to drive him further.

His hands pressed into her body. His hips pressing into hers even through their clothes. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders.

It seemed like he tried to say something, but she kissed and bit his lips shut. No words were needed.

Groping hands went for her bosom, and she replied with a sharp slap to his jaw. Jon blinked, looking stunned.

Val just gave him a sultry smirk, eyes twinkling. Her blond hair whipped around her face.

Come on, 'Your Grace', she challenged. Not a word was said, but he could feel the challenge in her touch, and in her gaze.

When his hands went for her again, he was far more aggressive, forceful. She gasped as she felt herself slammed back against the wall. She felt the hardness protrude through his breeches, desperate for release.

Hands fumbled at her furs, so she ripped the threads of his tunic off his shoulders

His chest was toned, muscular and lean. She felt her hands roam over the scars on his body.

By the time he finally got her clothes off, it felt like there was a fire between them. His hand clawed her breast so tightly it hurt.

Val bit, scratched and slapped him at every chance she got. Her nails scraped between his hair, forcing him to go just a little bit further, a little bit harder, a little bit stronger….

Oh yes… there we are…

Around her, she felt the tower shake as the dragon roared.

Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Val

Her eyes flickered open lazily. The faint morning sun filtered through the shuttered windows of the room. Val yawned and stretched, feeling toned muscles and hair lying underneath her. He felt warm, solid, masculine. The smell of him in the morning caused her to smile.

Jon was already awake. He lay on the featherbed, staring up at the ceiling.

"Morning," Val muttered tiredly, rolling slightly. She still wasn't used to these soft southron beds. The smell of sex and sweat still lingered in the wool blankets, but it wasn't an unpleasant smell. Her whole body felt stiff, sore, but relaxed, in the way that good sex did.

He didn't reply for a while. "I am sorry, my lady," Jon said finally. His voice was low, forlorn. "We… I shouldn't have… it was dishonourable."

Val didn't react straight away. She sighed. Well, there's a bucket of water over my good mood . Too early to do this, her head ached."Now isn't that what every girl wants to hear the morning after?"

He shuffled away from her, tripping and stumbling slightly as he pulled himself out of the featherbed, taking a deep breath. Val groaned, pulling herself upwards. They were both naked, and a chill crept into the room.

"Get back in bed," she said with another yawn. "The air is cold and the sheets are warm."

"No, I… I shouldn't have done that," he said, voice dripping guilt. "I beg your pardon, Val. Last night, it was shameful."

"We must have different opinions on what that word means," she said, pulling the sheets off her to reveal her naked form. "Do I look shamed to you?"

He bit his lip and averted his eyes. "It was shameful for me." Still he didn't even look at her. It made her irritated. "I took a vow."

"That ship has sailed, Your Grace."

No reply. She saw him wince in pain as he moved his scarred leg, trying to get dressed quickly. Where is he trying to run off to? She wondered. This is his room.

He hasn't even called me 'my lady', she realised. Normally that was their little teasing joke; he'd say 'my lady' and she'd say 'Your Grace'.

"You're serious," she groaned. "You really want to do this now?"

"I was upset last night. I exploited you."

"Good. Exploit away." She rubbed her eyes. "You were upset and you took comfort in the arms of another. There ain't nothing wrong with that."

"It shouldn't have happened, I'm sorry…"

"You say sorry one more time and I will geld you," she warned. That apology irked her.

He took a deep breath. "There's someone else."

She nodded. "Ah. Your little redheaded girl, I take it?"

He nodded. The guilt on his face reminded her of a little pup, staring at the ground. He can't even meet my eyes. Or my breasts .

Val shrugged. "So?"

He flustered. "So it's dishonourable, I shouldn't have-"

"When was the last time you saw your girl?" Val demanded.

"Seven months ago."

"Is she even still alive?"

No reply. He doesn't know, then.

"And you think it's dishonourable taking company with another after a lay you had seven months ago? Bugger off."

"Ygritte," he snapped. "Her name was Ygritte, we were together and I never finished things with her. I can't… do this… it's…"

Sex," said Val. Her good mood was burning away fast. She shambled up. "Rutting. Make love. Coupling. Fucking. Call it what it is, don't act like a bloody blushing maiden."

"It's wrong," he stammered. "There was too much wine and I shouldn't have."

A mistake? Is that really how he wants to treat me? Oh, that made her annoyed. "I swear, Snow; you're not a eunuch but you sure do pretend to be one. You act like you're frightened of your own dick."

She tried to wash her face with her hands as she shambled over the cold stone floor. "We had sex. So what - why do you need to make it something foul? There ain't nothing dirty in it unless you make it so."

His gaze flashed. "I have a duty . I never intended on breaking my vows and I can't break them again."

"Is there really some god in the south that goes around punishing folk each time they get their dick wet?" she said incredulously. "Do you think you're marked for each night you spend with another?"

He shook his head. "I have a duty," he repeated. "And love is the death of duty. I can't, there's…" He grimaced. "I can't marry you, Val. And I can't sire a child."

"Did I ask for marriage?" she said, standing upwards. "And bugger off if you think I'm having a child. Moon tea exists for a reason, Snow. Why do you always have to try and complicate things?"

"It's not that simple."

"It's very simple," she said, stretching out the words like she was speaking to a dimwit. "We had sex. It was good sex too. If you want to have sex again, then let me know and maybe I'll want to as well."

He didn't reply. He stood frozen at the far side of the room, looking downwards. Couldn't even come close to her. She pulled on her breeches and tunic, and then her gown in an easy motion. She didn't bother with her smallclothes, they'd need to be washed anyways.

"I swear, Snow," Val continued. "You've got a nice body and I'm attracted to you, but I really don't need this headache afterwards. I've got things to do."

She walked out of his chambers without another word, letting the door slam behind her. She shivered in the cold, trying to straighten both her furs and her hair as she walked down the spiral staircase.

She saw two of the Dragonguard at the bottom clearing looking upwards at her. One of them, Furs, call up and asked, "Did you two just fuck in there?"

"Yep." Val nodded. "It turns out that King Snow really does have no balls."

She went back to the Silent Tower to wash, and change her clothes. She left her knife behind and picked up her dirk and belt instead. She thought back to the exchange in Jon's quarters. Did I go too far back there?

No, she decided. That was a pretty justified reaction against someone who used the word 'shameful' the morning after we slept together .

Jon

He groaned as he paced his chambers, hands on his head. The wine left his head aching and the sex left his body aching. His skin still shivered from her phantom touch.

It was mistake, he told himself. A drunken mistake made in grief. Too much wine .

Val could send him mad sometimes. She was beautiful, fearsome and so, so maddeningly alluring. She had glorious blond hair, sharp cheekbones and a lean and nubile body. Her lips, her legs, her breasts…

All of the alcohol in the world couldn't dim the feeling of last night. The tension, the touch, the trembling motions. Thrashing bodies and soft squirming. He could barely picture it, but he remembered the sounds - her breathing in his ear, her muffled groans beneath him. He remembered golden hair in his face, lips tracing his collarbone…

Ygritte had been fair, even cute, but Val was the type of beauty that men could fight over.

The thought of Ygritte made Jon feel even worse than he already did. The memory of him pushing her off the cliffs had haunted him for months.

His body didn't stop trembling.

I shouldn't have spent the night with her. That was a mistake, he thought, ignoring the tightness in his chest. I shamed myself, and shamed her .

I loved Ygritte, I did. Now why is it that everyone I love seems to die? My father, Robb, Ygritte, and Arya…

Love is the bane of honour, the death of duty. What is honour compared to a woman's love? The ghostly words of Maester Aemon only served to make him feel even more tense.

He broke his morning fast alone in his tower, stewing in frustration. Jon caught the flicker in the serving girls' eyes, but no one said anything. After that, he didn't want to see anyone at all.

After a long time, he sent word to Sam to bring him the pink letter from the Boltons. The thought of that letter sent shivers down his spine, but he needed to read it again in the cold light of day.

Jon didn't even say a word to Sam as he dropped the parchment at Hardin's Tower. Sam muttered something about burning the severed nose, and Jon just nodded. What was the acceptable way of disposing of your sister's nose? Jon had to force himself not to eventhink about it.

He read that letter four more times, constantly. He had been too drunk last night to really process it beyond rage. Arya, he thought. Gods, Arya what are they doing to you?

Jon remembered a sweet, wild nine-year-old girl. Would he even recognise his sister anymore? Would she recognise him?

Why would Ramsay Bolton send me a letter like this? Jon thought slowly. It was crude, taunting, mocking. He used the phrase 'come and see' three times. He's trying to provoke me. He wants me to do something rash like charge to Winterfell in anger.

And it might work too, Jon though. His was a constant, simmering anger, like tar bubbling in his gut.

He delegated his duties to his Dragonguard and to Mance while he retreated into Hardin's Tower. He gave the pink letter a special place

on his desk, so he could reread it constantly. Then, he passed a message onto Sam to bring him all of the letters and correspondence the castle had received concerning the Boltons.

The more he read and the longer he simmered, slowly all that rage turned cold, as frigid as the roost of the ice dragon's perch above him.

All of the grief, the stress… all of the problems he had but couldn't deal with it. The assassination attempt, his dragon, Aemon's death, Val… Jon could feel it all getting to him. He could feel himself becoming liable to do something rash, so he gave the order that he wasn't to be disturbed. He needed focus. Jon couldn't even focus on anything without the echo of Ramsay Bolton's words haunting his mind.

They torture my sister. They murdered my brother.

Jon turned to focus on an older letter, well lined with faded ink. This letter had been sent months ago - declaring Roose Bolton the Warden of the North. Robb Stark executed for 'treason'. How would Robb react to this?

It had been over three years since the last time Jon saw Robb. He remembered a smiling, confident, curly red-haired boy who could always outride him but would never gloat. Now, Jon sat at the desk in Hardin's Tower, staring at so many letters describing events that he had missed.

It was like looking at a timeline of everything that had happened. Sam had dug out every letter they had ever received - every missive of events that occurred so far away.

Now, Jon had to try to match his memory of his half-brother with the person described in the letters. The parchments described the Young Wolf and his campaign - a young king who fought valiantly in the riverlands, fighting for justice for his family and the freedom of his country. Robb Stark had been crowned, married and then murdered

all the while Jon had been in the wilderness, a thousand leagues away.

Jon's hands gripped the table, tightening quietly with every letter he read.

He remembered Theon Greyjoy - laughing, cocky, constantly smirking Theon Greyjoy. Jon wondered whether Theon had been smirking when he murdered Bran and Rickon and mounted their burnt heads over Winterfell and sacked the castle.

He remembered Tyrion Lannister, the clever dwarf who had even befriended Jon during their trip to the Wall. Jon wondered if Tyrion had been so kind and clever when he married his sister, and plotted to murder his family. Now Sansa was gone, by all accounts; disappeared and implicated when the Imp assassinated Joffrey at his wedding.

And Arya… wild, sweet Arya… It made Jon's hands tremble with just the thought.

Was that the fate of the Stark children? Jon thought, quietly fuming. The sons to be murdered by their enemies, and the daughters to marry their enemies?

He wasn't angry, it wasn't rage anymore. It felt colder than anger; like an ice-cold blade through his chest. His fingers traced the line of the scar between his ribcage. The more he thought about it the more he felt the dagger dig into his heart…

There was a knock on the door. Furs brought him an evening meal. Jon was in no mood for company, so he ordered his guards to refuse all guests.

He didn't sleep that night. Instead, he reached out to Phantom, feeling her prowl darkly and simmer. The shadowcat seemed to suit him better right now. The feline prowled restlessly over the battlements of Eastwatch, sharp eyes overlooking the hustling bay.

Jon felt Ghost howling, still hunting beyond the Wall around Hardhome. Sonagon was on top of the tower, looming over Castle Black like some enormous gargoyle.

What would Robb do in this situation? Jon thought. He thought of his brother a lot, of the campaign he had led. The Young Wolf victorious in every battle he fought. W ould I have been able to do that? To win those battles?

Robb had always been the leader, the confident, assured trueborn

Stark. Jon was a fighter more than a leader. The free folk followed

him not because of his leadership, but because he fought for them.

What would Robb do here? Robb Stark would have rallied the north. He would have raised his bannermen and led them against the Boltons, marched down to Winterfell and rescued his sister, and put the Boltons and the Freys to the sword. Robb Stark could have won justice for his family, could have rallied the realm.

I can't do that. I am Jon Snow, not Stark. I am a deserter, wildling and traitor to the realm. By the laws of men I should be executed. I am a warg and skinchanger - a bastard .

He could feel that anger in his chest. Robb would have been the justice. But I can be the vengeance .

He woke up early that morning. His two legs felt weird after spending the entire night in Phantom's skin. Jon spent some time thinking about it, and then prepared his full battledress. He clad himself iron top-capped boats, a worn wool-lined hauberk and leathers, before fastening his giant hide furs over his shoulders. He took a steel half-helm formerly belonging to the Lord Commander, cradling it under his arm.

It was only just dawn when Jon walked down the tower, with Dark Sister on his hip. His guards stared at him in surprise.

"Furs!" Jon shouted. "Prepare the saddle."

"Your horse?"

"No," he replied. "The other saddle."

Furs grinned, revealing both missing front teeth. "Ah."

"Hatch, prepare ten of the Dragonguard to fly with me. We need supplies for a week, thick furs, and we're going prepared for a fight. Make sure the men are ready," Jon ordered.

He saw the big man's face pale. "We're riding the dragon? Today?"

"Aye. It'll be a long journey too."

"Where are we heading?"

He paused. "We're going raiding. I'll tell you more on the journey."

He could see the murmurs spreading. He just pushed on. Jon stopped off by the armoury with one of his saddlebags. He picked up a spare longsword, a wooden buckler, and a set of dull iron gauntlets. He ordered his men to bring longbows.

The castle was already moving. Jon saw Grenn watching him open-mouthed as his guards prepared equipment and supplies. He glimpsed Val standing on the battlements with her arms folded, but Jon just walked past her. He couldn't handle complications right now. Let's focus on what I can do .

He met Mance limping from the King's Tower, with a spearwife holding his arm for support. "Where are you going?" Mance demanded, eyes narrowing.

"South. Sonagon and I will be gone for a few days, a week at most," Jon replied.

"You leave and we might have a riot on our hands."

"It's only a week."

"That might be too long. Lots of free folk worship you like a god. That dragon might be the only thing keeping the northern lords back and the Night's Watch in-line. What happens when they figure that this might be a chance to throw us out?"

"Well, make sure they don't. Remind them who has the power here. You're in charge of Castle Black when I'm gone."

Mance's lips pursed, but he nodded. I'm king now, Jon thought. Let's be king .

He could feel the people stirring. His Dragonguard rushing for arms was confirmation that Jon was moving out. He knew it was sudden, but sudden was good. Sudden gave any conspirators little time to conspire.

The whole castle was definitely waking up quickly. Mance looked at Jon with a frown. "… I heard about that letter, Snow," he muttered quietly.

"Yes. They have my sister."

"And if you fly to Winterfell, your sister will be the very first casualty in that battle. She's a hostage."

"I'm aware," Jon said coolly, walking away towards the rookery. His heart was pounding. This was a big moment. This time, he was finally flying south, and he knew just what to do. "I'm not going to Winterfell."

Sooner or later, the whole realm would know about Sonagon, but Jon wanted it to be on his terms.

He headed towards the rookery, before remembering and staring at nothing but broken rubble of the half-crumbling keep. Jon had to backtrack, recalling that Sam had moved the ravens and anything salvageable to the Grey Keep - the Lord Steward's former quarters. His rooms in the Grey Keep was left a dump from all the books and

letters that had been piled, unsorted. Jon saw a big, beefy man standing guard in front of Sam's chambers, before he half-bowed and let Jon through.

Jon met Sam staring at him wide-eyed. "Sam," Jon said, his voice turning softer. "I need maps - as good of maps as you have. I'm heading south."

Sam's voice trembled. It looked like he had been crying after Aemon's death. "Maps….? Um, I'm not sure… I think Aemon had a few… where of exactly?"

"South of Moat Cailin and down towards the riverlands. Maps of the Trident, if you've got it." Jon hadn't even been south of the Neck before, and it was too easy to lose all bearings when flying on Sonagon. "As detailed as you have, as fast as possible."

Sam blinked, and nodded. With Aemon gone, Clydas would be in charge of the ravens and Sam the library. Aemon never even had a chance to touch Sonagon, Jon thought with a pained grimace. Therejust hadn't been time.

Jon paused, an idea coming to him. "And if you want," Jon offered, "there's a place for you to come with us."

Sam's mouth dropped. "Wha… I can't…" he stammered. "You mean on the dragon?"

"Aye," Jon ordered, but gently. He had plenty of fierce fighters, but he needed intelligence. "I've never been out of the north before, you have. You know the route, and you can manage ravens. I need to bring a few birds to send messages back to Castle Black."

The noise out of Sam's throat sounded vaguely like a fish out of water. Jon gave him no time to protest as he swept out of the room.

Val cornered him as he was packing supplies from the kitchens.

"What's going on Snow?" she demanded.

"We're going on a trip south."

"Why?" She said sharply. "Your sister…"

"It's not about her," he lied, sharply. "All across the realm, there will be rumours about a dragon on the Wall. I don't want them to be rumours for much longer. We're going to take a trip south on Sonagon's back, and make sure that everyone knows that there is dragon in the north."

She looked at him suspiciously. "I thought you wanted to wait for the right moment."

"I'm tired of waiting."

Jon was already walking away. So much to do, so little time. "You're going to make a lot of people very scared."

"Good." I want them scared. When your enemies are scared, then that's half the battle already won .

Jon had wanted them ready to move out as fast as possible, but anything involving Sonagon's harness required at least two dozen men to prepare. Three of his Dragonguard - Harlow, Gregg Sheepstealer and Mo - would stay behind but the rest were coming with him. Twelve fighters in total. He saw Toregg, son of Tormund, roaring in anticipation. Grenn looked pale-faced and trembling; he wanted to stay behind but Jon ordered Grenn to come and ordered the sworn brother to stay by Sam's side at all time.

The first flight is always frightening , Jon thought. Only four members of his Dragonguard had ever even flown before. They needed Wun Wun to help clear the courtyard to prepare for the dragon, and carry stacks of rations. Furs was busy directing the giant, getting him ready to help lift the men on to the dragon's back.

Crowds were gathering. He heard Bullden Horn and Hatch arguing for who got to sit at the front.

Jon closed his eyes and reached out with his mind. Sonagon was already awake, already alert. It didn't take much prodding before the dragon started to twitch. Come. Hunt. Green fields and new territory. We fly .

The white shape twitched. Enormous wings unfurled. From atop Hardin's Tower, the white dragon dropped downwards. Jon heard the collective gasp of breath as those wings pounded against the ground. The sudden beat pounded so hard that great billows of snow whooshed in the wind like a sudden storm dropping out of the sky.

Sonagon landed so hard that the ground rumbled, while snow washed around them. People were screaming, but Jon could have laughed.

The dragon was so large that it could barely fit in the courtyard. Sonagon was a fearsome sight, lumbering between the buildings. The great keeps and towers of Castle Black looked like toy houses compared to the dragon.

Men ran under Sonagon's wings in panic, causing the dragon to snap and growl irritably, but Jon soothed him. We're going to fly a long way together, Jon promised. We're going further south than you've ever been before…

Furs was one of the few who didn't panic. The wildling was more used to Sonagon than most, snapping orders for men to get moving. Perhaps I need to appoint him some rank, Jon mused looking atFurs. Official dragon keeper, perhaps. Furs was certainly capable enough.

It was awkward, panicked, and took longer than Jon would like. It required a lot gentle pleading to get Sonagon into position, and even longer to position the men around them.

Jon had to rub the dragon's snout reassuringly to stop the dragon from moving. They needed Wun Wun to lift the men upwards with his great, beefy hands so they could clamber onto the dragon. I need a

better way of mounting, Jon thought. Perhaps something like a siege tower that could be pushed up against Sonagon.

Sonagon's back was jagged and ridged, particularly around the wings, but they were more experienced now. Sam and Grenn had to be fastened down and covered over with their cloaks, but Hatch and Furs wrapped ropes expertly around the dragon's back spikes to secure themselves.

Jon couldn't help but grin. By contrast, he had an easier job. He was well-used to climbing up the rope over Sonagon's right horn, using the dragon's neck crests as footholds, to position himself on top the dragon's head.

"Get comfortable, and secure!" Jon ordered. "Find a position and keep in it, but make sure you're wrapped up!"

"It doesn't seem so cold," Hatch shouted. When Jon was on the head and the others on the back, there was about a twenty-five feet distance between them.

"It will when we start flying," Jon said grimly.

The best bowmen of his Dragonguard - Haldur, Bullden, and Harle - had longbows cradled in their grasp, but most didn't dare take their hands off the hoists. Very awkward sitting, Jon admitted. His seat on the head was more vulnerable, but also far easier to mount. Anyone on the back had to shuffle dangerously over rippling muscles, clutching the dragon's spikes.

Sonagon shifted uncomfortably with the weight shuffling on his back. Jon had to soothe the dragon constantly. The dragon was a fickle beast at best, but only the promise of food and flying made him wait.

By the time they were ready, it was already noon.

They were fiddling with the last few straps, when Sonagon decided he had enough. Jon heard screams. The dragon rumbled and his tail

whipped, and Jon ordered them to back away. Time to go.

Jon's heart was beating. He had flown nine times now, and twice with other people, but flying on a dragon's back would never be anything less than magnificent.

South, he pushed. Let's head south .

"Strap yourselves in!" Jon called, clutching the ropes so tightly his hands hurt. Sonagon started to move like a lumbering mountain.

"How long do we have to stay like this?" Haldur shouted, his body rattling with every thunderous step as Sonagon turned.

"Maybe half a day!" Jon bellowed, though truthfully, he had little idea. He could barely guess how fast Sonagon could fly or the distances involved - he had never taken a trip this far before. "Just hold on really, really…" Sonagon took another step. Jon's teeth rattled. "… tight!"

He had deliberately not mentioned their destination to anyone. He didn't want to give any warning, as unlikely as it was to reach ahead of them. Now, he was on his way.

There were screams as the dragon reared up onto two legs, wings outstretching wide. Sonagon roared, taking a few uncertain, unsteady steps as his wings started to beat. Jon had to hug the dragon's scales to protect himself from the draft and snow.

And then, slowly, he felt the dragon rising up into the air. Sonagon roared under the strain.

I wanted to go to Winterfell, he thought foggily. I wanted to go home . But he couldn't; that letter seemed too much like the bait for a trap, and they held his sister hostage regardless. Heading to Winterfell seemed too risky, too expected.

But that didn't mean he had to let his brother's murder go to unpunished. "The Twins," Jon muttered head rattling by the thunderous, mind-wracking beat of wings. "We go for the Twins." To give Walder Frey my regards .

They were lifting upwards quickly. The pressure so intense he gagged. Jon's eyes opened, only to see the Wall disappearing beneath them…

For the first time in two hundred years, there were dragons flying over the north.

Sonagon had never flown so freely before. Generally, the dragon liked to keep its own territory, to patrol the same hunting grounds on an evening. Now, though, the dragon was roaming wild, flapping over pine forests, lakes and rolling hills.

And Sonagon loved it. Jon could feel the dragon's glee as it pounded faster and faster, accelerating and streaming through the air.

All around him, the cold wind hissed so hard that it could have sheared skin. Jon had to keep his face pressed against the dragon's scales, cloaks wrapped around him.

He had no idea how the others were doing. Jon could only thank the gods for the quality of Devyn Sealskinner's workmanship. The leather harness felt secure even despite billowing winds.

Flying on a dragon's back… it felt like a once in a lifetime experience. Jon could still barely believe that he got to do it repeatedly.

The people on the ground would be like ants. Jon wondered vaguely what it must be like to be on the ground beneath them, to see the white shadow flying over the clouds…

He gasped as he extended the warg towards Sonagon. The dragon was having so much fun he didn't object. Jon's mind expanded as

suddenly he was staring downwards, watching the world through a dragon's eyes.

Dragons.

Dragons .

No one had ever mapped the world like this. Jon struggled to recognise the shapes of the mountains, or of the forests in the distance.

South . Jon pushed, thinking of all the landmarks he knew. South towards the Long Lake, the Wolfswood, the White Knife, and the coast. The Neck, Moat Cailin, the Bite - all the way to the rivers. Jon wanted to see the south. And Sonagon wanted to see it too.

Jon had no idea how long that journey lasted. It was hard to measure time when every heartbeat felt like your last.

Jon forced Sonagon to fly low, low enough to be survivable for the passengers. Sonagon reluctantly complied, but it was still so fast the winds were vicious.

He felt the way the dragon instinctively sheared over wind currents. The dragon tilted left to avoid a strong headwind storm, his tail swishing through the air. Jon could feel the exertion every time the dragon pounded his wings, but the dragon was well-fed, energised, and free. Flying was where he belonged.

He must have made this trip before, Jon realised suddenly. A lifetime ago. Sonagon once flew from Old Valyria to the North .

They were making good time. As fast as the raven flew, if not faster. Jon reckoned he could probably reach the bottom of the north by the end of the day.

The sun was bright. Sonagon's shadow roamed over the ground. By tomorrow, the whole north would know the dragon was no rumour.

It was dark when the dragon finally landed. Sonagon flapped down over a small mound on a grassy plain, one of the old barrows of the north. The kingsroad was somewhere to the west, probably. He could smell coast and ocean to the east. Jon spent most of the journey with his own body unconscious, while he shared Sonagon's skin.

By the time they stopped, it was past dusk and the riders could barely even see straight. Most of them had fallen unconscious during the trip. Over half had soiled themselves, but Jon honestly couldn't fault them.

Sonagon was exhausted too - exhausted enough to curl on the ground flat for them to stagger off. Hatch and Toregg were the only two who managed to stay conscious the whole trip. It took Grenn and Urwen to carry a pale and limp Sam down to the ground.

Sam had brought two caged ravens with him. One bird had died during the flight, the other didn't look so good either. But at least no one had fallen off this time.

"Fuck. Me," Black Maris gagged, her body trembling. "You said nothing that it would be that hard, Snow."

Jon nodded wearily. Black Maris was the only woman in the Dragonguard with them, yet the spearwife was better with a spear than Furs and as hard a leader as any. She shambled to the muddy ground, helping Furs clamber off as well.

The trip around the Wall had been a gentle breeze by comparison. It had been a day of hard flying. Thank gods they had all buried themselves under cloaks. Hopefully there wouldn't be frostbite.

"Set up camp here!" Jon ordered, as the men staggered on the hilltop. "Eat, clean yourselves up, sleep however much you can." He stared at Sam sympathetically, still half-conscious and white-faced.

All of them were hardened raiders or rangers, but the journey still nearly proved too much. Gerwick almost crashed as soon as he hit solid ground. It was lucky Jon brought plenty of rations, because they all pigged themselves out on supplies, and then puked again.

"Fucking hells!" Grenn gasped. The big man was pale and trembling. "Fucking hells!"

"We must keep watch," Jon ordered. "Someone must have saw us, they could have followed. Rest now, but don't unpack. We leave early at first light."

It wasn't ideal - they could lose a lot of their advantage if anyone saw them coming - but there was nothing for it. People would die if they had to fly through the night as well.

Jon couldn't sleep. He had to unroll the maps and try to figure out where they were. He reckoned somewhere north east of Moat Cailin, by the coast, in a deserted cliffside. Six hundred leagues, he decided finally. They'd had flew for over half a day straight.

"What's the plan here, Snow?" Furs slumped down next to him. Others were listening around them. "You say we're raiding? Raiding where?"

"We're going to a place called the Twins," Jon muttered. "And we will burn it to the ground. We raid only what's left."

"Aye? Just the fourteen of us?"

"And a dragon. Have you ever heard of what Aegon the Conqueror did to Harrenhal, Furs?"

Grenn's eyes widened. Furs paused. "I can guess. So this place is a big castle?"

"Yes."

"And you're okay torching it like this?"

"Aye."

"Without warning or chance to surrender?"

Jon's jaw clenched. "If they have any warning whatsoever, we lose half our advantage. They might try to prepare a defence." He shook his head, well aware that everyone was listening. "We don't give them any warning. Surprise and panic are our best allies here."

They murdered my brother. They don't deserve surrender.

"Then let's bring those bastards down." Furs grinned, tightening his clutch on his spear.

The Twins. Jon hadn't even seen the Twins before, but he knew of it. The Freys murdered the northern host there. They murdered Robb Stark. Jon would bring dragonfire to the Freys, and he would make sure that the whole world knew.

I will take my lesson out of Aegon's book.

The whole north would know. The Boltons would lose their strongest ally. Any man who tried to oppose Jon would think twice. Any man who wanted vengeance for the Red Wedding would flock to his side.

And the Freys would pay. Oh boy, will they pay.

The anger didn't fade. Sonagon could feel Jon's bloodlust seeping through their connection. The dragon stirred slightly.

The camp was tense. They were all ready for battle, but had to wait. Grenn, at least, stuck by Sam's side protectively. Jon didn't sleep at all.

The next morning, they mounted Sonagon again. They climbed on faster this time, although Sam still had to be carried. By first light, they were ready to go.

"Noon," Jon promised. "We'll reach the Twins by noon. This needs to be a fast journey, but we can take it gentler going back."

Grenn muttered something that it would be easier to walk. Jon just smiled, but the smile was wooden. His fist hadn't unfurled.

No matter how intense the journey was, Jon knew that it would be nothing compared to what would happen when they reached there. Jon's heart was buzzing with the thought. Is this what Aegon felt before he razed Harrenhal?

Sonagon made good time. This far south the air was warmer. Jon could afford to lift his head up, staring down as they flew over boggy swamps and marshes. They flew so low that, occasionally, Jon could even see the people running. He glimpsed horses galloping down the roads.

Dragons. Dragons flying south.

Oh yes, come tomorrow the whole realm will be buzzing.

He saw mountains in the distance, dressed by low-sitting clouds. He smelled lands teeming with livestock and people, new scents he couldn't place. Sonagon roared, a cry of dominance like thunder.

The maps were useless. Jon couldn't even think to place the squiggles on parchment with the great expanse that stretched before him. Instead, he just had to try and guess their position. The Trident, he thought. I know the Twins rest upon the northern Green Fork of the Trident. Follow the river .

He could see a cape in the distance. He heard seagulls scatter around the dragon. The Cape of Eagles, he realised. I must have gone too far south and west . Sonagon had to backtrack and flapeast again.

There were definitely people screaming beneath him. He passed over farmsteads and small villages and he saw panic.

Jon saw the Trident. The river muddy and reedy, but it was so wide he could barely miss it, even through the forests and clouds. He followed the Green Fork upstream, watching the river turn deeper and swifter.

Ready yourself, Jon pushed towards Sonagon. Enemies. Enemies ahead .

The dragon roared. They would hear the dragon coming, like thunder in the distance. But so long as they don't have the time or the coordination to prepare, it won't matter.

He smelled the stench of men. He saw two squat, ugly and formidable castles of grey stone with curtain walls and towers sitting in the distance. There was stone bridge beneath them, the Trident gushing through the pillars. From dragonback, the Twins had never looked so small.

He heard Hatch from the the back shouting for the men to prepare themselves. Sonagon flew so low over the rushing waters of the Trident that the river splashed with every immense pound of the dragon's wings. The river was wide, yet the length of Sonagon's wings still reached over its breadth.

Jon heard the ringing of bells. The Water Tower sat in the middle of the bridge, with barbicans and portcullis leading left and right. He heard the east tower ringing first, and then the west. The two were singing in fear. His heart pounded in the moment.

The sun was bright, the air was warm, yet winter was here.

Dragons. Dragons are attacking the realm.

This is right. This is my vengeance.

"Dracarys!" Jon shouted at the top of his lungs, over the sound of roaring air. " Dracarys !"

White fire exploded from Sonagon's mouth in a continuous stream. The dragon swept over the eastern bridge, and ice plumed from underneath. Jon saw men like ants skittering over the white stone.

The first plume of ice froze a chunk of the bridge twenty feet wide. The spikes of ice were ten feet high, the cold steam billowing upwards. The cold was so extreme that the stone shivered and cracked. Great billows of steam hissed and howled.

Suddenly, the frozen rock crumbled away, and a wall of ice split the crossing into two. The ice plumed across the river, chunks of frozen stone scattering the wastes.

Screaming, so much screaming. It was so chaotic Jon could hardly process it.

Jon was gasping. He had known it would be panicked but this… it felt unreal.

Sonagon roared upwards, circling. The dragon was eager, ready. The cold was bubbling in his chest. The dragon loved a good armageddon.

Men littered across the battlements of the Water Tower. Men running mad.

These men killed my brother. All Frey bannermen had been either conspirators or complacent. Jon could give them all a king's justice.

No. Vengeance. This is vengeance, not justice . But right now Jon just didn't care.

Wings roared as Sonagon flapped over the Water Tower. A few arrows bounced uselessly off hard scales. The sounds of screaming filled the air as the ice burst out of the dragon's throat. The tower exploded into bloody white spikes and mist.

The castle. The bridge could be destroyed at will, but the castles were the priority. They were both identical, so Jon just had to pick one to destroy first. The east, he thought, the east one was facing the north.

Destroy the east castle first. A small but squat keep with high curtain walls and deep moats. Both were useless now. There was an apple orchard and cornfield spilling out of the grounds, with men and women scattering…

Sonagon circled. Jon saw hundreds of men trying to stampede out of the gate. Jon saw men jumping off the battlements in their panic to escape. A few tried to shoot arrows, but it was useless - the pure force of Sonagon's wings swept the arrows away.

Sonagon was a blizzard given flesh. The dragon swept over the gate first, white dragonfire raging.

All of those men fleeing. Jon saw bodies rupturing and exploding in the extreme cold. Frozen chunks of bone and pink ice, scorched in white steam. Dragonfire scoured the ground clean.

Some men - the ones towards the edges - were left frozen solid, transformed into brittle, grotesque ice statues frozen in motion. A courtyard of dead frozen bodies.

At least fifty men dead in an instant.

Then Sonagon swept over the walls, in a continuous stream of dragonfire. The walls cracked and froze into rubble. The limestone didn't stand a chance against anything that cold and destructive.

Another thirty dead.

Then the courtyard. Sonagon perched on an outbuilding, flapping amidst the great billows of steam, raining bursts of frozen death onto the yard.

Another fifty.

Jon gasped as the dragon jumped, crashing into the main keep. The dragon dropped down onto the tiled roof, crunching through stone, and the frostfire exploded from his jaws. The dragon's breath blew down through the roof and the walls exploded outwards. The whole structure groaned and screeched.

The waves of cold were so intense that even the backdraft nearly scalded Jon. The noise sent him deaf. Frozen rubble scattered.

He could see the keep crackling and crumbling. Ice so cold it burned.

After that, Jon lost count of death. He wanted to push the dragon to restrain himself, but Jon could barely even think. The noise and chaos left his mind blank.

It was over quickly. In a single sweep, Sonagon turned the castle into a frozen ruin and graveyard.

And then, the dragon leapt into the air towards the western tower.

Jon lost control. Sonagon wasn't listening to him anymore. The dragon's blood was burning for destruction.

My brother's killers.

The din was deafening, the force bone-shaking. Jon couldn't even focus on the falling mortar and flying arrows when everything was screaming and shaking. He heard a woman's wail.

Those sounds… they made his blood curdle. This was a mistake. This is a mistake. Too much death, too much…

Too much chaos, so little order. Jon had no idea the fury he had unleashed. The cold scorched his skin. The dragon had hard scales to protect him, but those on Sonagon's back had nothing.

He glimpsed Haldur managing to fire his bow uncertainly from Sonagon's back, but most others were struggling to even hold on. The panic, the disorientation, the noise…

The dead. So, so many dead.

A tower collapsed under Sonagon's breath. Jon watched it crumble.

It was all Jon could do just to hold on.

The dragon felt exhausted from breathing so much ice, but also so, so happy.

Around them, the Twins were crumbling into the Trident in frozen rubble.

It was too much. Jon couldn't even breathe. Down, Jon ordered. Put us down .

The dragon didn't even seem to hear him. The beast was having too much fun catching those trying to flee. Jon saw some of them, and they were serving girls or servants, not soldiers. Sonagon gave them all the same mercy.

Icy fire transformed the orchard yards into cold ruin. Trees exploded in frozen splinters.

Jon's head spun. Down, he begged, down .

Finally Sonagon complied. The dragon dropped to the earth outside of the eastern keep with a great growl. Jon staggered, feeling the bile rise in his throat. The air was so cold.

They shambled down off the dragon's back. Sonagon twitched impatiently. Jon's hands could barely clutch the rope.

"Please…" a voice croaked. "… By the Mother's mercy, please… help…"

Jon turned, to see a figure crawling across the stone. It was hard to even recognise him as a man under the rime and frostbite coating his skin. The figure used to be a man-at-arms with a jerkin emblazoned by the two towers, but Sonagon's breath had ripped straight through him. The man's legs were left frozen solid as he dragged himself over the courtyard.

Jon watched in horror as the man's foot broke apart as he crawled. He didn't even seem to feel it. His legs were just lumps of ice dangling from his waist. Dragonfire had frozen over half his body. " Please…" the man whimpered.

Jon's jaw tightened. "Put him out of his misery."

"Aye, Your Grace," Hatch offered, hoisting up his hammer and stepping forward. Jon averted his gaze. There was a dull crack. Metal through skull.

Sonagon flew back up into the air. The dragon's bloodlust hadn't been sated, not yet. There were hundreds of men left running down the road, but Jon doubted they'd get far. Jon heard Sam being sick.

In front of them, the eastern castle of the Twins was a steaming wreck. Great walls of limestone were left pulverised. They heard the crash as another chunk of bridge fell into the current.

"By the Gods…" Grenn muttered breathlessly, staring in horror.

Sam's legs gave out, falling to his knees. Jon felt the urge to do the same. Focus, Jon told himself.

"Haldur, Bullden, and Harle, go stand guard on the walls. Watch for anyone coming back. Hatch and Stiga, guard the doors," Jon ordered. The oak gate had exploded in cold, along with half the walls. "Grenn, you stay here with Sam. Everyone else, on Furs or me, we search the castle for survivors."

"To prevent any?" Toregg asked.

"Just search," Jon ordered. "But watch your step, the structure is crumbling."

They had only fifteen men to hold the castle, but it looked like everyone had either died or fled. The biggest worry was if any of the survivors managed to group together and head back towards them, but with Sonagon still in the air Jon wasn't too concerned.

There could have been a thousand men between the two castle. Jon doubted if more than a dozen had survived inside the castle itself.

They deserved this, Jon told himself, trying to calm his beating heart.

They deserve this .

He heard Furs cackling as he walked away towards a steaming outbuilding. "Big castle like this! Let's see how much treasure we can salvage."

"Just be careful!" Jon ordered. "Beware - it's still very cold. You could lose a hand touching the wrong place. And any survivors, let me know."

The wildlings split up in groups of three or two. Sam and Grenn were left huddled together.

They found the first three survivors, a group of serving maids, huddled together and weeping under a wall. The girls looked at him like he was a demon. One of them was a young serving girl with wide eyes and pretty brown hair and she had her left hand frozen into a block of ice. There was no doubt she would lose the arm.

Furs encountered another four men, guards, who tried to attack them. The men were left so panicked and crazed they couldn't think, though, and the wildlings killed them all. Black Maris and Gerwick cut through them easily and stole their armour.

The only ones who survived had been the ones to hide in the odd nooks and crannies of the castle, taking shelter from the ferocious

cold breath. There were corridors that had been scoured clean by the power of Sonagon's dragonfire. Afterwards, the collapsing buildings killed almost as many the cold did.

Jon found a screaming man who had dived into a well to take shelter, and broke both of his legs from the fall. They had no rope to get him out, so they left him in the well to die.

It turned out there were two dozen or so survivors in total, but most injured, panicked or weak. Jon saw several limbs that had been bitten off by the cold. It seemed like the castle was wailing and weeping.

"Walder Frey," Jon demanded from one man. "Where is Lord Walder Frey?"

The man pointed weakly towards the great hall in the keep, unable to form coherent words.

It had been some sort of meal when the dragon attacked. The great hall had taken the full blast of Sonagon's fire exploding downwards through the roof. It was left a frozen, desolate waste; there was nothing but steaming, cracked stone and frozen corpses remaining. The dragonfire hit the hall like a giant hammer of ice, gouging a massive streak through the stone floor.

The high table of the Twins had been blasted into frozen splinters. It would be impossible to even identify the bodies. Even the intact corpses had been frozen beyond all recognition like bodies. Lord Walder Frey died over his table, in the middle of his meal, and his body blasted into oblivion.

My brother died in this room, Jon tried to remind himself. He wanted to explore the keep further, but it was too cold to even enter.

From the wall, Haldur reported some men poking around the castle. The archer put three shafts into two of them to convince them to stay

back. Fourteen men could hold a castle like this easily when everyone else is frightened witless or dead, Jon told himself.

The only highborn survivor they found was a man called Merrett Frey, discovered hiding in the pantry with frozen piss in his groin. He tried to run, and Bullden Horn killed the man before they even realised who he was.

Everything that wasn't destroyed, the wildlings tried to steal. Furs found a good pouch of several hundred gold dragons hidden in one of the chambers somewhere, but the treasury or vault was left inaccessible when the building collapsed.

The prisoners were left huddled and guarded together in the only surviving stable. Black Maris and Eywn stood guard over them, but they looked too scared to even move. The sight of scorched frozen flesh scattering the castle made Jon feel sick.

Jon heard Hatch calling for him. "Your Grace!" The big man bellowed. "Found one you might want to look at."

Jon came running as fast as his leg could move over the crackling ground. He saw Hatch standing over a fat, bald, white-faced man in wool robes. "He has one of those chains," Hatch explained, folding his arms. "That makes this one a maester, aye?"

It did. The rookery had been destroyed in one of the first passes of Sonagon, but the maester was lucky to survive hiding under the stairwell even as the tower collapsed. Jon nodded Hatch away, and bent over the man. He kept his hand on Dark Sister. Good. A maester would know everything that had been happening in the castle.

"Maester," Jon muttered. The man was wheezing for breath in panic. There were bodies crushed by frozen rubble around him. "Deep breaths, maester. What is your name?"

He stammered. "Bre- Brenett."

"Maester Brenett." He nodded. "My name is Jon Snow, maester. King Jon Snow. I trust you will answer my questions."

"Dragon," he wheezed. "Dragon."

"Aye. The dragon obeys me."

His eyes were wide, bulging. Jon had rarely seen a man so scared. "You killed them. You killed everyone ."

The maester would lose at least three fingers from the cold, Jon realised. He had seen frostbite like that before. It looked like a broken leg too. Doubtless the man would never walk or write properly again. "You monster," Maester Brenett gagged. "How… how could you?"

"This is justice."

"This is barbarity."

"I am Jon Snow. My brother was Robb Stark." Jon's eyes were dark. "He died in this castle, did he not? Murdered in defiance of guest right and the laws of men."

"You monster," the maester croaked, shuffling backwards. " Monster ."

"No. Vengeance for the Red Wedding." Jon stood upwards. "Hatch, bring the man here a drink to calm his nerves. Tend to that leg. He has questions to answer."

Brenett looked so scared he couldn't even grip the bladder of water. Hatch had to force it down into his throat. Even afterwards, he was left a twitching mess. "How could you?" Brenett gasped, looking fearfully at Jon. "How could you kill so many?"

"Did you ask the same after the Red Wedding?" he replied coolly. "The Freys murdered my brother, maester."

"What of the serving girls and stableboys?" Brenett demanded. "The innocents in the castle?"

"They died for the lord they served, and for the crimes they are accomplice to."

"The Red Wedding," the maester gagged. "I knew naught of the Red Wedding. No one told me until it happened, I had no part in it. Many who did know tried to object. For every one soldier in the castle that could be held accountable, there were ten stewards and servants that were just doing jobs, trying to provide for their families. Do you see those as murderers?" His voice cracked. "And what of the babes and widows? Did they murder your kin?"

Jon's hand twitched, clutching Dark Sister. Maybe the maester caught his unease. "You killed them just the same," he accused, voice breaking. "How many in the castle even survived?"

Not many . "Mind your tongue," Hatch warned.

"Tell me who was in the castle," Jon demanded. "Where was Lord Walder Frey?"

"In the hall. It was Edwyn's nameday, there was a feast…" He trembled.

Then all the Freys in the Twins were dead. There had been no survivors from the hall. "What of guests? Was there anyone else in the castle?"

"Lord Tytos Blackwood and Lord Karyl Vance were being hosted," the maester gasped, struggling to speak. "As were guests Ser Harys Haigh, Ser Marq Piper and Patrek Mallister. And Tristan Ryger."

They were? Blackwood, Vance and Mallister had both been Robb's allies. Loyal allies. Jon twitched. 'Hosted' - a polite term for hostages. "Who else? What of Frey allies?"

"Ser Harys Huigh, and his son Donnel Huigh. Ser Theon Charlton. Ser Daven Lannister was present - he was to be betrothed to Walda Frey." Lannister . The maester must have seen Jon's expression change. "Ser Daven was named Warden of the West. Cousin to the Queen. Ser Jaime Lannister had been here over a fortnight passed before marching to break the siege of Raventree. And Tytos Marbrand stayed to squire for Ser Arwood." The maester quaked. "Hoster Blackwood and Jayne Bracken lingered before heading down to the King's Landing. They were children ."

The Freys had been sitting themselves up as the most influential house in the Riverlands, Jon realised. They had been taking hostages from other houses who had been forced to bend the knee. Hostages .

The maester's eyes were wide. "Oh Gods… and Roslin Tully," he gasped. "Her babe."

Jon's hands clenched so tight they hurt. "Roslin Tully." Formerly Roslin Frey, he realised.

"The woman that Edmure Tully married. She was staying in the West Tower. She was pregnant ."

Jon looked. There was no West Tower anymore. Somewhere in the rubble maybe there was a body of pregnant woman. How could he know? What can I do about it?

Deep breaths. Focus. But she had been pregnant . With the child of Edmure Tully, my brother's family .

"We had prisoners too," Brenett wheezed. "Ser Merret Grell. Garen Hornwood. Osmund Locke. Yoren Glover. Captives taken from the Red Wedding."

"Prisoners?" Jon said urgently. Loyal Stark prisoners. "Where? Where were they being held?"

Brenett gave him directions to the dungeons, the entrance of which was under the causeway. Jon ordered Toregg to go investigate. The man came back fairly quickly and shook his head. The dungeons had been completely collapsed. Unlikely to be any survivors. He ordered him to try and clear the rubble nevertheless.

Jon could have screamed. "These prisoners," he demanded. "How many were there? Who ?"

"Two dozen or so," Brenett said nervously. "The crown ordered us to surrender them to King's Landing, but Lord Frey refused. He kept them in the castle. They were from either the north or the riverlands. Um, there was Lynel, no, Lyndel Westerly, um… a son from House Ryswell, and…"

"What of the Greatjon?" Jon demanded. "Lord Jon Umber?"

The maester shook his head. "No, Lord Umber, Robin Flint and Ser Wylis Manderly were moved a month passed. There was to be a trade of hostages in the north and they left for Winterfell escorted by Black Walder, but their caravan was ambushed by the crannogmen in the Neck. Lord Frey was furious, yet the prisoner went missing."

So Lord Umber hadn't been in the castle. Oh gods, small mercies. If I had actually murdered Lord Umber…

There had been hostages and prisoners. Of course there had been prisoners.

This is vengeance, Jon tried to tell himself. The men who murdered my family are dead. The Red Wedding had been avenged. The Freys are destroyed, the Lannisters and the Boltons have lost their major ally. There are casualties, yes, but there is no way to save everyone, and this is vengeance .

He stared around at the bodies and the ruined castle. If this was vengeance, then he didn't like how it tasted.

So, so many dead.

How did Aegon feel after torching Harrenhal? Jon wondered. Did he feel victorious, or was he left shaken by so many dead? Did Aegon ever torch another castle the same way again?

He spent the next hour questioning Maester Brenett. How many men had there been in the castle? Where were their allies? Who ruled the riverlands? What was happening in King's Landing?

The answers came quickly. The main force of the Freys had either left north with the Boltons or went west with Jaime Lannister's host to Raventree. They had then been summoned south to deal with an invasion of sellswords, but many men had lingered to hunt down the outlaws plaguing the riverlands. Ser Jaime Lannister was said to have vanished after being captured by the Brotherhood-without-Banners. Lord Petyr Baelish was supposedly Lord Paramount of the riverlands, yet Riverrun was held by Emmon Frey and his wife Genna Lannister.

The Golden Company under Jon Connington and Tyrion Lannister was said to have taken Griffin's Roost, and there had been a schism in King's Landing after the High Septon declared Queen Cersei unholy. It was either a power grab by the Faith to topple the government, or a cry for justice for the Queen's crimes, depending on who was believed.

Euron Crow's Eye was said to be readying to assault Oldtown, and the Golden Company was marching from the stormlands. There were revolts from smallfolk all around the crownlands, and the Tyrells and Lannisters were at each other's throats. Stannis Baratheon was waging war from Dragonstone with a series of raids and skirmishes. The most recent news said that Stannis had seized Claw Isle.

Ser Kevan Lannister and Lord Mace Tyrell were trying to contain the unrest in King's Landing, while the city was locked in a power struggle. Rumours said that Queen Margaery Tyrell was being held

hostage, either by the High Septon or Queen Cersei, but details were foggy. The Lannisters face enemies on every front; Ser Jaime had vanished, Queen Cersei was said to be going mad, and Tyrion was leading an invasion against the realm. Ser Daven had been trying to regather forces in the riverlands and from the west, but now he was dead too.

From the maester's words, it seemed like the whole realm was collapsing in on itself. A power struggle in the capital, reavers in the Reach, mercenaries from the south, bandits in the riverlands and even the Vale was said to be suffering some leadership strife.

The War of Five Kings was over, but it had left the realm so, so unstable. It gave Jon much to think on, head still spinning.

Jon listened for as long as he could, before passing the maester over to Furs to continue the interrogation. He gave orders to collect as many letters and correspondence as salvageable, and pass them over to Sam. The maester was a wailing mess as Jon limped away.

He heard activity from the building. Gerrick, Maris and Urwen had finally evacuated the ruins of the vault beneath the keep. Jon glimpsed gold bullions being hoisted into sheepskin sacks. The Twins had a lot of wealth in them - they had been wealthy and in a good position. Well-paid for their services. The wildlings would steal it all.

"King!" Haldur shouted from the ruins of the crumbling curtain wall. The man had his weirwood bow notched and poised, not even turning his head from the scene. "We've got men poking around out front, by the trees."

"How many?"

"Fifty or so, I think. Maybe more coming."

"Can you hold them back?" Jon demanded, limping forward. The gates and wall were ruined - they couldn't stand siege in this castle.

Harle, Bullden and Eryn all had bows drawn too. There were only four archers standing guard on the walls, but they were all very good.

"Oh aye. For now. They seem awfully scared." His bowstring pulled back a little bit further. "But sooner or later they'll want to come back to this castle. We'd be good making ourselves scarce."

"Aye. I'll call Sonagon back." Jon turned to stare out over the steaming ruins of stone. We have to get out of here. "Gather what you can and prepare to leave."

Jon didn't meet Sam's eyes. The feel of death seemed to linger over the castle. Perhaps they could have pillaged the west castle of the Twins too, but there was no chance since the bridge was broken.

It took Jon a long time to centre himself enough to reach out to Sonagon. He felt the dragon flying happily over the river, idly chasing down horses. Like a well-fed cat toying with mice. Sonagon responded quickly to Jon's call.

"Oi," Dark Gerrick called over to him. The hard warrior wore the necklaces and expensive lady's jewellery he had pillaged from the chambers, wearing silk and silver draped over boiled leather. "Why stop now? There are other castles around here, aren't there? I don't think your dragon is tired yet. Why not bring down a few more too?"

Jon's fists clenched. The thought of the man crawling with frozen legs flashed before his eyes. "No," he said icily. "This is enough."

As soon as Sonagon appeared over in the sky, Jon heard the men in the forest screaming and scattering for cover. Haldur and the others launched shafts at them as they fled.

The sight of Sonagon sent some of the prisoners into a frenzied panic. Hatch had to kill three of them before they finally fell back. Sonagon dropped slowly into the courtyard, sniffing at the ruins.

"Load up anything we're taking. Get ready to move quickly!" He shouted.

Maester Brenett was still wailing. The wildlings loaded up their plunder, as Sonagon sniffed and rummaged. "Maester," Jon said, approaching. "I want to you write a letter for me."

The maester didn't reply. He didn't even look up from the ground. "You will write that for the breaching the laws of men, for treason and breaking guest right, for murder and kinslaying," Jon said, "that the Freys of the Crossing faced the highest punishment. Their lands are razed, their lord is dead. The guilty are punished. Write that I will see justice for the all crimes committed against my family." Jon knelt downwards by the old man. "Write the letter, maester, and sign it King Jon Snow, King-Beyond-the-Wall and in the North."

It took a bit of coaching before he actually wrote it. Only one of Brenett's hands could even clutch a quill. The handwriting was horrible and shaky, but the message was short. There were no ravens left, but Jon ordered the maester to keep a hold of it and pass it on to whomever came to rescue them. All of the prisoners were to be left unharmed when they flew away.

There was no hesitation in Jon's voice. He couldn't afford any sign of weakness, not here, not now. This is right, he told himself. These men were my enemies, and this is a good tactical decision .

Still, it didn't feel like it. The sound of wailing women echoed around the frozen ruins.

One of their prisoners - barely more than a boy, actually - tried to lunge at Jon with a pitchfork as he moved to leave. He was a brave boy, to attempt to assassinate him so boldly. Furs intercepted him, though, and knocked him easily to the floor. It took several spear thrusts before the boy was finally dead. Jon didn't say a word.

It was approaching dusk by the time they were mounted on Sonagon and ready to leave. As Sonagon burst upwards into the sky, Jon saw

a land in pure panic. Behind him, the wildlings were cheering. The ruins of the two castles were still steaming gently in the faint sun.

I was so, so angry . He didn't feel angry anymore, just hollow. I have my vengeance, but my brother is still dead .

They couldn't safely fly at night, so they had to stop around the coast as they had done the previous night. Sonagon could smell an early winter storm brewing up north. The grassy plains were deserted, but as they made camp, Jon ordered everyone to stay alert.

"They may well be riders following us," Jon ordered. "They can't beat Sonagon in battle, but they may try to ambush us while the dragon is asleep. Everyone stays alert."

There were wary mutters. They were all tired and weary, but the tension kept them alert. There had been few injuries - Eryn took a cut across the waist from a man's broken sword, and Harle had some nasty scalds from getting too close to Sonagon's frostfire. There were many bruises from bouncing and holding onto Sonagon's back, but one of the most vocal injuries came from Sam tripping and spraining his ankle.

Night fell. The watch fires burned over the cold, grassy knolls. He had spotted the rocky coast to the east. "Where are we?" Grenn asked finally.

"Between the Neck and the Bite, I think," Jon replied. "That'd be the waters leading to the White Knife over in that direction. Moat Cailin to the west or northwest, maybe thirty leagues."

"Moat Cailin," Furs repeated. "Those Boltons hold that place, yes? They're enemies too?"

Aye," Jon nodded.

"Better put scouts on those hills over there, then," Black Maris advised. "With no torches lit, but to give a bit earlier warning if

anyone approaches." Jon agreed, and Maris and Haldur both went to take positions watching south and west.

"Then let's see if they're brave enough to charge against a dragon," Hatch barked. Sonagon was a huge coiled white shape snoozing against the hills.

"They're all enemies here," Dark Gerrick insisted. He had his longsword cradled in his grasp. "Let's start with this Moat Cailin place. We torch that castle by dragon too."

" No," he said sharply.

"Why not? We got good plunder from that place, and they didn't stand a chance."

"We won't survive long if we treat everyone as our foes." So many dead . "We find someone to treat with."

"You mean to ally?" Furs' eyes narrowed.

"But why should we treat at all?" Gerrick grunted. "We have a dragon

."

Jon turned to Furs. "If the realm really is as unstable as the maester said it was, then we need allies. There may be a chance," he said. "The Freys weren't well-liked. Maybe in destroying them we might make ourselves some friends."

"Who?"

"I don't know," Jon admitted. He felt so, so tired - emotionally and physically. "Give me time to think."

He said that they could sleep in turns, but nobody even tried to rest.

The camp felt restless.

"We don't have long," Eryn warned. He was a short man, lean, with a worn face and quiet and soft voice. A sailor's slender dirk cradled in

his hand. "The weather is getting cold and it's a long and dangerous flight back north. We aren't a vulnerable target here with the dragon, but we are an exposed one. We could use shelter."

"… Um…" Sam gulped, and spoke up hesitantly. "What of Greywater Watch?"

Jon frowned. "House Reed?"

"It's not far," Sam offered. "And the… the maester said that crannogmen are opposing the Freys and Boltons. Maybe they could shelter us?"

"Or maybe they could try to trap us," Bullden warned. "How would we know what they'll do?"

"Maybe," Jon admitted. "Yet the weather is getting cold and it's a long and dangerous flight back north. And we sorely need an alliance." He stopped, trying to think of the maps he saw. "Sam, who else is around here?"

His mouth floundered slightly. "Moat Cailin is the closest. The kingsroad to the west," Sam said. "Oldcastle across the water to the east, White Harbour to the northeast. Or the Three Sisters if we fly across the Bite."

I know of those names, but I know little of the men who live there, Jon cursed. They were all foreign places to the wildlings too. The idea of approaching a noble house for an alliance was tempting, but if he made the wrong choice then they could all be in danger.

"White Harbour," Jon said. He remembered the fat Lord Manderly. "White Harbour is the biggest city in the north."

Sam looked pained. "The maester said that Lord Manderly was to marry his granddaughters to Rhaegar and Walder Frey."

"Then we run out of options that would help us."

It was past the hour of the wolf. Hatch, Gerrick and Bullden argued that they should fly against Moat Cailin. Jon was more tempted to head south to Greywater Watch, if not for the possibility of meeting forces coming from the south. The torches crackled in the darkness as the hard wind swept over the plains.

He heard a horn blow echo. His turned south, but then he realised it was coming from north. Black Maris' alert cried over the dark hills.

"We got riders," Harle shouted suddenly. He already had longbow in hand.

They were exposed on the plains, but they could see anyone approach easily too. Jon quietly prodded Sonagon as his hand went to his sword. "How many?"

"Two dozen mounted men."

Jon spotted the torches too. They were coming from the north. Jon could see spears and lances. Furs grinned. "Well, you think they can match a dragon?"

Two dozen riders, all well-armed. The Dragonguard reacted quickly. They quenched their fires to hide in the darkness, drawing bows or taking cover behind the dragon. Sonagon stirred, nostrils sniffing, but Jon restrained him. Furs was right - the dragon had little to fear from so few men in an open fight.

"We take their horses," Jon decided. Sonagon was too awkward to mount easily, good steads would be useful. "Give them a chance to surrender, but be ready."

With a gentle prod, Sonagon lumbered upwards, growling and sniffing irritably. They must were able to see the dragon, but they didn't stop. Brave men, Jon thought quietly.

Furs must have had similar thoughts. The riders were coming in too slowly, too obviously. "If this is an ambush, then they're doing a crap

job of it."

"Aye," Jon agreed. "But don't relax."

They were all in position when the riders stopped, fifty feet away. Their horses shimmied as the dragon loomed over them. Most of the riders lingered backwards, but three of them broke off to approach. They had to force their scared horses to trot forward towards the shadow of the dragon. Don't attack, Jon thought, pushing to the dragon. Not yet . Sonagon snorted, breathing a gust of steam.

"Identify yourself!" Hatch bellowed. "Who do you serve?"

The riders didn't move. They're not here to attack. The men looked terrified, staring between Sonagon, the wildlings and Jon. "We hail from White Harbour," the man at the front shouted back. "King Snow! Lord Manderly would treat with you."

Notes

Dragonguard of King Jon Snow:

Furs of Old Mother's Crock

Hatch the Halfgiant

Haldur Two-Notch

Toregg the Tall, son of Tormund Giantsbane

Bullden Horn, unicorn hunter

Stiga of Thenn

Urwen Rockfist

Gregg Sheepstealer

Mo

Harle the Huntsman

Black Maris

Eryn, son of Alvin Whaletooth

Dark Gerwick, seventh son of Old Man Harwick

Harlow

Grenn, of the Night's Watch

Chapter 26

Chapter 26

The Queen of Love and Beauty

Lances clashed like lightning. The sound of horse's hooves clattered like lances. The crowd cheered as once more the wooden lances snapped against each other.

"Well struck!" Lord Gilwood Hunter cheered. "Oh well struck, well struck indeed!"

"They are both very gallant, my lord," Alayne agreed. Despite herself, she could stop her heart from beating faster as the horses toured the tilts. Both riders were noble and dashing figures. Every highborn maiden must be swooning right now.

And yet I am betrothed to one of them, Alayne thought. And the other carries my favour. I think I chose well between them.

Both Ser Harrold Hardyng and Ser Roland Waywood motioned toward her as they passed. Ser Roland Waynwood pressed his hand to the sewn falcon handkerchief on his breastplate, which seemed only to make Ser Harrold more determined to beat the older knight.

Harry the Heir was fostered at House Waynwood, she thought. They were distant cousins, but Alayne could see something of a brotherly rivalry between them. Ser Roland was taller, with an easier laugh and more prone to teasing comments. Ser Harrold was stiffer, stockier built, and sullener, yet he also seemed far more focused and determined.

Four nights ago, after dancing and flirting with Ser Harrold, Alayne had given her favour to Ser Roland. The knight had been teasing Ser Harrold relentlessly ever since, all the way until they were the final two contenders. They're not competing for the tourney of the Winged

Knights anymore, Alayne thought with a smile, they are competing over me .

"Our Harry is the simple sort," she remembered Littlefinger saying, "he enjoys comely women and jousting. He always wants what he can't have, and he loves fighting for it. Make it difficult for him and he will follow you to the end of the earth."

Ser Harrold is going to win this, she thought quietly. Ser Roland seemed to have the advantage in the first tilt, but since then he had been riding more and more unsteadily, while Ser Harrold only seemed to get stronger.

If he wins, he will crown me as queen of love and beauty, I know he will, Alayne thought. She had seen the wreath of white roses that would be handed to the victor. He will place the laurels on my lap and it will be just perfect . The Vale will toast us, and later we will be betrothed.

Alayne sat in the lord's booth, below her father's empty seat. The most powerful lords in the Vale were all around her, watching intently. Myranda Royce sat by her side, bouncing in excitement.

She tried desperately not to think of the last tourney she attended, a lifetime ago at King's Landing. Her fath… the Hand's tourney. She had been a different person then, but something of that old excitement and wonder started to creep through.

"He is very good," Randa whispered with a smile. "Ser Roland is seven years his elder and many times more experienced. But Harry the Heir rides well."

"Indeed, not quite a jumped-up squire," Alayne said lowly. Harry the Arse, Lothor Brune called him when they first met. When they firstmet, he had been rude, dour and aggressive. Yet ever since that unpleasant introduction he has been the perfect gentlemen, sheadded to herself.

"It's always nice to see a man who can handle a lance," Randa whispered.

"Oh hush."

She gave a teasing smile. Randa is wearing a very tight corset, Alayne noticed. She displayed more cleavage than was strictly decent, particularly considering the cool air. Alayne knew that Randa had been flirting with Ser Roland before the tilt as well. She japed, but perhaps Randa hoped to be named queen of love and beauty if Ser Roland won. Alayne doubted it would happen - Ser Roland was likely to name Alayne as well.

"What is the reward for the victor?" Randa asked.

"A thousand gold dragons," she replied. To the last of the sixty-four noble knights. "And admiration of the Vale."

"I believe they both care more about the admiration."

Indeed . The eight members of the Brotherhood of the Winged Knights had already been selected from the semi-finalists. Ser Harrold Hardyng, Ser Roland Waynwood, Ser Andar Royce, Ben Colderwater Ser Andrew Tollet, Ser Edmund Breakstone, Ser Elbert Belmore and Ser Osgood Upcliff had all qualified to the order. Ser Mychel Redfort had been a strong hopeful, but he lost the final place to the surprisingly skilled Ser Osgood Upcliff. Nobody had expected Ser Harrold to go so far either, considering his youth and newly minted spurs, but the young heir had a series of good tilts all the way up to the final.

The knights clashed again. The crowd was in arms as Ser Roland swayed dangerously from the broken spear against his shield. He was having difficulty with his horse.

"Your lord father is missing quite the bout," Lord Gilwood noted, as he clapped.

Yes, and that is queer . Petyr had been so very busy recently. "Six broken lances so far!" Lady Waynwood said, clapping for both her grandson and her ward. "Soon we will need to judge it."

"Yes," Lord Yohn Royce rumbled. The Lord of Runestone had a face lined and carved like stone, and a booming voice. "Should we search out our Lord Protector?"

There was just a bit of bitterness with how he said the title. "Forgive him, my lords, but my father has been quite under the weather recently," she lied. She turned to Lord Nestor Royce. "But Lord Royce, as our host here I am sure there will be no objections if you would make the judgement, if it comes to such."

Lord Nestor looked surprised. "Indeed?" He looked around the box and no one objected. "What of it, Lord Robert, may I?"

Her Sweetrobin was the only who wasn't looking at the tilts. Lord Robert Arryn had the largest chair in the lord's stands, yet he was curled up on it with his back turned, trying to hide from the crowd and the tourney. Lord Petyr had to force the young lord to attend.

"Sweetrobin," Alayne chided, gently. "Lord Nestor is trying to talk to you, you mustn't be rude."

"Tell him to go away," the boy muttered, under his breath. Alayne knew she was only allowed to sit alongside the high lords because she was the only one Sweetrobin could talk to. "I don't want them here, tell them to go away."

"Hush now," she soothed, with a smile. She softly stroked his hair. "They're fighting for you. Your Brotherhood of the Winged Knights, your loyal protectors."

"Not him," Sweetrobin muttered, with a fearful motion towards Ser Harrold. "He wears a falcon on his shield. He's not a falcon, I am."

"It's okay, Ser Harrold is your cousin. He will be your protector too, a loyal knight."

"He's not. He's just waiting for me to die." The boy sounded scared, quivering as he clutched his throne. "They all are. They think I don't know, but I do. They all want him to be lord, not me. He wants my castle."

That is not strictly untrue, Alayne thought with a sad, sweet smile. He is a delicate thing .

There was a break after the seventh broken lance. Ser Roland's horse lost a shoe and he needed a replacement. Lord Nestor decided to allow them an eighth and final tilt, before making a judgement.

The anticipation was horrible. How long does it take to find another horse? she thought impatiently.

"I don't want any of them near me," Sweetrobin muttered. He constantly stared at Ser Harrold. "Send them all away, I don't want them. Take me back to the Eyrie."

"Hush now, Sweetrobin. Just enjoy the tilt."

"I won't, I-" She put a finger on his lips. He was quivering.

"This is the final tilt, my lord."

"I don't want them!" Lord Robert wailed. The sound caused all the lords to turn to stare. "Send them all away! I am Lord of the Eyrie, I command everyone to get out !"

There were mutters behind her. He's in one of his moods again. Gods, where is Petyr?

"Forgive me, my lords, I fear Lord Robert is quite tired," Alayne said apologetically. She stroked his fingers reassuringly.

"I want everyone out!" There were tears in Sweetrobin's eyes. "I don't like that Harry, I want him gone! Make him fly! Make him fly!"

Curses, he's likely to scream at Ser Harrold when he wins. I can't let there be a scene . "Ser Byron, Ser Morgarth," Alayne called to knights. "Please, take Lord Arryn back to his chambers. Fetch Maester Colemon to tend to him."

Normally, Alayne would have left with him to soothe him, but she couldn't leave her seat. Not when she could be named her queen of love and beauty so shortly. She didn't miss the look in the lords' eyes while their liege lord was carried out of the stands, though. Lord Robert was not the lord the Vale wanted.

The crowds cheered as Ser Harrold and Ser Roland rode onto the tilt yard once more. Ser Roland had switched to a grey charger. "Harry the Heir!" the crowds boomed. "Harry! Harry! Harry the Heir!"

I hope Sweetrobin does not hear this, she thought, but it was fleeting worry. The two jousters galloped. Alayne was on her feet, cheering. Both horses sprinted full force, both lances leaned in hard…

And then Ser Roland crashed downwards off his horse. There was a moment of worry, but squires rushed to the knight's side, and then the call came that he was unhurt.

The crowd went wild. Ser Harrold dropped his lance and shield, raising his hands above his head. They were chanting his name. The Young Falcon, they called him, and Alayne couldn't fault them. He looked every inch the part - handsome, strong, with sweat across his forehead and shining armour.

Ser Harrold rode a lap of the tilt before coming before the stand. Alayne's heart was in her mouth as he stopped before her, bowed, with a wreath of white roses in his hands.

She couldn't stop the giggle, or the blush. Harrold's deep blue eyes shone brightly, dimples in his cheeks as he laughed.

Strong hands placed the crown of roses over her head. There she was, bastard-daughter, yet the envy of every highborn maiden in the Vale. Ser Harrold had eyes only for her even as Lord Nestor declared him the champion.

She gives him a coy smile, eyes twinkling. Randa was giggling besides her. Lady Waynwood smiled at her brightly as she clapped.

The excitement didn't fade. Even as Ser Harrold was played away to dismount and clean, Alayne's heart was skipping. Every maiden was cowing around her, gushing at the sight of the crown of roses.

There will be a feast, she thought. A celebration. Ser Harrold will be the champion and I will be by his side . All eight of the finalists will receive their silver wings, and blue cloaks bearing the Arryn coat of arms. The eight members of the Brotherhood of the Winged Knights would walk proud for the next three years, as the Lord of the Vale's personal kingsguard.

The closing feast wasn't as lavish and extravagant as the opening feast had been, but somehow it felt even more exciting. Ser Harrold was surrounded by crowds of knights and squires, and Arbor Gold was served by the casket. Even before the feast began, she saw Ser Harrold celebrating with his first bottle.

Ser Shadrich, Ser Jorah and Ser Lothor Brune escorted her back to the Gates of the Moon. Still she heard young knights laughing and toasting by the tilts. Ser Jorah walked stiffly, but Ser Shadrich was smiling.

"They were all very skilled, weren't they?" Alayne laughed. "Sixty-four of the finest knights in the Vale, and those eight proved the champions."

"Skilled?" Ser Shadrich laughed. "I wouldn't say that. When it comes to jousting, skill matters less than the length of your arm, in my experience."

Alayne blinked. Ser Shadrich was a wiry, short, sharp-faced man with a brush of orange hair. "Why do you say that, ser?"

"Well, if you have two men with lances charging against each other, it's always the one who has the longest arms that hits his opponent first," Ser Shadrich said with a smirk. "What does skill matter, when your reach decides the battle? Take a look at your champions, my lady. They're tall . Every one of them. Do you think that's a coincidence, or that no short person can be skilled?"

Alayne laughed. Ser Shadrich was so short that he might have been taken for a boy, but his face belonged to a much older man. She saw long leagues in the wrinkles at the corner of his mouth, old battles in the scar beneath his ear, and a hardness behind the eyes that no boy would ever have. This was a man grown. "I fear you underestimate them, ser."

"That would be an achievement," he said with a laugh. "But mark my words. Length of the arm, that's all it is. I am sure Ser Jorah here can attest to that."

The older knight looked off-guard with being mentioned. "Excuse me?"

"The tourney at Lannisport, where you were declared the victor," Ser Shadrich explained, with a smirk. "I give good odds that Ser Jorah here was simply the biggest of all his opponents."

It was a jape, but there was a somewhat mocking edge to it as well. Ser Jorah was a big man, sure enough. "You jest, ser," Alayne chided, but with a smile.

"And if size is all that matters," Ser Jorah rumbled as they walked, "then why did I never win again after Lannisport? Did I become shorter?"

Ser Shadrich shrugged. "Perhaps everyone else started using longer lances instead?"

Ser Jorah scowled quietly. The big, bald knight stood nearly two feet taller than Ser Shadrich and twice as wide, but the smaller man still made jests.

"And if size is everything," Alayne teased, "then why on earth would a mouse ever become a knight?"

"Oh, we mice have our place too. We are smaller targets, harder to hit." Ser Shadrich smiled. "I imagine that the melee on the morn will have a different result. Ser Jorah, will you be competing?"

The big knight hesitated. His eyes glanced at Alayne, and then he said, "I think not, ser."

"A shame. It could be a good contest. The best fighters prefer the melee to the joust."

"I am sure it will be a grand spectacle," Alayne smiled. They reached the keep doors. "But forgive me, sers, I must go find my lord father. I will be back down shortly for the feast."

"As you will, my lady." Ser Jorah lowered his head stiffly.

She was still smiling as she skipped - skipped - up the castle stairs. Alayne never touched the wreath of roses on her head. He chose me, she thought happily. Harry the Heir picked me. They would bebetrothed soon, and then married. The whole Vale would cheer for her marriage. Ser Harrold Hardyng. Or maybe soon Lord Harrold Arryn .

Soon, she could be Lady of the Vale, just like Petyr planned.

And then maybe Winterfell… Alayne's heart hurt at the thought. No, don't think about Winterfell .

She heard voices approaching Littlefinger's solar. Annoyed voices. "-ween ten and fifteen thousand," a man's voice grumbled. "With Dorne gathering swords they could easily reach thirty-five thousand."

"And yet the Tyrell forces stand at forty thousand," said another voice. A deep voice, with something of a lisp. "Perhaps five thousand from crownlands and riverlands. Potentially another ten from the westerlands."

"No." That was Petyr's voice. "War is not maths, numbers only go so far." He paused, thinking. "What of the Faith Militant? How many, and which side of the coin will they answer to?"

"Who can say? Can you count the number of smallfolk with pitchforks?" a voice scoffed. "Easily thousands, and hundreds of Warrior's Sons. I'd wager there could be a riot of tens of thousands any day now."

"Oh Cersei," Petyr sighed. "You silly, silly woman."

"It's not enough. Best numbers say that Aegon leads eight thousand against King's Landing. Part of their forces have split, and another three thousand are heading west."

"Then they are to fight armies several times their size," the other man in the room protested. He sounded younger than the other, his voice more high-pitched. "And three thousand sellswords against Casterly Rock? Is the Imp a fool?"

Alayne's heart pounded. "The Imp is many things, but rarely foolish. Ambitious, though," Petyr noted. "And I would not count the Golden Company out yet. They have other allies that have yet to show their hand."

"The crown demands the Vale start mustering men," one of them protested. "And the Vale lords are eager to do so. It will be rebellion if we refuse any longer."

"We need not defy, just… delay," Petyr muttered. "For just a touch. Let us give it a bit of time for the pieces to fall as they may. Very soon the stalemate around our dear Queen will…" his voice trailed off. Petyr glanced to where she was standing at the doorway. "Ah,

excuse me gentlemen." Petyr very quickly walked towards her, and closed the door before she could glimpse inside. "My dear Alayne. I do apologise, sweet thing, my business has run over."

Littlefinger looked tired. There were bags under his eyes like he wasn't sleeping. She was well-used to Petyr running from one meeting to the next, but recently it seemed like he rarely stopped. "I heard the Imp. Tyrion Lannister," she said, her voice a whisper. "How… where…?"

"Nothing to worry about," Petyr soothed. "But it seems that Tyrion may well be losing his head soon enough. How did the tourney fare?"

When Tyrion Lannister dies, I could be married again . "Um, Ser Harrold was victorious."

"Marvellous." He smirked. "And how did Ser Roland fare?"

Alayne blinked. Something about the question… "His horse lost a shoe."

"Such a shame." But he didn't sound surprised.

"Indeed." I wonder, did Lothor Brune or Oswell spend some time near the stables this morning? She wondered suspiciously. And when the brackets were drawn, Ser Harrold did end up with fewer matches than anybody . The length of the arm.

"Yet I am sure our Harry is celebrating. Do celebrate with him; this is an opportunity, sweet Alayne. A good chance to secure Ser Harrold's favour."

"It's…" She hesitated. He seemed off. The smile was less smooth than it usually was. "Father, is everything ok?"

"It is indeed. Very well, in fact, except we may have to move a bit faster than intended. Timeframes must be moved up."

"Why?"

He gave her a reassuring smile, caressing her cheek. "It seems the lord of the Vale are eager for war, and I cannot deny them any longer. Soon our armies will be gathering, and when they do I expect to see Ser Harrold Hardyng at the very front. I would like to see you wed before that happens."

"But… but the betrothal…?"

"Can be accelerated," Petyr promised. "I imagine that Harry will be quite eager to. You need only be your beautiful, charming self, Alayne. You are the queen of love and beauty tonight," he said with a soft stroke of her forehead, brushing at the wreath on her head. "There are none in that hall a higher status than you. Dance with your champion and there are none who could take you away from him. Wrap him around your little finger and how could he resist?"

"I thought Lady Waynwood wanted the betrothal to wait."

"She did," Littlefinger said with a nod. "But if Harry insists, then we can make it happen sooner. Dance with the boy, drink and laugh with him. Later in the night, spend some private time alone with your betrothed. Entrance him like I know you will."

There was a flicker in Littlefinger's eyes. Something she could not quite place, but then he smiled again. A soft, gentle, nearly wistful smile. This is what I wanted, Alayne thought. A handsome, young and gallant knight to marry . She nodded. "Yes, father," she nodded."I will."

"That's my girl." Petyr smiled. He kissed her on the lips as she turned to leave.

The celebration in the hall of the castle was already underway. She heard laughter, music and singing. Sweetrobin could not abiding singing ever since Marillion, but it seemed that nobody cared.

Off to Gulltown to see the fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho," the singers cried. " I'll steal a sweet kiss with the point of my blade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho. I'll make her my love and we'll rest in the shade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho. "

"Off to Gulltown", she thought. It was a bawdy song to sing in a noble castle, but this was a celebration. "Alayne!" She heard Ser Harrold shout. His face lit up as soon as he saw her. "Alayne… my lady."

He lowered his head. His cheeks were flushed. She grinned. "Good ser," she said, with a low curtsy. Ser Harrold laughed and took her by the arm.

The whole hall was in good cheer. She saw Randa dancing with Ser Roland, and Ser Lothor dancing stiffly with Mya Stone. Wine was flowing, and for once Alayne partook in it. Sweetrobin will be calmed and put to sleep by the maester, she thought, tonight is for Ser Harry the Heir, first of the Brotherhood of the Winged Knights .

"You are beautiful," Ser Harrold whispered in her ear. "My queen…"

She didn't reply, but she grinned and she stood up to dance again. Ser Harrold shared a toast with every knight who passed, celebrating his victory.

As they danced, she felt his hand slide against her bosom. He had soft hands. She didn't react, but she didn't move away either. Tease him a little, she thought. Just like Petyr taught her to.

The celebration lasted until late. Many of the older men retired early, but the younger knights and squires remained, content with their music and drink. Lord Petyr apparently gave instructions to let the merriment happen.

It was black outside - the hour of the bat or later - before finally the singers started to retire. Ser Harrold greeted, drunk with and laughed with half a hundred people, but he only ever danced with her. "My

lady," a voice called. "It is late. Allow us to escort you to your chambers."

She turned, to see Ser Jorah standing there. The large knight seemed so grim-faced and stiff amidst all the merriment. He looked at her with narrowed eyes. "A bit longer, good ser," Alayne laughed. The wine made her giggle.

Ser Harrold grabbed her hand as she made to walk away. She giggled, biting her lip. "Don't go," he begged into her ear. "I don't want the night to end."

The laughter burst from her throat. He nuzzled into her hair and pressing against her neck. He had soft lips, and his breath caused her skin to tingle…

Ser Jorah stepped forward warningly, eyes angry. Alayne quickly pushed Ser Harrold backwards. "Forgive the good ser, Ser Jorah, he's had quite too much to drink," she said, before turning to Ser Harrold. "Ser Harrold Hardyng! You are being quite uncouth! You forget your manners."

Still, her eyes were playful. Ser Harrold grinned brightly and she grinned too. "We must go now, my lady," Ser Jorah ordered, strictly. " Your father would not want you up so late."

"Of course, ser," she said, curtsying again. Her head spun. "But first, to the chamber pots, please. I'm afraid I've had too much to drink as well."

Ser Jorah walked behind her closely. He means to chaperone me to my room, she thought sourly. Still, he lingered in the corridor outsideof the latrine, which gave her the chance a slip out down the other hallway. She glanced around, and then noticed Ser Shadrich sulking by a tapestry.

Alayne grinned. Ser Jorah was strict, but Ser Shadrich was often more playful. "Ser!" she called.

"My lady." He seemed surprised to see her. "Um, what are you doing here?"

"I was hoping to ask a favour of you, ser," she said, with a smile. "I was hoping for more… private time with my betrothed." Bewitch him, Petyr had said. "It is not proper, of course, for a young lady to be out at night, but… could you assist?"

He hesitated. "Private time?" He repeated.

She nodded. "I fear Ser Jorah is too zealous in his duty."

Ser Shadrich smirked. "Yes, I think I could help," he said. "Let Ser Jorah take you back to your room, my lady. Wait until you hear a knock on your door, and then count to a hundred before leaving. I'll lure the guards away and clear the corridor for you. Take the servant's exit to the wards, and the east stables will be deserted this time of night."

Alayne grinned. "My gallant knight," she said happily, before rushing back. Ser Jorah was just about to come look for her when she headed out.

Ser Harrold chased after her, to bid her goodnight. Ser Jorah had to try to push the knight away. Still, he allowed him a goodnight kiss, and when he bent forward to kiss her hand, she whispered, "The east stables. Tonight."

There was no indication that he heard for a bit, but then he smiled brightly and looked at her with wide, bright blue eyes.

Alayne could have danced as she walked away. My gallant knight . There were two guards outside her quarters. Ser Jorah muttered something to her about her betrothed, but she didn't catch it as she bid him goodnight and closed the door. She never undressed, she never even took off the wreath of white roses. Instead, she stood behind her door, and waited, hopefully.

She was about to give up hope when she heard footsteps outside. Her guards. Sure enough, there was a quiet knock on the door. She closed her eyes and counted to a hundred.

When she left, the corridor was deserted. She pulled on her shawl and walked quickly. She passed a few serving girls in the castle, but she walked with purpose and nobody questioned her. The castle was only just winding down from the celebration. There was movement around the main hall, but it left the postern door deserted.

The night's air was chilly, but Alayne walked fast, excitedly. Dainty heels clipped against the cobbled stones as she rushed to the stables. Even in the dark, she recognised his outline instantly.

"My lady," Ser Harry muttered, stepping forward.

"Good ser," Alayne replied. There were no torches, she couldn't make out his face, but she could smell his musk, feel his breath on her cheek, and his hand on her waist…

Something soft touched her lips. Ser Harrold was on her, pressing into her. Oh Gods… By the Maiden…

"You promised to be all the spice I want," Ser Harrold muttered in her ear. The flirt she had said when they first danced.

"I did," she whispered, so softly like any noise might break the mood.

The kiss was deep and tender. Alayne remembered the last kiss she received - the one from the Hound in the dark room with the bloodied cloak. This kiss felt nothing like that, Ser Harrold - Harry - felt nothing like the Hound.

She took a deep breath as the lips parted. He was breathing deeply too. Then, they kissed again, longer this time, deeper. Yes, she thought. This feels good .

She didn't want it to end. The wine was thick on his breath, but he felt warm, strong, and tender. For a what seemed like a lifetime, there was nothing but him and his lips.

When Harry's hands moved upwards to her breasts, she didn't object. But then, slowly, when his fingers started to fumble with her dress and her neckline, she grasped his fingers and slowly moved his hands away, but kept kissing him.

His fingers came back again to her breasts shortly later. She giggled, but she had to hold his hands to stop him from trying to take her bosom out. "No, good ser," she muttered chidingly. "Not tonight."

They kissed. His lips were strong, forceful, but not unpleasant. She kept on hold of his hands, caressing his knuckles.

And then his grip slipped out of hers. His hand went for her inner thigh, and she jumped as she felt him grip at her groin. She slapped his fingers instinctively. "No, Ser Harrold," Alayne warned. "No tonight. Not until we are wed."

"My lady…" he muttered huskily. "You are my queen… my queen of love and beauty…"

"And until we are married, keep your hands to yourself," she said, as she stroked his cheek.

"Are you sure?" Harry whispered. "I have good hands. They can do a lot of things these hands…"

He pressed her close and kissed her tightly, leaning her backwards. The kiss was good, but then she felt his hand sliding up her dress. "No, ser," she said forcefully. "Not until we are wed."

In the gloom, she saw him grin. Does he think I'm teasing? His hand didn't leave her leg. It hovered upwards slowly, and she slapped it away.

And then, his body pressed into hers, forcing her backwards. She could have squealed, but then his lips were on her. She tried to object, but he was forceful. Suddenly, she could feel his fingers in her smallclothes, his hands fumbling at her lips.

" NO! " Alayne shouted. "No, don't, don't -"

Her voice turned muffled as forcefully kissed her. His body pressing against her so tight she could barely breathe. Harry was big, strong, solid. One hand between her legs, the other at her breasts. It didn't feel good anymore - it felt like he was fumbling at her, pawing her body, fingers grasping and squeezing.

Alayne dug her fingernails into the back of his neck, scratching at him to stop, but that seemed only to egg him on further.

"It's alright… It's alright… it's alright…" she heard him mutter. The stink of wine on his breath almost made her gag.

How much has he had to drink? she thought with panic. How drunk is he?

Pain. It hurt. Clumsy fingers at her most sensitive region. Fumbling. Squeezing. Tearing. A sharp cry broke her lips, panic swelling her body. She was twitching, thrashing, but he was just so strong…

She heard something rip. My smallclothes. He tore them off . She heard the clink of him fumbling with his belt. Taking off his breeches .

Alayne screamed. Suddenly, a great hand was over her mouth, clamping her shut. "Quiet," Harry whispered into her ear, still kissing her cheek. "It feels good, but you must be quiet. They'll hear us if you scream."

She choked. Panic. Fear. Pain. Gasping for air, arms flailing, and suddenly he was lifting her upwards and dropping her to the ground. Sharp hay poked beneath her. Her dark hair falling loose, the wreath of roses toppling and falling over the stables.

"No… no… stop! Stop! Stop !" she protested, gasping for air. He either didn't hear her, or didn't care.

Her dress ripped. Her breasts spilled out of dress, hungry hands clawing at them. She would have kicked him, but he was between her legs, his body pressing down onto hers, so heavy it hurt.

No, no, no… Can't let him, don't let this happen…

There were tears down her cheeks. She could taste the salt. There was nothing but the black stables, and the thrashing and flailing bodies.

She felt aching pain from her nether regions from his hands. She gagged.

He had his breeches off. She couldn't see it, but she could feel it. Between her legs, him grunting to position herself. He kissed her neck, mauling her like an animal, and all the while Alayne couldn't even move, or breathe, or-

"Ahem." That single sound in the darkness felt like it shattered some spell. There was suddenly light in the stables. A lantern.

Ser Harrold shot upwards. There was a figure in the doorway. It was a boy's figure, but the voice was of a man.

"It… It's not what it looks like!" Ser Harrold protested, scrambling up. His cheeks were flushed, his breath panting. "We're betrothed, she… !"

Alayne could only sob, barely able to breathe. She was crying. "Help…" she sputtered. "… Help…"

Ser Shadrich looked around the barn quietly. The small knight wore full armour, a long sword at his belt. His gaze was cool. "Ah," he said. "Not what it looks like indeed."

Ser Harrold flustered, drawing himself up. His pants were still half-down. "Listen to me, hedge knight," he said sharply. He stood head shoulders above Ser Shadrich. "I am the heir of the Vale ."

The knight paused. "Yes," he agreed. "You are."

One moment they were standing against each other, and the next

Ser Shadrich had a dagger in his hand. Ser Shadrich lunged so fast

Alayne couldn't even process it. Then she heard Ser Harrold gag.

Ser Shadrich shoved him backwards, pinning him against the wall. He was small but strong and lithe. The dagger was in Ser Harrold throat. The younger man flailed, but Ser Shadrich pressed up close. Blood gushed as Ser Shadrich twisted the knife and cut downwards. Ser Harrold's red cheeks drained quickly.

Short arms," she heard Ser Shadrich mutter. "They don't have the reach, but they sure can draw a blade faster."

He paused only to pull the dagger out of the corpse's throat. Alayne's jaw dropped, eyes widening.

She saw the crown of white rose, stomped on and splattered with blood.

Ser Harrold slumped. Ser Shadrich stepped backwards. Alayne screamed.

Something heavy collided with her jaw. A gauntleted fist knocked her down.

The world went black.

She felt pain. Everything was spinning.

There was something being forced into her mouth. Ser Shadrich ripped off part of her torn dress, to make a gag.

"I am sorry about him, my lady," Ser Shadrich said quietly. "I really cannot abide men who would treat women that way."

The bloody dagger was at her throat. "Now, I don't want to hurt you," he warned, his voice a whispered. "But make a noise, and I cut your throat."

The dagger's blade glinted even in the gloom. She glimpsed a plain blade with a black and unadorned handle, but it felt so sharp. Alayne was gasping, and then his hand smothered her mouth.

She could only gasp. The panic shut down her lungs. What is happening? What is he doing?

Alayne heard him sling a heavy satchel over his shoulder. A knight's travel satchel, packed and ready to go. He forced her upwards, and he was small but strong. "Forgive me, my lady," he said. Ser Shadrich really did sound apologetic "But, pray tell, would you prefer Alayne or Sansa?"

How could he…? Why…?

He dragged her into the far section of the stables. She tried to run, but Ser Shadrich knocked her down, and lifted her physically off the floor with a quiet grunt. Alayne could barely even breathe as sharp metal - the gorget over his mail - dug into her stomach. A wordless cry of pain broke through her lips, yet Shadrich just cursed and yanked her hair violently.

She heard horses neighing. Ser Shadrich's horse, a rangy chestnut courser, was already waiting for him saddled in the stables. With practiced ease, Ser Shadrich jumped onto the horse and dragged her kicking and screaming over his lap. He held the dagger in one hand and the reins with his other hand as he wrapped them around Alayne in a crude knot.

"Listen to me," Ser Shadrich hissed into her ear. "I really don't want to hurt you; the bounty is for you alive and whole, Sansa. But if need

be, I'll cut off your head alone and just apologise. So come willingly because you'll die before I get caught."

The bounty. Oh Gods, Cersei .

He kicked his horse into motion, a fast stride. Alayne tried to squirm, to slip off, but then the dagger pressed into her torso softly. The blade was sharp enough to draw a trickle of blood even without any force.

He's trying to take me to Cersei, she realised in panic. Trying to steal me from the middle of a fortified castle filled with knights, from the most secure realm in the Seven Kingdoms.

The man is mad.

Behind her, she heard Ser Shadrich break the glass of his lantern and throw it into the hay of the stables. The flames sputtered and spread. It was the dead of night, past the hour of the wolf and he rode quickly. But there'll be guards on the gates? Even at this time, there must be…?

He glanced at her, holding her close. "The guards have already been dealt with," he promised. "And the gates are open for the tourney."

"But you can't…. you can't…" Alayne stammered. "You'll never get

past the Bloody Gate, you'll never get through the high road!"

He just smirked. The guardhouse was deserted. Ser Shadrich spurred his horse into a gallop.

She heard shouts behind her, but they were the wrong direction. Guards rushing to fight the fire in the stables, not stop the man stealing their lord's daughter. Nobody even knows I'm not in my room, she realised with horror.

Before Alayne even knew what was happening, they were galloping out of the postern gate and the highroad. If anyone saw Shadrich

galloping away, they never reacted in time. She screamed, but Shadrich just slammed a hand over her mouth while laughing maniacally.

Behind her, horns rang and voices yelled, but Ser Shadrich's courser was fast and hardy.

The air was bitingly cold, so cold through her torn, flimsy dress that she could only shiver. They were out on the road, riding past the watchtowers. "No no no!" Alayne gasped, trying to thrash. The horse neighed as it galloped. "No, no, you ca-"

With an idle motion, Ser Shadrich brought the pommel of his dagger onto her head. There was a thud. Everything went black.

All of the pain, all of panic, and the fear and the emotion. Alayne couldn't handle it, she just blacked out.

When her vision returned, she felt cold. Woozy. The earth was rocking and jerking. Snow on the forest ground, staring down as hooves struggled to push through. It was daylight, but still just as cold. He had wrapped a cloak around her. Shadrich was still riding, pushing his courser through uneven terrain. He wasn't on the road, it was barely even a dirt path.

She was so dazed she couldn't even protest. He's going east, she realised slowly. He's trying to slip through the forests and the Mountains of the Moon rather than the Bloody Gate . The panic wasso thick she struggled to breathe.

It was noon before Ser Shadrich finally stopped. He paused only to allow his courser time to breathe, and to bind her wrists in thick rope.

Her blue wool dress was torn. If not for the cloak, she would have frozen. Her body was shivering, weak and sore. When she looked, she saw droplets of blood staining the inside of her thighs, and bruises across her breasts. Ser Harrold's strong hands.

"Here," he offered her skin of water. "Drink up. It'll be a long journey and you don't want to lose your strength."

"You can't do this," Alayne begged. "You won't escape. Every knight in the realm will be looking for you. You killed the heir to the Vale and kidnapped their lord's daughter. You'll never escape."

"Maybe. But I reckon they'll be more likely to think that I'm going west or north rather than east. And the Vale is a big place, not even high lords can cover every mile of it."

"The Vale of Arryn is impassable except for the high road, everyone knows that."

"It's impassable to an army," he said with a shrug. "But one man can slip through the Mountains of Moon, if he's strong and tough enough. I am the Mad Mouse, Lady Stark, I reckon I'm tough enough."

"And what of the mountain clans?" She said fearfully.

"Well…" Ser Shadrich mused. "That's more of a reason for you to keep quiet now, isn't it?"

"This is suicidal, you cannot…"

"Maybe. Every battle is a bit of a suicide, if you think about it. In each battle, both sides rush forward to commit mutual suicide. It's the mad ones that come to enjoy the rush." He grinned. "And for your sake, don't cause any trouble. If we are spotted by the mountain clans… well, at least I'll get a quick death with a sword in my hand. You don't even want to imagine the things that those savages will do to a sweet girl like you."

He started moving again very quickly. Alayne didn't even know where he was going - it was like he navigated the forest at random, keeping off the trails. Father will have sent search parties after me, she thought, there'll be hundreds, thousands, looking for me. But Ser

Shadrich moved fast and pushed his courser hard, all day with few stops.

"You worked for Littlefinger," she mumbled as they rode. "You were hired for protection ."

"Not really. I was searching for you all the time," Ser Shadrich explained. "I wasn't sure that it was you in the Vale, but after the third week or so I was pretty convinced. It was the little things that gave you away, Sansa - like how you couldn't describe anything about Gulltown despite claiming to be from there." He smiled. "But even once I knew, I just had to be patient and wait for an opportunity. You gave me one last night so I helped myself to a few of your father's valuables," he motioned to his satchel with his dagger. "And set about my escape."

"And Ser Harrold?" she whispered. The thought of her gallant knight pushing himself on top of her haunted her eyes. She could still smell the booze and horse manure in the stables, hear the grunts and gasps.

"Oh, he wasn't planned," Ser Shadrich admitted, sheepishly. "Truth be told, I probably made a mistake by killing him - that could well come back to bite me. Still, I just can't stand seeing brutes who enjoying hurting women."

"You're kidnapping me."

"That's just money. I don't want to hurt you."

The snow thickened. They started to move over the mountains, and the forest became rocks and scattered spruce trees. Alayne felt so weak and disoriented that she faded in and out of consciousness, but Ser Shadrich barely even paused.

The cold winds swept over them all through the night. Her body trembled fiercely, and she had to hug to the horse to try and keep

herself warm. Ser Shadrich ate in the saddle, from a pouch of dried bread and meat.

The next day, Ser Shadrich dismounted and pulled the saddlebags off the courser. She thought he was finally stopping for camp, but then he started walking, leaving his horse behind. "Come on," he said, clutching the dagger. "Start walking."

" What? "

"Would you prefer I left you here?" he said with laughter. "I leave you alone out here and you'd be dead long before anyone finds your body. Start walking, my lady. Here, you can carry these bags too."

"What about the horse?"

"No, the horse is too easy to track. Won't make it much further over this terrain either. We go on foot from now on."

He's insane , she thought with horror, but he clutched the knife tightly. Short as he was, she knew she wouldn't be able to overpower him. She was shivering, but he gave her a blanket as a cloak and ordered her to start walking. Her blue woollen dress was already ruined and ripped, her shoes falling apart. She had never felt so cold, or so weak.

"It is fifty leagues to the coast," she muttered finally. "You expect to go that distance on foot? Through mountains?"

"Not really. We just need to go two leagues, towards the Oak Lake, where I've stashed a boat to take us down the river." She looked at him. "What? Just because you're mad doesn't mean you need to be stupid. Now keep walking."

She was shivering, but he refused to stop even when she started trembling. It was only late that night when he finally stopped for rest. Alayne was left pale and cold, while he nestled into a camp under a rock to keep them out of the wind.

She was hoping there might be a chance to steal his sword away from him, or even just the dagger, but instead he bound her wrists to a tree before closing his eyes, and slept with both sword and dagger tight in his grip.

Alayne was so weak that she couldn't even protest. She was only given hard bread to break her fast. Shadrich stuffed his face with dried meat and gulped water, but he gave her very little. Starving me so I can't resist .

The mountains were hard, steep and threatening. At one point, Shadrich had to hold her to push her forward through the fog and snow.

It took another day before she glimpsed Oak Lake in the distance. In the patchy morning light flickering through the clouds, the lake looked picturesque. The lake was fed by a dozen small streams running down the mountains, before breaking away into Oak River and leading out to the Narrow Sea. Ironoaks and House Waynwood is not far from here, she thought. They'll save me, they must.

"You won't reach King's Landing," she muttered wearily. "Whatever boat you have will never get make it through open sea, much less around down the Blackwater. You'll need to charter a ship in Gulltown, and Lord Baelish will spot you. Father owns Gulltown."

'Father'," Ser Shadrich snorted. "Tell me something, has your 'father' fucked you yet?"

Her shoulders tensed. "He wants to fuck you, you know that yes?" Ser Shadrich laughed. "You think it's normal the way he kisses you? Oh yes, I've seen that. The man you call father used to love your mother, and you look just like her, don't you? You are his replacement, the copy of the woman he couldn't get in his youth."

"You're wrong," Alayne said, body stiffening. The man is a fiend .

"Sure," Shadrich laughed. "Did he also tell you what happened in King's Landing? Who do you think betrayed your real father? Who put a dagger - this dagger - to your old man's neck?"

"You lie."

"I do not. I heard it from a Spider." His clear voice rang out, still pushing his way over the heavy snow. "Lord Baelish had your father killed, all so he could take the daughter and make her call him daddy. I'm not sure whether to be impressed or horrified."

Her hands were shaking. He lies. Of course he lies .

Ser Shadrich smirked. "You're nothing more than a game piece to him. He'd fuck you himself if he didn't think he could make more money selling you to someone else. Why do you think your Ser Harrold forced himself on you like that?"

Alayne froze. "Oh the booze, sure," Ser Shadrich continued. "But I'm guessing Littlefinger took you to one side and told you exactly how to entice him. Drink with him, take him alone? If I was a betting man, I'd say Littlefinger probably shared words with Harry as well. Maybe something like, 'My daughter is really fond of you, and nobody would be too upset if you enjoyed some time with her'? Hint, hint ." He looked at her expression and laughed. "Come on, you're a smart girl. Littlefinger wanted you married. What better way is there than arranging some leverage he could hold over Lady Waynwood, to make sure the marriage happens quickly? Maybe knock something off the dowry too?"

"No. You lie," she muttered, shaking her head. "My father would never do that…"

"Who's lying now? You know exactly the type of man your 'father' is." He shook his head. There was something like sympathy in his eyes. "Now come on, keep walking."

Alayne took a few nervous steps. "Listen," he continued. "I know you probably don't see it now, but this is a good thing for you. The absolute healthiest place you could be is away from Littlefinger. That man is more dangerous than anyone. I'm helping you here, believe me."

"The Queen will have me killed," she said with a gulp, trying to shamble over the rocks. Her shoes weren't meant for mountain climbing, and even under the cloak it was cold.

"I'm not taking you to the Queen." He shook his head. "I work for the Spider . You should be happy, Lady Stark, because I don't thinkVarys wants to kill you. I'm doing you a favour - I'm getting you out of the grip of a man who is just going to use you and discard you. Say what you want about the Spider, but at least he doesn't pine after little girls who look like their mother…"

"You're lying," Alayne growled, glaring at him. Her legs stopped.

"Keep walking, my lady," he warned.

"Say that you're lying!" she hissed.

Ser Shadrich's eyes narrowed, clutching his dagger a bit more tightly. "Keep walking, or I'll mak-"

Suddenly, a horn blew out over the mountainside. They both froze. It sounded harsh, screeching and jagged. She saw the knight's eyes widen in fear. Shadrich's hand went to his longsword. " Burned Men," he hissed, growling at her. " Run, girl."

There was a second horn blast. She couldn't tell from where it came. "What, where-"

"The treeline," he growled, grabbing her shoulder and starting to sprint. "Run, the trees!"

Alayne stumbled, dainty shoes stumbling over rocks. Shadrich cursed, grabbing her arm and yanking her upwards. There were more horns blowing. Some spotter had seen them, and the savages were answering the alert.

"Keep running!" Ser Shadrich sounded scared. "They catch you and they feed you to the flames, girl."

They ran down the slope, taking cover in the trees. She was panting for breath, but Ser Shadrich kept on dragging. Behind her, she saw figures on mountainside. Dark figures clutching spears, pitchforks or axes. One of them was clutching a huge burning torch, his face painted red, howling war cries.

"Keep running," Ser Shadrich hissed, and Alayne ran for as long as she could. She heard men behind them, but the forests and rocks were thick and winding. Shadrich dropped his satchel without a second thought so could run faster.

She could hear the sound of waterfalls down the mountainside. The fast rapids were fed from the Tears of Alyssa and swashed into Oak Lake, and then all the way down to the Narrow Sea.

More horns were blowing. Even Shadrich was wheezing for breath. When Alayne finally turned, she glimpsed figures moving away through the trees. The clansmen were moving away. "Why aren't they chasing us?" she panted.

Shadrich just shook his head. "Because they didn't see us," he muttered, grabbing and pulling her away.

Only when they shambled up a ridge did she realise what he meant. In the distance, five hundred yards away, she saw riders trotting through a snow-buried road. A group of knights. Knights searching for me from the Gates of the Moon . While we cut through the mountains, a party of knight heading east must have travelled along the highroad and made similar time. The Burned Men had beenwatching the road - they saw them first.

She lingered to stare, but Shadrich grabbed her and pulled her roughly towards the waters.

Behind her, it looked like a standoff was forming. A dozen knights on horseback against thirty or so clansmen slipping out of the forests. She glimpsed burning arrows. A battle. The knights would ride through the clansmen to save her.

She heard war cries and horn blasts. No, Alayne realised. It looked like the knights were being forced to retreat. They didn't have the numbers to safely fight through the Burned Men.

Shadrich was still running. Alayne's heart pounded.

HELP! " she bellowed at the top of her lungs, before Shadrich could stop her. The sound rang out over the forests. She glimpsed the mounted men ripple. " HELP M- "

The backhanded slap took her to the ground. Her vision blurred. A horn answered her screaming. At the sound of her voice, the knights wouldn't retreat anymore.

"Bitch!" Shadrich hissed furiously, face red. "You've just cost a lot of good men their lives."

He grabbed her and hoisted her upwards, his feet shambling over the rocks. Behind, she heard screams, sounds of horses charging. Shadrich was staggering, struggling to lift her over the uneven rocks.

In the distance, she glimpsed two mounted riders fall to Burned Men's arrows.

Her heart was beating so hard it might stop. She could hear rushing water. "Nearly there…" Shadrich wheezed. "Nearly there…"

The world seemed to blur. She heard hooves behind her, arrows pinging, people and horses screaming. A voice - a heavy, husky voice - bellowing words she couldn't make out.

Fuck! " Shadrich cursed, and without another word he shrugged his shoulders and dropped her onto the snow and stone. The impact caused her to body to oomph. She could barely breathe. "You think you can stop me, Mormont?"

Footsteps approaching. A large figure. "Move away from the lady," a voice growled. Alayne could barely make out of the shape of a man in heavy armour, pacing towards Shadrich. A bloody bear's maw growled from his breastplate.

Ser Jorah Mormont was wheezing slightly. His sword - a broad hand-and-a-half sword - was slick with blood. His eyes dark and his face hard under his helm.

He must have cut through the Burned Men to chase after me . She glimpsed a fallen horse with an arrow in its rump. Ser Jorah's mount had collapsed, but he kept on running on foot. Over the ridge, the clansmen were still clashing with the remaining knights, but there weren't many left. Ser Jorah was a strong man.

Ser Shadrich forced a laugh. "You ready to die over a bastard girl, Mormont? You sure you want to do this?"

"Sansa Stark," Ser Jorah growled, glancing down at her lying in the snow. She looked a mess - beaten, bruised and weak. Unwashed and filthy. "Are you injured?"

Her heart pounded. He knows, she thought. He knows who I am . Shadrich's face flickered. "So not quite as dense as everyone thought you were, old man," Shadrich grunted. "But it seems there's even less reason for a fight. You sure you want to risk your life over a Stark ?"

"You think I fear you?" Ser Jorah grunted, taking another cautious step.

"Depends on how much a fool you are. Back away, Mormont," Ser Shadrich warned. "Turn around, walk away, and you can still get out

of this. Or better yet, come on and help me. There's a fat purse of gold in return for this lady and I'm happy to share."

"Move away from the lady," Ser Jorah growled again, raising his blade.

Shadrich had his longsword in one hand and his dagger in the other. He swung both of them with confident ease. "What do you care?" Ser Shadrich scoffed. "You've sold people before for coin, haven't you? The gold is good and there's a debt to be repaid, Mormont." His gaze darkened. "We're just the same, Mormont. We both do what we need to do."

Move away ."

Shadrich just smirked. For a little man, he had an easy arrogance. "Then have it your way."

The Mad Mouse stepped forward, darting at Ser Jorah. The large man swung first, a furious double-handed swipe. Shadrich didn't parry, he just sidestepped, and as soon as Ser Jorah tried to recoil Shadrich's blade was jabbing forward.

If it wasn't for Ser Jorah's platemail, that jab would have cut open his stomach. Instead, the edge grated off hard metal. Shadrich swung his blades as fluidly as water.

The second stroke, Jorah managed to block, but barely. The third swipe and Jorah was on the backfoot. The fourth attack was with Shadrich's back hand, and she saw the dagger lash against Jorah's shoulder. The bear knight winced.

Ser Shadrich swung his blades in his hands, and then darted in for another assault. Jorah barely had a chance to retaliate.

Ser Jorah was bigger. Much, much bigger - he looked three times Ser Shadrich's size. He was stronger too and Ser Shadrich didn't

dare even try to block any of the larger man's blows. And yet Shadrich was the faster swordsman, and that mattered far more.

The blades clashed. Alayne could only stare, still wheezing with pain and fear.

Ser Shadrich took second blood with a graze across Jorah's hip. The bear knight might have lost his head too, but he barely managed to push Shadrich away. The sound of Shadrich's laughter filled the air.

"You are slow, old man," he taunted. He spun and caught his sword in one hand, mocking.

Jorah could only growl. Blood and sweat dripped down his brow. He clutched his bastard sword with both hands.

Shadrich charged. Jorah managed one hard swing, but the next four strokes were all wicked fast and precise from the Mad Mouse.

She heard the clang of steel against steel. His heavy armour is the only thing saving his life, Alayne realised. While Shadrich wore lightmail, Ser Jorah was clad in heavy plate. Ser Shadrich's swords clipped his plate repeatedly in short succession, but didn't pierce. Not quite.

She glimpsed the panic in Jorah's movements. He was losing ground while Shadrich danced over the rocks. Ser Jorah swung out wildly, yet Shadrich was too close and already attacking. Shadrich's dagger darted forward, straight for Ser Jorah's grip on his sword.

There was a plume of blood. The impact of the cross-guard took the dagger straight out of Shadrich's hand and it flew backwards and landed in the snow. She heard Jorah scream and stagger backwards. He was clutching his hands.

His fingers, she realised in horror. Ser Jorah was missing two fingers on his left hand from where the dagger had carved straight through

his gauntlets. The large man staggered, eyes bulging in rage, but he was struggling to even grip his sword.

Ser Shadrich laughed, leaving his dagger behind him and swinging the longsword alone. "Tis a fine thing, is it not?" Ser Shadrich taunted. "The mouse that can maul a bear."

Jorah's veins throbbed, his face red. Blood dripped from his hands. He didn't speak, or even scream, there was just one long grunt of pain.

"You should have walked away, ser," Shadrich said with a soft smile, before stepping forward and swinging his sword downwards-

She never knew how it happened. One heartbeat, Alayne was lying on the floor staring in horror. The next, her body was moving all by itself.

She felt cold and fear. She felt the snow brush underfoot. She felt her hands wrapping around the smooth dragonbone hilt. She felt Ser Shadrich's mail cleave as she jammed in the edge forward with both hands. She felt a sharp scream breaking through her throat.

Before she had even realised what was happening, Sansa was standing upright and plunging the dagger straight into Ser Shadrich's back. Her hands were still bound and trembling. Blood oozed over her fingers.

His eyes widened in surprise. His body flinched.

"Oh," Ser Shadrich said dumbly.

He tried to raise his blade. Ser Jorah roared and his sword swung first. The steel bastard sword went straight into his skull.

Blood and bone shards splattered against Sansa's face. The blade cleaved halfway through Ser Shadrich's skull before it jammed,

dragging his body with it like a ragdoll. The Mad Mouse's body flopped limply under Ser Jorah's blade.

The knight roared in wordless fury. He had to grunt as he dragged his sword out of the man's head. There was barely a head left - brains and skull splattered like a half-squashed tomato. Gloopy gore and blood soak into the snow.

He was wobbling slightly, panting heavily. "Lady Stark," Ser Jorah murmured, with a nod.

There was blood dribbling down her chin. "Ser Jorah," Sansa gasped, dropping weakly to the ground. Her hands just felt numb. Her wool dress was shredded, stained and filthy.

Jorah was staggering, limping. "I can take you back to Lord Baelish, my lady," he said, still cradling his bloody hand. "I could take you back to Lord Arryn, Lord Royce and Miranda, my lady. If that is what you wish." His face was pained. "Or I could take you north. I could take you home, as a Stark, where you belong. There are allies there, those that support your family… I am here to bring you home, but I will not do so without your permission."

He grimaced, struggling to breathe. "It is your choice, Lady Stark. I could take you home. If you want to go. Say the word."

She was left breathless, staring upwards in numb shock. "Home," Sansa repeated. She wasn't quite sure where the words came from, but her head was spinning and… "I want to go home."

"Aye," Ser Jorah said with a gulp. "Then we must run."

Her fingers were gripping the dagger so tightly she wasn't quite sure if she could dislodge them. Ser Jorah shambled upwards, wrapping his missing fingers roughly and then snapping her binds off with his other hand. The knight's armour rattled as heavy feet started to pound.

Behind them, a ragged horn blew over the rocks. The Burned Men. Two of the knights turned to gallop away, and one was cut down by arrows. The clansmen were howling, victorious, and she heard heavy footsteps chasing after her and Jorah.

Sansa stumbled, and Ser Jorah stopped to pick her up with one arm, pressing her close as he kept on running. He stunk of musky sweat and blood, every breath deep and heavy. Even injured, Ser Jorah had stamina. He ran in heavy armour, with her body pressed into his shoulder, lumbering feet never stopping.

The clansmen gave chase, blowing horns and stomping spears. They are behind us, and we have nowhere to run . There wasnowhere to hide, no way to outrun them. Ser Jorah could only sprint and stagger, towards the sound of rushing water.

She saw Oak Lake stretch out before them. She heard the gushing falls. The currents streamed down forty feet into cold water beneath them, as hard and as grey as stone. She saw spray splashing, droplets hissing in the air, and the falls rumbling like some great beast.

"Lady Stark," Ser Jorah gasped, staggering up the rocky ridge. "Can you swim, my lady?"

Her head spinning so fast she barely made sense of the words. "Lady Stark," Ser Jorah pressed. "Can you swim?"

Swim. "Yes," she gasped. She used to swim with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel in the shallows of the Long Lake during the height of summer. Little Arya would have joined them, sometimes, splashing and giggling by the beach, and her mother would watch from the shore, fretting. Sansa stopped going out to swim as she grew to be a lady. Gods it was so long again… "Yes, I can swim."

"That is very fortunate, my lady," Ser Jorah said with a grimace. He struggled with the clasps of his steel plate briefly, but could not unfasten them with one hand. "Because I cannot."

"Wait, what-"

He didn't even pause. Without warning, Ser Jorah held her tightly, and jumped off the cliffs.

The Wildling King

Jon had never seen White Harbour before. His first sight was of New Castle rising over the landscape, while seagulls cawed and the smell of salt was thick in the air. The city was all white stone and straight streets, with steeply pitched slate roofs tilting downwards towards the coast of the White Knife. Even from a distance, Jon could see the harbour heaving with sails, ships attended by ant-like figures.

The journey had been quick and hard, but they ran their horses into the ground. The White Harbour riders led the way, but Jon and his Dragonguard huddled together. "I do not trust these southrons," Gerwick warned, as hooves galloped over the grassy plains. "This could be a trap."

"Aye," Jon agreed. "But they say Lord Manderly promises me guest right. They approached with an offer of truce."

"Didn't they give your brother guest right too?" Gerwick said darkly. "It seems to me that honour stops at the Wall."

"These Manderlys," Furs called from Jon's other side. "You say this fat lord was to marry his daughters to those Freys. Now what sort of man gives his grandchildren away to scum like that?"

"It may be that betrothal was forced." Jon kept his voice as low as he could. "Or you're right, this may be a trap. Be wary - if they try to hurt me, Sonagon will hurt them much more. Make sure they understand that."

The leader of the men, a lithe and tall knight introduced as Ser Alek, had dismounted and bowed before Jon. His men had dropped their

weapons. They had been extremely formal and scared, and begged that Lord Manderly wanted to treat, that the lord offered safe passage to White Harbour. If there was deception in them, Jon didn't see it, and it was too good an opportunity to pass.

There had been little time to dawdle. Ser Alek had offered each of the men a horse, some to ride two abreast, and even left eight of his own men on foot. Ser Alek surrendered his own horse to Jon, a great grey warhorse. Jon noticed how the man had been sweating, constantly lowering his eyes as he addressed him.

It took a while to convince Sonagon that the men weren't a threat. In the end, Jon was convinced to leave the dragon to hunt aurochs over the plains, to avoid attention, while they rode to White Harbour.

They passed two smaller villages, but never stopped as they rode. Ser Alek seemed afraid to. They rode for a full day, until finally they saw the pale walls of White Harbour. They were approaching the first of the stables and farmhouses leading up to the city. None of the wildlings had ever seen a town so big, so crowded. Some tried to hide it, but they all looked either awed or nervous.

"Halt," Jon shouted to the riders, drawing his destrier to a stop. The riders paced. "What is the intention here, Ser Alek?"

His face seemed pained. "Your Grace," the knight said. "Lord Manderly wishes to treat, White Harbour offers no threat to you, I promise."

"Indeed. And we will be entering through the main gates?" Jon demanded.

"I had clear orders to bring you direct to the New Castle. We will not go through the city, we will circle around and there's a postern gate to the north straight into the keep itself."

No, that felt risky. If this was a trap, then it would make sense to keep Jon out of the streets. "If Lord Manderly wishes to treat, then

let's go the most direct route," he said firmly. "Through the main gate, and up the Castle Stair. I wish to enter through White Harbour itself."

"Your Grace, the city is in panic. The sight of your dragon sent many into frenzy, it may not be safe to ride through the streets."

"I have no doubt you can provide a suitable escort. I also expect Lord Manderly himself to meet me outside the gates. Go ahead and bring those requirements to your lord, and two of my companions will escort you. When they return and tell me the path is clear, I will enter the city tomorrow morning. To give you ample time to prepare a procession."

He grimaced. "You-Your Grace, it is not safe for you to linger on these plains all night."

"I am sure I will be fine," he said coolly. "Furs and Eryn, please escort the good ser. We will camp on the coast."

Ser Alek tried to protest, but Jon gave him no space to. Furs and Eryn were two of the most level-headed of his Dragonguard, and Jon ordered them not to antagonise, but just watch. Jon's instincts said that the offer of truce was genuine, but he couldn't afford to take that chance. If Lord Manderly really is willing to meet me, then let him meet me personally, during daylight, in the main street, to reduce any chance of an ambush .

It starting snowing during the night, but they camped two leagues outside of the city. Ser Alek left twelve of his men, but they all kept their distance by unspoken command. The Dragonguard kept watch diligently, still suspicious of the southerners. Jon could feel Sonagon hunting over the Bite, and if need be the dragon could be here quickly.

It was a cold morning. Furs and Eryn both returned at first light, reporting that Lord Manderly was waiting with a group of fifty guards by the front gates. As they rode off towards the city, Jon called Sonagon back towards him, just to be safe.

They had barely reached the gates when the dragon soared above them high in the sky. The shadow blanketed the entire road.

Jon's first impression of White Harbour was of a city in panic. He saw people on the road sprint in panic as they approached. He heard screaming in the streets. Jon only caught a single word, " Dragon, dragon! "

Even the guards that met them seemed terrified. Jon approached slowly, and a field of green cloaked soldiers with tridents stood to attention outside the thick ironwood gates. Jon could smell the fear in the air, even though Sonagon circled far above. Well, I wanted the whole north to see Sonagon .

"Your Grace," a man greeted, pushing a great horse forward. He was a big man: very fat, bald, with a large walrus moustache. His green cloak was clasped with a silver and sapphire trident. He held himself straight, but there were dark shadows under his eyes too. He said the words 'Your Grace' very hesitantly. "Forgive me, but my lord father is sickly and does not travel well. I am his son and heir, Ser Wylis Manderly, to greet you. I have bread and salt for you and your party."

A table of honeyed bread and jugs of wine was already set out for them. All guards very deliberately kept their weapons lowered. Oh, they're being very, very nervous . They were treating him as if asingle offence risked sending him into a rage - they didn't know what to expect from him, and that made Jon feel better. "Thank you for your hospitality, Ser Wylis, it is very much appreciated."

"Yes, Your Grace." He bowed in his saddle. Jon noticed how he winced. There were men near him as if to support Ser Wylis. "House Manderly are not Freys; our hospitality is ironclad. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

Jon pushed Sonagon to back off a little bit. The gates were opened, and Jon heard the sounds of the city get louder. There was already a crowd in the streets, a mob that had been trying to push out of the

gates towards him. He saw thrashing bodies forced backwards by green cloaked guards with tridents.

Ser Wylis grimaced. "Please, stay close to me, Your Grace. Ser Marlon will clear the way for us."

Horses shimmied nervously. Guards rushed. His Dragonguard all had weapons readied. "Your people are panicked."

"We have heard rumours of you and the wildlings from the north for months," he shouted over the din. "Refugees pouring into the city. The sight of your dragon flying south two days ago triggered riots in Fishfoot Square."

So I see, he thought, but he kept his face hard. "Savages!" Someone in the crowd was screaming. "Rapers and savages!"

"Death to wildlings!" another shouted.

Still he heard someone else shouting, "Death to the Boltons! Vengeance for the Red Wedding!"

Then the white dragon shot over them in the sky above, each flap causing gusts of wind through the narrow streets, and the whole city watched as the shadow of the dragon cut across the buildings. Many ran for cover, and others just fell to the ground in terror. Sonagon isn't even being aggressive, just curious .

It looked like a riot as Jon's party rode up the main street. The city guards had to fight to clear the path up to the Castle Stair. In the distance, Jon sensed Sonagon fly out over the coast, and then turn to perch on the Seal Rock overlooking the harbour. There were townsfolk trying to flee the gates, but the city was on lockdown. It was all so hectic Jon could barely even process it.

By the time they started the approach up the pale staircase leading to New Castle, Jon saw fighting on the docks below. Ships were trying to flee the harbour, but there were galleys in the water forming

a blockade to stop anyone leaving. On the docks, the green cloaks looked like they were seizing ships and making arrests, and the cries of fighting were sharp noises in the orchestra of chaos. The whole city felt crazed with panic. Off the coast, Sonagon roared.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Ser Wylis panted. "The city is…" He didn't seem to know how to finish that statement.

Jon was shuffled quickly into the handsomely furnished pale castle. Silver and green ordained the walls, along with broken shields and rusted swords from ancient victories, and wooden figureheads from the prows of ships. The doors to the Merman's Court opened, leading into a great hall of wooden planks decorated with all the creatures of the sea. A large cushioned throne of weathered oak rested at the far end, in front of a painted wall showing a kraken and grey leviathan locked in battle.

The first time Jon lay eyes on Lord Wyman Manderly, the fat lord's chins were wobbling furiously at a maester with blond hair in the centre of the Merman's Court. There were screamed objections, shouts that Jon couldn't quite make out.

The whole room was heaving. Men were stomping their feet. Someone was screaming. Whatever he was expecting, this wasn't it. Jon saw fat lords and ladies in silk and the whole room felt… bloodthirsty. Savage. For a moment, he was left speechless.

Jon saw the elderly maester in chains being dragged away as he screamed, "Please my lord, don't - this is treason ! This is treason against the crown!"

Lord Wyman was clad in sealskin and wool as he shook his great head. His face well-lined, doughy and wrinkled, but those eyes looked wide and mad. "That crown committed treason first," the fat lord growled. He could barely stand, but he was trembling. "Take the maester away and throw him in the Wolf's Den. No ravens leave White Harbour tonight."

There was the sound of wailing and crying. Jon could only stare as he limped into the Merman's court, all eyes wide. The sight of Jon walking through the doorway seemed to cause the room to freeze. Jon saw ladies and young girls backing away from him.

The maester's face paled as he saw Jon. "You can't do this, my lord!" The maester screamed, struggling against the men pulling him out of the doorway. " He's a monster! He'll bring ruin to the realm! He'll-"

He was cut off by a blunt blow to the stomach with the butt of a trident.

The lords and ladies of Manderly's court were all up in arms. There were others trying to object, but they were being forcefully escorted out of the room too. The Dragonguard flanked around Jon closely, all of them staring in shock.

Suddenly, all of their southerners didn't seem so civilised, Jon reckoned.

"We have all heard the news!" Lord Wyman boomed. The voice was echoing. "The ravens have been flocking across all corner of the realm. The Twins - the Freys! - scorched by a dragon's fury!" Jon stepped forward, and all wide eyes were on him. "My only regret is that I could not watch it myself. Letters from Seagard down to Fairmarket all speak of the destruction of the Twins, and I say those honourless bastards deserve to freeze in the very coldest of hells!"

Ser Wylis Manderly lingered at the back of the room. Jon stepped forward, walking quietly into the hall towards the dais. Lord Wyman was a fat, morbidly obese man, struggling as he stood up. Jon didn't say a word, he just watched.

"The Freys," Lord Wyman spat. He could barely make out the words over all the din. "They butchered my son and my liege. They imprisoned my other son for six months. They defile all honour with every breath they took, and they had the gall to smirk about it?"

He motioned to his guards with a flabby hand. Jon locked eyes with the lord; Wyman was trembling with emotion, but Jon showed none. "If there is naught else that we can agree on, King Jon Snow," Lord Wyman continued, "we can agree that House Frey had to be punished for its crimes."

He heard someone screaming. Wrestling bodies coming through the door. Jon's hand went to his sword instinctive, and the wildlings braced, but no attack came. Instead, it took seven men to force three squirming, chained men into the Merman Court. Jon forced himself not to react, but many in the court seemed shocked.

The men squirmed and thrashed, but the green cloaks were ruthless. They stomped the three men to the ground in front of the dais, chained them and tightened their binds until they were pinned to the ground. There were manacles on the prisoner's feet that were stretched outwards, until all three were left stretched out like starfish. The clanging of thick metal rings echoed and chimed as arms and legs squirmed.

Some were shouting for Lord Wyman to reconsider. More were egging him on. "May I present the noble Ser Jared, Ser Symond, and Ser Rhaegar Frey… !" Lord Wyman shouted over the din. "The sons of Lord Walder Frey who came to deliver my dear Wendel's bones back to me, under the guise of friendship! The murderers who came to blackmail me, to steal for my granddaughters by threatening the father they held hostage, and to spread lies about my liege!" Beefy, trembling hands tightened. "You dared to claim that the Freys were the victims of the Red Wedding?"

The three Freys looked frantic. Bloodshot eyes, pale faces. Chained in the centre of the room atop a painted octopus' tentacles, while around them the mermen looked ravenous. "You can't…" Ser Jared gasped. He was tall, thin, pockmarked and of fifty years of age. "We came in peace… !"

"You came to deliver the body of the son that you murdered!" Lord Manderly growled. "You came to strongarm me to bend the knee -

you came to smile at me after you murdered and captured my sons!"

Rhaegar Frey gasped. He was round-shouldered and kettle-bellied. "It was Robb Stark - he betrayed us, he-!"

A guard slammed his foot into the man's face. "You betray all honour, Frey," one of the other men shouted. A bushy bearded man, Jon didn't recognise him. "Your lord father died a frozen grave, your castle lost. You lands froze in dragonfire!"

"You promised us!" Ser Jared Frey screamed at the lord. "You bent the knee, you gave amends. You promised!"

"Weasels deserve no promises," Lord Manderly growled. "I feasted you when you arrived. I smiled, I fed you, I danced along to your tune. When you left here, true to the laws of hospitality, I even allowed you to ride freely for three leagues unencumbered. Before I had you captured again."

He waddled backwards towards his throne, eyes fixed on the Freys. Ser Rhaegar Frey broke down into tears. "This time, you receive chains instead of bread and salt. Consider your previous treatment as my gratitude for returning my son's bones. This, however, is your punishment for murdering him."

A large figure, well over six-foot-tall, stepped into the room from the other side of the hall. The crowd part for him. He wasn't dressed like a guard; instead he wore an executioner's black mask. He dragged with him a warhammer so heavy that the head scraped across the planks.

The man stepped up to Ser Rhaegar Frey. The knight was shrieking something nonsensically, tears and snot dribbling down his chin.

The big man heaved the hammer above his head, with a hard grunt. The whole court seemed to freeze as the hammer swung downwards…

Jon flinched. He heard the crack of wood and bone. Blood plumed as Ser Rhaegar Frey's right leg shattered. The massive warhammer snapped his leg like a matchstick. Jon saw a splinter of bone flying into ground.

He had never heard a man make the same noise that Ser Rhaegar Frey made. Jon didn't think that type of scream was humanly possible. It sounded too high-pitched to come from a human.

"Well, damn," Furs muttered quietly as he watched. One of the ladies in the court, a young girl, looked like she was about to be sick, but she didn't turn her eyes away.

The man with the warhammer was already swinging again. This time at Ser Rhaegar's right leg. There was barely a scream this time, Ser Rhaegar just went limp.

Ser Jared was next. He was begging incoherently, screaming something about mercy, justice and trials, and but then the warhammer cracked against the wood once more. As loud as Rhaegar screamed, Jared screamed louder as the hammer squashed straight through his leg, severing the limb at the kneecap in a bloody gloop. First the left leg, then the right. The manacles went loose. Blood splattered over the sharks on the ceiling.

Symond didn't scream at all - instead his lungs seemed to clamp shut in pain and horror. He received the same treatment. By the time the executioner was done with Symond, Ser Jared had already died of bloodloss. Ser Rhaegar lingered, babbling strange sounds almost like words.

After the legs, the executioner moved to squash their spines with his hammer. Jared was already dead, but the hammer cracked through his back anyways. Ser Symond was the last to do, spasming with the hammer head through his back. Even the executioner struggled to pull it out again.

Lord Manderly just watched hungrily as the men were executed in front of him. Jon had never seen a man with so much raw hate. Three large pools of blood stained the painted ground.

Those moments blurred. So much screaming, like the panic permeated the air.

Lord Wyman needed deep breaths to calm himself. "Begging your pardon, Your Grace," Lord Wyman said finally, pulling his eyes up to look up at Jon. "But I require time to bring my house into order. May we treat together another time?"

Jon nodded. He didn't say a word. They were escorted out of the hall and into the castle. Jon didn't let it show, but he was shaken.

White Harbour has just declared open revolt against the crown, he realised. The whole city was in uproar. Lord Wyman was cleaning his court and preparing for a war. The dragon in the harbour tipped the scales.

Why did he execute the Freys like that? Jon wondered. It could have been done cleanly, it certainly didn't need to be done in the middle of his court. It felt barbaric, savage. Like Lord Manderly wanted to make a point.

It took him a while before he realised. Because of me, he thought. Lord Manderly knew of my ruthlessness at the Twins, so the lord wanted to demonstrate his own ruthlessness. He wanted to impress me .

Jon was given quarters in his own wing of New Castle, and all around him the castle was filled with hectic activity. From the windows, Jon could see the whole harbour being shut down, and war galleys in the water. The realm would learn about Lord Manderly's actions very quickly, and the lord seemed intent to be ahead of it.

Hatch just looked at him in quiet shock. "Vicious creatures, these mermen, aren't they?"

Each of his Dragonguard were offered their own chambers. House Manderly's servants were very respectful. Scared, but respectful, and constantly on hand to tend to Jon. Just like Ser Alek did, they stared at him like he was some wild monster that might tear their throat out at a minor slight. Now just what have they been hearing about me, I wonder?

He paused. And how much of it isn't true?

Ser Wynal, a cousin of the lord and castellan of the castle, came to Jon's quarters to beg his forgiveness, but Lord Manderly had urgent business to attend to and he begged the king's patience. He provided orders that all of Jon's needs would be met, and that White Harbour would do its best to accommodate His Grace. His quarters in the New Castle were fit for the most prestigious guests.

In return, Jon kept Sonagon calmed in the harbour. The dragon still lurched over Seal Rock occasionally snapping at seals in the water every time he moved. There had been an old fortification on Seal Rock, but that was abandoned to the dragon.

Lord Manderly wants - no, needs - an alliance, Jon thought. If White Harbour was going to fight the Boltons and the Iron Throne, then they needed a dragon on their side . Sonagon was the greatest military force in the north.

There could be little doubt of Lord Wyman Manderly's intent, at any rate. By killing those Freys in the middle of his court he had made it quite clear how he felt. Perhaps it was some sort of trap against Jon, but he struggled to see any advantage for the lord. Far more likely, Wyman Manderly was sincere in his desire to ally with him.

And we need White Harbour too, Jon thought quietly. White Harbour could provide food for the Wall. Jon had plenty of wildlings under his command, but White Harbour had ships, silver and infrastructure.

It made Jon feel hopeful about an alliance. If House Manderly was that angry with the Freys, then they could have a strong position. Jon

gave Lord Wyman the patience he requested, and he settled in without complaint. He ordered his Dragonguard to stay cautious, but rest, and Jon for once relaxed in the stone chambers, curling his feet in Myrish carpet.

At his request, a bath was drawn up for him - a warm bath in a marble chamber carved with seahorses - and Jon soothed into the waters gently. It was the first castle bath he had since leaving Winterfell, oh so long ago, and it was like he could feel dirt from months in the wilderness ooze out of him, the water was brown when he finally left.

Jon's clothing, thick padded leathers lined with wool, were warm and sturdy, but also worn and unwashed. Good for riding, not so good for meeting with lords. He debated meeting in full armour, but he decided that might appear too aggressive. Instead, he requested more proper attire, and a scrambled hour later the servants returned with a grey velvet tunic, lined in silver, and tanned cotton trousers. The leather boots they provided were slightly too large, but still better than iron-heeled boots he had been wearing.

His cloak - the giant fur cloak that the children of the forest had provided - was dirty itself, but it was still thick and rich enough for him to wear. He kept Dark Sister on his hip at all times.

His companions were mixed. Manderly had provided a room for all of them in the castle. Many of the wildlings snapped and growled suspiciously, others had to be restrained not to pillage their rooms. Sam just washed and changed, while Grenn looked totally befuddled by all the attention from the servants. This is the first time that the wildlings, or Grenn, have ever been in a lord's castle, Jon thoughtwith a quiet smile, let alone as guests of honor .

As evening approached, Jon was served honey roasted lobster, fine wine and fresh apples. He could have eaten with the others in the private dinner hall of the wing, but instead he retired early to his room. Lord Wyman must have removed any other guest in the whole wing for Jon and his companions. There was no lack of hospitality,

as scared as the servants were. In his quarters, Jon closed his eyes and carefully reached outwards.

First, he checked on Ghost - beyond the Wall in Hardhome, hunting in the forests as the refugees moved towards Eastwatch. There had been some wight attacks, but the wildlings were organised enough to survive them. Then, Jon reached out to Phantom, stalking and simmering on the rooftops of Eastwatch, before finally stretching himself out to Sonagon.

The dragon responded, perched over the Seal Rock off the harbour, lazily snapping in the water at the fish. Slowly, the dragon's wings unfurled with great gushes, rising upwards to the air. The dragon circled on the warm air from the coast, circling in the low clouds, while Jon stared downwards at the coast. He tried to count the ships through Sonagon's eyes: thirty vessels on the coast and another ten under construction in the Inner Harbour.

Lord Manderly had indeed been preparing for war. Sonagon circled, sniffing and staring over the rolling landscape. Even from the sky, he could see the blur of bodies gazing upwards from the ground.

It was dusk when the knock on Jon's door alerted him. A small group: Ser Wynal, Leona Manderly, some stewards, and two escorts. "Your Grace?" Ser Wynal called nervously. "Begging your pardon, but Lord Manderly requests your presence."

Jon just nodded as he exited, wrapping his cloak loosely over his shoulder. The men had swords, but they kept their hands well-away from the weapons. Very deliberately non-threatening, Jon decided. Hatch and Furs were standing guard by his door.

"The lord wishes to discuss terms in the Merman Court," Lady Leona said hesitantly. The wife of Ser Wylis, he recalled, a plump pink woman with yellow hair. "Will any of your… companions wish to accompany you, King Snow?"

"Samwell Tarly will join me. As well as Furs and Hatch." It would be too aggressive to bring all of his Dragonguard, but he didn't want to go in alone. Sam could represent the Night's Watch.

They were escorted down to the Merman's Court. "King Snow…" Furs muttered dryly. Was it his imagination, or did he sound apprehensive? "So this is how you southerners do things?"

"Sometimes."

"I will announce you to the court, Your Grace," Ser Wynal said with a slight gulp as they walked. "Forgive me, but what honorifics and titles would you use?"

"Jon Snow. King-Beyond-the-Wall."

"Um, is that all?"

"I believe so," Jon replied coolly.

The Merman's Court seemed strangely quiet. Compared to the frenzy of earlier, this time Lord Manderly wanted a more private meeting. There were no guards, no crowds. The corridor seemed strangely quiet. The floor had been wiped of blood, but Jon could still see the stain, and the wood was cracked where the executioner's hammer had smashed the Freys' legs.

"His Grace, Jon Snow, King-Beyond-the-Wall," Ser Wynal announced before him, "coming before Lord Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbour, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed and Lord Marshal of the Mander, Knight of the Order of the Green Hand."

The voice rung in the cavern. The stewards sealed the door behind them. There were a dozen people in the hall, all standing grim-faced around the dais. Jon met their eyes, one by one. He recognised six.

Lord Manderly stood - heaving - to greet him. "King Snow," the fat man said, clearing his throat. "It is good to have you have in White Harbour. I hope this is a chance to come to terms."

Oh, how strange it feels to be in a lord's court again. I've been among free folk too long . "As do I, my lord. You are very gracious to extend the invitation." Very brave too, to publicly invite a wildling king and his dragon into your city .

"This morning's events gave little time for greetings. Formal introductions are in order, I believe," Lord Manderly said, raising his voice slightly. "This is Ser Marlon Manderly, commander of the city garrison. The castellan of New Castle, Ser Wylan. And you have met my son, Ser Wylis, and his wife, Lady Leona of House Woolfield."

"Ser," Jon nodded. Be patient, respectful. "I heard you were imprisoned at the Twins."

"I was, Your Grace. For a long time. It is good to know that justice has been delivered." Still, the polite comment didn't reach his eyes. Ser Wylis looked suspicious, maybe even angry. Perhaps he too was thinking of the prisoners he left behind, as Jon was. Jon didn't press the comment.

"And may I present Lord Jon Umber," Lord Manderly introduced, turning to the next figure. "Lord of Last Hearth."

Oh yes, there was no mistaken him. It had been years since he'd seen him, but somehow the Greatjon seemed bigger than ever. He was a broad, huge man with dark face, muscular arms like tree trunks. Still, he also looked more… ragged. The Greatjon's beard was unshaven, his face gaunter. Jon could see scars around his neck. He's missing fingers, Jon noticed.

"I didn't expect to see you here, Lord Umber," Jon said respectfully. Behind him, Hatch tensed - it was rare for Hatch to ever meet a man bigger than himself.

"You can thank Lord Howland Reed for that," the Greatjon grunted. He too, stared at Jon suspiciously. "I was in a cage being moved through the Neck when the crannogmen sprung an ambush on the convoy. Those weasels spent weeks searching for us, but Lord Reed sheltered us at Greywater Watch before bringing us here."

"That is good to know. My father always spoke highly of Lord Reed."

There was a slight ripple through the room with the words 'my father', Jon noticed. "Aye," the Greatjon muttered. He kept his arms folded. "I thought Lord Reed a sickly old craven when the crannogmen did not march with Robb Stark's campaign. And yet he proves that he still has wits; his bog-devils have been bleeding every force, from ironborn to Boltons and Freys."

"That is why we are here, is it not?" Lord Wyman said, with a glare at the Greatjon. "To find common ground against common enemies?"

He turned around the group. "May I introduce Galbart Glover, Master of Deepwood Motte, and his brother and heir, Robett Glover." Jon could see the likeness between them - both were stocky, brown-haired and broad-shouldered. "And Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island." Another one Jon recognised, she was a short, stout grey-haired old woman, with lined eyes. She was the only one in the hall wearing armour, clad in patched chainmail, heavy gauntlets and a bearskin cloak over her shoulders. There was a flicker of eyes as they greeted each other stiffly. Bear Island is a long way from White Harbour, Jon thought quietly.

"My lady," he nodded. "You marched with my brother Robb?"

"We did," Lady Maege replied. "Before the reaching the Twins, King Stark sent us to Seagard, to then sail to Greywater Watch in preparation for the assault on Moat Cailin. Lord Reed sheltered us, and after we heard the news of the Red Wedding, he gave us passage to White Harbour."

Now why would you go that far rather than return to your own lands? Jon wondered. "I see," he said. So they had already been gathered in White Harbour, preparing a rebellion to fight back against the Boltons. Lord Reed has been recovering loyalist forces .

"Also, we have Lord Ondrew Locke of Oldcastle." An old, toothless man with vulturous features. "And Lady Lyessa Flint of Widow's Watch." She was a plump, red-faced woman with dark hair. She looked around seven months pregnant, swollen with a hand on her stomach. "Lady Flint's son, Robin Flint, is upstairs, yet he is still recuperating from his captivity."

"That is good to hear. Robin Flint served in my brother's personal guard, I believe." He kept his eyes fixed on every little detail. It was polite, but it felt dangerous. "May I introduce Sam Tarly, steward of the Night's Watch, as well as two of my Dragonguard, Hatch the Halfgiant and Furs of Old Mother's Crock."

The Greatjon's eyes were locked with Hatch. His arms were still folded. " Wildlings," he growled.

"Aye," Jon nodded. "Though they prefer the term free folk."

"Wildlings have been a blight on the north for millennia." The Greatjon had a formidable scowl, looking down at him. His voice dangerously low. "Do you expect me to stand easy in front of the man who brought a horde into my lands?"

"Lord Umber," Lord Wyman warned quietly.

Lord Wyman was trying to be diplomatic, but Jon could feel aggressiveness coming from others as well. "You invited me here, my lords," Jon said after a pause. "I had hoped we could make peace."

"So you say," the Greatjon growled. "But I think you might just be as much of a threat as every other bastard out there."

"Enough," Lord Wyman ordered. "Let us not be distracted by squabbles. Not when there are more pressing matters to attend to."

"Jon Snow," Lady Maege said loudly, stepping forward in front of the Greatjon slightly. Her armour rattled. The older woman had hands that seemed designed for a mace. "Let us be clear. Are you the same Jon Snow, natural son of Eddard Stark, half-brother to Robb Stark?"

"I am." He met her gaze firmly. She had such a piercing blue gaze.

Robett Glover shook his head. "He lies," the man said firmly, glaring at Jon. "I saw the boy before, and you do not look like him. The Jon Snow I remember had black hair for one, not white."

"Forgive him, Your Grace," Lord Manderly said quickly, casting a warning look at Robett. "But the question does remain."

"If you walked through a snowstorm north of the Wall, my lord," Jon said, looking at Robett, "then you would not come out looking the same either. My hair froze when I was stranded in the ice. I am Jon Snow of Winterfell, son of Eddard Stark - and we last met saw each other four years ago, when you brought your son Gawen to Winterfell. I spent little time in the hall, I admit, but Robb told me afterwards that you almost broke Sansa's foot, tripping over her in the dance hall."

Everyone turned to Robett Glover. He didn't speak, but he gave a curt nod. Lord Umber's eyes flickered. Jon turned to Maege Mormont. "Lady Maege, we have not met before, but I did meet your daughters Dacey, Alysane and Lyanna when they passed through Winterfell. Alysane feasted in the hall, but Lyanna snuck out with my sister, Arya, to swordfight with sticks in the yard. I was ten, but the girls roped me into teaching them to fight."

"I remember," Maege admitted. "The girls told me so. Dacey said you were quite the gentleman."

"I believe he is who he says he is," the Greatjon spoke up, sourly. "White hair aside, he does have his father's look to him."

"Then perhaps he is," that was Lord Locke, speaking up gruffly with toothless gums. "But Robb Stark fought for freedom for the north. He is a Night's Watch deserter who might have damned the north when he opened those gates. He shames his brother's memory." Lord Wyman flinched slightly.

"I do no such thing." Jon had to force his voice to stay level. He knew what he had to say, but… "I brought the free folk south to save the realm - to strengthen the Wall against the true threat. I united the free folk to fight against the white walkers."

The room froze. He saw the surprise and confusion over people's face. Yes, I knew they would react like this , he thought sourly. The majority of people south of the Wall would . Still, they had to bewarned. Robett Glover guffawed. "White walkers?" he exclaimed in genuine confusion. "Are you defending against snarks and grumpkins as well?"

Someday, I wish snarks and grumpkins actually do invade, he thought. "You talk about matters you know nothing of, my lord." His voice was bitter, meeting their eyes darkly. "I've seen the Others myself. So have many - ask any free folk or sworn brother on the Wall." Lords glanced around, looking for any sign that this was a joke. "I could provide you with ten thousand witnesses that the white walkers are very much real."

"Or better yet," Furs spoke up suddenly behind Jon, "why not go north to look? I expect you'd see them yourself soon enough."

Robett coiled as if he had been snapped. The room hesitated, the lords sharing glances. "It is true, my lords," Sam stammered, his voice a squeak. "Castle Black came under attack from wights two weeks ago. Dead bodies were brought through the gate, and dead bodies rose again as creatures with no heartbeats, and blue eyes."

"And who are you?" the Greatjon demanded.

"Samwell Tarly, my lord. Son of Randyll Tarly, steward of the Night's Watch," Sam said, stepping forward. "I took my vows and I uphold them, my lords, I swear it. And yet when the wildli… when the free folk came through the gate, I sided with the living because I believe that is the only way to stop the Others. All I want is to keep the Wall standing, and I believe that Jon Snow wants the same thing."

Sam had an earnest voice. It caused some of them to hesitate. "Your own brother sent letters to all houses the first time we encountered them," Jon said, staring at Maege. "You know that Jeor would never lie. It was only two of the wights then, but then we came under attack from thousands."

She didn't reply, but her eyes were thoughtful. Robett stared at him as if he were insane. "White walkers? Dead rising?" he exclaimed. "This is a fool's excuse to justify an invasion. A bastard's attempt to steal his brother's kingdom."

"I once believed that all southerners are fools, my 'lord'," Furs spoke, cocking his head at the man. "You are doing little to disprove that opinion."

"You dare-?"

Enough! " The Greatjon shouted, so loud the whole room seemed to shudder. Despite himself, Jon flinched. "I do not know if the Others are real or not," he growled. "But that dragon is real, that's for certain."

Lord Wyman nodded. "Aye," he agreed, chins wobbling. "The dragon is very much real, and very… concerning for many people. Can you tell us about the dragon?"

"His name is Sonagon." Jon gazed around the room. It felt like he was on trial here, so many men staring at him intently. "He was

buried in the far north, buried for a long time. I awoke him to fight against the Others."

"Awoke him how?" The Greatjon demanded. "I bled on him," Jon admitted. "As I was dying." There was a long, uncertain pause. "And you control it?" Lord Locke pushed. "Sonagon listens to me."

"But not with words," Ser Wylis spoke up. "I was watching when we entered the city - you never said a word to the beast, not even a motion. Instead, you close your eyes and the dragon obeys."

"Aye," Jon said simply. The discussion of wargs could get even more tangential.

"How?"

"How did Robb Stark control his direwolf?" Jon asked. "I have a direwolf too, in case you're wondering."

"Is the dragon tame?" Lady Maege asked with a pause.

"He is when he's well-fed."

There were a few uncertain mutters, but the Greatjon just snorted. "I know plenty of Boltons I'm happy to feed to it."

"I do not trust him," Robett said, shaking his mane as he glared at Jon. "He's given me no reason why I should."

"He's standing here, talking to us, for one," Lord Wyman objected. "He came willingly, because he wants to treat with us. He struck a devastating blow against our enemies, for two. And his dragon is not destroying my town right now, for three."

For the first time, Galbart Glover spoke up. "I think my brother is understandably upset," he said quietly. He was much calmer, taciturn compared to Robett. "But we had kin at the Twins. Two cousins who were being held hostage."

Oh . Jon forced himself to stay stiff. Others were staring accusingly. He hesitated, and then risked, "I see." He kept his voice low. Dammit . "I am sorry for your loss."

"I understand how casualties work," Galbart said coolly. "And I am trying to remain very rational and calm in this matter. I think to myself that their deaths are primarily the fault of Freys. And yet there are more hostages. My family, my brother's wife and children are being held by Boltons. If we side with you, they may well be executed as punishment."

Nobody replied. Jon held his tongue too. Lord Wyman continued in a hoarse voice. "And the fact remains that a dragon may be the best weapon possible against our enemies, my lords," he continued. "Aegon the Conqueror proved the worth of dragons three hundred years ago. Jon Snow proved it again at Twins."

"There are few castles in the realm that could stand against a dragon that size," Maege agreed, her voice low.

"And if you were to fly to Winterfell right now?" The Greatjon demanded, glaring at Jon. "Could you destroy those blasted Boltons as you did the Freys?"

"Perhaps I could." Jon nodded, his eyes hard. "But not while they hold my sister. I will not risk Arya Stark's life."

Nobody replied for a while. He didn't know why, but that seemed to change the atmosphere in the room slightly. A bit of the aggression faded away. "The north is a land divided, my lords," Lord Wyman said carefully. "The Dustins, the Ryswells, the Cerwyns, the Karstarks… they all declare for the Boltons. I think I can speak for all of us that none here ever will. A dragon could tip the balance in our

favour." He looked between them. "Can we all agree that we are united in our enmity for House Bolton?"

"And all he asks in return is for us to bow to him," Lord Locke grunted, with a foul look at Jon. "I have difficulty trading one usurper for the other."

Jon's eyes flashed, stepping forward. "You mistake me, my lord," said Jon. "I have no interest in my brother's crown. I am no King in the North, and nor do I want to be." He shook his head. "I am no Stark."

"Says the man calling himself king," Lord Locke muttered.

"I am. I am King-Beyond-the-Wall. I don't think anyone would question that. Perhaps I am King-on-the-Wall too, but I have never claimed to be King in the North."

Lady Maege's frown deepened. "Then what do you want, King Snow?"

"I want the north to be put to rights," he said firmly. "If the north is secured, then the Wall will be. I want for northern soldiers to reinforce the Wall, to fight against the white walkers when they come." He paused. "And I also want citizenship for all free folk south of the Wall. As well as amnesty from all past crimes and raids. The free folk become part of the realm, to settle on the Gift."

That seemed catch them all off-guard. Even his Dragonguard seemed surprised. The Greatjon's face twisted. Ah, Lord Umber lost two daughters to wildling raids, didn't he? "Citizenship?" the Greatjonspat. " Amnesty? "

"Aye. If you expect the free folk to assist you, then they deserve that," Jon said. "That is my price. Peace ."

The Greatjon looked ready to object, but Lord Wyman motioned at him. "The terms of an alliance can be negotiated." Lord Wyman said,

trying to move forward, to deny the Greatjon his chance to object. "But let us say that we are successful in bringing justice for Roose Bolton's crimes." Lord Wyman cleared his throat and spoke carefully. "Who would you expect to take the position as liege in the north?"

That question… it felt weirdly worded. Jon almost instantly replied "Stark", before realising. All my brothers are dead . "That is for the great lords of the realm to decide," Jon said after a long pause. "I do not know the rights of succession. But so long as the north is stable and the Wall is manned, I will not intervene."

Was that the right answer? Jon honestly wasn't sure. Galbart Glover and Lady Maege shared a look, as if unspoken words were going between them. There's something else in this room that I am not aware of.

"Now, I have been very patient. I have answered your questions, yet I have nothing to defend here," Jon said, his voice turning sharp. "You invited me here for a reason, and I expect you to answer mine. You are plotting rebellion here from White Harbour?"

"Aye," The Greatjon grumbled. "The north remembers. You think we would forgive something like the Red Wedding?"

"Then you must rescue my sister."

"We hope to," Lady Maege admitted. "But so long as Arya Stark is married and in Winterfell then matters are difficult. We gathered together in White Harbour to determine the rightful king."

Jon frowned. "Show him," Galbart said quietly. "He has a right to know."

"Show what?" Jon demanded, looking at Lady Maege. He was taller than the old woman, but she still seemed to look down on him.

"Your brother wrote a will," Lady Maege admitted. "He did so shortly before arriving at the Twins, after the news of the sack of Winterfell

came through. It was something else that we were to bring north to Greywater Watch."

There was no reaction for a good while. "A will," Jon repeated.

"Aye." She slowly picked up a sealed sheepskin pouch from the side of the dais. The parchment inside was stiff and well-lined, but it had been well preserved. All eyes were on Jon as he took the paper.

He paused before opening it. There were shivers down his spine.

When he finally did, he pulled it open so tenderly as if might crack.

Jon's heart pounded. He recognised the handwriting instantly, even though it had been so long since he'd seen it.

"I, Robb Stark, First of His Name, King in the North and of the Trident," it read, "hereby legitimise my brother Jon Snow, to be released from his vows of the Night's Watch and to take his rightful place as a Stark of Winterfell. If I should I perish without progeny, I hereby name Jon Stark as heir and successor to my crown."

Jon blinked. He reread the letter again. It was marked by the seal of Winterfell, as well as half a dozen great noble houses.

There was no reaction. He reread it again, looking for any sign it was forgery. There was none, but he reread it twice to make sure.

Nobody said a word. Jon read every letter of the message individually, as if he could understand it better that way.

They were all looking at him, as if waiting for a reaction. He didn't give them one.

"We gathered to attempt to bring that decree to you, but at the time you were reported lost in the wilderness," Maege said slowly. "And then, when news arrived that you led wildlings, well, we had to debate whether or not that left the king's will invalid."

He stared at Robb's signature. "Is it invalid?" Jon asked, a whisper.

"I do not believe so," Lady Maege said, looking around the room as if daring anyone to disagree. The Greatjon scowled, but didn't speak.

Robb… Robb chose me as his successor?

The thought was… he didn't know what it was. It just doesn't feel right. I'm a bastard, he shouldn't have…

Jon Stark . He said the name and it didn't feel his . He couldn't imagine ever feeling comfortable with a name like that.

"No," Jon said, finally looking up from the paper. "Robb made a mistake. I cannot be his heir."

He handed the parchment back to Lady Maege. Jon kept his body stiff, but he could feel his hands trembling slightly. Nobody seemed to know how to respond to that.

"That was a king's final decree," Lady Maege said quietly, frowning.

"He was wrong. I'm a bastard, and the realm will never accept a bastard on the throne of Winterfell." His voice turned cold. "King Robb was mistaken, my lady."

"He legitimised you."

"He was mistaken ." Jon was trying very hard to keep himself stoic, but the anger still felt like it was slipping through.

All my childhood I wanted to be a Stark and now… now I'm finally comfortable being a Snow. I can't fill Robb's role, I can't…

I'm a bastard, he thought with a deep breath. I know I am, I wear that title like armour .

The lords and ladies didn't understand. That was fine, because Jon didn't feel like explaining. He just nodded and stepped back.

"You have the largest army in the north," Lord Wyman said carefully. "You have a dragon. With the support of the lords in this room and your brother's decree, we could win this war in a month."

"I will not steal my brother's inheritance. It was not meant for me,"

Jon growled. His eyes narrowed. "I'm a Snow, not a Stark."

They looked confused. The Greatjon had a deep frown on his face.

He met Lord Wyman's gaze for a moment.

"There is," Galbart Glover said gingerly, "another option."

"Yes," Jon agreed. "We rescue Arya Stark from the Boltons. She is the lady of Winterfell."

"I was not talking of her," he said lowly. "The sons come before the daughters."

Jon frowned. The room was quiet, thoughtful. "What?" he demanded. "What does that mean?"

"It means…" Lord Wyman cleared his throat. "That is another issue concerning the succession, to make matters more complicated. It may well be that King Robb's will is mistaken, as it seems that the reports of your brothers' deaths may have been false."

Jon blinked. "What? Ho-"

"Bran Stark still lives. There good reason to suspect Rickon does as well," Lord Wyman admitted. "They were not killed during the sack of Winterfell as the realm thought. It appears that Theon Greyjoy could not find the Stark children, so he killed two other children in their place."

Jon blinked.

"I heard this first from a witness at Winterfell several months ago," Lord Wyman explained. "I had no proof, but I began my search. I

knew that we needed a Stark, so I investigated all the possibilities. It was only last month that we received confirmation."

"Proof," Jon repeated dumbly. Bran . Rickon . Is this a scheme? Or am I really so lucky that they might still…

"Aye," Ser Wylis said darkly. The Greatjon grumbled something. "When we were being moved north from the Twins, we were going to be traded. Three highborn prisoners in exchange for one Stark. Bran Stark was discovered at Last Hearth, and the castellans there offered a trade."

"You're sure?" Jon pressed, not daring to hope. "You're sure it was actually him?"

"Hother and Mors Umber would not have mistaken him," Lord Manderly said. "They sent ravens to White Harbour as well as Winterfell and King's Landing with the news. I urged them desperately not to go through with the trade, to bring Bran Stark to White Harbour instead, but I could not discourage them."

"I do not know what those fools of my uncles were thinking," the Greatjon growled. His gaze darkened, he looked even angrier. "I should beat them both senseless for even considering a deal like that. I can hardly believe they'd be so foolish."

"Yet there was no trade." Jon felt himself smile. "The crannogmen rescued you before there could be. So where is Bran Stark now - I can find him and rescue him on dragonback."

His heart was beating faster. My brother. My brother is still alive. Why was no one else ecstatic with the news?

He met Lord Wyman's eyes, and they were grim. "At their last message," he said slowly, "Bran Stark was being held at Last Hearth. Then the castle was attacked and razed by Bolton forces weeks ago."

The Greatjon shifted, glaring down at the floor. "It was the Bastard of Bolton, and his thugs," Lady Maege explained. "Fiends worse than rabid dogs. We think the Bastard's Boys disguised themselves as refugees and snuck inside the castle among the smallfolk. They set an ambush from within and without at the same time."

"So… so where is Bran Stark now?"

"As far as anyone can guess?" Lord Wyman said grimly. "Your brother has been captured and is in the care of Ramsay Bolton."

Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Jon

The mattress was soft. Satin sheets, pillows of goose down. The four-poster bed was by far the softest and most luxurious he had ever slept on - a bed fit for an actual king. Naked, silver-eyed, mermaids were engraved on the bedposts. The pillows and sheets felt suffocating, as if he was sinking into them. If he hadn't have been so exhausted, Jon wouldn't have been able to sleep at all.

Jon was up early, before the first light of dawn. There's a war to plan, he thought grimly. Kings don't get the luxury of sleep . Still, his head felt foggy, his eyes ached, and his muscles stiff - he could feel the strain of too many long days and short nights taking their toll.

White Harbour was churning for war. From the window, he saw the curled white dragon snoozing at the mouth of the harbour like a great marble sentinel, his body curled over the Seal Rock so his long tail dangled into the water.

The castle felt half-asleep, but there were still eight guards posted in the outer chambers of his quarters, and then four of his Dragonguard in the inner chambers to watch over the Manderly men. As he passed, Jon noticed that Furs had shaved to fit in with the southerners, and the man looked queer without his bushy brown beard. Too long-necked and weak-chinned.

Jon was to break his fast with Lord Wyman, yet an idea had come to him the night before that he wanted to see to first.

"Bullden," Jon called to the wildling. "Meet me in the solar. We have matters to discuss."

Bullden Horn followed. The solar was unfamiliar to Jon, yet the stewards had left a tankard of wine on the desk. Jon was about to pour a glass, before remembering his audience. He passed the whole tankard to Bullden and spared the glasses.

"What is wrong, king?" his Dragonguard asked.

"How well do you know Skagos?" Jon queried.

Bullden frowned. "Is that a jape?" The man had changed his tunic from the castle's laundry, but no matter what he wore he always kept his unicorn horn hanging around his neck.

"Of course," he said with a smile. "Lord Wyman believes that my youngest brother Rickon might have taken shelter on Skagos. The lord has been unable to mount a search party, but I would like you to search for my brother, rescue him, and bring him to safety. You are familiar enough to search the isle?"

"Oh aye. I've raided Skagos half my life. How old is your brother?"

"Nearly six."

"Then he better be one hell of a tough six-year-old to survive on that isle," Bullden warned. "It ain't place for anything but the tough."

"He has a direwolf with him," said Jon. Shaggydog had always been the most aggressive out of the litter. "And he is in the company of a spearwife. Lord Wyman has a witness who said they fled to Skagos." His eyes hardened. "This is important, Bullden. We need a Stark to reclaim Winterfell. If Arya is a hostage, Bran is missing, then Rickon could be vital to rally the north." While Sansa disappeared, and Lord Wyman has only the faintest suspicions of where she could be .

He scratched his chin. "Then why not fly your dragon over there to find him?"

"I can't." Jon shook his head. "Sonagon creates panic everywhere he goes. If Rickon is truly hiding on Skagos, he could be endangered in the chaos a dragon sighting will cause. I can't risk flying my dragon in blind, and a small party on the ground stands the best chance of tracking him down. Find my brother first, and then I can fly in to bring him home. Can you do that?"

"Last time I went to Skagos, I was hunting unicorn," Bullden scoffed, fiddling with the bone horn around his neck. "The stoneborn protect their unicorns viciously, they're… sacred animals to them or whatnot. The best raiders hunt unicorns just to prove that they can. It took me four days to bring that bloody beast down and take its horn, and I had to cut through half a dozen cannibals to do it. Aye, I reckon hunting a child on Skagos can't be any harder than hunting a unicorn there. I can do it."

"Good. Take Eryn and Gerrick with you." Eryn was a sailor from birth, and Dark Gerrick was as fearsome with a blade as anyone. "As well as however many of Lord Manderly's men you think you can move fast with. A ship will take you to Eastwatch, and from there you can cross to Skagos."

"I won't want many of these southrons with me. A few men can move more safely than a dozen. Black sails and small boats are the way to go - I've done that raid a hundred times. Usually from the north, but can't be much different from the south."

"Yes," Jon agreed. "But Rattleshirt will be warned to help however he can. If I thought a fleet would have a better chance, you'd have one."

"If your brother is so important to you, I'll get him," Bullden promised. "But how do I recognise the boy?"

"Lord Manderly has a young man in the castle - a boy called Wex Pyke. He followed Rickon and this spearwife as they fled, so take him with you. The boy is mute, however." Bullden's eyebrows raised. "Yet I'm told that Wex is a clever, resourceful, and eager to prove himself. I've arranged for Wex to squire for you during the journey."

" Squire ?" Bullden snorted.

"To tend to your armour and weapons, manage your horses and luggage. An apprentice," he explained. My Dragonguard are elite warriors, they should act like it. Each member should have at least one squire beneath him. As should I, actually .

Bullden shook his head, but didn't object. "Aye, alright. When do I leave?"

"As soon as possible. And there's one more thing; my wolf will escort you." That took Bullden by surprise. "You will pick up Ghost at Eastwatch," Jon explained. "Take him with you on the boat. If Rickon is on Skagos, then my direwolf stands a very good chance at tracking his. Then, if you do find him, I will know through Ghost and I will be able to meet you on Sonagon."

Wargs," Bullden muttered under his breath, but he nodded. He took a deep gulp of the wine and dropped it on the table. "Aye. Understood."

"Thank you. Send in Hatch when you pass him."

He left. One done . Hatch the Halfgiant traipsed in shortly afterwards.

Jon pushed the tankard of wine to him.

"Hatch," Jon sighed. "I have something to ask of you. You won't understand why, but I just need to do it."

He frowned, but nodded. "I want you to go to the godswood in the Wolf's Den, below New Castle. Make sure you are alone, and sit before the heart tree and describe, out loud, everything that was discussed last night. Mention the need to find my brother, Bran Stark, and ask for help. Repeat three times."

Hatch did look confused. "You want me to pray for you?"

"Something like that," Jon said with a wry smile. "I just ask you to trust me."

Hatch looked puzzled, but he nodded and walked away anyways, albeit frowning. Jon would have done it himself, but then at least two dozen people were likely to follow him and he didn't want to have to explain himself, or turn it into a scene. It was risky to even leave the castle unsupervised. But the three-eyed crow will be watching through the weirwood tree, Jon thought. Let us see whether or not the greenseer can offer some aid in rescuing my family .

Hatch barely left before a servant cautiously summoned him. Jon downed a large gulp of wine himself. So much to do, so little time .

Lord Wyman was waiting in the dining hall. Jon had expected a light meal for the morning, but instead he saw lobster, eel stew and thick pastries covering the table. Even just breaking his fast felt as formal as any great feast. Six nobles and knights of House Manderly sat with them at the table.

"Your Grace," Lord Wyman greeted.

"My lord." It didn't feel quite as tense as the meeting last night, but it was still a long way from being comfortable. "We have a rebellion to plan."

"We do indeed. Have a seat, I find the best plans are ones made over the dining table."

Jon took a seat. All eyes were on him, but he acted as if it didn't affect him. He paused, and then slowly took a slice of bread from the banquet. "Let us start with the obvious question," said Jon. "We declare defiance against House Bolton, and an alliance between you and me. We raise men to bring Roose Bolton to justice. How much support could we expect to raise? And what forces will we face?"

Lord Wyman cracked a lobster's claws roughly. "That… is a difficult question. Lady Mormont will support us steadfastly, and Lord Umber

will fight the Boltons to his last breath. We can raise banners for justice, for punishment for the Red Wedding, for the sack of Winterfell, but without a Stark to rally around our odds plummet." He paused. "Will you please reconsider your brother's decree?"

"No." Jon said, his voice was a bit more of growl than he intended. "We recover Bran and Rickon Stark, and we fight for them."

"Then we are fighting for a King in the North that we do not have," Lord Wyman sighed. "But I can guarantee the loyalty of all lands east of the White Knife, from Widow's Watch and Ramsgate to the Sheepshead Hills and the headwaters of the Broken Branch. I have a fleet of fifty galleys and the men to sail them, I can field four hundred heavy horses, fourteen hundred infantry, and a hundred or so trained knights."

"And Lord Umber? And Lady Mormont?"

"If Lord Umber is capable of returning to his lands to raise swords? Potentially a thousand. Lady Mormont I suspect a few hundred or so. Lord Glover has lost his seat and is in a more difficult position, yet perhaps in the hundreds. There are factions from the battle at Winterfell that won't sit quietly, either."

"And the Boltons have…?"

"Houses Ryswell, Dustin, Hornwood, Cerwyn, and Karstark. As well as two thousand of the Frey army that marched north with them. I hear that their forces sits at ten thousand. Whether or not they can raise more, hmm, I cannot say."

"What of reinforcements from the Iron Throne?"

"Very doubtful. The Lannisters fight this arisen dragon, and the Tyrells the kraken. Let us say ten thousand, as a broad guess of what we might face."

"Ten thousand," Jon repeated. "I have five thousand men from Eastwatch already in the field. By now, the numbers of wildlings that are south of the Wall has likely exceeded fifty thousand, including women, children and elderly. I suspect that, should I call for them, then at least ten thousand of those would be ready to fight - the free folk have a higher proportion of fighters than any other; both men and women."

"And a dragon."

"Yes. The dragon is well worth a hundred thousand by itself."

There was a dark glint in the fat lord's eyes. I can see why Lord Wyman is pushing so hard for an alliance. Even with the lords Umber, Mormont and Glover by him, White Harbour cannot not match the Bolton forces by themselves.

"Yet there is a catch, my lord," Jon continued. "The free folk are not a unified host. They are not trained soldiers, they do not have formation or ranks."

"Yet they will follow you?"

"They will," he said. "But they need supplies. They need food, blankets and rations sent to the Wall. They need armour and good steel."

"I can provide it," Lord Wyman promised. "I have silver in my vaults that I am prepared to spend. There are many silversmiths in White Harbour."

"I care for steel more than silver now, my lord. And for grain more than gold. The need is urgent; there are starving, exposed mouths on the Wall and the weather is turning."

"And there is a fleet in my harbour that could deliver aid," said Lord Wyman. "But right now, I need manpower. I need soldiers guarding my lands, to allow our allies muster their forces."

"There are five thousand free folk in the Grey Cliffs, led by a man named the Weeper. I can summon them to White Harbour."

"Ah yes . The same army that half the north has been preparing to fight against. Any alliance with wildlings will be dangerous, but…" He thought about it. "I need guarantees that there will be no raiding and pillaging of my lands. I have seen refugees pour into my city from Karstark lands, and I cannot suffer the same. By your word, King Snow; you must keep your wildlings in order."

"Aye," Jon agreed. "The Weeper is a hard man, and he knows the stakes. He will keep order."

"I must hold you to that, King Snow," Lord Wyman warned. "For it is the only way that this alliance has a hope of succeeding."

Jon didn't reply. He wished he felt as confident as he spoke. I must fly to the Weeper, to make sure they're keeping the rules . "You holdKarhold, do you not?" Lord Wyman demanded.

"Aye."

"And Lord Karstark still lives?"

"As a hostage. Him and his wife."

"I know of Cregan Karstark. His father Arnolf was a castellan, yet his son became lord by marrying his cousin. It should be Rickard Karstark's eldest, Harrion Karstark, the rightful lord, but he was being held prisoner at Duskendale and may already be dead." Lord Wyman thought about it. "If Cregan is a prisoner, then we can push Karstark forces into our ranks. We convince the new Lord Karstark that he is better served as an ally than a hostage."

"Is it needed? I have a second host under Tormund Giantsbane already mustering in the north, and we have something of a fleet stationed at Eastwatch." Jon nodded. "In terms of numbers, it seems we already have the advantage."

"It is not the numbers that concerns me, it is the men. What type of war do you want this to be, King Snow?" Lord Wyman crunched through a pastry roll. "The Boltons will never fight a pitched battle that they cannot win. Do you wish to see burning farms and poisoned wells? Do you want to see riots in every town and village, defiance in every corner? Even if we win, this war could tear the north apart - turmoil and strife, murder until our forces are stretched on every side. No, I will not let it occur."

"Then we are agreed." Jon kept eye contact. "Aye, a thousand pinpricks could hurt us more than a blade."

"Then heed my advice," the fat lord warned. "I know Roose Bolton. The man does not fight a battle without preparing for both outcomes. Before he allows himself to lose, he will turn any victory for us into something bitter. He will scatter his forces and turn them into bandits and raiders. He will burn crops and slaughter cattle until we all lose come winter. He will incite such violence and discord that even if we kill him, his legacy will be worse than a thousand battles. He might not win, but he could well deny us a victory."

"His own reign will fall apart before that," Jon said. "The other lords will not let him do it."

"Oh, they might. If you are naught more than a wildling invader, then this realm will deny you to their very last. What does it matter what you are, compared to what they see you as? Regardless of your intentions, you could easily become a tyrant invader king, and I the fat, spineless lord that was cowed to support you. Smallfolk will rise against you in every corner." He shook his head, crumbs of pastry flying from his whiskers. "No, if this war dissolves into bitter skirmishes then the damage could be devastating. It must end in battle, or it may not end at all.

"Do not underestimate House Bolton, Your Grace," Lord Wyman warned darkly, as he cut from loaf of bread to slather butter on. "Do not dismiss the grief that a smaller force can inflict, if they are vicious

enough. Roose Bolton is as dangerous as they come, and to say nothing of his son…"

"Ramsay Bolton." Jon's voice was cold. The man who married and tortures my sister.

"Ramsay Snow," a knight spoke up from the table. Jon didn't know his name. "A bastard born of rape. He is a Snow, no matter what the boy king says."

Jon's hands tightened. "He concerns me," Lord Wyman continued. "Roose Bolton is cunning, but predictable enough, in his own way. But Ramsay? There is no predicting him. The Boltons have always been as cruel as they were cunning, but this one seems a beast in human skin."

Jon didn't reply. His gaze was dark.

Lord Wyman picked up the knife again to cut a slice of pie. "No, we are not lacking forces. We are lacking legitimacy . The only way to beat Roose Bolton in the long run is to have every house supporting us, to have a rightful claim to Winterfell. To ensure that they are thetyrants and we the champions."

Lord Manderly has his wits, Jon thought quietly. Jon wanted to deny it, but a war was more than just men marching into battle. It wasn't simple, it could never be simple. I tried to make it simple and I ended up surrounded by the corpses of hostages. I will not make the same mistake twice .

"Words are wind, Lord Wyman. We could sit here, eat lobster and talk about it until winter comes for us all," Jon said stiffly. "But how do we make it so?"

"Beyond finding a legitimate member of House Stark?" Lord Wyman muttered, and then swallowed.

"We do have a legitimate member of House Stark. Arya Stark." Jon said harshly. "She was forced into marriage under duress, their wedlock is invalid. Without knowing my brothers' fates, she is the Lady of Winterfell, so we gather banners to rescue her."

"Yet that is a more difficult war cry to call. Would you not reconsid-"

No ." If I took the name Stark, would I be damning Arya's rescue as unnecessary? "Do not ask me again."

"Then I suggest marriages," Lord Wyman sighed. "We must seek to arrange as many betrothals and alliances as possible between northern highborn and the leaders among your wildlings."

"That… that is a good idea. Strengthen the bonds to the north." And give the free folk less reason to pillage . "But they are wildlings.Would any noble lord truly entertain the notion of a betrothal to one?"

"Many won't," Lord Wyman admitted. "But we should be considering petty lords rather than great lords. Each marriage is a thread of string that brings your wildlings, and yourself, closer to being accepted by the realm; we should aim to facilitate as many as we can. Hundreds, mayhaps."

He frowned. "Why would so many petty lords ever consider such?"

"Consider their situation. A small lord and his holdfast may have only a dozen or so fighting men under him. If they hear of a wildling army coming south and threatening their lands, lives and livelihoods, then their circumstances become dire. Such a lord may quite happily consider wedding his daughter to a wildling chieftain or leader, if it would ensure the safety of his holdings." He nodded. "There are many such petty lords in the north, these lands are vast. A strong wildling warrior could make a good match to northern lady, provided there is influence promised and the wealth to provide a dowry, of course. Do you have, ahem, commanders in your army that could consent to such?"

"I have." Although the thought of arranging marriages on their behalf made his head spin. "They may be… difficult matches, but, yes, in the right circumstances."

"The lords of the White Knife will follow my lead. I know that Lord Holt of Westwood has two daughters that he would see married, the house owns large grain farms and a mill outside of Ramsgate. It is very important to secure our farmland. Lord Dywen Poole has a mature daughter who was widowed in the Young Wolf's campaign, as well as a young son who has proved problematic to betroth. Lord Anders of House Overton is an old man, but a good warrior in his heyday and still an influential name - he may well accept a young wildling bride. Perhaps even our Lord Locke, Lord of Oldcastle, could be convinced to betroth one of his grandchildren for the cause." Lord Wyman paused. "Would you care for a scribe to make note of this, King Snow?"

"I think that would be best, Lord Manderly."

Jon summoned Sam towards the dining table with parchment to scrabble notes and names as they discussed. Lord Wyman called for his castellan, and several other men who were more familiar with the minor nobility. Together, they went through and made lists of lords and ladies who could be willing to accept wildling betrothals. There are so many houses that Jon had vaguely heard of but couldn't even place, with names like Forrester, Lake, Harclay, Ashwood, or Slate.

Scribbled lists were made until the ink spills stained the parchments: the most influential of the petty houses and landed knights, and the wealth, men and influence they might bring. Soon, there were arguments erupting on whether Lord Lake's twice-widowed and dim-witted daughter was still marriageable, or whether House Whitehill would support a second-cousin over an unpopular nephew, or whether House Lightfoot's wool and furs were worth more than House Slate's rockeries.

Jon had to wrack his brain to suggest matches from loyal clans and leaders in the free folk host. It was like every option had to be ranked

and matched. The great and old houses, with names like Umber, Karstark, Mormont or Manderly, were by far the most valuable alliances, but Lord Wyman seemed more interested in quantity than anything.

"Threads of string, King Snow," the lord said when Jon asked. "The realm will only accept your wildlings if they become part of the realm. With enough threads of string you can weave a rope."

"And yet shouldn't we be considering great lords as well?"

"We will," Lord Wyman said with a nod. "But the great lords will be more willing to accept wildling betrothals if the petty lords beneath them have done the same. Start from the bottom. There is also the matter of cost - each of these potential betrothals will need require a dowry, and it is far cheaper to pay the dowries for ten minor houses than for one greater one."

Politics . Lord Wyman said it so matter of fact. The decisions I make at this table could well shape the rest of people's lives . It was an unnerving thought, more so than leading them into battle for some reason.

Lord Wyman hunched over parchments, lips muttering as he read back through the notes. "Lord Umber should be involved in here," he decided. "House Umber has more lesser lords sworn to it than anyone. Further, lands to the north are the most critical, as well as the most urgent, in building relations." He paused. "Mayhaps we could even convince Lord Umber to take a wildling wife himself."

"The Greatjon? Truly?"

"It would go a long way, if it is possible to persuade him," Lord Wyman admitted. "Lord Umber lost his eldest son and heir at the Red Wedding. He did have two more sons and three daughters, but two daughters were lost to wildling raids and the circumstances of the rest are uncertain after the attack on Last Hearth. The Greatjon

could possibly be pushed to accept a new wife for the future of his house and the security of his land."

Jon couldn't imagine anyone pushing the Greatjon, but he nodded in any case. Sam scribbled down Lord Umber's name, with a question mark.

"What of lords south of the Neck?" Sam asked suddenly. "Why not reach out to southern lords for alliances as well?"

"We'd be overreaching ourselves to attempt such, I think." Lord Wyman shook his head. "No, if this to succeed we must aim to work for the north . Leave the riverlands to their own conflicts."

"The riverlords supported Robb Stark as well," Jon noted.

"It was the riverlands and their squabbles that damned King Robb. He crowned himself King of the North and of the Riverlands, but an area as central as the riverlands could never be defended. Robb Stark lingered south to protect the riverlords - a noble effort, aye, but also futile. As the war shifted, we all knew the riverlands would have to be abandoned, and yet Robb still lingered for their sake." Lord Wyman's voice turned bitter. "If only your brother had returned north sooner, to consolidate his power in the Kingdom of the North, the tyrants of the south would have lost tens of thousands of men trying to break the Neck to end our independence." The lord's face scowled slightly. "No, we need nothing from the southerners, least of all to be embroiled in their conflicts. Dragonfire was the only thing capable of forcing the north to kneel, and now that is no longer a concern of ours," he said with a soft smile towards Jon.

Jon frowned. "It is surprising to hear you say such. Didn't House Manderly originate from the Reach?"

"Aye, for thousands of years we were the lords of the Mander; in the age of the Gardener kings we grew to one of the most powerful forces in the Kingdom of the Reach. And yet House Manderly was the only major house under the Oakenseat not to claim descent from

Garth Greenhand, and so, despite our riches and influence, we were constantly slighted in favour of those with a better bloodline. The Peakes were envious, the Gardeners insecure and the Tyrells grasping. A thousand years ago our lands and castle was finally usurped, and we were left exiled." Lord Wyman scoffed quietly. "Yet when I look back through my family's history, leaving the Reach for the Starks of Winterfell was the best decision my ancestors ever made. Winterfell has been naught but good and loyal to us, while the south continues to squirm like a pit of vipers. We are northmen, that is the only loyalty my family knows. The blasted iron chair is nothing to me - White Harbour will fight for independence in the north."

There was an iron passion in his voice, Jon noted. "The north has been part of the Seven Kingdoms for three hundred years," Sam said nervously. "The Iron Throne unites the realm."

"And yet I wager that the Iron Throne will fall within my lifetime," Lord Wyman said, with cold anger. "It has been falling for the last seventeen years, in fact. Ever since Robert Baratheon broke the Targaryen dynasty, the Seven Kingdoms has fallen into decline. Succession and order was broken, a once iron-clad reign was shattered and flimsily patched together. The war proved that, and continues to do so. Each claimant is another hole poked in the broken rule of the boy king, they come one after another. Even after one set of contenders falls, another set takes their place. And the rebellions will continue to rise and fall until finally the Iron Throne is ground into dust. Southron affairs are best severed before they hurt us further. I would build a wall across the Neck if I could."

Sam looked like he wanted to object, but Jon just nodded. "And to unite the north," Jon said, trying to push the subject back on track, "what would it take for the lords under House Karstark to accept the free folk host?"

The discussion continued. It turned into the longest meal Jon had ever had. By the end, if felt like they had been through every house in the north and there was still so much more to go. Jon could only promise to inquire on which of his followers could be rewarded with

an arranged marriage, and the first of the dozens of letters were drafted.

Lord Wyman pressed him on which lands north of the Wall could be used to incite allies, on whether to name new lords north of the Wall, to form new houses of allies. Jon kept himself focused and patient, working through each detail in turn. One problem at a time .

Eventually, Jon agreed take both Lord Wyman's cousin, Marrion Manderly, and Lord Locke's grandson, Bennard Locke, as his squires, as well as to consider naming several northern lords to his Dragonguard. Jon donated the gold they had raided from the Twins to House Manderly, while the lord would make inquiries into arranging some of the betrothals. Lord Wyman promised to arrange the captains and ships to move supplies to Eastwatch, provided that Jon could bring the free folk host at Karhold into line.

There was still so much to discuss. Which houses will be burned in dragonfire and which ones will be negotiated with, Jon thought.

"Let us retire for now," Lord Wyman said with a sigh. It was already late afternoon. "Yet we must still write a letter, King Snow. Many letters. To announce our alliance and our intent to the entire realm - let no lord be unaware that the dragon and the wildlings fight for justice, and for House Stark."

"Aye, I agree." Jon nodded. He had seen too much panic and uncertainty already. "That is urgent."

"Then I will arrange a gathering of the nobles in White Harbour this evening. We will need to rally their support, and then we can inform every castle in the north."

"Good." Jon hesitated, slightly. "And to the riverlands," he said firmly. "Especially to Houses Blackwood, Vance and Mallister. Any of my brother's supporters who might have lost kin at the Twins. I must offer my apologies, and promise recompense for their losses."

Lord Wyman flickered. "Your Grace, I would urge you not to. There are absolutely no words that you can offer them that would not seem insulting."

"No." Jon shook his head. "They deserve apologies. I mean to pay the gold price. I will offer houses that lost innocent kin at the Twins coin in recompense for their loss."

"I… I would not," Lord Wyman warned. "Giving gold in return for murder only makes bitterness sow deeper. Do not send them any messages, do not admit any responsibility. Let them think the deaths happened as punishment because they conceded to the Freys. It is better to be seen as ruthless than as making a mistake."

Jon could not be persuaded otherwise. The families of those who died deserve something, Jon thought, they were loyal to my brother to the end. Lord Wyman protested, but he conceded eventually.

"From what I hear, the south faces its own strife," Jon said. "Let the riverlords know that the north are still allies, and we could offer support after House Bolton is deposed."

"Very well. I would, however, also suggest penning a letter to this 'Aegon Targaryen' in the south," Lord Wyman said. "He has recently taken Storm's End."

"Aegon Targaryen," Jon repeated. "I heard of him, the contender who leads the Golden Company. What is there for me to say to him?"

"From what I hear, a short message could be a useful thing. Maybe not an alliance, but at least offer an agreement. Agree to leave him to his campaign and us to ours, so that he might distract any southern reinforcements from the north."

"This Aegon," Jon said slowly. A Targaryen in Westeros - can he bond with dragons too? "Is he genuine? Rhaegar's lost son, is it trulyhim?"

"Perhaps. I'm more inclined to name him a pretender, the Imp's little puppet, but his army is effective at least. The Golden Company marched through the stormlands swiftly, and Aegon's forces under Jon Connington have won victories in the crownlands, while Tyrion Lannister leads a force of mercenaries west to Casterly Rock," Lord Wyman explained. "So long as the Golden Company is camped outside King's Landing, however, we can safely expect to be free from Lannister involvement in the north. If Dorne declares for Aegon

and I am hearing strong mutterings that they might - then this returned king might well have a good chance of taking the Iron Throne."

"Aye," Jon nodded. "And what of the other one - this Euron Greyjoy?"

"The Crow's Eye. As mad as they come, I hear, but he dropped the ironborn invasion of the north for favour of warmer plunder." Lord Wyman's huge shoulders shrugged. "I will be a strong advocate of scorching the Iron Islands in frostfire from dragonback, but for the moment Euron Greyjoy is distracted leading reavers in the Reach."

Sam didn't look happy with that statement. How far is Horn Hill from where the ironborn are reaving? Jon wondered. "Whereabouts in theReach is he raiding?" Sam asked. "Ironborn have not threatened the Reach since the days of Dagon Greyjoy. What of the Arbor Fleet?"

"They took the Shield Isles first, and for a time they appeared to be preparing for an assault on Highgarden," Lord Wyman explained. "The Arbor Fleet was left on the wrong coast, in King's Landing. Yet since then, the Shield Isles have been recovered by the forces of Highgarden, and the ironborn have moved south. Most recent news I heard said they had conquered parts of the Arbor, and then Three Towers itself. It does seem that they are preparing for an assault on Oldtown itself."

"Never!" Sam's face paled.

"Aye, he's an ambitious man, this Crow's Eye, but not particularly clever. He failed to secure a foothold against Highgarden, and he is a fool again if he thinks Oldtown will be easier prey. The kraken does not have the tentacles." Lord Wyman shook his head. "No, the Crow's Eye will not succeed. He does not have the men, and he faces forty thousand of the Reach's finest to oppose him. Still, so long as Euron Greyjoy is keeping the Tyrells and their fleet busy in the Reach then that is only good for us."

"But not good for the Reach," Jon noted.

"Does it matter? While the other six kingdoms are preoccupied with their own civil wars, we have an opportunity. To establish our independence before any might break it."

It took two guards to help Lord Wyman to his feet. There were still platters of food left on the table. Jon left with Sam, and Sam promised to sort through the pages of scribbled notes. "Are you happy with this plan?" Sam asked as they walked down the corridor. "To break away from the Seven Kingdoms altogether…"

"No," Jon said slowly. "I don't agree with Lord Wyman on that matter; I think that Westeros is strongest when it is united." He paused. "But he's right in one respect; there can be no unification with the crown as it stands. The Seven Kingdoms are falling apart."

Jon took a detour out onto the balcony, feeling the cold air whip around him as soon as he opened the door. The view from New Castle overlooking the city was stunning, but the coastal wind felt bone-chilling as it swept across the white cliffs. The seagulls cawed out over the coast, but otherwise the city seemed strangely deserted. There were no ships leaving the city.

Even from this distance, Jon could see Sonagon roosting atop Seal Rock. The old ringfort of the First Men seemed a comfortable perch for the dragon. As he watched, the dragon splashed down into the water, swimming towards the cliffs so the dragon could scratch and

chew curiously at the white cliffs of the coast. From the docks, he saw figures pointing and staring out across the coast.

I'm a long way from Hardhome, Jon thought with a soft sigh. Today, he had to barter an alliance between great lords, arrange several dozen marriages, secure a fleet of ships to provide aid, and declare independence and rebellion against the crown. Tomorrow, he would wage war on dragonback. Somewhere in between, he would have to figure out a way to save his brothers, and stop a white walker. Those are the stakes now .

But with White Harbour's partnership, there is a good chance . House Manderly took a huge risk reaching out to him, but they were invested against the Boltons and they had much to gain. With all the resentment after the Red Wedding and the fear of the dragon, they could likely gather allies.

Jon stared out over the city. The Lannister's crowned lion wasn't flying over White Harbour anymore. Instead, once more the Manderlys had raised the grey direwolf of the Starks. He could only imagine the ripples that would be spreading around the north.

He wished he could go down into the streets, to find out what the common people were saying of him. What was the mood in the city? Were they terrified of the dragon lingering at their port? Were they furious at the news of defiance against the crown? Were they plotting to flee or incite riots? Were they cheering at news of an alliance, or celebrating vengeance for the Red Wedding?

Jon wanted to go down and find out, but he couldn't. He was likely to trigger a riot if he stepped out of New Castle. I am the wildling, dragon-warg king, after all .

Spending so long discussing politics had left him stressed and tense. His head ached from so many thoughts and concerns, possibilities and chances. All of the numbers of men and potential alliances. Back with the free folk, negotiating for so long would have probably

ended in a brawl by now. Somehow, sitting at a table and just talking left him feeling more exhausted than a dozen fights.

Jon paused, thinking of the fat lord and his great dinner table. Is it strange that I miss the fights?

He took a long breath, and rubbed his face to try and clear his eyes.

A good spar felt more and more appealing.

Jon found Ser Wylan quickly. The castellan seemed to be following Jon around, to ensure he was content. "The sparring yard," Jon demanded. "Where is it?"

The man directed him into the wards. Jon heard the thuds of colliding tourney swords. Knights and soldiers were drilling constantly for battle. The grounds seemed to quieten as Jon stepped into the courtyard. All eyes looked at him, but Jon ignored them all.

"Toregg," Jon called to his Dragonguard. "Care to spar?"

Toregg grinned. He was a foot taller than Tormund was, and he fought with a bastard, bone-hilted iron longsword. "Aye, King Snow," he said in a deep voice.

"Tourney swords?" Jon offered with a smile.

"Now where's the fun in that?" The wildling laughed, in a deep boom.

Jon could see the similarities with his father sometimes.

Jon drew Dark Sister. A few onlookers stopped to stare at the spar. Metal blades clashed, Valyrian steel against dull iron. Toregg was a good sparring partner, but not an especially challenging one.

His reach is long, and he's powerful with a strong form . Jon couldn't match him easily in strength. Still, Toregg's footwork was predictable, and he swung his sword like a maul. He would overextend himself in the long swings, and would flail slightly against sudden counterattacks.

After a dozen strikes, the flat of Dark Sister slapped against Toregg's ankle. The tall man winced. "Keep your arms up," Jon warned. "If you're going to fight with no shield, you can't risk leaving yourself open."

"Aye," he said, panting for breath.

"Are you sure you don't want to use tourney swords?"

"Those wooden things? Like twigs. How you supposed to fight properly holding something like that?"

Jon shrugged. The image of Arya flashed before his eyes. "You stick them with the pointy end."

They clashed again. Jon focused on defence and parrying, challenging himself to try and meet Toregg's reach. Jon saw opportunities to counterattack but didn't take them, trying to make the spar last.

"That sword," a voice boomed across the yard suddenly, "where did you get it?"

Jon broke off. He could see the Greatjon looking at him across the yard. The Dragonguard were all staring at the big lord. "From a friend, my lord," Jon replied.

"That's Valyrian steel," the Greatjon said suspiciously. "But I've never seen one so fine."

"Aye. Her name is Dark Sister."

"Dark Sister." His eyes flashed. "A Targaryen sword."

"Once."

That seemed to catch him off guard. "I don't know what the hell you are, 'King Snow', but I don't trust you," the Greatjon said, shaking his head. "The fat lord will stammer and beg, but don't expect me to."

"I would never Lord Umber." Toregg glanced at him, but Jon shook his head quietly. Jon stepped forward. "Would you care for a spar, my lord?"

He blinked. "A spar."

"If you would like," Jon offered, nodding. "You seem restless."

"Do not get arrogant, boy," the Greatjon warned. "Aye, lets spar. Squire, bring me my steel."

The castellan looked nervous. "Please, my lord, perhaps tourney swords inste-"

"No," the Greatjon growled. "King Snow seems to prefer steel."

The huge man flexed slowly as he stepped downwards. Nearly seven feet tall and heavily muscled. Jon paused, he wore a helm, gauntlets and greaves, full armour, for the spar. Jon debated bringing a shield as well, but then he saw the Greatjon's weapon - a greatsword bigger and uglier than any he had ever seen - and he decided that a shield would be useless. The Greatjon's blade was like a sharpened slab of steel, one of the few that could even make his father's greatsword Ice appear small.

Perhaps this wasn't a good ide a, Jon admitted silently as they sized up. He had wanted to make a point.

By the time the Greatjon even lifted his sword upwards, a large crowd had formed. Everyone stopped to watch.

He's a big man - big men tend to attack fast and hard. Survive the first few strikes and you have an advantage. Watch his footwork, and just don't try to parry against that greatsword…

"Anything to say?" the Greatjon growled, lowering his helm. "Let us fight, my lord."

With a grunt, he attacked first. Jon could almost feel the ground shake as the armoured, towering lord swung at him. He thought of the actual giants he'd seen. He's a big man, Jon thought, but I've fought bigger .

Jon sidestepped the first two strikes. The third one very nearly took Dark Sister out of his grip, but then he barely managed to break the lock to counterattack. The Greatjon avoided Dark Sister smoothly.

For a big man with a cumbersome weapon, he has a perfect form, Jon thought. He reminds me of the Weeper, actually .

Jon attacked first this time, quick sudden slashes and strikes. Dark Sister clunked against that ugly greatsword.

"You seem to dislike me, Lord Umber," Jon growled between the ringing of steel.

"You let wildlings in to ravage my lands," the Greatjon growled as he parried. "My people. My family . Aye, we won't be friends."

"It seems to me the Boltons have been doing more ravaging than anyone."

"And that's the only reason you're still breathing in my presence."

He saw him preparing to swing. Jon backed away quickly, and the Greatjon lunged. Jon parried, but the force of the blow still sent him flailing to the stones. He wheezed.

"I am sorry about your two daughters, Lord Umber," Jon said, panting as he stood up again.

"Don't mention my daughters," he warned. The Greatjon stunk of booze and sweat, like a perfume clinging to his leathers. "They were only babes when the wildlings attacked their caravan. I can name a dozen families that have lost babes and kin to wildling raids. It makes me sick to have to ally myself with someone like you."

Swords clashed again. Jon struck three times for every one of his, but each strike from him felt devastatingly powerful. Perhaps he was expecting Jon to back away. He didn't.

"I cannot do anything for your girls," said Jon. "But perhaps we can stop anymore daughters from being taken!"

"I told you not to mention them!" the Greatjon growled, swiping up and then swinging hard. Jon sidestepped the first but the second swing… there was no choice but drop downwards as the blade whooshed overhead. Jon fell to the cobbles again. "My girls were stolen and taken the gods-know-where, and you expect me to give their killers fucking amnesty ?"

The Greatjon was over him. Jon kicked out and jumped to his feet, pushing so close into the big man's defence he could hardly even swing the greatsword.

"Let the wildlings be on this side of the Wall," Jon hissed between frenzied blows. The Greatjon tried to shoulder-barge him. It very nearly knocked him down again, but he spun. "If there are raids, we will know the responsible and then we can bring punishment to them. There could be accountability - punishment against those who commit the crimes rather than the whole people. Give wildlings a chance to learn of law and justice." Metal clashed. Jon pushed with everything he had, trying just to push the Greatjon on to the backfoot. "Having a Wall between them only serves to encourage more wildlings raiding over it!"

The lord recovered by kicking Jon away. Jon had to back off as soon as that greatsword was raised. Still, the greatsword had notches taken out of it, while Dark Sister remained flawless. It's an exceptional blade .

"This could be a chance to stop the casualties for good, Lord Umber," Jon said, panting heavily now. "Rather than fighting off one raid and then the next, we could change things for good."

"You want to talk about casualties?" he growled. "Tell me, if they hadn't have moved me from the Twins, maybe if they delayed and left me in the dungeons. Would I still be alive right now?"

Jon didn't reply. The lord struck back, hard. "You've got a bloody dragon. We side with you to defeat our enemy, fine - but what about when you decide we're your enemy too?" The blades clanged. "What if you decide to take whatever you want, like your wildlings?"

He couldn't reply. It took every bit of speed and concentration he had to fall backwards from the swooshing blade.

"What if I strike a bit too hard?" the Greatjon growled furiously. "What if I part your neck from your head? Maybe I could get rid of another tyrant king right here and now."

"Maybe you could," Jon panted, struggling to pull himself straight. "But we have a chance for peace or a certainty of war. Which one would you prefer?"

The Greatjon's jaw clenched. He didn't reply.

Jon attacked first this time. He could feel his movements becoming sluggish, tired. "Only together can we actually do something good," Jon panted. "I know what the stakes are here."

"You don't know a bloody thing," he snarled. "I watched my son be murdered right in front of me. I watched my king shot full of bolts and stabbed by that traitor. They tried to drink me under the table that night and I was left flailing drunk when they came for me. I spent six months being tortured by those murderers." Jon saw wide, bulgingeyes under the helm. "And when I escaped, my home had been sacked, my entire family could well be dead. Do you think you understand my rage?"

"I do understand," Jon panted. "This war killed my family too."

They kept on fighting for a while. The next time Jon hit the ground, he pulled himself up, and had to surrender. It was becoming too dangerous to avoid the Greatjon's sword the wearier he became. Jon was panting heavily as he bowed and conceded the fight.

Still, the Greatjon was panting too. He was bleeding slightly from his hand where Jon clipped him, and Dark Sister cleaved straight through the gauntlets. For a long time, the Greatjon just stood and glared, still gripping his greatsword.

"You're a fighter, Jon Snow," the lord said finally, as he turned to walk away.

Jon took a deep breath. Gods, if the Greatjon is weakened at all by his captivity, I can't see it . The man fights like a monster.

The Dragonguard helped him out of the armour. Jon saw Sam staring at him with wide eyes. "You nearly had him," said Sam breathlessly. "For a moment, I thought you were going to take the bout."

Jon shook his head. "No. He beat me soundly. He is bigger and stronger, and he was holding back."

"But he's the Greatjon !" Sam hissed. "One of the strongest living men in Westeros. You matched him blow for blow."

Jon allowed himself a small smile. There were others in the crowd mimicking Sam's expression. The Weeper had been slightly better, Jon thought, or maybe I had just been more tired in that fight .

He was limping badly as retreated back to his quarters. He needed to stretch and relax his leg again, smoothing out the cramps. There was a brand new bruise on his chest, shaped like the Greatjon's boot.

Still, Jon couldn't help but grin. His hands were shaking and muscles were aching, but it was a good pain - like stretching stiff muscles.

He had a barely settled when he heard a rapt knock on the door. It opened and he saw a grey-haired, hard faced woman walk through, arms folded. Jon ordered the Dragonguard to leave him. Lady Maege seemed to walk everywhere wearing her grey, patched ringmail. Her eyes were guarded.

"Lady Mormont," Jon said, nodding. "What can I do for you?"

"Just wanted to share some words," she said dourly. "Should I call you 'Your Grace'?"

"If you wish."

"Then let's not. You don't appear to be comfortable with the title." She walked forward glancing around the room. "I saw you in the courtyard. You are skilled with a blade, especially for one so young."

"Thank you, my lady," he replied, coolly.

"And Lord Umber was right. That sword is a Targaryen blade - you say it is Dark Sister? Once wielded by Visenya Targaryen, I believe. A slender blade; designed for woman's hand originally, but you swing it with enough grace." Her voice was suspicious.

"Aye, and it was last wielded by Bryden Rivers, the Bloodraven, when he took the black. It went missing north of the Wall and ended up in my possession." That was true, at least, though Jon wouldn't mention the greenseer.

"Indeed." She cocked her head. "You are not what we expected."

"Should I apologise?"

"Don't. Lord Manderly prepared White Harbour for a savage wildling king. The whole north has been hearing tales of the King-Beyond-the-Wall that could curdle blood. I thought our host was a fool when he suggested we may make an alliance with the king that broke the

Wall. So did many." She had a piercing gaze. "And yet instead, here you stand."

Jon didn't reply. When in doubt, stay silent. She met his eyes, critically, and seemed to frown.

"Let me state the obvious. You can guarantee that others are thinking it. You have white hair, you control a dragon, and you wield a Targaryen sword."

"White is not my natural hair colour." "Nevertheless." The single word hung in the air.

"I am a bastard, my lady," Jon said, answering the unspoken question. "I do not know my mother's heritage."

She paused. "I heard of you at Winterfell," she admitted. "Did you know that the rumour was that you were born from Ashara Dayne?"

That caught him off-guard. "I… I did not."

"Your father was quite taken with Ashara Dayne at Harrenhal, shortly before the war. His brother Brandon teased him relentlessly on it," Lady Maege explained. "When the war broke out, they always said that Lady Ashara was pregnant."

"Ashara Dayne," he repeated. He knew only vague mentions about her. The sister of Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, the finest knight in the realm. House Dayne, one of the most ancient and noble families in Westeros. "I… I don't…"

"Tis a sad tale. Lady Ashara was said to be a great beauty, dark haired with the brightest violet eyes," Lady Maege explained. "And then towards the end of the war, Ned Stark rode to the Tower of Joy - a misnamed place if there ever was one - to rescue his sister. He slew Ser Arthur Dayne in single combat, and afterwards returned his greatsword to Starfall. Lady Dayne threw herself out of the Palestone

Tower in grief. And from there Lord Stark rode back to Winterfell carrying you, a babe."

Jon's head was spinning. Lady Dayne. Does that make me Jon Sand? A child born of war. Did my father really kill my uncle, and my mother committed suicide? Is that what I was to him, a reminder of the love he lost…?

She was looking straight at him. Jon took a deep breath. "Did House Dayne have any Old Valyrian blood in it? Blood of dragonlords?"

"Not as far as I'm aware," she replied. "House Dayne descends from the First Men. If you are looking for women that have Valyrian ancestry then I can think of few options. Some daughter of House Celtigar or Velaryon? It is possible, I suppose." Her tone was doubtful. "As is some dragonseeds or Targaryen bastards. As far as the mainline of House Targaryen goes, well…" She stopped to think. "As far as I'm aware, there was only one mature Targaryen woman around at the time; Queen Rhaella Targaryen, wife of the Mad King. And she was pregnant. Do you think it's likely that Ned Stark had a clandestine affair with his liege's wife?"

The thought was so outlandish Jon could have laughed. "Of course not!"

"Then I run out of options who could be your mother," she with a nod. "I vaguely recall someone mentioning a nursemaid that Lord Stark met in Starfall, but I cannot attest to it."

Jon shook his head. "I spent my childhood agonising over the identity of my mother, I will not do it any longer. No matter who she is, serving girl or highborn, it doesn't matter."

"Is your mother why you refuse to accept your brother's will?" Her voice turned sharp. "To refuse legitimisation?"

"No," Jon admitted. The room was quiet, he kept his voice low. "But I know of the Great Bastards, my lady. I know of the Blackfyre

Rebellions. If I took the name Stark, then that would be one more insult my enemies would throw at me. Pretender. Usurper . It is a name that will only divide when we should unite." Jon shook his head, and laughed hollowly. "Just another bastard trying to steal the realm. I will not do it."

For a moment, there was some strange expression he couldn't recognise in Lady Maege's eyes. "Indeed. You are interesting man, King Snow."

"Thank you, my lady."

"I'm not so sure it was compliment."

He smiled softly. "Very well."

"Answer me one thing," she said. "What happened to my brother, Jeor Mormont?"

Jon's eyes flickered. "He is dead. He died on a ranging north."

Her face frowned; not angry, just faintly sad. "I thought as much. Did you kill him?"

"No, I did not. I swear it, my lady, he died fighting the Others, not the free folk." There was no immediate reaction, just a quiet nod. "I'm sorry for your loss," Jon said after a pause, sounding earnest.

She sighed. "My brother was an insufferable, grouchy, little sod," Lady Maege said with a grunt. "Part of me thought he took the black just because he couldn't stand my presence. But he was my brother, and I loved him, wretched fool as he was." After a moment's pause, she frowned. "And what happened to his sword? Our family's sword, Longclaw?"

Jon's face was pained. "It was lost, my lady." It felt like something else needed to be said. "I wish I could have saved him."

"If wishes were warmth then summer would last forever, King Snow," she said curtly, walking towards the door. "But I believe Lord Manderly would see us shortly. There is a war to declare."

"Very well," Jon nodded. He paused, twitching, and then called, "Lady Maege… are you happy to accept the alliance between the wildlings?"

The She-Bear stopped. "Happy? No . Bear Island has suffered more from wildlings than anyone. I grew up losing friends in raids from the Frozen Coast," she said. Her voice was like iron. "But queerer unions have happened. And my brother was too simple to lie; if he said the dead were rising, then I'll believe it."

She stopped at the doorway. "Jeor also said that you could be a good leader," she continued. "In one of his letters, he wrote that he hoped you might succeed him. I'll believe that one too."

When she left, Jon released a sigh he never realised he'd been holding. There was something about Lady Maege that felt as hard as the strictest matron.

Outside, it was already dusk. Gods, where did the day go? Doubtless tomorrow would be just as busy.

He paused as he looked out over the setting sun. Despite what he said, he couldn't stop his head from raising up at the sky. He could see the flickering stars in the darkening red sky. Ashara Dayne, Jon thought. Could I really be the nephew of the Sword of the Morning? Jon Sand, of Starfall?

Jon was summoned to meet with the lords again that night. Minor lords from White Harbour and the surrounding area, not just great lords. They met in Lord Wyman's personal solar, far smaller and more cramped than the Merman's Court. All eyes were wary and red; Jon didn't think that anyone had been sleeping for all the frenzied discussions and talk of war.

Besides Lord Manderly, Galbart Glover and his brother, Lord Umber, Lady Mormont, Lady Flint, and Lord Locke, there were a dozen other petty lords of the White Knife present. Jon looked coolly around the room. The Greatjon stood stiffly at the doorway, arms still folded, but there was maybe something less hostile in his expression.

"We all know why we're here," Lord Wyman announced. "I wish for everyone here to place our seals on a declaration of war. To reclaim our lands and justice for our lost kin."

Nobody spoke first. Jon stepped forward.

"Let us start with what we want," Jon said to the quiet room, after a long pause. He looked between Lord Wyman, Lord Umber, and Lady Maege. "I want security for the free folk, the realm put to rights, and the defence of the Wall. You want justice for the crimes committed by House Bolton, your lands and holds secured. Am I right in saying that no one in the room can achieve their wants unless we all agree to work together?"

There was no immediate reply. "And what's to stop you and your savages raiding our lands if we don't comply?" A man demanded, some minor lord or knight that Jon didn't know.

"Nothing," Jon admitted. "Except I don't want to."

An alliance is in their best interests too, Jon thought. They're all just nervous .

Galbart Glover demanded that his family was to be rescued at any measure. The Greatjon demanded that Last Hearth was to be recovered, and that there was to be no mercy for those responsible. The matter of citizenship and amnesty for the wildlings caused the Greatjon to spit on the floor, but there were no objections. Maege Mormont was the voice of reason as things became heated, while Lord Wyman came close to expelling one obnoxious lord from the room.

Jon said very little. He remained calm, stoic and patient even though it felt like a few of them were trying to draw him into a fight.

I have the army and the dragon here. They need me more than I need them.

The Greatjon made the demand that Ramsay Bolton was to be hung, drawn and quartered. Nobody objected to that one, and Jon found himself agreeing happily as well.

Finally, some sort of agreement was reached. Lord Wyman called a scribe to dictate a letter.

Jon had never known a message take so long to write. The lords seemed to squabble over every detail, on what to include. Lord Whitehill insisted fiercely that the letter should be signed in name of the Seven, while others demanded that the north would only follow the Old Gods. Jon could feel himself becoming more irritated, but he couldn't let himself be drawn into an argument. Stay calm. Stay focused .

Lord Umber wanted to declare the alliance for Bran Stark, but Lord Wyman insisted that it was too dangerous to declare for a King in the North until one was secured. Instead, Jon forced them to declare for the only Stark that they could be sure of: Arya.

It was the hour of the owl before the letter was finally written. The scribes agreed to copy it with all haste, and the ravens would fly at first light. Jon spent a long time reading it over and over again, and when the line was done the scribe read it out in a loud, clear:

"On behalf of all true and loyal houses in the north, I hereby declare Lord Roose Bolton a usurper and his rule unlawful, and I call upon all good men to bring justice for the crimes committed by House Bolton.

"The Red Wedding was planned and perpetrated by Bolton men for their own advancement. We have witnesses Lord Jon Umber of Last Hearth, Ser Wylis Manderly of White Harbour, and Robin Flint of

Widow's Watch who attest to the murders. Roose Bolton murdered the good and noble King Robb Stark with his own blade, in breach of the laws of fealty and hospitality. They are as guilty as the Freys of the Crossing for the massacre; House Bolton planned and perpetrated the coup from the beginning.

"For his detestable crimes, the crown saw fit to name Bolton as Warden of the North - a rank left invalid by the illborn boy that sits on the Iron Throne. There is no legitimacy to any of Bolton's claims.

"True bannerman of the north renounce the Bolton's rule. The north renounces the Iron Throne. The north remembers.

"Their crimes are countless and evident. The daughter of the honourable and true Lord Eddard Stark, Arya Stark, was forcibly and unlawfully wed to Ramsay Snow, Bastard of Bolton. A wedding under force is no true wedding. The whole north knows of the monstrous crimes committed by the Bolton Bastard. His first 'wife', the widow Lady Hornwood, was starved, tortured and murdered in a tower after being wed at dagger point. Loyal bannermen of the north must rally to save the young Lady Stark from such a fate.

"The Sack of Winterfell, a crime accused on the ironborn, was committed by Bolton men under Ramsay Snow. They torched the castle and put its inhabitants to the sword, another ploy to weaken House Stark's power in preparation for their defiance. There are countless deaths of innocents that demand justice.

"It falls on noble houses to bring Roose Bolton and his illborn spawn to trial, and to rescue the rightful Lady Stark of Winterfell.

"To answer the call, free men from the lands beyond the Wall have been enlisted against the true foe. Warriors from the far north and loyal bannermen stand side by side, united in the common cause of defending the realm. The forces that hold Karhold, that march from Eastwatch, Castle Black and Shadow Tower are allied with those of White Harbour, Last Hearth and Bear Island.

"The white dragon has been tamed and mounted to put the north to rights. The conspirators, the vermin of House Frey, have already been served justice by dragonfire. The Twins was destroyed in the name of vengeance for Robb Stark, and the same dragon stands ready at the forefront of our armies.

"Let Roose Bolton and his bastard stand judgement before the lords of the north for his crimes. There will be a trial, or they will be brought to trial. He will be judged by the laws of men, by the honour of the Old Gods and in the light of the Seven."

"Signed Jon Snow of Winterfell. Son of Eddard Stark, half-brother to Robb Stark. Defender of the Realm, King-Beyond-the-Wall, and dragonrider.

"Allied alongside Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbour, Lord Jon Umber of Last Hearth, Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island, Galbart Glover Master of Deepwood Motte, Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch, Lady Lyessa Flint of Widow's Watch, Lord Ondrew Locke of Oldcastle.

"The north knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark."

Jon signed his name to the bottom. He didn't have a seal, so he left the space blank. It went around the room for lords to sign and seal. It was a big letter to fit on a raven's leg.

"This is your chance," Lady Maege said quietly, her voice low enough that no one else would hear. "Follow your brother's will, and take the name Stark. Let us sign a different name rather than Snow."

"No." Jon shook his head simply. He could hardly even explain why it felt so wrong to be Jon Stark, but it just did.

"What do you think?" Galbart Glover asked Lord Wyman behind him.

The fat man paused. "I think that this letter, with those names behind it, aye, that carries weight. It will cause a stir. I do not imagine any Bolton supporter will be sleeping easily. Lord Bolton will never surrender for a farce of a trial, of course, but it is justification enough to begin a campaign." He paused. "And yet all the ink in the world is useless without the actions to support it."

"And it is signed by a bastard's name," Lord Locke said sourly. "We are giving the realm the choice between one bastard or another."

Jon didn't react. He kept his gaze completely cool and stoic as he looked towards Lord Locke. The room felt tense. They shuffled around in silence. The start of a new war .

"I want riders to leave as soon as possible," Lord Wyman said finally. "Criers to every town and village for leagues around. Let them all know the deal that was struck tonight." He turned to Jon. "You will have your ships to Eastwatch within days, Your Grace. But first I need your vow that the army at Karhold will be brought to order."

"Aye," Jon promised. "I will leave on dragonback on the morn."

In the end, that was what it came down to: promises and vows. The Greatjon forced him to promise that he would try to find out who raided his daughters' caravan, and then also threatened that at the first wildling raid then all agreements would be off. Lady Maege needed a promise that all raids on Bear Island from the Frozen Shore would stop, and that the dragon would be ready to defend Bear Island should the Boltons launch an invasion. Galbart Glover only demanded his family must be ransomed and recovered.

There was more talk with other lords, and reassurances concerning protection, family, lands and payment. Jon didn't even know many of their names. He found himself growing more and more stoic as he looked around the grim, nervous faces and listened to the polite, desperate talk.

So much fear and tension in the room. Everyone has so much at stake, and this is war. They've all lost family, and they are likely to lose more still. Why do people talk only about all the big battles and not of all the nervous meetings and grim war council discussions?

"I suggest that White Harbour will become the centre of this coalition," Lord Wyman continued behind him. "We will need steel, sellswords and more from the Free Cities. And my gates will accept refugees and free folk from the north."

"What of armoursmiths?" Jon asked, shaking himself out of his distraction. "Does White Harbour have smithies capable of forging steel in bulk?"

"Armour for your forces? It is easier to purchase it."

"Armour for giants. And armour for mammoths," Jon said, to a few glances. "As well as steel armour for a dragon."

There was more discussion. The Greatjon and Lady Maege were to head out quickly, to raise forces from loyal lords to the north. Galbart Glover wanted to leave for Deepwood Motte but Lord Wyman argued that the journey would be too long and too dangerous.

Jon just stood rigidly. For all the discussion and tension, he knew this was only just beginning. Perhaps when he had been younger he would have been excited with the thought of marching off to battle, but now he just felt weary, stiff.

He wanted to retire for the night, but Lord Wyman insisted on having a feast and a celebration of their declaration. Jon was too tense and too tired to understand how he could even want such, but he found himself going along with it in any case. Summons were sent out, and suddenly the whole castle seemed to be stirring.

"A feast is important," Lord Wyman insisted, as the lords moved down to the Merman's Court. "We must announce the news in proper manner."

It was very late, but the castle gates were opened and the city was restless. Half of the Manderly household was crammed into the Merman's Court, along with every noble and rich merchant in the city. The long tables were overfilled, and crowds spilled out through the doorway. There wasn't the time to prepare a feast, so instead they just served wine by the gallon. The Greatjon drunk more than Jon thought possible.

The Merman's Court was stunned as Lord Wyman announced the news in a booming voice. That White Harbour was allied with the dragon, the wildlings would join them in the fight against the Boltons. Defiance against the Iron Throne, and an army of tens of thousands and a dragon by their side.

There were a few nervous cheers, but there were more confused mutters than anything. Jon felt hundreds of eyes fixed on him.

Jon was sat at the high table, besides Lord Wyman himself. His throne was almost just as tall as the lord's. A seat fit for a king. The last feast I attended, he thought, I was sat in the bastard's chair. Nobody looked twice at the bastard, hidden among the men. Now, I'm on the high table and everyone is staring at me. Did I ever imagine that I would end up here?

He felt far too tense for any cheer. They served wine, but Jon didn't trust himself to drink it. He had never known any 'feast' so tense - it felt like the entire hall was muttering and whispering. Dozens of men approached Lord Manderly to voice their worries - trade from the Seven Kingdoms, supplies in their granaries for winter, the refugees in the city - but no one approached Jon with anything other than wide-eyed stares.

It was late, when a brave minstrel stepped forward to play his harp. The sound rang out over the cavernous court as his fingers plucked in a long, slow melody. Jon slowly recognised the tune as the Rains of the Castamere.

He felt the hall tense, but then he made out the words the minstrel was singing.

And who are you, the late lord said, that I must respect some feed? Only a bowl of bread and salt, that's not the vow I need.

Be a wolf or a leaping trout, give crossbows to the bards,

And may the north remember this, my king, the Freys send their regards.

And so he croaked, and so he croaked, that Lord of the Crossing,

But now the snow sits o'er his hall, with no one left to sing.

Yes now the snow sits o'er his hall, and not a soul shall sing. "

When he finished, a cheer went up through the court. It was the first time all night that there was laughter breaking through the tension. Lord Wyman applauded, stamping his great feet from under the table.

Jon didn't smile. He just sat and watched. A few other bards and singers followed suit: changing words, adding new verses, turning it

into a glorious victory ballad. "The Frayed Crossing", Jon thought quietly, as he took a deep breath.

Val

Eastwatch-by-the-Sea looked like whole different place. Somehow, in the weeks since she last past through, the whole castle and village had boomed into a thriving settlement. She saw the smoke and fires thick on the horizon, the sound of cattle and livestock bustling. The small village of thatch and stone had expanded into an overflowing flood of bodies and tents, with palisades, ditches and spike walls stretched over the countryside. The harbour was filled with ragtag boats, ships and barges.

Even from the distance, she saw shapes of giants and mammoths at the fringes of the camp.

"How many do you think?" Val asked as her small group approached. They rode hard-bred pounceys through the snow, bringing with them two wayns of blankets, arrows and rusted iron weapons for the Eastwatch force.

"Thirty thousand?" a free folk said with a shrug. "Likely more."

And the majority of them have white stones on their chest, she noted as they entered through the earthen defences. Nearly all of them, actually . The Lord of Bones ruled as the lord of the Eastwatch, but since Mother Mole and her followers moved through the Wall their numbers were legion.

She headed into the castle itself. The grim stone towers had been decorated with wildling statues and markings. It used to feel barren and desolate, but now it felt lively and hectic.

The castle's courtyard was now dominated by a hulking structure of oak. They had built a huge wooden hut right by the gate, and inside a whole weirwood tree had been cut down and carved into the shape

of a winged, white serpentine figure, with its jaws open. The statue had smoothened obsidian shards for eyes, and it was painted with streaks of red that looked like blood. It stood in a place of awe, in the middle of the temple for the ice dragon.

Somebody felled a whole weirwood tree to carve that thing, Val thought, as she looked at the dragon's eyes. The free folk didn't used to chop down weirwoods - the trees used to be sacred .

Val met Garth in the middle of the Eastwatch crowds, as he overlooked the huge gate through the ice. The older man looked more tired and worn than she had ever seen him. "Garth," she called, smiling. "How are you, old friend?"

"Val," he said with smile and sigh. "Lady of Val of Whitetree, I hear." "Don't you start," she scoffed, moving to pull him into a hug. "It is good to see you. You look well." "As do you," she lied. "How goes it?"

"Long days and long nights," Garth said. "King Snow appointed me 'Warden of the Exodus', along with two other men and women. It was our job to bring as many living south of the Wall as possible, and gods if I had known it would be so hard."

"Hardhome?" she asked.

"It'll be deserted by now. The very last of the folk there will be sailing down the peninsula now," he explained. "We could not move them all quickly in the cold, so it had to be done step by step so we were not left undefended."

She cast a cautious eye of the crowds and sprawling camp. She saw hungry mobs, and cold, hard eyes. It did not look like a safe place for a young mother and her child. "What of my sister?"

"Dalla will be arriving by ship shortly," Garth promised. "The sky was calm and wind steady, and with her babe we thought safer to go by sea rather than make the trek. Less risk of an Other attack."

Good, Mance had tasked with her bringing Dalla back safely. "Were there any attacks?"

Four," he said grimly. Gods, no wonder he looks so weary . "But none so bad as that night. And King Snow left his direwolf with us, for protection."

She blinked. "His direwolf?"

"Aye, the beast is hunting north right now. The wolf warned us before attacks, but more importantly the man was watching through it. He never abandoned us, and we could have called the dragon to aid us when needed." Garth paused, and then added, "Is it queer that I think the Others were aware of that too? They didn't seem to risk it."

Wargs ." The word had so often been used as a curse, but now she said it with a touch of uncertainty.

"I won't deny their use," Garth said with a shrug. "King Snow promised status and protection to any skinchanger that came forward. And he might be the most powerful skinchanger of all."

She glanced behind her, at the ice dragon temple. It was crowded even now with shuffling bodies. A mother and her babe prayed together at the base of the statue. Val noticed more carvings rather than just dragons; there was wolf statuette of cream oak with red eyes, and a feline statuette of ebony pine with amber eyes, both standing at the base of the dragon. Garth noticed her looking.

"You see there?" He pointed to the west of the castle, and a stubby tower on the walls. "That's the Hook Tower, reserved for the king. Right now, the only creature there is the king's shadowcat, and the man himself hasn't been to Eastwatch in months. That's a whole

tower, just for a shadowcat . That cat is kept better fed than most folk too."

"So even his pets are royal too."

"Aye, even his pets," Garth agreed. "Word spread around that the king favours those who gift him animals. First it was Kyleg Stonehand bringing a great snow owl. Then Marrik One-Foot and his clan spent four days capturing and reigning in a big brute of a bull auroch that they intend to present to him. Not to be outdone, Aki Twentysons and his family vowed to capture a snow bear for him, one bigger and stronger than Varamyr ever had. Larrs the Pretty took the challenge - he started bartering with one the of the giant clans, so he could bring King Snow his very own mammoth."

Val stared incredulously. "These people are fighting for their lives and they're worried about gaining favour with him?"

He nodded. "Aye. Take a look at that temple over there and tell me you're surprised."

She pursed her lips. Her eyes darkened slightly.

Everywhere she looked, she saw pale faces, gaunt expressions, and wide eyes. Even now, there were more people trekking through the great gates. The line of free folk never stopped. Maybe it was an army, but it was a weak, exhausted and hungry army.

"And now they're coming south of the Wall," Val said after a pause. "How do you intend to feed them all?"

Garth shrugged. "Isn't that why we've got a king?"

It was only the next day when she realised what he meant. She was awoke at first light by the sound of shouts and horns. They spotted the white dragon flapping in the distance, circling around the coastline. Shortly later, there were cries of sails on the horizon.

Ships, Val realised, big ones . They were galleys of dark oak, each with three sails and lines of oars. Big southron ships coming north. The ships flew a green half-fish figure as well as as grey wolf on their banners.

But the dragon isn't attacking them , she realised. Instead, Sonagon flew in slow, lazy circles above the vessels - escorting them. She heard the mutters ripple around her as the crowds gathered. Some were rushing for weapons, but not many.

It was noon by the time the dragon finally came into Eastwatch. It dropped itself onto the roof of the keep, and Val saw cautious figures climbing down from it. They used ropes to clamber onto the balcony of the keep.

There were so many men and women rushing forward to meet King Snow that Val could hardly even get close. The free folk pushed, shoved and neighed like cattle, all calling for their king's attention. It was so hectic that the sudden rush through the gates threatened to crush those in the middle.

Between the shoving bodies, Val didn't even try to get close enough to see the man, but she heard his voice as he shouted to the crowd from the castle steps. "White Harbour has allied with us!" King Snow shouted over the chaos. "They will support free folk settling in the north, and fight alongside against those who will not! These ships bring food, blankets and iron. There will be more coming behind them. I cannot promise feasts, but I promise that nobody will starve!"

The mob reached fever pitch. Some shouting questions, but Val saw other faces of wide-eyed, stunned hope and devotion. She didn't see where it came from, but slowly she started to hear the sound of stomping feet, and the chant from a dozen lips. "King Snow! King Snow!" The cry spread around the crowd, growing louder. " King Snow! King Snow! "

Bloody kneelers, Val thought angrily, turning to walk away. The supplies were good, but they'd be kissing his feet at this rate.

She could hardly even explain why the thought left her so bitter. The thought of her lying in his bed, and that word - shameful - flickered through her memory.

The ships docked that afternoon. So many crowded around the harbour that it took the king and his Dragonguard to keep order. Huge boxes and barrels were unloaded by nervous sailors. Most of it was taken into the castle by Rattleshirt and his men, but they were already starting to distribute crates of turnips, fish and grain by the beach.

Val had very little to do with it, she only gave the scene glances from afar. Instead, she moved around the camp, enquiring after her sister, the giants and people she knew. More than once, though, she heard the phrase "the blessings of the ice dragon". She even saw men and women wearing white furs and with the shape of a dragon's body painted or tattooed onto their cheek - the most devout of Mother Mole's followers had taken to dedicating themselves to their god. The dragon worshippers.

No doubt there'll be more joining the cause after tonight, she thought darkly. Right now, they had one temple. Soon, there could easily be more.

Even after dusk, the camp didn't settle. The king hosted the sailors from the ships in the castle, while outside it looked like a celebration. Huge bonfires were raised, with the sound of singing and chanting filling the air. Whole queues of men and women formed at the castle gates, pushing and shouting for an audience with King Snow. The Dragonguard had to huddle to keep them all back, while men uselessly bellowed for the king's attention.

Val set up her tent and retired early for the night. It was a full moon, pale light shimmering over the smoke and fires around Eastwatch. She saw the dragon's scales glint in the moonlight. It's a new age, Val recalled Mother Mole proclaiming. An age of people bowing and whimpering at the ice dragon's feet.

The night stretched out, but there was no sleep to be have. Then, she saw a hooded figure walked towards her tent. The figure went straight for the door. She reached out for her knife.

"You walk towards a spearwife's tent and you lose an appendage," Val warned, drawing her blade. It was late, but she wore furs and leathers at all times, wrapped in her white snow bear fur cloak.

"Val," a familiar voice said. He lowered his hood, and she saw bone white hair. "It's me."

She didn't lower the knife.

"Snow," Val said curtly. "You've got crowds wanting to see you."

"Furs will keep them back," Jon sounded tired. "I'm in no mood to stand before any of them."

"And here you are. Is it normal for kings to have to sneak away from their… what is it?… subjects in the dead of night under a hood?"

"Perhaps not." He smiled humourlessly. "But there are only so many problems I'm capable of handling in a day."

She didn't return the smile. "Well, where are my manners? I should be curtsying, should I not?" she said snidely. "Or do you want me to turn around and hide myself under a blanket, so I do not tempt you into anymore 'shameful' acts?"

"Val…"

"Or perhaps you just want to continue where we left of," she continued. She knew she was being aggressive, but she was angry enough not to care, "after bedding me and dismissing me as a mistake? I hear in the south you have those 'silent sisters', so perhaps you want-"

"Val," he said, with a low sigh. "I'm here to apologise. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have reacted how I did."

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't speak. Her arms folded.

He smiled ruefully, gaze flickering. She saw the dark circles under his eyes. "I… I enjoy your company," he said hesitantly. "I enjoy spending time with you, I… I enjoyed spending the night with you. You're beautiful, and… I didn't mean to - it happened fast, and I don't want to…"

His voice seemed to trail off. She let the silence linger for a good while, before finally asking, "what do you want, King Snow?"

"I don't even know," he admitted. His expression felt softer. None of the iron demeanor he put on when others were watching. "I want to do my duty well. I want to protect people, I want to keep my promises, and I…" A pause, a sheepish gulp. "I've made a lot of promises recently. I promised a lot to even just get this far, and then I promised more to get this alliance. I don't want to make another promise that I can't keep or another person that I fail, but I would still…" He sighed. "I would really, really like it if I could spend more time with you."

The silence returned. Val kept her face stoic, but her heart betrayed her with a slight skip.

His face looked pained. "And right now," he admitted in a quiet murmur and with wide, honest eyes. "I would really like to just go to sleep. I have been working on half a day's rest for the last week and I am so tired."

Her posture broke. A chuckle broke through her lips, and she felt herself smile. She moved her hand upwards, scratching at her chin. He seemed different, more vulnerable, more… weary and exposed.

"How many women have you had, Jon Snow?" Val said finally, keeping her voice quiet.

"Just one. Ygritte," he replied. His gaze flickered to the ground. "And she… Ygritte pursued me quite forwardly. Even when we first lay

together, I did so because… well, I did so because I thought I had to fit into Mance's host. I loved Ygritte, I did, but I… gods !" he cursed, breaking his ramble. "I suppose what I'm saying is that I don't know much on how to do this."

"With women?"

"With anything."

Her cheeks twitched. There was something of a young, lost, little pup in his expression. It made a change from the cold, quiet and strong wolf she was used to. She took a step forward. "It's really quite simple," she whispered. "Kiss me."

She could feel the air between them. He took a step forward too. She could see every detail of his face; the lines around his eyes, the faint grey stubble on his chin. Dark eyes and white hair. She felt him leaning in, and his breath on her lips.

The kiss was soft, light and chaste. Val didn't know why, but that made her giggle.

There was a long moment of quiet. Suddenly, all of the noises from outside didn't seem to matter.

They paused, their breaths hushed. His arms wrapped around her slowly, but still he seemed to hesitate. Like there was something else he needed to say. "I pushed Ygritte off a cliff," he muttered, eyes pained. "The Others were coming for us and I needed to get her away, but I… I promised to protect her and then I pushed her away."

She paused. Ah . "You don't need to promise anything to me," she muttered. He felt his hand stroke her hair. He had nice fingers. Her hand touched his chest, tracing the line of his scar. "Let's go to bed, Jon."

He nodded. His lips moved forward to kiss her again. Her hands slowly unfastened his tunic. Then, they wrapped themselves in the

furs of her tent, curled up together, and went to sleep.

Chapter 28

Chapter 28

The Imp

Their camp was bustling, constantly hectic. They had ridden most of the day, but somehow even when they'd stopped the activity had never ceased. The camp was nestled by a curve of the Tumblestone River, north of Lord Harroway's Town. The muddy earth was covered in a faint slush of dirty snow stomped by boots and hooves. There'd been no time to set up stakewalls around the campsite, but the men of the Golden Company were experienced enough to patrol and watch diligently.

It was a hard, bare campsite of horses and a hundred hide tents with few comforts, but it wasn't the worst place Tyrion had ever stayed. The lack of wine caused him more grief than the lack of blankets.

Tyrion saw the riders come from the north. Three chargers galloping down the road. "Is it true?" the dwarf asked eagerly, as they approached.

"Aye," one of forward riders said. His eyes were grim and his face exhausted. "It's true. We followed the river north and saw it ourselves; the castles really have been turned to rubble. I swear, I've never seen aught like it."

"Survivors?" Ser Franklyn Flowers asked harshly. Tyrion was trembling.

"Few. Not many of the host at the Twins made it out, and then the monster chased down those who did." The man looked an experienced, hard-faced sellsword, but he sounded unnerved. "We saw riots from Fairmarket to Oldstones. Whole mobs mad with panic."

It's true . Dragons . The laughter broke through Tyrion's throat. The sound caused a few men to jump. "That is brilliant!" He cackled. "Come, let us raise a toast! To Walder Frey, and the legacy he will leave!"

There were some strange looks at him. The news of the dragon had left the riverlands in disarray, even many of the Golden Company had been shaken. For days, the ravens were flocking around the sky in panic - demanding answers where there were few to be had. Nobody had expected the destruction of the Twins, and now it was just gone.

Still, Tyrion just had to smile.

Walder Frey worked with my father, Tyrion thought viciously. The destruction of the Twins is just another bit of my father's legacy broken to pieces. And by the time I'm done the realm will remember Tywin as the great lord who broke everything .

These last months had been… revitalising . Tyrion felt like he had a purpose again.

"Dragons," he muttered out-loud, as he waddled back to his tent. "

Dragons! "

"Just the one dragon, it seems," said Ser Franklyn Flowers, walking next to him. Ser Franklyn was a big-bellied, shambling hulk of a man with a seamed face crisscrossed with old scars. His right ear looked as if a dog had chewed on it and his left ear was missing entirely. He was an extremely formidable fighter, and a loyal lieutenant, so Tyrion quite liked having the man with him. By comparison, Tyrion was one of the few men who could make Ser Franklyn seem handsome.

"But it's a big one," Tyrion chuckled. "Do you not see the jape? I go halfway around the world for Queen Daenerys' dragons and it turns out there's one right here at home. Our king declares himself a dragon returned, but, no, a real dragon has already beaten him to it!"

"How the hells can you even laugh about it?" Ser Franklyn said incredulously. "That dragon ain't on our side, you know."

"We should all be laughing. We might as well laugh rather than cry."

In his tent, a letter waited for him where he left it. Such a glorious letter too. Tyrion had read the letter several dozen times already, and his reaction had slowly turned from incredulous shock to laughter. Jon Snow, now King-Beyond-the-Wall and dragonrider, Tyrionthought. He remembered the young bastard, he had even befriended him during the trip to the Wall. Who would have guessed?

"What does this mean for us?" Ser Franklyn grumbled.

"Means?" Tyrion scoffed. "It means that our king may well be scorched - sorry, froze - to a crisp should a certain Stark bastard wish it. And there's absolutely nothing we can do about that possibility either. The whole realm stands at the northern king's mercy; we are somewhat lacking dragons ourselves."

"We have a dragon," another sellsword said harshly. A tall, hard-faced serjeant called Chains. "King Aegon is a dragon."

"But not the flying sort, I'm afraid."

"I don't bloody understand," Ser Franklyn grumbled. "How can there be a dragon in the north? Why is it here?"

Tyrion chuckled as he scrambled up onto a seat. They were no chairs with them, so instead he just used a barrel. "Oh, it's quite simple really; it's here because the gods are cunts," he explained, with a cheerful, bitter laugh. "All of them - vicious little cunts. The powers-that-be heard of Aegon's return, a young boy with a very good chance of actually reclaiming his throne, and so they decided to ruin that plan with another conqueror with another dragon. They are gods - they'll stamp on your face every single time."

There were a few glances shared between the Company serjeants. Tyrion didn't really care what they thought of him. Lord Tywin had been obsessive about preserving his reputation, staying stiff and prideful. Tyrion didn't have a reputation - he was already the drunken, fiendish dwarf. There had been mummers' plays performed about the Imp's evil misdeeds. So instead, Tyrion had resolved himself to drink and to jape, and yet be just as ruthless as his father ever was. More .

"But this letter," Tyrion said finally, pointing, "it came from Harrenhal, did it not?"

"Aye." The Golden Company had taken Harrenhal a week past, and the castle fell very easily too. The castle supposedly belonged to Lord Baelish, but it had been held by Ser Bonifer Hasty and the Holy Hundred. Then Ser Bonifer left for King's Landing for the 'Holy War' brewing between Crown and Faith, which had left Harrenhal so poorly held a token force of the Golden Company managed to seize it easily.

"If Harrenhal received a raven, then it's a good bet that Storm's End has too," Tyrion said. "Oh, how I wish I could be there to see King Aegon's reaction when he reads it." Though, truthfully, it's Jon Connington's reaction I'd be more interested in . Perhaps one of the spies I left behind could relay it?

"We can't fight against a dragon," Chains grumbled. "If this bastard Jon Snow has declared himself king too, where does that leave us?"

Tyrion stopped to think about it. He shook his head. "It doesn't change a thing," he said finally. "Our plans remain the same for now. Read the letter; Jon Snow has not declared himself king of the Iron Throne - his interest appears to be in the north." But how long will that last? He paused, biting his lip.

"I know of Jon Snow. I met him, travelled with him for a time," Tyrion admitted. "I remember a young, brooding boy so bitter about being a bastard that he ran off to take the black. Nice lad, though a bit sullen,

naive and arrogant. I have difficulty matching him with the king declared in this letter. And yet I suppose war changes us all." Idly, Tyrion ran his finger over the scar mutilating his face and cutting through his missing nose.

They were all looking at him, uncertainty in their eyes. "No, we must use this to our advantage," Tyrion said. "The riverlands has lost its major force, and the west is now lacking its warden." I must raise a toast to my poor cousin Daven. We Lannisters seem to be dropping like flies . "If Aegon has his wits, he'll use this to his advantage aswell. The people are panicked, they should be calling for a strong Targaryen leader to save them from the savages and dragons."

"And if the Bastard King flies south to raze Aegon's castle too?"

"I'm not so sure that he will. But if he does, we will negotiate." I wonder what type of man Jon Snow has become? "We will stall himwith talk and empty words, and we will do so for as long as we can without fighting him. Remember that sooner or later Queen Daenerys will be coming from the east, and she will bring three dragons versus his one. When she arrives, Aegon Targaryen must be sitting on the Iron Throne, and of course Daenerys will support her own family over a northern pretender."

Hopefully, with Queen Daenerys' reinforcements, they could convince Jon Snow to bend the knee. If not, he'd have to die to secure the Seven Kingdoms. Tyrion wouldn't be happy to see the boy dead, but, well, Tyrion had lived with worse deeds.

The thought of Shae's gasping face flickered across his eyes. He wished he had some wine.

The sellswords didn't look convinced. "It changes nothing," Tyrion insisted. "Our war is in the south, we leave the north alone. We need only take King's Landing and then the rest of the realm will declare for us. And when Daenerys arrives, it will be simple maths; three dragons is greater than one."

"Aye, if you say so, my lord," Chains muttered, as he stepped out the tent.

Tyrion grinned. My lord. Lord Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock.

Yes, this changes nothing of the plan .

"Should we prepare to move out?" Ser Franklyn asked.

He mused. "Not just yet. Let's give our guest one more day to arrive," he said. "But bring me the letters we have on Riverrun, Darry, Fairmarket and Pinkmaiden. Let us see if we can forge any alliances while the ruins are still warm. Or cold, as the case may be."

Tyrion settled in, exhaling deeply. He reread the northern letter one more time, just because it was still barely sinking through. A dragon of ice .

"I should think that House Bolton will be able to fill a moat from their collective shit after they read this," Tyrion announced in his tent, to no one in particular. "Oh, what a grand letter. I shall frame this letter and mount it over my fireplace: in the lord's chamber of Casterly Rock, right next to where I place my father's skull and my sister's crown."

Some much work to be done. This is my campaign, he thought, and gods it feels exciting . It was Tyrion's first true campaign as well; theonly experience Tyrion had with an army was his short-lived tenure alongside his father's host, up to the battle on the Green Fork. Even then, his lord father had denied him any true command. Now he was the commander of his own force; a fairly inexperienced commander, true, but Tyrion felt like he was learning quickly.

Now then, how will the riverlands react? Where are the most crucial places? Who will muster forces first? My aunt still holds Riverrun, but her options are limited. Houses Blackwood and Piper are lacking lords, so Pinkmaiden and Raventree will be wide open. The brotherhood without banners and the outlaws are sure to take advantage. Wayfarer's Rest will be stirring, Fairmarket is in frenzy,

and the Saltpans were raided to all hell. Harrenhal is already ours, and House Darry…

Tyrion paused with the thought. After only a brief hesitation, he picked up a quill and started to write a letter. Three letters, all in a swift hand.

"Ser Franklyn," Tyrion called. "I have a letter here. I want five good riders to head for Castle Darry with all haste."

Darry ?" Ser Franklyn frowned as he stomped into the tent. "What is there in Darry?"

"An opportunity. This letter is for Darry, addressed to Lady Amerei Frey. These two are for Storm's End, one for our king and the other for Ser Tristan Rivers," Tyrion explained. The man looked confused. "I do believe we could a broker a marriage here."

"A marriage," he repeated dumbly. Not the sharpest tool, Ser Franklyn, Tyrion thought, but not that I need him to be .

"Yes. The male line of House Darry went extinct during this war," he explained. "The castle and lands were named instead to my cousin Lancel Lannister when he married Amerei Frey, whose mother was a Darry. The marriage was never consummated, and poor Lancel abandoned his newfound house to go join the Warrior's Sons. It seems that bedding my sister drove my cousin to a vow of celibacy." Tyrion chuckled.

The knight still didn't understand. "This all leaves Lady Amerei Frey, wed but not bedded, in a very precarious position, sitting in a castle that she has little claim to," Tyrion continued. " However, in the ranks of the Golden Company we have Ser Tristan Rivers, a bastard of Darry who fled Westeros after Robert's Rebellion. A strong man, a well-seasoned and loyal knight. Such a bastard could be legitimised by the king, to provide Lady Amerei with the claim she needs to keep her castle, and I think that in light of recent events, we could broker a

union between them quite quickly." He paused, and then added, "

Very quickly, if half the rumours I hear about Lady Amerei are true."

"But why bother?" Ser Franklyn shrugged. "Darry ain't got no men to bring."

"It's not about men," Tyrion said irritably. "House Darry is traditionally an extremely Targaryen loyalist house. If House Darry declares for Aegon, then that means something - another part of Targaryen legacy reclaimed for Aegon."

By the look on his face, it seemed Ser Franklyn was beginning to understand. "But wait," he said with a frown, "why would this Lady Amerei even want to wed a bastard anyways?"

"Because it's become very, very unhealthy to be a Frey in this kingdom," said Tyrion. "She will be looking to ditch her family name as soon as possible."

Between Lady Stoneheart and the brotherhood without banners and now this ice dragon, it seemed that anyone from House Frey had developed a very short life expectancy.

Ser Franklyn agreed to gather the riders. "And tell them to bring back a casket of wine from Darry, as payment for brokering the marriage!" Tyrion called. "I have gone the last four months without ever being sober and I don't intend to start now!"

A grin spread over his face as he went through the letters and maps, twisting his scar. Yes, many riverlords will be panicked, and looking for new allies. The Golden Company is in a good position to make some friends.

He could imagine Lord Connington fuming yet unable to object over yet another service Tyrion provided for Aegon. Now aren't I a devoted ally to the king?

He paused where Riverrun was marked. Tyrion debated the wisdom of visiting his Aunt Genna as well, but decided against it. He had nearly three thousand men under him, and a campaign in the westerlands awaited.

It was dark when his guest finally arrived. The patrols saw the horses coming, and a runner called for him. Tyrion had just left his tent when he saw an old, familiar facing dismounting and walking guardedly through the perimeter. A tall, well-worn man with dark hair and narrowed eyes. The sellswords all watched as he strode through the camp.

Lord Bronn Stokeworth of the Blackwater wore steel and finery rather than his old leathers and ringmail. He wore a steel plate, and a surcoat showing a black lamb on a red field, drinking from a silver chalice. The coat of arms of House Stokeworth, but inverted. Bronn wasn't just hired muscle now, instead he had two guards of his own walking behind him. He's come a long way from being the sellsword I picked up at the crossroads inn, Tyrion noted. Oh, doesn't war change us all?

"Lord Bronn!" Tyrion greeted, his voice slightly icy. "Such a pleasure to see you again."

Bronn's eyes were cautious. "Lord Tyrion," he muttered. "So it's true; you are behind this invasion. I didn't think I'd ever see you alive again, my lord."

"Evil men never die, my lord," Tyrion replied. "There's too much bitterness in us, the Stranger won't go near. That's why both of us are still alive, is it not? Come into my tent."

'Lord' Bronn followed cautiously. His hand never moved far from his sword. Ser Franklyn kept by Tyrion's side, staring suspiciously. "And I see you've got yourself some new muscle," Bronn said, with a nod at Ser Franklyn. The burly knight only grunted.

"It's a profitable position, is it not?" Tyrion said. "Why, just ask my former muscle, and see what heights he's achieved."

"You sound bitter."

"What, because you abandoned me in that jail cell to be executed? Never ."

He only grunted. "You've done alright for yourself."

"As have you. Selling out friends appears to be good business."

"As does murdering your father." For the first time, Bronn cracked a wry smile. There's the old dark sellsword I know .

Tyrion raised his hands. "I'm an opportunist."

"I didn't think I'd ever see you with a head again," Bronn muttered, shaking his head incredulously. "Tell me, how the bloody hell did you manage all this? The Golden Company? Invading Westeros behind a bloody Targaryen?"

"I have too many debts to be repaid, old friend, I didn't have time to let myself be killed. Pray tell, how has the Seven Kingdoms been since I've been away?"

"Falling to pieces. Did you know your sister tried to have me killed?" Bronn said, shaking his head. "She manipulated my new goodbrother to try and kill me. Bloody fool he was. I mean, honestly; the murder plot is bad enough, but sending an assassin that crap is just insulting."

"Of course. You know Cersei would never rest easily with an old friend of mine sitting so close to her in a position of power."

"Yes, well." Bronn just shrugged, dropping onto a barrel cross-legged. "Oh, and I named my son after you."

"I heard. Little Tyrion Tanner? The bastard born after his mother's rape by a hundred men? Aww, I'm honoured," he said with chuckle.

Bronn chuckled too. "I thought you'd like it. I don't think your sister was laughing, though. Lollys wanted to call the babe Tywin."

"That would have been better." He nodded. "How is your lady wife?"

"She's sweet enough so long as I don't talk to her," he said. "But I'm Lord of Stokeworth now, so who cares?"

"So I see. The black sheep on a bloody field is a fitting personal sigil for you." Tyrion leaned forward, resting his head on his hands. "But let's be frank; we both know that any opportunities you have in a realm where Cersei is in power are fairly limited. There'll be more catspaws to kill you, more lords to replace you. Do you really want to keep suffering my sister's meddling?"

"From what I hear, your sister isn't going to be in power much longer. She's not in much power right now, actually." Bronn shrugged. "My guess is that the Queen Dowager will be removed and sent away somewhere remote, after the mess she's made of things. She'll probably be exiled on Dragonstone, I expect."

"And will the Tyrells, or whoever comes after, treat you any better? Do you expect them to share their influence with you, or invite you to their court?" Tyrion challenged. "You'll always be just an upjumped sellsword to them, someone to be shunned from their games. Wouldn't you be better off joining us ?"

Bronn bit his lip, pausing. They both knew why Tyrion had invited him, and he rode a long way to get here. The Golden Company could use support. "Hells, I like you. Twisted little thing that you are. But I'm Lord Stokeworth now, I got a castle and everything. So you aren't buying a blade anymore, you're dealing with a noble house. Why should House Stokeworth commit rebellion for you?"

"Because you're a sellsword at heart. And the rewards are great," Tyrion scoffed. "Don't act noble; you would sell your own wife for enough gold to buy a prettier one."

"Is that supposed to be an insult?"

"Do you take it as one?"

"Not really." Bronn shrugged. "But I got a status at stake now. And I won't get a damn thing when you lose."

Behind him, Ser Franklyn stiffened. Tyrion held up his hand. "'When'?" Tyrion asked curiously. "You think we're going to lose?"

"Well, yeah." Bronn nodded. "Your sellswords are putting up a good fight, I'll give them that. But they ain't going to be able to take the city, and I can't afford to back the wrong side here."

"Every war is a gamble, you know that more than most," Tyrion said. "But let's go through the odds, then. How many men are holding the city?"

Bronn paused to think of it. "Five thousand men under Kevan Lannister. Fifteen to twenty thousand under Mace Tyrell. Anywhere between four to eight thousand from the city itself, including gold cloaks." Bronn would have more experience than most in holding the city. "And you have got - what? - five thousand sellswords marching up the kingsroad?"

"Seven."

"Alright, seven." Bronn shook his head. "It still doesn't work. Stannis had twenty thousand, and he couldn't break the city walls. And Stannis was up against fewer defenders too - we didn't have Lannister and Tyrell men to support us against Stannis' siege. You're not going to win that battle without some serious reinforcements."

"Except those numbers aren't right, are they?" Tyrion argued. "Do you really think the Lannister men and Tyrells will still be on the same side when the Golden Company arrives?"

Bronn didn't reply. "My dear sister holds Queen Margaery hostage in the Red Keep," Tyrion said softly. "The Red Keep is besieged by the Faith Militant. Neither Mace Tyrell nor my uncle Kevan can even get through the city without triggering riots. This High Sparrow has declared that the Red Keep is on lockdown until Queen Cersei comes forth to stand trial, and she refuses to do so." He grinned. Thank you Cersei, for your beautiful assistance to my war effort ."Ser Kevan is trying to keep the peace, a difficult task when the king and his wife are being held hostage by his mother.

"So let me share how we are going to win the battle, Lord Bronn, it's fairly simple; we are going to convince the High Sparrow to declare for King Aegon."

The man frowned. "The High Sparrow? That pious stick of a septon? Why would he support your contender king?"

"But why wouldn't he?" Tyrion challenged. "Three hundred years ago the High Septon fasted for a week, and then declared Aegon the Conqueror as the anointed and rightful ruler of the realm; do you think this one couldn't do the same for the rightful Targaryen ancestor? The High Sparrow is a man who cares for the smallfolk, who wants a more devout and dutiful crown, while Aegon VI could be the king he requires. What would a pious septon appreciate more than a young man of humble upbringings, rising up to accept a greater duty?" Tyrion smiled sweetly. "Yes, I think the High Sparrow could be convinced, especially when considering his other options. My sister has proven herself corrupt and unworthy, Stannis is mad and nobody else seems to care about the smallfolk that he holds so dear. Meanwhile, Aegon VI, young, bold and earnest, will prostrate himself before the Faith and pledge to uphold his duty to the people. Once the High Septon and the Faith Militant declare Tommen as illborn and unrightful, then I think the tides in this war will very quickly change."

Poor Tommen, the thought made Tyrion feel a little guilty. The boy was one of the few innocents in this whole game. Still, it would be worthwhile just to hear Cersei's screams. I will destroy your legacy, father. I will pull down everything you ever built, brick by brick, just so I can hurt you again .

Bronn was looking a lot more interested. "Alright then." Bronn nodded. "That would get you a hundred or so Warrior's Sons, but gods-know-how-many thousands of the Poor Fellows. Smallfolk with pitchforks. There'd be riots in the city like you'd never seen before, and the whole Tyrell-Lannister alliance wouldn't be looking so good after that. But your young king still needs to beat an army at least twice his size, and he just doesn't have the numbers."

"Not so when Dorne declares for us. Do you think that'll even the odds?"

He looked surprised. "You have Dorne on your side?"

"I spoke to Princess Arianne myself," Tyrion said smugly. "She is with King Aegon right now. Yes; there'll be Dornish spearmen fighting alongside the most formidable company in the world. We will take King's Landing, King Aegon Targaryen takes the Iron Throne to the jubilation of the people, and suddenly lords will start bowing to him. Does that sound like an opportunity you'd want to be a part of?" He cocked his head, meeting Bronn's gaze. "This is a golden opportunity for you, Lord Stokeworth. A chance to hedge your bets on the dark horse early, and reap the greatest rewards."

"Alright," Bronn said, eyes sharp. "And what are you offering me?"

Tyrion smiled. "What castle would you like?"

"What are you bringing?" Ser Franklyn spoke up suspiciously from behind him. "From what I hear, you are nothing but a mercenary who bought a dim-witted highborn wife."

"I'm Lord Stokeworth . I've been recruiting for a while; I've got two hundred good men," Bronn snorted. "Maybe up to five hundred once I round up some of the local boys."

"Five hundred farmer's boys and sour sellswords?" Ser Franklyn scoffed. "Ain't worth it."

"And he also controls Stokeworth - a castle of crucial importance right outside King's Landing's gate," Tyrion argued. "When King's Landing is under siege, they rely on Rosby and Stokeworth to provide food and aid. You control them, and that is another notch on the noose."

"Aye," Bronn said with a smug smile, "and I could bring you Rosby too. The late Lord Rosby's ward - the one who controls the castle - he ain't so fond of Lannisters. You buy my services, and I promise you that no aid from Duskendale or anywhere else will be getting through to King's Landing."

Ser Franklyn looked unconvinced. "He's a fiend, but he's good for it," Tyrion promised. "House Stokeworth's declaration will be the start of a crownlands rebellion, undermining the throne where they should be strongest. And Bronn led the defence of King's Landing during the last siege against Stannis; who could be better to lead the second siege?" Tyrion turned to Bronn. "Let us go through the numbers, Lord Bronn. Let's see what your contribution is worth. If you want a second castle or a second wife, I'm sure there'll be lands and widows to spare. I pay my debts, you know I'm good for that."

"Shouldn't it be King Aegon that I speak to?" He said suspiciously. "

He's the one I'm fighting for."

"I'm the King's Master of Coin," said Tyrion. "Aegon appointed me as a commander in his army, to be Warden of the West under his rule. You fight for me."

Bronn shook his head, but he looked impressed. "Well, you've got yourself in with him good and proper, haven't you? How the bloody

hell do you manage it? I sell my sword, sure, but somehow you manage to sell your words."

"His Grace was very appreciative when I helped broker the alliance with Dorne," Tyrion said. Princess Arianne had been somewhat reluctant to agree to such, but Tyrion helped persuade her. "Come on, walk with me. Let us enjoy the night's air."

They stood up and walked out of the tent. The sound of water gushing and crickets chirping sounded in the night, but the camp was restless with the stomping of boots and stirring men. "I want Claw Island," Bronn decided finally. "You make me the Lord of Claw Island and I'll declare for you."

"That is the seat of House Celtigar." An old and ancient seat too .

He's still ambitious .

"It was, until Stannis Baratheon raided that island to the hells and set it on fire," Bronn explained. "I take Claw Island and all of its lands. I reckon if they're looking for a new lord they could do a lot worse than me."

"I'll bear it in mind." Tyrion paused, frowning. "So Stannis is still in this fight?"

"Yep, he's been strangling ships from Dragonstone, and starving the city by sea," Bronn explained. "They say Stannis went half mad after his defeat on the Blackwater, and then went the other half after his second defeat up north. He doesn't have the forces to fight any true battles, but he sure has been hacking away at the corners."

"Last I heard he had less than a dozen ships." Tyrion shook his head. "How could Stannis even compare against the size of the Redwyne fleet from King's Landing?"

"He can't. But I'm not surprised Stannis is still fighting, I am amazed that his men are still following him," said Bronn. "Most men, even loyal ones, would desert their commanders when their cause

becomes that desperate, but his men are fanatics, from what I hear. And he has the luck of a devil with him too; in every raid or ambush he has the wind behind him, but no other vessel does. Stannis burned three galleys off the coast of Dragonstone just the other week."

"Beautiful." One more knot in Cersei's noose - a relentless force blocking travel by sea too . Cersei won't risk fleeing by ship, and herRoyal Navy had been rather lacking ever since Cersei's 'Grand Admiral' Aurane Waters had fled the city along with three dozen of their vessels. That's another fine decision I must thank her for .

Tyrion stopped to enjoy the view the rivers. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled, but the sound of boots and horses filled the quiet din. There are thousands of experienced men camped here in the riverlands and ready for war under my command. Let Lord Connington besiege King's Landing, I have a campaign of my own to lead .

"One thing I don't get," Bronn commented as he looked around the camp. "You have, what, three thousand men here?"

"Twenty-five hundred," he clarified. "All of them mounted men. We went ahead of the main force to secure areas of the riverlands, heading west." A tactic borrowed from the Young Wolf's playbook.

"Why the riverlands? Doesn't Aegon need all the men he can get to take the city?"

"Unfortunately, it seems I will have miss that battle. There is the fear of reinforcements gathering from the west, and so Lord Connington wants to be ready. I was sent ahead of the main host to lead a sortie, as well as to potentially rally any riverlords to our cause."

That was true, but there had also been something of power struggle between Lord Connington and Tyrion. The Lord Hand was insecure in his position, and he feared Tyrion's influence. Lord Connington couldn't get rid of him, of course (the dwarf had nestled himself in too

deep), so instead he had resolved to send Tyrion away. Tyrion ended up named as the commander of near three thousand cavalry going west.

Lord Connington wants to take the lion's share of the victory, he thought with scoff, he doesn't want me around in King's Landing . Still, in this case Tyrion was all too happy to comply. There were opportunities that Tyrion intended on exploiting in the riverlands and in the west.

There had not even been a whisper of news concerning his brother Jaime, but Tyrion had been preparing to fight against Ser Daven when the news of the dragon attack against the Twins emerged.

Tyrion explained their plan and the progress they had made. Bronn didn't look convinced. "Does Lord Connington expect your twenty-five hundred men to fight off the entire westerlands and riverlands for him?" Bronn said doubtfully. "Seems like a waste to me. Whatever force they rally will be more than you can beat."

"Oh, Lord Connington doesn't expect me to win anything. He simply requires that I harry and delay any reinforcements heading east until his victory in King's Landing is complete. The Lord Hand does not want to risk getting caught between two hosts, and the Young Wolf proved that a small force of mounted cavalry moving swiftly in enemy territory can be quite effective," Tyrion explained dryly. "Ser Franklyn Flowers over there joined me as second-in-command on the off-chance that we would be raiding Cider Hall, while most the other sellswords here joined for the plunder. None of them are the Golden Company's best, I admit - many of them are unreliable recruits from Lys. No doubt Lord Connington expects to win the war with Aegon before I even play a major role." Which was doubtless the intention, Tyrion mused. The Lord Hand only allowed me the command because he trusted Ser Franklyn to take command should I prove unreliable .

Tyrion paused, pursing his lips. "Nevertheless," he continued slowly as the smile spread over his face. "It occurs to me that there may be

an opportunity here. Ser Daven died at the Twins, Ser Kevan is very much distracted in King's Landing, and my brother Jaime is nowhere to be found. That means my home is currently being held by the old master-at-arms, Ser Benedict Broom." He felt the smile twist his scar. "So why shouldn't I march straight for Casterly Rock itself?"

There was a pause. Bronn looked at him like he was japing. Yes, if Lord Connington thinks to reduce my contribution to this war, then let's prove him wrong . "You expect to take Casterly Rock with lessthan three thousand men?"

"Take? Of course not. A siege or an assault would be pure folly - even dragons would struggle to take that castle. But I am the rightful Lord of the Rock now," Tyrion mused. "I expect them to open the gates and let me in."

The Lioness

It was my brother. It was all my brother. He's behind everything .

Cersei sat stiffly on the hideous iron chair, feeling the world fall to pieces around her. There was another set of petitioners today. Firstly a snivelling envoy from Ser Kevan pleading for her to negotiate, and then from the fishermen's guild reporting the lack of food. Then, Lord Adrian Celtigar, a gnarly and sour old man, came before the throne sweating and shivering to demand retribution against Stannis after his crimes on Claw Island. She dismissed them all and made no commitments. After that, there were more of those pathetic Warrior's Sons who demanded that she surrender herself to face trial in the Great Sept of Baelor.

She told the Warrior's Son the same thing she said every time; the Queen and the realm will not dance to the twittering of sparrows.

If not for Ser Robert Strong standing diligently by the throne, it might have ended in violence. Her champion was as silent and as strong

as stone. The whole court was quiet, tense, as she gave her decree.

Ser Robert stood toweringly in armour thick enough for an elephant.

The final petitioner was her own Master of Coin, Ser Harys Swyft. He came to her in front of the whole court, looking twitchy and panicked. "Your Grace," Ser Harys said with a slight stammer. "Please, Your Grace, reconsider your position. There are women and children in the castle, highborn daughters and sons that long to see their families. The stores are dwindling and the situation only grows more dire. Please, Your Grace - let us open the gates and make peace."

Cersei sat silently. Two months ago, she had been a lioness, proud, beautiful and strong. Now, she felt cornered and betrayed. Enemies everywhere, allies dead, and treachery around every corner. It was my brother, he forced me to thi s.

Even her own body had betrayed her. Where once she had been slender and beautiful, now her waist was growing thick. She felt fat, bloated and weak.

"I am aware of the plight," Cersei said to the court. "And yet treachery and corruption invades our city. The enemies of the Crown are camped outside our gates. Men who plot conspiracy and rebellion under the banner of the Faith. I cannot allow anyone to leave until such wickedness is destroyed."

There were no replies. Ser Harys gulped, but backed away as Ser Robert Strong stepped forward. Her tone and the presence of her champion left no room for protest. They all knew that everyone in the Red Keep was a hostage. My son included, she thought foully. They have left me a prisoner in my own castle .

My brother did this. This is all the twisted little Imp's fault.

They are all working together. The Tyrells, the Martells and Tyrion Lannister - a conspiracy to steal her throne.

It was obvious, really. She had known that Martells and the dwarf were allied from the beginning; that became clear when Tyrion sold her precious girl Myrcella off to Dorne, and it was only further proved when the Red Viper chose to champion the Imp. Cersei had also known that the Tyrells were untrustworthy and ambitious, but she realised too late that they were all in the plot.

First Tyrion killed Joffrey. Joffrey was strong, proud, a true lion, and so Tyrion killed him on behalf of House Tyrell. The Tyrells wanted their little slut to marry Tommen instead, as he was weaker and more easily manipulated. Her father Tywin might have challenged the Tyrell conspiracy too, so Tyrion killed him next.

She should have realised sooner. She had even found the gold coins of the Reach, used to pay for Tyrion to escape from the black cells.

But Cersei only really realised the full extent of the scheme when Tyrion returned to Westeros with the Golden Company. That was when she knew; the dwarf didn't have the coin to hire mercenaries like the Golden Company. Not without the Tyrells and the Martells bankrolling him.

Slowly, she realised as the conspiracy started to form, the teeth started to close, but by then it was too late. The prophecy is coming true. The valonqar - the little brother - is coming to kill me .

Everywhere she walked, she kept Ser Robert Strong by her side. She saw dark eyes staring at her from the corridor. Her true allies could be counted only on one hand.

Cersei didn't even know why she bothered holding court anymore; every day it was the same. The same whining, the same petty demands, the same simmering defiance. I should let Moon Boy hold court next time, for all the use it will be .

She met Lord Qyburn as he climbed the stairs from the black cells. He had grey hair, a lean frame, and looked fatherly, slightly stooped with crinkles around his soft blue eyes. He was garbed in white

robes with golden whorls around his hem sleeves and high collar. There was just the faintest scent of dried rot about him. Her spymaster was one of the true friends she had left. And a capable one, at that.

"Your Grace," Qyburn said, bowing deeply as she approached. He pulled out a bundle of letters from his thick sleeves. "I have sent out your letters as you required, and replies were quickly received. There is a message from Lord Mace Tyrell. He demands the release of his son and daughter. He gives three days before his men break the walls and take the city."

"Margaery Tyrell has been placed under arrest for murder and treason," she said stiffly. She would not use the title queen.

"Indeed she is."

"And Mace Tyrell made the same threat a week ago."

"Indeed he did, Your Grace," he smiled apologetically. He had a sweet smile. "But now Lord Randyll Tarly is in position outside of the city as well. They have twenty thousand men between them."

Cersei bristled. "Make sure they understand the stakes. If they will resort to barbarity then I will meet them in kind." Her voice turned dangerously low. Tommen, I am doing this for you . "I have over two hundred highborn hostages with me in the Red Keep. Should theybreak the city walls, I shall drop Margaery's ladies-in-waiting - Megga, Alla and Ellinor Tyrell - over the walls. Should they pass the Street of Sisters, it will be the Redwyne twins. And should they reach our walls itself, I will return Lady Margaery. By trebuchet." They won't risk it, they won't . "Let there be no misunderstanding. Make surethat Mace Tyrell knows the consequences his rebellion brings."

He hesitated. "That is a drastic ultimatum to put to ink."

"These are drastic times," Cersei said stiffly. "Walk with me, Lord Qyburn."

"Yes, Your Grace." They set off down the corridor. Robert Strong was a silent shadow behind them, strangely light-footed for such a big, heavy man. "And I have a letter from the High Septon too, Your Grace."

"Call him what he is. A sparrow," she said in a low voice.

"Very true. But he and the Most Devout have reached a verdict," Qyburn continued, reaching for the letter. "He has declared that you have seventy-seven days to present yourself to the Great Sept to be tried before the Seven. Else your sovereignty will be renounced and you will be judged in absence." The maester hesitated. "Your Grace, I do not believe that the High Sparrow is a man to make a false threat, or to back down on an ultimatum like Lord Tyrell will."

"An ultimatum," Cersei repeated. "He issues an ultimatum to me . He presumes to have the authority to judge me? I am Queen Regent."

"He has a confession from Ser Osney Kettleblack that you gave the orders to assassinate him, Your Grace," Qyburn said softly. "As well as Ser Osney claiming to have murdered the previous High Sparrow on your behalf. Charges of infidelity and accusations from Ser Lancel Lannister have also been levelled."

That was a mistake. I should have never have trusted Ser Osney with the task. Not only did he fail, he allowed himself to be caught and interrogated . "A confession brought about by torture." Her posture didn't even twitch. Cersei just felt dead inside. "A sham of an accusation. The High Sparrow is no holy man, he is just another one of my brother's catspaws."

"As you say, Your Grace." His voice was level.

"The High Sparrow is working for Tyrion too," she continued. "Of course he is - the Imp has shown in the past that he can buy and control High Septons, and he used the same trick again. The Imp brought the man into further weaken my rule, and the fool I was for not noticing it sooner. Dwarves are cunning, wicked creatures."

"And yet the man has decreed that you must fast until you see the path of redemption. The Faith Militant will not allow food or supplies to enter the Red Keep for the duration, until you relent for a trial."

Her shoulders felt tense. "Any trial will be a sham orchestrated by my brother to shame and strip me of power. No, I will not do so. I will not leave this keep." Seventy-seven days, she thought. Time enough for this stalemate to end .

The Red Keep was under Cersei's control. She had over two hundred hostages, and strong walls and enough loyal men. But even outside on Aegon's Hill, the Faith Militant were camped in the streets. Cersei dared not allow a single soul to leave the keep for fear of losing control altogether.

She saw a figure across the grounds. "Ser Harys!" Cersei called. "Walk with us, Ser Harys."

The Knight of the Cornfield looked worn and weak. He had lost weight since his stay here. If the High Sparrow intends to starve us, I expect he will lose more . Ser Harys wheezed, glancing up at SerRobert Strong fearfully. "Your Grace?"

"Tell me, Ser Harys, why has your goodson not acted?" she said coldly. "He has been given explicit orders on how to act, and still he replies with defiance. He replies with inactivity and negligence to his duties."

He looked pained. "Your Grace, Ser Kevan is trying to maintain peace-"

"He is doing nothing," she said sharply. "I ordered Ser Kevan to take the Great Sept and remove that charlatan of a High Septon from power, and still he does nothing . Ser Kevan leads five thousand men in the city, does he not?"

"Ser Kevan is a precarious situation, Your Grace," Lord Qyburn soothed. "He is caught between Lord Tyrell's demands and the High

Sparrow's. He is trying to negotiate a peace."

No, she thought. Ser Kevan will not march against the Faith, not when Lancel fought alongside the Warrior's Sons. Ser Kevan refuses to fight against his son. His inactivity may doom us all .

The city could well turn into a battlefield any day now. Battle lines were being drawn. The Faith Militant was fortified in the Great Sept of Baelor on Rhaenys' Hill, while Ser Kevan Lannister's forces were being garrisoned in the Dragonpit on Visenya's Hill, and the Crown in the Red Keep on Aegon's High Hill. A city-wide stalemate, where no force dared to act.

My uncle is a weak fool. If it was my father and not my uncle outside then this would never have happened . "Ser Kevan proves himself a fool. He is negotiating between two enemies," she said, looking between the men. "House Tyrell is allied with the Imp. The High Sparrow is the Imp's puppet. Tyrion murdered Joffrey and Tywin for them, and in return the Tyrells bought his release. And then the Imp returned with the Golden Company - a force paid for with Reach gold." Her voice was a growl. How many times do I need to say it? "An invasion to justify a coup. Or do you think it's a coincidence that this pretender appeared at the same time the Tyrells tried to steal the kingdom?"

Ser Harys looked pained. Qyburn kept his face blank. "Aegon Targaryen, Your Grace."

"A mummer's puppet. Some boy hired in Lys most like. A farce to get rid of the rightful king Tommen Baratheon so that they can steal power through Margaery. House Tyrell steals the kingdom, House Martell gets revenge against my family, and my brother gets to hurt me."

"Your Grace…" Ser Harys wheezed. "How could you possibly know that?"

Because it was prophesied. My little brother is going to kill my children and choke me . "Because I know the Imp, I know his puppets," she growled. "And because I see the strings. If not for Lady Margaery, how do you think the assassin managed to infiltrate the holdfast to murder the Lord Hand, his wife and the Grand Maester?"

Neither of the men could meet her eyes. This is all that is left of my small council, she realised suddenly. My weak treasurer and spymaster . Cersei's Grand Admiral Aurane Waters betrayed her, herbrother, the Lord Commander, abandoned her, and her Hand of the King and the Grand Maester were murdered.

It was two months ago now. They might have murdered Orton Merryweather too, but she knew the real target was Lady Taena Merryweather. As far as anyone could tell, Grand Maester Pycelle had only stumbled upon the scene but he was killed too.

The death of Taena still pained her. An ache in her chest. It had been one of the rare times that Cersei wept.

Cersei had ordered her friend and confidant Taena to keep a close watch on Margaery and report back to her, and then the woman was found dead with a crossbow bolt in her stomach, right in the middle of the Red Keep itself. Taena must have found something about Margaery and the Tyrells, and she was killed for it. The assassin must have come into the keep along with the House Tyrell guards, and that was when Cersei knew that there were knives hidden all around her. Thorns crawling up the walls.

Margaery murdered my friend. No, Taena was more than just a friend. The Tyrell slut deserves to be imprisoned, the evil bitch that she is . Tommen wept and wailed, but her babe didn't understand. Cersei needed to keep Margaery hostage; she was the only leverage she had to keep the Tyrells at bay.

Cersei didn't have a choice. It was all Tyrion's fault.

Qyburn paused. He drew another parchment out of his sleeves. "Your Grace…" Qyburn said slowly, glancing quietly between her and Ser Harys. "I must… I fear the letter from White Harbour demands more attention. What of the reports of the white dragon and Bastard King in the north?"

Cersei hesitated. Her eyes twitched slightly. "I know not how my brother managed it," she said finally. "But these false claims of a dragon are just another way he seeks to ruin my power."

Qyburn didn't reply. Ser Harys' eyes widened. "False claims?" the man exclaimed. "Your Grace, do you truly believe that the reports of the Twins are false ?"

"Hearsay or rumours or blatant forgeries of noble house signatures. The letters cannot be trusted even if the lies spread like wildfire." Cersei's face flickered. "Or do you seriously believe an ice dragon just happens to appear at the same time the Imp leads an invasionof the realm?"

"But, Your Grace, there have been hundreds of letters. How could your brother even…?"

"Imps are cunning creatures, Ser Harys," she said sharply. "And treachery is thick in the realm. I know not how he managed it, but he has; the tales are false." They must be . Cersei paused. "And a detail returns to me; I remember that this Jon Snow and Tyrion travelled together. My brother escorted Jon Snow up to the Wall, three years ago now. Doubtless they were planning betrayal together even then. Tyrion recruited Jon Snow into his schemes - parallel plans that work together." Cersei shook her head, flicking her blond hair back. "No, these reports of 'ice dragons' are just another way the Imp seeks to hurt me, by inciting mass hysteria and panic in the realm. He recruited his sour bastard traitor friend to do so. There must be hunters shooting down the ravens from noble houses, and then replacing them with false messages dictated by the Imp, false testimonies of dragons. Doubtless the Twins were raided and razed by wildlings, the deed ascribed to a dragon such that the rumours

might aid their cause. Words are wind, Ser Harys, and the Imp has been blowing them. My brother could arrange it so; this conspiracy must have been a long time in the making." She shook her head again, more forcefully.

Neither of them replied. Qyburn looked down at the ground silently, and Ser Harys stared at her, mouth agape. This is all my brother's doing, why can no one else see it?

That clueless look on Ser Harys' face made her eyes narrow and her lips purse. She stepped forward warningly, lowering her voice. Behind her, Ser Robert shifted slightly.

"You asked me to open the gates, Ser Harys?" Cersei said coolly. "Allow me to tell you when the gates will open and this will end: Ser Kevan is going to attack the Great Sept and put those blasted sparrows to the sword. He will remove the High Sparrow from power permanently. Mace Tyrell is not going to be allowed into the city lest his son and daughter suffer for it. Instead, Lord Tyrell will fight the Golden Company for us - to fight the very sellswords that he himself hired. Afterwards, once both threats have been vanquished - when my brother and his schemes are finally dead - I will open the gates and Lady Margaery can be tried properly. That is the only way this will resolve. Is that understood?"

Ser Harys nodded, weak chin flapping. "Then I suggest you write to your goodson, ser," she ordered. "Make sure you convince Ser Kevan of the need."

Ser Harys bowed and stammered away. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him run.

"Do my warnings fall on deaf ears?" Cersei murmured. "The murders, the invasion, the schemes. There is a conspiracy afoot and for some reason I seem to be the only one who can see the strings. It all leads back to my brother."

The castle felt silent. Cersei saw the Redwyne twins, Horas and Hobber, staring at her suspiciously from the far side of the courtyard, but none dared to approach so long as Ser Robert Strong stood behind her. Her gaze met the Redwyne boys, and they backed away.

Treachery behind every corner . "Is the keep secure?" Cersei asked, keeping her voice low. "I do not trust our hostages not to try and overpower the guards to escape."

"They have no weapons to speak of, Your Grace," Lord Qyburn reassured her. "But the soldiers have been warned of the possibility. Due precautions have been taken."

"Any hostage that seems rebellious goes into the cells," Cersei ordered. She paused. "And what of the soldiers themselves? Are they loyal?"

The sack of the Red Keep had posed a problem. It had to be done swiftly, but there had been many guests and guards inside, while Cersei couldn't even trust any of the gold cloaks. All of House Tyrell's men had to be captured, killed, or removed from the Red Keep, and that required manpower. Lord Qyburn had proved invaluable in arranging it.

"Many of the soldiers were formerly sworn to Ser Gregor Clegane, Your Grace," Qyburn explained. "The Mountain's Men, as they were called."

"Good," she nodded approvingly. "Seasoned, loyal Lannister men."

"Indeed. There are also what remains of your household guard, some handpicked sellswords. I also recruited two dozen Tyroshi mercenaries that do not speak the Common Tongue - it makes them very difficult to be bought. All of the men were vetted by me personally, Your Grace: three hundred in total to hold the castle and the walls." He smiled, with just a hint of quiet pride. "And then, of course, there is Ser Robert Strong. Ser Robert will be eternally loyal, and as formidable as ten men, Your Grace, I guarantee it."

She nodded. "Loyalty is most important attribute in times like these. There must be no catspaws left in my house."

"As you say, Your Grace. Alas, none of the men are the most… shall we say… disciplined soldiers," he said apologetically. "But they are of a certain simple nature and low barbarity that they will remain loyal. They will not falter no matter how long this siege lasts, I just fear we may have to allow them a certain leeway with respect to the stresses they face."

"Barbarity has its uses." In desperate times, she would take Qyburn's simple soldiers over all of the treacherous knights in the realm. Even the kingsguard had to be vetted and secured.

Ser Loras Tyrell had tried to protest when she secured the castle. The Knight of Flowers killed two men who tried to take his sword, and it took Ser Robert himself to overpower Ser Loras and place him in the black cells. Ser Loras suffered two broken legs and a shattered arm after Ser Robert Strong threw him physically against a wall.

Ser Osmund Kettleblack had abandoned his white cloak and fled when the Faith captured his brother, only to be captured himself by the Warrior's Sons. All three of the Kettleblacks were tortured and became more witnesses against Cersei.

Tommen only had two white cloaks left in the castle - Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount. Both of them guarded her little boy constantly, but she had to keep Tommen restricted behind a locked door for his own safety.

I can keep my castle secure until the crisis is over, Cersei thought with a deep breath. My child will forgive me so long as he is kept alive .

"Your Grace," Qyburn said cautiously. "I must ask; what is the intention should Ser Kevan not raise swords against the Faith Militant?"

"He will. His king commands him to." Everything hinged on Ser Kevan, his was the only force Cersei could call upon to act. He is a follower, he must obey .

"I fear that if Ser Kevan was willing to, he would have done so by now," Qyburn shook his head sadly. "Your uncle seems more concerned trying to keep the peace within the city. Forgive me, Your Grace, but I do not believe he will act as you command." Her jaw tightened, but she didn't speak. "I fear Ser Kevan will be more inclined to wait out the High Sparrow's deadline, until you are forced to surrender," Qyburn continued. "The situation is… volatile. Should either the Faith or Lord Tyrell move against you first, matters may quickly spiral out of control."

"I am aware. And I will not let power-grabbing schemers break this kingdom. I will not allow it." Tommen, I'm doing this for you . She turned away, and walked towards two men-at-arms in motley grey armour, standing guard by a doorway. "You. You two. What are your names?"

They both looked surprised. One of them was a younger man wearing a yellow surcoat, with a mop of sandy hair. "Um, Raff, Your Grace," he said. His voice was softly spoken. "They call me Raff the Sweetling."

I see why; he is handsome, Cersei thought. Though there's something in his eyes . The other guard was the opposite; he was gruff, unkempt, short and portly, with hard eyes and a scarred, pockmarked face under his grey helm. "Craster, Your Grace," the man grumbled, in a deep, hard voice.

She looked between them. Yes, they'll do . "Lady Margaery Tyrell has been arrested for treason. She conspired to steal the throne. She arranged the murder of Lady Taena Merryweather, Orton Merryweather, and Grand Maester Pycelle. Her scheming threatens the whole realm," Cersei said curtly. "She is restrained in the Maidenvault. She must be interrogated and then tried. Are you fit to question her?"

Raff the Sweetling looked panicked briefly. Craster grunted. "Your majesty," the heavyset man rumbled. "She is the queen."

Was the queen." Her voice was cold. "The marriage was not consummated, it has been annulled. She is naught but a traitor to the realm. She will confess to her lies and her treachery. Do you understand?"

Raff the Sweetling blinked, and then smiled. "Yes, Your Grace. Yes, of course."

Craster just nodded, his gaze hard. " Aye ."

"See that a confession is drawn from her. Keep her presentable. Recruit whatever aid you require," Cersei ordered sharply, and then walked away. She motioned at Qyburn, while Ser Robert trailed behind. "Lord Qyburn, Margaery Tyrell committed treason. She fucked the Kettleblack brothers and sent them to the High Sparrow to slander me. She coerced them into a false confession that they revealed under torture, using my name instead of hers. That is what Lady Margaery will confess, and she will admit her crimes to the realm and beg for mercy in her punishment. In return, the throne will give… leeway." She might keep her pretty little head, if she concedes, Cersei conceded, but not her crown . "It'll be a generoussentence - one of exile or imprisonment rather than execution. Lord Tyrell will be humbled and shamed, but unable to object. Can you see that it happens?"

"Of course, Your Grace." The white-robed man bowed again.

"And then the High Sparrow will demilitarise the Faith Militant, or they will all face the sword as they did in Maegor's day." I should never have tolerated those sparrows in the beginning . Her red satindress brushed against the stones as she turned towards the staircase. "Lord Tyrell will be forced to deal with the mummer's king and the Golden Company, the forces in the Reach will beat this Euron Greyjoy, and the Boltons will overcome the Bastard King. Stannis will be destroyed as soon as we can rally a proper force to

deal with him." She kept her voice low, a quiet growl in the cavernous staircase. "They will not steal my son's throne, Lord Qyburn. None of them will. I refuse to allow it."

"Very wise, Your Grace. I shall assist of course."

"I will need you to keep my castle secure. As well as to take over the duties of maester since our late Grand Maester's demise. You report to me directly, nobody else." Cersei winced slightly, stretching her shoulders as she walked up the stairs.

If Qyburn was uncomfortable with the added duties placed upon him, he didn't show it. He kept his expression humble and neutral. "However I can help."

"You could help by providing me a treatment for my back," Cersei said irritably. "Sitting in that damnable chair has left my spine aching constantly."

Qyburn bobbed his head, and then appeared to hesitate. "Forgive me, Your Grace, I cannot help but notice…" His lips pursed. "It is of a sensitive nature, but I would be remiss in my duties if I did not broach the subject." His eyes were soft, grandfatherly. "Your Grace, you are gaining weight."

Cersei froze. She had worn the same red satin dress for the last week because none other would fit her. Her handmaidens still had to restitch the others. She spun around and snapped. " You dare? "

"Forgive me, Your Grace, I mean no insult," he said quickly. "I spoke to the serving girls. They say you have not had your moonblood for at least two months."

She stiffened. "It is stress. The stress of running a kingdom takes its toll on the body."

"That is true, Your Grace," Qyburn nodded. "However, I fear you may be pregnant."

The corridor turned silent. Cersei's hands clenched so sharp her fingernails dug into her hands. "No."

Qyburn didn't reply. He just lowered his head, respectful. " No," Cersei repeated.

I cannot be pregnant, she thought firmly. How long has it been since my brother left the city? The dates do not match up, it's impossible, I can't…

And then she remembered Ser Osney Kettleblack, and the 'reward' she had granted him before sending him off to kill the High Sparrow. She remembered his unsatisfactory kisses and rough thrusts. I told him to come on my stomach. I told him to come on my stomach.

"No…" Cersei muttered. She felt the colour draining from her face.

Qyburn stepped forward. "Your Grace, I can provide a simple tonic to ensure-"

"Leave," Cersei ordered. He looked uncertain. " Leave ! Get out of my presence!"

Qyburn bowed, and very quickly turned to trot back down the stairs. Cersei was panting, head spinning. Not here, too many watching eyes . She turned and very quickly walked upwards to her quarters.Ser Robert Strong stood like a sentinel at the base of the stairwell.

As soon as she closed the door, she collapsed into a fit of wheezing breaths. She felt herself groan.

It's impossible. The prophecy. Maggy the Frog foretold that I would have three children, not four…

Unless I do not survive to term carrying the babe. Seventy-seven days.

I'm pregnant. That cursed, treacherous sellsword's babe.

She saw Ser Osney Kettleblack's mocking grin. With a sudden jolt, she realised that she might finally be carrying a black-haired child.

She could feel herself gasping, struggling for air. Her legs buckled and she fell. No, she thought. I am a lioness. A queen. Not a fat, bloated woman begging on her knees . Still, no matter how hard shetried she couldn't control her breathing, or pull herself to her feet.

It's all coming true. My brother. The younger queen. My dead children. Joffrey is already dead, Myrcella is in the grip of the Dornish, Tommen is trapped in a city besieged. My little brother is coming for me.

She felt tears stinging her eyes. My son, my babe…

The valonqar will wrap his hands around my pale white throat and choke the life from me. Just like he did with that whore.

Her plans were nothing more than grasping at straws. She could barely control the Red Keep, let alone a kingdom. Her allies were treacherous, her friends gone. Her enemies everywhere.

This is all the Imp's doing. And I cannot stop it because it has already been foretold.

Cersei spent the next two hours weeping and wailing on the floor.

Then, she stood, straightened her dress and cleaned her face. When she left her chambers, her face was once again stiff like ice. She motioned at Ser Robert to follow her.

I will not allow them to hurt my son. I will defy them all, I will defy the gods, I will defy the fates to keep my little boy alive.

She met Lord Qyburn again in the Grand Maester's chambers, sorting through Pycelle's vials, papers and medicines. "Lord Qyburn," she said curtly.

"Your Grace." He bowed quickly. "I apologise if I crossed any line, I meant only to offer assistance-"

"Enough. We will not speak of that matter." The thought scared her, she couldn't even begin to handle it. For some reason, she couldn't even swallow the thought of drinking moon tea. No, I will have to. I must get of rid of the babe before any talk starts . "What of the tunnelthat you discovered under the Red Keep?" Cersei demanded.

He blinked, off-guard. "Yes, Your Grace. You ordered to seal any secret exits, and so I had the castle searched from top to bottom. We discovered the tunnel built into a well in the lower dungeons, it leads out towards the sewer, and then the river. A relic from King Maegor's construction."

"And does anyone else know of it?"

"No, Your Grace."

"Keep it that way," Cersei ordered. "But have the tunnel unsealed. We will need a secret tunnel into the city. There is much work to be done."

Lord Qyburn bowed. "Whatever you require, Your Grace."

"Firstly, I shall need a hundred more just like him," Cersei said, motioning to Ser Robert Strong's hulking mass. He stood at the doorway stiff like a stone titan. "Apply your skills, Lord Qyburn, and make your soldiers. There are tasks to be and I will need their unwavering loyalty."

His eyes widened. "Your Grace, my methods are still so rudimentary!" Qyburn exclaimed. "Ser Robert was the first of his kind and he required months of labour! To create a hundred more? I am but a blind man studying a whole new field, I cannot make such a promise."

"Whatever resources you require, you shall have them. Draw your work out of the black cells if needed. The castle is at your disposal. Whatever it takes." Tommen, I am doing this for you . "I require one hundred soldiers of Ser Robert's quality. You have seventy-seven days."

Qyburn blinked, bit his lip, and then bowed. She caught his eyes flash as he lowered his head quickly. "I shall devote myself to the task, Your Grace."

"Good. And then bring me Lord Hallyne of Alchemist's Guild," Cersei demanded. "I will require him and his pyromancers too."

The Godly Man

"Do you ever wonder of mermaids, Urgard?" Euron mused. "Do you wonder whether they are fair or hideous?"

The grim-faced man never replied. He had two flame-shaped brands on each cheek, and crisscrossing scars over his face. "You may answer, Urgard," Euron insisted.

"I cannot say, my king." Urgard's voice was a grumble. He didn't turn away from the candles. He didn't even blink

"It is strange, is it not? They talk of mermaids as being beautiful, but men do like to idolise the unknown," Euron wondered, as he paced the dark cabin. The glass candles blazed all across the far wall. The Silence rocked against the waves, the wind and ocean a low howl inthe background. "But if mermaids truly are fish, then I would say they would have to be hideous. Have you ever seen a sea creature that has any care for beauty? Does a shark or a tuna look pretty? And if mermaids are just ugly fish things, then I think they would also be fairly benign. I find that even the biggest, scariest creatures of the sea generally want to be left undisturbed."

Euron paused, as he picked up a glowing hot poker from the low fire.

But," he continued, "if mermaids really are pretty, then does that not make then far more dangerous? For if they are comely, then they must have knowledge of men. They must have cunning. They must be more than just fish, for they have the intelligence to entice and entrap. It is strange, is it not? How the hideous creatures are the most benign, yet the fair ones are dangerous?"

Urgard didn't reply. He kept his back turned, staring blankly at the obsidian flames. Euron just smiled, as he stepped forward and moved the poker to Falia's face.

Falia Flowers would have begged, but she could not because she had no tongue. Euron preferred the silence.

His bed mate's eyes were bloodshot and wide, and her wrists were chained. Her dark hair was coated in salt and sea grime. Falia had been good company to him, easy to laugh and full of whimsy. Her stomach was swollen, pregnant with his child. Euron just smiled, as he stroked her cheek. She tried to squirm, to escape to, to cry out.

"You are very beautiful, Falia," Euron whispered. "But right now I wish to test my theory on whether uglier things have less reason to be dangerous."

He put the burning poker to her cheek. Flesh bubbled and hiss. Chains rattled and her mouth gasped, but there was nothing but choked, frenzied and wordless screams.

Urgard didn't stop staring at the candles.

Euron knew he could do whatever he wished aboard his ship, and not a single crewmember of the Silence would ever speak of it.

When he was done, Euron kissed his pregnant bed mate on her mutilated forehead and let her drop to the ground.

"This is a good thing, Falia," he whispered gently. Her hair was burnt from her scalp, her skull black and red with deep blisters. "There is power in pain. Strength from suffering. I hurt you, and perhaps you will become more for it. The more our bodies are cut away from us, the closer we become to something more than mortal. Divinity comes from burning away the flesh and the mind."

She could only whimper. Euron pressed his hand against her pregnant stomach. Old Valyria built their empire from harnessing the power of suffering, and Euron intended to follow suit. Perhaps something worthwhile could be birthed from Falia's pain, but, if not, such distractions were still useful. Euron considered cruelty just another skill to be mastered. A learning experience for both parties. He sighed softly and walked away.

"Urgard," he said finally, turning away from his distraction. "How goes it? What do you see?"

On the black wall of the cabin, three dozen dragonglass candles blazed across the shelves with quiet, flickering black flames. The art of scrying through obsidian fires was a delicate and subtle skill. Fire was power, and power gave knowledge. Skilled men could see across the entire world using a glass candle, they could see into dreams and into the future. Past, present and all possible futures all flickering in the candlelight, refracted in every spark of light. The same power existed in every flame, or so the red priests claimed, but the dragonglass helped focus it.

Urgard had been a red priest, once upon a time. Euron wasn't sure what he was now, but any faith the man once had had been whipped out of him. Now, Urgard was one of the many sorcerers and mages that had been brought upon the Silence, and one of the few who still had their tongues. It took great skill, focus and patience to use the glass candles; Euron had the first two, but he was often lacking in the third.

"I see naught but snow and ash," Urgard muttered hoarsely after a pause. "The flames are out of balance. I shall attempt to refocus

them."

Euron sighed. And that could take weeks, even months . The glass candles were an extremely difficult art; it was easy to light a fire but far, far more difficult to focus it. "Just do it. Find me dragons. Show me my brother's progress towards Slaver's Bay. Show me when my bride-to-be is coming home," Euron ordered. "Do it, otherwise I shall cut off your eyelids so you will never be distracted again."

He left the cabin. As he walked through the rocking hull, Euron passed lines of warlocks, red priests, holy men, shadowbinders, spellsingers, firemages, hedge mages, maegi and necromancers. They were all bound in chains with their eyes covered and their mouths gagged. On quiet seas, you could hear the strained, muffled gasps from his hull. Sorcerers and the like are useful things to have, Euron thought, but it's important to keep them contained . Like a blade, you must sheathe them when not in use .

He kept all his mages chained constantly at the very bottom deck of his galleon, blind and manacled and always under watch. Euron's collection of mutts and murderers from the far east kept a close eye on their prisoners, and they carried barbed whips and daggers. His crew was on-guard against magic to point of paranoia; they had to be, to survive in the places where the Silence had sailed. They had all learnt to watch for flickering shadows or lingering hexes, or any sign of a prisoner trying to use their skills against them. No exposed flames were allowed anywhere near the spellbinders, except under close supervision. It left the decks of the Silence in constant gloom, but the darkness had a certain comfort.

Euron was something of a collector. He didn't care for riches or gold, but he was an avid collector of old magicks, monsters and myth. Ever since sailing away from the Iron Islands so long ago, he had become obsessed and devoted to the power of gods and magic. Knowledge is power, Euron thought silently. Knowledge is also fear. Power and fear shape the world .

His ship was the silence before the storm. His crew of mutes, mongrels and mages brought fear to the entire world. No, he thought. Not yet. They do not know fear yet .

It was raining when Euron stepped out onto the red deck. The sky was black, and a sharp wind howled down through the straits of Redwyne. Rain sputtered down across the bay, and the coast was ringing with the sound of thousands of men and hundreds of ships.

On either side of the Silence, the Thunderer and the Dusk rocked on the choppy seas. So both the Drumm and the Knight of Grey Garden are here, then, Euron thought, as a wiry smile stretched over his bluelips.

He saw grim faces waiting for him as he stepped out into the rain. Hard-faced men standing steady on the rocking vessels. Raindrops scattered across Euron's black Valyrian steel armour, water dripping down to the red blade at his hip. He stepped past Harren Half-Hoare, Rodrik Freedborn, and Left-Hand Lucas Codd all standing stoically by the door. Euron's grin widened as he saw his guests.

Ser Harras Harlaw, Lord Denys Drumm, Lord Maron Volmark, Lord Gorold Goodbrother, Lord Germund Botley, and Andrik the Unsmiling all stood waiting for him. All powerful and influential men of the Iron Islands, Euron thought. And all of them are bitter and coming here in defeat .

"My lords!" He laughed, raising his hands in the rain. "Happy days! It seems the Drowned God blesses us with more water from the sky!"

In the distance, thunder rumbled over the Arbor. Across the bay, hundreds of ironborn longships scattered over the beaches, the entire fleet docked and fortified on the northern edge of the island, nestled around a collection of wooden thatch houses and barns. The ironborn had taken and occupied an Arbor fishing village, but there were far too many ships to fit in the small harbour.

Three hundred and sixty-six vessels, Euron was told. Once, they had been over five hundred, but then there had been battles, and the best one hundred longships of the Iron Fleet left for Slaver's Bay. Now, the ironborn had more ships than they had men to comfortably sail them - his army was nine thousand strong. On average that meant twenty-five to a boat, Euron mused, but there were many smaller longships that were holding only ten or so.

Nobody spoke. "Lord Botley," Euron called, looking to the man. "What news from Lordsport? Are these rumours that I'm hearing true?"

Eyes flickered. The lord wiped the rain from his brow. "Aye, they are true. The whole realm is up in arms about it. There is a dragon in the north - a huge, white beast larger than Balerion the Dread. It is ridden by the Bastard King. It destroyed the Twins, demolished two whole castles in a single afternoon."

Euron felt laughter rising from his throat. Around him, the waves howled. "Well, isn't that just typical?" He chuckled. "I send my brother halfway around the world to fetch me dragons, but it turns there was one right next door the whole time! Ha! Oh, how the fates like to tease us, don't you think?"

In truth, Euron had suspected the dragon for a long time now. Months ago, all of his glass candles had suddenly started burning brighter and clearer. Magic returning faster, older powers were stirring and Euron was likely one of the first know about it. All of the magicks aboard the Silence had become… clearer. Sharper.

Yes, another dragon, he thought. Another great elemental force to move the world; such beasts caused ripples of power as naturally as fish splashed. This is only good news. A fourth dragon for me .

They didn't look so amused. "We are at war with the north, and now they have a dragon!" Lord Goodbrother growled.

"I know, brilliant, isn't it?" The taste of shade of the evening on his lips made his head feel tingly. He danced softly over the rocking deck. "It does indeed look like I sent Victarion and the Iron Fleet away for no reason. Typical."

"We need to return to the Iron Islands," Lord Goodbrother insisted. "If there is a dragon, we need to return to defend our lands."

"You cannot. I will need the whole force of the Iron Islands for our assault on Oldtown," Euron said, shaking his head.

There were mutters. Ser Harras Harlaw stepped forward, frowning. "So it's true. You really intend to assault Oldtown."

"Of course. Have I not been announcing such?" Euron said with a smile. "I hope the entire realm knows my intention. We will raid wealth that no ironborn has been able to pillage in thousands of years!"

"This campaign of yours becomes more moon-addled by the day!" Ser Harras Harlaw shouted. The Knight of Grey Gardens sounded angry. He had his hand on the black Valyrian steel blade at his waist, Nightfall. "The Shield Islands have been retaken by the thorns, and you move on to your next folly?"

"The Shield Islands were supposed to be our launching point for this campaign. You named us the lords of them, yet abandoned them at the first chance," Lord Denys Drumm accused. Lord Volmark and Andrik the Unsmiling looked bitter too. Yes, they had all been my potential enemies, and they lost their strength trying to hold the lands I handed to them . "We've lost our foothold in the Reach."

Euron just shrugged. "Then you should have defended them better. That is your failure, not mine."

"You dare-" Ser Harras bellowed, before Lord Drumm held up his hand.

"How could we defend them, when you took the fleet south with you?" Lord Denys Drumm shouted over the waves. "You left us with a half a dozen ships each, to defend against Highgarden itself!"

"Ships that you use to flee upon," Euron noted. "Do you really care so little about the newfound lands that I gave you that you would flee from battle?"

Lord Denys Drumm's face twisted. The young Bone Hand was a stout and strong fighter, clad in grey armour with skeletal white bones painted upon it. His iron helm bore a white skull. " My father perished trying to defend Southshield! We barely held them back, but Oakenshield had already fallen! Once two out of four isles fell, there was no choice but to retreat." His eyes flashed. "We escaped those islands, and then I find that you had your men steal my father's blade!"

Euron cocked his head, looking at the young lord. The newly-named Lord Drumm had none of his late father's patience or wits. Euron's hand lingered on Red Rain on his hip. It was a fine Valyrian steel blade of shining crimson metal, with a white hilt carved like a skeletal bone. Red Rain was formerly the ancestral weapon of House Drumm, but it was sword that had been known to change hands. The Drumms themselves stole it from House Reyne. It was a bloody sword if there ever was one.

"Lord Dustan was an old man," Euron scoffed. "He fell in the battle and some rat looted his sword. It is a nice blade, I liked it myself. I found that rat, and I bought this blade off him with the iron price. Truth be told, Red Rain has quite taken my fancy."

"That sword belongs to House Drumm," Lord Drumm said darkly, stepping forward.

Harren Half-Hoare and Left-Hand Lucas Codd took a step to block him. Euron raised his hand to stop them. "I told you," Euron repeated, with a mocking smirk. "I paid the iron price for the sword. Do you want to try and buy it back with the same?"

Lord Drumm's face twisted. He didn't back down, but he hesitated. Everyone was watching. "Forget the bloody sword," Ser Harras growled. He was a tall and dark man, fearsome in full grey armour. He was glaring at Euron too. "You attack the Reach but you leave our homes undefended. The retaking the Shields was just the beginning. You claimed those lands but you had no intention of defending them, did you? You let the lords you raised linger there only to be defeated."

Yes, actually. That was completely my intention - I took the credit for taking the isles, and then I left you to take the blame for losing them . Still, Euron just smirked. "Why would you obsess over bunch of cold, dreary rocks?" Euron laughed. "Look around you - I am offering you the whole Reach itself. The Arbor is undefended, go pillage and rape to your heart's content! Lord Orkwood has already conquered Three Towers, soon Oldtown itself will be wide open! We could be feasting on lands that have grown fat and rich for hundreds of years, where no ironborn have raided since the days of High Kings of old." Euron looked at Lord Drumm and smirked, keeping his hand on Red Rain. "Surely, what is a little sword compared to that?"

"You dare to steal my family's ancient weapon and laugh?" Lord Drumm growled. He had a war-axe in his grip, a hefty, well-rounded weapon. Many of the other lords were looking angry as well. Oh, they are mad. What, just because I abandoned them to defeat?

"It is better than not laughing at all, is it not?" Euron smirked. "Come now, have I ever led you to defeat? We have seen victory after victory, I have given you plunder more than you could have found upnorth! Why are we squabbling? We are all ironborn here!" The sound of his chuckles was like thunder. Euron spun, motioning to the great island of the Arbor, filled with rolling hills and grape fields. "I promised the ironborn victory, and here I am providing it! We will ravage the lands, just like the Drowned God promised to us, when he brought flame from the sea, and sailed the seas with fire and steel! I am leading you towards a victory the likes that Balon couldn't even imagine!"

A few looked uncertain. Lord Volmark and Lord Botley were staying very quiet, but Ser Harras and Lord Drumm didn't back down. Ser Andrik the Unsmiling, the great grim giant of a man, looked ready for a fight too.

"What of the Damphair?" Lord Goodbrother said suddenly. He was an aging, portly, white-haired man, but still strong. His eyes were narrowed, dark.

Euron just shrugged. "What of him?"

"How do you expect us to follow your orders, 'king'?" Lord Goodbrother grumbled. He pointed towards the front of the boat. "When you have the leader of the drowned men - the Drowned God's chosen priests - tied to your fucking prow ?"

He chuckled. "My brother seems to like the ocean. I thought he would appreciate being closer to it."

Aeron Greyjoy was all rags and bones, frail and pale, fastened to the prow of the Silence by chains. On the prow of Euron's ship was a mouthless maiden of black iron with long legs, slender waist, high breasts and mother-of-pearl eyes. The Damphair was left chained against the iron woman's bosom, dangling metres above the cold water. Probably the first set of breasts my brother has touched in years, Euron thought with a quiet scoff.

Every time a high wave hit the prow, the salty water splashed hard against the man. At first Aeron had been sputtering and coughing, but now he just hung limp and weak. I hope he's not dead. It would be no fun if he's dead .

"I placed him there for the battle against the Hightower and Redwyne ships," Euron explained. "My brother had a better view of the battle than any of us. And I thought it would be lucky - surely it must be good fortune to hang the Damphair as a figurehead, to gain the Drowned God's favour?"

Truth be told, Aeron Greyjoy fascinated Euron. Religious and devoted men always did, there was something riveting in their blind belief. Euron considered faith to be only one step down from magic.

Lord Goodbrother looked appalled. "The Damphair was right about you. I should never have supported your claim." He shook his head, raindrops splattering from his whiskers. "No, I will have no part of this madness."

"Aye," Ser Harras agreed darkly. "You are mad, king. You talk of madness. Aeron spoke the truth; you are a godless man."

Euron saw the Red Oarsmen, ready to move forward, spear in his hand. Euron just shook his head and kept his men back. " Godless ?" Euron laughed. "I am the most devout man you have ever met."

The deck was tense. There were men clutching axes on the Thunderer and the Dusk, either side of the Silence . Reavers werepreparing for a fight, Euron turned his smiling eye between the group. The lords hesitated, and Ser Harras shared a look with Lord Goodbrother.

"We will be taking our men and leaving," Lord Goodbrother announced. "Try to stop us, and half the lords here will abandon you as well. We will return to our seats and leave this madness in the Reach behind us."

"Madness is a word for concepts greater than feeble minds can understand." The rain pounded around them.

"Enough of this. Our ships and our men are leaving your fleet," Lord Drumm grumbled. "Do what you want with those fool enough to keep following you."

Hmm, that's not very good. Houses Drumm, Harlaw and Goodbrother have a hundred and fifty vessels between them . He saw the Red Oarsmen and Qarl the Thrall move to block them, but there were men on their ships too. Euron paused, still smirking.

"Do not stop us, Crow's Eye," Ser Harras warned. He had Nightfall drawn, sleek and black like obsidian with a moonstone pummel. Nightfall is a fine blade too. "If you wish to start a battle here, you will suffer for it. Let us disembark."

"Disembark," Euron mocked. "Cravens running from a fight."

Dark eyes all around him. "Crow's Eye," Ser Harras warned. "Do not-

"

"What of you, Lord Drumm?" In a smooth motion, Euron drew Red Rain from its sheath. The blade seemed to growl bloodthirstily in the gloom. "Are you really so happy to walk away and leave your family's blade behind?"

Lord Drumm stiffened. "Your father would be ashamed," Euron continued. "Not only would you shame his memory by fleeing from his battlefield, you would abandon your own family's weapon?"

Euron took a step forward, motioning the others to keep back. Lord Drumm had his axe tightly held in both hands. Andrik the Unsmiling was clutching his great blade too, standing head and shoulders above all others.

"You are a fiend," Lord Drumm growled, body shaking.

"Why not settle this the Old Way?" Euron offered, as he danced backwards and forwards over the rocking deck. Black armour and red sword. "You and me. Pay the iron price, Bone Hand."

Lord Drumm hesitated, and then turned to step forward. He was a stout and strong man. Ser Harras' face flickered, and then he stepped forward too. Lord Goodbrother looked more interested in fleeing, but he paused uncertainly. Lords Volmark and Botley stepped backwards.

"Asha would have been the better ruler, better than you ever could be," Ser Harras growled. "If you die, could our queen take the

Seastone Chair?"

Euron only laughed, loud, clear and taunting.

Lord Drumm charged. A wordless battle roar broke his throat as he swung his axe, hard and strong. Euron fell backwards. A chant broke out across the Thunderer calling for their lord, but the crew of the Silence didn't make a sound. Ser Harras stepped forward anxiously,but no one interfered.

Heavy boots clattered over the red deck. Euron kept on falling backwards, moving almost idly, while Lord Drumm hacked and slashed. Euron's bright blue eye didn't stop mocking him, even as the axe slashed and the Bone Hand grunted and roared. Red Rain hovered and waited.

"You are a godless man!" Lord Drumm bellowed. The skeleton on his armour rattled. The axe struck downwards.

Somewhere in the distance, lightning flashed.

And Red Rain moved like a viper. There was a crunch of metal, and then blood splattered against the decks. Red steel carved through the iron skeleton.

"I am the most godly man you've ever met," Euron whispered as the Lord Drumm fell with the downpour. "Can you not hear the gods crying out for my victory?"

Before Lord Drumm even hit the ground, Ser Harras jumped in and struck. Red Rain was still embedded in the Lord Drumm's chest, Euron couldn't pull it out in time. The Knight of the Grey Garden lunged at him with Nightfall slicing in the gloom, as fast as a shadow.

Euron dropped his sword and rushed to meet him. He didn't try to block, instead he shoulder-barged against Nightfall's swipe, and the blade rushed towards his breastplate. Valyrian steel clanged against Euron's armour. It didn't pierce, it just bounced off and jarred the

knight's wrist. He saw Ser Harras' eyes widen in surprise, as the sound rang out like a bell's chime.

Men who wield Valyrian steel are always surprised when their blades don't pierce, he thought smugly. My armour is well-worth the price I paid for it .

He didn't need a sword. Euron grabbed Ser Harras' shoulder and pushed him down to the deck. Ser Harras didn't recover in time from his lunge, and Euron was grabbing his arm and twisting it around. The knight tried to wrestle, but then Euron's armoured knee slammed into his throat. Ser Harras could only gurgle and thrash, pinned to the ground. The knight's arm flailed, yet Euron grabbed it by the wrist and twisted. Euron slowly forced the blade around, still grasped in Ser Harras' own hand.

"Godless man, you call me," Euron scoffed, his voice low and gentle, whispering in his ear. "You have no idea how false such an accusation is. I know more of god than any priest ever will. You all just delude yourselves into thinking you know of god. You look at the waves and imagine something greater, but me?" Nightfall crept closer to Ser Harras' throat. " I've seen god itself with my own two eyes ."

The blade cut through Ser Harras' neck. Blood wept and gurgled, disappearing into the rain and soaking into the red planks. The deck turned quiet.

Euron grinned, dropping Ser Harras' arm. He moved his hand up to scratch at his eyepatch. Euron would never forget that moment he sailed into Valyria itself, deeper, further and darker than any man ever had. He had seen something… something divine, and it had burnt his eye out of his skull just by laying his gaze upon it. From that moment onwards, it… it had defined him.

I am a godly man. I will become god .

The bodies rolled with the waves beneath his ship. Two noble ironborn lords, killed by their own blades. Euron picked up Red Rain in his right hand and Nightfall in his left, spinning both Valyrian steel swords at once. The old men say the Drowned God made the ironborn to reave and rape, Euron mused, to carve out our kingdoms and to make our names known in fire and blood and song .

Fools. Gods are but one fractal of something far greater.

Euron looked between the other men, and laughed. "What of it, Andrik the Unsmiling?" he challenged. "Do you wish to challenge me too?"

The giant of the man hesitated, face twitching as he looked at Lord Drumm's corpse. After a long pause, the giant of a man lowered his axe. "No, my king," he murmured.

"Throw the bodies overboard," Euron ordered to his men. "And then send word to Donnel Drumm and Hotho Harlaw. Congratulate them on their new rank." He turned towards Lord Goodbrother, and smiled. "My lord, you seem to have lost your allies. Are you sure you wish to proceed with your defiance?"

Lord Goodbrother twitched, but didn't speak. Euron looked around the ships. Two of his mutes dumped the bodies into the churning waves. "What is dead may never die," a few of his men chanted.

"Oh yes. What is dead may never die," Euron agreed. "They are given to the Drowned God, are they not? To be served and pleasured by mermaids, I'm sure."

Ser Harras' and Lord Drumm's men looked unhappy, but Euron's crew were all around them. He gave orders for the Red Oarsmen to seize the Thunderer, and for Harren Half-Hoare to claim the Dusk . Lord Goodbrother was escorted below deck, to be held hostage as his ships were secured. The Lord of Hammerhorn would be kept safe in the hull, to make sure his sons followed their king's command.

Whatever rebellion they were intending died as swiftly as Lord Drumm and Harras Harlaw. Euron gave orders to seize their men and ships.

Then, Euron walked before Lord Volmark. He was curious to see how the young lord would react.

Lord Volmark bowed quickly, kneeling down against the blood-soaked wet wood. "My king."

"Come, stand! The wealth of Westeros is stretched out before us!" Euron said cheerfully. "I promised to deliver the ironborn the entire realm. For glory like we have not seen for an age!"

Lord Volmark was pale. He was young, pale and beardless. "My king, those men…"

"Fools with no sense of ambition," Euron dismissed. "They squabble and they fight with no concept of something greater than us all."

"They were scared, Your Grace," Lord Volmark said with a gulp. "They've seen the forces of Highgarden. I know you mean to attack Oldtown, but the latest raven from Three Towers said that there are nigh forty thousand Tyrell and Hightower men mustered to oppose us. And the Redwyne fleet must only be weeks away."

Euron paused. "Forty thousand? Truly?"

"Aye, Gormond Bluetooth reported it so. They are gathering forces in strength, from Highgarden down to the marcher lords. A huge force led by Garlan Tyrell, he says. And then when Paxter Redwyne arrives from around the Cape of Dorne, they will have ships to support them too."

"Forty thousand. Hmm, that's not very good for us," Euron mused, scratching his lip. He paused for a while, thinking about it. "No, let us delay by another fortnight, then, before launching our assault. There could well be ten thousand more by then."

"Ten thousand more?" Lord Volmark looked confused. "How could… Wait, you mean ten thousand more enemies? You want to give them more time to prepare?"

"But of course. What is the point in taking riches if you can't kill for them?" Euron chuckled.

He sounded panicked. "We are outnumbered four against one!"

"Aye, and I've always thought that an ironborn is worth at least five green landers. Let us also attack Blackcrown, so they will be certain of our intent. Once the bay of the Whispering Sound is secure, we will sail up the Honeywine in strength," Euron commanded. And slowly. No point moving too quickly; the most devastating storms are those that have time to simmer . "In the meantime, let us enjoyraiding the Arbor. I feel like we should be taking more thralls and salt wives - let every captain indulge himself. Let each warrior take several slaves. Let us take them all, actually."

Lord Volmark's mouth trembled, staring at him as if he were mad. Fools with no sense of something greater . "My king… !" heprotested weakly. "Once the Redwyne fleet arrives we will lose what little advantage we have!"

"Well, we need to give them a fighting chance," Euron said, a cruel smirk spreading over his lips. "Come now, Lord Volmark, why not enjoy the day? The Arbor is rich and populated. Find yourself a salt wife to warm your bed. Find yourself several. Let us pillage and reap, as is our right. Do you forget? The Drowned God granted us supremacy over all that we could take, so let's take it all."

The young lord looked ready to object, but the glint in Euron's smiling eye caused him to pause. The lord was left shaking as Euron walked away. Euron was still holding the two blades. Red Rain was sleek and bright, while Nightfall was far more ornate and sublime. Nightfall's blade would ripple, while Red Rain's edge glinted. Yes, Euron thought as he stared out over the stormy waters. Two fine blades .

This is my age . Firstly, Euron intended to reap and rape the Arbor of everything it had. They will speak of the destruction I wrought for hundreds of years .

In the distance, thunder rumbled. The storms had been brewing through the Redwyne straits for a while now, but it could simmer for just a bit longer. His mages had promised him so, and Euron could be patient.

A few hours later, his mage Urgard walked up from the bottom of the deck. His eyes were raw. "My king," the scarred man muttered, bowing his head. "The glass candles have responded."

"Aye? And what did you see?"

"I saw your brother Victarion in the fire. His fleet has taken losses, but they are heading into Slaver's Bay now. A fleet of ships has blockaded Meereen, though the Lord Captain is intent on cutting through them to reach the city."

"Grand. Let my brother bring my wife to me."

Urgard hesitated. "My king, I have seen more. The flames showed me Victarion's intentions. He doesn't plan on bringing Daenerys Targaryen to you, he intends on claiming the Targaryen and her dragons for himself."

Euron gasped. "Oh no. You mean my own dear brother plans to betray me? To ruin my ambitions so. How shocking." He laughed raucously, grinning as he looked around his men. "Well, I certainly didn't see that coming."

Author Notes:

Edit: There will be no update this weekend, I'm afraid. Next update on the weekend of the 3rd.

Edit2: Come on, taking a couple of weeks off after a case of writer's block is hardly unreasonable. And yes, the next chapter will be a long one…

Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Jon

He saw the dragons explode into the sky. They burst upwards from their rocky perches, scales of all colours glittering in the bright orange sun, from deep blue to glimmering gold to pitch black. The youngest were barely more than hatchlings, the oldest a great grey and brown behemoth with a wingspan twice the size of his own.

The largest of the dragons, the dominant, perched at the peaks of the crags while the lesser dragons lingered on the hills around them. There was a structure, a feudalism almost, to the massive reptiles scattered across the cliffs. They were dragon clans, each one a pack under a single alpha ruler.

He wasn't happy giving tribute to anyone, however; he was a roaming dragon, beyond the claims of others' territory.

The waters of the mountain lakes reflected his own body. He was huge, lean, his scales a blood red. A hundred battles had marked his hide, but he was large, lean and formidable. Not the biggest of the wild dragons, but close, and vicious and strong enough to hold his own against any foe.

Every full moon, dragons flocked to these mountain ranges to mate and fight. To prove dominance or to relent, to establish their hierarchies and their clans. Some moons were more important than others: sometimes a few clans fought, other times every wild dragon gathered from across the peninsula. Each one a vicious beast eager to prove its strength - a dance of dragons that blocked out the sky.

The first of the spars was already ignited. A great plume of scorching flames exploding from one maw, other beasts meeting them in kind.

Beneath them, the bleak grey mountains caught fire, until the fires lit the sky. The rocks themselves melted and burnt.

The heat and power… it was incredible. As was the force beneath his wings as he flapped upwards, a great shriek exploding from his throat.

His target was the big grey and brown dragon. The biggest and eldest, with bleak dull scales that looked starch and cold compared to the bright colours of others. The grey dragon was twice his size, but he had no intention of submitting to anyone but the very strongest.

The two immense beasts collided in mid-air with the force of a storm, meeting fire with fire and teeth with teeth. All around them, the other dragons were shrieking, crying out and flapping around their duel.

For all that he was outmatched, the red dragon held his own. He was smaller, but his flames were hotter and his jaws more determined. He snapped forward and bit down on the bigger dragon's neck - not at full strength, this was just a spar - but hard enough for black teeth to leave a mark against the hard scales.

Right now the red dragon was the weaker one, but the flock knew someday he would transcend. He was growing faster and flying further than any others, taking territory where no other dragon was brave enough. He had flown across the seas, far away from the burning mountains. The few beasts that could match him was steadily decreasing.

All around him, hundreds of wild dragons danced through the air. The sound and the heat was so immense it could have been a fifteenth flame on the peninsula.

Then, a shriek burst through the air. One of the hatchlings, crying in panic. The cry was echoed by others. At once, the dance stopped. Every dragon forgot their duel, abandoning the fights in a single moment.

From the south, he smelt a large group of more dragons approaching. Dragons that smelt of humans.

The dragon 'lords'. Dragon slavers . A bloodthirsty growl broke through the red dragon's throat. They hunted the wild dragons relentlessly; pathetic humans that were constantly eager to steal eggs or fill their cages. They had grown bold to interrupt a dance of such numbers.

Many of the wild dragons fled the humans, but not all were so easily cowed. For every two that fled in panic, one would roar in anger. A great cry broke through the tribes as the dragons swarmed to meet them.

He saw them. The tamed dragons wore great, spiked metal armour wrapped around their bodies, and they carried men on their back. The humans' dragons were outnumbered, but they flew in formation. On the ground, he smelt human armies marching with them, bringing siege weapons, nets and bolts. A trap. They prepared an ambush to interrupt the dance. The wild dragons didn't care. Dragons were the superior, not humans. This was a challenge of dominance, and the great beasts met them in kind.

In a single lunge, the great grey dragon snatched another out of the air, crushing wings in its teeth like a fly. The red dragon followed suit, lunging downwards against an armoured dragon and forcing fire into its throat. Its metal plate bubbled and melted under his breath, its body thrashing. No mercy towards those corrupted and enslaved by humans.

Humans were shouting, screaming, a buzzing of insects compared to the dragons' roars.

And yet the dragon slavers didn't relent. They fought back with flaming lances and whips of pure fire. They used arrows and nets and wires. Even when their dragons were outmatched, the armies supporting them launched great boulders and bolts into their wings. Dragging wild dragons to the ground, shredding their wings. A

grounded dragon could be overpowered by their unending armies. If the dragon slavers had to sacrifice ten thousand men for one caged dragon, they would. The humans' armies always needed more dragons.

In the air, the mounted dragons focused on the weakest first, and they matched raw fury using formation and tactics. The thick smoke, the stench of burning flesh and the immense shrieks filled the air.

The red dragon fought against two smaller beasts at once. Unyielding, merciless. The dragons he could handle, but the men… the men wielded unnatural fiery whips that would lash against his hide, so hot they burned even through his scales. Their whips spun into great lengths, hissing and snarling like they had lives of their own.

And then there were the shadows, clinging to his scales. It was the men's doing, somehow. Shapeless shadows with claws, clutching at the dragons' bodies, snaking around their wings, digging inky black tendrils into open wounds and biting…

He could see bodies failing out of the air one by one. The human armies could not be stopped. Still, the dragons fought.

The grey great dragon was trembling, struggling to keep in the air, burning lances and arrows through its wings. He heard the humans chanting something, their voices were weak and meaningless.

And then a great boom shattered through the mountains. Dragons screamed and fell. Pain rocketed through his body, his wings spasming. It was a noise like the screaming of a thousand souls, lighting his very bones aflame and scorching his skin from the inside…

The red dragon fought it. He fought for as long as he could but the sound of the horn could not be matched. The whole world seemed to explode into shadow fire. Ahead of him, he saw the great grey

dragon collapse, falling to the earth with enough force to shake the mountains and then everything turned-

"Wake up, Your Grace. They are calling for you."

Jon gasped, struggling to process the phantom pain in his head.

Sonagon stirred as he woke up at the same time.

Wide eyes stared at him. "The host is to move out, Your Grace," his squire said nervously. "I was told wake you."

Jon gulped, still blinking repeatedly. "Urgh, aye. Aye. Bring me a skin of water to wash my face. And then prepare my horse."

"Your horse is already readied, Your Grace," Marrion bowed his head. "I will fetch water."

Jon's head was still spinning. He remembered fire, flying, and dragons clashing in the air. A dream, he told himself. Sonagon's.

Focus. The army had been marching hard, and there was little time for rest. All around him, six thousand men stirred. The sound of horses and boots filled the air.

He washed his face roughly, wiping cold water into his eyes. Too many long weeks of marching had left his body sore. Jon knew they were close and could hardly quit now, but his body yearned for rest and comfort. Weeks since he'd had a decent night's rest. More and more he found himself daydreaming of Val's dark golden hair, planting soft kisses across her neck while her…

A horse neighed. Jon shook himself alert. "I will break my fast in the saddle, Marrion," Jon called. "Any news of the Dreadfort?"

"Lord Umber says we are three days' march away," the boy reported. Marrion Manderly was a young boy of eleven, podgy and stoutly built, though a dutiful squire. "And, um, Lord Giantsbane has sent three parties ahead."

Jon smiled. His squire brought his riding leathers. "Lord Giantsbane,"

he repeated. "Have you called Tormund that?"

"I… I haven't, Your Grace?"

"Best not. The man doesn't need more titles."

It's a been another night, and the Greatjon and Tormund still haven't killed each other, he thought wearily. That is a success in its own right .

Jon stepped outside of his tent. The plains were thick with snow, though the camp had stomped it into a muddy slush. The weather made progress slow, but they were moving forward. He could see the frozen headwaters of the Weeping Water in the distance.

From his Dragonguard, Toregg the Tall and Gregg Sheepstealer both stood outside his tent. Jon's second squire, Bennard Locke, had his destrier ready and waiting for him. Bennard was a dark-haired and grim-faced boy of fourteen, attentive, quiet and keen-witted. He wore a surcoat with a crude stitching of a white dragon on a grey background. Jon hadn't yet decided on a coat of arms himself, but his squire proved a quick hand with a needle.

"How goes the march? Any more attacks?" Jon asked as he mounted his horse.

"Not that I've heard," Toregg replied. "But we still can't find that supply escort that got attacked. My pa has been hunting the bastards that did that for the week."

Jon nodded. They were a big host, snows were thick, and supplies were proving a problem. "We have food to last for now. We can restock when we meet the Weeper's host. Until there's an alternative we can't delay the march."

"A hungry march then."

"Not so," Gregg Sheepstealer grunted. He was a stout, fat-bellied man with thick arms. "The southerners brought horses to eat, didn't they?"

Jon grimaced. Not ideal, but my army is mostly free folk - they have survived harder marches than this . Behind him, Sonagon stirred.The dragon rested at the very centre of the camp, but all the men kept their distance. "Better get the dragon in the air, king," Gregg warned. "We don't want to be caught by any raids like the other day."

"Aye," Jon agreed. His grey destrier shimmied slightly beneath him. "Fetch Ser Marlon, Lord Umber, and Tormund. We move out quickly, and I'll send Sonagon ahead."

He closed his eyes and stretched out the warg towards Sonagon. It was accepted easily. The dragon was still tired and sluggish, but they had been bonding more and more easily during the march.

Come now , Jon pushed, as forcefully he dared. His vision blurred, his senses shifted. Fly. Hunt .

Huge wings flexed outwards slowly. The great shadow fell over the camp. Even after weeks of Sonagon being with them, there was still a minor panic every time the dragon burst into the air.

Jon felt himself rising up into the cold air, the wind howling under his wings, snow drifting across his body. All around him, there was the stink of men marching into the Lonely Hills. Jon's host of over six thousand seemed so formidable from the centre, but it was left a small shapeless blur from a dragon's eye.

Head towards the hills, Jon pushed. Find the river. Look for any armies amassing .

Sonagon flapped southwest, before twisting and circling east. Then, his nostrils flickered as a sharp scent hit him on the wind.

He heard the cries from over a mile away. Sonagon smelled the cold tang of blood. A faint slurry of snow rolled over the forests, and then blobs of figures appeared in the snow, as small as ants. Wrestling bodies in the middle of a battle between the pines.

The boom of wings cracked through the air. The men below all heard it. Jon watched hundreds of figures quiver - actually quiver - as the white shape roared above them like a hurricane.

There was no shock quite like Sonagon's roar. Ant-like figures fell down in the snow, panting desperately as if their hearts were collapsing in their chest. A dragon brought out a primal fear in all men - it could turn even the bravest into scurrying little rats.

It's the sense of scale, Jon thought. No man likes to see how little they are .

Sonagon roared. The blob scattered and broke, and a cry of victory rose from the ground. By the time Sonagon turned to sweep low across the hills, the men were already running into the trees.

He would have chased them, if it were possible to recognise ally from foe.

How can you tell which side are allies when they all look like bugs? Jon cursed. It was lucky that one side ran, because Sonagon was left useless trying to intervene in a pitched battle. I need large banners, something that even a dragon's eyes can make out .

Jon took a deep breath, feeling himself shudder as he let go of the warg. His senses blurred, and slowly he fell out of the dragon's skin. Snow whipped at his face. Beneath him, his grey destrier snorted.

"There's fighting on the Lonely Hills," Jon shouted, blinking repeatedly, trying to focus. "Bolton forces attacking our forward parties. Pass the word to Greatjon and Tormund."

"Yes, Your Grace," Marrion said hurriedly, turning to run over the snow.

A figure wearing the Manderly sigil rode towards him. "How many?" Ser Marlon called.

"Hundreds or so." Damn, it was so hard to count from above through Sonagon's eyes . "Their forces scattered as soon as they sawSonagon."

Again ?" a free folk grumbled, by Jon's side. "Isn't going to be much of a battle then."

"Aye, but I don't want to let them get away," Jon said. The Bastard of Bolton could be with them . "Gather up five hundred mounted men,we move out quickly."

"What of your dragon?" Toregg asked.

"They've reached the woods. Sonagon can't follow easily through the trees." And they know that; their entire tactic is based around making it inconvenient for the dragon . "We need mounted men if we want tostop them getting away again."

Most of their cavalry were from White Harbour. In the host, there were four times as many free folk than northmen, but the free folk were primarily infantry while all of the heavy horses were northern soldiers. Jon heard Ser Marlon shout as he prepared the riders.

"Bloody hells," Tormund Giantsbane grumbled as he came trotting forward on a large dark pouncey. He chose a mild and comfortable mount, but he still sits uneasily in the saddle . "What are we chasingthis time?"

"Skirmishers in the hills," Jon ordered. Sonagon was still in the sky, soaring through the low clouds. "I saw them ambushing one of our groups."

"The fools. How did they expect the fight to go when that dragon is in the air?" He guffawed.

"The dragon is not always in the air. If I hadn't spotted them it could have gone badly for us," Jon said stiffly. They take the dragon for granted and that's dangerous . "That warband shouldn't have wentso far ahead."

"Aye, that'll be bloody Gerrick Kingsblood," Tormund snorted. "I bloody warned him not to go too far, but him and his warband were all eager for a fight."

Horses were stirring, riding from the camp. Bennard Locke brought him his helm and shield, but Jon didn't want his squires with him. He needed to move quickly. " Come on," he ordered. "I will not allow Ramsay Snow a chance to escape."

"You saw the Bastard with them?" The Greatjon growled darkly. He rode a huge, dark warhorse, with his greatsword over his back.

"No," he admitted. "But someone must be leading these attacks. It could be Ramsay Snow. I intend to find out."

"Then move," Lord Umber snapped. "He will not escape."

"Oh aye," Tormund agreed, hoisting up his maul. "This Bastard of Bolton seems like a scunner who ought to be losing his limbs."

Their horses marched out, all of them were strong northern breeds to manage the snow. Jon gave orders for his Dragonguard to bring the infantry and follow as quickly as possible.

Ahead of them, the Lonely Hills stretched out ahead of them. Jon saw the streams that led down to the Weeping Waters trickling over the landscape. The ground was thick with snow, and the sound of galloping hooves.

Sonagon swept over the sky, the huge shadow passing over the ground. Horses around Jon whinnied, and the riders had to struggle to control them. "I see them scattering south and west," Jon called. "Ser Marlon, ride around the hills, try to cut them off!"

"Of course, your Grace!" Ser Marlon called, and he shouted to split off with a hundred men.

Jon pulled on his rein looking for the officers. "Ewan Bole," he shouted at the northerner. "Take fifty men along the streams, in case they try to double back."

Ewan Bole just nodded. He was a heavily bearded man, one of Robett Glover's sworn swords. "Aye, Your Grace," he shouted gruffly over the sound of horses. "Riders, on me."

Beside him, Tormund scoffed. "'Your Grace'. Now why does it being king suddenly make you so graceful, I wonder?"

"Just go left through the hills," Jon ordered. "They're on foot and they've scattered."

They circled around, striding through the snow. Jon had his forces split again. The Lonely Hills earned their name; they were desolate and barren hills and rough and empty countryside. Large, but lightly sloping and scattered, leading down to the Weeping Water and the Dreadfort. Jon heard that sometimes the wind blowing through the hills sounded like wailing.

"If this is Ramsay Snow," the Greatjon called, riding next to Jon, "then we take him alive. We take him alive so he gets to die slowly."

Jon just nodded, casting a wary glance at the big man. The Greatjon had recovered Last Hearth a week ago. It hadn't been difficult; there had only been a skeletal Bolton force holding it, most of whom had tried to flee. The entire keep had been ransacked bare.

Inside the castle, the Greatjon found his youngest son, a boy of six, nailed to the keep's wall. Ramsay Snow had signed his name.

They had also found one of the castellans, Mors Umber, with a spear wound in his chest and on the brink of death's door. It was doubtful the Crowsfood would survive much longer. Some of Lord Umber's other family may have fled. There was no sign of Hother Umber.

Or of my brother, Jon thought with a grimace. Bran .

He could see a dark, simmering anger in the Greatjon's eyes. What happened at Last Hearth had been savage. The sooner the Bastard of Bolton is caught the better everyone will be .

They met up with Ewan Bole's force again quickly, who reported that none had slipped away towards the streams. After securing the foothills, they rode to meet up with the forward party. Jon saw the wildling warband atop the snowy field. They were cheering, celebrating. That made Jon's fists clench as the cavalry rode up to meet them.

"Gerrick Kingsblood," Jon shouted. "What the hells do you think you're doing?"

The broad, red-haired man grinned. He could have passed for a southerner, with his hair shaved and wearing chainmail and leathers provided by the White Harbour fleet. "Victory, that's what," Gerrick laughed. "We saw those bastards fleeing like cravens!"

There were bodies littering the snow. More wildlings than Boltons, it seemed. "They fled from Sonagon, ser. Not you," Jon said curtly. "And if the dragon hadn't been there, I would be burying your corpse right now."

The man faltered slightly. "But we won !"

"You let your bloody warband get ambushed. You got lucky that Sonagon was in the air, there were no guarantees he would be," Jon

said angrily. "You went ahead of the main host and left yourself exposed."

Gerrick bristled. " You gave the order to secure villages around the Dreadfort, I went and did that."

"Did I tell you to walk into a Bolton ambush?" His voice turned cold.

His eyes were wide, his shoulders tense. Gerrick opened his mouth to object. Tormund pushed his horse forward. "Stop talking now, Gerrick," Tormund warned. "Bow your head and step back if you know what's good for you."

Gerrick's face twisted, but he didn't speak. Jon let his gaze linger on him quietly. "I'll handle it here. Gerrick, you are relieved," Tormund offered. "Snow, you go chase the cunts responsible."

"Aye," Jon muttered, turning his horse and signalling the men to follow. They rode down the hill, following the footprints in the snow.

The Greatjon looked at him with a scoff. The horses didn't stop their quick trot. "Your wildlings aren't soldiers."

"They know how to fight."

"That ain't the same thing." The Greatjon grunted, as he shimmied his horse away from Jon's.

From Jon's other side, Ewan Bole moved his horse closer towards his, cautiously. "Lord Umber has a point, Your Grace." the man noted, in his very rough voice. "I do not doubt your wildling's strength, but there's a reason why no King-Beyond-the-Wall has ever succeeded." Jon turned his gaze on him, but the man's tone was just observational, not aggressive. "The wildlings are not trained. They can fight, but can your wildlings hold a shield wall? Can they set battle lines and keep to them? Can they mount a siege, or brace against cavalry? Their raiding parties are fearsome, but their hosts are less so. Historically, even when the wildlings have had the far

greater numbers, their armies have been bested easily enough by those of the Night's Watch or Stark."

Jon hesitated. "They can learn what they're missing."

"Then I hope they learn quickly," he warned. "Too many make the mistake of focusing on the number of men, rather than the type."

He's right, Jon thought. Bringing the northmen and the free folk together had highlighted some fairly large flaws in Jon's army. "Yes," Jon said, suppressing the sigh. "Thank you for the honest counsel, ser."

He laughed brashly. "I am no ser. I ain't no friend to wildlings, either, but I lost kin at Winterfell and then again at the Red Wedding. Between wildlings or Boltons, I know which one I hate more."

Jon could believe it; the northman had a strong, honest attitude to him. Jon had been keeping an eye on which of his men had been distinguishing themselves, and Ewan certainly had. "Joining forces will help greatly to patch our weaknesses. And good commanders like yourself will aid even more, if you're willing to work with them," he said. He tried to measure the man's reaction to that comment. "Right now, they're overconfident. We've been winning every battle we've fought, and that makes men like Gerrick brave enough to do something stupid. Or become lazy."

"You do have a dragon," Ewan noted.

"I have one dragon. And when there is more than one battle happening, my dragon can't attend them all." Jon shook his head. "The Boltons have proved they aren't willing to fight a pitched battle when Sonagon is involved, but they're still trying every other type of conflict."

"Aye, they've been a nuisance. But we cut them down piece by piece and sooner or later they run out of places to-"

The man's voice was cut off by a horn blast over the hills. Ser Marlon's men. At once Jon's riders turned to change direction. He reached out and summoned Sonagon back towards him.

The horses galloped, but by the time they arrived the battle was already practically over. Jon saw some fighting on the ground through Sonagon, but he had to hold the dragon back. Sonagon would hurt his own men as much as the enemy if he intervened in tight rank skirmishes.

"We found them," Ser Marlon called to Jon as the reinforcements arrived. The last of the attackers were being subdued. "Mostly Bolton men, some Karstark and Hornwood among them. They tried to fight, and then they surrendered pretty quickly."

It wasn't much of a battle. They had been fleeing the dragon on foot and Ser Marlon's men were all mounted. "How many?" Jon demanded.

"Sixty or so surrendered. Another twenty died in the fight."

Jon shook his head. "No. I saw at least three hundred ambushing Gerrick's men."

"Yes," Ser Marlon agreed. "But these are the only ones we caught."

Jon could see the soldiers gathered in the middle of the riders. They didn't have enough rope, so instead the prisoners were held at spear point, forced to their knees in the snow. He saw the flayed man of Bolton stitched on their hauberks. Gods, Jon thought, they all look so scared and cold. Why is it easier to think of enemies as faceless foes in uniform rather than as cold and scared men ?

"We think the rest of their force must have scattered between the three villages around here," Ser Marlon explained. "Or maybe they have hideouts in the woods."

"No, it'll be the villages," the Greatjon grunted. "They run to the villages and they hide their swords and helmets; all of those soldiers pretend to be farmers and smallfolk. When you go chasing after them, they'll shrug and say "who, me?". And when you walk away they'll pick up their swords and stab you in the back."

Jon was reminded of the books he read on the First Dornish War. Dammit, I do not want that type of war . "And what do you suggest?"

"Put the Bolton villages to the sword." The Greatjon's eyes were grim. "Make sure they know the punishment for harbouring soldiers."

Jon smiled humourlessly. "Wouldn't that just encourage more villages to resent us? Give them reason to hate you and they will learn how to hide soldiers better, how to make their ambushes more effective. That is the catch, Lord Umber; you lose no matter which way you fight it." Jon shook his head, turning to Ser Marlon. "No, try to find out where these soldiers went. Question the smallfolk - carefully - but the rules haven't changed."

Ser Marlon nodded, moving off to gather up his men. The Greatjon stood stiffly on his mount, arms folded.

"We cannot punish smallfolk, Lord Umber," said Jon. "Not even Bolton smallfolk."

"I might have agreed," he replied darkly. "Except then my home was razed because my uncles were too generous in which 'smallfolk' they let through the gates."

Jon didn't reply. He turned to inspect the prisoners, the first of which were already being interrogated. Perhaps some would have useful information, but Jon doubted that common soldiers would know much of Lord Bolton's plans. And it is impossible to weed out the lies from the truth in any case, Jon thought bitterly . It's hard to trust anything they say when it might be a desperate lie or a deliberate ploy .

I have the larger army and a dragon, yet they are still making things difficult at every chance. The Boltons know how to harry a force from all sides .

"Sixty prisoners," Lord Umber noted. "That's sixty more mouths to feed out of our rations. And another delay to our march."

"We're not executing prisoners, Lord Umber. Not because they're inconvenient."

"Half-measures, boy," the Greatjon warned. "They'll kill you every single time."

The Greatjon refused stubbornly to ever call Jon king. Jon wasn't fool enough to call him out on it; their alliance wasn't so secure.

Afterwards, outriders reported movement to the west. The rest of the attackers were fleeing from the hills. Jon closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and in the sky Sonagon twisted around with an almighty flap. The dragon will become irritated flying like this without hunting, Jon thought with a grimace. There was a limit to how muchSonagon would allow himself to be controlled. I cannot keep using him indefinitely .

Jon's infantry caught up with them towards dusk, as they moved over the hills. He had done his best to try and organise them, but even from a distance he could see the lack of rank and file in the sprawled, black blob of men. His host of six thousand men, mostly wildlings with some northmen mixed in, stretched over the snowy fields. Tormund had brought the wildlings south from Castle Black, and Lord Umber had rallied what he could from the Umber lands, and the rest were Manderly men that had rode up from White Harbour alongside Ser Marlon and Ser Wylis. Robett Glover and a small force of men had joined them from other houses of the east coast.

We will meet up with the Weeper's force from Karhold soon, Jon thought. The Weeper brought five thousand wildlings, some Karstark

men, and five hundred giants with mammoths. The plan was to converge on the Dreadfort together, from the west and northeast. They would be over ten thousand strong. Whatever Bolton force was left stood no chance in battle.

Of course, that's little reason for them to fight a battle, he thought grimly.

Later, Ser Marlon returned. The knight was grim-faced, his horse breathing heavily as he rode towards them. "We gave chase for as long as we could, Your Grace," Ser Marlon reported. "We only caught ten of them. The rest slipped away. There was little luck scouring the villages."

"Chasing bloody ghosts," Tormund spat, grumbling as he walked towards Jon. "They'll have us chasing our tails at this rate."

"But they are folding," Jon insisted. "They are losing ground, and the worst they can do is slow us down. They can't stop us. We are days away from the Dreadfort, and they don't have forces to even try to stop us."

"Aye, and am I the only one who thinks that's queer?" Tormund folded his arms. "We've been marching all the way through Bolton lands and not a single bastard is even trying to challenge us."

"So the wildling has some wits," the Greatjon grunted. Tormund glared at the lord, sizing up against him. The Greatjon was over head and shoulders taller, while Tormund was short and stocky.

"He's right, we haven't even seen a tenth of the opposition we should expect."

"They're scared of the dragon," said Jon.

"If they're that scared, then why don't they surrender?"

Jon didn't reply, but there was something bothering him too. It was only at the hour of ghosts when he learned what. Outriders arrived

from the east, reporting a battle on the banks of the Weeping Water. The Weeper's host, the one that had been coming down from Karhold. Ambushed as they tried to cross the river.

The Battle of Weeping Water was over before Jon or any others even heard of it.

It was too dark and cold to safely move men at night, but Jon readied their mounted men to head out at first light. He brought his Dragonguard with him, and summoned Sonagon to follow. He could see the frozen banks of the Weeping Water in the distance; in spring it was a long, slow and gloomy river, but now it was frozen scar cutting through the snowy plains. Jon smelt the smoke and blood in the air before their horses even got near.

"It was a bloody distraction," the Greatjon growled, echoing Jon's thoughts. "They ambushed your outriders and led your dragon on a merry chase to the west. All the while a larger force ambushed your second host while the dragon was busy."

"Aye." They're learning. Testing us, poking for weak spots.

Jon saw the bodies littering the valley. There were corpses with arrows in them, half-buried under the light snow. They spotted a bloodied corpse of a mammoth, with spears through its hide, as it lay collapsed through the ice in the trickling river.

Jon saw the smoke of the Weeper's camp, surrounded by wooden spike fortifications in a typical wildling defence. Besides the mammoths, the Weeper's force was on foot. Thousands of men all huddled together in the bend of the water. Likely around four thousand, Jon thought. Maybe less.

Their army wasn't moving, the camp felt bloodied. Wounded. Horns blew as they approached, and the Weeper met Jon and the riders as they rode into the camp. Jon saw the shadows of giants, sniffing in the air cautiously. Wildlings lowered their heads or bowed to Jon as he passed.

The Weeper didn't bow. Even in steel and hard leathers, the man looked just as hard and worn as ever. His armour was grimy, and blood trickled down his cheeks.

"About bloody time you arrived," the Weeper grumbled as Jon pulled his horse to stop. "I was thinking I would have to win this whole bloody war by myself."

" Weeper ." Tormund spat the word. "Why aren't you dead yet?"

"You think anyone has the stones to kill me?" The Weeper's voice turned taunting. "Fucking 'Giantsbane'. You've lost weight. Did the crows not feed you after you lost the battle at the Frostfangs like a-"

"Enough!" Jon snapped, glaring between the Weeper and Tormund. Old wildling grudges. "What happened here, Weeper?"

He grunted. His scythe was covered in dried, cold blood. "The flayed men ambushed us crossing the river last night. They came from all sides, with arrows and horses."

"How many?" Jon demanded.

"Five hundred. Maybe more. I could only count the corpses, but enough of them ran away. We fought them off."

"So we won?" Ser Marlon asked. Jon didn't look too convinced. "And how many losses did you take?"

The Weeper's eyes flickered. Dammit, Jon cursed. The camp stunk of blood, weariness and wounded. He saw giants with the stubs of arrows still sticking out of their furs.

"Where the bloody hells was that dragon?" the Weeper demanded. "We could have used him here last night."

"Distracted," Jon replied icily. Lured away . "Sonagon can't be everywhere. I didn't even receive news of the battle here until it was

too late."

The Boltons are learning, trying to find weak spots in my campaign.

They're learning how to fight around the dragon rather than face it.

"How many managed to flee?" the Greatjon demanded. "And who was leading them? Was it Ramsay Snow? "

"Hundreds or so," the Weeper grumbled. "And I didn't bloody have a chance to ask."

"You let hundreds escape?" Tormund guffawed. "You must have had five times their number."

"Aye, five times as many weary and tired. They were fucking prepared," the Weeper snapped. He glared angrily between them, bristling aggressively. "I gave chase and they hurt my men coming over the hill for it."

The battle would have gone poorly from the beginning, especially as the wildlings were struggling trying to cross the river. The Weeper was a ruthless and capable leader, but of course he would always attack. When a prudent man would have fallen back, the Weeper must have tried to lead an assault up the valley.

Wildling warbands didn't have formations - in open skirmishes that wasn't so much of a disadvantage, but in any fortified clash it was disastrous. From the state of the camp and the battlefield, Jon expected that at least ten wildlings fell for every Bolton man. Maybe thousands dead. We only 'won' because of numbers.

"What of prisoners?" Jon demanded.

The Weeper's lips twitched. The grin was bloodthirsty. " What prisoners?"

Dammit . But not now. "Where did the Bolton men retreat to?" Jon demanded, quickly changing tack.

"South. The southerners ran back to their little castle."

"Then we follow them," Jon ordered. "The plan hasn't changed; we bring our hosts together and march on the Dreadfort. We split our mounted forces. Tormund and Ser Marlon, return to the camp with half our horses. March on the Dreadfort from the west. The Greatjon and I will stay with the Weeper's forces and march from the northeast."

"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Marlon bowed in his saddle. His men turned and rode away, along with Tormund.

"'Your Grace'," the Weeper sneered, glancing at Jon. "So while I've been fighting a war, you've been getting those southern dipsticks to bow at you?"

"Just be careful with the way you speak to me," Jon warned. He kept his voice very low. "I will only tolerate so much."

The Weeper only snorted.

He's been fighting more battles than anyone, Jon told himself. He's weary and grim . As gruff as the Weeper was, Jon could hardly ask for a better front-line commander. The Weeper had fought off both Umber and Karstark forces ever since the crossing at Eastwatch, and fought all the way down to take Karhold itself. The Weeper's four thousand men were all battle-tested and worn. And this battle has likely been the worst casualties he's suffered.

"We need rest for our horses," the Greatjon grumbled, glaring around the wildlings. Jon noticed how nervous many of the northmen were at the sight of giants. The Weeper motioned and waved for one of his men to handle it.

"To me, my lord," a deep voice called. Jon saw a short burly man with a balding head and a mouthful of broken brown teeth step forward. He wore thick iron plate, carrying a large, ugly longsword over his back. "I will arrange for them."

Jon's eyes narrowed. The man did not sound like a wilding. He had a southern accent. "And who are you?"

"I am Ser Clayton Suggs, Your Holiness," the man bowed. He had a white stone on his chest. He smiled, but there was no humour there. Eyes like a pig . "Formerly of King's Landing."

A knight? Jon paused, making the connection. "You served Stannis at the battle of Hardhome."

"To my shame . I was deluded by false gods and fake prophets." Ser Clayton was respectful, but Jon didn't like his expression. "I see the truth now. For the glory of the ice dragon, Your Holiness."

"Indeed," he said, icily. "You converted fast."

"Lord Weeper vouched for me." Ser Clayton Suggs' grin widened. "He said that I have talent. Talent better served on a battlefield rather than a prisoner. I serve faithfully, I swear it on my honour."

Jon didn't reply, but he dismounted and let Ser Clayton take his horse. The southern knight's eyes lingered on him. Looking around, Jon was surprised to see that quite a few of them weren't wildlings.

Karstark men . Most averted their gaze, but he followed their eyes towards a group of four men, huddled together.

The only one who met Jon's stare had the look of a lord. He was a strong man past fifty, with brown hair, a beard and thick moustache, wearing dishevelled clothes. Jon stepped forward.

There were bloody dark bruises over the lord's face, Jon noticed. Some of the bruises were old, others fresh. Gritting his teeth, the man lowered his head jerkily. "King Snow," the man choked. "I am Lord Cregan Karstark of Karhold."

Ah . "Thank you for supporting our cause, my lord."

His jaw clenched. "I will do what is best for my family," Lord Karstark said. He was a strong man, but his voice was strained. "And for my house. Your Grace."

"Your family," Jon repeated. "Tell me, where is Lady Alys?"

Lord Karstark's gaze was dark. "On a ship heading to White Harbour. Along with my brothers, sons and nephew."

"And yet your father Arnolf Karstark is at Winterfell, allied with Roose Bolton, I believe?"

Aye ." Jon could see the anger and emotion hiding behind a faint layer of civility. Civility reinforced by fear, though. Karstark has not been treated kindly . "And I fought against the wildlings that invaded my lands, I did. I will not lie and say I would not do it again, even. But I will act as is best for my house and my people - and if that means resolving this war with you, gods forgive me, I will do it. I will fight alongside you and so the name Karstark will survive. My lands, my castle, my family will be kept safe."

"I see." There's no loyalty with this one. The only reason he is with me is because he knows he will not survive being against me. But perhaps that is enough?

From the looks of things, Lord Karstark was being kept under very close supervision by the wildlings around him too. It didn't escape Jon's notice that Cregan Karstark was missing a sword on his waist.

"That was the pledge you forced from me, Your Grace," Lord Karstark spat the words. "And I will even uphold it. However, should anything happen to me or my wife, then the whole realm will knowyou a liar and oathbreaker. Just like your accursed brother - a man that would wipe his ass on vows and loyalty. So just keep your dogs away from me and my men."

Jon had to consider his words very carefully. There was a long pause. "Thank you for your loyalty, my lord," he said slowly.

"Although I would advise you to consider your words more thoughtfully. And respectfully."

The man's face twisted. He had to close his eyes, and force the words out of his throat as if they were bile. "I apologise, Your Grace," Lord Karstark growled, taking a gasped, deep breath. The words seemed to physically pain him. "I will mind my tongue."

How many times must the Weeper have beaten the man to put that sort of fear into him?

He looked around the camp. The free folk were loyal, even the White Harbour men had come willingly, but the other northerners that were filling their ranks? How many have only joined because of the same fear?

The thought felt like a lump of iron lodged in his chest, making him scowl.

Jon walked around the free folk, trying to recall the names of the leaders that left with the Weeper. Everyone was worn and tired, but he still saw many wearing white stones. Jon's squires looked terrified at the sight of giants and mammoths lumbering near the water. Several giants approached to stare at him, and in the Old Tongue he heard them muttering, "King, King."

He met the Weeper by the water's edge, washing the blood off his face in the icy water. "I got headcounts from the war chiefs," the Weeper called. "We lost two thousand in the battle last night."

"Then we must find the men to burn the bodies. Leave none untorched," said Jon. "They've bloodied our noses, but this is still a Bolton defeat. Combined, we will still be nine thousand strong. We will take the Dreadfort, and then the Boltons lose their seat."

"Nine thousand strong," the Weeper grumbled. He was bare-chested as he washed, but he didn't seem to mind even despite the freezing

cold. His back was covered in scars. "And most of those free folk. You've got what, two thousand southrons with you? Less?"

"For now. The northern lords are still rallying."

"And so are the free folk. I hear Rattleshirt is mustering another host from Eastwatch. Sigorn of Thenn is doing the same from the Shadow Tower. We're still getting refugees trickling south through the Wall, and they're likely coming through faster now that we've got all three gates. There could well be an army of over fifteen thousand free folk fighters gathering for you."

"What's your point?"

"Fifteen thousand." His voice was low, warning. "Just remember which side you need more, king. In a choice between these southerners and the free folk, I expect you to choose the free folk."

"It doesn't have to be a choice. It's not us versus them."

"And once again you prove yourself a fool."

He still sees all southerners as enemies. Jon met his gaze. "What did you do to Lord Karstark, Weeper?"

He scoffed. "That filth? I bent him over and I showed him the butt of my scythe a few times. Maybe more than a few. The man was stubborn."

Jon's fingers twitched. "You did what ?"

"Hells, you told me to convince Karstark to declare for us," the Weeper chuckled. " I convinced him to declare for us."

"And can you not show restraint?" Jon snapped.

"He's still got a head, doesn't he? That was my restraint." He pulled himself up by the river's edge, scowling. "That scum should count

himself blessed he's still breathing. I would have happily killed him, except I knew you would have a hissy fit over it."

"And how do you ever expect his loyalty after bloody beating him?"

"Who the fuck cares about his loyalty? I don't need him. He shouldn't be alive," the man snarled. "Cregan didn't have any choice but to joinme. At every fight, I put Karstark men on the very front ranks. I don't trust any of them, I don't give any of them a chance to betray us. You can sure as hells bet I have men ready to kill them at a moment's notice if they even look treacherous."

Jon thought of Ser Clayton Suggs. The Weeper recognised 'talent'. "And how do you expect that's going to work in the long run?" he challenged. "We will lose if we try to rule by fear, Weeper."

"Fear is the only thing men like Cregan Karstark understand," he grumbled. His hands twitched as he turned to face Jon. Without his armour, Jon could see the ugly, bloated red scars across his neck from the white walker's grip.

"And fear will only sow more hate," Jon muttered, stepping forward. "We will not do it. We will conquer the northern way, not the wildling way."

Weeper's bulging eyes narrowed. "You see, that's what concerns me," he growled. "Consider this a friendly warning, Snow. It surely as hell seems like you're abandoning the free folk in favour of your new southron friends."

Jon stiffened. "What are you talking about, Weeper?"

"I hear you've been selling free folk daughters to your 'noble houses'," the Weeper spat. "Your marriages ."

"And I've been buying highborn brides for free folk warriors," replied Jon. "They are alliances that help bring us together."

"And also rewards for those that serve you," he sneered. "Making proud warriors want to be treated like dogs. Forcing them into all your northern games for what? Your favour ?"

Jon didn't reply. There had been only five confirmed betrothals so far

two of Old Man Harwick's granddaughters to minor lords of the White Knife, Ygon Oldfather's son to Lord Forrester's third daughter, Gerrick Kingsblood to Lord Holt's eldest daughter, Soren Shieldbreaker's daughter to Lord Bole and Baldor Icewall's daughter to Ser Ian Poole - but the news had spread and there were two dozen other potential matches up in the air.

The Weeper rolled his shoulders as he stepped up from the riverbank. "Me?" the Weeper muttered. "I might start wondering why I should have to be given a woman at all. Why not just take one?"

"That would be a mistake," Jon warned darkly. "There are still more of them than there are free folk."

"Oh aye. And I've followed your rules, I've kept these free folk in line. You ordered 'no raids', and, hells, I've followed. Not a single warrior has pillaged from my warband without losing his own head for it, I dare you to find to find living soul that can say otherwise." TheWeeper grinned. "But now I'm starting to wonder what I get for all my efforts."

There was an edge to his voice. "What do you want, Weeper?"

"Karhold. I took that castle, I get to keep it."

"Karhold is the seat of House Karstark."

"A family that betrayed and fought against you, from how I hear it," the Weeper said. "Now why should a bunch of traitors get to keep a castle like that?"

Jon's lips pursed, but he nodded. Good allies needed to be rewarded . "I can make no promises right now," said Jon. "But I will bear it in

mind."

"And I also want the girl," the Weeper called. Jon stopped. "She's a pretty girl. Alys Karstark. I want her."

His eyes turned hard. The Weeper folded his arms. "Is that not how you southerners do things? You marry the right woman and you take the castle?"

"Alys Karstark," Jon said stiffly, "is already married."

"Not because she had anything to do with it. I spoke to her. If you take that Cregan cunt's head, I imagine she'd be cheering the loudest in the crowd."

"Lord Cregan Karstark is an ally now. He agreed to support us."

"Not willingly. He conceded only because we didn't give him a choice."

"That's not the point." Jon took a step forward. "There are rules here. When a lord surrenders to you, you can't kill him afterwards. Otherwise no lord will ever surrender again. How do you think the northern lords would react if I executed a prominent northern lord and gave his wife away?"

"Fuck them. Cregan Karstark is a nasty little parasite. World would be better off if he never had a head. I should have killed him already." He folded his arms, shaking his head quietly. "Did you know that Alys asked me to? Back at Karhold - she suggested it. She wanted me to kill him for her, and I wanted to do it. But I decided to be really reasonable," he spat the word, "and wait for your permission. This is a simple one, Snow; let me kill the sod and take the girl."

No, Jon thought, not so simple at all . There was a nasty glint in the Weeper's bulging eyes. Jon twitched. "And why," he asked slowly, "why do you want Lady Karstark so badly?"

"I told you. She's pretty ."

"I heard what happened to the last woman you stole, Weeper. The fisherfolk's lass," Jon said icily. "Tormund told me the tale."

"Fucking Tormund. He talks too much. But so what? Aye, I've had wives before."

"And the last one was a girl of seventeen. You cut out her eyes ."

The Weeper's smirk only grew. "Well, she had pretty eyes. I've still got them somewhere, I think."

It took everything Jon had to keep the revulsion off his face. His hands clenched. The Weeper is not a good man . He's never been good . Even among the free folk, the Weeper is feared for good reason. He's an evil psychotic fiend who just so happens to be my strongest ally .

Why ?" Jon growled. "By the all the gods, why would you do that to a girl?"

He only scoffed. "What, can't a man do whatever he likes to his own wife?"

And I argued for amnesty for all crimes north of the Wall. I defended all of the wildling's crimes.

A castle was one thing, but Jon couldn't give the Weeper a wife like Alys. The Lady Karstark didn't know what she was asking for, calling on a man like Weeper to help her. That was a disaster waiting to happen. Jon's nostrils flared. "You will not touch Alys Karstark," Jon warned. There was no anger, his voice just turned cold. "You will not harm any woman. Any rapes - any missing eyes - and there will be no peace. No peace between us, no peace between the lords." He shook his head, unblinking as he met the man's gaze. " I will not tolerate it. Ever ."

The Weeper took half a step forward threateningly. " Boy," he muttered. His voice turned low and his eyes bulged. "If I wanted Alys Karstark, I could have taken her. Maybe I still will."

"You won't." Jon shook his head. There was a pause, and then he turned to walk away. "I've got to believe not even you are that mad."

"I could have fucking killed you in those woods!" the Weeper snapped. "I could have killed you at Hardhome."

"Yes," Jon muttered, not turning around. "You could have."

"If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even be here! You would never have made it this far!" the Weeper shouted. "Just remember that, boy."

Believe me, I am. I am.

It took a long time for Jon's temper to cool. He needed deep breaths, trying to shake the image of the Weeper cutting out a young girl's eyes from her skull. I will raise commanders and officers from White Harbour amongst the free folk, he thought finally. Men who could be trusted to watch the Weeper carefully, and enforce order. But for now, I can't risk reprimanding and alienating him . The Weeperscowled when he saw Jon later, but neither of them said anything. He knew the matter was shelved, but not forgotten.

It was snowing when the host set out again. They used mammoths to carry rations, and the crowds of wildlings with spears set out over the Lonely Hills. They spent a full day marching hard along the branch of the Weeping Water, and then the next morning they saw the high red walls and triangular merlons, like sharp teeth, appearing over the hills.

The Dreadfort was a strong and squat castle of light red bricks that appeared pink in the weak sun, with thick walls and high, looming towers.

A castle as old as Winterfell, Jon thought. A strong and formidable castle by any measure .

The Weeping Water joined streams by the castle, and water from the Lonely Hills gushed over the frozen banks. A large town, a mill and farmland scattered around the Dreadfort, but it all looked eerily abandoned. There was a sour tang in the cold air.

Jon saw Tormund's men and the Manderly host already in position. The armies surrounded the castle from the east, north and west. Jon called Sonagon towards him again, but from the first sight he knew that there wouldn't be a battle here; the Boltons had already retreated. The gates were sealed and the castle was fortified against a siege instead.

The moat around the Dreadfort was filled with spikes. The drawbridge was raised. There were men on the walls hidden under wooden huts, shield walls already in position. Jon caught the glint of scorpions scattered around the keep and walls, and faint shapes of what looked mangonels in the courtyard. All of the scorpions were angled upwards towards the sky. They prepared themselves to face off against a dragon.

Sonagon would still win, of course, but there was a more of a risk here. A small risk, perhaps, but not one that Jon was comfortable with.

The Weeper gave orders to prepare stakewalls and spikes for defences, while Jon headed into the town. It stunk of old smoke. The Boltons burnt the town and the homes rather than give us any advantage, he realised. Scorched earth warfare. Ewan Bole and asmall escort met him with word from Robett Glover, that the commanders were waiting for him.

Jon met the Greatjon, Ser Marlon Manderly, Ser Wylis Manderly, Robett Glover and half a dozen others again in the ruins of a mill they took for a command centre. The walls and ceiling were charred black from the fires, but the structure seemed strong. Lord Karstark

wasn't present, but Jon knew that lord had no place in their war council. Or within earshot of it.

"My lord," Jon nodded at the Greatjon. "How goes it? Were there any attacks?"

"A few stragglers, nothing of note." Lord Umber shook his head. "My guess is that the battle at Weeping Water was their last attempt to try and drive us away. We've got the larger army and they know it."

"How many men are holding the castle?"

"A small garrison, by the looks of it," Ser Marlon replied. "The majority of their forces have already fled. If it was just us I would wager they'd be more likely to stand and fight, but…"

"But they're scared of the dragon. They won't risk devoting large hosts of men to battles where dragonfire would obliterate them."

"The skinless man has no spine," the Greatjon grumbled.

"Does that not make them more dangerous? Spineless creatures are often the most venomous," Jon sighed. They won't make it easy, the Boltons seemed insistent on taking whatever victory they could get. "Will the garrison surrender?

"I very much doubt it, Your Grace," Ser Marlon admitted. "I am told it is being held by a man named Steelshanks, and manned by old, hard veterans. I sent an envoy to the drawbridge under a banner of truce, and they put four quarrels in the man. They will not negotiate, Roose Bolton wouldn't have left them if they would."

"And they've have had weeks to prepare for us," Robett Glover noted. "I've rarely seen a castle holed up so tightly before. They burnt their own lands and hoarded whatever they couldn't flee with inside that keep. No, there will be no negotiation here."

"So as far as I see it, we have two options," the Greatjon said. "We either siege the castle or storm it."

"It's a strong castle. A siege could take months." Jon frowned.

"And a storm will take hours." His eyes narrowed. "Can you dragon raze it?"

"Of course."

"Then let's bring the beast here," the Greatjon ordered. "Turn the cursed place into ruin. Show them a storm."

Jon lips tightened. The thought of what he had seen at the Twins had not left him eager to repeat the experience. But if they will not surrender then what choice is there?

Ser Wylis grimaced. "Your Grace," he said hesitantly. The son of Lord Manderly was a large man, but he looked worn and haggard in platemail that didn't quite seem to fit. "I would urge you to not."

"Is there an alternative? We cannot leave the Bolton's seat of power intact. The Dreadfort must be secured before the march on Winterfell."

"We have enough forces that we can safely dedicate some towards a siege, Your Grace," Ser Wylis argued. "Their garrison cannot threaten us. We secure the area and leave behind, say, two thousand strong to starve the castle and we continue our march."

"And how long would that take?" the Greatjon protested.

"No, it will leave us too vulnerable," Ewan Bole said, shaking his shaggy head. "Our men will be exposed."

"It is better alternative than destroying a castle entirely," Ser Wylis countered. "The Dreadfort is an ancient northern castle. Even despite its reputation, it's an historical and influential seat. To raze it into ruins will not endear anyone to our cause. The Dreadfort is

valuable enough to be worth a siege. Let us take it, rather than raze it."

"It would cost us time," Robett Glover said quietly. "But there is little risk to our own men."

"Little risk?" another said incredulously, to the support of others. "Are you mad? What of storms? Or starvation? You want to leave men hungry and cold outside a castle like the Dreadfort."

Jon hesitated uncertainly. The Greatjon folded his arms. "Bugger that. You want to devote two thousand men to a siege like this? We will need our forces against Winterfell."

"We have a dragon. Surely our armies are already secure."

"No, a siege is folly," the Greatjon insisted. "Just bloody blast the damn thing."

"All the while the Dreadfort stands, we risk Roose Bolton taking back his lands," Ewan Bole nodded. "And it weakens us in the process."

"He won't take it back. How could he, when his forces are amassed at Winterfell?" Ser Wylis objected.

The Greatjon shook his head. "No, we should turn the castle into rubble. Demonstrate just what treatment Bolton scum deserve. Demonstrate power."

Ser Wylis eyes flickered towards Jon. "Or you could demonstrate patience and restraint instead." He lowered his head quickly. "Your Grace."

Jon didn't outwardly react, but he looked to the mood of his allies. The Greatjon wanted destruction, but most others seemed to agree. Ser Wylis was the only one who really seemed to object. I want to destroy it too, Jon admitted silently. But…

"There will be hostages inside the Dreadfort, Your Grace," Ser Wylis said finally. His eyes kept flickering to Jon. "There will be prisoners from the sack of Winterfell. Bolton dissenters as well. Their dungeons are vast."

Ah, that's why the man is so hesitant . "How many hostages?"

"I cannot say. But all of the smallfolk from this town must be somewhere."

"The Boltons are expecting us to destroy the castle," Ser Marlon noted. "They only left that garrison behind to ensure that we will not benefit from their loss. They are trying to make our victory as bitter as possible; maybe they've filled the castle with smallfolk, but there will be no important hostage inside. They would left no one that might drastically help our campaign should we recover them."

"Aye," Ewan Bole agreed. "Lord Bolton is a ruthless man, to leave behind his own seat as a sacrificial goat."

"So you would support razing it, then?" Jon demanded, turning to the knight.

Ser Marlon grimaced. "It would be a logical decision, Your Grace."

Ser Wylis was the only one vocal about a siege, the rest strongly opposed the idea. Robett Glover looked like he may agree with Ser Wylis, but he didn't speak out loudly in support either. The discussion continued for some time. Lord Umber snapped at the heir of White Harbour as if he were a fool, and Ser Marlon had to try and mediate between them.

"Could your dragon breathe at the castle with more care?" Ser Marlon suggested finally, looking for a more moderate path. "What if your dragon demolished the gate and walls only, such that men could then assault the keep?"

"Sonagon is a dragon, ser, not a siege engine. He has only one type of attack." Jon shook his head. "No, I cannot restrain him, and I must attack with overpowering force or not at all. To do anything less puts Sonagon at risk from scorpions and iron bolts, as I'm sure Meraxes could testify."

Jon remembered the battle at Hardhome, and how poorly that battle had turned because he tried to hold Sonagon back on the initial strike. No, a dragon's greatest advantage is overwhelming power without restraint. So why am I hesitating?

Ser Wylis was still arguing. White Harbour was a crucial ally and Jon had no wish to dismiss Ser Wylis' opinion, but the whole room was stacked against him. Jon didn't even need to ask to know that Tormund and the Weeper would both object to a siege too.

"Please, Your Grace," the knight said, looking to Jon, "the prisoners inside don't deserve to die. Even just as a statement, we could show the realm…"

He hesitated. Show the realm that I'm not a monster . Jon bit his lip.

I really, really want to destroy that castle. The majority of my commanders agree that it is the tactical move, and they're right .

Still, the image of the Twins, and all those frozen corpses flickered before his eyes. No, he's right, Jon thought with a sigh. The smallfolk inside don't deserve to die .

That made Jon's decision. "I did not have choice but to raze the Twins," he said finally. The room muttered. "But there is a choice here. We will siege the Dreadfort with men rather than using Sonagon."

The Greatjon cursed. "That will take months, boy. Months ."

"We have the resources to spare," Jon said firmly. "What sort of commitment will be required?"

"I would wager three thousand men would be a good number," said Robett Glover. "The old Kings of Winter proved that it is a difficult castle to siege."

"But it is the good option," Ser Wylis insisted. Nobody else looked convinced. "When the starvation kicks in and they see our intent, men inside will trade whatever prisoners they have for leeway."

"For three thousand men, it will have to be a mix of free folk and northern soldiers."

"I… I see. And who will lead them?" Ser Marlon asked. "Your man the Weeper?"

"No." Jon shook his head. The Weeper would be the worst possible commander to lead a siege. He briefly considered Tormund, but Jon wanted to keep Tormund by his side. A siege required patience and discipline, a free folk would not be ideal. "Ser Marlon," Jon said finally, turning to the face the knight. "Will you accept the command?"

Ser Marlon blinked, off-guard. The commander of the guard at White Harbour had proven himself capable, level-headed; a good, patient man for a long task. "The- ah, yes, Your Grace. I will." He bowed.

"The free folk will follow you, I will ensure it," Jon promised. "And there will be reinforcements from Eastwatch led by a man named Lord of Bones shortly. The dragon will return regularly to support the siege. The rest of our forces must continue onwards, west to Winterfell."

"I will take the castle for you, Your Grace." Ser Marlon bowed. "For my house and my realm."

The Greatjon spat on the floor in disgust. There were a few unhappy objections, but Jon's tone left no room for argument. Jon looked at Ser Wylis and tried to imagine what it what it would be like to be trapped in a prison for all those months.

There was more talk: who else would have command, their forces that would march. They had much ground to cover and they agreed to split into three hosts: Ser Marlon's force to stay at the Dreadfort, the Greatjon to lead men to secure Hornwood, while the Weeper would lead his force west towards Long Lake. Jon insisted on integrating the northmen alongside the free folk, so that Tormund would keep with Lord Umber while Robett Glover and Ser Wylis would move with the Weeper.

They would need to spread themselves and secure as much area to fight against the skirmish attacks, and Jon wanted the giants and the mammoths with him as they hit Winterfell. It was to be a pronged attack against Winterfell supported by reinforcements from the north and south.

"What of you, Your Grace?" Robett Glover asked. "Where will you be heading?"

Jon grimaced. Where was the most urgent priority? It seemed like he was needed absolutely everywhere recently. "I must fly back to White Harbour with all haste," Jon decided finally. "Lord Manderly should be informed and I must see to our alliances."

Above him, he heard the flapping of great wings as Sonagon circled above. There were faint cries from the walls of the Dreadfort, and arrows were feebly fired upwards.

The Bolton men inside should know how fortunate they are that they're not being scorched in dragonfire right now, Jon thought foully.

All around him, the camp churned. Ser Marlon was talking about setting up fortifications and catapults, but Jon only nodded. Across the plains, Sonagon dropped into the river, crashing through ice with enormous thud and clawing at the water. Sonagon is getting antsy, Jon thought with a grimace. He's hungry and there has been poor hunting across these hills. I must leave quickly before Sonagon's patience burns out .

Still, Jon lingered long enough to watch their siege take formation. He had to arrange supply trains and set commands, and twice he had to interfere between Tormund and the Weeper butting heads. It was getting late and his scouts warned of bad weather, but Sonagon wouldn't tolerate being used much more and Jon had to leave.

There were only a few hours before dusk as Jon climbed onto Sonagon's harness. For once, Jon travelled alone; both of his squires were too young to risk riding Sonagon, and he left them with his Dragonguard to represent him in his absence.

At the first red rays of dusk, the dragon burst into the sky. The ground shrunk beneath him, and suddenly the imposing Dreadfort turned so small. All around him, he could see the plumes of smoke scattered across the Lonely Hills as his army marched out to secure all the surrounding villages and towns. Jon could smell the tang of blood in the air.

Sonagon was restless. They made good time, and it wasn't long before Jon saw the pale cliffs of White Harbour nestling in the distance, and the sea wind blowing over the Bite. There were ships in formation across the harbour, and overflow camps stretching out of the gates of the city. Despite the late hour, Jon heard a bell ringing as soon as the dragon was spotted.

Sonagon has come to the city two dozen times now, and every single time they insist on ringing the bell, he thought with a grimace. They would wake the whole city for his arrival. The dragon's wings whooshed as he soared down towards the Seal Rock jutting out of the ocean.

There were torches already moving from the rock. The old ring fort was a crumbling, circular structure of ancient stones, but they had cleared the centre and set up tents for the garrison. There were crude wooden structures nestled between the ancient stones, and barricades and fortifications carved into the rock. The top of the Seal Rock stood thirty feet out of the water, and they built a rickety

wooden staircase sprawling across its side down to a single dock by the waves.

It was a very good roosting spot for a large dragon, Jon thought. The Seal Rock was high, secure and defensible, but large and open. It was isolated enough that the dragon couldn't cause disturbances in the city, and that nobody could disturb the dragon either. It even overlooked the harbour - an ideal position for Sonagon to sit protectively should they come under attack.

Occasionally, Jon wondered if the ancient ring fort from the First Men had been designed specifically to house a dragon in its heyday.

As soon as Sonagon dropped, he curled onto the exact same spot that he had left, right down to the grooves he had carved into the stone. Jon heard voices, and saw men pushing carts of meat towards the dragon. Very little warning and yet they are already prepared to meet Sonagon's needs, Jon thought approvingly. My Dragonguard has become very efficient .

He saw men dump the contents of a cart onto a marked spot on the ground, and then quickly backed away. Sonagon sniffed, snorting cold mist hungrily.

"Get the second cart ready!" Jon heard a voice shout as he lowered himself. "Drop the food and get out of there - this dragon doesn't like waiting for his meals!"

He saw the big man standing by the barracks. Hatch wasn't wearing armour, but he still wore his cloak. Jon saw Urwen, Black Maris, Mo and Harle all rushing and giving orders. His Dragonguard didn't have any uniform, but they all wore something white to signify their rank: such as a white cloak or white stones stitched into the shape of dragon on their hauberk.

More and more wildlings from the Wall were arriving in White Harbour by ship. Galleons would ship food supplies to Eastwatch and return carrying refugees. Jon had sent Sam and Grenn back to

Castle Black, while the Dragonguard that he left behind had arrived in White Harbour recently.

"Hatch," Jon called. "How goes it?"

"Aye," Hatch grumbled. "The city is in a right state, but we're keeping this rock for you."

"Not a luxurious place," Jon admitted, looking around the gloomy torches and bleak, wind-beaten stones.

"Hells, I've lived in worse," he said with a snort. "And we're Dragonguard, right? Glorified nannies to a giant monster."

Jon smiled wearily. "We should prepare carts three and four," an eager voice called, rushing up to Hatch. "Two of the last five times, the dragon has eaten four carts after long trips. We still have that cut garron that will likely turn rotten shortly, and then there'll be two carts of fish in reserve to break the dragon's fast on the morn, next delivery after that."

"Aye, get to it then," Hatch ordered, and the young man nodded quickly.

"Harlow," Jon greeted.

Harlow grinned as he saw Jon, and then flustered and bowed quickly. He had a white stone on his chest. "Your Grace."

"At ease," Jon said with a wry grin. "You have good response time to Sonagon."

"The meals were prepared in advance, Your Grace," Harlow explained quickly. "Last time the dragon arrived very hungry and… well, the delay was not well-received. Since then I try to keep five carts loaded and ready to be served at any hour."

"It is appreciated." Behind him, Sonagon gouged into his meal with sharp black teeth, his hard tongue scraping the rock. They didn't

bother unpacking the food, instead Sonagon just ate the sacks as well. Even a huge sack was a tiny morsel to Sonagon's size - it was little wonder that whole carts were needed.

"It is my honour, Your Grace." Harlow bowed again. Now how can I convince him not to keep doing that? Jon mused. The young mannever even met his eyes - he always looked to the floor in Jon's presence.

Hatch was bellowing orders for the men to gather to remove Sonagon's harness. Jon notice there was something in Harlow's hands. He was fidgeting, glancing back to where Sonagon had already finished his meal. "What is that?"

"Um, just a parchment, Your Grace," Harlow admitted sheepishly, handing the rough animal-skin parchment to Jon. "I have been keeping a tally of how frequently your dragon eats and drinks, Your Grace, and which meals he seems to like more. To plan."

The parchment was rough with flint scribbles and markings. Harlow couldn't write, but he used crude sketches and tallies to keep notes in messy columns. It must make sense to him. Jon looked at it curiously, while the man seemed abashed.

"The dragon eats five parts of stone and rock for every one part of meat," Harlow explained, eyes twinkling. "And four parts grain and veg to fill out the size of the meals. And a larger serving of meat after the dragon has been flying for a long time. It's usually fish, sometimes livestock too. There are seven butchers and fishmongers in the city that have been hired to prepare solely for the dragon."

Slowly, Jon started to make sense of the scribbles. There were columns for servings and rows for days. Gods, how much does my dragon eat? It never failed to impress him how gluttonous Sonagoncould be. "And the stone?"

"Mostly the white stone from the cliffs. Chalk, I think. The dragons seems to prefer soft rock to bedrock, usually. It really likes these

yellow rocks, I guess they must be tasty for a dragon? Sometimes the dragon likes chewing on iron or steel as well, but I'm not sure how often…" he grimaced. Jon could see him trying to stop himself from rambling. "Well, they've brought across barrels of old rusted swords and such as well, just in case the dragon is peckish."

"This… This is good," Jon said after a pause. "Talk to a maester. Have him transcribe your logs into a proper form. And then have the maester send letters to Eastwatch, Castle Black and any other place Sonagon is likely to visit. Make sure they reserve at least a good day's worth of supplies for Sonagon at all times."

Harlow blinked. "Your Grace?"

"His diet is important. It's what keeps him placated. We need to know how to best feed him." Perhaps if I fed him properly, would there be forty-three people at Mole's Town still alive? Jon wondered. I must wear every mistake I make on my chest, and resolve to never make any of them ever again . "This is good work, Harlow."

"I… Thank you, Your Grace." He bowed again. Jon had to stop himself smirking lest the man think he was mocking him. "It is my honour, Your Grace. I would likely be dead in the wilderness if not for you. However I can help."

"Good service must be rewarded. Yours has not gone unnoticed," he said with a smile. I shall have think of a rank or boon to grant .

Harlow rushed off to prepare Sonagon's meals. "Oh aye, he's good for feeding and cleaning the dragon, that one," Hatch agreed, stepping back to Jon and motioning at Harlow. "Bloody useless with a sword, but eager enough."

"Well, you said it yourself that the Dragonguard are glorified nannies," he mused. "A squireship would be good for him, I think. Perhaps Furs would take him on."

There were men rushing around Jon, all looking between him and the dragon. The Seal Rock was garrisoned by fifty men, but Jon's Dragonguard had command. When Jon had left, it had been a rough military outpost, but it had quickly been established and better fortified. New wooden outhouses had been built between the great slab of rocks to the house men, supplies and arms, and there were at least two dozen scorpions overlooking the rocks pointing down to the water. There were bowmen perches and gates built around the fort. Good, proper defences to guard Sonagon while he roosted and slept. Jon had placed Furs in command before he left, and it looked like he had done a good job.

"Where is Furs?" Jon asked, glancing around.

"Lord Manderly requested him in the city," Hatch replied. "I think there was talk of recruiting stonemasons to rebuild the Seal Rock entirely."

"Good. The Targaryens built the Dragonpit for a reason. I will fully support as much security built around Sonagon as possible."

"We're on a raised outpost in the middle of sea with a fleet of ships stationed around us," Urwen noted. "How much more defence could there be?"

"That depends on whether or not we can trust the fleet," Hatch snorted. Jon sent him a hard glare to mind his tongue, and the large man shifted.

"Your Grace," a Manderly man said, bowing his head as he approached. He was dressed like a sailor. "I have a small boat ready by the port. We can escort you into the city itself."

Jon shook his head. "No. It is late and I am quite tired." And doubtless Lord Wyman will insist on seeing me straight away . "I willrest here for tonight and travel across in the morning."

The man's face paled. "Your Grace, we… Tis a barren outpost here, we have little hospitality to offer you."

Jon could have laughed. "I think I shall survive sleeping rough, ser." And I shall be grateful for it, compared to that hideous suffocatingly soft bed in the castle . "A tent and a blanket will serve just fine."

As it happened, the commander of the garrison insisted on clearing out a storeroom for Jon's sleeping quarters. The building was a cramped and narrow outhouse built at the edge of the rock, previously used to keep their lumber and arrows out of the damp and salt air. It stank of dust, and there were bugs skittering in the corners. Honestly, Jon would have preferred to sleep out in the open sky, but he didn't care enough to make it an issue.

He could hear the waves gushing and crashing against the rocks, rocking him to sleep. There were bells from the nearby ships. Often you could hear the seals shuffling and barking as they gathered on the rocks below as well, but Jon guessed that Sonagon had quickly scared those away.

As he slept, he saw the world through a direwolf's eyes, pacing and scratching at a narrow barge. Ghost was on a ship too; confined in a narrow hull and rocking with the waves. He could smell stone, smoke and earthy scents drifting on the sea wind.

Dawn came too soon. Jon was already up with first light, and he washed his face in cold salt water to wake himself up. Early morning, and a large ship came to ferry him across into the city. Ser Alek met him on the rickety, tiny port built onto the Seal Rock, and he left Sonagon to Hatch's care, bringing Urwen and Harle with him into the city.

There was a crowd waiting for him on the Inner Harbour of the city, but there were no riots at least. It was quiet. Jon glimpsed free folk wearing white stones lingering in the crowd. True to his word, Lord Wyman had been ferrying wildlings to White Harbour. The free folk huddled together in small groups, and the cityfolk kept their distance.

All wanted to see Jon, but there were different moods mixed in the crowd.

"How fares the city?" Jon asked Ser Alek. "White Harbour is prepared for war, Your Grace." "That is not what I asked, ser."

"It is strained," the knight admitted. "Winter looms closer than ever, rationing has been introduced, and our stores are already suffering. The refugees are already overflowing the city, and there have been disturbances between the wild- the free folk and cityfolk."

"I see," Jon said, keeping his voice firm.

"But we are prepared for war," Ser Alek insisted. "Our forces have been mustering; nearly every house on this side of the White Knife is with us. More and more noble houses are joining the coalition."

"Yes," Jon mused. "Tell me, are they joining because they support us, or because they are too scared of the dragon and the wildlings to do otherwise?"

A brief grimace flickered across the young knight's face. "Does it matter? They are still joining."

Jon smiled hollowly. "Do not act the fool, ser. You're not very good it,"

he said with a sigh. "It matters a great deal."

The whole atmosphere of the city seemed so different from what it had been a few weeks ago. He saw grey camps and grimy tents set up in the middle of the white streets. The trip up to the New Castle was short and tense.

Jon met Furs at the top of the Castle Stair. He wore armour fit for a knight, but he kept his bone spear. Furs had a lanky body shape, though he still strong. Strangely, Furs bowed low as Jon

approached. "King," he greeted. "How was that bow? These southerners have been teaching me to bow properly."

He smiled softly. "Very well. How goes it, Furs?"

"Oh aye, we've been minding the keep sure enough. How is the real war going?"

"Making progress. It's not over yet."

There were nobles and guards milling around him. Jon struggled to remember all the names and faces. "I wish you told us to expect you," Furs noted, "this place always goes in a right panic whenever you just fly in."

"I was I knew myself. I come back only when I have a chance," Jon muttered. "Have the free folk been settling in?"

"Oh aye. I don't think your southerners know how to handle so many free folk filling up their fancy castle. You know these guys use four knives and forks during meals?"

Jon smiled, but before he could reply he recognised a familiar face. "Galbart," Jon called to the Master of Deepwood Motte. "It is good to see you."

The taciturn man nodded, with a short bow. "Your Grace," Galbart Glover greeted. "How fares my brother?"

"Robett is quite fine. Any news of the hostages from Deepwood Motte?"

"None." There was a grim look in his eyes. "Little news at all of my family."

Too many families have been split in this war . "We will recover them, Lord Glover," Jon promised. "The Dreadfort may not have fallen, but it is lost. When we push against Winterfell, the Boltons will sell their hostages to save themselves."

"As you say, Your Grace. I linger here to aid with White Harbour's defence, though we will join the force against Winterfell's walls."

He turned to walk down the hallway. Galbart walked with him. "Although, I'm glad to speak with you," Jon said. "I was intending on offering Ewan Bole, one of your house's sworn swords, a place in my Dragonguard."

Galbert looked surprised. "Ewan? Aye, I know the man. Loyal and steadfast, but he hails from a minor and unremarkable house."

"I care more for the quality of men than the name they bear, my lord. During the march Ewan Bole proved himself more than capable. I am looking to fill the ranks of the Dragonguard," he explained. "I was also planning on offering Ser Alek the same."

"Ser Alek is a good knight. The son of a landed knight in White Harbour. He's young, but brave. He was the first to volunteer to ride after your dragon on the plains." Galbart frowned, looking confused. "But your Dragonguard will have more influence if you were to name sons of old and great houses. Few highborn will respect such a… mixed grouping."

Jon shook his head. "The Dragonguard needs little status or ceremony, my lord. I care for skill, loyalty and bravery in its ranks."

"Then you should still recruit from good houses. You cannot expect common blood to breed noble qualities," Galbart Glover said as if it was obvious. "Noble families are reliable, their heritage breeds loyalty - they can be trusted. The commonfolk have no past, they must be treat with caution."

"I'd disagree. I find that highborn most certainly have no monopoly on any of those traits," said Jon. There were too many who constantly misunderstood what his Dragonguard was. "I will happily recruit men from low birth too. Months ago, I found a hunter in the woods of no standing whatsoever, but Harlow has continually impressed me with his dedication and resourcefulness. I would more

than happily invite many of the same - I have no wish to reward good service anything less than the appreciation it deserves."

Galbart frowned. He didn't understand, Jon thought. Many lords wouldn't . Perhaps it was a bastard's trait. "Your Grace, if you wantthis rank of Dragonguard to be respected, then you must fill it with men who can be respected. Not commoners."

"Not so," argued Jon. "In the Night's Watch even those of low birth could rise to high positions and influence. All the way up to Lord Commander in many cases. The sworn brothers appreciated their duty and the skill of those who uphold it more than any name. They appreciate stewards and caretakers more than just fighters. I mean to follow suit."

"So you would fill your guard with farmers and stable boys?" Galbart asked, baffled.

Jon smiled coolly. "Should they earn it, then yes, happily, my lord."

Glorified dragon nannies, as Hatch phrased it, Jon mused. Still, Jon was considering splitting his Dragonguard into two ranks, perhaps dragon guardians and dragon keepers? Jon couldn't expect the stewards and caretakers to fight, and it was a waste of the fighters to have them constantly looking after Sonagon. Perhaps the keepers under Furs could be responsible for Sonagon's care and wellbeing, while the guardians led by Hatch would be the fighting unit responsible for defence? It was something to think about - his Dragonguard were already taking on far more duties and responsibility than he had originally conceived. All of them are good men and women well-motivated to prove themselves .

He excused himself from Galbart, and Jon was met at the stairs by Leona Manderly. The plump woman curtsied towards Jon. He motioned for his guards to stay back. "Your Grace," she greeted. Lady Leona's eyes looked red like she had been crying. "Lord Manderly would see you at the earliest convenience."

"I thought he would. Please, I will see the lord now."

Jon knew the way and Lord Manderly rarely left his quarters, but Lady Leana escorted him nevertheless. Jon noticed how stiff and brash her posture was towards him, even despite the forced courtesies. "Your husband rides with the army, my lady," Jon said, lowering his voice. "I spoke with Ser Wylis only last night."

"That is good to hear," Lady Leona replied curtly. "And yet once more my daughters and I must wait for him to come home again."

There was a quiet hurt in her voice that caused Jon to wince. "There is little danger to him," he said lamely, trying to reassure. "We have won every battle we've fought, my lady,"

"So did the Young Wolf, Your Grace."

They reached the corridor towards the lord's solar. Without another word, Lady Leona curtsied and walked briskly away. Jon stopped to stare after her, before shaking himself off and walking towards the solar.

As he approached, he heard voices from the room. They sounded polite but strained. The voices were too low for him to make him out, though Jon caught a few snatchets of words; "… rightful and just liege, m'lord… bring the realm to ruin…"

There was something that sounded like a short, sharp dismissal. The door opened, and Jon saw a short, greying and stout man, looking unnerved. Lord Davos Seaworth's eyes widened in shock and horror as he saw Jon standing there. There was a pained pause, and then Lord Seaworth bowed and quickly walked away. Jon watched him go, before stepping inside the solar.

The fat lord stood to meet Jon as he entered, wheezing for breath slightly. "Your Grace," Lord Wyman said. The circles around his eyes seemed darker. "I have just received the raven from our forces at the Dreadfort. You should have come straight to me last night."

"Sleep is underrated attribute for kings, it seems," Jon said dryly, as he took a seat opposite the desk. The chairs were oak with velvet cushions.

The lord laughed humourlessly. A steward brought wine and pastries into the room. "Yes, too many waking hours do creep up on you. And you have a dragon. Has there ever been a commander who can move around the realm half as fast as you do? Where most men must rely on the use of ravens, you could arrive just as fast in person."

"Aye, it's useful, my lord, but also taxing."

"Indeed." Lord Wyman's voice softened. "And how fares my son?"

"Ser Wylis is a strong man and a capable commander," Jon reassured. "He led the rear flank competently, and is a valuable voice at the war table. Ser Marlon will command the siege of the Dreadfort, and Ser Wylis is secure in a force many thousand strong."

"That is good. His captivity was a long and arduous thing, I admit I was concerned about his health and his recovery. And his wife, and daughters, have dearly missed him so," Lord Wyman sighed. "It was a painful and terrible thing, Your Grace, to watch my son leave for war once more. I am unable to follow him; my body has become my prison. I know that Wylis must go, and yet…"

There was a quiver in his voice. Lord Wyman usually sounded so strong and booming. For a second, Jon was left unsure what to say. "Your son is at the centre of a large army," he said finally. "He is secure, and wily enough not to put himself at risk. We have soundly won every battle we have faced."

"We both know how quickly wars can turn, do we not? Make no mistake; Roose Bolton has been allowing himself to lose ground. We have the larger armies, yes, but he is not surrendering and he is not fighting back in force. There have been no true battles; only Boltons harrying us and slowing us down. He will be preparing his own

campaign too, though what exactly he intends I cannot say." Lord Wyman shook his head, multiple chins wobbling. "No, this is no time to become complacent. I shall not rest easily until both Roose Bolton and his bastard have their heads on spikes above Winterfell."

Yes, Jon agreed. For all the difficulties, their progress so far had been unnervingly unchallenged . "I had hoped to face Ramsay Bolton at the Dreadfort," Jon admitted. "But there was no sign of him."

"I have had no word either," said Lord Wyman. "Concerning Roose Bolton, at least, I can be reasonably confident he is at Winterfell, but Ramsay has seemingly disappeared."

Along with my brother. Damn Ramsay Snow. First my sister, and then Bran? The Bastard of Bolton must be brought to justice. The mood over the desk turned grim.

"What of the search for your brothers, Bran or Rickon?"

"There has been no news."

"Well, it is still early days."

"And yet they must be recovered to unite the realm."

"We have other options, it is still…" His voice paused, and then Lord Wyman shook his head again. "No, enough of this. Obsessing over ghosts and what ifs becomes pointless. I cannot lead any battles, so I will trust the command of our armies to you, Your Grace. In return, I hope you can trust me to manage affairs of state and politics. You lead from the battlefield, I from the city."

" Happily, my lord."

"With the Dreadfort under siege, House Bolton's lands are effectively ours. That means that Houses Umber, Karstark, and, very soon, Hornwood will be under our control. Most of the east coast, while

House Bolton gathers still holds power and allies in the west." He paused. "Can we expect more forces from the Wall mustering for us?"

"Some. The Lord of Bones and Sigorn of Thenn will both be readying to assist," Jon hesitated. "Though I dare not reduce the defence on the Wall much more. There are other threats to consider than just Boltons."

Lord Wyman straightened slightly. "You mean your white walker?"

"Aye. Malvern we call it. Just the one, but it has proven itself too strong and too cunning to be tracked. I can't commit entirely to this campaign so long as Malvern is a threat to the Night's Watch castles."

He looked uncertain. "Just for one of these fiends?"

"Malvern has proven itself capable of fighting and defeating a hundred men singlehandedly, my lord. Its power is not to be underestimated. It has been haunting holdfasts and farms in the Gift, killing any party small enough to be taken easily and hiding otherwise. Perhaps I am lucky that Malvern was left so injured in its crossing through the Wall, because I fear that it is capable of doing much more." Jon grimaced with the thought. How many had Malvern killed already? At least hundreds, but they hadn't found most of the bodies. "Though the good news is that so long as my hunting parties are hounding it and my castles are fortified, the walker's options are limited too. It still cannot face an army. I need only keep on the pressure, and sooner or later an obsidian arrow will find its mark." I hope .

"And you sound concerned."

"I am very concerned. But there is naught I can do about it," Jon confessed, his gaze twitching. "Malvern is an extremely dangerous creature and one that I don't know the location of . I prefer my

enemies where I can see them, my lord." And this war is proving a poor one on that front .

"Yes," Lord Wyman said with a sigh. "If there is anything I can provide-"

"Obsidian, my lord. Dragonglass. Do you have a means of purchasing obsidian? We require large quantities."

"I cannot say that I do. Obsidian is usually used in trinkets, not typically needed in bulk. I will make inquiries," he promised. "I must speak with merchants in the city, and find captains willing to scour the free markets on our behalf."

"Are there any?"

"Not many," Lord Wyman replied, reluctantly. "Most independent merchants and captains have shunned White Harbour's docks ever since the dragon appeared in the harbour.

"Of course they have." Why couldn't anything just be simple?

"It is not yet dire, but our trade is being stifled."

"Can I assist?"

"Not with force. A softer hand is required to secure trade, I think."

He nodded, and conceded the task to Lord Wyman. I trust Mance to guard the Wall, and the Weeper to lead his raiders. I must trust Lord Wyman to his duty too . Still, Jon paused, and then frowned. "Mind,what was Lord Seaworth speaking to you about before?"

"You, of course," replied Lord Wyman. "The Onion Lord tries to convince me to support Stannis Baratheon instead."

"Ah. Lord Davos is a loyal man."

"His loyalty cannot be faulted." Lord Wyman nodded. "Neither can his earnestness. Both are traits that I admire, except it is his sense that I question."

"What arguments does he make?"

"The same ones that I hear several times a day. He says that our alliance is doomed for collapse. That the wildlings will not recognise authority, or accept laws, be controlled. He says that this war will schism and ruin the north in the worst possible way. He urges me to return to the fold of the Seven Kingdoms. Lord Seaworth then supports and defends Stannis Baratheon and his actions, but that is the point where his bias becomes apparent." The lord paused. "Still, it is rare to see a man who chooses to act from loyalty rather than fear."

Lord Wyman sounded mildly impressed. Perhaps Lord Davos made more of an impression than he realised, Jon wondered. "Lord Davosis a good man," Jon said finally. "I have no wish to let him suffer unduly. I took him as a hostage, but there is naught needed from him and no family to ransom. His continued captivity seems pointless, perhaps he should just be released and allowed to return home."

"Perhaps. Though Lord Seaworth is still held in high regard by Stannis Baratheon. If Stannis' campaign musters support and gains strength once more, Lord Seaworth could still be a valuable piece."

"How likely is that to happen?"

"Unlikely," he admitted. "But who knows? Stannis has been doing remarkably well in the battles he's been leading. In any case, to release Lord Seaworth now would be folly: there are many wars and outlaws about, the crownlands are in turmoil, Dragonstone is under blockade and he has no means of travelling safely. He would likely not make it home to his wife. No, the Onion Lord is being treated fairly in New Castle; he can remain here until a better solution appears."

"Very well," Jon conceded reluctantly. Lord Davos was a good and loyal man, though Jon knew that he would never be loyal to him.

Lord Wyman picked up a pastry from the platter. "Another of your associates has reached out to me from across the Narrow Sea. One Salladhor Saan of Lys."

Ah, now he was the opposite of Davos. An untrustworthy man that was their ally. "A pirate," Jon said with distaste. "A pirate lord, he calls himself."

"I am aware. But the man is ambitious and eager enough to ally himself with us. The man has been quite capable too, and well-motivated to earn influence to rebuild his former fleet and wealth. I received a letter; Salladhor is in Braavos, and he approached the Iron Bank on our behalf."

"A pirate dealing with the Iron Bank?"

"Oh, the Iron Bank never turns away potential customers. They are the greatest pirates of them all, in many ways," Lord Wyman said with a scoff. "But yes, Salladhor Saan was largely dismissed in Braavos, until you flew south, then the word spread and there could be no doubt that we truly have a dragon. In the wake of that news, I imagine the pirate was looked upon in a different light by the Braavosi."

"I allowed Salladhor Saan to sail free on the promise that he would broker trade and supply for me," Jon said, slightly sourly. "Has he?"

"I believe so. It is a planting that might provide fruit. I cannot understate how useful the Iron Bank's support would be, if we are able to secure it. I have hope; the news of a dragon causes stirs, and perhaps a savvy banker would rather be on the right side of that wager."

"But you don't sound convinced."

"From what your pirate writes, there is a conflict of interests," he explained. "The Iron Bank has already entered a contract with Aegon Targaryen, financing him to claim the Iron Throne. It was to be expected; when the Lannisters burnt that bridge, the Iron Bank sought other ways to reclaim their debt."

"Ah. And I am in conflict with this Aegon." As indirect as it is . "The Iron Bank can't support me without jeopardising their interests in their chosen champion?"

"Just so. A difficult position for them. However, the Iron Bank does not like being on the losing side. The deal they made with Aegon was agreed upon before your presence was widely known, and suddenly the young Targaryen does not seem such a promising wager, since there is a dragon stacked against him. A new loan could perhaps be negotiated."

"For how much gold?"

"Enough gold to establish a new kingdom in earnest," Lord Wyman said with a nod. "The price will be steep, but such a loan is not to be dismissed. It could pay for food all winter, to repair the damage after so much strife."

Jon leaned forward in his seat. "And what must I do?"

"For now? Nothing. I only wished to alert you to the possibility. After Winterfell is secure, taking your dragon to Braavos may be a useful thing. I cannot afford to bankroll this campaign on my own indefinitely."

The conversation continued for some time. The lord quizzed him on every step of the campaign. Lord Wyman drunk wine, but Jon didn't. The lord insisted on the servants bringing more platter of pastries or dishes of stew for such meetings, and Jon was beginning to realise why Lord Wyman was so fat. As the talk turned to alliances, Lord Wyman called for two scribes and his castellan.

"Where is your steward, King Snow?" the lord asked. "The Tarly boy."

Jon shook his head. "Sam is not my steward, he has been appointed the Lord Steward of the Night's Watch. He left to return to Castle Black along with Grenn." Jon paused, hesitating. Sam had a duty of his own to see to - to search for more information on the white walkers. Sam had left from Eastwatch escorting Mance's wife and babe to the Wall. "I have been debating whether to send Sam to Oldtown, in truth," he added. "The Citadel may be the greatest source of knowledge in the world, and I need someone to scour it for information for us."

"I would strongly advise against it," Lord Wyman said. "Not while the ironborn still reave, it is too perilous a journey."

Jon agreed. Too many duties as king, too little time . Ser Wylan brought a stack of letters that the lord insisted on going through with Jon. It was already noon. Jon reluctantly resigned himself and took a glass of wine.

There were five more acceptances of the betrothals from northern lords that Jon had to sign off. There were petty lords that needed promises of safety and protection from Jon before they agreed to the coalition, and a dozen other matters that needed attention

Lady Maege wrote from the Flint Holdfast in the northern mountains. The northern mountain clans had been reluctant to join with wildlings, but they had strong relationships and respect towards Houses Mormont, Umber and Glover. The letter said that Lady Maege was having success where Jon did not in persuading the mountain clans to declare alongside them. They were eager to fight for Ned's girl, even if it was alongside wildlings too.

There will be more promises made before the day is done, Jon thought with a grim sigh. But there is nothing for it; the mountains clans are another three thousand strong that are sorely needed .

As he added up the numbers, the force of their combined, deployable fighting men started to reach over twenty thousand. And rising.

The discussion turned towards Hornwood lands. Even though Ramsay Bolton claimed to be the Lord of the Hornwood, whatever hold he had on the lands disappeared quickly. The minor lords previously under House Hornwood were all too quick to declare against House Bolton.

"Your Grace, Lady Hornwood was my cousin, and fine woman," Lord Wyman said, pushing the paper to one side. "I offered myself as a suitor to Lady Hornwood once. House Manderly has close ties to the area, and it is a tragedy that their house has gone extinct in this war. I suggest that Hornwood lands and titles be granted to House Manderly, to secure their loyalty."

Jon paused, frowning. "You would take the Hornwood for yourself?"

"I have a strong claim to it. A cadet branch of House Manderly could be formed," he explained. "And who has staked more on this cause than I? It seems a fair reward."

Except the Hornwood is an extremely large, rich and valuable area . It would leave House Manderly as undoubtedly the largest and most powerful house in the north. To take another great house's holdings in their entirety is a bold demand .

"I cannot make such a decision here," Jon said eventually. It may upset too many others. I cannot afford any schisms right now . "It isa matter to be decided by a rightful liege, once Winterfell is secure."

"Very well. Although I do intend to push my claim. I will look after the future of my house, Your Grace."

"It seems too early to consider such while the war has yet to be won, my lord."

"You can be sure that others are doing the same," Lord Wyman insisted. "The easiest way to win this war is to ensure that it is in the best interests of all parties that the war is won. The Greatjon will want security for his lands, Lord Glover will want security for his family. And I have high hopes that Lady Maege will marry her daughters to the strongest of your free folk leaders, such that an alliance could be made and Bear Island could start providing ships to evacuate the Frozen Shore. More will follow suit. Even Lord Karstark decided to support us, when it was made clear that was the only way he could keep his lands."

Jon paused. The thought of the Weeper's words came back to him. "Lord Karstark," he said slowly. "You hold his wife, do you not?"

"Alys Karstark is being transported to White Harbour. She will be kept safe in my castle."

"I hear that Cregan Karstark only claims lordship through his marriage to Alys Karstark - was the marriage legal?"

Lord Wyman paused. "Perhaps," he admitted. "Lady Alys was the last of the main branch of the house, and with her father's death her uncle Arnolf became custodian. He was within his rights to marry her to her cousin Cregan. Legally married? Justifiably so. Happily married? Most certainly not."

"My… my commander, the Weeper. He said that Alys asked him to kill Lord Cregan for her."

"Hmm. Unfortunately, that does not surprise me. She is a girl of sixteen and Cregan is, from what I hear, a hard and brash man of fifty. She is now his third wife, he has buried two previously. It was hardly a desirable marriage for her."

How bad could any marriage be if she would prefer the Weeper over Cregan? Jon thought foully. The Weeper is the most psychotic man I know .

Lord Wyman looked at him, measuring his expression. "The marriage could, perhaps, be annulled," the lord said carefully. "If there was an alternative."

Jon grimaced. "And how divisive would that be?"

"Potentially problematic. But Karstark only nominally supports us as is; they still have forces from Arnolf Karstark alongside Boltons," Lord Wyman mused. "And this 'Weeper' of yours is a strong candidate for the same marriage betrothals we are offering others. With Lady Alys' agreement in the matter, we could-"

Jon shook his head. "No, Alys does not know what she is asking from the Weeper. I trust the Weeper to lead my armies, but I've never deluded myself concerning what sort of man he is. He is liable to cut her eyes out himself if she even looks at him the wrong way. No, when Lady Alys arrives in White Harbour, we must keep her well out of sight from the Weeper." I do not trust him not to become obsessed .

"As you say, your Grace. And what of Lord Cregan?"

His jaw clenched. There was a moment of painful indecision. "Lord Cregan Karstark is a vicious and unlikeable man," Jon said finally. "But I cannot dispose him of his lordship. He has committed no crimes that would justify me so."

Lord Wyman frowned. "House Karstark has many crimes to their name, Your Grace."

"Oh yes. His father is a traitor who sided with the Boltons," Jon said foully. "Even his cousin was a child-murderer who helped doom Robb Stark's cause. But that does not matter because I can't punish any man for acts of other members of his family. Maybe killing Cregan Karstark would be the right action, but it wouldn't be lawful. The law must work both ways."

"There is one offence to Cregan Karstark's name. He did fight against you," Lord Wyman noted. "He led his forces to attack your wildlings."

"And in that he was well-justified to defend his lands." Jon shook his head. "And the Umber lords did the same. If I punished House Karstark for fighting wildlings, I would have to do the same against others."

"That would be unwise," Lord Wyman said with a grimace.

"Aye. And I cannot make up laws to kill a man just because of a grudge." Jon shook his head. Damn being king . "For now, Cregan has little option but to support us. He is being kept under close supervision." It was a bitter thought. Legalities or no, Cregan Karstark was an abusive brute who forced Alys to marry him. "Perhaps we should do something concerning his marriage later, but for now let us not risk causing problems."

"Very well," Lord Wyman said, though he didn't sound in agreement. "Although, it occurs to me, that there is another marriage that deserves consideration."

"Whose?"

"Yours, Your Grace."

There was no immediate reaction. Jon felt his hands stiffen. Lord Wyman sucked his lips. "I have considered it. You do not have lands, house or rank in the north, Your Grace, and it would be beneficial for your status and our cause if you did. I offer you my granddaughter's hand in marriage, and an alliance between us stronger than steel."

"Your granddaughter." There was no reaction or emotion. Jon kept himself like stone. Do not react until you have figured out how .

"My son's eldest, Wynafryd. She is of an age with you, Your Grace, and a more fair, brave and capable girl you could not hope to find.

Have you given any thought of what should happen to you and your dragon after this war?"

"The end of this war will be the start of the next, my lord."

"Preparations must still be made," he insisted. "Your dragon is the greatest advantage the north has, it should not stay in Winterfell. Winterfell would struggle to house Sonagon, and struggle further to feed it. Winterfell may be the heart of the north, but I see little advantage of keeping a beast like that close to our chests." The lord placed his goblet on the desk of papers. "However, when the north becomes an independent kingdom, it seems only fitting that White Harbour should be the capital city. A dragon would be a great boon in White Harbour, and we have the resources to support it."

Jon blinked, struggling to understand. "You… you want me to marry into House Manderly?"

"I considered it, but no. It would not send a good message. Far better to create a new house; a house of northern dragonlords," he explained. "Take a new banner - a white dragon, perhaps. This is my proposal; I will grant you lordship of the Wolf's Den in the city. It's an ancient castle with a long history of serving House Stark. It was once named to House Manderly, but truthfully it has been neglected ever since the construction of New Castle. Right now it is used only as a prison, currently under the custodianship of an old and had knight who once served me well.

"I will provide the funds for the Wolf's Den to be renovated to its former glory," Lord Manderly offered. "Likewise, your dragon appears quite comfortable upon the Seal Rock, so I shall name you the lord of that too - to turn the Seal Rock into our version of the Dragonpit and to provide defence of the harbour and kingdom. And if you were to marry my granddaughter, then that would be the beginning of an alliance that could see the north in very good stead indeed."

"And Sonagon will reside in your city."

"What other city has the trade to provide for it?" he challenged. "You will become a great and influential lord in White Harbour. I hope that this alliance will prove greatly beneficial to us both."

But especially to you . White Harbour would benefit immensely. The kingdom of the north would be created by the dragon, and the dragon would be at the centre of it. "And your granddaughter?"

"Wynafryd. She is precious to me. Both my granddaughters are. My youngest Wylla is willful and strong, while Wynafryd has always been determined, brave and dedicated. I do not offer her hand in marriage lightly, Your Grace."

Marriage. Jon remembered seeing the granddaughters, vaguely. Wynafryd had looked a few years older than him; she had been holding the hand of her little sister tightly. The youngest girl had dyed green hair, while Wynafryd was tall and full-bodied, with brown hair tied in a long braid. Not the most beautiful woman, but fair and comely.

Politics relies on marriages. I always knew it would be on the table, even for me, but…

The thought of Val's golden hair flashed before his eyes.

Jon shook his head. "I cannot make any such commitments now, my lord."

"I do not expect you to. I am not Walder Frey, Your Grace; I will not pressure you into an unhappy marriage. I hold my granddaughter far too dearly for that. Consider the options in full, and I will discuss and treat with you honestly and fairly," he said with a nod, leaning back on his chair. The wood groaned. "However, I do hope that you will consider the benefit it might bring to us both. Spend time with Wynafryd, if it pleases you."

"And is your granddaughter aware of the proposal?"

"I broached the subject to her, briefly," replied Lord Wyman. "I spoke to her mother in great length. Leona eventually agreed that it was in our family's best interests. My son does not know, he left before I could talk to him about it, but he will agree."

Jon didn't reply. Lord Wyman is an ambitious man . He fought for House Stark, but he was most certainly looking after his own house's interests too. A marriage to bring a dragon into White Harbour could certainly be a huge boon to his standing.

Though he makes good points. It would benefit me and my cause too. He would give me a castle. The dowry would be great. In return for a wife.

But I haven't even spoken to the girl before.

There was a long moment of silence. The lord tried to measure his expression. "Nothing need be decided now," Lord Wyman said finally. "As you say, Your Grace, there is a war to be won first."

There was more small talk after that, but Jon grew more and more reserved, and distracted. How did I think it was going to end? Sooner or later I was always going to have to marry to solidify my standing.

Which standing, though? My standing with the free folk? Or my standing with the north? With the Seven Kingdoms? Should I be considering gold, influence or martial strength? Too many different concerns, all of them reliant on marriage.

And how can I rank my happiness compared to matters like these?

By the time they retired, Jon was left feeling worn and gloomy. Lord Manderly would doubtless insist on feasting tonight with the highborn, but Jon was already feeling bloated just from the pastries served. It was all too easy for lords to lose control of their gut. Is it queer that one day in this castle makes me miss weeks of hard marching through the north?

Jon left the solar walking stiffly. He asked a servant about sleeping arrangements, and then Lady Leona Manderly came to escort him to his quarters. "Your… um… household has been settled within the castle, Your Grace," the lady said, curtseying. She still didn't quite meet his gaze. "The west wing has been reserved for you and your court."

"And have there been any issues?"

"Few. Your pet, the shadowcat," her voice was haughty, "proved troublesome to relocate."

"Phantom can be stubborn," Jon said with a grimace. The ship journey moving the shadowcat from Eastwatch had not been a pleasant experience for anyone. "Provided she has her privacy she is no trouble."

"The cat has a room by itself, by yours. The windows barred and the door locked from the servants." Leona's tone was slightly icily. I wonder, has any noble castle ever hosted a shadowcat befor e?"And I directed your paramour towards your chambers."

Jon stopped. "Excuse me?"

"Your… Lady Val of Whitetree. She was placed in the other room adjoined to yours," she explained. "Is that suitable, Your Grace?"

Val has arrived in White Harbour already? His heart pounded.

My paramour . For a moment, Jon was left fazed. "Um, yes. Yes, thank you, my lady."

Is Val really my paramour? His instinctive reaction was no, but then… well, they weren't betrothed and they were together. Though the word 'paramour' implied that Jon was a highborn lord, and that was a concept he was still struggling to get his head around.

Paramour. Mistress. Is that what they will view Val as?

The wildlings looked they had made themselves at home in the west wing. Tapestries were missing from the walls. Jon passed a sketch of a dragon drawn on the wall in chalk.

Lady Leona's eyes lingered on the crude marking. "There was a… a conflict at the Sept of the Snows last week," she said, breaking the quiet. "A mob of free folk tried to burn the statues of the Seven. They tried to raise up a totem of the dragon instead."

Jon didn't reply. He didn't know how to. Lady Leona just kept walking.

His Dragonguard were waiting for him, sprawled out before the spiral staircase leading upwards. The wildlings kept weapons in their hands constantly. Lady Leona looked scared by their presence, shuffling and averting her eyes.

Jon noticed that his own chambers had been marked with a white crown. "If there is anything else you require, Your Grace," Lady Leona said, with a stiff curtsey.

"My lady," Jon asked. "You know of the betrothal Lord Manderly offered me?"

"I do." Her arms were tight at her sides. Still she didn't meet his eyes. "I would like to know what you think of it? Do you support it?"

She hesitated. Jon heard the quiver in her voice, like she wanted to say something else. "I support stability for the north, Your Grace," Lady Leona replied. "I want to see the north and my family brought to order again. The Seven knows that there's so little left in the north these days. Goodbye, Your Grace."

Lady Leona turned and left. She's scared, Jon thought. She's scared in her own castle .

Jon hesitated for a good while before placing his hand on the door and walking through. Val is here .

The first thing he heard was a low growl. A bloodthirsty snarl. "Close the bloody door, will you?" a voice called. "Last thing you want is this girl bolting away."

Jon blinked. Val was in the room, standing at the far end. She's wearing a dress, he realised. A white and blue samite and silver-lined dress, with a cream ermine shawl, highlighting her dark golden hair. She wore her long hair pinned upwards in a southern style, with only a few locks coiffed down from her crown. With her high and sharp cheekbones could have easily been mistaken for highborn. She would have looked right at home in any southern court in the Westeros. She was beautiful enough to draw every gaze in the hall wearing that dress.

No, Val would draw gazes no matter what she wore, he thought with a shallow breath. She could be wearing rags and look like a queen. Wearing finery made her so attractive it seemed unfair. She still kept a sheathed sword on her waist.

Jon had to blink as he realised she was holding a slab of raw, bloody meat in her hand as she turned to him. "Well," Val chided. "You've finally got here. I was wondering how long it would take you before you deigned to pay me a visit, King Snow."

"I didn't know you had arrived."

"Well, you do now." Val turned back to her task, carrying the meat towards the adjoining room. Jon heard that growl again. He recognised it instantly.

"Careful, Val!" Jon called, but she just tutted.

In the doorway of the guest bedroom, he saw a pair of pale blue eyes staring back at him. Phantom had a whole chamber for herself. There were velvet blankets over the mattress, but the shadowcat

had shredded the pillows and clawed the sheets to shreds, before curling up underneath the four-poster bed. The room was dark; the servants must have blanketed the double windows so the shadowcat would be more comfortable in the gloom.

Phantom was growling as Val threw the cut of bloody meat, and sharp teeth flashed hungrily. Val just watched curiously, already pulling out another cut from a platter the kitchens must have provided.

Jon could have reached out into Phantom's skin, but he didn't. "Careful, Val," he warned. "She's not tame."

She looked at him curiously, raising a perfect eyebrow. "Would you expect her to be?"

"I… I suppose not."

Val threw another slice of meat at Phantom. "She's just a cat," she said with an affectionate stare. "A beautiful cat too. Her fur is lovely but I don't dare touch it. She wants to eat, she wants to hunt, she wants to be kept safe. She might attack me, though so long as I don't threaten her and I keep her sated I don't think she will."

"And if she does?" Jon took a slow step forward cautiously.

"That's why I have a sword, Jon." Her other hand never left the blade, he noticed. "I'm not stupid, but neither is she, so it's fine."

Phantom gulped down the meat with a hungry growl. Val watched, entranced, as she threw down the last of the meat. "You control her, don't you?" Val asked curiously.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "I can take her skin, or share her senses. But most of the time I don't, I can't - I don't have the concentration to spare. She's still a wild animal, and it only works so long as she's kept contained or isolated any time that I'm not present."

"Well," Val said, "that's where the similarities between her and me end, I suppose."

Phantom took the last of the meat in her mouth back to her lair under the bed. The shadowcat disappeared into the dark. Jon could hear the shadowcat gulping down the meat. Phantom seemed comfortable enough not to lash out. He felt himself relax.

"She has mellowed somewhat," Jon admitted. "When I first found her she was feral, I dared not let her close to me unless I was in her skin. For a while I couldn't even bring her into camp. But she has grown more comfortable around people, I think. She doesn't lash out so much. I can leave her alone for longer periods."

"And you're still nervous to be in the same room with her?"

"She's still a shadowcat."

"True."

Very cautiously, Val stood up and moved to close the door. The door thudded, and Val latched it shut. There was a splatter of blood from the meat on the stone floor. Val wiped her hands clean on her dress.

Then, without a word, she reached across and pulled Jon into her. There was a sharp intake of breath, and then their lips touched. The kiss caught him off-guard and her touch… he could feel her hands moving across his chest, causing his whole body to tremble. She tasted warm, fiery, alive.

"I'm glad you're back," Val whispered as the kiss broke.

Gods, she was beautiful. Everything about her was beautiful. She was slender, toned and full-bodied, the type of body shape that was universally stunning. Dark golden hair and pale grey eyes. Even just being in her company left Jon feeling nervous, hesitant. He tried to reply, but the kiss stole his words.

Val looked at his expression and smirked. There was a playful glimmer in her eyes.

"Have you been treated well?" Jon managed finally.

"I have indeed." She turned to look around the room. "These southron castles do not lack for luxury, I'll give them that. I even wear these dresses that they insist on placing on my bed, but you should see the queer looks they give me when I wear the sword too. And at every feast your fat lord insists on parading me through his court."

"Lord Manderly does that? Why?"

"To show off the savage wildling dressed like 'proper' folk?" Val snorted. "Every meal it's always one knight this or noble lord that who tries to approach me."

They think you are my paramour . Jon could almost understand it too, looking at her now. He wondered how many of those in the Merman's Court could only see the beauty, and not the strength underneath. "Should I be worried?" Jon asked.

"What of? Of me entertaining one of them or gelding them?" Val laughed.

"The latter more than the former," he admitted.

"I'll have you know, I have been the picture of grace, Your Grace," she chided, with a smile. You always are . "I've been sharing their smiles, even using all of their little titles. A few have asked me to dance, but I always decline politely ." She rolled her eyes. "Isn't that why we are here? To make all of these kneelers like us?"

"I am sorry for the torment you've endured. It sounds horrible."

"Well," she said with another smile. "I am sure you can make amends for it."

Jon really, really wanted to step forward and kiss her again. Gods, how I've missed her . Even the weeks of being apart had left him craving her touch. Her voice. Her scent. Her taste.

Still, he hesitated. They call her my paramour . I was only just offered a marriage betrothal by the lord of the castle who is hosting me, and here I am with another woman. It felt wrong, disrespectful,even, but….

Val paused, stepping forward. "You look tired," she noted. "How goes the march?"

"Long. Too long. If every man had a dragon to ride upon we would have reached Winterfell by now. But we are winning."

"You don't seem triumphant about it."

"It is hard to feel triumphant when the battle is not over," said Jon. "They have not been good victories."

"Ah." That word seemed to linger in the air. Val took another small step closer. "How long until you must fly out again?"

"Not long," he replied with a grimace. "Too soon."

"Very well then."

Casually, Val pulled her dress off her shoulders. In a smooth motion, she twisted her arm out of the sleeves, and her shawl fell to the floor. And then the dress itself fell too. She was not wearing any smallclothes. She bit her lower lip, a smirk playing across her eyes.

Jon was left staring at her bare breasts, mouth agape. Her skin was smooth, soft and unblemished, with full breasts. Her nipples were erect. Val quietly pulled off her belt and kicked off her dress. Jon could see the bush of dark blonde hair beneath her legs. Val's pale grey eyes didn't even twitch away from his.

There was a long moment of quiet. "Perhaps I can stay a bit longer," Jon said dumbly. Val only laughed.

He stepped forward to hold her. Their kiss was much more forceful, aggressive, hungry. Her naked body pressed against his armour. Jon's clothes had never seemed so restrictive.

Whatever hesitation, doubt or worry seemed to just vanish. Perhaps Val dragged it out of his mouth. No, Jon thought, there is absolutely nothing wrong with this right now .

Fumbling hands tried to unfasten his belt and chainmail, clumsy trying to strip his clothes off him without breaking their embrace. His cloak fell off him, and then his belt. Dark Sister clunked to the floor. Val fumbled to unfasten his breeches, yet Jon held her off.

Instead, he kneeled down onto the cold ground, his lips trailing downwards from her breasts, kissing down her navel. He could feel Val shivering as he lowered himself towards her moistness.

He could smell her. One hand was on the back of his head, pushing him into position, the other hand rubbing her own breasts.

"So," Jon whispered. "Kneelers, huh?"

"Oh be quiet," Val gasped. "And don't stop."

Jon grinned as he pressed his mouth towards her lips. Val was shivering, muffled groans from her throat as she pushed his tongue forcefully towards the right places. Jon pushed her backwards onto the bed, and she fell on her back, her thighs wrapping tightly around his head.

She was all he could taste. It was a bitter, sweaty taste that he hardly noticed. He loved that moment where she lost control, her body convulsing and the cry breaking her lips. She was normally so stiff, tight and composed, and at that moment when he pushed her to the point of breaking down… that felt special.

Val didn't scream, instead she just gasped. She would bite her lip trying to restrain herself, and all that would come out were short, raspy groans and moans, building in pitch. Jon loved that sound.

At some point, Jon's breeches were lost and he climbed into bed, into a tangle of limbs and hungry kisses. It stunk of sweat and sex, but he didn't care. He could have spent an eternity wrapped with her wrapped around her, and it wouldn't have been enough.

By the gods, how did I ever go so long without this?

Nobody disturbed them. Vaguely, he was surprised that no summons came for him from Lord Manderly, he supposed his Dragonguard must have heard the sounds and held the servants back. Perhaps that was disrespectful to his host, but he couldn't find it in him to care.

By the time it was dark outside, they were both left gasping for breath. Jon could hear Phantom scratching at the wall in the adjoining room.

She was laughing. He didn't know why, but Val was left chuckling throatily as she gasped and shivered. "Have I amused you?" Jon asked, feeling the grin spread.

"Somewhat," she replied, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths. Her hands were on her breasts as she stretched outwards across the bed. "So if you're a king and you kneel in my presence, than what does make me?"

"A goddess?" Jon leaned across her to take another kiss.

Val flicked his nose. "Flatterer," she chided, and then kissed him again.

Jon was left grinning like a fool. Something about her face, the sweat dripping from her breasts, that moment, he couldn't stop chuckling

even as he kissed her again. Trying to breath, kiss and laugh all at once felt painful, but he couldn't help it.

All of the weariness and achiness from the march felt like it was creeping out of his bones. He hadn't even realised how tense and stiff he been until now, until her.

Val's long, long leg wrapped around his torso and pulled him closer, her foot stroking against his back. It felt so comfortable, with her muscles squirming softly beneath him and the scent of her skin all around him.

"I want you with me," Jon whispered in her while as he kissed her neck. "Val… will you come with me when the host sets out?"

"What? To warm your furs at night after a long march?"

"If you'd like," he spoke between the kisses. "I don't like being apart from you. And I want to show you Winterfell."

She paused, and smiled. "Aye. Alright, let's go see this castle of yours, Jon Snow."

He froze. There was a slight shiver down his back. Those words… it made him think of Ygritte. Then Val kissed him and that thought disappeared from his mind.

"And in return," Val whispered. Her cheeks were still blushed red. "I expect more of those king's kisses of yours, Your Grace."

" Happily, my lady," Jon grinned.

Her fingers traced the scar on his chest. "I'm sure," Val whispered, smirking. With a gentle push, she shoved him around and onto his back. Val pulled herself up from the blankets. "But I can take the hint."

"Where are you…" She stood up and walked around the four-poster bed across to his side. And then she kneeled down by his legs. " Oh

."

Val was still smirking. Somehow, that smirk was even more enticing that her breasts. He felt her fingers playing around his groin, running through his hair. He could already feel himself turning stiff again, and then the sight of her moving downwards between his legs, and her mouth, and her lips…

Jon groaned. His fingers clenched, and clawed at the mattress. " So…" he said, strained, as he took a deep breath. "… you lose allright to criticise southerners for being kneelers."

"If you make that jest again, then I'll bite you," Val warned, but they were both grinning and giggling like fools.

Author Notes:

Of all the chapters that I've written so far, there have been a few that I haven't been that satisfied with. And then there is one. This one has been a pain…

From now I'm hoping to get the next few out weekly. Next chapter is mostly written, and after that I've got a quite a few bits and pieces of the next five or so.

Oh, and also I've just noticed that Dragons of Ice and Fire now has it's own TV Tropes page! Google "Dragons of Ice and Fire serpentguy", it's one of the top links. Special thank you to whoever created it, I wish you told me.

Chapter 30

Chapter 30

The Wayward Daughter

Lightning split the northern sky, etching the black tower of the Night Lamp against the blue-white sky. Six heartbeats later came the thunder, like a distant drum.

The guards marched Sansa and Jorah across a bridge of black basalt and under an iron portcullis showing signs of rust. Beyond lay a deep salt moat and a drawbridge supported by a pair of massive chains. Green waters surged below, sending up plumes of spray to smash against the foundations of the castle. Then came a second gatehouse, larger than the first, its stones bearded with green algae. Sansa walked across a muddy yard, the guard holding her arm tightly. A cold rain stung her eyes. The guards pulled her up the stairs into Breakwater's cavernous stone keep.

Sansa walked with them, face buried in her old wool cloak, but Jorah fought and thrashed against the men with every step. There were heavy iron manacles around Jorah's arms, but it took half a dozen men to force the knight. He didn't look much like a knight now - Jorah had abandoned his armour, vambraces and greaves for a cheap tunic and weather-beaten cloak to pass as a fisherfolk. He had sold his engraved steel breastplate for a small fishing dinghy to take them to the across the Bite.

They might have gotten further than Sweetsister, but then the storm hit. It still hadn't ceased, either. Breakwater Castle howled in the stormy wind. The roar of the waves against the rocks made Sansa shiver. The waves were thunderous and unyielding, like the beating of some great heart as they pounded one after another.

Sansa was scared. She would have told Jorah not to fight them, but the man escorting her didn't give her a chance. They beat Jorah with the butts of their spears until he finally ceased. It took four men to drag the great knight up the stone stairs.

The guard escorting her was the captain, a fleshy and portly man, face hidden under a half-helm. When she looked, she saw that his hand had webbing between his fingers. She refused to let herself panic, but she couldn't stop her heart from beating.

Breakwater Castle had a threadbare Myrish carpet over its entrance, and a gloomy stone hall with mould clinging to the ceiling. As she was escorted into the main hall, Sansa saw a great white spider-crab on a grey-green field hanging over the hearth. They found the lord alone in the gloom of his hall, making a late supper of beer and bread and sister's stew. Twenty iron sconces were mounted along his thick stone walls, but only four held torches and none were lit. Two fat tallow candles gave a meagre, flickering light.

She could hear the rain lashing at the walls, and a steady dripping from where the roof had sprung a leak. Several leaks, actually - they had tried to stop the water with buckets and clothes, but then it seemed like they had resigned themselves when the buckets overfilled. The heavy boots of the guards splashed through the puddles on the stone floor.

"M'lord," said the captain. "It was as you said. A large man and a girl he calls his daughter, at the Belly o' the Whale, trying to buy passage north off the island. We knocked on the door and demanded he come with us. He refused. He was armed with a greatsword. He didn't come easily."

"Indeed," the lord said darkly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You fight well for a man missing two fingers, ser."

Jorah Mormont only growled, trying to protest. Sansa felt her breath freeze. She knew the lord by mention only; Lord Godric Borrell of

Sweetsister, Shield of Sisterton, Master of Breakwater Castle and Keeper of the Night Lamp. How much does he know?

He was an ugly man, big and fleshy, with massive shoulders and no neck. Coarse white hair grew from his cheeks and chin, with a bald scalp and a lumpy red-veined nose. The Lord of Sweetsister dressed more like a hard-worn sailor or smuggler rather than a lord. He has a webbing between the three middle fingers of his hand, Sansanoticed. So it's true; the lords of the Three Sisters truly do have webbed hands . In the Vale, she remembered Randa saying it wasas the Sistermen descended from mermen.

Lightning flashed outside, making the arrow loops blaze blue and white for half a heartbeat. One, two, three, Sansa counted, before the thunder came. Behind her, she heard the noise of the guards struggling to drag Jorah further into the hall.

"Have you ever heard such a storm?" the lord said. "The Andals may have torched our temples, but once the Sistermen worshipped the Lady of the Waves and the Lord of the Sky, and when they lay together they would give birth to scared storms. From the sounds of it, right now the two gods are fucking each other's brains out in hate." A dry chuckle. "Tonight will be a profitable night for me, I think.

"Alas, I fear the Night Lamp will not be visible in weather such as this," the lord continued, with an ugly smirk. "Already the wreckage of an Ibennese whaler has graced my shores - I expect at least one of the White Harbour's new fleet will do the same. Merchants and cogs through the Bite will be stranded on my rocks. If there is one thing the Sistermen know and all others seem to have forgotten, it's that the ocean has teeth. Men are not the masters of the sea, not by a long shot. I could tell you tales of the things that reside in the depths, or the storms that could shake the earth." He stood up, waddling forward to inspect them. Sansa met his gaze. "But here you are. Another gift from the storm. I think you will be more valuable to Sweetsister than a thousand shipwrecks."

There was nothing sweet about Sweetsister. The isle was cold and drab and wet. Sisterton was a vile town, a sty, small and mean, rank with the odours of pigs and rotting fish. Its streets were mud and planks, its houses daub-and-wattle hovels roofed by straw, and by the Gallows Gate Sansa had passed hanged men with their entrails dangling out. She hadn't wanted to enter, but Jorah had said that the Three Sisters were a favourite haunt of smugglers, and a good place to find voyage north across the Bite without drawing any attention. Jorah had been proven wrong.

Ser Jorah was gasping on the floor, his face bloody. He had grown out a large beard lined with grey, looking haggard and older than ever. His bandaged hand was bleeding again from the fight. "You have no right," he panted. "To detain us like this."

"No right?" Lord Godric Borrell seemed amused. "I think I am well within my rights to apprehend criminals, Ser Jorah Mormont ."

"You are mistaken," he snarled. Sansa only pursed her lips, glancing around the room quietly. "I am no ser. My name is Qhorin. This is my daughter Beth. We are but two travellers, heading north-"

Sansa hid her grimace. Ser Jorah is a poor liar . "Liar," Lord Borrell scoffed. As if I would believe that a brute like you could produce a lovely daughter such as this." He turned to Sansa with a polite nod, but she said nothing. She knew little of Lord Borrell, and she would not put herself at a disadvantage with rash lies. "You are Ser Jorah Mormont, former Lord of Bear Island, once a slaver and now murderer and kidnapper, it seems."

"You are mistaken-"

"Oh very well, if that's how you want to play it." His voice turned annoyed. He still kept looking at Sansa, frowning. "Captain Gerrick, take off his breeches."

"What?" Jorah shouted, shocked. "What are you - no! No, damn you!"

"And then his tunic," Lord Borrell insisted, folding his arms. "Strip him naked."

Sansa's heart was in her mouth. Ser Jorah thrashed ferociously, but there were too many men. The man holding her arm kept Sansa back, while the others swarmed against the knight. There were muffled grunts and curses. Sansa heard fabric being torn. She heard the thud of Ser Jorah's forehead breaking a man's nose.

He will only be beaten more by resisting, Sansa thought quietly. He should learn when to concede . The guards had to drag the knight up, tearing off his clothes. Jorah body was hairy and scarred, trying to cover himself. She saw strong, muscled shoulders, but also a flabby gut that was growing with age. The big man's face was flushed with anger. He screamed bloody murder right up until a man slammed a spear under his chin.

Sansa had never seen the big knight look so small. She still didn't speak.

"Fiend!" Jorah gasped. "You bloody-"

"Oh, don't flatter yourself," Lord Borrell said with a grunt. "You have a scar on your thigh, ser."

Jorah glowered. Sansa glimpsed a large, old wound across his waist, looking like a cut from a sword, decades ago. "My father once told me to never to discard anything that may be of use, and once more he is proven correct," Lord Borrell continued. "Did you know that I still have a letter from eight years ago, when you fled the kingdom to escape Stark justice? Ned Stark sent out ravens to White Harbour and the Three Sisters, to watch for an exiled lord fleeing on a ship across the Narrow Sea. Ravens that arrived too late, as it was. Most of the descriptions he gave are out of date, but the letter mentioned that scar across your thigh as a means to recognise you. I suppose Stark would know about that battle wound, considering he was there when it was inflicted, at the Siege of Pyke." There was pause as he stepped forward. "Now I was fairly confident about who

you were, but that scar proves it without doubt. You are Ser Jorah Mormont, and do not insult me by lying about it again."

The lord turned towards Sansa. She gulped, but her gaze stayed steady. "And so that makes you Alayne Stone, natural daughter of our Lord Protector," he said, a slight mocking edge to the title. "Your father has missed you dearly."

He is not my father . There was a frown on Lord Borrell's face as he waited for her to talk. She did not. "The girl is drenched to the bone," he said after a pause. "Gella! Bring the girl a blanket. And a pot of sister's stew. Warm yourself by the fire, lass. Never let it be said that House Borrell was inhospitable."

Inhospitable . Sansa could have laughed. The Three Sisters were sworn to the Arryns of the Vale, but the Eyrie's grasp on the islands were tenuous at best. She knew the Lord of the Three Sisters, Triston Sunderland - him and his sons had attended the Tourney of the Winged Knights - but House Borrell had had little involvement in politics in the Vale. The Keeper of the Night Lamp was infamous for the lantern going dark, and his men scoured the shores for wrecks like crabs. Smugglers, scavengers and pirates. This is an island of fiends.

But the world is full of fiends, Sansa thought. Fiends and evil men. And yet all of the evil men are on different sides, are they not?

It sounded like Ser Jorah was trying to growl something, but he couldn't with the spear under his throat. The guards held the knight to the ground. The captain standing by Sansa stepped forward. "She had this on her, Godric," he said in grumbling voice, as he handed up the dagger. "Found it hidden in her dress."

The sleek black dagger gleamed in the gloom. Even after everything, Sansa had kept that dagger on her, hidden in her tunic. She had never forgotten how it felt to jam that blade through Shadrich's back. Sansa stiffened as Lord Borrell took the blade.

"Hmm," the lord grunted, suspiciously. "A dagger. A fine dagger too. Isn't that curious? Now what sort of kidnapper allows their captive to carry a dagger, ser?"

"I kidnapped no one," Jorah said, his voice low and rumbling.

"So you say. And yet you disappeared along with Littlefinger's daughter. Now what were they supposed to think? The first raven I received blamed the crime on a Shadrich something or other, yet the second raven named you as accomplice too. Littlefinger names you responsible for her disappearance, as well as the murder of Ser Harrold Hardyng. Now there's a crime that has the Vale up in arms." He looked between them. "My lady, do you have anything to say in your knight's defence?"

Sansa paused. The room was tense. "Ser Jorah did not kidnap me, my lord." Her voice was soft, innocent. She averted her eyes like a scared, helpless maiden. "He did not murder Harry the Heir either."

"Indeed." A few of the men in the hall hesitated. Lord Borrell bit his lip, before coming to a decision. "Gella!" He called to a portly woman stammering into the hall. "Fetch a second bowl of stew. Let Ser Jorah eat at the table as well." The lord motioned at the guards. "Place him on a chair. But keep him naked. Naked men are less inclined to brave and stupid acts, I find."

Jorah growled wordlessly. "My lord…" Sansa pleaded.

Lord Borrell sighed, and rolled his eyes. "Fine. For the sake of the ladies present, he gets a cloak to cover his decency. But cause any trouble, ser, and my good nature evaporates quickly. I am told you killed two men before they managed to restrain you in the tavern, and a third one might die still from his injuries. The only reason why I am not delivering you to a cold wet hell for such, is because right now my curiosity exceeds my anger."

She could see the bruises across Ser Jorah's body. His hand was covered in poorly-bandaged linens, stained with dried, black blood,

after Ser Shadrich severed two of his fingers. She had warned Ser Jorah the wound was likely to fester if not properly treated, but then had never been time. Lord Borrell stared at Ser Jorah too, keeping his distance across the table. "You are strong man, ser," he said finally. "To escape the Vale such, on foot as well. You have left a realm in an uproar behind you."

The bowl placed before her was filled with some yellow, stringy meat, along with bread still hot from the oven. Sansa didn't touch it. The woman who placed the bowl had webbed hands too, Sansa noted, but she did stare. "Eat, my lady," Lord Borrell insisted. "Gella makes the finest sister's stew on these islands. Eat. It is good."

Crab stew served with leeks, carrots and turnips. She had seen the giant spider crabs scuttling on the islands and the meal had turned her stomach at first, but it was good. He gives us guest right, at least

The lord of Sweetsister had a black repute, but even robber lords and wreckers were bound by the law of hospitality. Few would succumb to the depravity of Freys.

Lord Borrell eyed Ser Jorah closely. "You should eat as well, ser," he said. "Because I am sick of you wrestling against my men. Take your bread and salt and quit it with the defiance. From the moment you eat, my men will not force you and neither will you attack them. Yet the chains stay on, ser."

Jorah did, but he didn't stop glowering. The guards didn't go far from the table, either. There were strange spices in the stew, but Sansa had no time to focus on them. Her attention was on Lord Borrell, sitting in his leaky hall.

"Is there any news of Lord Baelish?" Sansa asked hesitantly.

"Oh yes. He may not be Lord Protector for much longer. The Lords Declarant only ever tolerated him because Robert Arryn was sickly and they thought Harry would become Lord of Eyrie soon enough," Lord Borrell replied. "But Harry the Heir's death has left the succession in crisis. Nobody is certain of who has the next strongest

claim, and it seems every great lord is vying for the seat now. You have much to answer for there."

"I did not kill Harry the Heir," Ser Jorah wheezed.

"And yet he is dead and you disappeared with his betrothed." His eyes turned to Sansa, waiting for her to speak. She did not. "Now then, clearly she is no captive so answer me here; why did you run, and why did you take her?"

Jorah grit his teeth, eyes narrowing. "Ser Shadrich of Shady Glen kidnapped Alayne and murdered Ser Harrold. I rescued her," he said. "And yet her father is abusive. She asked me not to return her to Littlefinger, and so I did not."

"And you were the noble knight to come a lady's aid? The bear and the maiden fair," Lord Borrell shook his head. "No, I do not believe it. I know your type, ser, and you are not so noble as you would pretend. And why would a man like Littlefinger offer twenty thousand gold dragons for his bastard daughter?"

Jorah didn't reply. His jaw clenched stubbornly. "If you will not answer, you have no place at my table," Lord Borrell ordered. "Wait out your guest right in my dungeons. Escort him there."

Jorah's stew toppled over the table as he stood defiantly. The guards in the room all stepped forward, spears raised. "No, wait!" Sansa shouted.

"Give me the truth, girl," Lord Borrell warned.

"Alayne, don't-" Jorah shouted. He doesn't want them to know. He thinks Lord Borrell a fiend who will ransom me if he knows the value of the hostage he holds. Jorah is probably right, but greed I can work with .

"I am not Alayne Stone, my lord," she said softly. "I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

The room turned silent. There was no noise but the pitter-patter of rain on the leaky roof. She saw Lord Borrell's face freeze. Then, a long grin spread over his bloated face.

"Oh," he said, and then frowned. " Oh ! Oh, now so many puzzles make more sense." He burst out in brash bark of laughter. " Littlefinger . Of course. And here I was wondering why a bastarddaughter would ever be betrothed to the heir of the Vale. Oh, now things come into focus. No wonder he offered twenty thousand dragons for you."

The large man jumped to his feet, pacing happily. The men stood back. Jorah glowered at the lord. "Ah, but of course, Littlefinger proves his reputation," he mused. "First he was appointed Lord Paramount of the Trident, and then he took power in the Vale. Next, he intended to seize the north too, with the eldest daughter of House Stark. He means to take over half the realm, piece by piece!" The man laughed. "And Lady Stark. Or is it Lady Lannister now? I wonder how the queen would react to learn that the wife of the most infamous man in the realm was being harboured in the Vale?"

"You must not tell," ordered Ser Jorah, but he sounded nervous.

"I must not? You are no position to make demands." Lord Borrell laughed again, shaking his head. "But thank you for enlightening me, my lady, I shall be laughing over this for days. I must admit, you do not have your father's look to you. I do remember seeing your mother, only briefly, and, yes, you share her resemblance."

"And now I am in your hall, my lord," Sansa said. "What are you to do with me?"

She could see greed in his eyes. "Hmm, now there's the question. The Iron Throne will be very appreciative to receive you, I have no doubt. Perhaps your husband will be too, and I do hear the Imp commands legions of men with gold." He smiled sickly. "Sunderland would demand that I hand you over if he knew. He'd sell you for a

pot of gold. The poor man is always looking for gold to keep his sons in plate and mail, and riding destriers."

Sansa remembered Lord Triston Sunderland's sons; they hadn't been very skilled knights, but they were brave and earnest. Still, she knew from the look in his eye that Lord Borrell would never surrender his prize for another to sell. He paused, and then shook his head. "No, I think Lord Baelish is still the highest bidder," the lord announced. "Although perhaps twenty thousand is too modest a figure for the Lady of Winterfell. Perhaps I could raise a new castle from the gold your caretaker will pay me. You will be returned to the Vale, 'Alayne'."

Jorah's face paled. "Please, my lord," he begged. "You cannot."

"I cannot? You do not return wish to return to Eyrie, my lady?"

"There are few things I would despise more, my lord." She kept herself calm . I could try crying, or begging, but he is not one to be moved by a maiden's plea, Sansa thought.

"I would not be so certain. Tis the best option for all, it seems," he mused. "Queen Cersei would most certainly have your head for her son's poisoning, but regardless the lioness is unlikely to last much longer, and she has little means to pay in any case. Perhaps the Tyrells and their little queen would want you, but it still does not seem sensible for me. The Reach may be rich, but it is far away and I would be best served to seek favour with the Vale."

Jorah looked ready to object. Sansa spoke first. "Favour with whom, my lord? The Lord Protector? You said it yourself that Littlefinger may not be in power much longer."

He grunted. "True. And gods know that I have little love for the men of the Fingers. Sistermen have clashed with the Fingerlords for ages. I could tell you tales." A pause. "But gold is gold and Littlefinger has it."

"Gold means little if you tie yourself to a sinking ship, my lord," Sansa argued. "And why would Littlefinger pay for what he could take instead?"

His face twisted. "Do you think I fear that upjumped coincounter?"

"You should, my lord. Petyr Baelish is ambitious, cunning and remorseless. Do you think he will leave you with knowledge that may threaten him? Littlefinger is not a good person; he would not allow anything to interfere in his plans." Her gaze turned dark. "He will give you the same treatment he always gives; he will pay you for your service, and then he will have you killed for your silence."

Lord Borrell scratched his stubble. "And what did the man do to you to give you such a foul opinion of him?"

"He tried to have me raped, my lord."

That caused the table to fall silent. Sansa kept her voice totally level, emotionless. There will be no weakness here, not from me . "In retrospect," Sansa continued, "I wonder if that was his intention from the beginning. He betrothed me to a union that he knew would turn sour. He knew the sort of man that Harrold Hardyng was, he knew how Harry treated the last two mothers of his bastards, he knew that any marriage to him would end in ruin. He even encouraged the ruin. So Littlefinger sold me to a handsome chivalrous knight, one who would rape me and force himself onto me." She smiled softly. "And I wonder… did Littlefinger think then maybe, in my hurt and pain, I would cling to him more tightly for support? Perhaps he meant to position himself to be my solace, my support, to make me dependent upon him. To take advantage of a miserable marriage, well, it's a plan that worked very well for Littlefinger with my aunt, did it not?"

There was no reply. Sansa absently stirred her stew. "But Harrold was to go off to war and get himself killed, Littlefinger could arrange that. And maybe I would be left afterwards with a child in my stomach, and Littlefinger's arms around me for 'comfort'." She shook her head. "I know what the man wants. He wanted my mother. He

wants me . By marrying me to Harry the Heir, he aimed to obtain everything he ever desired; he thought he would have me weak, wounded and malleable, and in doing so he would secure his own position in the Vale through whatever child I carried. That is what he does . That is how he manipulates people."

That is what he has done before . She thought of Lysa Arryn, weeping, fearful and proud, and putty to Littlefinger's schemes. Perhaps Littlefinger thought he could manipulate her in the same way, with fake kindness, gentle words and so many schemes. There was a sympathy towards her aunt Sansa never felt before.

You told me to put the tears in Jon's wine, and I did', Sansa remembered. The Tears of Lys . She remembered Lysa screaming that before she was pushed, but Sansa hadn't truly realised the meaning at the time. It was only during the trek with Jorah, after the words Ser Shadrich had said, Sansa started to wonder. Littlefinger arranged the death of Jon Arryn, to start this whole war. All part of his plan, and it worked .

I wonder, did Petyr Baelish also have my father killed just so he could get to me? Sansa doubted it was the sole reason, but it would have been a motivation - Littlefinger didn't make just one scheme, he made several running in parallel. She was done with it. Done being the little bird.

There was a long pause. Sansa shook her head. "So no, my lord. I will not return to Petyr Baelish. I understand your position, but understand mine; I will never let that man get his slimy hands on me again." She didn't break from Lord Borrell's gaze. "I will defy him out of pure spite. If you try to ship me back to Littlefinger, I will scream and I will fight to my last. If I become desperate enough, I will shout lies and I will claim that you abused me, or took advantage of me, or anything that I can say that might help me. And if I am truly left with no choice, I will claw out my own eyes or bite off my own tongue before I let Littlefinger touch me. You will be the lord that delivers my corpse to Littlefinger, before you deliver me alive." No emotion in her voice. Lord Borrell shifted. "But you're right. I am completely in your

power right now. If you insist on selling me to Littlefinger, then there is nothing I can do to stop you, and it will not go well for me. But I can promise that it won't go well for you either, Lord Borrell."

Beefy eyes bulged at her. "My lady…"

She took a sip of her stew. "Also, give my compliments to Gella please," she added. "This stew is truly delicious."

The Lord of Sweetsister's face twisted. "I think I have been very kind to you, my lady," he warned. "I risked my men to rescue you from your kidnapper, I feast you in my hall." Around her lightning struck. The blue-white light flashed in the wet, gloomy hall. "Do you really want to turn this unpleasant?"

"Not at all. I understand your position. I am under your roof and you want to be paid for me. I understand that, I do," Sansa said with a nod. "But find someone other than Littlefinger. Think of a different buyer."

There was something like astonishment in Ser Jorah's face. Lord Borrell bristled. "Someone else? Are you thinking of your Imp of a husband, my lady? Or that mummer's monkey he calls a dragon?"

No, I wasn't . But out loud she said, "Aegon Targaryen will want the daughter of the north as much anyone, my lord."

"This 'Aegon' will not last long enough to see you," the lord grumbled. "Did you know that the knights of the Vale have rallied for the crown's defence? Fifty thousand Vale soldiers are marching south to King's Landing. The Golden Company does not have a chance."

"Even while the Queen goes mad?" Sansa asked.

"Even while," Lord Borrell nodded. "Despite everything, the boy king still has the wealth of Casterly Rock, the power of the Reach, and the might of Vale behind him." His voice turned bitter. "Littlefinger

persuaded the Vale lords to muster and they have. Their armies will crush the rebellion around King's Landing, and doubtless Littlefinger will be well-rewarded once more for his service. He is no fool, this enemy of yours."

"And you're still far from eager to sell me to the Iron Throne," Sansa noted. "That is because you know the Iron Throne is more unstable than it has ever been."

He didn't reply straightaway. I have him, Sansa thought, I can manipulate him . "The whole realm is unstable," the lord said after along pause. "This storm is breaking the Seven Kingdoms apart."

Jorah raised his voice. He was shivering in his cloak in the cold hall. "There is another option," the knight said suddenly. He took a deep breath, hesitating. "Queen Daenerys Targaryen. The last good and just ruler. You must raise your banners for her, my lord."

Both Sansa and Lord Borrell stared at Ser Jorah in shock. What is he…?

Then, Lord Borrell laughed. "The fucking dragon queen of Meereen?" he guffawed, in clear confusion. "How could you think she's even a contender?"

"Daenerys Targaryen?" Sansa said, frowning.

"The daughter of the Mad King. She takes after her father too, from what I hear, but the tales say she has dragons," the lord explained. "I heard of her from sailors from Qarth, and then from Meereen. I also heard that this Aegon, who claims to be her nephew, begged her for aid and she rebutted him. Daenerys abandoned Westeros to forge a new kingdom in Slaver's Bay."

"I know not of Aegon Targaryen," Jorah grumbled. "But I know Daenerys. She is good and she is rightful, and she will be coming to take the Seven Kingdoms. If you were to support her -"

"How long till then? A year? A decade?" Lord Borrell shook his head. "If Queen Daenerys was interested in the Seven Kingdoms, she would be here by now."

"She has three dragons. She is Aegon the Conqueror come again," Jorah insisted, stubbornly. "The only rightful ruler, you must declare for her. Sansa Stark of Winterfell could bring the north to Dany's name-"

"A name that is half a world away, ser," the lord said. Sansa could only stare at Ser Jorah in shock. Is that what he is fighting for? Even after weeks of travelling together he had never told her. Why he really saved her.

"Daenerys is the rightful-"

Rightful," Lord Borrell snapped, slamming his hand on the table. "What is bloody rightful? Some dead man's arse in a chair. Who cares what cock gave birth to her? The only thing that is right to me is my island, my family, my castle! My rock that I sit on." He spat. "Goddammit, talking to you makes me remember why I hate the whole bloody lot of your games. The days were better when the Sistermen ruled the Three Sisters."

Jorah faltered slightly from his outburst. Sansa averted her gaze, while the lord scratched at the table with webbed hands. "… You're right, my lady," the lord said finally, taking a deep breath to calm. "The options that would buy you are all terrible. All of the mainland kings are horrible. Now maybe I should just drown the both of you in my waters and be done with this headache."

His tone didn't sound like he was japing. Jorah grimaced. "You could just let us walk free."

"I don't like you, Ser Jorah." Lord Borrell muttered, narrowing his eyes. "It would please me more to see you drowned to the Lady of the Waves, as they did in the days of old. Your septons forbade that practice, but Sisters do not forget."

Please be quiet, Ser Jorah, you're not helping here . Sansa took a deep breath. "There is another option, my lord," she muttered quietly. "Sell me to White Harbour. They are near, they have silver, and my brother Jon Snow will pay for me."

Lord Borrell gawked at her. They had heard of the tales as they fled the Fingers. Every smallfolk was talking about it. Sansa didn't know how true they were, but…

"The Bastard King," Lord Borrell muttered. "The bastard with the dragon. Every bastard has a dragon nowadays, it seems."

"It's not true." Ser Jorah shook his head. He had never believed the tales of the dragon as they passed through the villages on the Fingers. Jorah dismissed them outright in every tavern. "The rumours are false. They must be."

"It's true." Lord Borrell nodded, and Jorah's face paled. "I've seen the beast myself, flying over the Bite. Your Jon Snow has released a monster, as well as hordes of savages," said Lord Borrell. "And you would want to go to him, my lady?"

The smallfolk in every village they went through all talked about Jon Snow as if he were a demon from the coldest hell. The Seven Kingdoms were mad with whispers about the ice dragon.

"He is my brother," she replied. Although I barely even talked to him. My mother shunned him and so did I . "I have not seen him in yearsand I do not know the truth to the rumours, but I choose him. I want my family."

And Petyr was frightened of him. If Jon has become Littlefinger's enemy, then I want to be by his side.

"You should not. Bastards are cursed fiends. Bad blood, my lady," Lord Borrell said. "The Sunderlands dragged us into two Blackfyre rebellions and Sweetsister suffered for them. This Jon Snow is just

another bastard stealing a crown, and I do not care to be another one damned for it. Bastards and pretenders."

"I would think you would be more eager to gain favour," Sansa noted. Jorah turned quiet, uncertain. "He has an army. He has a dragon."

"His cause is still doomed."

"Not from how it appears."

"Then you do not have my perspective," the lord rumbled. "I have seen the wildlings run amok. Raids across fishing villages even this far south. Families and lords are fleeing the north in droves, how can you build a kingdom from that? I hear the tales, I have seen the fear. There will be no peace in the north. Whatever 'kingdom' your bastard builds, even if he does win, will surely collapse. You cannot build order out of wildlings." He shook his head. "Maybe Jon Snow considers himself a conqueror, but he is bringing only ice and fear."

He swigged down the last of his beer, and slammed the mug onto the table. "I will not ally myself with such a man," the lord said. "You cannot expect me to aid your bastard's rebellion over my own lord."

I must go to White Harbour . It was the only option that could be good for her, where she could be more than someone else's hostage. What words will sway the Lord of Sweetsister? She could promise gold that she could not guarantee, or lands, honours and titles that maybe her brother could grant. She could threaten retribution, or she could beg and weep for pity. She wasn't so sure that any plea would work.

Instead, she said, slowly, "I notice you speak very poorly of House Sunderland, my lord. You do not care for the Lord of the Three Sisters?"

The man shifted. "What of it? Triston Sunderland is an old penny-grabbing geezer."

"He also descends from Andals and the Vale," Sansa noted. "They are mainland lords at heart. They are not true Sistermen, are they? They do not share your heritage, or your history. They do not have that the mark on your hands, that legacy of your family. And yet they are the Lords of the Three Sisters - they sit in Sisterton. The town right outside of Breakwater, a town that you have historical claim to, and yet you still must give fealty to them? What percentage much of your plunder, fish and livelihood do they tax?"

There was no reply. In every kingdom, there were areas that were only nominally sworn to the Lord Paramount. The north had Skagos, the Iron Islands had Lonely Light, Dorne had the Stepstones, and the Vale had the Three Sisters. Their loyalty to the mainland is barely a thread.

"I spent time at the Eyrie," Sansa continued. "In their politics, in their minds, the Three Sisters receives no consideration. Now House Sunderland competes and tries desperately to earn favour and status for themselves, but where that does leave you? It seems to me that the Vale has not been very kind to you. Their septons forbid your faith, their rule hurts your trade. You said it yourself that the Three Sisters have suffered greatly in southron wars and rebellions."

"The Kings of Winter and the Kings of the Mountain and the Vale once spent a thousand years fighting over the Three Sisters," Lord Borrell said bitterly. "The War Across the Water, it was called; or the 'Worthless War', as others named it."

"It was not worthless to you, I'm sure."

"No. The maesters say it was two thousand years ago that these islands were conquered by the northmen - an invasion called the Rape of the Three Sisters - but we Sistermen have long memories."

"Do you remember a time when the Borrells were pirate kings?" Sansa asked. The only sound was the howling of the rain and wind. She could feel Jorah's eyes on her, but she kept her gaze on her Lord Borrell. "It could be again."

"And you expect me to take your side?" he said incredulously. "I have no love for the Starks of Winterfell."

"You said it yourself that there are bad options all around. I don't think you care for the Vale either," Sansa insisted. "My brother is fighting for independence in the north. Why wouldn't he support another ally seeking independence too?"

Sansa paused for five heartbeats silently. He did not reply. "Support my brother, and he could support you," she continued. "You depend on trade with White Harbour, they are a strong partner to you. If there were a dragon behind you, House Sunderland couldn't resist. House Borrell could be raised up to rulers of the Three Sisters. And my brother will be very grateful if you were to return me to him."

His eyes narrowed. "The Sisters only bent the knee to the Eyrie originally," the lord said slowly, "in exchange for driving the northmen out."

"And the world is circular it seems." Sansa gave a sweet, innocent smile. "Why not think, my lord, on the benefits that you could reap with standing behind a dragon? The same benefits that the Tullys, the Greyjoys, and all the others once reaped for being the first to declare for Aegon during the Conquest. You have a dragon right next door."

I think I have him. This is an argument that may work . It didn't escape her notice that Lord Borrell was very invested in the old history and culture of his people - that past was important to him. And there is a tension between his and House Sunderland that could be exploited. She caught the flicker in his gaze.

She didn't push it. She just sat back and waited for his response.

"Tell me, my lady," Lord Borrell said finally. "Why do you want to be by your brother's side so badly?"

"Because he is my father's son," she replied honestly. "Because Jon took after my father."

"Your father," Lord Borrell repeated. "Ned Stark. Did you know that your father once sat in this very hall?"

That caught her off-guard. "I… I did not. He was here?"

"At the dawn of Robert's Rebellion. The Mad King had sent to the Eyrie for Stark's head, but Jon Arryn sent him back defiance. Gulltown stayed loyal to the throne, though. To get back home and call his banners, Ned Stark had to cross the mountains to the Fingers and find a fisherman to carry him across the Bite. A storm caught them on the way. The fisherman drowned, but his daughter got Stark to the Sisters before the boat went down. He left her with a bag of silver and a bastard in her belly. Jon Snow, she named him, after Jon Arryn." Sansa's mouth hung open. "That is where your bastard comes from."

"I did not know that," she said, gobsmacked. "Jon's mother?"

"The mother is dead; she died at childbirth, I hear, and the new Lord of Winterfell took the babe back with him as he sailed back home," he replied. "But before then, when you father was shipwrecked on our shores, my father sat where I sit now and Ned Stark was walked into our hall. Our maester urged us to send Stark's head to Aerys, to prove our loyalty. It would have meant a rich reward. The Mad King was open-handed with them as pleased him. By then we knew that Jon Arryn had taken Gulltown, though. Robert was the first man to gain the wall, and slew Marq Grafton with his own hand. 'This Baratheon is fearless,' I said. 'He fights the way a king should fight.' I argued my father to allow Ned Stark leave Sweetsister freely." She could see a glimmer in his eyes. The lord hesitated, his voice softening slightly. "… But the difference between then and now, my lady, is that your brother faces a very different fight. And perhaps I could gain a great advantage by siding with this Bastard King, except for the fact that I do not believe that your brother has the support needed to prevail in his fight."

"He has the gained the support of White Harbour, has he not?"

"So it seems. He has the fat, cowardly lord with him." Lord Borrell shook his head. "No, the Bastard King has succeeded in only splitting the north into thirds; one third that supports him, one third that will oppose him to the last, and another third that has supported him because they're too scared to do otherwise. I hear that he is marching on Winterfell right now, and I think he will win. But he will still lose, do you know why?"

She didn't reply. "Because winter is coming, Lady Stark," Lord Borrell continued. "They say it will be the longest and hardest winter in living memory. Because the north is war-torn and ravaged, it doesn't even have enough food to support itself. Come the heavy snows, the people will starve and Jon Snow's little kingdom isn't going to be able to feed itself. Not without support from the south, and you can be sure that there will be none coming from there. As soon as the circumstances turn dire, his wildlings will pillage, and his people will revolt. His weak 'rule' will collapse under his grip and tear down the north with it. He will win the battle, but the war and the winter will destroy him - that is inevitable."

Sansa kept her gaze unblinking, focused. There could be no weakness in her eyes. "Winter is the only thing that is certain, my lord," Sansa replied. "Everything else is still to be fought for."

She didn't know why, but the comment cause Lord Borrell to pause for longer than she would expect. She saw his face twitch. His hands stirred the sister's stew. "You look very much like your mother, my lady," the lord said finally. "But there is something of your father in you too."

The Lost Prince

The world was spinning. Screaming. The ground split beneath him, bodies pouring into a great black abyss. Bran was left staring downwards at the huge tide of corpses, all the while he fell upwards

into the green and red skies. Giant white roots snaked around him, great veins spreading everywhere. He could see shadows and ice dancing across the world.

Beyond the green, he remembered. That was what the crow called this place . The home of the faces in the weirwoods, a place beyond past, present or future.

The scenery blurred. The world was red with blood. Pools of red burning. He glimpsed a great tower piercing the dark sky over a churning ocean of blood. He saw a stone man dissolving into a sea of shadows bursting from the earth. He saw a great river frozen solid, bodies trying to escape the ice-

"You cannot do this, Bran," the voice was in his ear. He felt claws around his waist. Huge wings flapping around him. The three-eyed crow was on him, a giant winged monster snatching him out of the air. "If you keep on losing your skin, you may not be able to pull yourself back."

Every time Bran fell into this place, the three-eyed crow was there to catch him. He could feel the greenseer dragging him back to the ground. Back to his anchor, his body, his time.

"This is not the place to lose yourself," the crow cawed. All around him, he saw a raging storm, ice and fire clashing. The crow had to physically pull him away. "Now is not the time to dream, Bran."

The world lurched. Bran dropped.

He fell into his own body. He felt pain. He tasted blood in his mouth.

Bran gasped and shuddered, coughing into a dirty stone floor.

The little boy trembled, trying to lift his gaze upwards. A pair of unseeing grey eyes stared back at him from the darkness.

Bran would have screamed, but his throat jammed.

Hother Umber was lying across from him, dead, limp and pale. Hother's long white beard was stained red, his limbs flailed across the floor. The Whoresbane died clutching his chest in a pool of dried blood, his heavily lined face was scowling even in death.

They killed him, he thought in horror. The axe cut open half his stomach, and then they left him to die slowly. They let Hother Umber bleed to death and then they just left his body where it fell in the prison cell.

Bran's first thought was of his father. He wanted to scream for his father to save him.

"Bran," a quiet voice soothed, but she sounded scared too. "Don't move, Bran, they hit you over the head pretty hard."

Meera . He could see Meera in the gloom. She looked like she would have come to him, but there were manacles on her legs. She looked so skinny, frail. They were in a stone, black room. Two children and one corpse, all in chains.

His heart was racing so fast it might burst. The stone floor was cold and dirty. Bran tried to squirm, flailing helplessly. "Meera. Meera! What happened, where are we, those men…?"

"They got us, Bran. They got us."

His head ached. He remembered blurry visions and sounds from the battle.

He remembered the frenzied bodies in the darkness, men screaming. He remembered Hother Umber bellowing at them to run. He remembered Mors Umber bellowing some war cry, and Summer howling viciously. Hodor had been trembling, weeping. He remembered faceless figures storming the castle, and fires raging.

The Whoresbane tried to get us out of Last Hearth , he recalled. When the ambush hit them, Hother Umber tried to flee with Bran and

the others into the woods while the Crowfood held the attackers off.

There were children in that castle .

A shiver went down Bran's spine as he remembered hearing the dogs barking, and those seven figures chasing after them from the darkness. One of them had pale blue eyes, and a mad smile.

Ramsay Snow . Bran barely recognised him from when he first came to Winterfell in chains. 'Reek', he had called himself once. The man had been covered head to toe in blood, clutching a blade like a cleaver, laughing maniacally. The hunters taunted them as they tried to run through the dark forests, hounds barking. Ravens flocking all around him, the direwolf howling…

Bran remembered Summer surrounded by packs of feral dogs. The Umber guards tried to fight, but the Bastard's Boys had arrows and horses and torches, while they were all on foot. Hother hadn't backed down for an instant, bellowing for him to run while lunging at Ramsay Snow with a spear and a murderous cry.

Run . That word haunted Bran's head. They had all been screaming at a crippled boy to run .

Hother tried to stop him, and the Bastard of Bolton cut half the Whorebane's stomach open while his men charged at the children. Bran couldn't stop it, it was over too fast. Hodor stumbled in the darkness, tripping over a root. Another man had lunged at Meera with a spear. Bran hadn't even hesitated; he jumped into the man's skin, and crushed his presence beneath him. And then everything had gone black.

The man Bran possessed had spasmed and then died quickly, bleeding from his eyes. Bran lost his grip on the world and dropped into the world beyond the green. I killed that man with my mind, and then I blacked out. How long was I out?

His whole body was trembling. His head ached, he could hardly breathe. "What happened?" Bran gasped. "Where's Jojen? Where's

Hodor, or Mors, or-"

"I don't know," Meera said with a gulp. He had never seen her look so frail or pale. "I lost sight of them during the battle."

"Meera, where are we?"

"I don't know." She was whispering. Why is she whispering? "Bran, they took us. It was the Bastard of Bolton."

Bran's head was still spinning. There was blood oozing down his forehead. He was in a keep, must be. A stone castle or holdfast. A prison. Above him, he heard voices. Heavy footsteps. Laughter.

The battle. The memories kept on rushing back to him. Bran remembered the battle from a hundred different skins. He had taken the skins of dogs and birds, but it hadn't been enough to stop the men. He remembered clawing the eyes out of dozen different men, but not even Summer could stop them-

Summer . Where's Summer? A jolt of panic shot through him.

He reached out to his direwolf in the same way he would grope for his own limb. Summer was part of him. Bran flinched as he felt pain. Scorching and blinding pain.

The direwolf was injured. Bran could feel Summer curled up, whining and hiding in a den under the roots of a gnarly tree. It was snowing, but the air smelled of death. His silver-grey fur was covered in blood, his jaws scratched and bruised. There was an arrow embedded into Summer's hind leg that he couldn't remove. Bran had never felt the great wolf so weak, so wounded.

There were corpses littered across the snow. Summer had tried to chase me, Bran realised, but not even a direwolf could match armoured men wielding lances and arrows .

Captives. Prisoners . Somewhere in the distance, the wolf howled and Bran couldn't even hear it.

"Where are we?" Bran asked again.

"I don't know. They blindfolded us and galloped us here. A long day's ride," Meera whispered. Her chains rattled. "A small keep or holdfast. There are at least two hundred men. Maybe three."

"Jojen," he choked. The room felt like it was shaking. "Hodor. What happened to Last Hearth? All of those men, the children-"

"I don't know. I don't, Bran, we've got to focus, we've got to-"

Her voice was quivering. It was all too much. Bran felt his vision blur and blacken again.

When he woke up, he was cold. And hungry. So weak he was shivering. The cell stunk of dried blood. He could see flies buzzing around Hother Umber's corpse. The fear was so thick he struggled to breathe.

Meera was squirming and trying to escape her iron manacles, but the restraints were so thick and tight it was useless. There were chains around Bran's ankles too, but he couldn't even feel them. The manacles were pointless on him; his legs were useless, numb hunks of flesh.

Their prison was a dusty stone box, but the oak door looked old and rotten. The door had even been left ajar, yet that didn't matter because they were chained to the wall.

Above him, it sounded like a celebration. He heard stomping feet and laughter through the stone floor. That noise scared him more than anything.

Meera hissed some words at Bran, but he could barely hear them. The room felt like a coffin. Hother Umber didn't stop staring at him,

dead-eyed.

The walls were getting tighter, more constricting. He needed to escape. So he did.

Bran forced all the concentration he had and he reached outwards. The world blurred. He felt the presence of a rat who jerked and gasped as Bran squeezed his way into the rat's skin. The rat skittered through dusty corridors, staring at the world through half-blind rat eyes.

He heard heavy boots stamping through a dusty keep. Bran didn't recognise it, but the keep was heaving with movement and men. It was a small stone keep with a wooden wall, and his horses in the grounds. This wasn't a great castle, just a minor one - only a single floor and a cramped stone hall filled with barking dogs and drinking and cheering men.

Then, Bran heard squeals and quiet sobs from the middle of the main hall. Women were crying and men were jeering. The rat skittered beneath the tables, its little heart pounding. Bran felt his whole body tremble in horror.

There were women on top of the main dining table. Six women, all of them stripped naked. Their bodies were beaten, covered in blue and yellow bruises and blood. Some of the girls were begging for help, but the men just laughed.

The rat could only watch from the floor in horror as men dragged the women to the floor and unfastened their breeches. He heard the grunts and squeals. Raping them, Bran realised in utter horror. A hundred men, and they were raping the women in the right middle of the hall while they laughed, jeered or drank. They sacked Last Hearth, and this is how they celebrate .

He heard the girls begging, weeping, for mercy and the sound haunted his soul. The ones who begged were only raped harder.

Bran found himself almost grateful for the rat's poor vision, because it was a sight that scarred his eyes.

Worse than Boltons', Bran had said. I was wrong. Not even monsters could be worse than this .

He even recognised those women. Two of them were serving girls from Last Hearth. One of the older women had been a wife of a petty lord, he suspected. The youngest was barely older than Meera. As Bran watched, the men finally slit the throats of a woman who wouldn't stop crying. Then, her corpse was given to another man to be raped again. All the while, they didn't stop jeering, drinking or taking turns.

Bran couldn't watch anymore. He fell back to his own skin. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. He felt sick rise up his throat from the memory. He couldn't stop trembling. He could still hear the jeering from above, and now he knew what they were jeering at.

These are the Bastard's Boys, he realised. The worst killers and murderers in the north. The monsters in human skin that had sacked Hornwood, sacked Winterfell, and sacked Last Hearth.

I heard what happened to Lady Hornwood . The memory of Ramsay Snow's laughter haunted his mind.

He could see Meera's wide eyes. "We must escape, Bran," she hissed. She did not stop scraping against her manacles and the mortar with her bare fingers. Her ankles were scraped from where she struggled against the iron bracelets.

Every hour felt torturous. It was like he was counting every heartbeat. He struggled to breathe, struggled to think.

"They'll come for us," Meera kept on saying. "They will, they'll come for us… We will escape and they'll come for us."

Nobody came for Lady Hornwood. She had to eat her own fingers .

Bran stared at his hands.

I am not trapped. I am a skinchanger. I am the winged wolf. I have killed men with my powers and I can do it again . That thought was the only one that gave him strength.

It was nightfall when he heard men coming down the steps towards him. Five figures. He recognised the man at the front instantly. It is him, Ramsay Snow. Twice now he has razed a castle and slaughtered innocents to get to me .

Ramsay was an ugly young man, wearing a black leather jerkin over a pink velvet doublet slashed with dark red satin, along with black boots, belt, and scabbard. He was big boned and slope shouldered, with a fleshiness like he would be fat later in life. Ramsay's skin was pink and blotchy, his nose broad, his hair long and dark and dry. Although his mouth is small, Ramsay's lips were wide and meaty, wormy looking, and he smiled a wet-lipped smile.

"Brandon Stark," the Bastard of the Dreadfort laughed. "Oh, how we meet again. I believe we haven't been introduced properly: I am Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell, Lord of Hornwood. You will address me as Lord Bolton."

Bran didn't reply. He was too busy trembling with fear and rage. "I must admit, for a boy with no legs you can run," Ramsay chuckled. "I had been sure that, after Theon and the miller's boys, you would end up dead in a forest somewhere. But instead you made it to Last Hearth. Where you conspired to steal my title. For shame, Brandon. For shame."

There were sniggers. Meera was coiled, pressed up against the wall as far as her chains would allow, like she was readying herself for an attack. I could attack. I am winged wolf. I could kill him. I could take his skin and kill him, Bran thought.

But I can only kill one of them. Will the others kill me and Meera as soon as he fell?

"The little prince," a man besides him snorted.

"Not anymore," Ramsay's voice sound cheerful. "I am the Lord of Winterfell now, Brandon. We are goodbrothers, are we not? Your sister Arya is so sweet."

Arya. Arya .

Maybe he was waiting for response. Bran was curled up on the floor and quivering too badly to give him one. Ramsay Snow stepped forward, with that eerie smile and pale eyes.

"Those people at Last Hearth? They died because of you . Brandon Stark. Just like the miller's children did. Those at Winterfell? The Umbers? Jojen Reed, your dumb stable boy, your little wolf? They're all dead and it's all your fault."

"No," Meera growled. Tears in her eyes. "You lie. You lie. Jojen can't be…"

Ramsay just laughed, but his attention was all on Bran. I could kill him. I could kill him… "I want you to remember that, Bran. I want youto remember just how many people die because of you."

Bran's eyes flickered towards Meera. Ramsay's grin widened. A predator sensing weakness.

"So I'm going to leave this old man's body in here with you, Brandon, just you know exactly what your defiance costs," Ramsay continued, with an idle kick at Hother Umber. "Oh, today is going to be a good day, I think."

"What do we do with him?" A man with yellow teeth grinned. "Another hunt?"

"Hunting a cripple? Now where's the sport in that?" Ramsay chuckled, pacing. "No, Brandon Stark, you are valuable to me. King's Landing wants you to hold over my father's head. My father wants you to hold over my head. You might be my replacement, should I step out of line. After all, you have a better claim to Winterfell than me, don't you? A little crippled puppet to replace a 'rabid' dog." His lips pulled back to reveal teeth, but it couldn't be called a smile. "No, I will not let that happen. I will not let my lord father get his claws on you either. I wouldn't kill you, Brandon, I would never kill you. But maybe I'll cut off your face so nobody will ever recognise who you are?"

The men were laughing. They were towering figures, all big and armed, and Bran was just a curled shape on the ground. "But until then," Ramsay mused, sucking his lips. "I need you alive and looking like a Stark. You're my game piece now, Brandon. You are the perfect bait. Bait enough to catch a dragon, I think."

What is he talking about? Ramsay was looking at him almost hungrily. Finally, Bran trembled and raised his voice. "Are… are you taking me to Winterfell?"

"So he speaks. Joy," Ramsay laughed. "But no, not just yet. Nobody knows where you are, and I mean to keep it that way. Let my lord father fret a little bit - nobody will be speaking of you. Isn't that right, Alyn? Luton? Skinner?"

The thugs nodded. "Oh aye."

"Aye," another agreed. "Keep your tongue or lose it, like you always say, m'lord."

"Oh yes." Ramsay kneeled down in front of Bran, his face barely metres away. Bran averted his eyes. "I know what you thinking, Bran. You're thinking that you have me at a disadvantage because, well, I can't hurt you for fear of killing or mutilating you. You think that I need you whole, and, hmm, you're right actually. I do." There was that grin again, worming over his cheeks. "But that's why she is here

with you. So here's the deal Bran; if you disobey, I take it out on her. If you object, if you cause trouble, then your little girlfriend suffers for it."

"You fiend… !" Meera snapped. Ramsay only laughed, while one of his thugs kicked Meera in the stomach. Bran screamed.

"They'll rape her, Bran," Ramsay laughed. He sounded cheerful. "Every one of my boys will happen have a go. Have you seen what it looks like after a girl's been raped by a hundred men half a dozen times each? I doubt you'll even be able to recognise her by the end of it. I could take you upstairs to show you a few examples of what it does to a girl, if you want?"

He's a monster. They're all monsters. Bran was struggling to breathe.

"So be good, Bran," Ramsay said, still chuckling. He was towering over a crippled ten year old boy, and laughing about torturing him. "I'll be back soon enough, and I'm sure we'll have more time to get to know each other. Now is there anything you want to say to me? I want to hear you address me as Lord Ramsay Bolton ."

His voice quivered. "You're a bastard," Bran muttered, still staring downwards. "That's all you are, just a bastard."

The cold blue eyes flickered, and then a cruel smile spread over Ramsay's face. There was no immediate reaction, he just stood up. Then, Ramsay raised his foot and brought his boot down upon Bran's ankle. Slowly.

Meera shouted. There was a crack of bone as Bran's foot crunched. The boy stared, but didn't even flinch. He couldn't feel a thing from his legs.

For a second, Ramsay seemed confused. "Hmm, how strange," the bastard mused. "It's not as satisfying if they don't feel it."

With that, Ramsay turned and walked away. Bran looked at his crumpled foot, like it belonged to someone else. His ankle bent out of shape.

They were walking away. Bran's heart didn't stop racing. The other men left the room, sniggering. What would happen if I took his body now? I am a winged wolf. I could kill him, all I need to do is fly…

Barely even thinking about it, Bran extended his mind. He opened his third eye and he focused on Ramsay Snow, he focused his power and he extended himself out of his skin…

Bran gasped, flinching hard. His head burned. He felt rage. Hate, so much hate. His warg recoiled as if slashed.

The footsteps stopped halfway up the stairs. He heard Ramsay break step slightly, momentarily dazed, but Bran was left gasping for air. "Lord Ramsay," a faint voice called. "You alright?"

In the cell, Meera hissed. "Bran!" Chains rattled as she tried to reach him. "Bran! What happened?"

"It's him," Bran choked, staring wide eyed at where Ramsay left. "There was so much hate ."

I've never even imagined anyone with that much pure hate in them .

As if hate was the only thing Ramsay Snow could feel.

Meera didn't seem to know how to reply. Ramsay must have shrugged off whatever it was that caused him to stumble slightly, and Bran heard the door to the dungeons close. He's gone, Bran thought. I lost my chance to take his skin. I'm not even sure if I want to .

Bran was shivering in the cold and the fear. Men can only be brave when they are scared. I must be brave .

"You can skinchange," Meera whispered, when she was sure no one was around. "Take Summer's skin. Go get help."

"How?" Bran murmured. It felt wrong to even raise his voice. As if Hother Umber was only sleeping next to them. "And from who?"

She didn't reply. Meera looked scared, more scared than he had ever seen her.

She's the trapped one now, Bran thought. She's trapped in this cell, but I can fly through the animals and birds. My powers are the only advantage we have .

They went another day without being fed. Meera's fingers and ankles were bloody from struggling against her manacles.

The next morning, Bran heard orders being given, and felt men preparing supplies for a march. The ears of rats and birds couldn't make out any words, but he felt the activity. The Bastard's Boys were moving out. Ramsay left very early morning with his hounds and most of his men, heading north.

One hundred men were left garrisoned in the keep behind them.

They sealed the portcullis and barred the gate after the other

Bastard's Boys left.

The Bastard of Bolton must have a plan. He attacked Last Hearth to stop me from being traded to his father. But why would he leave in such a hurry? Bran spent some time thinking about it and couldn'treach any conclusion. He means to ransom me, but ransom me to who?

"They've left," Meera muttered, after Bran relayed the news. In the gloom of the cell, there was no day or night. It was so dark he could only just see the bruises on her faces.

"Half of them have," Bran explained. "The other half seem to be locking themselves down tight."

"Where are we? Where's the nearest help?"

"I don't know. I can see crags and ironwood trees nearby. There's a forest outside, and it's cold. It's a small stone keep with wooden walls. It looks old, decrepit, very recently occupied. I think we must be towards the mountains - maybe this keep used to belong to one of the small mountain clans - but the area seems isolated."

"He's hiding us here," she said breathlessly. "He doesn't want anyone to know about you."

Bran nodded. His stomach rumbled hungrily. "But that means there can't be any reinforcements around," Meera insisted. "And you can control animals. Could you chase these men away, just like you did with the wildlings at the Nightfort?"

The boy bit his lip. "Maybe I could. If I could skinchange into enough of them. I could control ravens or crows, rats, maybe some wolves if I can reach them. There are horses in the courtyard I could maybe take too…"

"Then do it," she insisted. "They don't know about your powers, they could never expect it. Kill the bastards." He hesitated. " Do it, Bran. Beat them."

"And what happens if I do?" he said slowly. "We're still chained, Meera. We still can't escape."

"We'll find a way, but you've got to stop them from hurting anyone el-"

"But it won't. It won't stop them. How many fully-grown, armed men can birds and rats defeat?" Bran argued. "Maybe I could take down ten. Maybe even twenty. But one hundred ? They won't fall that quickly. And all it will take is one of them to come down here with a sword and then we're dead. We're at their mercy." A shiver ran down his spine, his voice cracked. "One man with a sword could kill us both, and they're all experienced killers."

Maybe if it was just Bran's life he would have taken the risk, but Meera's too? No, he wouldn't. He couldn't. I can't let Meera get hurt .

Meera looked stunned. "Bran, we… we don't have any other choice."

"We do," he whispered. "If Ramsay Snow wanted us dead, he would have killed us. He's not going to." Not until he gets his use out of me, whatever that is. I must figure it out . "Our plan hasn't changed."

He tried to imagine what his father would do in this situation. Father would do what he had to do, no matter how scared it made him. I am a Stark, I must return to Winterfell . "He's going to hold us prisoner.We're going to let him," said Bran. "We're going to let him take us to Winterfell. We're going to let him bring me close to Roose Bolton. And then I'm going to end this war once for all. Roose Bolton is the one who must die, not Ramsay."

"Bran…"

"It will work," Bran insisted. "I've done it twice now. First on that wildling, then on the bastard's soldier. I steal their skin, and their minds break. They can't handle it, they snap, and they die bleeding from the eyes. There's no defence against that. Ramsay caught me off-guard before, but if I had another chance I could do it. I can do it."

His insistence sounded so empty in the dark prison cell. Meera stared at him, agape.

"You were dead to the world for over a day after the battle in the forest," Meera warned. "You do it, and you collapse too. You fall unconscious and you drop into… whatever that place is where you go."

"So I only have one shot," Bran said, suppressing the gulp. "But I'll collapse for a while, Roose Bolton will collapse for good. As soon as Lord Bolton dies it's over. I can save my sister, I can the end the war. I can do this, Meera."

"And in the meantime?" She demanded. "What are we supposed to do until then?"

"We just wait. Let them think that I'm helpless," Bran whispered. "That's the plan, Meera. We wait and we get ready."

They argued for a while. Meera tried to convince him otherwise. She talked a lot about reinforcements that could be coming, ways to set traps and ambushes for the men. Ways to get them out of their prison.

By noon, she was interrupted by the sounds of boots coming down the stairs. A foul-faced man with a hunched back came to finally feed them - bringing cold chicken stew and water. Bran didn't like the way the man leered at Meera, but Bran was thirsty enough he swallowed the water down so fast he was nearly sick.

The man left the prison door open when he left. There was no point to close it, considering the thick chains around their legs. Meera didn't say a word, but he heard her counting the footsteps of the man walking up the stairs, to try and plan out an escape.

Through the skin of rats on the main floor, Bran heard grumbling. The men were complaining about how Ramsay took the women with him. A lot of the men seemed to establishing their camp tightly.

He heard the crooked man calling the holdfast as Thistle Hall. "Thistle Hall. I think this place must have belonged to House Norrey, they have green thistles on their coat of arms," Meera said, after Bran told her. "So we must be close to the Gift."

"House Norrey," Bran repeated. "Why doesn't anyone know we're here? House Norrey is a friend to Winterfell."

"Maybe this holdfast is abandoned. Or maybe none of the Norreys survived."

He didn't reply. In the distance, Bran felt Summer cry mournfully. The direwolf was left limping, struggling to survive in the cold. The thought made Bran's heart ache. Be safe, boy. Just be safe .

Every hour felt torturous. The next day was the same. They slept on the floor. The same crooked man coming to feed them, the same tense, constant and quiet fear. Meera tried asking for a bucket for their waste, but the man just jeered. Bran needed the toilet first, and there was choice but soil himself. His eyes stung and he finally broke down into sobs, but there was no judgement from Meera. Only fear.

In their cell, Hother Umber's corpse turned pale and bloated, and started to stink. Bran watched the old man's flesh slowly rot, the foul odour filling the air.

This is what Ramsay Snow wants, Bran thought weakly. He wants to torture us. To leave us trapped in a cell like this. He wants us to suffer, he wants us to break down. For no real reason other than that being what Ramsay Snow likes .

Bran remembered what it felt like to touch the mind of a person who lived solely for hate.

He spent most of his time in different skins, looking through his third eye. Bran escaped his body by slipping into the bodies of animals, as far away as his powers could reach.

He felt sorry for Meera, though. She couldn't escape it.

The days were agonising. And then it was a week, and the weeks felt so, so much worse.

One night, through Summer's skin, Bran saw a huge shadow fall over the earth, heard a sound like a hurricane fill the air. The trees shook as something huge passed over the wolf, heading into the mountains. The great wolf was left hiding in its den, trembling in fear.

Bran couldn't even process what it was, it had been too immense. Meera had been confused too when she told him. She sudden maybe it had been a sudden squall, but it wasn't. There are monsters in this realm . He thought back to the Stranger he had seen in his dream. Summer would have fled the woods, but the wolf was left hiding and starving in his lair. With Summer's injury, he couldn't even hunt properly, he had to scavenge for meals.

Shortly afterwards, in Thistle Hall, Bran saw some huddled men talking very nervously. The gates were sealed, and no one was even allowed outside. They didn't even allow open fires in the courtyard, lest the smoke give away the garrison.

In his cell, the stink turned so hideous that even the man with crooked back could barely stand it. Meera never stopped scratching and struggling to break the iron manacles.

I am Brandon Stark of Winterfell. I am Brandon Stark of Winterfell…

He felt himself struggling just to stay sane. Frequently, the men in the keep would comment on the erratic behaviour of the rats and birds around them.

One night, Bran collapsed out of pure exhaustion. Flies and bugs were buzzing around him. He opened his eyes, and he was standing in the middle of the courtyard of Winterfell itself. He could see the grounds where he and Arya used to play, and all the towers and turrets that he used to climb…

"I am sorry, Bran," a voice cawed from atop the stables. Bran saw a flutter of black wings. A raven. A raven with three dark eyes.

"You," Bran gasped. This is a dream . His legs wobbled. "You could help us."

The raven didn't reply.

"You could help us!" he shouted. "Bring help, bring anyone. Do something!"

The bird's voice was soft. "I cannot."

"You must! They're going to kill us! Or they're going to keep us here until we break! You must help!"

"I did try to help, Bran," the three-eyed crow said sadly. "I tried to bring you out of this realm. I wanted you to escape before this war sucked you in as well. If only you had crossed the Wall, things could have been different."

"I couldn't, I couldn't cros-" he stammered. I chose not to cross the Wall . "Does Jojen still live? What about Hodor?"

The crow did not reply. "Why won't you tell me?" Bran demanded.

"Because such attachments are dangerous. There is no answer I can give that won't cause one hurt or another."

He's evading the question. The three-eyed crow always evades the question . "Does anyone know where we are? Is anyone coming for us?"

"This is not your war, Bran."

"This is my war! I'm trapped here, I'm part of it!"

"You are meant for greater things."

He shook his head. "What did you want from me? No more half-answers, no more vague statements. What do you want from me?"

"I give vague statements because you would not thank me for details," the bird replied.

Answer me! " Bran screamed. His legs collapsed. There were tears in his eyes. "You say that I was meant to fly, that you could help…"

Bran gulped. "You said that winter is coming. And I saw something. In my dreams. It was cold, it was death, it was…"

"A white walker. An Other." The voice turned softer. "Yes, they are the reason I need you. They are the… well, let us call them the enemy. The true enemy."

The stranger of black and white. The very thought still made him shudder. "And you want me to defeat them?" Bran demanded. "What was I supposed to do?"

No reply.

"Answer me!" Bran screamed. "Answer me, or I'll never listen to you ever again. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

Wings fluttered, the beak twitched. There was a soft mutter of breath. A sigh, he realised. "No. You were not to defeat them. I wanted to keep you safe, Bran. I summoned you north to try and protect you from them."

"Why?"

"Because they cannot be defeated," the three-eyed crow admitted.

There was a long pause. Bran just stared incredulously.

"The Others cannot be defeated any more than the cycle of the world can be changed. To fight them is to fight winter itself," the crow said. "They can only be endured ."

"I… I don't understand."

"You are the next greenseer, Bran. You are part of a legacy that goes beyond you, in ways you cannot possibly know. When the Long Night comes, the living will turn cold and the forests will perish, but afterwards there must be a greenseer to restore balance. To bring back the trees. It was your place to save the world, but only after the Others have destroy it. That was why I tried to keep you safe." The

birds ruffled its wings. "Yours is the place somewhere between ice and fire; to represent the living between two elements."

Bran shook his head trying to understand. "But… but my family. My friends."

"There must be sacrifices, Bran."

Realisation struck. The greenseer manipulated Jojen to come to Winterfell, so that the crannogmen would take him north. "You mean… when you were calling me north of the Wall, you wanted me to abandon them all to die!"

"Death will be a mercy compared to what comes next," the bird said darkly. "This is not a safe place for you. For anyone."

All of the stories of the Long Night, the white walkers and the monsters came rushing back to Bran. Old Nan's tales. "Then the last hero," Bran muttered, "and the Battle for the Dawn, when the white walkers were defeated…"

"They are children's tales, Bran. Exaggerations of a history long past but coming again. The Others were not defeated; the Long Night ended only because the Others chose to retreat."

Bran stared in shock. There was a hollow, humourless and croaky laugh from the three-eyed crow. "Yes," the bird agreed. "I do not easily accept it either. I try to fight against it, I try to give men a chance to resist. For what little it is worth, I oppose them however I can. But in my bones, I know that it is useless."

His head was spinning. "In the stories," Bran said with a gulp, "the white walkers were beaten by the children of the forest."

"The children of the forest know the futility of opposing them better than most; this song has been written for a long time." The bird's beak shook. "No, the children cannot stop them. The children created the Others, once upon a time."

"What? They created them… !"

"I suppose summoned is a better term," the crow explained, "not created. They accessed a force elemental and eternal, and the children of the forest summoned it into the bodies of men. Ice given flesh, how the Others as we know them came to be. That was the beginning of the white walkers - created during the time of the First Men. Perhaps the children responsible intended the Others to win the war for them, but I think it more likely that it was an act of final spite against all men." The bird sighed. "A curse such that men would suffer eternally the same torture that they inflicted on the children."

He didn't know how to reply. The bird hopped down from its perch. "Like I said, Bran, this war is greater than you know. You are not prepared."

"How am I supposed to prepare? I'm captive, I'm in a prison surrounded by killers. Ramsay Snow," Bran said with a gulp. "Can you help stop him?"

The three-eyed crow scoffed. "'Ramsay Snow' is meaningless. Just another mad man who wants to rape the world, I have faced his like many times. He is nothing to be concerned about."

"He is a concern!" The thought of Hornwood, Winterfell and Last Hearth all flickered before his mind. "He holds me prisoner! He tortures me! He has Meera too, he… !" Bran hesitated. "I felt his mind. It was full of hate . It wasn't normal, it wasn't…"

"Hm. A legacy of his ancestry, perhaps?" the three-eyed crow mused. "I know of the bloodline, he does claim distant descent from the Others themselves."

" What? "

"During the Long Night, and afterwards during the Cold Spring, while the Others ruled as overlords there were many twisted offspring

formed between unions between them. Half Other, half human. Some came from sacrifices given, or from captives, and other men and women would even lie with them willingly for promises of power," the bird explained. "Over the thousands of years the bloodlines mostly either went extinct or were exterminated, but some traits still emerge. Did you look at his eyes, Bran? You can see the Other's influence in his eyes."

Those pale, blue eyes. "Ramsay Snow is a white walker?"

"No. Gods no . He is human, but he has something of their influence in his blood. Perhaps he is not even aware of it, but you can see the traits. It breeds men and women without empathy, to whom cruelty is in their nature, and everyone around them is but cattle. House Bolton earns its reputation - it is not a power that should be underestimated."

Bran stared. He remembered that moment; he had tried to jump into Ramsay's skin and the man had flinched back. The bastard had reacted instinctively. "Is he a skinchanger?"

The bird paused. "No," the three-eyed crow said finally. "I do not believe he has had any training as a skinchanger. But he does have a similar sort of power, one which I do not think he is even aware of."

Bran needed to take a deep breath. All around him, Winterfell was shaking. "Could I kill him?" Bran demanded. "Or his father? Could I take his body and kill him?"

The bird stopped. There was a silence longer than the previous ones. "You have power over nature itself," the crow said distastefully. "It is a gift you do not know the value of, and you are wasting it. Like a philistine who has been given a precious gem, yet you use it to crack stones."

"It's my family! It's my home ! I'm trying to save it!"

"Don't you understand, Bran?" the three-eyed crow insisted. "As foul as this bastard is, he is but a pale imitation of the Others. Do not waste your time with this war in the north; there is a greater duty that is needed of you."

"I can't. I'm trapped," he panted. "I'm in a cell."

"No," the crow said sadly. "You are not trapped. You were never trapped, no more than you were crippled. You must come to me, Bran. I can show you how to use your powers properly."

"I can't, I-"

"If your body can't move, leave it behind. It is not needed, you know it's not." The voice turned harsh, strict. "Leave your body, and move into your wolf. Take your wolf to a heart tree. And then leave your wolf, and enter the tree. Come to me directly, through the weirwood roots. I will be there to greet you."

He froze. The air in the courtyard was cold. "But… but…" he stammered softly. "If I leave my body behind then how do I get back?"

"You do not, Bran."

He wants me to abandon everything, he realised with a gasp. The thought of Meera in that cell flickered before his eyes.

"I summoned you . I do not need your physical form," the three-eyed crow said. "You have a way to escape. You must leave it all behind you."

There was a long moment of a silence. Bran stared, his mind running through all of the vague comments and promises the crow had ever given him. For so long, Bran had believed that the three-eyed crow was the only way he would ever walk again. ' You will fly', the crow had said…

You monster ." The words from Bran's throat were like a wolf's growl. They were so vicious the anger surprised even him.

"Bran…"

"You lied to me! You deluded me! You said you would make me whole! That you would teach me to fly!" There were no tears, but his eyes burned. "You promised me my legs, and you knew that I would go anywhere to not be a cripple! And you never told me what you really needed because you knew I wouldn't want to."

"Sacrifice is not an easy duty to 'want', Bran."

"You just want to use me!" he screamed. "Just like Ramsay, just like all the others, I'm just another piece to you!"

"I want you to save the world!" The crow's voice turned into thunder. The whole castle trembled. Bran saw towers collapsing into rubble. "This cannot be neglected. You have a choice, Bran. A choice between damning the earth or saving it. You can either remain trapped or fly free."

The dream was collapsing around him. He saw Winterfell falling under a storm. "And what about my friends? What about my family ?"

"That is the choice. That has always been the choice."

The earth collapsed. Bran felt darkness swallow him.

Suddenly he was back in the cell. His whole body lurched, wheezing and cough. He could barely breathe, arms flailing. The stink, the fear, the pain… he felt it all again.

"Bran… Bran…" Meera's voice. "It's alright Bran… It's alright…"

He felt her hand holding his. She had to stretch herself out across the floor to reach him despite the manacles, but he could feel her

hand. She had slender fingers, but strong. She didn't stop muttering in his ear, trying to calm him.

Even in the horrible, disgusting prison, she was the only thing holding him together. And yet there was a pain in her eyes like she might break too.

The night was quiet. The three-eyed crow's words echoed in his head. I could do it. I could move myself into Summer. I could leave everything behind. I don't have to be the crippled little boy anymore .

A choice between saving the world or damning it, the crow had said.

I could close my eyes, leave my body and not come back to it.

Then he looked at Meera, frail, trembling and holding his hand. She was trying to reassure him even though she needed more help than anyone. Bran looked at Meera and made his decision in an instant.

I choose her. I won't leave her behind .

The days and nights passed slowly. Every day was the same, trapped in that cell.

On the second week, Bran threatened to bite his own tongue, or strangle himself, or anything, unless they were given buckets, linens, and basic hygiene. Their prison was left so foul by then that not even the guards could walk in without cringing, but the crooked man only smacked him over the head in reply. Still, Bran made the same threat the next three days, and by the fourth the boy must have looked so desperate that they had to concede.

They can't let me die . That's not much power, but it's some .

The bastard's men grumbled and moaned as they wiped the cell with a dirty mop. Meera and Bran would pretend to be unconscious so they wouldn't beat them. One of them gave Bran and Meera a flea-infested horsehair shirt so long that it could be used as a dress, while Bran's old, stained, wool clothes were discarded into the

latrine. By the time they finally moved Hother Umber's corpse, the body didn't even look recognisable. Bran had spent over a fortnight watching it decay, barely six feet away from him.

In return for a bucket, regular waste disposal and occasional clean linens, Bran promised not to try and kill himself. When the guards unfastened his manacles to change his clothes, they didn't bother putting the chains back on. After all, the men laughed, he was a cripple - it wasn't like he could run.

The cell door was open and he was unchained, but he couldn't even leave. Instead, he dragged himself over by Meera to sit by her.

Every chance they had, they would talk. The conversations were only things keeping them sane. Meera would tell him about life in the Neck, about Greywater Watch, about her father, and all about the ways that crannogmen would hunt. And Bran would tell her about skinchanging, and what felt like to take another skin. Together, they started to plan.

There were ninety-two men garrisoned in Thistle Hall. Bran counted them one by one through the eyes of animals. He even tried to learn their names; like Luton, Yellow Dick, Grunt, and, their leader, Skinner.

Then, one of the Bastard's Boys was kicked in the head while tending to a horse, and after that there were ninety-one.

A few days later, another man fell off the palisades while patrolling, and then there were only ninety.

The very next day, a man was ambushed by a pack of wolves while foraging in the forest, and then there were eighty-nine. That one was perhaps a mistake, because afterwards the garrison became far more paranoid.

Then, Bran had to get more creative. He took the body of the biggest rat he could find, and he directed it towards Yellow Dick while he

slept. The rodent bit Yellow Dick's toe clean off, and then mauled the man's foot with sharp, gnarly teeth. The rat died quick for its efforts, but a week later Yellow Dick lost his foot from the infection.

Bran could feel the keep become more and more tense. The men never knew what was happening, but the mood in Thistle Hall was changing. They were a small force of men garrisoned in an old keep in an isolated forest. Confined. Trapped.

"Be subtle," Meera insisted. "Don't push too hard lest we lose our advantage. We want them to be just the right amount of scared."

Bran stalked and hunted them one by one. He thought of Last Hearth, and he felt nothing when he killed them. He felt more sympathy towards the animals than he did towards them.

The weeks passed slowly. It turned into months.

Gradually, Bran felt Summer begin to heal and head west towards him. After weeks of scavenging and starving, the direwolf grew strong enough to move. One night, Bran heard Summer's howl from the forests right outside, and the sound gave him strength.

The wolf howl also made the Bolton men even more scared. The very next day, a horse went mad in the stables, and trampling three men and killing one. The horse was so crazed it had to be killed.

They served horse meat the next morning.

Afterwards, at Meera's suggestion, Bran started to target their leaders more selectively, the men who were keeping control. Perhaps if the competent leaders were killed, Meera said, someone incompetent would take over. Learn more about them, kill the right ones and you could herd a force of men into poor leadership and reckless actions.

Bran stalked the men through birds across the keep; watching, listening, waiting.

They are all scared. Even killers and monsters could get scared . One time, Bran snuck a rat close enough that he could overhear frenzied whispers between Skinner and two others. The rat's ears couldn't make out sentences, but he caught some words - he heard 'wildlings', 'dragon' and 'Jon Snow'.

Bran's heart pounded as he made out his brother's name.

As the weeks passed, Bran began to understand why the men were remaining so confined and holed up in Thistle Hall. "They're hiding," he said. "They're not hiding from Umber or even Bolton men, they're hiding from wildlings."

"So it's true," Meera whispered. "Wildlings across the Wall. The Bolton Bastard must have picked the most backwater and isolated holdfast he could find so that nobody will find you, or even know where to look. That means he's scared, Bran."

Bran nodded. The thought that Ramsay Snow might fear something was not as comforting as it might have been, however. He remembered the black shadow that passed over Summer.

Over the next few weeks he caught many more murmurs mentioning "dragon", but the men seemed nervous to say the words out-loud. The word only made Bran more confused. Wildlings and dragons.

What is Ramsay planning? Why not take me to Winterfell already, if there are wildlings about?

For so long, absolutely nothing happened. The mood in the garrison became so tense that fights broke out in the courtyard. The men forbade hunting parties, or even anyone leaving the gate.

The number of Bastard's Boys in the garrison fell below eighty.

Bran heard men muttering, saying that Thistle Hall was haunted. And they are right - it is .

The boy spent so long in that cell that he started to forget what it was like outside. There were no rowdy celebrations in Thistle Hall anymore, the mood was too grim and silent. At night, the only sound in the cell was Meera, scraping constantly against her manacles using chips of stone. She had been scraping for weeks, months.

It was a moonless night when Bran's birds finally sensed movement in the forest. He felt Summer stir, prowling in the dark. He smelt horses on the dirt road - horses with riders, along with hounds barking. A party of half a dozen hooded figures riding straight for Thistle Hall.

The men reached the keep and pounded four times against the wooden gates. There were no horns, very little noise at all. From the courtyard, the men seemed to tense, but once they heard the four knocks the mood changed.

It took three men to move the wooden logs barricaded behind the gate. The only sound in the forest were bats and birds. As soon as Bran had found a chance, he jumped from a crow into the body of one of the hunting hounds. The dog tried to howl in pain as he forced his way into his skin, but Bran took control so quickly the animal could only whine.

Bran could feel the colour around the dog's neck. The dogs were yelping, but the man holding the leash was ruthless with the lash. The door crept open slowly. "Quickly, m'lord," a man hissed. "Come inside. This forest is a cursed place."

One of the hooded figures chuckled snidely. "Cursed? You think there's anything in these trees more dangerous than me, Bones?"

"Of course not, m'lord."

The man lowered his hood. Bran recognised that smirk instantly. Through a dog's senses, Ramsay Snow stunk of old and dried meat, covered in an old dark wool cloak. He's returned, Bran thought. Finally. How many months has it been?

The riders came inside. Every man stationed in the keep gathered around, all of them worn and tense and clutching torches. "What news, m'lord?" a man asked with a gulp. Luton. "Is it time?"

"Aye, it's time," Ramsay laughed. "The trap is readied and it's time for the bait. I trust the little prince has been kept well?"

"The boy is right where you left him," Luton nodded. "The brat spends more time sleeping than anything."

"Be sure of it. Time is short and I cannot linger, but after this is done I intend to give Brandon Stark the treatment he deserves." He glanced around the men, and snapped, "What are you standing around for, fools? Tend to the horses. Ben Bones, see to my girls."

The aging man, Ben Bones, bowed quickly and yanked the hounds.

The dog Bran possessed tried to squirm, to stay in earshot of where

Ramsay was huddled with his men.

"-sure he's ready to leave," Ramsay was ordering. "This ends at Winterfell, and the little prince has his role."

"How many?" One of the men said nervously. "I hear there's legions of the savages."

"My father prepares for thirty thousand, but there's less," Ramsay said with a chuckle. There was a cruel edge to his voice. "Deluded savages without a clue, and fools that chose their side over my father's. We give them time to muster, and we destroy them all at once. The Bastard King wants a battle, and we will oblige."

There was hesitation among the garrison, but Ramsay just laughed, clear and mocking. "What of the Dreadfort?" Yellow Dick asked. "I heard that the Dreadfort has fallen."

"No, the Dreadfort still stands. It'll likely last for another few weeks now, until their armies reach it, but my lord father has already resigned himself to its destruction," Ramsay snorted. "It will be

torched in dragonfire, no doubt, and I must arrive south before it does."

The words caused the crowd to ripple. "The dragon," a man said. "So it's true."

"How can we face that?" another gulped. "If it's truly so large…"

Ramsay sneered. "You scared, Jarl?"

"No, m'lo-"

"I got no need for scared men in my ranks," Ramsay snarled. "I need hounds . Men willing to tear open a few throats. If that thing betweenyour legs is so small, then I'll cut it off and turn it into the girl you act like."

The man called Jarl quivered and retreated quickly. The Bastard of Bolton glared around them, those sharp blue eyes alert for any sign of weakness. "The dragon can be taken care of," Ramsay hissed. "Do not concern your fool heads over that."

Luton looked around the men, twitchy. "And the army?"

Bran caught Ramsay's smirk in the torchlight. "The army isn't a problem either," he chuckled. "My lord father has been arranging that. Not all of the Bastard King's 'allies' are as loyal as they might pretend."

Ramsay stepped back, motioning to the garrison. All eyes were on him. "Listen up, boys! This will not be a battle, it will be a massacre !" he shouted. "We will let the Bastard King gather up his army, right outside Winterfell gates, but the battle will be won by daggers, not by lances, swords or shields. We will kill 'King' Jon Snow right in the middle of his camp!"

King Jon Snow?! Bran was so shocked that the dog whined, but Ramsay only laughed louder. "Did you know that the dragon goes

berserk whenever the Bastard King is threatened?" Ramsay continued. "We kill the king, and then the dragon kills all of the wildlings for us! They have already lost, but none of them have even realise it yet."

The Bastard's Boys were clapping, stomping their feet. The hound struggled to hear the words over the news. "What of Lord Bolton?" someone asked.

"My lord father has his task, and I have mine," Ramsay scoffed. "Yours is to be sure that the little prince is in place for when-"

That was all Bran managed to hear, as the kennelmaster yanked the dogs away. Bran tried desperately to overhear what Ramsay was saying, but the man huddled at the other end of the courtyard with his men. Ramsay gave instructions in a sharp, firm voice and forced each man to repeat it.

The whole keep was stirring, for the first time in months. Bran tried to listen in through the bodies of crows on the wall, but birds didn't have the right ears to make out human words.

The night felt dark, dangerous. Dogs were barking and boots stomping. Bran watched with bated breath, but Ramsay didn't even enter the keep. The Bastard of Bolton stayed only long enough for his horses to rest and to pass instructions to his men, before ordering that the riders would be on their way before daylight. Ramsay was impatient to set off again, but there were no ravens in Thistle Hall so he had to stop to deliver instructions again.

It was the hour of the nightingale when the gate opened for the second time in one night, and Ramsay's horses set off down the dirt path at a quick gallop. Bran could feel Summer in the trees, stalking the road from the foilage. He wanted to attack Ramsay, to stop him leaving, but there were ten other riders with him. Summer wouldn't be able to fight ten armed, mounted men, not even with Bran's help, and Bran couldn't risk his wolf's life.

They closed the gates behind him. Bran heard Skinner shouting for men to ready supplies and horses for a quick march. The lull that had settled over Thistle Hall was shaken off quickly. Whatever Ramsay ordered them to do, it seemed they were to abandon Thistle Hall and follow quickly.

With a gasp, Bran returned to his body. His heart was pounding. Meera was over him, green eyes wide with concern. "Bran," she whispered. "What happened? What's happening out there?"

"Ramsay Snow," Bran gulped. "He arrived and then left again quickly. The garrison is preparing to set out."

"Are they taking us to Winterfell?"

Bran nodded. "There's to be a battle at Winterfell." He paused, trying to make sense of what he heard. "My brother. I think my brother is leading wildlings. Jon Snow is leading an army to take Winterfell."

It was the only thing that made sense. Meera just stared at him. Jon Snow, wildling king? How? Why?

No, Bran could answer that last one. He must be trying to save Arya

If they've got Arya, then Jon would go to the ends of the earth to save her. Did Jon abandon his vows, and open the gates for the wildlings in return for an army?

"And they're going to kill him." Bran was shaking with fear. "I heard them, they're going to kill Jon."

Her mouth opened in surprise, and then she nodded. She focused on what was important, no questions or doubts. "We've got to stop them. Warn him."

"I don't know where he is," Bran hissed. There were heavy bootsteps across the floor above. "I don't where we are, Meera."

"Then we escape. We find out," she said. "How many men are there? Did any leave with Ramsay?"

"Five did," Bran replied. "But we still can't go, we're trapped…"

"Actually no," Meera admitted. There was the clatter of iron rings. "We're not."

Slowly, she raised her leg upwards. The iron bracelets still clattered around her ankles, but the chain to the wall had been broken from the joint. Bran stared at shock. "I broke through two nights ago," she explained, with a grim face. "Rusted iron is not as strong as you'd think. You were too deep in your warg, there was no chance to show you."

Bran could only stare. Meera's fingers were scarred and gnarly from where she scratched at her manacles. She broke chips of stone from the wall to scrape at the metal, he thought. Her nails were ruined and blistering, it must have pained her hands, but she didn't stop. She worked day and night, for months, no matter how much it hurt.

Those manacles had been thick. Bran remembered thinking it was pointless; the guards must have thought it would be impossible too. And nobody put the manacles back on me because I'm just a cripple. They never bothered closing the cell door either .

"What of the door at the stairs?" Bran asked, breathless.

"That's locked, I already checked," she answered. "But that's just a normal door. I could break through, with a bit of work."

She's been free to move around for the first time in months, Bran realised. And yet she stayed on the floor to keep me company . His heart fluttered. There's nothing holding us back, we could escape together . Then he remembered. "What about the men?" His voice trembled. "Meera, how are we supposed to get through all of those men and out of the gate?"

"How many are there?"

"Seventy-four."

"I could set a trap, ambush a few while they're sleeping. I'm a bog-devil, that's what I do."

"Can you ambush so many?" She didn't reply. "And if we sneak out, they have horses and they could track us down." Bran grimaced. "And we'll never be able to sneak out anyways, because I'm a cripple and I'll just slow you down."

"We'll find a way, we will. We've got Summer to help us."

"We still need to get out of the gates first. There's seventy-four men standing between us and the gates - seventy-four murderers ." Each one bigger and stronger than Meera. Maybe she was smarter and a better hunter, but that could only count for so much.

"Seventy-four men who have grown complacent. They won't be expecting me, they won't even see me coming. And they don't even know about what you can do."

"And if there were ten, sure. Maybe twenty would be possible. Thirty is pushing it. But seventy ?" He shook his head. "It's not going to work, Meera, you know it's not."

"We have to try!" she argued. "We have to."

Bran realised why she was pushing so hard. "Because as soon as they move us they're going to realise you're not chained anymore," said Bran. "As soon as they start marching we're going to lose our advantage."

"We can do this," she insisted. Her eyes didn't flicker; she was a hunter, she didn't allow herself to hesitate. "Trust me, Bran."

"I do. But I won't let you kill yourself trying." She was so beautiful. Her ropey brown hair was a mess, her skin pale and pasty, and her

face gaunt, but somehow Meera was still so strong, lean and determined after so long of captivity. Every night he had seen her flexing her legs and straining her muscles, forcing herself to stay fit even when chained. "We'll find another way, Meera. Somehow."

There was a long moment of quiet. In the gloom, he saw her face crinkle. "Could you make a distraction?" she said finally. "Some distraction, enough to give me a chance."

I don't know . He couldn't say the words, but his expression was enough of an answer.

Meera paused, and then continued. "We can steal a horse, Bran. Steal a horse and ride away."

"And how do we get the gate open? Or get through the courtyard?"

She didn't reply. Thistle Hall wasn't very big, but it was secure. Meera had been trapped in the dungeons, but Bran had inspected all the sharpened wooden palisade through birds and rats. He had seen no escape large enough for two children.

"Can you even carry me up the stairs? Escaping is hard, but you have to do it carry a useless body with you," Bran asked in a croaky voice. His face was pained. "Meera, if I hold you back, then you should just try to run witho-"

"Don't even say that, Brandon Stark," she said sharply. "And don't insult me by asking. I took a vow, remember? By earth and water, bronze and iron, ice and fire."

Her tone caused him to twitch. He didn't know how to reply. I need to do something. Some way to get rid of the men. A direwolf alone won't be enough, maybe a big elk, or a bear, or a…

Bran stopped. He heard her words. Ice and fire .

The idea came slowly. "What?" Meera asked. "Bran, what is it? Do you have a plan?"

I do. But it's not a good one . "Meera, are you sure?" he pressed. "Are you sure that you're strong enough to carry me?"

"I can carry you, Bran."

"And how fast will you be able to move?"

"Fast enough," she promised. "Tell me how fast I must go, and I'll do it. We're both getting out of here."

And it had to be soon. Before the garrison was ready to move out. We're only brave when we're scared. I must be very brave now ."Alright," Bran nodded. "I think I have an idea. Just promise me you'll be ready to run when the time comes."

She did. Bran gulped, closed his eyes, and he tried to concentrate. He tried to picture ice and death. He opened his third eye, extended his mind, and tried to see how far he could go. The world blurred, like stepping out of his body and into a dream.

He felt the earth around him. He felt the roots, he felt the snow. Everything was twisted and distorted, slipping away from his body, but he pushed outwards.

Bran remembered that feeling of pure cold and he tried to find it again. He focused on the image of a Stranger of black and white. The last time, at Last Hearth, Bran had felt himself drawn to it as he slept.

He could feel its presence. Something about it felt like it polluted the land for miles around. In his mind, the Stranger felt like a beacon - a beacon of power as bright and as horrible as a cold blue sun.

Bran followed its trail like a moth drawn to the flame. He felt the power shiver as he approached.

The white walker sensed him searching for it too. He could feel it and it felt him.

There's something about our abilities, Bran realised. They feel similar. We share common powers . Except the Other was colder and more powerful than he could even imagine - like an unholy, unnatural storm pressed into the shape of a man. Cold given flesh.

The vision came into focus. He saw it; the Other was exactly how he remembered it; half scorched black and half icy white. There was only a single bright blue eye, the rest of its skull looked scorched by flames. It was covered in darkness, limping on the ground in earthen cave. Hiding in the shadows, body crouched and infinitely patient.

Outside, a snowstorm howled. The air felt so cold it chilled Bran's ethereal body. Something about the Other made the very earth colder. Bran was in the earth and in the roots, watching it through the ground itself. The Other twitched, like a predator sensing prey.

Little boy," the voice croaked. A voice like scraping ice, so cold it chilled Bran to his bone. "I see you."

It doesn't speak the Common, yet I can understand it. Can it understand me? "I can see you as well," Bran replied.

The Other paced, twitching. It had its icy sword in its hand, so cold that mist chilled around the blade. Bran backed away instinctively. This is just a dream, the exact same as I do with the three-eyed crow.

"Scared," the Stranger said. "Scared little boy."

"Yes," Bran agreed, gulping. "I'm very scared. I also will be very brave."

It was looking right at him, like a cat might stare at a particularly interesting mouse. "'Brave'. I know that word too. Mortals call

themselves brave for denying the inevitable, but they're not. Only blind."

He remembered what the three-eyed crows said. "You want to kill us." The cold seemed to chill him to the bone, his throated choked. "You want to kill all men."

"Kill. Kill. No, we do not… we do not want to kill." It took a step forward. Bran took three steps back. "Death is coming to all mortals. We are here to save you all."

It didn't blink, it didn't each twitch, Bran noticed. Like a statue of ice, or a predator staying very, very still. "Fire and ice, little boy," the Stranger continued. "Fire would burn the world into ash, but ice freezes. Preserves. The fire would destroy you all, but ice offers immortality."

It took another step. Bran forced himself to meet its gaze. Every instinct he had screamed at him to run but…

"I saw you killing those men. Those Night's Watch men. You killed them without a second glance." It didn't reply. "But then you saw me. You stopped to talk to me, and I don't think you do that very often. Why? Why did you pay any attention to me?"

"Scared little boy," it replied.

Bran shivered. "I was drawn to you. I don't understand it, but… but I think that you have power, and I have power too. We see each other. And you feel like a threat to me, my whole body is trembling. I feel like screaming and running away right now. It's like every instinct I have is yelling at me to run." Bran took a deep breath, trying to focus. "And I have to wonder… if our powers are similar… maybe you feel the same way about me too?"

No answer. "I think that's why you stopped to focus on me," Bran continued. "I think you paid attention to me because I'm more of a threat to you than thousands of men combined."

That was why the three-eyed crow wanted me. Whatever plan the Others have, I'm not a part of it. Maybe I'm a challenge to it . "And I don't think you like threats. I think you would want the chance to kill me. Or freeze me, or use me, or whatever."

There was a long moment of silence. "Little boy," the Stranger said finally.

No time to back down now. Its attention was on him. "I think you'd want to come and get me, then?" Bran challenged. His voice turned into a shout. "Come on! I'm right here, why don't you get me? Think about how good that would be for your war!"

The world blurred. Bran tried to picture Thistle Hall, and pass the scenery onto the Other. It shone like a beacon to me, maybe I can be a beacon to it too . "Come on. Right here. West, towards themountains," Bran gasped. The vision shuddered. He felt a cold sweat on his brow. "Follow the wolf's howl. It will lead you right to me. Come and get me."

Its head cocked. There was no reply, but that eye shone. This is my only chance. What could defeat seventy-four monsters except onebigger, scarier monster? "If you knock four times on the gate," Bran continued, "then they'll think you a friend and open the gate for you. The men will try to stop you, but they can't, can they? They won't be able to stop you."

No reaction. "You think it's a trap," Bran said. "And it is, but not for you. And I think that I'm valuable enough of a prize that you're going to come anyways. And you better come quickly, because otherwise you might lose your chance."

The dream was shaking, dissolving. "So come on!" he screamed. "

Come and get me! "

The cave dissolved. Bran shot awake, gasping for air. He saw darkness. Stone walls. The cell. The cold still lingered to his brow, and shivers down his spine.

Meera was staring at him, squeezing his hand. "Bran, what happened? What was it?"

He was still struggling for breath. "I've got a way to get us out," Bran wheezed. "Something very dangerous is going to come for us. There's going to be screaming, and then everyone between us and the gates is going to die."

Heavy boots above him; seventy-four Bastard's Boys. This cursed keep where they had been imprisoned for so long. Whatever happens, Ramsay Snow will not be able to use me as bait . "Just beready to run, Meera. Just be ready to run."

Chapter 31

Chapter 31

The Sphinx

He could see the faint rumbling of ships over the horizon, gathering like crows. At first they had only been a black shadow at the mouth of the Honeywine, but slowly Alleras watched the fleet take form.

There were hundreds of sails, from great longships, small raiding vessels, to captured cogs, carracks and galleys with the fading sun glowing red like blood behind them.

Thousands of reavers , Alleras thought. For months, Oldtown had been terrified by tales of over twenty thousand ironborn sailing against them. Archmaester Benedict assured them all that Euron Greyjoy had far less than twenty thousand - somewhere between five and ten - but the rumours still swirled.

From even the lowest terrace of the Hightower, Alleras stood four hundred feet over the sea level. The lantern itself was nearly nine hundred feet high. The cityfolk of Oldtown liked to say that you could see the Wall from the top, but Alleras knew that was untrue. Within his first month at the Citadel, he had risked sneaking up to the very top of the tower to prove it false.

The Hightower was fascinating to Alleras. One of the tallest structures built by man, most certainly the tallest in Westeros. From below it looked like a looming solid structure, an immense needle piercing the sky, but when you walked through the gloomy halls inside you could see the mismatched architecture, the patchwork columns and clashing stonework. The foundations were black stone and unadorned, yet the base was granite bearing the spires and columns of the First Men. The higher levels bore the gargoyles and sphinxes of distinctly Andal design, with elements of Rhoynar and Valyrian slipping through now and then. A thousand different

architects contributed to the same structure; Alleras knew that in the first days of the Kings of the High Tower, it had been mostly a timber tower rising some fifty feet above the original fortress. Piece by piece, century by century, the wood was replaced by stone and the Hightower rose upwards.

Both Alleras and Archmaester Perestan, who held the copper ring, mask and rod showing mastery over history, had shared some fascinating conversations concerning the Hightower and its mysteries. It was rare that acolytes of the Citadel were even allowed into the Hightower, and Alleras jumped at every chance. He was a curious person, and he couldn't help but be amazed by the ancient stonework beneath his fingers.

Alleras' usual fascination with the tower was faded tonight, though, by the sight of the army mustering in the Bay of Whispering Sound. Tonight would be the first battle that the Hightower had seen in over a hundred years.

In truth, the Hightower was a poor castle. The Battle Isle was high with sharp cliffs and couldn't be sieged, but it meant the Hightower stood removed from the city. It was too big to be easily manned, and many of the halls and rooms were left defunct. Some of the lower levels had to be reinforced and filled up altogether as the stone started to creep. The seat of House Hightower was so isolated and large it was essentially a small town within the structure, and entry was usually heavily restricted except for kin and trusted allies to the Hightowers. The Lord of the Tower, Leyton Hightower, had not left the upper floors in decades, and it was often said that many of House Hightower lived and died without coming closer than four hundred feet to the sea. The Hightower was too large and too much of a labyrinth to be easily defended in battle.

A poor castle it may be, Alleras thought, but as a landmark it is unmatched. The men rally around the Hightower in times of war .

Below him, bells were ringing from the city, horns blaring from the mass of Tyrell and Hightower forces taking formation. The ships

were set to defend the harbour all the way up to the rocks of the Battle Isle, where the Honeywine widened into the Bay of Whispering Sound and soft, gushing water drifted through the city. It was a deep harbour and a slow river - dotted with small isles and lazy currents, and usually filled with pleasure yachts sailing between the isles, with cogs all the way from the Free Cities overflowing the ports and merchant barges trading up and down the river all the way to Brightwater Keep. There were no yachts or barges today, though; the only ships allowed on the water were warships or those requisitioned for the defence of the city.

It seemed like the perfume of war was lingering over the usually fragrant city. It stunk of sweat, smoke and tension.

A strong wind blew from the west, bringing with it the cries of men on the boats, and the smell of so many torches. As Alleras watched, he saw the ships working to fasten into formation, anchoring themselves and wrapping ropes between them to keep them steady against the wind. There were so many ships that if they had been slightly closer together you could have crossed from one side of the Honeywine to the other, several times over.

From above, the city was a labyrinth of wynds, crisscrossing alleys, narrow crookback streets and markets, built in stone with cobbled roads. King's Landing may be the most populated, but Oldtown was the largest, oldest and richest city in Westeros. Alleras could see the maze of streets and alleyways that he had committed to memory laid out before him, but now the docks seemed strangely quiet. There was no movement or trade on the piers and wharves today - there was nothing but grim silence, smoky torches burning, and rapidly-built barricades facing the sea.

If he walked around to the other side of the Hightower, Alleras would see the great Starry Sept looming downriver, its huge marble dome at the heart of the city. Further upriver, there were the Citadel buildings spreading on both sides of the water, and the Isle of Ravens located in between and joined by a weathered wooden drawbridge. While most of the Citadel buildings were sleek and

marble, distinguished and adorned with dragons and sphinxes, the Isle of Ravens held the oldest building in Oldtown, dominated by the gnarly, moss-covered Ravenry and the great weirwood tree on which the ravens perched.

Alleras spent a long time staring at the city as he thought of all the ancient histories he had learnt of it. Tales of pirate kings that once held the Ravenry, the ruins of the First Men that the city was built upon, and dragons that used to perch on the Hightower.

He heard lopsided footsteps behind him. Alleras recognised the gait without even turning. "Oi," Mollander called. "There you are, I was looking for you. What are you doing out here?"

Alleras grinned wryly. "Enjoying the view. It may be a while before I see it again. My father always taught me to enjoy the moment."

"Well, next time bloody warn somebody," Mollander grumbled. Alleras' Dornish drawl was clear against Mollander's broad Reach accent. "Armen has been pestering me to keep the group together. And have you seen Pate? The pig boy?"

"I have not."

"He bloody vanished this morning. Nobody seems to know where he's disappeared off to," Mollander said with a sigh. "Archmaester Theobald will have my head - the Seneschal warned me to keep the acolytes together."

"Hmm," Alleras muttered. Personally, he had his doubts about Pate, but he didn't let them show. "How goes it with Benedict?"

"Nearly done, I hear they're winching up the last trebuchet now." Mollander cast a worried eye over the horizon. "What about them ? How long do you reckon?"

"I think six hours or so, perhaps," Alleras replied.

"Benedict said four, but he said the same three hours ago too." Above on the higher balconies, Alleras knew there were men watching the ironborn taking ranks through Myrish lenses. The Reach ships were forming ranks the same in the harbour ready to meet them.

"It depends on how fast the ironborn can muster. It will be time enough for us to return to the Seneschal's Court, in any case."

And that's concerning, Alleras thought. It seemed like the threat of a mass raid had hung over Oldtown's head for months, but when it finally did come it was slow . Early morning the criers rode through the city saying that the Redwyne fleet had arrived, Three Towers had fallen and ironborn were mustering past Blackcrown, but the attack in response was sluggish and obvious. Alleras heard some confidently declare Euron Crow's Eye a fool, but Alleras didn't share that opinion. In his experience, it was unhealthy to dismiss anyone as a fool. And yet if he's not foolish, then what is he?

For so many months the ironborn had left the city constipated with tension and dread, it felt a weird relief to finally see them attacking. The Citadel had offered to assist House Hightower however possible; maesters volunteered themselves to manage stocks and coins, rations and supplies, and all the acolytes, students and scribes were expected to drop their regular duties to assist the war effort. Everything from writing troop movement reports to counting arrows and swords.

Archmaester Benedict, who bore the iron rod, ring and mask showing his specialisation in war and siegecraft, offered himself and the Citadel's students to repair the ancient trebuchets and mangonels that were fixed on the lower levels of the Hightower. Soldiers built poor stonethrowers, Benedict often said, and it took learned men who understood projectiles, tension and motion to do the job properly.

It had been a hundred years since the great trebuchets on the Battle Isle had been last used, Alleras heard. They had fallen into disrepair,

and fixing them proved no simple task. It took acolytes and men-at-arms by the dozen to ferry lumber and stones from the mainland, and carry them up the tower.

The stairs were too narrow to hoist rocks large enough for ammunition through the Hightower. Instead, they had to bring empty barrels and fill them up with smaller stones at the top. For days, the Citadel students had been trekking back and forth with rocks for the trebuchets, preparing stacked barrels.

Not that Alleras was complaining; it offered opportunity to inspect the Hightower, and it contributed towards his iron link on his maester's chain. Practical experience of warcraft, Benedict called it, as much as a maester would ever get. There will be many students earning their iron links after this battle, Alleras mused. Still he couldn't shakethe unease.

"The last ferry will be here in an hour," Mollander sighed, limping to join Alleras over the balcony. "But I don't mean to join the others in the Seneschal's Court. Better to wait out the battle in some tavern with plenty of ale."

A tavern far, far away from the water, I think . Their usual haunt, the Quill and Tankard, was on its own small island on the Honeywine and had been taken over by a garrison. "Shame," Alleras said idly. "I hear that Archmaester Perestan means to give a special lecture for the students taking shelter."

"Well, that's one way to put us to sleep rather than fret. But I prefer to get drunk." Mollander paused. "It's either that or stand on the walls. I hear Garlan Tyrell has promised a silver for every man that stands with the militia on the wall."

"A silver isn't very much for fighting in a battle."

"Nobody expects much of a battle. Not at the walls, at least. They're defending the harbour, the ironborn will never break that far through. Doubtful the militia will do much, except maybe loose some shafts."

Still, Mollander looked excited with the thought of taking part in the battle, even a small part. Mollander could have been a knight, Alleras thought, if not for his limp foot . "What do you say? You're a hell of an archer, Alleras. They could use you on the walls."

"I think not. I prefer shooting apples to men."

"Why? It's an easy silver."

"It is until the men shoot back."

Mollander scoffed. "We'll win, you know. This will be an easy battle and everyone knows it."

Yes, Alleras thought. And how can you be unconcerned by that statement? Surely the ironborn must know it too?

The ideal time for the ironborn to assault had come and gone. There had been a time, after ironborn victories in the Arbor and Redwyne straits, when Lord Hightower had been left panicking about the defence of the city. Rumors said that Leyton Hightower had been so scared he resorted to consulting a book of spells along with his daughter, the Mad Maid Malora, to which all the maesters scoffed. When the ironborn first took the Arbor, the Redwyne and Tyrell forces had been miles away and distracted. The militia was raised and a ragtag fleet assembled, but then later the panic was relieved when allies started to muster. Garlan Tyrell arrived through the city with thirty thousand Tyrell men coming from the crownlands. That number had slowly risen as more and more gathered.

All the while the Arbor was being pillaged and razed, Oldtown readied for war. For weeks, knights had been riding down the squares, calling upon all able-bodied men to join the battle and bring justice for the atrocities committed in Ryamsport, Vinetown and Starfish Harbor and all down the Redwyne Straits.

"I hear Benedict wagered Norren good odds that the ironborn will fall back as soon as they see the defence," Mollander continued.

"They'd be smart to do so, too. That's the Arbor Queen down there - the greatest ship in the Seven Kingdoms. She's never been beaten at sea."

Yes, the Arbor Queen was a great galleas, no argument. Even compared to the other great warships of the Redwyne fleet, she was huge. She bore three large burgundy sails, triple decks of oars painted white and gold, and decks filled with scorpions and armed soldiers. A hundred great warships of the Redwyne fleet had arrived at noon and very quickly reinforced the defence around the city. The battle lines that Archmaester Benedict had drawn on his maps looked so different when staring at them from above.

"I hear that ironborn longships are faster."

"Faster, yes. Stronger, no. Most longships are built small and swift for raids, not naval battles," Mollander replied eagerly. "Only a very few of the Iron Fleet and similar can even compare to the Arbor Queen and the Honour of Oldtown . They are the two biggest shipsin Westeros."

Alleras nodded, still thinking quietly. Lord Paxter would lead and command the battle from the mouth of the harbour, and Alleras couldn't fault him. The Redwyne fleet was made up of solely galleys, galleases, and dromonds. In contrast to the sleek and powerful warships of the Arbor, the fleet of House Hightower consisted of far more carracks, wine cogs, trading galleys and whalers refitted for battle.

The flagship of the Hightower, the Honour of Oldtown, would lead the reserves captained by Ser Baelor "Brightsmile" Hightower, eldest son. The second son, Garth "Greysteel" Hightower would lead the troops and militia on the docks. Although technically Lord Leyton Hightower was to command the weapons and stonethrowers on the Battle Isle, the Old Man of the Tower was old and reclusive, and his role was an empty honour.

When Alleras and the others had arrived by ferry to the Battle Isle this morning, he had witnessed the Hightower sons, noble knights, captains and commanders all leaving - all of them dressed for battle and eager for it. They had been young knights laughing and cheering.

The most dangerous command would perhaps be the force of infantry established as a beachhead on the Bloody Isle - the isle to the front of the bay - but Ser Garlan Tyrell had shown no sign of shirking that duty. Sharpened spikes and trenches had been dug in deep into the sand to resist any longships, while scorpions were raised on the muddy isle. Ser Dickon Tarly - a very young and very freshly spurred knight, but said to be strong and bold - commanded forces on the east side of the bay by the Thieves' Market to block any landing on the coast, while Ser Mattis Rowan led forces on the west near the Guildhalls.

Even while the Lord of the Reach Mace Tyrell was distracted with the schism in King's Landing, an impressive number of heirs and great knights had assembled at Oldtown. Sixty thousand, Alleras was told

a force he knew that Lord Paxter intended to take north to conquer the Iron Islands themselves after the battle was won or repelled. After the destruction on Redwyne's own seat and people, he doubted the retaliation would be gentle.

If the ironborn expected the Reach's response would be weak, they were sorely mistaken. Alleras heard tavern talk saying that Lord Paxter would make the Iron Islands pay tenfold for the damage in the Arbor; he would raise an island from their bones.

Sixty thousand . At least six to one odds, and the advantage of heavy fortifications besides. Alleras spent a long time staring at the formation, and found little to fault with it. The wind was unfortunate - it meant the defence would be fighting into a sharp headwind and the ironborn ships would have an edge - but Lord Paxter seemed prepared for such. They had set formations on every side to counter whatever scheme the ironborn used; understandable, but Alleras also feared it may leave their forces too spread out.

Mollander was still talking about how swiftly the battle would be won, but Alleras just smiled absently while paying very little attention. His' sharp, black eyes never left the blot in the distance. The skies were growing dark and the sun was setting slowly.

"- is a fool to test Oldtown," Mollander was saying. "I do not know what this Crow's Eye wishes to accomplish here, but he will lose."

"I think he is here to send a message," Alleras said slowly. "He wishes to prove something."

"How small his army is?" Mollander laughed.

"No," Alleras mused as he rested his head over the balcony, hands under his chin. There were gulls flapping in the air. "He taunted the Reach and they answered in strength. He must have known the response."

"But he will flee. Crows are cowardly creatures. He will flee just as Dagon Greyjoy was known to do, the last time ironborn threatened the Hightower." Mollander shook his head. "They have no business here."

Yes, Alleras thought. All of the maesters - experts in war, mathematics, logic and reasoning - agreed that the ironborn would not break their harbour. Strangely, the thought made Alleras think of Archmaester Marwyn. The grey sheep are fools, Marwyn oft said, they bleat the same facts over and over again until those facts were all they know. They have all the facts but so little truth .

"I wonder…?" Alleras bit his lip. "Do you know of the black stone foundations of the Hightower?"

Mollander looked at him in surprise. "Huh?"

"The foundations of the Hightower is a labyrinth fortress of unadorned black stone. What the Hightower was built upon. It's one

of the great mysteries; nobody knows who built those foundation, or where it came from, or even what stone it is made from."

Mollander shook his head. "No, I heard Theobald talking about this. The archmaester said the stone is dragonstone - the type the Valyrians used for their dragonroads. Evidence to say that the Hightower could have once been an ancient Valyrian outpost in eons past."

"No, there's more evidence to say that's untrue. The stones are similar, but dragonstone is harder and stronger than metal, while the black stone of the Hightower feels wet to the touch with stranger properties. Some say it is black basalt, but no stonemason can reproduce its queer texture. The stone doesn't seem to age either - none can even truly guess when it was first hewn. The foundations bear more similarity to the Five Forts of Yi Ti, and they predate the Old Valyrians by thousands of years." Alleras fiddled with copper link on the chain. He was a quick study, and he had earned his links in both history and architecture. "I know that Archmaester Quillon suggests a connection between the fortress and the mazemakers of Lorath. The construction and style is very similar."

Mollander just looked confused. "The mazemakers of Lorath," Alleras continued, still not turning his gaze, "were said to have been destroyed by an army of creatures coming from the sea. By merlings, selkies or walrus-men."

"You believe that?" Mollander laughed. "You've spent too much time with Marwyn. Archmaester Perestan would strip that copper link from your neck if he heard you saying such."

"I don't know what I believe," Alleras lied. "I just find it curious. The mazemakers of Lorath weren't human - the bones found are closer to giants - and they built some of the greatest ancient cities ever raised. Older than Valyria, older than Ghis. And then they were destroyed, seemingly overnight."

"What does that have to do the ironborn?"

"It's making me thoughtful, I suppose. Did you know that there is only one other example of the same black stone used in the Hightower foundations in Westeros?"

"Is this a riddle? What?"

"The Seastone Chair," Alleras answered. "The same throne that Euron Greyjoy claims. An ancient throne of oily black stone, and nobody knows where it came from. But there is some link between Seastone Chair of Pyke and the foundations of the Hightower, yet nobody can even answer what or how."

He could see the smoke rising in the distance, dark clouds swirling on the wind. "Nobody knows where the ironborn themselves come from, either," Alleras continued, thoughtfully. "They weren't Andals, very little evidence to say they were First Men. Some say they are descended from visitors across the Sunset Sea. The ironborn themselves have been known to claim they descended from merlings from the Drowned God's hall, yet the maesters reject the notion. Maester Theron once posited the existence of a species he called the 'Deep Ones', a race of misshapen fish-men, but he was mocked out of the Citadel."

Mollander looked baffled. "You're not usually this talkative, Alleras. What are you going on about?"

He shrugged. "Don't really have a point. If there's answer to these questions, then I don't have it. We're surrounded by riddles going back thousands of thousands of years. Like Nagga's Hill on Old Wyk

was that truly made from the bones of an ancient sea dragon? The best answer anyone here can give is 'maybe'. Or what of the Wall? The children of the forest and the giants? Even the mysteries surrounding Moat Cailin and Storm's End. A maester could tell you every scion and every lord of every major house, but cannot answer how their most prominent castles came to be."

Mollander paused. All around them, they heard bells from hundreds of ships chiming below. "Lazy Leo was right about you," he said

finally, still looking baffled. "You earn your name, the Sphinx."

"I just find it curious. There's a big and ancient world out there and the maesters still know so little of it."

I came to the Citadel to find the truth. But is there is little truth here, only facts .

The thought made him think of Archmaester Marwyn, and not for the first time Alleras wished he had gone with him. Marwyn the Mage left on one of the final ships to pass the ironborn blockade, before the harbour was locked. Alleras' time as Marwyn's student had been brief, but… enlightening.

He wondered where Leo Tyrell - Lazy Leo - was now. Probably getting drunk in some dive on the eve of the battle. Leo's father, the captain of the city guard, had been insistent that his son should take part in the battle, but that was hardly going to ever happen. Lazy Leo was the outcast in his own family, in good part by his own choosing, who had been shunned into joining the Citadel. Still, for all Leo was degenerate, unmotivated and arrogant, Alleras didn't think Leo was stupid.

Quite often, Leo tried to flirt with Alleras, in his own snide and taunting way. He was one of the few who noticed. Alleras recognised the smirks when few others did, the constant teasing comments about Alleras being a 'nobleman's son', and the way Leo's eyes would linger. Leo was perceptive and quick-witted enough to be a fine maester, and yet cursed with a temperament so grating that none but Marywn would take him as a student. Alleras had seen little of Leo since Marwyn left, actually.

Where is Leo? Alleras wondered. And how many glass candles do we have left?

There was a voice calling for them. Armen the Acolyte stood on the pavilion, bellowing at them to move for the docks. "The last ferry is coming in," he shouted. "Get a move on or you're stuck here!"

Armen looked flustered as he ran off again. "We have time," Alleras said lazily. "Linger for now, we'll reach the ferry in good time. I want to watch for a bit longer."

"Perhaps I should stay," Mollander mused, standing up and stretching out his clubfoot. "This place will give us the best view of the battle in the city, and should they breach the harbour the Hightower might be the safest place in the city."

It was a jest, but Alleras still felt uneasy. No, I don't think this is the safest place at all . Alleras' father had once said that fear and nerves were nothing more than weakness that most weren't able to purge. Something to be fought against, not heeded. Doubt was debilitation, and panic was a plague. But then again, Alleras mused, my father is dead .

From the Battle Isle, they saw the streets were clear and many of the harbourside buildings had been barricaded, just in case. The cityfolk would be fleeing en masse to take refuge in the Starry Sept for the night, and the Citadel students and scribes were expected to gather in the Seneschal's Court, but more would be holing up in taverns during the battle. Few would be sleeping, that was for certain. Alleras had heard that many winesinks and whorehouses would be offering discounts.

I wish I had left with Marwyn, Alleras thought for the countless time.

Mollander was staring at him. Alleras made no rush to move, still leaned over the stone wall. "What is with you?" he asked. "You seem very… distracted."

"It is just nerves, I suppose," Alleras replied. "I feel uneasy."

"Well, understandable." Mollander pursed his lips, but there was a smirk playing over his features too. "But we will beat them. They don't stand a chance, Benedict says so."

Alleras didn't reply for a good while. He heard gulls chirping - all of the activity in the bay disturbed the birds. He knew the birds wouldn't settle tonight, he could feel it in the air. Come dusk, the skies would be swarming with ravens and crows from the Isle of Ravens.

"Did you hear Archmaester Benedict calling this the War of the Five Monsters?" Alleras said finally, still not taking his eyes off the horizon.

"Excuse me?"

"The War of the Five Kings is over. Once there were five kings, each noble in his own way. The Young Wolf fought for justice, Renly fought for prosperity, even Balon fought for independence. Now, the noble kings are dead and we're left with a war between five villains and tyrants, each more foul than the last," Alleras explained. "The War of the Five Monsters, this will be called."

"Five monsters?" Mollander frowned. "That doesn't seem right. I mean, yes, Euron Crow's Eye is undoubtedly a monster; we've all heard of his atrocities in the Arbor. The man is as wicked as they come; he would rape and enslave the world to hear the tales." Alleras nodded, still watching the clouds drifting in the distance. "And yes, the Bastard King in the North is a monster, no doubt," Mollander continued. They had all heard of King Jon Snow too - even amongst everything else the Citadel had been abuzz with that news. Apparently, House Bolton had sent letters requesting aid to every major house in the realm, but they were all denied due to all the other troubles. "The wildling king that controls beasts and works savage witchcraft - he comes south to pillage and destroy the realm. The Bastard King is another monster, sure enough, but that's only two. Who are the other three?"

"Stannis Baratheon," Alleras said quietly.

Mollander opened his mouth to object, but Alleras cut him off. "Oh yes - a righteous man Stannis once was, according to some. And arguably justified, depending on which tale you believe. But now it

seems Stannis has turned crazed and tyrant - a madman haunting the Narrow Sea and leaving ruins behind him in his desperate war. He is the only contender from the last war still fighting, and he has been left bitter, broken and crazed from it."

"Alright," Mollander conceded. "That's three. But what of King Tommen? Do you consider the little boy a monster?"

"Not him." Alleras shook his head. "His mother. The Mad Queen." "Ah." Mollander grimaced.

"The mad woman who holds her own son hostage, along with his fair wife," Alleras continued. "An adulteress and murderess who denies the Faith, and holds siege in the Red Keep. Cersei would see the kingdom burn, if not for Mace Tyrell and Kevan Lannister trying to stop her."

"Point. Then the fifth contender is Aegon Targaryen, I suppose? And yet to call him a monster seems unfair," Mollander noted. "I have heard that the boy is brave and chivalrous. The Young Dragon, some call him."

"I have heard the same. But that assumes Aegon Targaryen is any true king." Alleras shook his head. "No, to the mind of many, this 'Aegon' is naught but a puppet, and the true contender is Tyrion Lannister."

Mollander didn't reply. "Perhaps that makes the Imp the most dangerous villain of them all," Alleras mused. "What could be scarier than the monster that tries to hide out of sight? Tyrion Lannister raised a puppet king and called him a Targaryen, all the while his influence grows. The Imp is both kin and king slayer; malformed and cursed in the eyes of gods and men. If this Aegon is crowned, then it will be the Imp that takes the throne."

"You don't know that for sure."

"I do not. But still, what does the truth matter, compared to what everyone believes? They see Aegon as the Imp's puppet, so he becomes the Imp's puppet. And if it's true," Alleras said grimly, "then no matter who wins, the Seven Kingdoms are doomed."

Mollander barked with laughter, slapping him on the back. "You are too grim, Alleras. It will not happen. Lord Paxter will defeat the ironborn tonight, and Lord Tyrell will force the Mad Queen to yield. Their armies will defeat the Imp's Dragon, and the rightful Tommen and Margaery will reign. As for the Bastard King, well, I cannot say. Too many rumours and talk; I know little truth of what is happening in the savage north." Neither do I, Alleras thought but he didn't speak. "Regardless, House Bolton is set to defy the Bastard King valiantly, and I doubt his armies will be able to move south come winter. Whatever happens in the north is not worth fretting over tonight." Mollander chuckled. "Come on, you definitely need a drink. Find a cheap winesink and a pretty girl, and this night will be over before you know." He laughed as he shook his head. "But we really must go. The ferry will be coming in any moment now."

Alleras cast one final glance to the horizon, before slowly pulling himself up and rolling his shoulders. His muscles felt tense. No; I do not think I want to be in the streets tonight .

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the walls?" Mollander insisted, limping as he walked. "My father always said you have to face your fears head-on."

"My father said the same."

"Then let's go! We'll have a grand view of the battle, and it'll be the easiest silver you've ever earned. I know that the militia will be bringing wine to celebrate when the ironborn are driven off, and I doubt we'll even need to fire an arrow."

"I think not." Alleras glanced behind him, at the dark clouds swirling over setting sun. There was a sharp edge to the wind. "It looks to be a stormy night."

Mollander shook his head surely. "Norren said not." Archmaester Norren bore the ring, mask and rod of electrum, showing his expertise in meteorology and the weather patterns. The old maester had devoted his life to mapping the wind and clouds. "He predicted a warm easterly wind for at least the next quarter, and good sailing weather up until the turn of winter. There should be no storms."

"The maesters say a lot of things," Alleras replied. "But I can still see the storm clouds."

The Kraken

The world was shaking. Oceans roared, the waves churned, and the wind howled, while Euron laughed as he stumbled through the gloomy hull as if drunk. He felt giddy, actually giddy. From the deck above, loud voices were bellowing,

He clutched a sloshing skin of leather, filled with liquid as thick as bile. It smelt like burnt flesh and rot. Without even hesitating, he took a long chug, gulping the shade of the evening so fast that blue wine poured down his beard.

The shade of the evening was a good drink. It was drink that helped to… open the mind, for those that had the gift to see it. A drink that let you fly.

For those unaccustomed to the nectar, shade of the evening would taste disgusting, initially, before calling upon the rich sensations of memory. Euron had drunk so much of it tasted only like the blood of the world, rich and thick, staining his lips blue. It was an expensive drink to find on this side of the world, but Euron drank so much of it that his fingers would tremble the longer he went without its nectar. He needed it now, he needed the power and clarity the blue wine brought.

As soon as the wine gulped down his throat, he felt free. The world transformed into glorious shades of blue and red.

Euron heard himself laughing. High above, it was like he could see into the heavens themselves, where the storm gods shook their mighty hammers and stirred the sky itself to battle. Below him, the waves trembled and quivered, and he could see something great and ancient flexing beneath the depths. Soon .

In the darkness, there were eyes. Eyes all around him, invisible in the black, but Euron knew they were there. The world was staring at him. Watching. Cheering.

The world is watching me. Those eyes, so many eyes. This is my moment .

He felt a rush of… wisdom, awareness, hit him - like suddenly he could feel his place in the universe, see the way forward - but it was gone too quickly as the shade of the evening faded. I need more, Euron cursed. More wine, more power, more knowledge. There can be no error, not tonight .

The lower decks were flooded, ankle-deep. Water gushed over the sides. Euron splashed through the salty water and clambered upwards, stumbling drunk with the waves. The sound of his laughter broke through screams. His lower deck was crowded, filled with stirring men and the dangling of chains and slaves.

He saw restless bodies lingering in the gloomy hull, clutching blades. A few of the chained warlocks and mages were whimpering, chained against the wood.

"What is happening?" A large, monstrous man grumbled. Mall the Monstrous was a Norvoshi, born disfigured and given to the bearded priests to train as an infant. Before he even reached puberty, he had been discarded. He was a big, bloated man; his skeleton misshapen and his back hunched, but his arms were thick and strong.

"It will be battle, soon," Euron chuckled, shambling as the ship jerked in the rough seas. "Prepare yourselves."

Other men crowded around him, all eyes dark. Euron was proud of his Grotesques - he considered them the finest killers in the world.

Most of the time, the Silence's Grotesques stayed below deck, watching over the mages and spellbinders. There were Braavosi, Tyroshi, Myrish, Ghiscari, Ibbenese, Yi'Tish, Lhazareen and Sorthoryi among them - a selection of as many freaks and monsters Euron could collect. About half of them were missing tongues, but they were all chosen for their certain… temperament.

Mall the Monstrous had been sold to a freak show near Lys before Euron raided the town, the huge man's lumpy back was crisscrossed with scars. Also among them was an evil, Ghiscari dwarf clutching two daggers that was prone to raping corpses and body parts, an unnaturally tall, skinny Tyroshi man who could contort as if boneless whom Euron stole from a Astapori Master's collection, an albino Summer Islander with striking red eyes, a couple of eunuchs from the fighting pits of Meereen, a hooked-face corsair with a whip, two Ibbenese brothers with long, hairy arms and crunched faces, one malformed Ibbenese-human crossbreed, and a cone-headed Jogos Nhai rider that Euron found in the blood pits of New Ghis. Not all of them had wanted to join Euron's Grotesques, but there were ways of making them… compliant.

Typically, the ironborn sailed the ship above, but Euron's mutes, monsters and dedicated murderers had their place too.

In the corner of the hull, Euron saw the disfigured, blistered figure of Falia Flowers, her pregnant belly swollen and her arms chained to a hammock. After Euron had finished with Falia, he had gifted her to Mall the Monstrous and the other Grotesques to rape. The thought of the festering, tortured ball of hate and cruelty that was gestating inside Falia caused Euron to grin.

"Mall, you are in charge of the lower deck. Prepare the men for a fight," Euron ordered. "You know your duty?"

A twisted, swollen hand pounded against Mall's chest. His left hand was so twisted he couldn't even grip anything. "Yes, Your Holiness."

Holiness. Soon everyone will be addressing me like that, not just my Grotesques . A beefy, hairy figure stood arms folded by the doorway. "Ghrazzac," Euron called. "I appoint you in charge of my hull. Prepare Urgard and my mages."

Ghrazzac made a guttural sound that could only be agreement. The man didn't speak the Common, he didn't have the tongue, but he could understand it. Ghrazzac was of the Brindled Men from the forests of Sothoryi; massively muscled and big-boned with long arms, sloped foreheads, huge square teeth, heavy jaws, and flat noses more like snouts and thick skins brindled in patterns of brown and white more hoglike than human. Ghrazzac had been a slave once too, before the Silence raided a slave ship around the Basilisk Isles. Euron liked the man; freaks were useful, and Ghrazzac was too dim to be manipulated.

"We will need their power. Give them fire as needed, and see to it they fulfil their role," Euron continued. "Now is everything we've been working towards."

Ghrazzac grinned a bloody smile, his scars twisting. He looked more animal than man.

A wordless war cry burst from Mall the Monstrous, and the Grotesques started moving. The Silenc e was so crowded that every level was filled with bodies. "And bring me more shade of the evening!" Euron ordered. "Whatever stores we have left, I need it!"

A scarred, burnt mute brought him another satchel, with blue wine sloshing out of the mouth as the cabin lurched. Euron gulped it down hungrily. Colours twisted into shades of red and blue. Euron shambled up the red stairs, and into the storm. The decks were filled with rushing bodies, horn blasts and shouts. Euron had to clutch the guide rope leading out on deck, all the while feeling the grin widen across his face.

He could feel the shade of the evening taking effect. He could see shadows flying across the air. All around him, he could see ghostly phantoms littering the floor of the Silence . But they cannot speak, Euron thought proudly. I took out their tongues so that their ghosts could never haunt me .

All around him, the battle was only just getting started. The sound of the Silence breaking through waves was deafening.

Euron laughed.

His crew were rushing, frantically trying to fight the wind. Euron stared, and all of the men around him had no eyes. Blood dripped from their empty eye sockets. Their skins were bloated, corpse-pale and water soaked.

"Captain!" Torwold Browntooth called. Bloody water was gurgling from his mouth and half his skull had been cut open, but the man didn't seem to notice. "Orkwood has fallen. The Bloody Watchman is ablaze!"

"Their numbers?" Euron demanded.

"Three hundred vessels," Kemmett Pyke shouted from the prow, barely audible over the wind. There was a phantom arrow sticking half-through the man's skull. "Including a hundred great galleys."

Most others on the ship were dead and maimed too. The shade of the evening allowed him to see their phantoms.

In the distance, Euron saw flames and great burgundy sails. The bright red, greens and purples of their sails and banners clashed with the setting sun.

He saw three spikes breaking the sky, like the prongs on a broken crown. On the coast, the first husks of longships were burning in the shallows. He saw mammoth shapes of the great galleys up ahead, swirling in the black waters.

The Redwyne fleet had finally arrived. And the ironborn were ready.

Lord Orkwood's garrison holding Three Towers had crumbled under the force of Lord Paxter's galleys. Lord Orkwood's sons had held it valiantly, yet the size of Redwyne's fleet meant a brief battle. Raiding vessels had seen the fleet approaching, but by the time Euron's reinforcements had gathered from Blackcrown, Ryamsport, Starfish Harbor and Vinetown, the battle was already nearly over.

The castle itself was burning in black, smoky flames. Good, Lord Orkwood proved that he was a true ironborn, Euron thoughtapprovingly. He torched the castle before they allowed it to be reclaimed. May Lord Orkwood enjoy his time in the Drowned God's halls .

Around them, the seas were choppy and the wind howled. The storm that had been brewing over the Arbor was finally being released.

Yes, tonight is the night . A vision of bloody, churning seas flashed before his eyes. It will be glorious .

"Blow the horns!" Euron bellowed, shambling forwards. His Valyrian steel armour clanked. "All ships. Signal the formation and prepare for assault. Tonight we reap some grapes!"

"What about Lord Orkwood?" A young raider - Steffarion Sparr, he remembered - shouted. He had a spear through his chest. "There might still be survivors held up on Three Towers."

Who cares? "Lord Orkwood did his duty." The first sacrificial lamb of the night . "We assault the Redwyne fleet. Burning those galleys matters more than a castle."

The shadows of the Redwyne fleet loomed. As they got closer, they could see skirmishes on the beaches of Three Towers - the ironborn of the castle fighting against the Reach men, even after their longships had been crushed. Euron had no interest in relieving them. Tonight is about killing, not saving .

"We call the fleet! Bring our full force to bear!" Euron shouted.

The men on deck were but half of his tried and tested crew, with whom he'd ranged to the world's edge; the other half were nobles and heirs of the houses of the Iron Islands. Lord Goodbrother, Steffarion Sparr, Dagon Ironmaker and Quenton Sunderly and many others had all been 'invited' to crew the Silence in preparation for the battle, while their fathers or sons led other ships in the fleet.

Euron walked among his men, looking at how each one would die. "Lord Goodbrother!" Euron proclaimed. The aging lord's eyes narrowed. "As is fitting for a man of your experience, I grant you command of my deck and sails. Stonehand - you are in command of the rowers and coxswain. Kemmett Pyke, you man the crow's nest."

"Aye captain!" the Stonehand called as the bodies rushed around him. Ropes strained and wood groaned - it took ten men to drag the black masts in against the wind.

Euron saw a figure with seawater gushing from his mouth, gasping through lungs filled with salt. Euron grinned. "Rodrik Freeborn!" he announced. "I appoint you as hornblower - see to your duty below."

Rodrik Freeborn looked shocked. He was a tall, wiry man clad in the heavy chainmail - a reaver past his prime, but still as hard and as worn as rock. "Hornblower?!" Rodrik exclaimed. "I'm one of the best damn spears on this ship, and you're putting me as hornblower? Let me lead the first raid."

"Your duty is with the damn horns, see to it," Euron snapped. "You listen for my command - my command alone - and you blow accordingly. We must rally the fleet - now blow the first horn for them to muster and follow."

The hornblower was a crucial task, but hardly the most glorious one. It was a duty usually fulfilled by squires and apprentices, but tonight Euron couldn't risk any but one of his most loyal men as hornblower. The ships of the fleet would be looking to the Silence to lead, and for

this battle the Silence had been fitted with five great horns to pass instructions. They were horns of iron, silver, bone or oak, all very different shapes and sizes. The smallest horn was four feet and the largest over seven, but each one had a very distinguishable pitch and tone - the sound of which gave different orders. It was the only way to pass orders through a fleet of hundreds of ships.

He could see the fleet mustering down the Redwyne Straits. The first horn - a long, sullen sound like a whale's cry - echoed over the water. Euron saw flares and signals rise from the longships in response. My fleet has been prepared for this, he told himself. They will be ready .

He couldn't stop his heart from beating. In the distance, the Redwyne fleet grew closer.

"Lord Paxter will be angry," the Stonehand growled, smiling bloodthirsty. He was a short, stout man, the son of a salt wife; his neck, shoulders and arms marred stony black from greyscale he had had as a child. "We razed his lands into ruin and pillaged his villages. He will be eager for retribution. He will sail to meet us and we will slaughter him."

As it happened, the man was proved wrong. Even in the distance, they saw the fleet turning into the wind, flying northeast away from the Redwyne Straits. Three Towers was just a dot on the coastline now.

"He flees like a craven!" Quellon Humble snapped.

"Craven? No, it seems Lord Paxter has his wits," Lord Goodbrother called darkly. The lord was a 'guest' aboard the Silence , but a capable tactician. Yes, he will do to command the sails . "He doesn't wish to face us in open water, not when we have more ships than he does. He could lose too many if his galleys are encircled by our longships. Instead, he leads us down into the bay itself so he can fortify around Oldtown. He expects to crush us with the size of his hulls if we dare to follow."

The Stonehand's face twisted. "Then what do we do?"

"We follow, of course," Euron grinned as he stepped forward. "Blow the horns. Sound the drum. Tonight's the night - we break through their fleet and we take the attack to Oldtown itself. Come, tonight let the Drowned God sing!"

Lord Goodbrother looked nervous. "Your Grace," he said hesitantly. "Those are great galleys. The Great Kraken and the Silence are more than equal to any lesser warship, but most of our vessels are not. Our fleet is primarily longships built for raiding, not battle." He shook his head. "Only the Iron Fleet itself could stand to match the force Paxter Redwyne commands, right now we do not have the ships-"

"The ships?" Euron taunted. "We are ironborn. We can break them."

Over the horizon, he could see the immense burgundy sails and the three hundred oars of the Redwyne flagship. The Arbor Queen alone was three times the size of any ship the ironborn could field.

The sound of drums and rowers was deafening. The entire fleet was behind him, one of the largest Westeros had ever known. He could see the cliffs come into view as the ironborn fleet spilled into the bay.

The Silence led from the centre rear, alongside the Thunderer and the Dusk . The ships of House Drumm and House Harlaw kept their crews but were now captained by Euron's captains, the Red Oarsman and the Harren Half-Hoare. Euron had been sure to place his own men and allies at strategic points in the fleet.

Command of the Great Kraken, his dear brother's old flagship, had been gifted to Donnor Saltcliffe to lead the starboard rear. The Nightflyer, formerly belonging to House Blacktyde, until its lord hadbeen cut into seven pieces, was now captained by Lord Waldon Wynch to lead the port rear, along with Hotho Humpback Harlaw on the Gargoyle to support him. Germund Botley on the Silverfin and Lord Maron Volmark on the Leviathan's Wail led the front flanks,

while the Sparr led the vanguard from the centre aboard the Hatchet's Edge .

Euron could make out the greatest ships of their fleet - the Foamdrinker, the Axe Maiden, the Bone Reaper, the Last Light, the Maiden's Tears, the Forsaken, the Northern Hunter, the Salt Bitch -as they gathered around them. The strongest few of the ironborn longships were the only longships that could match war galleys, and beyond those they had hundreds of smaller vessels with a dozen oars filling the waves.

Their ranks were supported with cogs and merchant ships captured from the Arbor, gathered mostly at the front. The largest of which was a towering three-deck galleas they had captured in Raymsport - its masts still bore the golden lion of Lannister, yet the lion was crossed out in blood. The ' King Joffrey's Valour ' had been under construction when the ironborn razed the port, originally a gift from the Arbor to the Crown. It was a two hundred oar vessel, barely a quarter of which were filled, and the ship had been built by Redwynes and very hastily finished by ironborn. Barely seaworthy.

Euron had given the vessel to Eldred Codd to command from the front, but he had refused to allow anyone to change ship's name. It made Euron laugh to call her the King Joffrey's Valour .

The gathering from anchor to open water took time, and their force blanketed over the choppy seas leading to the bay. Euron didn't rush. The Redwyne fleet attacked Three Towers in the morning, and by late evening the entire force of the Iron Islands was gathering to give chase into the Honeywine. The leading longships moved faster than the galleys, but their numbers were large and Redwyne fleet had too much of a head start.

Lord Goodbrother scattered onto the deck, peering over the prow. Everyone was shouting and running, but the lord looked worried. "My king!" Lord Goodbrother called to Euron. "This is folly! Our fleet won't catch them in time before they reach Oldtown!"

Euron just smirked, and didn't respond. The lord's features were writ deep with worry.

The skies were growing dark and the storm rumbled. The wind was still building in intensity, howling through the Bay of the Whispering Sound. Rain splashed, waters churned. We will have the wind behind us, Euron thought smugly.

He ordered the coxswain to beat the drum, and the rowers to begin.

"Crow's Eye!" Lord Goodbrother bellowed once more. "We aren't ambushing them, they are ambushing us . Lord Paxter has joined up with the fleet at Oldtown and means to crush us in the harbour!"

Exactly. And we will fight straight through them. As soon they positioned themselves at the mouth of the Honeywine and the harbour, the Redwyne's forces would have a significant defensive advantage . Let the grape lord think that he has the upper hand for now .

"King!" Lord Goodbrother shouted again. "Please, stop the oars! Bring the sails in, let us take formation! A blockade, perhaps, or a landing force, but not a charge. We have more ships, but they have far more men - we cannot survive it."

The sky crackled, an enormous growl rumbling over the fleet. This storm is only just getting started . In the distance, a shadow flashedagainst the intense blue-white light. "Do you see that over the horizon, my lord?" Euron asked, pointing across his ship. "That is the Hightower itself - one of the Nine Wonders made by man." Euron grinned. Lord Goodbrother looked at him as if he were mad. Foolish little minds . "What arrogance that is, don't you think! For there areonly Seven Great Wonders made by nature, and it is the arrogance of man to think that they can do two better! Men truly believe that they can spew forth more wonders than nature?"

His eyes were wide. "Please, my lord… if we follow, then this will be a battle we cannot win."

Euron's lips stretched into a mad grin. Blue wine still stained his beard. "I am a force of nature, my lord. I am fury made flesh." He turned and bellowed to Rodrik Freeborn below. "Blow the second horn! We charge!"

The horn blew, a high-pitched screech in the wind. The Thunderer and the Dusk replied first with their flares, but the other ships followed suit. We attack with the storm . We are the storm .

Lord Goodbrother tried to object, and then Qarl the Thrall imposed over him threateningly, eyes dark, fingering two long and slender daggers on his belt. Last thing I want now is discord among the men. "Take him to oversee the scorpions on deck," Euron ordered Qarl. "But if he questions my orders again, throw him overboard." Seas red with blood . "Sound the commands! The plan has not changed.Signal the fleet to form up."

The lord was walked away, his jaw tight and his face pale. "Remember where your sons are," Euron overheard Qarl the Thrall warning Lord Goodbrother.

Above him, the clouds were churning, black and roiling. He could see the great dark storm forming, it was a pillar of the sky, an immense funnel to the gods. "Many other captains will have the same doubts, my king," Quellon Humble warned, sticking again close by Euron's side. "They are emboldened now, but their courage will fall when they see the size of the army we face."

"It doesn't matter," Euron smirked. "As soon as we enter the bay, the wind will be smashing against their backs and they'll be unable to flee even if they try to."

The ironborn were starting to chant as the rowers splashed, paeans to the Drowned God echoing over the salt water. The beacons on longships stretched out before him, sea spray crashing against hundreds of ships.

Slowly, without an obvious order, the Silence started to break ranks and fall back slightly. The Silence, the Great Kraken, the Thunderer and the Dusk were all falling back towards their positions at opposite sides on the rear ranks, to cut down any longships that tried to break formation. Hopefully, in the frenzy, few of the other captains would realise that their formations were herding certain ships towards the front.

Euron had his own captains in the most vital positions. His men would destroy ironborn ships themselves, before allowing any to flee.

The excitement didn't fade. He took another swig of shade of the evening, so he could watch the world twist around him. The blue wine dripped from stained lips, it made his head swirl, but he also felt sharper and more focused than ever.

All around them, wind grew into a frenzy. "This storm!" he heard Ralf of Lordsport call through the air. "Have you ever seen the like of it?"

"Yes," Euron laughed as he walked forward, "in my dreams!"

Euron clambered up the sails, so he could bellow orders from the crow's nest. He clutched the rope tightly, heavy raindrops bouncing of his Valyrian armour, feeling the whole ship shudder below. I will not die. Death cannot take me .

He hung metres off the roaring seas, bellowing and laughing so loud that even the ships either side of him could hear. "Tonight we reap the Garden! Tonight we break the Tower!" he roared. "Forward! Forward, reavers! Slam the drums and man the oars! We bring the Drowned God's fury!"

The war drums were ringing. The ironborn fleet sailed through the storm, each man chanting and singing over the howl of the wind. " By the Drowned God's fury! " the reavers chanted, banging axesagainst shields. " By salt, stone and steel! Salt, stone and steel! Salt, stone and steel! "

What is dead may never die! " Euron bellowed.

BUT RISES AGAIN! HARDER! STRONGER! "

Yes, he thought happily. There's nothing like a storm and a charge to build up passions and quench rational thought .

The leading ranks were of all the smaller vessels, captured carracks or cogs or longships of a dozen oars, a fleet of the weak so thick it could blanket the sea. Oars splashed, warriors pounded drums. Every fighter was wearing heavy iron as the rowers swept saltwater to the heartbeat of war.

So many will fall to the Drowned God today, but we are ironborn. Tis a gift.

From the prow of Euron's ship, the Damphair was screeching and wailing madly, but he couldn't make out the words over the sound of the storm. "Bring my brother in from the prow!" Euron said to the Stonehand, like an afterthought. "Poor Aeron shouldn't die yet. He has yet to meet his god."

The Bay of the Whispering Sound was screaming. He felt the wind batter the ships, fighting against the current, jerking with every wave. They broke through the bay, sailing up towards the small isles scattering the harbour around the mouth of the Honeywine.

The storm only grew, until every man was struggling to wrestle with the flapping sails.

And in the distance, the blob of lights of Oldtown became clearer. They hoisted up great torches from the docks and walls, but It was too dark to make out any detail in the city. The sky was pitch black, but they could see the shadows of hundreds of vessels of the Reach, highlighted by the pinpricks of torches on their prows. Above them, the great lamp atop the Hightower shone. Like a giant flaming eye in the darkness, brighter than the moon.

The Hightower was huge. Nine hundred feet high, an absolutely gargantuan stone structure, pronged like a crown, the giant lantern glowing ghostly yellow in the dark.

Bells rung from the city, another chime in the deafening orchestra of the world. The great bell of the tower boomed like thunder.

The solid wall of vessels approached. The city was ready for a fight, and the ironborn rushed to meet them.

"We have the wind on our side!" Queer Qarl Kenning bellowed. "We sail against them and smash them with the force of the storm!"

The lights became close. The lights of a city, and strong walls and defenders filling the docks. "We have the wind." Steffarion Sparr's voice sounded grimmer. "But they have the numbers."

More and more vessels became visible as the isles emerged. The Hightower sat on the Battle Isle, at the mouth of the Honeywine, while the ships streamed out from the harbour.

The ships of the green lands sailed to meet them. Their sails and hulls were covered in bright colours, banners and heraldry, stark contrast to the bleak and grey vessels of the ironborn. The fleet of the Reach pulled their sails in tightly, battering together against the winds and shouting for formation. They fastened ships together with ropes and grapnels to keep tight rank, their sails high and their oars fighting against the waves.

He saw the burgundy sails of the Arbor Queen at the front of the barricade.

Lord Paxter angles his ships prow first, Euron noted, skewed along the window and roped into formation. A wall of ships, to meet us head on. But he chooses to use his most valuable vessels at the front . It wasn't an unwise decision, though it was an exploitable one.

More and more shapes took form from the darkness. Great banners of Hightower, Redwyne, Tyrell, Tarly and Rowan came into view first. The Redwyne galleys hunkered together, forming a solid wall across the harbour while the fleets of Oldtown poured in from the flanks.

Boom. Boom. Boom. The crashes exploded into the air, as sharp as thunder. Euron saw heavy shapes clattering in the air.

Their booms were so loud, it could have been thunder. From atop the Hightower itself, the arms of immense stonethrowers unravelled, launching projectiles from higher and further than any Euron had seen before. He heard the splash as they crashed into the ocean with the rain; still too early to hit any of their ships, but coming frighteningly near. They are testing their range in this wind .

Barrels filled with stones, Euron guessed. The great stonethrowers on the tower could barely aim at all in winds like these, and they had to use light and dense projectiles that would scatter in the storm. Doubtless as we get closer they'll be supported by siege weapons from the docks and walls too. It doesn't matter .

There was only a brief window while their trebuchets would be devastating - but after their ranks collided the greenlanders wouldn't be able to risk firing their siege weapons without hitting their own ships.

"The Stonehouse and Lord Sunderly are raising flares to retreat!" Ralf of Lordsport shouted.

"Ignore them," Euron ordered. "Blow the second horn again. The charge continues!"

The sharp horn blast sounded strangely forlorn amidst the storm.

Euron could feel the mood changing quickly.

Oh yes. Euron could only laugh. The weakest of their number would likely break in fear, but his men were positioned to ensure none would stop the charge. My men know their duty .

Around them, the fleet's oars were being pulled by thralls captured in the Arbor. There were thousands of farmers and fishermen that had been captured and put to work, and then whipped until all rebellion died in them. Euron promised that any thrall that could not keep pace to the drumbeat would be thrown overboard. Each time a thrall collapsed in a pool of blood and sweat, they were replaced by another prisoner from their hold. All of the oars of the ships moved sharply, frantically.

The ironborn had razed the Arbor to all hell, capturing thousands of thralls and salt wives. They will speak of the devastation I brought to the Arbor for a hundred years, Euron thought smugly. But it will be nothing compared to what I will bring to Oldtown .

Once the news of his brutality in the Redwyne Straits had spread, it was little wonder that House Tyrell had assembled such a force to face him. Even despite the wars brewing in King's Landing, the Reach must have mustered absolutely every single man and ship they could spare to try to meet him here today. Euron saw banners bearing roses and towers, huntsmen and centaurs, knights and castles, foxes and weasels, cranes, swans and pelicans, butterflies and yellow suns, apples and horns of fruit, golden trees and oak leaves, dolphins, wyverns and lions. More heraldry than Euron recognised, or could ever care to learn.

"How many are there?" Dagon Ironmaker demanded.

"I count a hundred of Redwyne warships leading the fleet, another hundred ships supporting their rear," Kemmet Pyke replied from the perch on the mast. "Thirty from House Hightower and Tyrell each. Another hundred assembled ships from other houses. At least two hundred so from Oldtown's docks fill the ranks, merchant vessels and cogs included. No more than five hundred, I say."

Five hundred vessels then, of greatly varying quality, but most were much far bigger than the standard longship. A ragtag fleet could be overcome, though, the true risk was still the warships. "They have more men than they have ships to carry them!" Lord Goodbrother

warned, twitching fearfully. "Each one of their vessels will be overcrowded with swords, if they've even had to seize merchant ships to carry all their men."

Whereas we are the opposite. I have over four hundred ships yet not enough fighting men to properly fill them .

"It will be the Redwyne ships that will hit us first!" Euron chuckled. "Strong galleys built for war - they will hold like a wall and crush us with their size. I expect Hightower will lead their ships along the flank, to cut through our number while we grapple with the Redwynes. The assorted ships will hold position at their rear; they can't risk such a ragtag fleet ruining their own formation." He scratched his beard. "Yes, Lord Paxter proves himself a capable strategist. He risks taking heavy losses against our rams, but after the charge we will only lose momentum and positioning while they will gain it."

"Look to the east and south!" Steffarion Sparr shouted, voice cracking. "There are hosts of men on the beaches, in formation."

Across the coasts, they could see men on horseback riding along the beaches, following the fleet. Men jabbed wooden spikes into the rocky sand, and raised roses on their banners. The thorns sought to trap them, to hold the coasts while the ships clashed. Lord Meldred Merlyn had wanted to take a force of men on the beaches too, to support the naval assault, but Euron refused. True ironborn fight at sea .

"Aye, the Tyrells mean to stop us disembarking, they pre-empt us setting a beachhead. If any of our ships go near the coast we will suffer for it," Euron agreed. Not that it matters. I always intended this as purely a naval battle .

"How many men do think there are against us?" Dagon Ironmaker shouted. "Lord Orkwood feared forty thousand."

Euron shook his head. "No, we've made our intentions very clear, and they've met us in kind. I expect sixty thousand ."

There was a mumble through the men. "We will give glory to the Drowned God tonight," the Stonehand mumbled.

Oh yes we will. Nine thousand against sixty. Absolutely perfect. They will remember this as the greatest victory since the Fields of Fire.

There were more booms. The stonethrowers had launched another volley, and this time he heard screams and crashes. Wood shattering under the force of rock. The first deaths of the night, at the fringes of their front rank. Dozens dead maybe, but it wasn't enough.

More and more screams, and Euron could barely make out half of them.

"Garrison on the Bloody Isle! More trebuchets being readied!"

"I see reserves on the wall!"

"There are forces on the starboard and port taking position!" another voice called, cracked with fear. "They mean to trap us in the harbour!"

Euron could see the longbows and scorpions being readied. Then there were horns blown from their rear.

"My king!" Kemmett Pyke bellowed, loud enough to cut through all others. "Lights to our rear! Fifty or so heavy cogs!"

They heard the whine of distress horns to their rear. He saw longships raising red flares. Euron was totally unsurprised, but a ripple of fear started to pass through the Silence . So even my men can still feel nerves. They are only mortal, I suppose . "But ofcourse," Euron laughed. "Lord Paxter has entrapped us. While we chased after his vessels, he left a small but heavy force behind the

cape, to follow us as we chased the main fleet. He means to entrap us in the Honeywine."

And yet his trap only serves us . One of Euron's biggest concerns had been if his own ironborn would desert him in the battle. By entrapping them with a rear force, Lord Paxter Redwyne had quite helpfully ensured that no ironborn would escape even if their courage did break. Between the trap and the storm, there was no choice but to fight to the death. Trapped men would fight crazed.

A few men gawked at him. "There will be no retreat in this battle," Euron promised. "But what do enemies behind us matter, when we will be attacking forward?"

He saw Lord Goodbrother's face was pale and his eyes wide. The man might have been trying to speak, but the experienced captain could only stammer in fear. Euron had taken steps to ensure this would be a battle that held nothing back.

Yes, they are in a good position . They will expect a bitter battle, but one that they would win. Lord Redwyne's trap would embolden them to commit as many men as they had into the battle. The Reach intended to slaughter the ironborn soundly, and so they were holding little back. And thank you for that, for my plan only works if both sides clash in full force .

He hadn't been sure whether or not the defenders would try to hole up in Oldtown. That would have been bad - trying to lay siege to the city would go poorly for Euron. Instead, he had needed to provoke them into meeting him with force. He spent his time razing the fields of the Arbor into ash, and taking slaves by the thousands, to provoke the Reach so badly that they would have no choice but to muster an army to crush him. They would not allow him to bring such destruction to their precious green lands, so they had rallied every farmer's boy and greybeard in all the land to fight.

That they were able to gather such a host even despite how occupied Mace Tyrell was in King's Landing… it was a testament to

how gravely Euron had provoked them.

It had taken months of planning for this very moment. First, he had to embolden his own army with easy victories in the Shields and the Arbor. Then, he had to make sure there was no one to deny him when ordered to a full-scale assault on Oldtown. All of the objectionable voices in his fleet, his brother included, had been quietly weeded out or distracted.

It hadn't been easy. Even among ironborn, it had been a tall order to convince nine thousand men to sail into the bloodiest battle of their lives. Euron had no delusions about how many would be surviving.

Let's see… Lord Paxter Redwyne commands the battle from the Arbor Queen, while one of the Hightower's sons leads the rear from Honour of Oldtown . Garlan Tyrell will likely lead the force on either the Bloody Isle or the docks .

There was nothing to be done about the heavy siege weapons on the Battle Isle, they could only be endured. He had seen them gathering in the glass candles.

The Honeywine was a deep and slow river. So many ships blanketed the black, churning waters. The sound of the drums and oars felt like the frenzied heartbeat of an enormous god.

The sky seemed to crack. The rain poured from the rumbling clouds, heavy droplets splashing over axes and helms. The beats of the drums seemed to grow into a frenzy.

"It seems the Drowned God won't allow defeat either! Can you hear him blowing his horn?" Euron shouted as the sky crackled. "The Drowned God has called forth a storm for us! The only way forward is over the ruins of our enemies!"

"This is madness!" Dagon Ironmaker trembled, struggling to clamber against the wind. "They are lining up prow first! We cannot ram against a formation like that!"

"We can. Brave men can do whatever they want." They just won't survive doing it .

The first salvo of arrows filled the sky. Euron heard men in the front ranks screaming, clutching shields, trying to take shelter while still rowing.

"Who commands from the front?" Steffarion Sparr gasped.

"That would be the Lords Codd, Sharp and Myre, with Harlaw and Stonetree not far behind."

"Tis a slaughter," the young man gasped. Another boulder fell from the air, and a longship shattered into splinters. The sounds of screams, waves and snapping wood all mixed together in an immense boom.

The front row of longships collided with the Redwyne formation. One after another, like bloated ants trying to swarm giants. The longships looked so tiny compared to the bulk of the galleys. Euron could hear the screams even above the storm as the arrows cut them down. He had given the privilege of leading the front rank to a select few reavers, all of them sons of salt wives or lesser lords.

More and more flares requesting asking to retreat were raised, but Euron didn't return them. They would all look to the Silence for their lead, but the Silence was merciless. "Raise the red banner," Euron ordered. "Make sure every ship knows to keep the charge."

Besides Euron, Quellon Humble shook his head grimly. "It's a bloody slaughter," he muttered. "Longships that size don't stand a chance against ships like that."

"They were never meant to."

Euron's grin widened. The Redwyne ships were slaughtering one longship after another, but he could still see the warships hesitating. They are starting to realise, Euron thought happily.

The sounds coming from the breaking longships were not the cries of warriors.

"Do you want to know what every ship I placed in the front rank has in common?" Euron chuckling, his smiling eye shining. "They are all full of slaves . Every single one of them has their hulls filled to the brim with thralls taken from the Arbor."

From ahead of them, he could hear the screams of panic and pain as arrows and bolts shredded the hulls to pieces. The Arbor fleet looked to be shifting and shouting - the men on board must have finally noticed that the men they were shooting at weren't enemies.

That wreckage started to fill the bay, shattered husks of longships grinding against the Arbor fleet in the waves. It was a slaughter, but not of ironborn. The churning salt waters began to darken with red.

Hundreds dead, maybe. But this is just beginning .

"Aye, Lord Paxter is killing more of his own people than he is mine," Euron chuckled, before shouting. "Signal the second rank to assault! All sails forward!"

The second rank was more of the same; there were at least twenty thralls and slaves for every one ironborn. Another set of sacrificial goats. By now, Lord Redwyne's men must be feeling rather unnerved .

Lord Goodbrother stared at him with horror. "This is your formation… sending ships to the slaughter en masse! What are you doing here?"

Euron laughed. "They want blood, I will give them blood. I will send more and more ships at him; until they run out of arrows and their men's courage breaks. Let them listen to the screams of our slaves - let them kill their own smallfolk one after another."

Euron knew that at least a dozen of those longships had been filled solely with children. Even hardened soldiers weren't emotionless.

And they're greenlanders. Not ironborn .

If Lord Paxter broke ranks to try and rescue the slaves, he risked letting ironborn through. And yet, if he didn't, his men would become more and more distressed.

Even in the dark, even in the spraying salt, Euron could see it. The hulls of Redwyne's galleys were losing formation, all the while the wreckage of longships drifted against them. Bodies floated thick in the water, some of them still screaming. Euron saw slaves and thralls begging for mercy, trying uselessly to clamber up Redwyne's hulls to escape the churning waters. Lord Redwyne must know they couldn't break formation to rescue them, but that wasn't an easy thing for mortal men to accept.

And that's why he will lose. He cares about things like innocence or justice. 'Morality', Euron had to stop himself laughing with the thought . He is only mortal. I will be something greater .

The men of the Arbor fleet were panicking, losing control. The wind and waves and the wreckage were taking their toll. Many ships cut down the enslaved smallfolk climbing onto their decks, fleeing the salt. Others lost their rank to rescue as many as they could. Redwyne's formation, his wall of a hundred galleys, began to splinter.

But from behind, the cogs attacking the ironborn's rear were quickly enclosing, entrapping them into the bay.

"Signal the third rank!" Euron ordered. "Break their formation apart!"

The Silence sat on the fifth rank, along with the bulk of his main strength. He could see the battle coming closer. Wreckage groaned against the galleys. Lord Waldon Winch and Hotho Harlaw were doing a valiant job holding back the Hightower ships moving in from the starboard flank, but Euron wanted his true force focused at the Redwyne warships. Like a lance to their shield.

More and more arrows and stones fell from the sky. Shafts poured like the rain, great boulders crashed like thunder.

Their losses were drastic already, but the tide of ironborn didn't stop - as relentless as the waves and growing more and more frantic. All above him, the ships were being forced into the meatgrinder one after another, and Euron could feel the air slipping into pure chaos.

"The King Joffrey's Valour is taking the line!" the Stonehand announced, banging his axe against his shield.

"Then let us beat the drums for our valiant flagship!" Euron cackled through the wind. "Beat the drums! Beat them louder!"

The King Joffrey's Valour shuddered uncertainly in the waves. The huge galleas was wobbling, threatening to keel and sloping in the rocky water, but its huge sails pushed it forward. It was the largest ship in the ironborn armada, but barely even seaworthy. Arrows and scorpion bolts pierced its hull, its mast quivering, but the galleas tumbled straight into the wall of wreckage.

The ship was all oak and solid construction. Even without its oars, the huge sails swept it forward - an unstoppable mass in a straight charge. The captain didn't back down for a second.

Brave Eldred Codd, Euron thought. He knows what is expected of him . "Forward!" Euron boomed. "Their lines will be breaking, forward !"

In the dark, he glimpsed ironborn jumping off the hull into the water. Bodies pouring into the churning waters. The King Joffrey's Valour was groaning, tearing itself apart, but pounding towards two of the great warships. They tried to flee out of the way, but their ranks were too tight and they couldn't turn into the headwind. He could see their men were panicking, the storm was pushing them backwards almost as much as the ironborn were.

Euron recognised the galley with yellow and green sails; a great warship, the Pride of the Reach . The King Joffrey's Valour crashed straight into it.

When they collided, Euron felt the immense thud, a boom shocking through the water. Screams, panic, solid oak splintering into pieces. The grinding of solid wood, splintering under pure force.

He saw the King Joffrey's Valour buckle and capsize, turning over itself as the wind swept up the pieces. The Pride of the Reach broke, a great rent torn into its side, and then both immense vessels were twisting in the water. Ropes snapped and men desperately leapt overboard, bodies churning in the waves.

On-board the Silence, the men were clanging their shields to the beat of screams. "You sent those men to their deaths," Lord Goodbrother gasped. "All of those men…"

"My men walked willingly," Euron said with a smirk. "My men know that godliness demands sacrifice." I spent a long time teaching them such .

"Forward!" the Stonehand was bellowing to the rowers. "Faster! Forward! Forward !"

All around him, ships were being crushed into wrecks. The Gargoyle and the Silverfin had collided against the Honour of Oldtown, the Nightflyer crashing against the Vigil . He saw the Great Kraken crushing the Wise King Urrigon, and then the Hatchet's Edge struggling against a great cog with purple sails and a spiked ram.

Their flanks were collapsing inwards. His army was left mad with fear, but they would charge forward into the meatgrinder because there was no choice of retreat. The storm and wind howled like a mad beast.

Still, he saw the formation of the Redwyne fleet slipping. The Arbor Queen was left flailing against the tide of bodies and wreckage.

There were men on the flotsam, hacking bodies, raining arrows and churning waters. Survivors in the ocean fought frantically to stay afloat, hands clawing uselessly at the sleek hulls. Euron didn't stop to rescue anyone.

Lord Paxter chose to meet us on the water, his great warships first.

Let us make him regret that choice.

"Signal the Thunderer and the Dusk," Euron ordered. "Bring us into the battle."

In front of them, the King Joffrey's Valour had split into half. One half was sinking, yet the other half was still dragging the Pride of the Reach down with it. It gave Euron one last chuckle at King's Joffrey Valour .

"The port rank is being slaughtered!" Lord Goodbrother screamed. "Hotho Humpback raises a distress flare, and the Leviathan's Wail is taking on water. They're breaking us from the sides."

Damn, I've taken on too many new crewmembers, Euron cursed. He had to - he had needed spread his loyal and proven men out over the fleet - but in doing so he been required to refill the Silence's own ranks with new ironborn. They were all seasoned warriors, the veterans of many raids, but they weren't the men who had sailed with the Silence from Valyria to Ibben to Asshai. My old crew would never be so cowardly .

"And we will break them from the front. I told you; there will be no retreat here, my lord," Euron replied, before turning to the Stonehand. In the choppy waves, he needed to clutch the roping so tight it hurt. "Bring the Silence into the fight. We take down the Golden Antler, signal the Dusk and the Thunderer charge the Gardener's Glory ."

"What of the Arbor Queen ?"

"Leave them, let Lord Paxter flail against the headwind. We have done our damage; abandon the assault against the centre and focus on the starboard side."

"'Done' our damage?" Lord Goodbrother shouted incredulously. "We've lost over a quarter of our ships and for what? Half a dozen of theirs? They're slaughtering us here! "

We broke their formation. In a battle like this, as soon as their formations break everything snaps. "Aye, and can you not see the crack in their rank? Lord Redwyne is struggling to keep control. We charge the Golden Antler leading their starboard and the Arbor Queen will have to tack to intervene. She'll fall back in the wind, we open up the crack a bit more, and then the Great Kraken will drive in the lance." Euron laughed madly, taking another swig of shade of the evening. "Push through them, turn their numbers into a weakness!"

The wreckage of broken ships bounced off their hull. The black scorpions of the Silence thudded, firing flaming bolts ahead. The ocean was screaming. Some of his men called for ropes to throw to the bodies in the water.

"Leave them," Euron ordered. "We will not rescue cravens, and if they were true ironborn then they would have sunk."

Flailing hands scraped at his ship, bodies trying desperately to stay afloat. One man grabbed a hold of an oar and almost managed to pull himself aboard, until a mute put an arrow in his eye.

The Oldtown fleet didn't look so well-positioned now. Large galleys were not manoeuvrable. As soon as we push through them, they will struggle to turn to face us. Their own ships will block each other as we push deeper into their ranks .

The battle would turn close and bloody. It is time for my Grotesques to prove their worth .

Arrows thudded against their hull. Both the Golden Antler and Gardener's Glory were bracing for the Silence . A ship bearing a green huntsman on their port was coming into intercept them. The galleys had the mass, but the longships had the speed and momentum. "Bring in the sails and twist to port!" Euron bellowed. "Prepare to ram and prepare to board. Rorq, you're leading the charge over the prow!"

"You would attack prow to deck?" Lord Goodbrother paled. "That is suicide."

Euron turned to Rorq. The Tyroshi was short and scarred, grim and one-eyed. He had a hooked blade instead of a right hand, and a spear in his left. Euron had cut off Rorq's right hand years ago, during a fit of rage.

"What say you, Rorq?" Euron asked. "Do you have any qualms going prow to deck?"

"None, my king," Rorq grumbled, bowing deeply. "For the glory of our god."

"Good man." Euron turned back to Lord Goodbrother. The fat lord was trembling in his chainmail. "There is no fear of death on this vessel, my lord. We are holy men; each one is worth ten cravens."

Lord Goodbrother looked at him, and then at his crew, as if they were all monsters. They were.

The noise and the chaos was reaching fever pitch. Two boulders from the stonethrowers crashed to either side of the ship, making it shudder on the water. Many of the crew were screaming or panicking, but not Euron's men. The Silence's killers were emerging from the hold, mute and scarred men clutching barbed weapons. He saw Mall the Monstrous clutching a warhammer with his one good hand, and booming orders in his grumbling, lispy voice.

It was a good time to clear the decks. The Silence had rammed many ships before, but few in winds like these, with this speed and force. Euron stumbled, still drinking wine, as he pulled himself towards the stairs.

"Signal Ghrazzac," Euron ordered to Mall as he passed. "His time is coming up."

Around them, Euron watched the Great Kraken break ranks, turning portside to meet a cog spitting flaming pots. The Honour of Oldtown was shoving its way through smaller ships and into their lines. The ironborn were folding, but there was no retreat. The Stonehand was screaming on deck while the waves rocked. "Brace!" the voice bellowed. "Brace! Brace! Brace!"

The galleys were so close that Euron could hear men screaming the same from the Golden Antler . The mouthless iron maiden cresting the Silence's prow gleamed eerily in the smoky gloom.

Euron went below deck, and calmly took his position hiding under the stairs. He sat down on the wet wood, placed his feet upwards, and braced for impact.

Still, the Stonehand's voice shouted on repeat, growing in pitch and trying to drown out the chaos. " Brace! Brace! Brace! "

Euron took his position clutching to the ropes on the stairway below deck, taking a deep breath in the dark. He had no interest in being on deck for the fighting, not yet. Beneath the stairway, a mumbling gasping shape discarded in the fighting. Euron grinned as he recognised the gaunt figure.

It had taken three men to drag Aeron Greyjoy up from the prow, but the man was all bone and rags. Euron's men must have had dumped the Damphair down the stairs beneath deck during all the chaos. Aeron was a man on death's door, his arms so frail he couldn't even pull himself up.

Instead, Euron shuffled himself closer to his brother. Euron kneeled down and wrapped his arms around the Damphair's shoulders, holding him securely and bracing for collision. His gauntleted hand softly stroked Aeron's gaunt cheek. The man tried to squirm, but he was weak, delirious. Euron's grip was gentle, comforting.

"This is the moment, brother," Euron whispered softly into Aeron's ear. "These are the last days, when the world will be broken and remade. Kneel, bother. I am your king, your god. Worship me, see my divinity, and I will raise you to be my priest."

"You… You…" Aeron wheezed weakly. " You are mad…" Euron only laughed.

The Silence was trembling. He could hear the arrows thudding, the rain pounding and the storm howling. Still, that voice bellowed intensely, " BRACE! Now, brace! Brace, brace, brace… !"

"Just keep your eyes open, brother," Euron whispered. "Watch me and see true power."

You will bow before me. I have seen it .

With that, he yanked Aeron's salt-soaked long hair, pulled his head backwards, and poured the shade of the evening down his brother's throat. The man sputtered and gasped, drowning in the blue wine.

Why can't you see what I see?

Euron let Aeron fall, sputtering and he gulped down the last of the shade of the evening in the skin himself. Blue-white light filled the air, a bolt of lightning bursting against the Hightower.

Everything blurred. There was one final, strangled scream, " BRA- "

The boom was tremendous. Euron kept his legs pinned up against the wall, but the impact still nearly snapped his spine.

The ships collided. The sound was more intense than thunder. First there were screams, and then there was nothing but grinding wood against the iron lady of the Silence . Solid iron crunched, tearing the figurehead off the prow.

Wood screeched, men shrieked. Two ships were groaning against each other, but the Silence pushed its way through. The Golden Antler was bigger, but the Silence moved faster and more fiercely.

Euron almost crumpled with the crash, but he was laughing through the pain in his chest. All around him, reavers and Grotesques were bursting out on to deck, and men screeching for more grapnels, more arrows and more shields.

In his arms, the Damphair was wailing nonsensically, like a mewling babe. The sound reminded Euron of his childhood, and the creaking of the rusted iron hinge.

He heard thuds so loud that they drowned out the storm. The Thunderer and the Dusk collided next to them, bringing their mainforce to bear. The rear ranks of the ironborn had joined the battle with their most powerful ships, and he could feel the Redwyne fleet buckling.

They were breaking into the harbour.

All around him, the world was red. With the shade of the evening pulsing through his body, Euron could see so, so clearly. The white veins in the sky were breaking, and the world itself was bleeding.

"More blood," Euron gasped. "I need more blood."

He tripped as he stumbled to his feet, clutching the rope with both hands against the quivering ocean. He had to drag himself up onto the deck, and the Golden Antler was already breaking against the force of the Silence . Euron's Grotesques had been released - every freak, mute and murderer the Silence had to offer, burst over the deck.

He saw Rorq leap over the prow and onto the deck, only to miss horribly and bounce into the water, limbs crushing. The men behind him didn't even hesitate as they jumped after him.

The ram had split the Golden Antler's hull open, and Rorq's vanguard was already slaughtering the men on the crippled ship. He saw iron lady from the Silence's prow left jammed into the rent on the through ship's deck.

Euron saw Kemmett Pyke crumple out of the masts and thud onto the red decks, with an arrow in his eye. The rocking took his body into the frothing red waves.

Lord Goodbrother was left crazed in panic, but the Stonehand stepped up. "Raise the sails to starboard, pull tight!" the Stonehand bellowed. "We push through! Through! "

Euron could see the Thunderer ramming the Gardener's Glory, and then the Tarly vessel rammed them. All around him, ships collided one after another. The wind had pushed them all backwards towards the harbour of Oldtown, and all order collapsed.

There were no more stones being launched from the Hightower. The ships were left metres apart, pushing through each other.

"The Great Kraken has fallen!" Euron didn't know who was screaming, but the voice was quivering with fear. "The Honour of Oldtown has brought her down."

"Forward!" the shout continued. "Forward, forward, forward !"

The Golden Antler was done, but his reavers were left to fall with it. The Silence was already breaking through the ranks, and the galleys couldn't turn to stop her. Then the Dusk was through too, and then the Nightflyer, and then the Gargoyle…

"Give them all to the Drowned God!" Quellon Humble bellowed, swinging an axe. "What is dead may never die!"

" But rises again! " the chant of men replied. " Stronger! Harder! "

Others ships were chanting too. He saw the Gardener's Glory capsizing in the wind. Warships burning, bodies thick in the water.

"More blood," Euron growled, and then raised his voice. "More blood!"

He drew both his swords. Nightfall in his left, Red Rain in his right.

The world was churning, spasming, bleeding.

Cogs came to meet them. Arrows, ropes and men. The two ships scraped against each other, and then soldiers were jumping the gap from both ways. Euron saw bodies crashing, men with swords and boiled leathers, but they weren't even human to him now. They were just corpses that hadn't yet fallen.

Valyrian steel flashed. This time, Euron was at the front of the battle. Two bodies fell, then three, then five, then six…

"More blood!" Euron heard someone screaming. It was his voice. "

We need more blood! "

The cog was burning. The Silence pushed its way through, yet there was another ship to the right. The ships and flotsam were so thick that a man might have walked all the way across the harbour, but the water churned so violently. No more battle lines here, only crazed frenzy.

So many screams that the ocean seemed alive.

Even the most veteran reaver had never, ever experienced a battle like this. There was something in the air that turned men berserk with panic. The storm had a bloodthirsty edge to it.

The Thunderer collapsed, but its men were still fighting. Euron glimpsed the Red Oarsman, spear lunging, defiant to the last as he cut a bloody path through Tarly men with his spear.

On the Silence's other side, the Gargoyle was burning. Euron heard Hotho Humpback wailing and shrieking as the ship went down.

"Blow the horn, Rodrik!" Euron bellowed. " Blow the horn! "

From below deck, the third horn blew. It was a strangled, desperate cry, like the cry of a pained animal. Rodrik Freeborn did his duty - he strapped himself in and blew the horns. The third horn was a signal for Euron's loyal men, with orders he didn't trust to most captains.

Heavy footsteps clambered out onto deck. Euron saw Ghrazzac stepping out as he hoisting a flailing, screaming body who was wrestling uselessly against the Brindled Man's bulk. The Brindled Man knew no fear, no disobedience. The man being carried was bald and clad in filthy, shredded blue robes with blue lips, screaming nonsensically. "Pryat, pryat!" the warlock screamed, right up until Ghrazzac tore open the man's throat with his beefy hands and threw the thrashing body out into the red water.

There were other Grotesques behind Ghrazzac, each marching mages up from the hull to be slaughtered and given the waves.

Euron had given his men explicit orders; when the time came, they were to kill every mage, warlock and spellbinder on-board and toss their bodies overboard, one after another. Execute them all until it was enough .

The death of a single mage was sacrifice enough to bring forth a storm. Euron would sacrifice hundreds to bring forth a god.

Ships crashed. The decks were littered with arrows and bodies. Lord Redwyne had planned this battle for a mortal, sane man, but Euron had given him a storm instead. Their men were panicked, frightened. The battle was turning, and the Redwyne fleet was suffering losses they had never expected. It sounded like the sky itself was applauding.

Euron felt himself howl with laughter. "She's keeling!" a voice called. "The Arbor Queen is keeling!"

He saw the burgundy sails of the great flagship ahead. Their masts were tearing trying to fight the wind. "We bring her down!" Euron bellowed. Lightning flashed, so close the booming thunder was instantaneous. The mast of a ship exploded into blazing sparks. "Paint the sea red! We need more blood!"

He stepped to the prow, staring around him. There were crew boats in the water, and fighting on every deck. Waves smashed and ships crashed, and all the while the mad, maniac laughter burst from Euron's throat. Visions of red, black and white swirled before his eyes.

"Can you not feel it?" He screamed. "Can you not feel the heavens applauding us? The sea is rumbling - the Drowned God hungers !"

Bodies wrestling on the deck, arrows falling. He heard screams for the rowers to push forward, forcing their way through the wreckage churning in the waves. In the middle of the battle, Euron stood and laughed.

"We stand at the dawn of a new age! The storm that will break the earth and shatter the heavens! The bleeding star bespoke the end, these are the final days and a gibbering god will be raised from the graves and charnel pits to forth bring their end!" Euron shrieked as his swords swept left and right, each stroke a bloody brush painting the world red. "Feel the beating of the world, feel the waves, feel the wind! Feel the force of all nature itself swirling around us, that is what we give blood for, that is ineffable truth for which we sacrifice our bodies!

"There is no tribute more sacred than that of an axe through a skull! No greater glory than killing and dying for a higher power. Divinity is blood - the gods are built from pain and death and devotion! The drowned men gave you naught but tales and stories of gods and glories, but I can give shape to myth!"

The warship in front of them was blazing in blood-red flames as the waves swallowed it, men disappearing into the dark water. "For every man that falls into the water, we rise up! Rise up to greater heights, and the glory of eternal sacrifice! There is no place for fear or hesitation - this is my gift . You will all bear witness to the rise of a god, what is the value of your lives compared to that?"

Bodies fell, faster and faster. Euron saw Torwold Browntooth take an axe through the skull. "We have a new destiny before us, waiting for our grasp," Euron screamed, "and we must leap for it! Leap for it and fly !"

He was still screaming maniacally, the words almost nonsensical, as a cog crashed into the port of the Silence . The ship cracked, and groaned as the waves and wind wrestled around it.

Then they were all the way through the harbour, pushing against the Battle Isle and right underneath the Hightower itself. The defenders were struggling to force their way through each other to stop the ironborn, but the storm never ceased.

The ocean shuddered as the Arbor Queen smashed through the Nightflyer . Lord Waldon Wynch didn't stand a chance. The flagshipwas recovering, reclaiming its might. She was a strong ship, twisting in front of the Silence like a leviathan. Even when caught against the wind and attacked from the rear, the Arbor Queen didn't fall - the great galleas was too large even for the Silence to ram.

There was a huge groan, and the Silence shook so violently Euron felt his entire body bounce. Men were swashed off the deck as she jerked, swept away like insects helpless in the elements. The sails, Euron saw. He could see the wood tearing, almost in slow motion.

Solid planks rippled like paper. The black sails of his ship had finally cracked, tearing off the main mast. Ropes snapped and the rigging buckled.

The mast collided against the deck so hard the impact rattled his bones, and the whole ship was sloping.

Men were struggling to keep control. Ahead of him, he saw the Arbor Queen pushing her way through. The Redwyne fleet had suffered in the ironborn charge, but now the longships were losing against the wind too and the fleet of the Reach was rallying. The rocks of the Battle Isle were before them, and the furious currents crushed ships against the shallows.

"Crow's Eye!" a voice screamed. " Crow's Eye! " Euron saw Lord Goodbrother, bleeding from a gash across his brow, scattering up towards. The ship rocked so violently the men had to clutch the ropes just to hold on. Trying to fight, sail and hold on for the dear life at the same time. Red oak planks tore like parchment. "Crow's Eye, the battle is lost! We must retreat! "

"Retreat?" The thought was outrageous. Are these mortals really so blind? Why can no one see what I can?

"Retreat!" Lord Goodbrother shrieking, voice cracking. "Rally whatever ships we still can, try to force our way out of the harbour! We have lost !"

Euron shook his head. "How many times must I say it, my lord? There will be no retreat here. Rally the ships to attack, we focus on the Arbor Queen . There is still more blood to be spilled."

The lord's face twisted in pure horror, stammering as he tried to speak. It looked like the lord had soiled himself. "You're - you're… they're crushing us, we can't-"

Euron drew Red Rain and placed it under the lord's throat. The Valyrian steel blade came so close it drew a dribble of blood from his chin. "I told you. We need more blood," Euron growled, but he was still grinning. "Now, I would prefer it if it they were the ones to bleed, but if not your blood will suffice. Do you understand? " Eyes bulged but there was nothing from the lord's throat but frenzied gasps. " Now get on with the bloodletting! "

"Blow the fourth horn!" the Stonehand bellowed. "Blow the fourth horn and press together to attack!"

The noise rang out as, below deck, Rodrik Freeborn blew the great auroch's horn. It was a sharper pitch than the others, like a knife cutting through the battlefield. The signal for the final push.

Euron heard horn blasts from the Arbor's Queen as well, calling the defenders together. The two flagships were barely five hundred feet apart.

My men know what to do, Euron thought. They are all well-prepared for the fourth horn .

From below the deck, Euron heard the screams from the rowers. There was the sound of axes hacking, feet stomping through the ship, and the thud of dying flesh. Frenzied screams and abrupt silences. The fourth horn was the signal for Mall the Monster to slaughter every single rower on the Silence . One by one, the reavers cut through the chained, helpless men and dumped their bodies into the water.

Similar sounds were coming from other ships. He could see the bodies pouring from their hulls, a waterflow of corpses. Every thrall or salt wife that the ironborn had left was to be slaughtered and given to the waves.

Any man who was no longer contributing to the killing could instead help by contributing to the dying. It was simple maths, really; Euron just wanted to maximise the amount of blood. It did not strictly matter whose.

Lord Goodbrother was shouting, demanding to know what was happening, what was going on, but Euron only laughed. He reckoned that even the Redwyne fleet was left shocked to see the ironborn turning on their own crew and dumping the corpses.

Some ironborn tried to object. There was fighting on the remaining longships in panic, but Euron's killers were all ready. From the Leviathan's Wail nearby, he saw Lord Volmark protesting. His objections died when Left-Hand Lucas Codd, Euron's man, cut his dagger across the lord's throat.

First there were scores, then hundreds, thousands of bodies falling and splashing one by one into the salt. Not enough. I need tens of thousands .

Even in the dark, Euron could see the red water plume outwards.

"MORE BLOOD!" Euron screeched. His desperate pants for air were half-gasps and half-chuckles. " We need… more… blood! "

Somehow, even amidst all the noise, Euron heard Aeron clutching at the railing, chanting to his god in a frantic voice. Soon, brother. Soon .

Euron saw Urgard and seven other mages being walked out of the hull by Ghrazzac. Urgard gave one final glance towards Euron with sullen, resigned eyes, before bringing a bone knife across his own throat. The other spellcasters did the same, blood weeping from their necks, as they stumbled overboard and into the churning seas, blood pouring, gibbering and hooting bile.

The Silence's fanatics didn't need to be forced, not anymore. They gave their own lives willingly.

Euron was almost sad to see Urgard go. Almost. He felt far more jubilation with the thought of their sacrifice. Urgard knew what was required of him. Ghrazzac was emptying Euron's hull quicker now, dumping bodies until there were none left.

Blood is the only currency the gods accept . The storm growled voraciously and the sky blackened like whirring ash.

There were birds in the air. Crows and ravens and black shapes all swirling around the stormy harbour. Wrecks of ships crashing against the rocks, and so, so many corpses. It would be a feast.

Even missing its main mast, the Silence pushed forward for its final charge. There was no holding anything back this time - Euron was on the front ranks, both red and black blades in his hands and laughter on his lips.

The shadow of the Hightower had never seemed so high. Arrows were raining all around them, but Euron knew all of them would miss him. He could see all of the corpses before him, just waiting to die.

The ships crashed. The storm howled.

The Silence buckled, its prow ripped apart. Redwyne men were spilling from the decks of the Arbor Queen, men in boiled leather and armed with rapiers. Men afraid to wear heavy steel. Euron stood at the edge of his sinking ship, clad in Valyrian steel, both swords swiping left and right, high and low, slashing and stabbing as if hacking through vines. They weren't even men to him - the blood just poured out of their bodies like pierced wineskins.

The ocean was thick with corpses. Tens of thousands were dead already - the fighting broke through the harbour and reached the edge of the docks themselves. Men were on the wharves, trying to fire arrows into the churning ships.

Euron saw brave ironborn staggering over bridges made of wreckage, axes in hand as they charged to a frantic, bloody end. The Drowned God took all of their bodies home.

The ironborn fleet was devastated, but the Reach's fleet had suffered for it too. Maybe there were barely a tenth part of the ironborn still fighting, but there were tens of thousands of corpses and wrecks littering the bay.

Nearly there, so close…

He heard Aeron wailing. Lord Goodbrother was left clutching the broken mast's stump, hanging on for his pathetic life. Men's courage broke and their ranks shattered, but they were all just more sacrifices to the deep dark.

Grapnels hung all around the Silence's railings, as the Arbor Queen tried to drag her in. Euron wondered if Lord Paxter was watching above from the decks, grim-faced, as his men overpowered his broken flagship. The thought pushed Euron to move a little faster, swing a little harder, as he danced over the waves and broken planks and cleaved men down one by one…

Just a few more… just a few more…

Red Rain splattered. Blood gushed over the planks.

And Euron heard the storm crack. The ships quaked with the sound of thunder. Thunder coming from beneath the sea.

The breath he didn't realise he had been holding exploded from his throat. He felt his heart pounding so hard it might explode from his chest. For a brief second, his laughter drowned out the storm as the sea broke.

A wave, larger than any before, swelled in the harbour. There was only one brief moment of warning as the tidal wave crashed against the coast with an immense groan. Soldiers were washed straight off the decks, vessels shuddering. The ship was groaning, the wind howling, and then suddenly there was a louder, deeper roar filling the chaos.

In that moment… he was smeared in blood, his heart racing, his hands trembling and he looked out over the bloodied stormy seas… and in that moment he was a god.

This is my storm. The last storm, as was promised to me.

Another great wave hit them. Euron dived to the decks, jumping for the broken mast and clinging on for dear life. The whole ship buckled

but few people on deck managed to brace in time, and bodies were washed off by the impact. The Arbor Queen trembled. Euron heard the cries. The Redwyne sailors had to cut the grapnels and try to brace themselves, lest the fierce waves bring them down too.

Even the great Arbor Queen rocked like a toy boat in a bathtub.

The world was spinning. There was no thought, just panic. He felt the bone-crunching crack as the shattered husk of the Silence crunched against the rock.

Each impact threatened to shatter bones. The waves cracked against the broken ship, grinding it again and again. The keel was shattered, prow falling apart, and it was all Euron could do just to hold on. Every time the blows slammed his body against the wood, he could feel the bruises forming on his chest. There was blood in his mouth.

And yet he laughed. Despite the pain and the fear, he laughed and laughed.

There were barely a dozen left alive on-board, all screaming and trying to cling to the broken rigging, but the sacrifice of the others had been so worth it.

Over the dark horizon, at the mouth of the bay, Euron saw the water swell upwards.

The backwash alone scattered great ships as if they were nothing but flies. The Oldtown fleet was being washed wild, whole ships lifting upwards and crashing into the city's wharves.

The noise, the chaos, the sight of it… it was all beyond immense.

Cacophonous.

Euron could barely hear a thing over the immense boom, but he saw Aeron shrieking and praying. The drowned man would have fallen to his knees if not for hanging on for dear life. Yes, Euron thought happily, I told you that you would bow to me.

" By the God… ! " he heard Lord Goodbrother scream.

"Yes," Euron called, voice breaking. "The God indeed… the Drowned God's chosen… they are the true masters of the ocean, not men… !"

The waves were breaking, water gushing over the piers and into the city as the gargantuan shape rose upwards from the ocean. The sea spilled over its banks, sweeping through the city's streets and tearing through the walls of Oldtown. The men didn't stand a chance. They looked upon it and went mad.

Screams. So many screams, but they were like the hissing of flies compared to the monster.

The Old Ones! " Euron cackled. "I summoned it here and it is here !"

A great tentacle rose up from the black waters, stretching and uncoiling. Hard, spiny skin broke over the crests. A gaping mouth opened, and the roar it let forth was a thousand storms exploding at once.

The kraken wreaked pure devastation with every slight movement. He saw its body rise upwards, a endless pit of black teeth as its jaws unfolded.

The backwash swept a dozen ships straight into the kraken's maw. Hundreds and hundreds of black teeth ground through wood with ease. It was large enough to swallow whole ships and the men onboard in the same way a whale swallowed krill.

Not even the thunder itself could drown out that noise.

The kraken. The heraldry of the Greyjoys. There was no beast that better represented the Drowned God. The storm, the black ocean itself made flesh.

The people didn't believe they existed - they preferred to think of them as they would giants and dragons, unicorns and basilisks; as something historical and mythical, fit only for the fantasies of children. Perhaps it was just the sense of scale - men didn't want to accept the truth that they shared their oceans with such as this. That they were not the masters of this world. Euron knew better; he knew of the krakens, of the Old Ones in their black depths.

It was Euron's second time seeing such a creature. The first had been eight years ago, on Euron's first journey around the Stepstones. He had seen a Ibbenese whaler struggle to bring in a whale, when a typhoon struck. The Silence had set to attack the whaler, but the kraken emerged from the depths, and dragged the entire ship and her whale both under the waves.

Ever since then… the sight of that much pure power… it had inspired him. From Ibben to Asshai, from N'ghai to Leng, from Yi Ti to the Basilisk Isles he had hunted the black lore. The ruins of the mazemakers of Lorath, the forgotten scrolls of dead, cyclopean Sarnath, the barnacled runestones of the Grey King, the humanleather-bound tomes of corpse-city Stygai. The rituals of the chittering flesh-priests of Gogossos, the pagan idolatry of the fishfolk of the Thousand Islands, the black rites of the Sorcerer Lords of Carcosa, the oily hieroglyphs of the Bloodstone Emperor, carved into black stone. The oldest myths of the Pale Child Bakkalon, the Black Goat of Qohor, the Lion of Night and dead dreamer Nyar of the Church of the Star's Wisdom. The scattered points of forgotten lore, drawn together into a line. It had all led to this. A piece of the power of the Old World, of the time before the Dawn.

And that beast he'd seen near the Stepstones had been barely a quarter of the size of this one. A kraken this size must be tens of thousands of years old, older than the First Men, its rust-red skin so hard and rough, smeared in algae and ancient scars. This is what all

of those lives have bought, Euron thought in awe. Let no one say that I have not paid the iron price.

Sailors told ghost stories about krakens. Maybe one in a thousand ever actually saw one, and fewer lived to tell about it. The kraken lived in the ocean's blackest depths, hunting leviathans, feasting on flesh and magic and enduring the ages of the world. There were so few of them left in this era, but Old Ones would sleep rather than die.

Still, during the worst storms, krakens would occasionally come to the surface. Blood in the water could entice them towards the shore. Euron had supplied both the storm and the feast, and the kraken had come. Just as the glass candles foretold.

Everything he had done, working towards this moment.

"Blow the horn!" Euron bellowed. "Blow the horn! Blow the fifth horn!"

The huge shape was coming closer, so large the mouth of the Honeywine could barely fit it. Its crest was covered in spines, its skin was greyish-red, its body a solid mountain of flesh. Its jaws extended circularly, needle-like teeth in rows around the top and sides, and its mouth convulsed to grind ships whole. Euron saw the Honour of Oldtown shattered into splinters by its jaws, men uselessly jumpingoverboard as the currents rushed into the kraken's maw.

Giant tentacles extended, drifting in beats, capturing the waves to waft the red water into its mouth. With every twitch of its huge limbs, there were tidal waves.

With an enormous gush, the kraken swallowed, and water ejected from the great creature's gills - a stream so intense it was like a flood dropping from the sky, let forth by the Storm God howling above.

There was no order anymore. There was nothing but panic. The sky stank of desperation and raw fear.

"Blow the horn!" Euron screamed. " BLOW THE HORN! "

Finally, Rodrik Freeborn must have heard him. The fifth horn was special compared to all the others. It was a horn over seven-feet tall, fixed in the most secure cabin the Silence had, held in place by thick lashes of black leather. It was solid, ivory white - the polished bone of some huge beast, and bound in oily black stone. Runes older and darker than Valyria's were etched over its surface, yet Euron had smeared mud over the horn to disguise its significance.

As soon as Rodrik Freeborn placed his lips against the horn, the sound echoed like the scream of Nagga herself. The horn sounded, and suddenly the storm seemed to freeze.

The noise sent Euron deaf. Men were screaming in pain, clutching their skulls. Rodrik Freeborn would twist and convulse, his body held kissing the horn as unseen fingers squeezed the life out of him. Euron could hear the soul-shrieking blast take the full range of his sense, battering high and low and all in between, like the wail of the world, of a soul on fire and lit for kindling. The sound of the horn seized the waves like the Drowned God's own scream of fury. The ocean bubbled, the wind hissed, and men fell.

Euron felt the pure power explode into him, bound by dragonsteel. His armour was singing, the runes etched on the breastplate glowing like white fire. Beneath the patch, Euron's bloody eye pulsed.

The kraken convulsed and thrashed. The tsunami wave crushed a dozen ships. The Silence was very nearly swept away, but the wreck of the ship clung to the rocks, grinding with the world's heartbeat.

After ten eternal seconds, the horn fell silent. Euron knew that Rodrik Freeborn would die coughing salt water from his lungs, without touching the waves.

I, EURON GREYJOY!" Euron bellowed, and the storm screamed with him. " CROW'S EYE, KING OF THE IRON ISLANDS AND THE OCEANS, SON OF THE STORM, THE DROWNED GOD REBORN! I BIND YOU! BY BLOOD OF IRONBORN I BIND YOU!"

Waves crashing, great red tentacles rising upwards, beating with the storm. The beast was trembling twitching, a strangled roar coming from its maw… " I BIND YOU! I BIND YOU, I BIND YOU, I BIND YOU! "

The kraken's cry broke. The sky split. An immense sound of pain so loud the earth and seas rumbled. The power was rushing around him… he could feel the waves crash beneath his tentacles, the ghost of sensation…

His awareness hammered into something immense beyond mortality; a mind cthonic, an archean beast of flesh and magic that measured the passage of time in eons and moved with the fury of storms. An abyssal awareness that could have hammered the minds of a hundred skinchangers into bloody, gibbering foam.

It was a mind rent by torture, aflame with the agony wrought by Krakenbinder, entrapped in a body searing with the brands of a blood magic ancient and foul, made vulnerable and pliant.

It could not resist.

Suddenly, Euron was larger, more powerful than ever. The world of the mind's scope expanded, the range of awareness stretched. His whole body was trembling, overflowing with might. The kraken was twitching, yet the magicks of the horn scolded its greatness over its skin, binding the immensity of its will. Ancient runes burnt into abyssal flesh, binding its muscles and its black limbs, its very mind to his own. Two hearts beat as one in the storm.

Euron heard the hiss of steam billowing off the horn. The water around the ship was bubbling. Lightning cracked, and the kraken let forth one final, strangled roar.

And suddenly Euron was laughing again. Laughing louder and sharper than ever. Laughing so hard he might explode from his own body. You are mine. The God is mine .

Lord Goodbrother's eyes were bulging, but he was left unable to speak, only gasp. Euron couldn't breathe either, otherwise there would have been a snide remark. What? Euron wanted to taunt. Did you really think that I would entrust my only hellhorn to Victarion?

Krakenbinder was one of the five sorcerous horns that Euron had in his possession. Euron had sacrificed Dragonbinder to Victarion, but Euron would never, ever give up his other four.

The great beast stopped moving. The harbour seemed to turn strangely silent. There were still screams, but Euron couldn't hear them. Like insects .

He saw the Damphair fall to his knees.

The Silence was still shuddering too intensely for him to stand, but Euron raised his hand.

In the distance, a great red tentacle rose upwards from the surf at the same time, uncoiling itself slowly.

Euron brought his hand down sharply.

The crash of water rocked the world. Two dozen Oldtown ships were destroyed at once. The tidal waves swept over the Blood Isle, and the garrison stationed there didn't stand a chance. All of the Tyrell men were crushed and swept away under the waves.

There were screams, wails. Most of the men in the bay seemed to have collapsed in pure, bloodcurdling horror, but there were a few ships that were trying to flee. But it doesn't matter, there will be no escape.

Slowly, curiously, the kraken flexed its muscles, twitching gills, squirming its body and fins as Euron experimented with its strength, reaching out with the new scope of his will. Gingerly, the kraken pushed its way forward, its huge underbody scraping against rock

and sand. A rust-red wall of mass and muscle extended towards the Silence .

He heard the squelch as its suckers ground over the wood. Each suction cup was like a set of teeth biting into the wood. With extreme care, the red tentacle wrapped itself around the Silence, sheltering the ship protectively from the waves. The tentacle was pure muscle, hard as stone. The whole vessel lurched as the kraken pulled it upwards from the rocks.

With another limb, the kraken crushed the Arbor Queen as idly as a child would stomp on a bug. Or perhaps popping a grape, and feeling it splat. All of the ships panicking, collapsing or trying to flee were all nothing before it. Great tentacles stretched outwards, curling upwards from the depths.

There was chaos all around him, but Euron could barely feel it. He could feel nothing but power.

The kraken's lower body scraped over the sands in the harbour, its tentacles flailing and digging as it pulled itself upwards into the shallow harbour. He could see the beast's eyes, huge, black ovoids larger than small boats. Its milky gaze was empty, but Euron knew its attention was all on him.

It took two great tentacles to lift the Silence straight out of the water and shove the ship roughly onto the shallows, away from the waves. Three men fell overboard as the vessel lurched, but Euron didn't care. His whole body was wrapped around the broken mast, but controlling the beast felt like an extension of his will. The runes embedded on Euron's armour shone ghostly pale.

With its other limbs, the monster devastated the fleet in long, idle swipes. Thousands, tens of thousands of men crushed dead by the waves and yet Euron had to struggle to notice them.

Euron's two gazes turned upwards towards the Hightower. The bells were ringing in frenzy. He saw men shooting arrows and scorpions,

but even the largest iron bolts were nothing but splinters to the kraken's mass. Stones fired from trebuchets bounced uselessly off the kraken's skin.

And the world watched in stunned awe and horror as the great beast roiled its way forwards. Euron finally let go of the mast, his body aching in pain as he felt the beginning of ugly, deep bruises forming across his body. Still, there was no emotion but elation, no pain of that but victory, as he stepped forward across his ruined ship.

The few survivors were staring at him, eyes bulging so hard they might burst. The kraken dragged its way deeper into the harbour, the Honeywine barely deep enough to cover its gills. From behind, all Euron could see was a spine-covered mountain, black and reddish and barnacle-strewn

"How arrogant," Euron mused as he stared at the nine-hundred-foot-tall Hightower. "The Nine Wonders made by man. How arrogant to think that man can even compare to nature."

The kraken's body was screaming in pain, in unaccustomed motion, but Euron forced it to into the shallows. He forced its tentacles to shatter the docks, and then the immense mass was heaving itself out of the water. Its body was bloated, flailing and hulking, but strong enough to squirm forward even on land. Tentacles thrashed, crushing houses to try and drag itself forward all the while the monster's body squirmed and twisted like a slug.

Huge limbs crushed the walls of Oldtown with ease, sending stone flying into the storm. From a distance, it looked almost… serene. An act of nature. Euron watched from the far side of the harbour, and wondered what it would be like to be one of all those screaming mortals as the rubble came crashing down.

Men were staring at Euron with horror, but he could only laugh, and laugh, and laugh. Who can doubt my godliness now?

Then, the kraken turned and surged its way towards the Hightower, moving as slowly and as unstoppably as an earthquake, a glacier made of chthonic flesh, leaving a flattened world behind. The cliffs of the Battle Isle posed some difficulty, but the kraken's tentacles were strong. Its limbs carved a grip, cleaving into soft stone, and then its whole body was heaving upwards.

Across the horizon, Euron heard the bells ringing, the thunder rumbling, and the sea screaming as the great limbs wrapped themselves as far around the base of the Hightower that they could reach. Then, enormous muscles clenched and heaved, stone strained and cracked, the foundations shuddered, and the great shining Hightower was toppling towards the sea.

Notes:

The War of the Five Monsters

Contenders:

Jon Snow

The Bastard King" His crimes:

Oathbreaker / deserter,

Consorting with / arming wildlings,

Usurper,

Rebellion,

Invading the realm,

Large number of wildling raids and pillaging,

● Witchcraft and sorcery (skinchanging).

Strength:

One ice dragon,

~50,000 free folk, approx. 15,000 of which are fighting bodies,

The Cult of the Ice Dragon,

500 giants, and fewer mammoths,

A few score wargs and skinchangers,

The northern coalition, Houses Manderly, Umber, Mormont, Glover, Locke, and Reed,

~5,000 northmen,

Fledgling alliances across north,

The Dragonguard,

Skinchanging.

Prominent Enemies:

House Bolton,

House Frey,

The Night's Watch?

Stannis Baratheon

The Broken King" His crimes:

● Attempting to usurping his nephew's rightful seat (accused),

Kinslaying (accused),

Sorcery,

Renouncing the Faith of the Seven and consorting with witches and devil magic,

Piracy,

Crimes and raids in the Narrow Sea.

Strength:

~500 men (last count),

Houses Bar Emmon, Farring, Florent, Velaryon, Celtigar and Massey,

His soldiers noted to be extreme fanatics,

Less than ten ships (last count),

Currently holds Dragonstone,

One Red Woman.

Prominent Enemies:

House Lannister, House Tyrell,

Jon Snow.

Cersei Lannister (through proxy Tommen Baratheon)

The Mad Queen" Her crimes:

● Assassination and attempted assassination of two High Septons.

Murder,

Infidelity,

Incest (accused),

Destabilising the realm,

Madness,

Supporting necromancy.

Strength:

Currently holds the Red Keep,

~200 extremely valuable hostages, including King Tommen Baratheon and Queen Margaery Tyrell,

~100 ruthless killers holding the Red Keep,

The Mountain's Men,

Sellswords,

Lord Qyburn, practitioner of necromancy and dark arts,

Ser 'Robert Strong'

The Alchemist's Guild.

Prominent Enemies:

● Just about everybody.

Tyrion Lannister (through proxy Aegon Targaryen)

The Imp" His crimes:

Kinslaying,

Kingslaying,

Rebellion,

Being a dwarf.

Strength:

The Golden Company,

Less than 10,000 seasoned sellswords,

A number of war elephants,

Force led by King Aegon Targaryen and Lord Jon Connington,

Sellswords from Lys,

House Darry,

House Stokeworth,

Support of the Iron Bank,

Support of magisters in the Free Cities,

Currently holds Storm's End, Harrenhal, and Griffin's Roost.

Prominent Enemies:

House Lannister, House Tyrell,

Cersei Lannister.

Euron Greyjoy

" The Crow's Eye"

His crimes:

Rebellion,

Kinslaying (accused),

Heresy (accused),

Piracy,

Slavery,

Brutality and countless deaths,

Sorcery and dark arts.

Strength:

The Iron Islands,

All houses sworn to Pyke,

~9,000 men (last count),

Fleet of ~400 ships (last count),

The Iron Fleet (nominally),

The Silence,

Collection of mages, warlocks, priests and spellbinders held onboard,

The Grotesques - monsters, mutes and murderers,

Cult-like devotion from his men,

Secrets and treasure plundered from Old Valyria and beyond,

The Dragonbinder?

● Sorcery.

Prominent Enemies:

Houses Tyrell, Redwyne, Hightower,

The north,

His family.

The Battle for Oldtown:

Conflict: War of the Five Monsters

Date: 301 AC

Place: Oldtown, the Bay of Whispering Sound, the Reach

Result: Total devastation. Greyjoy victory

Combatants:

9,000 ironborn.

House Greyjoy, houses sworn to Pyke.

60,000 Reach soldiers, including militia.

Houses Redwyne, Hightower and Tyrell, houses sworn to Highgarden.

~400,000 population of Oldtown.

Commanders:

King Euron Greyjoy

Lord Paxter Redwyne

Ser Baelor Hightower

Ser Garth Hightower

Ser Garlan Tyrell

Casualties (prior to the Rising of the Kraken):

~8,000 ironborn.

~5,000 slaves, thralls and salt wives brought from the Arbor.

~7,000 Reach soldiers in the harbour.

Casualties (after the Rising of the Kraken):

~50,000 Reach soldiers in the harbour and port.

Uncountable deaths in Oldtown itself.

All Reach commanders dead or missing.

Result:

Both fleets almost entirely destroyed.

Oldtown devastated.

The Hightower torn off its foundations. Eight Great Wonders made by man remaining.

Rise of the Kraken God.

Author Notes:

Edit: Well, I did try to get the next chapters written and uploaded before I start my holidays. Unfortunately, I failed. I'm away right now and I'm not going to have time to finish anything

off, so I don't really have a choice but to declare hiatus on this story.

Chapter 32

Chapter 32

Sansa

The Merry Midwife creaked and groaned with the waves. She was an old cog, her figurehead carved of ill-treated white pine, rotten at the edges. A laughing matron at the prow cut through the waves, holding an infant by one foot, as if dangling the wooden babe over the water. The woman's cheeks and the babe's bottom were pocked with wormholes, and the leavings of seagulls speckled her brow. Sansa leaned over the railing and for a long time found herself staring at the carved midwife and her fixed, wooden smile. Perhaps it was just poor craftsmanship, but that wide, merry grin seemed forced, desperate, as the mother offered her child to the sea.

Sansa pulled her wool-lined hood up against the bite of the wind, but her long hair still whipped across her skin. After so long, the black dye was beginning to fade; Sansa's tips were still dark, but the red roots were showing. On the narrow cog, there had never been the time or space to braid her hair properly as she had used to, so Sansa let it hang and grow free.

A horn sounded in the distance, and the chiming of bells carried over the water, to the sound of faint echoes. In the distance, she could see the shape of the Seal Rock jutting out of the bay, wreathed in mist like some great, eroded hunter. A remnant of a past age, a protector. White Harbour, the city beyond, was a faint haze obscured in the cold morning mist, inscrutable in the distance, but the shadows of sails loomed over the mouth to the White Knife. All aboard, from captain to sailor to cook, were tense as the Merry Midwife wafted in the wind towards the fleet of House Manderly.

Yet above all, Sansa wondered if she would see the dragon. Her heart was in her mouth with the thought. Her eyes lingered on the

shadow of the Seal Rock, trying to imagine a dragon hidden atop it in the mists. After all that she had heard, the rumours and hedge tales whispered over meals or muttered in dark corners, it couldn't help but remind her of the tales Old Nan had once told.

There was a cold edge in the soft wind, she clenched her furs closer to her form. Jon Snow. An ice dragon. The north at war. My home. She felt like a girl venturing into the storm, the legends of an earlier age made real. Should I be excited or scared? she wondered. Instead, she just felt queerly detached to it all.

"You should not be on deck, my lady," a low voice warned. "It would not do if you were to fall ill. And we ought to keep your return as discreet as possible."

Sansa found herself smiling faintly at the exiled knight's words. She glanced at him from the corner of an eye, as he took a place beside her at the cog's prow, slightly staggering into place.

Ser Jorah's face was a slowly recovering ruin, his features still bruised and bloated, his eyes a little weary, lined by shadows. He was clad in a moth-eaten cloak of wool, lined with sealskin, looking larger and gruffer than ever under layers of worn and salt-stained clothes.

"They will know soon enough." Sansa could see the shadows of sails through the fog, an indeterminate number of them rocking in the bay's waters, forming a barricade across the harbour. Galleys, she realised. Fairly large hulls, large enough to be seen across the great distance yet remaining. The fleet of House Manderly slowly took shape from the vapours, each one looking crisp and clean, fresh from the shipyards. The first northern fleet in a hundred years . "Will we be allowed to pass?"

"They will board us first, and search our hull," Ser Jorah admitted. His voice carried weirdly in the damp air. "White Harbour is under lockdown; even more so than it was when I was last here." Silence stretched for a passing of moments as the bear knight stared into the

mist, his eyes visibly roaming for detail in the grey vapour. He was on edge; shoulders tense, his fingers drumming.

"How do you suppose so?" Sansa asked.

"The evidence is before your eyes." He pointed, drawing her attention to the harbour's near shores. Port and starboard, the two shorelines slowly converged as the Merry Midwife approached the White Knife's mouth. She saw nothing, save for dark shorelines. She shook her head.

"Look,"Ser Jorah insisted, drawing her attention to a point in the distance, drawing her attention away from the vessels of the blockade. " There ."

She saw it. Empty wharfs, silent docksides speckling the far shoreline. A small yellow flag, devoid of decoration or heraldry, raised above the quay, flying beneath a pennant emblazoned with the Manderly merman. It was a small stead, too small to even be called a village, at the very edge of the harbour outside of the city proper.

Ser Jorah continued at the slight widening of her eyes, at her curiosity. "Do you see the empty berths? The guttered lighthouse? You look upon the plague wharf, the cheapest dockage along the waters of the White Knife. At any other city, a fleet blockade would normally escort vessels to such a dock, or some equivalent. In times of peace, the vessels of smallfolk will likely seek harbourage there. All port cities of sufficient size have such a wharf." Somehow, Ser Jorah's features darkened even further.

"All throughout the seas, during times of blockade, vessels seeking entry to port are typically brought to the plague wharf or some lesser equivalent for inspection." He took a breath, gripped the railing, and explained through a grimace. "If they are not repelled, taken, or sunk at first sight, that is. If brought in by the blockade, standard practice dictates a full and thorough inspection by the port authorities, ensuring that a hull's contents conform to the law of the land. It is a

process that may take days of labour. It isn't so unusual to see vessels lie in wait for weeks, if they seek entry during times of blockade. In my time in Lys, I once saw the Triarch refuse to admit all vessels for a month, during a rumoured outbreak of the Sothoryi Sailor's bane in the Stepstones - the boats were jammed so tightly in the water that one could have all walked across the bay."

She stayed quiet. The bear knight turned to her a little, glancing at her with rough, but not unkind, features. "White Harbour is the busiest port north of the Neck, my lady, yet we see no vessels under inspection here. It is a dark, dark sign."

She could see the lines tightening across his eyes. She measured him quietly through the edge of her gaze. Yes, she thought, he's very nervous. Scared of facing the north's law again? Scared of facing his family? "One does not look need to see through these mists to knowthat there have been few merchants seeking harbour in the city, my lady." Jorah continued. "None, perhaps. In times of quiet, a plague wharf may see use by petty fishermen, seeking less tax. Yet we see none; no vessels under inspection, no smallfolk, though we are still in the season for herring. Meaning that the smallfolk dare not tread these waters now. Where even commoners fear to tread, men of birth and power will never walk. The blockade has been blockading nothing, I think." The bear knight paused for a breath, his eyes lingered on the small tower. "Set the plague wharf aside. I imagine that the Lord's Port and the Merchant's Quay will be places for fit for ghosts."

Silence lingered for a long moment, as their small cog tepidly approached the Manderly fleet.

"What will that mean for us?" Sansa asked finally.

"They will be suspicious of our ship, if only out of one part prudence, two parts boredom." Ser Jorah muttered. "We will be boarded and inspected. Thoroughly, I expect. Few with petty cause would seek berth at a city that has raised its banners in revolt, and the caution of

the inspectors and longshoremen will be redoubled now that they have a vessel in sight.

"But, when they learn of you, my lady. then I have no doubt that Lord Manderly will be most eager to welcome you home. Before, he would have certainly seen you smuggled into the keep, under hood and cowl and in cover of darkness. Now, with their banners raised against the Iron Throne?" There was a pause, and he seemed to consider his words carefully. "I do not know. Lord Manderly will certainly want it known that the eldest daughter of Eddard Stark has returned to the North, and stands with him. I would suspect he would want tale of you known amongst the people sooner, rather than later. But he will want to speak with you for himself, to understand your wishes."

Sansa just nodded absently. Ser Jorah was so quick to speak of the great lords of the north, but Sansa had to wonder. Would she even be recognized? Would Lord Manderly know her? Doubtful. So many years had passed, and Lord Borrell had declined to send a letter to vouch for her identity. Arriving like this, unannounced, gave the Lord of Sweetsister deniability should the news of her arrival spread, but it weakened her stance. He'd refused to put any words to writing - men could talk, he had said. Ravens weren't secure enough, he had insisted, any word or letters so found could reach back to the Vale.

It had taken over a fortnight of negotiations and arguments before she had convinced Lord Borrell to send her on to White Harbour. The Lord of Sweetsister had been slow to convince, but Sansa persevered. This could be a huge benefit to your house, she had argued, in a dozen separate facets of argument. There is no better way to earn advantage than to openly stand with those who would win .

But still, even after he had come to agree with her, Lord Borrell wanted to hedge his bets. He had put her on a small cog and sent her to the city unannounced. The Merry Midwife, captained by the hard and hairy Casso Mogat, was the only ship willing to even approach White Harbour - a ship that had done the journey a

thousand times. Men spoke of the city as though it were cursed, whispering of wildlings, dragons, and rebellion.

I will need to convince Lord Manderly of my identity, she knew. After being someone else for so long, the need to convince someone, anyone that she was Sansa Stark felt so queer. She had spent the trip trying to recall all the details she knew of House Manderly, but it all still felt… unreal.

Sansa had visited White Harbour before, only once, and it had seemed a grand thing then. But, now, strangely, the city seemed so much smaller. White Harbour was a dwarf compared to King's Landing.

Sansa kept her black-hilted dagger hidden in her dress. She had never had a dagger before, her mother would never have allowed it. It was unladylike, but now the sleek, sheathed blade had become… comforting? No, comforting was the wrong word. So many restless nights had been spent cradling the dagger for protection and sleeping in the rough, as she was smuggled across the Vale and through the Bite. And now I am sailing into a dragon's lair .

Maybe the thought should have scared her, but instead she just felt thoughtful. Recollective, even melancholic. The north is my home, but I barely know it anymore .

Weirdly, Ser Jorah seemed even more nervous and agitated than she was. His maimed hand - wrapped in wool - never strayed far from his sword. She kept a watch on his expression from the corner of her eye.

They stood in uneasy silence for a long time, watching for their vessel's approach. Strangely, the wind no longer felt cold. She heard the chime of bells above.

"Will we see the dragon, ser?" she asked finally.

Ser Jorah twitched. "Casso says it is unlikely." His voice was torn, his expression strained. "He says the dragon is often away, but returns frequently enough."

"I see." Sansa looked to a large white sail emerging from the mist, pennant above flying the merman and trident of the Manderlys, lined with a border of silver. "Do you believe the tales of Jon Snow and the dragon?"

There was a long pause, the swell of small waves shuddering the prow. "I have heard many people saying it so, my lady."

"That is not what I asked, ser."

"And I cannot say for certain," he said, shaking his head. "I dare not say. It is the way of smallfolk, to confuse and exaggerate in times of strife. But the stories all agree on a precious few points; that the Night's Watch is fallen, brought down by a King-Beyond-the-Wall and dragonrider named Jon Snow." His lips twisted. "Little else can be trusted."

He was rambling, talking on about little and less; rumours and tall tales. Her focus went elsewhere. She remembered her brother Jon.

She remembered the often sullen, brooding boy. A bastard who retreated from her mother's glances, but came to life with her father and older brother. She remembered a boy more at home in the practice yard than the great hall. She remembered a few of the countless times he'd spar with tourney swords against Robb, Theon or the men-at-arms, or sometimes boys from the winter town.

She didn't remember much else. What were his likes, his dislikes? What had he thought of her? Had he ever seemed jealous, hateful, as she'd oft heard that bastards were wont to do, for their trueborn siblings? She couldn't say - she could hardly recall sharing more than single word conversations with him.

She tried to match what remained of her memories to the stories she heard - those of the Bastard King-Beyond-the-Wall and his ice dragon larger than a storm - and she struggled to see it. She had often wondered if it was a different Jon Snow, or an imposter pretending to be Lord Stark's once-least-known son.

Yet I am still going to him willingly, because there is no other option .

Whatever happens, whatever Jon is, I will handle it.

Sansa's eyes flickered towards Ser Jorah. The memory of that moment, jumping off the cliffs into the lake, running from clansmen, flashed before her eyes. She remembered thrashing and flailing, screaming as cold water consumed her and heavy limbs dragged her down. Ser Jorah hadn't been able to swim in his armour.

But that was me, she remembered. I saved Ser Jorah's life and dragged him to shore. That was me.

She spent a long time staring at the knight, grizzled and worn. White Harbour was the end of their journey. She could hardly even describe the emotions scintillating inside of her.

"You have seen dragons before, haven't you, ser?" Sansa said finally.

His mouth tightened, but he was slow to reply. "I saw the way you talked of Queen Daenerys. How you reacted to news of dragons," Sansa insisted. "You said you spent your exile in Essos, but you were with Daenerys Targaryen, weren't you? That is why you returned to Westeros now."

"Aye," Ser Jorah replied, reluctantly. "Those tales are true. Queen Daenerys has three dragons - I was there when they were hatched."

"So when you saved me?" Sansa asked. "You were doing it for her?"

Jorah nodded, averting his gaze. Sansa didn't feel betrayed. Rather, she felt relieved - it felt good to understand more of the knight's

motivations. Everyone has their own ambitions and vulnerabilities, and understanding is power . It was a relief to know the strings which Ser Jorah danced on.

There was a moment of quiet contemplation. She heard the bells chiming in the distance, becoming clearer. "And what do you want, ser?" she asked curiously, still leaning over the railing. "Tell me, what do you hope to gain here?"

The man shifted, looking uncomfortable. He took a deep, slow breath. "I want you to convince your brother to ally with Queen Daenerys Targaryen," he said finally. "Advocate for her, for an alliance. Convince Jon Snow to support her, to renounce his rebellion, and in return Daenerys could legitimise him and put the Seven Kingdoms to order."

Sansa laughed hollowly, after a brief silence. "I have not spoken to Jon Snow in over three years, ser. I barely spoke to him before then. I did not say goodbye when he left to join the Night's Watch. We grew up in the same castle, but we lived at different ends of it. Were it not for meals, I could go without seeing him for days at a time." She shook her head. "I have no influence with him. I don't even know his feelings towards me - perhaps he resents me for our childhood, perhaps he'd be threatened by me, perhaps he'd want to punish me? For all I know, he might just be another man who'd try to exploit me." Like yourself, she thought quietly.

"And yet still you're going to him?"

"What choice do I have? I am a Stark - the north is where belong." She shook her head. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. No matter the type of man Jon is, I'll deal with it. But I do not know Daenerys Targaryen."

"She is the Seven Kingdom's best option for peace and stability," Ser Jorah insisted. "A good queen that all will rally behind - one with the most rightful claim to the Iron Throne. She will bring dragons - three dragons - she will bring an order that the realm has not seen for

hundreds of years. If you convince your brother to join with her, then the war will be half-won already."

"And why would he?" And why would I?

"Queen Daenerys could legitimise his position in the north. He is a king of wildlings. The realm will turn against your brother quickly, but Daenerys could help him." Ser Jorah's eyes were grim. "Or she could destroy him. Unless your brother wants to see the Dance of Dragons come again, then he must make an alliance."

Sansa nodded, but didn't reply. She kept her posture non-committal. Jorah grimaced. "My lady, please . Queen Daenerys is good and kind and just, I can vouch to it. She freed the slaves in Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen, brought liberation to Slaver's Bay. I swear to you, there could be no better liege - no one more deserving or worthy than Daenerys Targaryen."

She paused, measuring his expression. "Do you love her, ser?"

Ser Jorah seemed to falter. "She has my undying loyalty."

So that's a yes . For some reason, Sansa had to suppress the bitter chuckle rising from her throat. "By the telling, your queen is half the world away, yet you still advocate for her? Here, to the granddaughter and niece of lords whom her father burned alive? You have such 'loyalty' that you went halfway around the world with no clear goal, I think, if you set your hopes on something so dubious." Sansa mused. "You were willing, perhaps eager, to die in her service, ser. You set yourself to an impossible task with no idea how you could return from it. And then you found me."

His eyes narrowed with her tone. "Are you mocking me, my lady?"

"No. Quite the opposite." A jaded, humourless smile played over her lips. "What you do goes beyond loyalty. She can do no wrong in your eyes, can she? You've devoted yourself to her, you define yourself

by her. Do you consider her your future, your destiny? She… she owns you, I think."

"She is my queen," Ser Jorah growled, bristling.

Sansa shook her head. "No, ser. She is much more than that to you."

The knight was obvious. She could see straight through him - there was nothing but possessive love and admiration inside him. I know that type of love. I've felt that type of love.

The images of all the handsome and horrible men she had loved flashed before her eyes. Sansa thought of Lysa, crazed and mad with devotion. Strangely, she even thought of Cersei too. That type of love is worse than poison.

He didn't reply. In the distance, the hulls of the White Harbour galleys were slowly taking shape through the mist. Nineteen, she counted. Their freshly painted hulls gleamed, even in the fog.

From the city, bells were still ringing. The first few chimes were expected as a ship came into harbour, but the bells didn't cease. They were close enough towards the White Knife now to make out the walls of the inner harbour, and there was hectic movement on the docks. Sansa frowned. Why are the bells ringing?

"My lady," Jorah tried again cautiously, unwilling to let the matter lie. "You must consider it - when Queen Daenerys arrives-"

"Sails!" A sharp voice called through the cry of gulls. "Sails to the south!"

Jorah jumped. Sansa turned, but she couldn't see anything through the mist. "Who is it?" Casso Mogat boomed in his gravelly voice, stomping out onto deck as the planks creaked. "Mermen?"

"Don't recognise the flags!" the spotter shouted from the perch above. "They're coming round the cliffs of Oldcastle now."

The whole cog stirred as footsteps rushed towards the stern. Sansa had to squint to try and make out anything through the fog.

The great grey cliffs seemed so tall and looming in the mist. The galleys in the bay were forming tight ranks, each one flying the green merman of Manderly.

She heard Ser Jorah bellowing, demanding to know what was happening, while Casso placed a seashell horn to his lips and blew tightly. His dyed green whiskers wafted in the cold air, and his red cheeks bulged.

Sansa still couldn't see, there were too many bodies covering the deck. She felt herself linger back, as the pitch of the voice raised.

"Turn her around!" the captain ordered, his voice somehow cutting through the air. "All hands to deck - tack and bring her to the beach."

"What of White Harbour?" Ser Jorah bellowed over the sudden clamour. "We must go to White Harbour!"

"I ain't having no part of that!" Casso objected. He was short man, barely five-foot-tall, but stocky and muscled enough to size up against Ser Jorah. The man was hairy and stout-legged, clearly of Ibbenese heritage. "Get us out of this bay!"

"How many are there?" One of the men called out to the crow's-nest.

"I count eight!" the spotter high above called down. "No, wait… twelve - no, more… Oh, by the gods…"

"We must go to White Harbour!" Jorah bellowed at the captain. "We can't go back! Go forward! Into the city!"

Sansa finally managed to see, climbing onto a crate and clutching the rigging against the rocking deck. She could see the masts coming through the mists, taking shape as the vessels turned the

cape. At first, they seemed small in the distance, but then she saw all the oars.

Oars, hundreds and hundreds of oars, sweeping through the waves in trained synchronisation. Moving quickly, forming into a charge. The ships at the front were three-decked dromonds; great vessels with red sails and painted hulls of gold, green, and brown. There were more dromonds, and then galleys and more warships. The vessel at the front, leading the charge, was massive - as large or larger than the King Robert's Hammer .

Dromonds of that size made the White Harbour galleys look like dwarves.

The mists weakened, and the shapes beyond were becoming clearer. At least thirty, she realised with a gasp. Maybe as many as fifty . The ship at the front bore a coat of arms showing a blackshape against red that Sansa couldn't recognise, but then she could slowly make out the colours of the vessels. Some were plain and bleak, others had brightly striped hulls, but Sansa's eyes were drawn to the reds and golds, purples and greens - the colours of Lannister and Tyrell. The royal fleet.

Her breath froze. How could… No, it's impossible, why are they…?

It was a fleet. A mixture of ships from great dromonds to cogs, some Westerosi and others in the style of the Free Cities, of mismatched colours and sizes, but they all looked ready for war.

Behind her, White Harbour's bells were still ringing, and growing in pitch. Ser Jorah and Casso Mogat were screaming at each other in the middle of the deck. Sansa could barely process it, but slowly the thoughts started to form.

The bay of White Harbour seemed so peaceful and serene for a moment, but Sansa watched the warships coming closer and coming fast.

White Harbour is under attack.

Jon

They camped in the middle of a frozen farmstead, a hamlet of barely a dozen houses and barns that had been overwhelmed by the legions of men. A city of tents surrounded the scarce few wooden structures, sprouting endlessly from the snows, like a field of winter mushrooms. The ghost of a cold, pale sun loomed overhead, washed out from behind the thick, dark clouds.

The snow was three feet deep in places, and crunched underfoot into a muddy slush. The army - my army - flooded out over the snow and the ice, camped in the ruined fields. A few of the further perimeters spilled forth onto a nearby frozen lake, squeezed outwards from the camp's cramped core. Jon watched a few men fish on the lake, in separate groups around holes laboriously cut through foot-thick ice. Out on the ice, wildling stayed far from northerner, and vice versa, occasionally shooting one another mistrustful looks. The sight made Jon frown.

He'd wanted to keep going, but then the threat of snowstorms to the north had brought the march to a halt, forced the army to take shelter and hold out for better weather.

Long Lake was to the northeast, where the White Knife and a dozen streams cut over the rolling hills. The kingsroad was somewhere to the east, but the host had abandoned the road to trek through the acres of hard, deserted farmland. Jon stood out atop one of the snowy hills, staring at the silhouette of stone walls and towers hovering in the distance.

Winterfell, my home. It has been so, so long.

Even despite the dull clamour of the men below, and the faint howl of the wind, it seemed so quiet from the hilltop. Jon stood and stared at the Winterfell, trying to reconcile the far-off view with his memories.

"That storm looks like a killer," Ewan Bole warned, looking off at the clouds swirling over the mountains to the north. Jon did not turn to him. He remained focused on the castle.

"How far off is it?" Ser Alek asked. The knight stood behind Jon, with in a steel hauberk with a white dragon stitched on his surcoat and the Manderly merman on his shield.

"Hard to say. Anywhere between three days or a fortnight, but she's moving south quickly," Ewan grimaced. They could hear the wind howling faintly, the storm looming over the forests on the horizon to the north. The weather had slowly but surely been worsening. "We better be well and truly dug in before the snows hit."

The Boltons are as unlikely to risk the weather as us, but their shelter is superior. Winterfell is old and strong, fit to station an army. The longer this lasts, the more desperate our efforts. Jon's eyes were still fixed on the seat of House Stark, trying to map the pale and looming towers to what he remembered from all those years of childhood. I was a summer child .

"It won't fall easily. She's a strong castle," the Greatjon's voice warned with a grunt, as the large man trekked up beside him.

"Strong enough to survive dragonfire, do you think?" Tormund Giantsbane scoffed from his other side.

It seemed like no matter where Jon went, he walked with a constant retinue. Of his Dragonguard, Ser Alek, Ewan Bole and Toregg the Tall were on duty around him now. Men were constantly demanding his ear, and more and more problems demanded his attention.

"We want to take Winterfell, not destroy it," Jon said, as he turned away with a final, forlorn glance. My hands are trembling, he suddenly realized. He willed them to still. "Sonagon's frostfire could raze the castle to the ground, but I'd not destroy the seat of the north. Not while other options yet remained."

"What about the men?" the Greatjon asked, folding his arms. "You have any problem torching those inside?"

"If they refuse to surrender, then none."

"Good." Tormund guffawed. "Then all we got to do is get them out of their castle."

"They'll be fools if they did. They likely have several thousand holed up in there. We've got eighteen thousand out here," grunted Hugo Wull, the great-chested leader of Clan Wull. The Big Bucket, as he was called, was said to be the largest stomach in the north, and he looked even broader with a rugged tapestry of furs, leather and mail wrapped over his body. "This fight is ours."

Men from the northern mountain clans had joined their host a week past, and before that Lord Umber's and the Weeper's hosts joined together at the curve of the White Knife. The last reinforcements from White Harbour sailed up the river to meet them. Slowly, painfully, his army had converged together.

Twelve thousand wildlings, Jon thought, and six thousand northmen . There were around one thousand from the mountain clans, one thousand Umbers and Mormonts, and one thousand from White Harbour. We could outnumber the Boltons three to one, Jon thought. And yet they still haven't surrendered .

Yes, the Boltons had a castle, yet he had a dragon. Logic said that they never stood a chance. So why haven't they surrendered?

Jon could raze Winterfell down if he had to. It would be a bitter victory for him, yet he could do it.

His army was camped around a small lake, a pond in the curve of the hills and sentinel trees. The host had encamped around the north and western edges of the lake, with wooden spikes jammed into the snow along with a bulwark of troops wrapped around the perimeter.

To the south, he could see the dragon roosting in the middle of the frozen lake, coiled like an island rising from the snow and ice. The water was so frozen the ice was as solid as the earth, easily strong enough for the dragon. The Dragonguard had set up a perimeter around the dragon to keep back any onlookers, but Sonagon had been snoozing sluggishly for days. Their slow progress and his rationed meals food seemed to have gradually pushed Sonagon into a lull, for which Jon was grateful. A sleeping dragon was far better than an agitated one.

Supplies were already a problem, and the dark clouds stirring to the north gave him worry. The mountain clans and the supplies they brought had helped save lives, but even the semi-regular supply chains from White Harbour struggled to feed a host of their size. I could likely lose more men to starvation and the weather than I will to battle, Jon thought with a grimace. A quick battle is good for us .

We are only a day's march away from Winterfell. Arya is so close.

Tormund and Greatjon were bickering again. "Gather up the war council and bring them to my cabin," Jon ordered, turning around and limping away. "We must discuss battle plans. Call the Weeper, Lord of Bones, Ser Wylis Manderly, Jeremy Locke, Alysane Mormont, Robett Glover, Torghen Flint, Morgan Liddle and Brandon Norrey to me." Now there's a list of names I never thought I would see sitting around the same table together .

Jon's cabin was a wooden thatch fishing hut on the lake. He had felt guilty about ejecting villagers from their homes, but there had been little choice. His commanders took the dozen simple wooden houses for themselves, but most of his men still had to sleep exposed to the elements. Jon himself took largest building in the hamlet, but it was a bare and empty barn - previously it had been used to store salmon. The fish had been requisitioned, but the stink remained. They used empty barrels and crates as chairs. It was hardly warmer inside than out, but it was shelter from the wind.

Jon's squire, Bennard Locke, waited at the doorway. "Is there to be a battle, Your Grace?" the dark-haired boy asked. It was hard to tell if there was fear or excitement in his voice.

"Perhaps." Likely . "If there is, I will fight on Sonagon. I expect my squires to hold position with the Dragonguard."

Bennard's face looked crestfallen. "Your Grace, I can fight! I am man grown, I should be with you in the battle."

He's fourteen; same age I was when I joined the Night's Watch . The thought made Jon flinch. "You have your duties. You will support the guard - I expect you to stick by Fur's side throughout. Pass the message onto him."

It took a few hours for the commanders to gather from their various posts. Jon dressed himself in his armour - steel and iron wrapped under wolf and shadowskin furs - as he broke his fast on dried horsemeat. Two dozen men came and went giving reports and updates. His lords trekked through the doorway; some walked easily, others more tense. This close to the battle of Winterfell, every man in the camp kept their swords close and they were clad in chainmail at all times.

"Robett," Jon called. "Any update on enemy numbers?"

Robett Glover shook his head, dark brown mane bristling with snow. Jon had appointed Robett as commander of their scouts and outriders, a duty the man had once served for Robb. "None, Your Grace," he replied. "There are no hosts as far as Cerwyn; all resistance must be within Winterfell. If Roose Bolton has been consolidating his power, you could expect up to ten thousand."

Ten thousand. Most likely less, though - the Boltons must be struggling to keep rank by now. The last commander through the door was Rattleshirt, his bones crackling as he skulked in at the rear.

"We are going to win this battle," Jon announced to the room. "We have far more than their number, and Sonagon can breach the walls. We can beat them."

There were quiet nods, but hard eyes meeting his. "However," Jon continued. "Right now, the difficulty is not how to beat them, but how to make it a good victory. We cannot afford a long fight, we cannot let them bleed us. We must capture Winterfell soundly."

"And Ned's girl," added Morgan Liddle - the Middle Liddle, as he was called, although not out loud in his earshot - second son of Clan Liddle. His father was too old to fight, so the Middle Liddle came south along with Glover and Mormont reinforcements. Morgan was a big, bearded, bald man, wearing a byrnie of patched and rusted mail, arms folded. "We rescue Ned's girl."

"Aye," Jon agreed. "We save Arya Stark and any other hostages they are holding."

There was a moment of quiet. I do not want to raze Winterfell, so Sonagon cannot destroy the castle. And I cannot let my sister die .

"Roose Bolton is a cunning as they come," Ser Wylis Manderly noted, casting a nervous look around the room. "He won't fight any battle that he can't win."

"In all likelihood, Bolton has already fled," Jeremy Locke agreed. He was a slender and short man - Lord Ondrew Locke's son and heir - but he had hard, sharp eyes. Ser Wylis and Jeremy Locke both shared command of their rear. "Perhaps to Cerwyn, more likely to Moat Cailin to raise forces from allies in the south. He knew we were coming, why would he stay?"

"We haven't received any reports of any large force heading south. Sonagon hasn't spotted any host leaving, either." Jon looked to Robett for confirmation, and the man just nodded.

"We have the men. We could take that castle," the Weeper said with a scoff. All of the northern lords kept their distance from the man, Jon noticed. Come battle, the Weeper was to lead the vanguard.

"You could lose ten thousand men against Winterfell's walls and count yourself lucky," Alysane Mormont warned. The second daughter of Lady Maege was a big woman. She'd arrived days before with the reinforcements from the north, and was to command their reserves in her mother's absence.

"How about with a dragon fighting alongside us?" said a gnarly toothless man with red-knuckled hands as big as hams. Old Torghen Flint, appointed commander of their train.

Jon shook his head. "Sonagon can't aim his breath very well," he said. "If it's a dispersed battle, the dragon could hurt our own as much the enemy by scorching the land with dragonfire."

"So all we got to do is getting them lined up in a row in the open for your dragon, then?" the Greatjon said sarcastically.

"Then what good is that dragon?" The Norrey muttered, not quite under his breath. Brandon Norrey was wrinkled and slight of build, but sly-eyed and spry like an old fox clad in fur and iron. "How do you hope to win with it if you refuse to use it properly?"

"Sonagon will destroy as much as he helps." Jon replied coolly. The thought of Mole's Town and the Twins flashed before his eyes. "Sonagon will assist, of course, but this battle can only be won by men."

The Norrey's eyes narrowed, but he didn't reply. "If you're a coward, Norrey, then walk away," said the Middle Liddle, but his gaze drifted towards Jon. The Flint and The Wull muttered agreements too. "The rest of us are fighting for the Ned's girl."

"And how do we breach those walls?" The Norrey objected. "We got the strongest walls in the north standing between us and the lass."

"Then we need to draw them out. Set a trap," Rattleshirt spoke up, his voice low, arms folded.

"Hard to imagine them failing for any trap when they know that dragon is out there," Hugo Wull grumbled. "Them cowards are holed up in the castle like rats."

"Fuck traps," the Weeper objected. "I got raiders that are real good at climbing. We get hooks over those walls at night, we get in there and we start cutting throats. We'll steal your sister from her bed and we'll slaughter those fuckers from all sides."

"You expect to climb over eighty-foot walls and cut through thousands of soldiers?" Jeremy Locke said doubtfully.

The Weeper grinned toothily. "That's what my men are good at. Hells, I'll lead them myself - you think I haven't done it before?"

Jon noticed how the Greatjon and Torghen Flint stiffened, both of them hatefully glaring at the grinning Weeper. The wildling's voice was taunting.

"It's possible," Jon admitted. "Very dangerous, but possible."

Rattleshirt nodded in agreement. "It could work. We'll have the dragon in the sky making a big distraction for us too," the Lord of Bones agreed. "You southerners pretend like you're ambushing one side of the walls, while the free folk climb over the opposite side and do all the real work."

"You wildlings want another castle to rape and raze?" The Norrey growled, but others pushed in.

"If it goes wrong, you could be sending a lot of people climbing to their deaths," Alysane Mormont warned.

"What I want to know," the Big Bucket said loudly, "why should anyone be climbing at all? Your dragon has wings, don't it?"

"Sonagon cannot ferry men over," Jon said, shaking his head. "Not easily, at least. He could only carry fifty men at a time, and it takes too long to dismount."

"How about dropping men on to the roof then?" The Wull grumbled. "If you've got a dragon with wings, we should bloody use them."

"You said that dragonfire is too destructive to use easily," Ser Wylis noted. "But what about other ways? Could your dragon drop boulders or whatnot?"

Jon wasn't sure how to reply. He stayed quiet, hesitating, while the chorus of voices became more pitched.

"We need siege engines. Ropes," Torghen Flint was shaking his head, his raspy voice crackling. "If your dragon could help make a bridge over the walls, then our men would do the rest."

"It's a bloody dragon," the Greatjon grunted. "Let it go in first and break down the gates. Problem solved."

"The Bolton men have been holed up in there for months," Ser Wylis warned. "We'd be fools to think they haven't made preparations against a dragon. They would have trained their men not to panic, and expect them to have built scorpions and heavy weapons."

That was a concerning thought. Sonagon wasn't invincible, and had to be used very carefully. If I lose my dragon I lose everything. Sonagon is too important to risk .

Jeremy Locke slammed his hand on the table. "I've seen your wolf. And that cat," the northmen announced suspiciously, looking at Jon and then around at the wildlings. "Your king can control animals. Why not let them chew those men out?"

Jon was about to protest, when the Big Bucket guffawed. "We got giants," the clansmen laughed. "Giants and mammoths. Let those bloody beasts go first and break the walls for us."

"Those walls are eighty-foot-high, my lord, and the gates are solid. We don't have enough giants to risk them on the front lines."

"Your dragon is bigger, ain't it? Use it."

Sonagon could do a lot, and the dragon would be nigh-unbeatable flying overhead and spewing down frostfire. If the dragon had to break a fortified gate, however, or drop into the courtyard, then that became riskier. All I need is to open up a way to get men into the castle, Jon thought. But how to do that when the castle is as strong as Winterfell and the enemy is heavily entrenched?

The Wull was insisting on storming the gates. Ser Wylis argued constructing siege equipment, while other voices were mixed. Jon was caught trying to answer three different questions at once.

"Fuck off if you think free folk are going to bleed for you," Rattleshirt snapped, glaring at The Wull. "It's your castle, you southerners should take the front-lines."

"You expect to use our men as fodder?" Jeremy Locke accused. "Like you do with Karstark?" That caused the Weeper to snap. Jon tried to intervene, but the voices were rising.

The meeting was dissolving into a pointless bicker. Tormund and the Greatjon were arguing again, the Weeper was spitting angrily against Ser Wylis and Jeremy Locke. Everyone at the table had their own ideas, their own way of doing things. Nobody's used to this type of battle, he thought with a grimace. Nobody had ever fought alongside a dragon before . Or with each other .

"You southrons like to argue," Rattleshirt sneered quietly, arms folded as he clattered towards Jon and then rested back against the wall. The thought made Jon grimace. This is not a unified council .

Jon listened for as long as he could handle, but every man was talking over each other. " Enough !" Jon snapped. It took a while for the room to silence. "Enough! We will not be divided. The Boltons

will take advantage of us if we are. No, this is a battle that will be won calmly and with certainty."

A man scoffed from the back. Jon suspected it was Rattleshirt. "Lord Umber," said Jon carefully, looking around the room, "Tormund and Morgan Liddle shall lead the forward siege. We'll set up camp at the east gate and fortify position. Sonagon will do regular passes overhead to keep them down. We assess their strength, and go from there."

There were a few grunts and nods. "Rattleshirt, you take the northern boundary, Ser Wylis, the south. Watch for any attempts to flank us around the walls. We need eyes on every gate and scouts watching every stretch of outer wall." Jon wasn't going to risk his numbers trying to siege every gate; they'd focus their efforts on the Hunter's Gate. Jon turned around. "Alysane, Lord Norrey and Jeremy - I need you to start preparing siege weapons. Battering rams, ladders and ropes at the very least. Stone-throwers and towers if you can."

"And how bloody long is that going to take?" the Weeper grumbled.

"I did not come to camp outside castle's walls," the Big Bucket agreed. "Winter is almost upon us, boy. My men are here for Ned's little girl, not to waste ourselves in the snows."

"The weather could easily turn," The Flint warned. "If we're still exposed…"

"It will take as long as it needs to," Jon said sharply. The argument gave him worry. These are my commanders, they should not be squabbling such . "We have the clear advantage, I will not lose it withrash action. We go forward step by step."

"What of our supplies?" Ser Wylis pressed.

"And what of your sister?" the Middle Liddle demanded, louder.

Morgan Liddle was focused on Arya, Jon noted.

"When they feel the jaws closing, they'll ransom her as a hostage. Their men will mutiny, and sooner or later they'll try for a deal to save themselves," Jon promised, wishing he believed it.

"Aye," the Greatjon nodded, mouth twisting. "But we will not let those rats get away. Not after what they've done."

"No," Jon agreed. "We will not."

The men started to shuffle. "Tormund, Weeper," Jon said quietly. "Get some good men ready to climb if need be."

The two wildling raiders nodded as they headed to the door. He met with the men one by one afterwards, trying to delegate the commands fairly. Jon was painfully aware that every man there had more experience than he had. Still, their attitudes towards him ranged from stoic to vaguely aggressive. The Norrey only grunted at him.

My army still has its fractures, he thought with a grimace. The northern coalition came together, but not cleanly. Sonagon is the only thing really keeping the host together .

That and Arya.

Alysane Mormont was waiting for him afterwards; a short, chunky and muscular figure with big breasts and thighs, who seemed round under layers of leather and mail. Alysane was heavier-set than her mother, but Jon could see the likeness around the eyes. Alysane also shared her mother's hands - she had a calloused grip that seemed built for holding a mace. Underneath the half-helm, her hard face was lined with worry.

"You know Winterfell is one of the strongest castles in the realm?" Alysane commented. "Somewhere between Casterly Rock and Storm's End, if I had to rank it. She's larger than the Red Keep and the walls are thicker than Harrenhal. Not the fanciest castle, but it's hard to find many stouter or well-built."

"I'm aware."

"Then do not go thinking this battle is won just because you've got a dragon," the woman warned. "Winterfell has never once been taken by siege before and I worry that men seem to think the Boltons are no threat to us. I do not like the attitude in your army."

"Yes. I will need your help to keep them in line," agreed Jon. "Stop any from advancing too far. I don't trust the Boltons not to set a trap."

Alysane gave a curt nod, but the discontent on her forehead didn't ease. "Aye. Just be wary, Your Grace." The honorific sounded more flippant than respectful. Her head barely bobbed as she bowed and left.

Jon pursed his lips. This is the last battle, he told himself. Winterfell is only days away .

He turned to look at a rough map one of the scouts had carved in a piece of bark, with the walls as crude oblong and the gates and positions marked in crosses. Jon remembered his childhood home, and tried to imagine besieging it. Winterfell was huge - it spanned several acres, the outer granite walls eighty feet high, the inner walls a hundred feet. The battlements were old, but they had never decayed. The great keep alone could withstand an invasion.

I could have another five thousand men here in a fortnight, Jon thought. Sigorn of Thenn and forces from the Shadow Tower had yet to arrive. There may be up to twenty-five thousand with me in a month. If they turn this into a prolonged siege, we won't lose .

Still, perhaps the greatest threat was the weather. An early winter storm could be devastating for a large force camped outside. Is that the Boltons' plan - hold out and hope for the elements to take care of us?

No, Jon wasn't willing to wait months. Sonagon would end the battle for us, one way or another .

The visitors to his cabin didn't stop. Even as the sun started to drip down over the cloudy hills, more and more protesters were coming and going. Jon had to oversee everything from supplies to perimeter, to give a hundred different orders. "You'll wear yourself out like this, Snow," Ewan Bole warned from the doorway, as he stood guard stiffly.

Jon could only grimace. The news had spread quickly that they would be marching out on the morn.

It was dusk, but the thick, black clouds left the air bleak and cold. Jon was wide awake, fretfully pacing all night. He could have looked for Val, but he was left too anxious and unquiet to even think of taking comfort with her.

The camp was stirring restlessly, torches fighting against the wind and snow. I am so close, Jon thought, only days away . The stress of leading a whole army felt unbearable sometimes.

He saw the dragon snoozing gently on the ice, white scales shimmering in the torchlit gloom. His Dragonguard had set up camps circling the dragon, huddled around fires and small fishing holes on the lake. There were twenty-seven men in his Dragonguard now, but only twenty of them were with the host at the moment.

Jon reached out gently, and the dragon felt tired. Too snoozy to respond. Mayhaps Sonagon is the only creature that is sleeping tonight .

The camp was fortified. The men were organised. It was nearing dusk, which meant there was nothing to do but wait until morning to start the final march to Winterfell. Jon looked around the camp staring at the bulwark of shovelled snow and earthen spikes around their camp.

Tomorrow, I assault the castle I was raised in, he thought with a sigh. He could feel the tension in the night. Tomorrow there will be a battle, perhaps several. It lingered in the air, put everybody on edge.

In the sky, a gibbous pale moon glimmered behind the black, swirling clouds, barely visible. Why is it that full moon always makes everything feel more… agitated?

A muffled roar echoed from the distance, followed by the sound of great mammoths trumpeting. Jon could barely see the giant camp at the far side of the host - huge figures huddled like rocks across the lake. The giants and their mammoths were still a source of conflict in the camp; even after months of travelling with the free folk they had to be kept to their own corner at the north-eastern fringes of the host. As devastating as the giants and their mounts were in battle, they were not the most docile to camp alongside.

Much like Sonagon, actually, Jon thought with a grimace. Twice now, men had almost died from irritating Sonagon in his sleep, and it reached the point that Sonagon had to be kept well away from the host.

The sound of a mammoth's horn filled the air. "Toregg," Jon ordered to his man. "Find Hatch and see to the giants, they sound unsettled."

"Aye, king," Toregg nodded, before stomping off. Doubtless there would be another complaint of northmen intruding on the giant clans, or their mammoths breaking the perimeter, Jon thought. Suchscuffles happened several times a week.

Across the ridge, there was sound of yet another squabble breaking out between free folk and northmen, while raiders and soldiers rushed to extinguish it. Jon turned, trying to assess it. The camp was never quiet or peaceful.

"Snow," Jon heard the Greatjon call to him from behind. "We need words."

"Lord Umber." He turned. The lord's jaw was tight, his gaze dark under his half-helm.

"I've been hearing things, Snow. What do you know about Creston?" the Greatjon demanded.

"I'm not familiar."

"It's a village by the kingsroad to the north of here. Little place, my son and I stopped at it often enough on the road to Winterfell." His voice was grim, walking closer imposingly like a wall of mail and muscle. "A few farms, a mill, a pretty lass used to serve in the tavern." There was a pause, as if daring Jon to speak. He didn't. "And now I hear that your wildlings burnt the village to the ground."

What? Dammit . "Lord Umber, I was not-"

"Does it fucking look like I care for excuses?" the Greatjon growled, dangerously low. The man was often shouting, but his voice was most dangerous when it turned quiet. "You promised me you'd keep those savages under control, Snow, and then my men overhear yours bragging - bragging! - about what they did to that village."

"It was not my order," Jon protested. He could see the commotion in the camp spreading to the north. Dammit .

"Yet it happened. You promised me there'd be no raids, Snow."

"I will see to it, Lord Umber, I will." He stepped forward, sizing up against the lord. The Greatjon looked ready to spit on him. "I don't know which warband was responsible, but I'll find out."

"Aye, and now I'm wondering how many more villages have been pillaged that I haven't even heard about. Fucking savages," the lord snarled, sounding disgusted. His voice was still too loud, the wildlings around them all glared. Dammit . "You said you'd keep them leashed, Snow."

"I will find whoever is responsible, I will make sure-"

"Your Grace!" A voice called through the gloom, and Jon heard shuffling feet through the snow. A podgy figure was running towards him. Harlow was panting for breath, face covered in wool-lined hood. The Greatjon glowered. "Your Grace, there's - the Ser Wylis says there's a rider from White Harbour, Your Grace. They are calling for you."

"A rider?" At once, Jon twitched, tightening his shadowskin cloak and hood against the chill. "A scout?"

"I think a messenger, Your Grace," Harlow said with a gulp, quickly lowering his head.

"We ain't done here," the Greatjon warned looking at Jon.

Jon turned to the Greatjon impatiently. "I will deal with this later, my lord. If there's been word I must see to it."

There were other bodies moving in the same direction. From the Manderly encampment, a trumpet bellowed. Jon heard Lord Umber calling after him, while Harlow quickly rushed away to spread the word. On the ice, he saw the fires of his Dragonguard stirring.

The Manderly encampment was towards the southern edge of the village, by the broken and rickety dock on the edge of the icy lake. In summer, you could have launched fishing vessels from the small boathouse that would trawl all the way to Long Lake, but not when the waters were ice. Ser Wylis and the White Harbour knights took the old boathouse for themselves, while their men huddled in wool and sealskin tents compared to the hide and leather of free folk. House Manderly provided the vast majority of their heavy horse, and the green merman banners fluttered over tents.

Another trumpet blew - they weren't under attack, but calling for attention urgently. "What the blazes is going on there?" Jon heard the Greatjon grumble behind him as he followed. Jon didn't reply.

He saw Ser Wylis' party at edge of the encampment, figures gathered in front of a bonfire by the boathouse. A crowd was already forming, their sharp murmurs barely audible over the windy wails. Jon heard Tormund's voice shouting over the din. "Bugger off, you cravens!"

"If we do not move out now, we could-" That was a highborn voice, fighting amidst the rising frenzied racket.

"You don't get to give us orders, kneeler!" a wildling jeered. "-is more important, they won't be able to hold!" "The commands are clear, we must gather south-!"

You do not command us ." Jon easily recognised the Weeper's guttural voice, growling to the sound of murmured agreements.

"-under attack!"

Jon broke into lopsided jog. He could see the figures gathered before a bonfire in front of a barnhouse, horses neighing while more and more pressed to be heard.

"What's going on?" Jon shouted, while Ser Alek and Ewan shoved their way through. Jon noticed how the White Harbour knight received more than a few glares. His voice struggled to be heard - Jon was wearing his hood, and few had recognised the king approaching. "What is happening?"

Order, you bastards! " the Greatjon boomed, so loud that everyone went silent. " The blazes is this? "

He saw Ser Wylis, red-faced, caught off-guard. "Your Grace," the knight gasped. "The southern patrols spotted a rider, but in the snows they weren't sure. Three men had to go out to find him, I thought it urgent, but your wildlings…"

"Speak, Ser Wylis," Jon ordered. "There was a rider?"

"Aye," the Weeper snorted, and his armour clanged as he stepped forward next to Jon. "And these cravens want to run away."

"A messenger hailing from House Beck of Daleton to the south, the man rode his horse so hard the beast nearly died. House Beck relayed a raven from Ramsgate," Ser Wylis insisted, "who received the message from House Locke, who speaks of fishing sloops coming from Sisterton. Your Grace, Lord Locke must have sent many ravens, we're lucky that this one managed to find us, Oldcastle is reporting-"

"The witless old man."

"- is reporting a fleet of warships sailing through the Bite. Your Grace, White Harbour itself is under threat."

What? Jon could see the nervousness in Ser Wylis' face. Many other northern knights looked the same. "How many?"

"He writes of a great fleet. Truthfully, Lord Locke doesn't know, but he guesses fifty."

"Aye, and I could write that my member is four-foot-long and oft used as a spear," Tormund harrumphed. "Those little words mean nothing unless someone is actually about to get stabbed."

Standing next to Ser Wylis, Jeremy Locke flustered. "You doubt my father's word?"

"I doubt his sense, his wits and, hells, his messenger," Tormund retorted. "How do we know those words are true?"

"Let me be clear, ser," Jon pressed. "Are you saying that White Harbour is under attack?"

"Aye," Ser Wylis gulped. "Lord Locke writes with the utmost urgency. The garrison at the city will not be able to hold."

Jon shook his head, but he felt uneasy. "It doesn't make sense, a fleet of fifty ships? On the east coast? How could House Bolton muster such a thing?"

We were never expecting an attack against White Harbour. We secured the lands piecemeal, and House Bolton doesn't have a fleet.

"Perhaps it's not them, the fleet of King's Landing, or the Redwyne's…"

"They are both indisposed with their own wars," the Greatjon said. "There should have been more warning."

"Your Grace, I do not know," said Ser Wylis. He sounded pained. "But the message is at least three days old already. White Harbour could be under attack right now."

"What of the White Harbour fleet?"

"Manderly's fleet is dispersed, but even if it musters in time they will not be able to hold the harbour against such numbers," Jeremy Locke chimed. "The city is in peril."

"Only if the force is a large as the man says," the Weeper said, to mutters of agreement. Lord Umber looked torn. "How can we base anything on a single bloody scrap of paper?"

"But if it is," Ser Wylis urged. "Your Grace, White Harbour will need support. Let us gather mounted men to move swiftly. And we must fly the dragon south."

"On one letter, on the eve of battle?!" Tormund's voice was incredulous, and Jon was caught looking at Ser Wylis' desperate face. He felt the dread seeping through. "Far more likely that someone is sending bloody lies."

Move Sonagon south? "The storms…" Jon muttered. They had seen the black clouds rumbling south, not even Sonagon could fly safely

through such weather. When the storms hit it could well block the path.

"It's a trap," the Weeper snapped, glowering.

"My father would not have lied…"

"What of our families?" Ser Wylis insisted. "We have families - wives, children, babes - in the city, to lose such… We must delay the march on Winterfell, Your Grace, turn south instead."

"To delay costs lives, boy," an old wildling said angrily. "We got eighteen thousand men exposed right here in the snow."

"If we knew for sure the words were true, then maybe…" the Greatjon muttered, and then shook his head. "But no, we can't commit from one letter alone. Those words and seal are too easily forged."

Jon agreed, but Ser Wylis' face looked desperate. Jeremy Locke was by his side, and many other White Harbour knights looked unnerved. "And yet the second letter could arrive far too late! To wait on a second rider reaching us, in this weather, how could we…?"

"We can't trust them," the Weeper insisted. "You dare to doubt-" Jeremy bristled. "If there's an assault-" "-re outside the gates of Winterfell!"

The voices reached fever pitch. In the distance, he heard the sound of giants booming, barely audible over the wind and snow. The ripples were spreading outwards, the whole camp felt like a melting pot. Where could such a fleet come from? Could White Harbour truly be under attack? His initial instincts said no, but…

Jon's hands tightened. "Enough!" he snapped, but the voices barely ceased. " Enough! Ser Wylis, I understand your concern, but I cannot move Sonagon right now without proper cause."

The knight's mouth opened to object. " However," Jon continued. "I have my shadowcat at New Castle still. If the city is truly under attack, I can soon tell through her."

"You can know?" Jeremy Locke demanded.

"Aye, I am linked to her." And yet the shadowcat is far away, and my link to Phantom has always been tenuous . Jon grimaced. "I need…I need concentration. Let me focus. Give me time, and I will bring you a better answer."

Ser Wylis gaped, and then nodded. Other northmen looked confused too - few of them understood warging.

Phantom is sealed in her chambers. Would any of the household think to warn the shadowcat in an emergency? Jon could only try to concentrate, but the chorus of voices still rang around him. The noise and wind echoed around his head.

Jeremy was shouting that that wasn't good enough, while Ser Wylis was fretting. Arguments rising from the free folk and knights all around him. Focus, Jon pushed. He could only try to feel the sliver of the shadowcat's presence. Focus .

… He felt stone floors, darkness, and hurried noises…

And yet the voices still rang in his eye. More and more demands coming at him, making it impossible to think; "What is happening?", "The letter says…", "Your Grace, the giants…"

"Fuck you and you kneelers." Jon heard the Weeper curse. "Fuck you if you think the free folk will jump to attention for you and yours!"

Jon's eyes snapped open. In the crowd, he saw the Weeper facing off against a burly knight. "You are obligated to White Har-"

"I ain't obligated to shit," the wildling's voice rang, spittle dribbling with every word. "You and your pansy knights don't order free folk around."

"That's enough, Weeper!" Jon snapped. The air was too tense, everyone's blood running too hot. The dread and the panic seemed to seep into the air. This is not helping . "Move these people out, this is over! I want this fire cleared. Weeper, go patrol the bulwarks."

The raiders face twisted in fury, but Jon was already turning away. "Clear it out, we'll deal with this properly in the morn," Jon ordered to Tormund, and then turned to Ser Alek. "Ser, see to Ser Wylis. He seems distressed - reassure him, keep him content."

Both Tormund and Ser Alek nodded. Too much happening, Jon cursed. Could barely keep track of half it. I need time to think and focus .

"What of White Harbour?" Jeremy Locke demanded, face flushed.

"We'll deal with it in the morn!" Jon snapped. With cooler heads .

There was already a crowd, blocking his way back to his cabin. Jon could have groaned. The night was stressed and anxious and nobody was sleeping. It didn't sound like the arguments around him were settling.

Morgan Liddle was at the front of the group, along with many other clansmen. "Snow, I heard about the letter," he growled. In the dark, his eyes flashed with anger.

Jon's voice turned curter than he intended. "Ser, the Manderly men will inform you, but excuse me-"

"I want you to inform me, Snow," Morgan replied, stepping sharply in front of him. There were shouts from the free folk. There was an iron axe at the clansman's side, and his hand wasn't far. " Is it true? "

Jon blinked, startled. The clansmen were stirring, and the Middle Liddle looked seething. "Excuse me?"

"Bloody bastard," Morgan cursed. "I knew we shouldn't have called for you, Snow."

"Stand back, Morgan," Jon growled, fingers twitching for Dark Sister. "What are you speaking of?"

"The letter, Snow." Morgan waved a curled parchment in his other hand accusingly, as if that was supposed to mean something. "You think we wouldn't find out?"

"You are mistaken, ser." What is this? The man seemed to think Jon was being evasive.

The man's jaw clenched, the scar over his cheek twisting. He stepped in confrontation, towering over Jon. "You deny it? I got from your own man, Snow. You promised that you would save the girl, and I'm fool for trusting an oathbreaker's word."

Jon stepped forward too, until they were nearly pressing against each other. Ewan Bole shouted warning, while free folk clutched spears. "I have not seen that parchment before. I do not know what it says. You are mistaken . And I do not have time for this."

He tried to push back, but the man blocked his way. "Step back Morgan!" Ewan shouted.

"Fucking liar," the Middle Liddle spat, slamming the parchment against Jon's chest. "It says that you're a fucking liar."

The heavy hand jarred his shoulder. Jon fumbled trying to grip the parchment in his gloves. In the dark he couldn't make out any words,

but it was written in pink paper. Boltons? Jon thought confusedly.

"I trusted the Lady Mormont when she said we could trust you," the man cursed. He was really angry, and Jon was just left baffled. "And the one thing that you promised - the one thing that actually made us rally for you - you said you would rescue the Ned's girl."

Wildlings stepped forward warningly, and Jon had to hold up his hand to stop them. "She is my sister and I will."

"Then explain the bloody letter," Morgan growled. "And the nose !" What?

The seal was already cracked, the parchment worn. It was so hard to even pull the page straight in the howling wind and flecks of snow. Jon had to squint to make out the words in the flickering torchlight. " To Jon Snow, King Beyond the Wall," the curled handwriting read, " I, Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, Warden of the North, offer my complete surrender. "

What?

All around him, there were shouts and rustling bodies. The Middle Liddle was demanding answers from Jon when he had none to give. The mountain clans were well and truly riled up. All semblance of order was lost in orchestra of incensed voices. It felt like the chaos was rising around him. What's going on here?

Jon could only struggle to make out words, still staring baffled. " All I ever intended was a peaceful land and a quiet people, and yet I will not ruin the realm in defiance. In return for safe passage for me, my wife and my loyal men beyond the Narrow Sea, taking with us the wealth of our houses," the letter read, " I offer the complete and unconditional surrender of my forces, and the safe return of Arya Stark of Winterfell.

My prime concern is the security of the realm, my family and my allies, and I am forced to place my faith in that you can preserve it.

If accepted, I shall surrender Ramsay Snow, my ill-blooded ilk, to answer for his crimes. I do not, I have never, condoned such brutality; I am prepared to surrender Ramsay to your justice. All I seek is the promise of safe exile and there need not be a war. "

It was signed, " Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort. "

People were shouting. Jon was caught off-guard, trying to keep up. "And that arrived a month ago, with more following it. Lord Bolton offered the same surrender four fucking times," Morgan Liddle accused. "Why the fuck did you refuse the offer, Snow, and why did you not tell anyone of it?"

Wait, what? Jon was struggling to process it all, but Morgan Liddle had already reached his own conclusion. All around him the camp was howling. "I have not seen this before."

"Your maester says otherwise. It was delivered to your quarters." What? "You know I think, Snow? I think you never intended to saveNed's girl from the beginning. I think it's better for you if you let Arya Stark die, so nobody can challenge you."

"Tell us about the nose, Snow." That was Old Torghen Flint's voice, staggering with his spear as a walking stick. "The Bastard of Bolton threatened you with the poor girl's severed nose, and then you abandoned her for the dog to cut off more parts of her. You wanted Arya Stark to die."

"I… I did not," Jon protested, but his head was spinning. The severed, wrinkled nose that Ramsay Bolton sent to him at Castle Black. The nose? I never told anyone about the nose. I've been trying not to even think about the nose . Sam and Val were the onlyones who knew of the pink letter, how could the clansmen find out…?

"You didn't want a surrender, did you?" a man accused. "You wanted to burn them all and let Arya Stark die."

They were pushing too close, the crowd stirring. "Stand back!" Ewan Bole ordered. "Your Grace, get back."

"Why did you keep the letters a secret?" Torghen Flint demanded. Crowds turn into mobs turn into riots… "Why hide them unless youhad something to hide?"

"I did not keep that bloody letter from you, I have never seen it before!" Jon snapped, but there was no chance to explain. Too many voices all shouting, he couldn't reply to them.

Their glares were all accusing. They found these letters and they were already convinced of his guilt, for it confirmed what they had already feared. The mountain clans were fiercely loyal to Stark.

Declaring for Arya was the only thing that persuaded them to come to my side, and if they think I abused that…

He heard more accusations. Jon's head was spinning. "You are mistaken," he shouted, shaking his head and pushing his way through. Heart was pounding. Get to the cabin. Calm down, focus… "Enough of this, I have urgent matters to see to."

"You do not walk away from us, Snow," Morgan Liddle bellowed. "We want answers."

Bodies all around him, and in the dark Jon couldn't hardly make out anything more than stomping and flickering figures.

"Your Grace… !" That was Ewan Bole, shouting warningly.

He heard White Harbour men stomping up behind him, their green cloaks billowing in the increasing wind. "Ser Wylis demands to know what of White Harbour!" A White Harbour knight shouted from behind.

There was a panic rising. More voices, blurring into each other. Jon tried to see, but the bodies blocked his view. All the cries muffled together, a howl like the storm…

"What's bloody going on here?"

"You want your sister to die, trying to usurp…"

"Bastard-!"

"Fires!"

"We must return to the city… !"

"Snow, the giants are-!"

Fucking wildlings! " A sudden voice shrieked through the gloom. Jon didn't know who was bellowed, but it was like scraping a flint over dried kindling. " Fucking savages! "

Something snapped. He heard a muffled cry, and bodies thumping together. A fight. The earth rumbled. Somebody lunged at somebody else. Jon couldn't even tell who was attacking who, or where…

There was no order, there was just so many bodies. All of them armed and on-edge and not sure what was happening… " ENOUGH OF THIS! " Jon screamed at the top of his lungs. They all worehoods against the snow, in the crowd and dark it was so hard to even tell who was who. " ENOUGH OF TH- "

And suddenly the cabin collapsed as with an almighty shape exploded through. Jon felt something collide against his skull.

The earth trembled, great roar trumpeting…

Bodies screaming, running in chaos.

Flames, immense cries of pain.

His head spinning, couldn't understand…

Jon glimpsed a great mammoth running amok, stampeding wildly through his cabin. Its shaggy fur flickering smoky red, blazing with the stench of scorched meat as the creature went mad with panic.

Everyone was running, crashing into each other, while the mammoth thrashed.

Its great trunk blared with an ear-shattering cry. It's on fire, Jon realised dumbly. Someone set the mammoths on fire, and they stampeded…

All around him, it was like the whole camp was being plunged into pandemonium. People were running, screaming, fighting. He saw more flames; the ground was shaking…

His forehead was bleeding. A splinter from the cabin cracked against his skull when the mammoth burst through. Ash and smoke in the air. The whole crowd had been sent scattering, he couldn't even make out any figures.

Under attack . That one thought pushed its way to forefront of his mind. We're under attack. Need to muster, need to rally…

Men screaming his name. "Snow!" the call came. A chant in the dark, the voices strained, urgent. "Snow, Snow, Snow! "

"To me!" he screamed, but he was still gasping for air. Bodies rushing towards him. "To m-"

His throat jammed, the word turned into a grunt. His blurry eyes focused to see a flash of steel. A dagger in a man's hand, as it slashed at him. Jon twisted from the knife, just enough so it barely grazed his skin. He felt blood welling over his cheek, the warmth stinging against the cold.

Jon could barely even make out the figures approaching him. They had just been shapes in the crowd, slipping out of the blackness. His

hands reached for Dark Sister, but his fingers were suddenly stiff and fumbling.

Steel flashed again. His flailing arms managed to catch the blow from the front, but the blade from the side caught him completely off-guard.

His felt himself gasp as blade hit his torso, grinding against chainmail. He didn't feel the edge, it was more like a kick to his chest. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end . His whole body trembled, trying to thrash, but in the dark and madness…

Someone was still screaming for him, calling his name. He heard the clash of fighting. In that moment, there was absolutely nothing but stampeding feet, black shadows and screaming shapes.

Val

It was a cold night. Tense. Quiet and restless.

She sat and she watched the sun slowly setting over the snows, her face huddled under double-lined furs. Val had spent a long time debating on whether to try to sleep; to keep herself focused for the coming morn, but her nights had been restless for a while now. In an army on the march, most would welcome whatever rest they could have, wherever they could find it. But something in Val kept her awake, restless and pondering, where others would sleep.

Instead, tonight, she sat by the cages of ravens, sheltered under a thick hide tent, snows packed around it. The birds had been carted by donkey all through the snows. The black birds fluttered, pecking at their metal bars, cawing for corn. The maester, a brown-haired, round-shouldered and aging man named Medrick seemed nervous with her presence. Still, she didn't care to leave, and the birds fascinated Val.

There were two maesters travelling with the army; one a young greenboy named Henly who seemed constantly scared out of his wits, and the other the fretting, fidgeting Maester Medrick. Henly had come serving House Slate along with the Manderly men, while Medrick had been with Lord Umber's host since Hornwood. As far as Val could tell, their duties including ferrying letters, seeing to injuries among the nobles, and trying to stay away from all the free folk.

Outside, the sky was dark and the camp was ready for war, but during her restless walks Val oft found herself lingering by the maesters' tents. Benefits of being the king's paramour, she thought with a quiet scoff. I can go wherever I wish .

Paramour . She knew what it meant, but the label was meaningless to her. Still, these southrons seemed to have put the name onto her, and Val had better things to do than object.

The ravens pecked the tips of her fingers hungrily, while she dangled her hand over the cage. Maester Medrick was fidgeting, cycling around his birds with handful of corn, as he always did when he was nervous. He is a podgy greybeard, not a man comfortable with war .

"So these birds," Val asked curiously, after long stretch of silence. "They send messages. But how do they learn where to go?"

The maester blinked in surprise. "My lady?"

"These birds, how do they work? I've known men who trained hawks to hunt, but how could you train so many birds to deliver messages?"

"Um, the ravens are trained to recognise castles, my lady," Medrick explained. "They are bred for strong homing instincts. Most know only of a single castle. Some few can be taught to fly between two or three castles, but those are rare."

Rare," a raven echoed between the bars. The maester flicked at the cage. " Rare, rare ."

"So I understand. Then you keep a bird trained for a certain location?" The maester nodded. Val scratched her chin. "But then how do you get the birds back?"

"Often you don't," Medrick admitted. "Most of a maester's rookery is collected from birds that have been sent to you."

"And if you run out of birds?" she mused. "If you send more ravens than you receive?"

"Then you must either trade birds from a nearby castle, or send a request to the Citadel in Oldtown for a new shipment."

"And then who teaches them?" Val pressed. "Does that mean there must be a person who walks a learning raven to a new location and repeats the name? Is there a poor sod who has to travel between every castle to teach the ravens?"

The maester seemed off-guard by her questions. Perhaps it was so mundane to them that nobody else asked? "It is difficult," he explained, blinking. "Most maesters have to work together to teach their flocks. When a bird is learning, first we teach it to follow a more experienced bird. Quite often, there are birds that arrive with blank parchment - they are requests for a local maester to train that bird, release it, ensure it comes back to their castle reliably - and afterwards it is expected they send the trained bird back to the maester who sent the request."

"I see." Val mused. "And yet that could only work so long as every maester train each other's flock."

"Just so."

"Is that not exploitable? What stops one person from using their birds without helping any others? Or couldn't an enemy steal all the ravens from a certain a castle?"

"The… The Citadel, my lady. That is why all maesters are trained at Oldtown - we are an order that must rise above such conflicts. Maesters must focus on the greater good," There was just a hint of a quiver in Medrick's voice. "Maesters must share and trade with each other freely to keep the communication working. Lest your castle may end up like Greywater Watch, which can neither send nor receive any messages at all because they have neglected their ravencraft."

She nodded as she moved her hand away from one of the cages. The bird cawed for corn. "But you are not in your castle at the moment - these ravens won't know where to return to, correct?"

"That is correct. We can only reliably send messages; a camp on the move cannot receive them. The birds will return to their trained roost only."

Her gaze moved around the cages. The maester stood stiffly like he was being interrogated, Val noted with amusement. She was just curious.

"I took a good selection ravens, trained to the most significant of the northern castles, and a few of the greater keeps. And I keep track of the birds diligently," he explained quickly, pointing to each in turn.

"Those birds are trained to White Harbour, they are important. Those are for Last Hearth. Those three are for Castle Black, and they have suddenly become in high demand. I cannot send any raven further south than Moat Cailin, I'm afraid, with the exception of one bird trained for King's Landing, which I dare not send but for the direst message."

"I thought you said that maesters train all other maesters' birds."

"They try. But Hornwood has had little reason to message distant castles in the realm for a long time. If my lord wished to send message to a holding for which we lacked the birds, then common practice is to relay the raven through a greater rookery, like Winterfell or White Harbour, and request for that maester to forward the

message onwards. If I were to send a letter for… somewhere in Dorne, for example, it is possible that the letter would have to be relayed between several castles."

"So many distant places. How queer to think your little words can travel between them," she mused. "But it hardly the most secure means."

"It has its limitations," Maester Medrick said, before risking, "You… You are very curious about ravencraft, my lady."

"It is… interesting," she admitted. "You southerners treat it as something so mundane."

She wondered what it would be like, to have a raven's wings. To be able to fly between some many queer and exotics places, lands so vast that Val hadn't even known of them beyond the Wall. Tis a big world, Val thought with a twinge of sadness.

"The art of ravenry is one of the cornerstones on which the Citadel itself was founded," Medrick explained. "It is one of the core duties of every maester, to allow communication between the realm. Without us, the realm would shatter and break."

" Break," a raven cawed. " Break ."

"Indeed." What a strange thought. Val tried to imagine any of the free folk devoting their life to something as trivial as other people's letters, and she couldn't. Sacrificing themselves for the convenience of others. And yet, nevertheless, all of these ravens in cages and maesters in chains kept this southern realm running. Each one of them was a greying old man, but they contributed to something greater.

How long would it have taken an army of this size to assemble, if we hadn't have been able to send ravens from White Harbour to Castle Black to Eastwatch to Last Hearth? They would have had to wait for

messengers on foot, and maybe they would have lost their timing altogether.

Maybe that was why the free folk had always lost in every invasion, she mused. The southerners were just so much better established, better organised, the 'wildlings' had never really had a chance.

Outside, the sun was setting, and the gloomy skies were turning dark. The camp felt restless. Nervous. It would likely be a battle tomorrow, and the unease lingered in the air. Val had found that it was better to distract herself rather than fret.

" Help," a raven cawed dumbly from its cage. " Help, help, help ."

Val stared at the bird curiously, as a few others picked up the chant.

She just shrugged, and turned away.

Jon will be pacing, she thought quietly. He always started pacing, winding himself up and obsessing manically. She knew Jon well enough to know how prone he was to turning stoic or snapping with nerves. Perhaps Val would have gone to him, except Jon wouldn't want to ease off tonight. She cared for him, sweet fool that he was, but there were times when getting him to relax was like drawing teeth.

Jon," another raven cawed. That caused Val to stare. She wondered where it had picked up the word. " Jon, Jon, Jon ."

Noise from outside, beyond the tent's furs. The camp was a bustle. Val didn't care to be caught up in it, she wished to linger in this little place of peace and quiet.

She roused herself and idly set herself to her curiosity. She found herself thumbing through scrolls and parchments filled with words that she could not understand, keeping out of the maester's way as he saw to his own duties. Medrick's logged all of the army's correspondence, she noted. She couldn't make sense of the words,but she could still tell something of the nature of most of the letters.

The messages meant for nobles and lords were all long and squiggly, filled with far more details, courtesies and addresses than needs be, while the stock counts and scouting reports were all short and abrupt, oft with few words, some marked with more scrawling numbers than words. Many field commanders couldn't read, and so they oft sent doodled sketches with stick figures and maps rather than proper letters.

Occasionally, there were small sheaves of parchment with large, crude lettering, written by a hand using the charcoal as one would a carving knife to wood. She had caught glimpses of these letters in Jon's rooms. So the Lord of Bones has been teaching himself to write, Val noted, riffling through the sheaves.

There were quite a few letters from Rattleshirt, actually.

She found herself distracted, flicking through the crude letters and trying to figure out what they were saying. Maester Medrick was twitching, his hands fumbling as he went through the locks on the cages, feeding the ravens a cage at a time. Oft, he would fumble, dropping a handful of corn to the floor of the cage, where the ravens would fight over the cobs. Val observed him through the corner of her eye, as he fumbled yet again, slightly sweating despite the cold. He is really nervous .

After a passing of minutes, a haggle of mountain clansmen came looking for the maester, and he met with them outside the tent. Whatever they spoke of, she didn't pay attention. The maester went off together with the clansmen, seeming to linger outside the tent for a moment, not quite looking at her. Val frowned, realising her sudden solitude.

Time trickled by. Slowly, the hairs on the back of her neck started to shiver. She went through all the papers and squiggles again, picking out Rattleshirt's. She could tell the Lord of Bone's letters from the hand they were written in. The force from Eastwatch, under his command, had joined them two weeks ago. Yet there were copies of

letters sent by him, from after that time. Now why is Rattleshirt sending messages when there was nothing to be sent?

Val couldn't read, but she had good instincts. Something felt off but she couldn't quite place it.

It took her some time to realise what was bothering her; Medrick's organisation was meticulous. He kept all the slivers of parchments jammed under the respective raven's cages, everything ordered by sender and time, copies of letters sent and received in separate loosely bound books. Every letter sent and received had been copied and put into its place in the maester's system. And yet there were holes in the system, spaces were no letters had been sorted. Differences in the numbers of letters sent and received. On its own, it wouldn't have brought about her attention - ravens are sometimes lost, the maester had said - but the numbers were high, too high, for letters from certain specific locations and commanders.

It was all so foreign to her, but Val had to go through it again. She tried to match up the birds to their destinations, which ones were from White Harbour, which ones to Eastwatch. The nagging suspicion in the back of her head just kept on getting louder.

Jon, Jon, Jon…" the ravens mournfully intoned, attracting her brief glance.

The southron lords all insisted on having their maester around. But who really checks what the maester is doing?

In the distance, she heard a roar coming from the giant's camp. Snow and wind whipped through the night. Outside, she saw men shuffling in the dark.

After a moment, Val made her decision.

She pulled her cloak on quickly and stepped out through the muddy slurry, between the mismatch of tents and fire pits clustered together

haphazardly. It seemed like everyone was sharpening swords, fletching arrows or wrapping rope for the march tomorrow.

Val saw the mountain clansmen stirring, and then she caught the glimmer of the maester's chain in the gloom. Men were haggling together, ganged around Maester Medrick. Val couldn't hear the words, but she could read their posture and tone. The maester was crouched, scared, while mountain clansmen were demanding answers.

In one of their hands, she caught sight of a pale pink parchment. A bald man held up the parchment accusingly, and Medrick stammered out something with a nod.

Val kept her hair hidden under the hood, watching from the distance. She looked for familiar faces - free folk she trusted, that could reinforce her - but she saw only strangers in every tent.

Men were moving out, trekking through the fire pits. Val's hands twitched towards the blades on her hip - two steel shortswords with leather grips, hidden under her cloak.

This is wrong . Something was happening, yet the camp was so large she could barely tell what.

As soon as the men left, the maester was left tottering in the snow nervously. First chance she got, she confronted Medrick. The old man squealed - actually squealed - as she lunged at him, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to one side.

"What are you playing at?" Val demanded. "What was that about?"

Wordless gasps came from the man's throat, stammering helplessly. Val tightened her grip. "What is going on?"

There was sweat on his brow even despite the cold. Trembling weakly. Even before any accusations had been made, Medrick looked guilty. "It's not… I… I didn't…"

Not all correspondence made it through him, Val realised. The ravens don't add up; he's been sending birds nobody told him to, and receiving ones he has not been telling people about. And that pink letter the clansmen had been holding… Val had been with Jon most of the march, there had never been a pink letter. But why…?

Val had seen Medrick nod as the Liddle men confronted him.

Somebody is playing silly buggers . Her grip tightened. "Who are you answering to?!" she demanded. "Who?"

"I didn't… I didn't have a…" Medrick choked, weeping. His chain dangled like the chime of bell. "… It's my… conclave… I didn't…"

He fell back into the snow a sobbing mess. Around her, Val heard men shouting, demanding to know what she was doing with the maester.

Val grimaced. Their camp was too large, too quickly assembled. They had free folk from dozens of clans, northmen from over a dozen houses, and clansmen that had all come together quickly. Lots of unfamiliar faces to everyone. Everyone knew that Jon Snow was in command, but nobody was really sure of the chain beneath him. Nobody really knew where they were expected to get their orders from.

She heard a muted roar break over the camp. It was coming east, from the giant's camp. She couldn't see anything in the dark, but she could feel the camp stirring. Movement to the east.

This is wrong . With barely a moment's hesitation, she turned and she ran, towards the noise. She drew her blades, sprinting through the snow.

Across the lake, she saw great shapes rippling. There were specks of fires dancing. Then, shouting. Screaming, amidst dull giant's roars. There were already groups of armed men, and hundreds of voices shouting.

There had been orders for men to leave the giant's camp alone. The giants and their mammoths were too easily agitated.

She heard cries, grunts and in the gloom there were wrestling shapes. Men tried to rush to help, but all the bodies just made it worse.

She heard the boom of Tormund's voice through the dark. No - not Tormund. His son . "Toregg!" Val shouted. "Toregg, what's going on?"

Toregg the Tall stood head and shoulders over most of the crowd. Men were trying to push forward, but a white-haired giant at the front was stomping and wailing. "Bugger if I know!" he snapped. "Lun Leg Dar Tar just started screaming!" In front of them, the giant took a thundering step forward, Toregg's voice bellowed in the Old Tongue. " Back down Lun! Back down and calm down! "

The great hulking shape howled something. Technically it was the Old Tongue, but the giant's dialect was so thick Val couldn't even make sense of it. Men were trying to push back, and Lun Leg raised a great wooden maul with an iron tip.

"Get back!" Toregg bellowed, but even his voice was lost in the chorus of sounds. "Get back, you fools!" Then, in the Old Tongue, he shouted, "What are you saying, Lun - whose attacking you, who…?"

There was an earth-trembling cry. Val caught a glimpse of flames. Suddenly, an immense mammoth burst from the camp, raising up onto hindlegs and trumpeting. Not even the giants could stop them - the mammoths lost control. Bodies were sent scattering, and the mammoths were stampeding.

Each mammoth was like an avalanche, the ground trembling as they thudded.

Everything lost control. In all the noise, it was near-impossible to tell it was happening. Maybe that was the point.

Val caught a flick of flames. The giant's camp was on fire. She saw great shapes wielding clubs, chasing after shadows in the dark.

Three men charged forward, Lun Leg's maul snapped outwards with bone crunching force. Three bodies splattered.

Val heard the cry that the giants were attacking. And yet Lun Leg's posture seemed more panicked than aggressive. Men charged forward around her. " NO !" Val bellowed against the tide. "NO! NO YOU FOOLS, LOWER YOUR STEEL! STOP! "

Her voice wasn't loud enough. No voice could be. You fools, Val cursed. They're giants - they can't differentiate between humans .

Somebody had slipped into the giant's camp and started lighting fires. All the while the giants tried to chase after their assailants in the dark, more men rushed from the camp to help. Except the giants couldn't tell that - they thought that all of the people coming to help them were also attacking them. The men just thought the giants were going berserk.

And then when the mammoths stampeded, all semblance of order was lost.

"STEP BACK!" she heard Toregg boom. Another two bodies were crunched by Lun Leg's great swings. Corpses sent flying, men smeared by immense strength. Some were listening to Toregg's orders, but others were not. Maybe they never heard, maybe they weren't listening. The camp was too large, too many bodies, nobody could make sense of it. "STEP BACK!"

Giants were wrestling to try and control their terrified mammoths. Val couldn't blame them… in that moment, with all the shouting, the darkness, the panic and the chaos… her heart was beating furiously and even she was terrified.

She saw fires spreading. She heard the clash of steel, mammoths charging blindly…

To the south, a flaming mammoth trampled through the opposite edge of the camp.

More giants coming, but they were pulling Lun Leg back, restraining him. Toregg's voice was starting to take control of the situation, at least locally. Another giant - a matriarch, more level-headed than the fighters stepped forward and wailed questions. She was demanding to know what was happening. Toregg demanded the same.

In a beefy paw, the giant raised up a corpse from the ground, a man whose body had been crushed into pulp. Her huge hands wrapped around the corpse's skull, easily lifting it like a ragdoll, holding it up as an example. "Attacker," she cried. "Attacker."

The dead man was dressed in hides and bone totems. He was a free folk. Val cursed.

Fuck. Fuck . Enemies in our camp . One foe inside the camp could do more damage than a hundred outside. Traitors in our camp, and they're hitting us we're most vulnerable .

It was all so chaotic. Toregg was bellowing for order. The mammoths were stampeding and the giants were flailing trying to recover them. Frantic activity all around her, and Val had to make the decision on where she could do the most good.

Instantly, Val turned to the north. Rattleshirt . She saw moving speck of lights at their northern perimeter.

"Toregg!" Val screamed, pushing her way forward to be heard. "Look to the north. It's him, it's the bloody Lord of Bones!"

He turned. From incline, they could see the northern bulwark. It was impossible to tell any details through the dark and snow, but there was a patter of torches that were heading outside of the camp. Men in the hundreds were breaking ranks.

The Lord of Bones has been sending dozens more messages than he should have been, Val cursed, and now his men were fleeing a devastated camp. The man learnt to write so he could betray us .

"That's him, isn't it?" Val hissed. "Rattleshirt is in command of the north perimeter."

King Snow had been clear. Nobody should be going anywhere tonight. Val's hand went to her sword.

"Oh that cunt," Toregg cursed, voice turning dangerously low. He barely hesitated before he turned towards war chiefs he recognised. "Abel, Rolf - work with Tar Tun here, help her get those bloody mammoths under control. Sten, run to Snow, let him know what's happening. And alert the Dragonguard, make sure they're ready!" Toregg turned and raised his greatsword, white cloak fluttering in the howling wind. "All others, on me! Now!"

Val clutched her swords tightly and ran with them. Toregg was at the front, charging north and screaming orders.

The whole camp was alive, screaming, moving, fighting. Men were bellowing, demanding to know what was happening, but Val was most fearful of all those men who might reach their own conclusions.

Panic spread faster than communication. Chaos was the bane of every army. Miscommunication was worse of all.

If Rattleshirt was up to something, a lot of loyal men might follow him out of the camp on the assumption he was obeying the king.

Val could see Rattleshirt's men moving at the fringes of the camp. There weren't that many - a few hundred men amidst eighteen thousand - but the torches in their hands still lit them up. It was very easy to trace the fluttering torchlight in the dark night.

A cold wind cut through them, a flurry snow sputtering from the skies. The threat of a storm hadn't past, but the night was still bitter.

Val heard a scream howl on the wind. A clash of metal, coming from the north.

Toregg's eyes were bloodthirsty in the gloom, and he growled. "

Come on! " the warrior roared. " Rattleshirt! "

Bodies rushed everywhere. Val saw flames. She past a stable, and it blazed with fire and billowy smoke through the snow. Men were setting stables and tents alight. She heard the flames roar, horses neighing. She saw bodies clashing, but in the darkness she couldn't even make out who was attacking who.

"Stand down you fuckers!" Toregg bellowed, but his voice barely broke through the chaos. "Stand down or I'll put you down!"

There was another shouts and roar of flames somewhere else. It sounded further away. Somewhere else in the camp, she saw tents burning as torches were thrown madly. She could see corpses littering the crowd - but were they of foes or allies? How could you tell?

Enemies in the camp, Val thought with a flash of dread. There was nothing scarier. Foes outside could be dealt with, but how could you even identify your enemies mixed between your own men?

The brawling, the crashing bodies, the panic - was spreading outwards. Toregg rushed into the fray, while Val held back, trying to make sense of it. It was hard to understand anything from sight - the camp was too large, too crowded, too dark - instead she had to rely on all the sounds. Where was the fighting coming from, where were the screams the loudest?

Standing here, right in the middle of it, it sounded like everything was magnified a hundred times.

Suddenly, a man lunged out of the darkness at her, a cry broke through his lips as he jumped between the tents. Val barely reacted in time. She dropped as bronze speartip cut at her skull. It came so

close that it scraped her hood off her cloak, but then her sword was in her hand, slashing upwards. Her blond hair billowed in the wind as blood splattered. As he fell, she glimpsed a man wearing sheepskin tied with hemp. A free folk.

She didn't have the swing - her blade crunched against his torso, but it lacked the leverage to pierce deep enough. Instead the man howled, and jumped at her. He was too heavy, dragging her into the snow.

Her sword was in her hand, but then another - one of Toregg's men - reacted in time. Her attacker's head was crushed beneath a stone maul, teeth shattering. Blood splattered across Val's face.

Across from her, Toregg had cleared through the dozen or so men who lit the fire, but the fighting wasn't stopping. The fighting was everywhere. We are fighting free folk.

"Rattleshirt!" she heard Toregg roar. "Fucking Rattleshirt! My pa should have bitten the head off that chickenshit."

Rattleshirt didn't scare her, but those letters outside the camp did. This was planned, this was organised. Hitting us from within and without .

She saw the earthen spikes of their encampment to the north - dunes of snow packed around sharpened logs. Horns were echoing in the wind.

The warriors rallied quickly. At once, Toregg was charging through the snow into the tents, demanding Rattleshirt's head. She saw figures meet them, everyone clutching weapons.

Val's head spun as she tried to keep up. The Lord of Bones only had about three hundred men, yet Toregg's men were still gathering.

It wasn't a battle. No battle could ever be so mad.

So many feet pounding, hearts racing, bodies grunting and wrestling.

Focus, Val thought with a gasp. Focus, don't let the panic overwhelm you too. Focus, stay back, think .

She heard a voice howl. Toregg was leading the charge through the tents, but Val turned around and slipped through to the barricades. Rattleshirt wasn't the sort to get trapped in the meatgrinder of bodies; he would try to sneak away. Val kept on running, until she heard the distinctive crackling of bones and the slashing of swords.

The Lord of Bones looked like he was halfway out of the gate, trying to sneak out through the barricades in the dark. Val's hands tightened around her sword. Grunts of fight, gurgling of blood. She saw two men fall to Rattleshirt's spear, stabbing with bloodthirsty ferocity. His eyes looked crazed, blood splattered over his giant skull helm.

Just for a second, their eyes met. He froze at the sight of Val. Her hood was missing, and her golden hair whipped in the wind.

Then, Rattleshirt's face twisted in rage.

"You fucking bitch!" Rattleshirt hissed, as he turned and charged.

Abandoning his escape to try and kill me, she noted.

She twisted as the mammoth tusk spear jabbed into the snow. He's fast for someone so scrawny .

Val dropped and spun, listening to the clatter of his bone armour coming for her. Blood pounded through her, so much anger… so much fury…

Her sword slashed outwards. She could see the wide-eyed, crazed fear as the blade clipped against bone. "I will gut you will like a pig!" Val shouted, meeting spear with sword. Fighting all around them, but Val could only focus on Rattleshirt.

You traitorous fucking whore! " His spear flashed again and again. He has the reach on me, need to get close . "You chose southern cock over your own people!"

That spear was deadly. Val fell back, losing ground, but Rattleshirt was relentless. She darted backwards and forwards, forcing Rattleshirt to parry, all the while her two blades spun.

Underneath the giant skull helm, his wide eyes looked mad, greasy hair whipping over his brow. "If that fucking 'king' wants me head, he'll not get it!" The spear grazed her furs, far too close for comfort, but there was no time to think of that. "I warned him what would happen when the cunt betrayed us!"

"You're the cunt here!" He overreached himself. As he tried to pull the spear back, her sword glanced against his shoulder. Bones crackled in the wind. "Fucking traitor!"

"Like hells I am," he hissed, and they paced around each other.

There was a slight flicker in Val's eyes.

"Who are you working with?" Val demanded. "You must have planned this with someone."

"Bah! I told the 'king' - the minute he stopped acting for the free folk, my spear would be the first through his treacherous back!" he spat. "Bloody kneelers, I knew it!"

She paused. His voice, his body language… "What are you talking about, Rattleshirt?" Val demanded.

"Fucking ambush," Rattleshirt spat. "You give me orders to lead a sortie in the middle of the goddamn night. What, did you want me out of the camp so you could get rid of me?"

She blinked. "Wait, what?" She had to shout to be heard over the wind. "There were no bloody orders!"

"Well, I sure received them."

Was that why Rattleshirt's men had been breaking ranks? "What about the letters?" Val bellowed. "Those secret messages you've been sending?"

Now it was Rattleshirt's turn to look confused. "What bloody letters?"

There was a long pause. Around them, men were still fighting or running in the dark.

"Who gave you the order to move out?" Val demanded.

"King Snow."

"Directly?"

"No." She caught a flicker of doubt. "He sent one of his guards."

They stared at each other. They both swore.

"Get your men to back down!" Val ordered, turning to run.

"Get that fool to stop killing my men!" Rattleshirt screamed, but he was running too. The bones crackled with every panting step.

She saw Toregg stamping his way through the tents, his greatsword bloody. One of Toregg's own men tried to attack her as she ran towards him, and if Toregg hadn't have noticed and bellowed at him to stop the stone axe could have broken her skull.

"It ain't Rattleshirt!" Val shouted.

" What? "

"Those weren't Rattleshirt's men, Rattleshirt thought it was us." Her mouth tightened. "Someone's playing us."

Toregg swore. She heard Rattleshirt howling for order, but it was hard for men caught in blood-fury to accept commands like that. It wasn't a fight, it was a brawl.

They were at the northern fringes of the camp. In the camp proper, the conflict wasn't stopping.

For a second, she caught the flicker of fearful doubt in Toregg's eyes. Normally the young warrior was so bold and brash. "Where's Snow?" she demanded. "Where is he?"

"Last I saw, he was with the Manderly men. He sent me off to see to the giants."

I should have gone to Snow straight away. If this is happening here…

"We need to rally around him," Val ordered. "Gather around him, call loyal men. If we get these people into ranks, then we'll be able to see easily which ones aren't friends."

"Aye, aye, except…" Toregg looked pained. "If it's not Rattleshirt, then who exactly screwed us?"

Val grimaced. The sounds of fighting were only getting longer, turning as loud as a battle proper, not damping down. Just how many attackers were there?

Above them, the pale shimmer of full moon glittered over the snow. The wind was churning. It might have started out as few brawls, but it was escalating. Too many warriors who attacked first and asked questions later, too little trust.

The traitors were nothing, the chaos was devastating. Firefighting is only spreading more fires. This isn't working.

Jon . Val grimaced, and cursed in the Old Tongue. "Start calling warbands!" she shouted, as she started to break into a run. "Gather

them one by one - make sure they're men you trust. Reform the ranks, gather them together. Do it! "

Her whole body was gasping, shivering for air, but she couldn't stop now. The king's tent was to the south, near the edge of the lake. I'm running backwards and forwards over the bloody camp like a bloody fool, she cursed.

Over the lake, she could see the shadow of the dragon coiled on the ice. The dragon was kept far away, but it hadn't reacted at all. That could either be good or very bad. Perhaps Jon was deliberately holding the dragon back, to avoid more chaos in the camp?

Val sprinted as fast as she could, shambling through tents and stomping bodies. Some were fighting, others were trying to call for order. She saw men fighting, being dragged to the ground. Where those the attackers or men trying to defend themselves? In the chaos and the dark, it was impossible to tell.

Eighteen thousand men, all of them unfamiliar with each other, all suspicious, all crammed together in a crowded camp on high alert. The bulbous moon was gloating over them in the churning skies above.

Yet these types of attacks can only work for a brief period, she thought. There were maybe a few hundred enemies scattered over a large camp? Burning tents, attacking small parties - trying to sow as much confusion as possible while slipping within their own numbers. It was devastating at night and when nobody could track them, but as soon as people caught on they would lose any advantage. Come morning, the traitors wouldn't stand a chance.

That thought wasn't encouraging, though. This attack is well-planned, which implies…

She saw the old fisher's village, nestled in the tide of soldiers. She had to push her way through the mob. She heard men calling for King Snow, but Val could only push her way through the ramble.

There was a dead mammoth littering the snow, its bloody hide littered in dozens of spears. The king's cabin had been destroyed where the mammoth rampaged through, and afterwards it looked like it had taken half a hundred men to hack the great beast down. There were corpses left as squashed paste from where the beast stampeded over them.

But there were other corpses that had died from wounds made by blades, Val realised. There had been fighting here, right next to the king's cabin. She could see the signs of battle - skirmishes, really - leading all the way down south towards the Manderly boathouse.

Val ran. Other free folk were running too. Val heard screaming, and bodies wrestling in the snow. She ignored the fighting outside, and burst straight into the main building.

Snow and wind howled behind her. Even in the gloom, the first thing she saw was blood.

Someone was weeping. Bodies littered the building, and they were all wearing steel armour, green cloaks, and tridents on their clasps. The sound of a sharp blade grinding through skin and bone filled the air, blood gushing.

Inside, she saw the Weeper, covered from head to toe in blood. The man had his scythe in his hand, as he separated Ser Wylis Manderly's head from its shoulders. The bloody, decapitated head dropped to the floor. The heir to White Harbour had his mouth open, blood covered his beard, and a look of surprise and fear fixed on his face even in death.

Val's eyes widened. She clutched her sword, trying to take it in. All around her, free folk raiders pulled up spears. There were dead bodies littering the floor and walls, blood-stained wooden planks beneath. All of the Manderly knights and commanders had been residing in the boathouse, and the Weeper's men killed them all.

"Oh gods, Weeper," Val called. " What did you do? "

The Weeper cast her a look, and then grunted as he motioned the others to lower their weapons. "These bastards fucking betrayed us," the Weeper growled, kicking the headless corpse. "Their men attacked Snow, murdered his guards and I found them trying to run."

Attacked Snow? Would Lord Manderly betray us, or…?

There was only one Manderly man left alive in the boathouse. He was a tall figure wearing a steel hauberk with a white dragon stitched over his surcoat. The knight was sobbing uncontrollably, surrounded by dead men. By the looks of it, the Weeper had killed most of them single handed.

One knight. He only left one knight alive. "Take this traitor out," the Weeper snapped, motioning at the knight sobbing nonsensically. Piss stained the knight's breeches. "I figured Snow might still want this one."

Her head was still spinning. "Where is Snow now?" Val looked around desperately, such for some semblance of order to latch on to.

"I don't know. He disappeared in the attack, I got men out looking for him." The Weeper spat over Ser Wylis' headless corpse. "Fucking kneelers tried to screw us. I bloody knew they would."

Val's lip pursed. "Are you sure ?" she demanded. "Are you sure that it was really Manderly men?"

"Fuck yes. These cunts faked a letter, trying to give them an excuse to run away before setting up this ambush. Snow refused, he was heading back when the assassins hit." The Weeper kicked Wylis Manderly's head as he walked, and it rolled leaving a bloody streak over the floor. The heir of White Harbour stared blankly up at the ceiling. "I saw the bodies, and a dozen witnesses pointed me to this scunner here leading the attack."

That statement, Val struggled to process it. Jon attacked, missing, but… "Witnesses," Val repeated. "Where are these witnesses?"

There was a feeling of pure dread coiling in her stomach. She really, really hoped that she was wrong. The Weeper stormed out of the boathouse, a great cry cutting through the air as he bellowed orders. The crowd was still forming, both northmen and free folk. So many unfamiliar faces, demanding answers. As far as anyone knew, the mammoths had stampeded and there were skirmishes breaking out throughout the camp.

Val heard the Weeper scream for his lieutenants, trying to figure out what was happening. Others in the crowd were calling for Manderly. Nobody knew where Jon had disappeared to in the ambush. Gods no…

The voices grew more pitched. There had supposedly been eleven free folk witnesses that saw Manderly men attacking Jon. As it turned out, all while the Weeper had been slaughtering Manderly's men, those 'witnesses' had died trying to escape from guards the Weeper had assigned to them.

Four of the men run away and slipped into the chaos of the camp, but another seven bodies in sheepskin furs littered the bloody snow. No one in the crowd had known what was going or how to intervene.

The Weeper's face twisted. "What the hells is going on?"

"Oh, you fucking fool!" Val hissed, keeping her voice low. Pieces started to fall in place. "Those men weren't witnesses, they were the bloody attackers ! Your men found them, and they pointed the finger at the Manderlys."

The Weeper froze. She saw his mouth twist, jaw clenched. "No, couldn't be - they were free folk," he growled. "Snow's men, white stones."

"How do you know? Did you recognise them?"

"I can't recognise most the people in this bloody camp!" he snapped, but his hands were gripping his scythe angrily. "But they were free

folk !"

Val could have screamed. Of course the Weeper would instinctively believe free folk over kneelers. In the heat of the moment, the Weeper had been all too willing to believe that the southerners had betrayed them. The Weeper was not known for his calm head during battle.

Too much panic, the winds were howling and the chaos…

Her hands went to her head, taking deep breaths. She stared around her, listening to the shouts, screams and fights. The northmen would demand to know what happen, and the bodies of House Manderly's noblest knights were littering the boathouse. The lords would demand answers, otherwise the whole army could schism…

How many enemies actually were there? Who could count?

No, there was no time for counting. There was nothing but the moment. "Get this bloody camp under control!" Val bellowed. "Get the men to form up, get them to stop fighting. Rout out who the real enemies are."

The Weeper's face twisted, but he nodded and turned away. Val's hands were shaking. How did this happen? Who did this?

No, those were fool's questions. It happened all too easily, actually - the free folk had no discipline. Wildlings had little experience forming large armies, and no experience in working with anyone who weren't wildlings. Despite his best efforts, not even King Snow could change an entire culture. The intruders had cut through them in all the cracks in the army.

As for the whom… she cast a wary eye over to the black horizon in the west.

Val's eyes looked outwards. She saw the shadow of the dragon in the distance, still coiled on the lake. There were firelights on the ice

too - the king's Dragonguard.

"Find me the king. Find me Snow! " Val bellowed, pointing over the lake. She could only guess what happened. Jon had been attacked, disorientated, so he must have run instinctively towards his dragon. A single figure in the wake of the mammoth's stampede and the ambush would have been all too easily missed.

The wind was picking up intensity. She couldn't see in the darkness, but she could the black cloud churning overhead.

There was a pit of tar twisting in her stomach. It was coordinated, and we reacted far too late . There had been letters being sendoutside the camp, that maester had been a part of some scheme. This was planned, for the maximum effect; maximum discord, maximum chaos, maximum opportunity. If I was planning an assault like this, she thought, then what would be the next step?

She didn't like the answer she came up with.

Val heard the horns far, far too late. They were panicked, urgent horn blasts that strangled over the western perimeter. We should have had more warning - what of the scouts, the outriders… no, that is foolish too . The scouts and outriders, or anyone who could haveprovided warning, must have been the very first to fall.

Instead, there was nothing but a salvo of frantic howling horns in the wind, and the cries of alert rippling through the camp.

She knew what was about to happen before it did, but there was no way of reacting in time. One faction inside their camp, sowing bedlam, making sure everything was nice, chaotic and vulnerable for the main assault.

The ground was shaking, rumbling with the sound of cavalry while the air churned like a storm.

Val looked to the west, staring out over the fires and the screaming as she saw arrows raining down from the sky.

Jon

The bright blade flashed. Jon rolled.

His body oomphed as he landed onto cold, hard snow. All around him, bodies were wrestling, tumbling together. Black shapes against black.

The attacker lunged again. He tried to twist. Jon felt the edge scrape off against his iron mail, like a punch to the stomach.

Dark Sister was on his hip, but he barely even had time to reach for it…

Across from him, the flaming mammoth roared and thrashed, crashing through tents as it tried to extinguish itself.

Someone screamed, roared. Perhaps there were words, but Jon couldn't even make them out.

He glimpsed Ewan Bole slamming into his attacker, his sword swinging hard. Jon's head was still spinning trying to catch up, struggling to think…

Ambush. Assassins .

So many bodies, some running, some fighting, all screaming…

It was less a battle, and more fighters fumbling around in the darkness.

Ewan's blade cracked the man's skull. Then, another shadow skewered Ewan from behind. The Dragonguard didn't drop, but he staggered, flailing…

Jon gasped, dragging himself to his feet. Another body lunged at him from the dark, and Jon barely twisted to block him. Strong hands wrestled at him, both men staggering as they tried to tear each other down. In the dark, Jon caught a glimpse of wild, frenzied eyes and crooked teeth. He wore sheepskin fur, with a white stone patched to his cloak.

The attacker toppled first, flailing wildly as Jon twisted out of his grasp. The man fell face first into the snow, while Jon staggered backwards. The shadows were coming for him - hooded figures in sheepskin clutching knives…

There more shouts. Jon saw green-cloaked knights drawing swords and rushing to help him. Jon was gasping for breath, trying to focus…

A great bellow broke through the wind. The mammoth reared up in pain, maddened as soldiers tried to bring it down. Help! Over here! Jon could have yelled, but his voice wouldn't have broken over the chaos, and he was panting too hard to even scream.

Maybe there weren't many assassins, but Jon couldn't count them. They were better prepared, they had the advantage of surprise. The attackers were coming for him, abandoning all else just to try to kill him. Knights trying to stop them, but in the gloom and madness…

He saw Ewan Bole fall to half a dozen swipes. The assassins were coming forward. It was so dark Jon couldn't make out any details, only black bodies and bright blades.

Run . That one thought cut through everything else. Can't fight them in the dark, don't know how many, who, or where… Just run. Run .

Jon turned and staggered away, wheezing and fumbling with every breath. His cloak had been ripped off sometime during the attack, and the cold wind cut straight through him. There were shouts behind him, but Jon could make sense of the knight.

Men were running past him. Jon staggered, still struggling to breathe. In full armour and shadowskin, surrounded by his retinue, he was a king - but now he was just another bloody and wounded man lost in the chaos. He slipped by the men in the dark, limping away still clutching his side.

The assassins had been following him and waiting for a chance to ambush the king. There was safety in anonymity for now. Need to recover, focus…

Jon's feet tripped, and then he was falling down the snowy dunes leading towards the lake. The fall took his breath away, but he was up and staggering away a second later.

He felt frozen twigs snap under the snow. Then, he felt the crunch of ice as he stepped onto the lake, shuffling through the snow. Everything was pitch black - nobody could follow him in the darkness.

Behind him, the camp was alive. Screaming. All of the noises mixed together, impossible to tell any details.

He felt a slickness on his side. Warmth. Blood. His mail hadn't quite stopped the blade. He was bleeding from his torso. He hadn't even felt the cut.

The sounds of fighting behind him didn't cease.

Finally, Jon collapsed into the snow, wheezing for breath. I'm bleeding and it's cold, Jon cursed. I will lose strength quickly. Focus. Think .

Assassins, he thought. Enemies. Mingled among the camp to get close, taking full advantage of the chaos .

He couldn't head back to the camp. Those assassins, they had been waiting for him, following him around in the camp. The mammoth simply provided a suitable distraction, and then they had all attacked

at once. Any man among those looking for him might be secretly wanting to kill him.

Jon was in no state to defend himself. He didn't know how many more might be waiting for another chance, or where…

There was no safety, not in the chaos. The ambush had been well-prepared, swift and devastating. And, from the sounds, it was happening all over the camp.

In the morning light they could sort out the infiltrators from the loyal men, but in the bloody night under the full moon there was nothing but panic.

Jon was shivering the snow, as pale and trembling hands tried to tighten his belt around the cut. He heard men shouting for him in the distance - "Snow, Snow, Snow!" - but Jon didn't return the cry. How do I know if they are assassins? He couldn't even recognise them. Focus, recover. I am safer by myself until I do .

I won't die here, he thought. He was weak, wounded and exposed, but he wouldn't die alone on the ice. How many nights did I spend trekking through the snows alone beyond the Wall, all by myself on the hunt for Sonagon?

Jon could rely on himself, he knew.

The sky was howling. The snowstorm from the north had was stirring in the need, and the skies were twisting in frenzy. Whirling snow obscured his vision. It wasn't as bad as a snowstorm beyond the Wall, but it was building.

Sonagon . That thought was the only thing he could be sure about. I need Sonagon .

As soon as he was mounted upon the dragon, he would be unbeatable. No assassin could threaten a dragon. The Dragonguard, Jon thought desperately. All loyal and good men. Gather the

Dragonguard, get Sonagon into the fray, retake control. Let the camp rally, and flush out the infiltrators…

Through the snows, he could barely make out of the shadow of Sonagon's bulk jutted from the frozen lake in the distance. The glittering white scales illuminated by the faint fires of the Dragonguard camped around the dragon. Jon's vision was hazy, his eyes blinking through the snows battering against his face.

With a pained breath, he pushed himself to his feet and staggered forward. He tried to reach out to Sonagon, but he couldn't. Couldn't concentrate. The blood loss, Jon thought with panic. It made everything woozy.

The cold clung to his skin, shambling through the snow as he tried to push one leg in front of the other.

Jon made it two dozen steps before his knees failed him. He collapsed, face first into the snow. A hundred yards, two hundred, from the shore, lost on the expanse of ice, there was nothing but snow and darkness.

Behind him, the sounds of battle rang out over the storm, torches flickering. Jon was panting, struggling to breathe, struggling to focus. He couldn't feel the pain, it was too cold.

His mind blacked out. He might have lost consciousness, he wasn't sure.

Jon! a ghostly voice called on the wind. Jon!

Jon's eyes flickered. It so hard to hear anything but the rumbling of the storm, but there it was. Jon! the cry echoed again, like a wail. Strangely, it felt like he recognised the voice.

"Bran…?" he mumbled weakly, yet the wind didn't reply. His brother's voice was so distant, like he was shrieking something urgently yet Jon could hardly make it out.

Why my brother's voice? Am I so close to death that I'm hearing ghosts?

Jon had to force himself to pull himself up, and kept trekking forward.

He was already so far from the coast that there was nothing but a haze of fires and frenzies struggling against the snows. The sky rumbled above him like an enormous beast stomping in the clouds.

Sonagon was before him, but Jon couldn't see the bonfires of the Dragonguard anymore. Instead, there was nothing but Sonagon's massive bulk in the darkness, a black shadow snoozing over the ice.

They had very deliberately let Sonagon roost as far away from the camp as possible. But where is the Dragonguard? he thought foggily. Furs, Hatch and the others should be camped around dragon. It was a cold and lonely post, but there had been nothing for it.

It hadn't been safe to keep Sonagon in the main camp, but the dragon still needed protection. Jon remembered him thinking that the lake was a good position for the dragon - isolated, yet in the very centre all their fortifications with an army positioned by the coast.

A forlorn shriek of wind cut across the lake, nearly taking Jon off his feet. In the distance, he could see the shadow of Sonagon's coiled over the snow. Sleeping. Why is the dragon still sleeping?

The battle was thick in the air. Sonagon should have responded. The dragon should be all ice and fury right now .

With no torch and amidst the snows, it was too dark for anyone to see him on the ice. Jon would have called out, but he lungs were straining just to breathe. His eyes tried desperately to such out any figures, but then his foot collided with something solid and he stumbled into the billowing snow.

Jon felt a shape beneath him that was so hard and cold that at first he thought it was a rock. Then, his flailing fingers grasped the jawline

of a man's thick stubble, frozen solid in the ice. A lifeless corpse that was stiff, with frozen blood gushing out of a gash across the body's neck.

In the dark, it took a long time for Jon to recognise the body. Furs had died with his neck slit open, his contorted face frozen stiff, his whole body flailing from where the man had tried to crawl through the snow.

Jon's breath froze. The attacker had slit Furs' throat, and then left the corpse where it dropped.

Desperate eyes made out the shapes of the Dragonguard's camps, the bodies already cold and half-buried by the snows. The Dragonguard had been huddled together around bonfires in camps of three or four, forming a perimeter surrounding the dragon's roost. Now, Jon saw nothing but lifeless shapes littering the floor.

Rolf, Maris and Gregg, all slopped around a burned-out campfire with their throats slit, and frozen blood coating their cloaks. The three of them, ambushed from behind and slaughtered. The bodies were cold.

They were all dead. Every one of them. Some had tried to squirm, but many looked like they had died at their posts, bodies hunched over their cups. Jon saw the large shape of Hatch, his hands so frozen that he was still clutching a tankard in his grip.

All of the Dragonguard camped on the lake had been slaughtered.

They must have been killed first, he realised. Sonagon roosted away from camp, nobody was allowed near. The Dragonguard had been ambushed and slaughtered before any of the attacks happened in the camp, and nobody had even been close enough to realise.

Fifty men, the elite guard, all dead on the ice. How did the attackers get so close? Why did no one react? Jon stared in pure horror,barely believing his eyes. How…? It didn't make sense. No alarm

had been raised. Nobody had tried to fight, or run. How could they all just… just die and nobody realise?

Why wasn't an alarm raised?

Why didn't Sonagon react?

The thought of Fur's and Hatch's empty eyes haunted him as he pushed forward. He couldn't feel Sonagon at all.

He could see the wall of Sonagon's flesh and scales above him. The dragon was coiled on the ice, its body as still as stone. For one horrible second, he thought Sonagon was dead.

Then, he saw Sonagon's great hide rising and falling in long, slow breaths. He's alive . Jon wasn't sure whether to be scared or horrified. He's weak, but alive.

With all the concentration he had, Jon focused and tried to reach out towards the dragon. He could see Sonagon, barely fifty feet away. Sonagon! Jon screamed mentally, pressing forward with as muchfocus as he could muster.

The dragon didn't even stir. Jon could feel only the faintest slivers of a connection, and through them the dragon's body felt weak, stiff and laboured. Sonagon's breaths were hoarse, strained. The dragon couldn't even rouse itself.

The dread that fell through Jon's body was cold than the ice beneath him. This was planned, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. They attacked the camp, they needed a way to attack the dragon too .

He heard movement. There were bodies taking shape through the snows, and they had noticed him too. Jon's hand fell to Dark Sister, his ice-coated gloves clenching the hilt.

He could see three figures stepping forward. The sound of laughter was barely audible over the roar of the wind.

How did the Boltons do this? Jon thought with frantic gasps. How could anyone do this?

Bastard !" an elated voice called, so cheerful it was mocking. "There you are, bastard ! Oh, I was really hoping I'd see you."

Jon froze. He heard footsteps shuffling towards him. Three men. "You hear the music?" The voice laughed. "That's my father slaughtering your troops. Oh, is it not the most lovely sound?"

Jon's right hand was on Dark Sister, his left was on the wound in his side. "Did you not think that some of those northern lords seemed all too eager to join your side?" the shapeless voice laughed. "We've got ten thousand men outside your camp and one thousand inside it. Which means you really didn't stand a chance at all, bastard."

Jon backed away slowly, staggered towards the dragon. Sonagon, he thought, trying desperately to concentrate. Sonagon, I need you . The dragon still didn't even stir.

"Except for the dragon, of course," the figure continued. "The dragon would have been a problem. That was my job, you see; get close enough to put the dragon down."

Jon finally recognised the voice. In the dark, he saw a mad grin, and bright eyes. "Harlow?!"

"In the flesh," said Harlow. Jon saw the bright grin that he had come to recognise, but it was bloodier than he had ever seen it. His blue eyes seemed to shine in the dark. He was clutching a bloody slab of iron like a cleaver. The normally clumsy stable boy looked very comfortable holding it too.

Jon stared, his brain barely working. No, Harlow has served me well for months. He was the one who saved me from the black brother's

assassination attempt. I named him in my Dragonguard . I… I made him Hatch's squire . So many thoughts raced around Jon's head, but the one that reached his lips… "Yo-You saved my life."

"Why, of course I did." Harlow seemed almost insulted by the accusation. "I don't want you dead, bastard. I don't want to kill you. I was really, really hoping we'd have this moment."

I named him Dragonguard . He was a good servant; good with Sonagon, good with animals. The dragon even liked him. The other Dragonguard would have trusted him.

He slit their throats, Jon thought with stunned horror. The Dragonguard regularly carry my orders . Harlow had run of the whole camp. If Harlow passed a message, people would have assumed it came from me .

Jon's hand clenched so tight that he couldn't feel his fingers. He raised Dark Sister, looking between Harlow and the other unfamiliar figures. "Harlow…" Jon growled.

The man only laughed, loud and clear. "Oh, we haven't actually been properly introduced, bastard," he mocked. "My name is not Harlow. I am Lord Ramsay Bolton, and from now on I think I'm going to call you Reek. Do you like that, bastard? Reek . Reek - it rhymes with bleak."

Author Notes:

Well, hiatus is officially over. It started out with a holiday, then a stretch of busy real-life stuff, and then I decided I wanted to wait until after the end of Game of Thrones season 7 before restarting.

Next chapter should be coming pretty soon.

Also, just point out something - Jon did get pretty screwed here, and there were quite a few reasons for it. One of the main reasons is because, well, Jon is not very good at being in command.

Which shouldn't really be surprising, to be honest; leadership is a skill like anything else, and it needs to be learned. Robb was the heir, he learned and was groomed for his role from birth, and so Robb took to commanding men naturally. Jon wasn't - Jon's style of leadership is almost entirely self-taught, and as such it has flaws in it.

Even in canon, Jon was appointed the leader of 600 men, most of whom he knew and was familiar with, and yet Jon still made a lot of critical mistakes. Here, he became the leader of tens of thousands of men and a very fragile alliance - Jon was not prepared for that role.

All through recent chapters, there have been a lot of mistakes going on which maybe haven't been that obvious since it was Jon's POV. As a general, he has been failing at delegation, neglecting the commanders beneath him, micro-managing too much, fixating on the wrong areas, and overall failing to get a good breadth of things.

Take, for example, his conversation with Galbart Glover in chapter 29. There, Galbart was warning Jon that nobles are more reliable because they've got families, rank and reputation that they want to preserve, whereas commoners don't. A random person could backstab you with far fewer consequences than a person from a house that you know. Jon didn't grasp that one though, yet Jon walked away thinking 'Galbart doesn't understand'. A lot of his own mistakes he makes he doesn't realise from his POV.

The Boltons realised though. They realised and they hurt him for it.

Also, special thanks to Diablo Snowblind on for helping me a lot with these chapters. He's writing an Iron-Blooded Orphans fic, "The Devil's Reprisal", that I highly recommend checking out.

Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Bran

It was time.

The night air came alive with the Stranger's coming. Stirring and shivering. Bran could feel the cold around him, icy tendrils twisting round every corner, curling like a spectral hand tightening all around them.

Meera was already moving. She hoisted Bran's body up off the ground with a strained grunt, heaving him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Meera nearly buckled lifting him, but she didn't stop. She held a rusted iron bar in one hand to pry the door open, and a sharpened, knifelike hunk of stone in the other. Even with Bran's dead weight across her shoulders, even after months of captivity, the bog-devil was fully willing to go down fighting.

Bran was left trying to hold on, with Meera's bony shoulder digging painfully into his chest, staring down at her feet where the broken iron manacle on her ankle clattered across the stone. He could feel her beneath him, gasping and panting with the strain as she staggered up the stone steps of the dungeon.

"Two men outside in the hall," Bran whispered when she reached the doorway, crowbar in hand. "Don't."

"Tell me when," Meera said in a hoarse voice.

It was past the hour of ghosts, but Thistle Hall was wide awake. The Bastard's Boys were all moving towards the courtyard, staring upwards at the sky. Even in the dark night, they could see clouds churning over the waxing moon. There was something in the air - an eerie energy that even they could feel in the night.

It's the Stranger, Bran thought with a gulp. It distorted the world around it with every step it took. I called it and it is here .

The storm brewed all around them, the sky stirring unnaturally fast.

The first flurries of hail were spitting downwards.

Bran was out of his body. He could feel everything through two dozen different skins. The rodents were all twitching, screaming silently. In the woods, he heard Summer's howl echo through the trees, warning. It's here, he thought with a shiver. It's here .

A slow boom rattled through the courtyard above. The knock of something solid jarred against the barricaded gate. The whole keep seemed to hush, every breath frozen by the noise.

Three knocks, but each one felt slow, rasping, steady. The noise felt mocking. The courtyard was rustling; dogs barking, horses quivering, and the Bastard's Boys moving towards the gate, blades held to hand.

"Now," Bran whispered. " Now ."

Bran felt the horses buckle in panic as the sound of tearing wood filled the air. Men shouting. The solid oak gates were being torn from their hinges. Old hardwood tore apart underneath an inhuman strength, the sound of splintering cracking the air.

He felt birds and bats explode from the bushes as dead things rushed through the woods. Summer smelt them; dead, decayed bodies milky white in the cold, but shambling through the leaves from all directions. The Stranger had them surrounded.

There was shouting across Thistle Hall, calling for arms. Meera broke through the door, her feet clapping over the hard stones. The walls were shivering from the buffering winds, the gales howling through the stone hallways.

Bran was in dozens of bodies at once; flickering through so many skins he couldn't process them, trying to make sense of the chaos. He could see it. He could feel it. It was maddening, like the whole world was screaming - howling - at him to run.

The white walker was pure cold - a figure of scorched black and icy white, blade in hand as it cut forward, shambling things pouring forth from the tear in the gate. The Bastard's Boys were all armed, holding spears, bows, axes and swords.

Seventy-four men facing against one white walker. There could have been seven hundred, and they still wouldn't have stood a chance.

Bran could barely hear their screams over the howl of the winds.

"Run," Bran gasped. He could feel Summer in the woods, the direwolf tearing through the leg of a misshapen corpse. There were more walking bodies, all of them flooding around the Other like a tide of rotten flesh. "The stables. The horses."

Meera didn't reply. One of the men spotted her, but before he could call out there were a dozen crows swooping through the hall to peck at his face. He fell screaming, thrashing at the squawking, flapping shapes. A murder, Bran thought numbly. A murder of crows .

The dead creatures shambled over the walls from all sides, shaking the battlements as they swelled upwards. Arrows were useless against them. Wood splintered and tore, and bones cracked, but they found grip where no man could. Ramsay's men hacked, shouted, staggered, and died.

Meera had reached the main doors of the hall. Bran had already seized control of a horse's body; there was no gentleness from him, nothing but raw force. The beast felt mad with fright, but Bran grasped the animal so hard it could have crushed - forcing the horse to stand as still as shivering statue. Meera tripped over the stone steps and Bran dropped off her shoulders. Still, she barely even hesitated as she clutched his arm and started to drag him instead.

Bran's body thumped hard against the stone, but he couldn't even feel it.

The hallway. The steps. The stables. Bran was trying to plot their path, gathering birds to clear the way for Meera. His heartbeat was pounding so fast that even a dozen yards felt like an age. Two dead men tried to jump at her, but Bran grabbed the body of another horse and jerked it to trample through the creatures. The dead creature dragged the horse down with it, and crushed the horse's spine with its black hands. You can't stop them, Bran realised. You could only hope to slow them down and run .

The Other was coming closer. Bran could feel it, cutting like a blade of ice, an unstoppable knife shredding through the tide of chaos. Meera reached the horse, but her strength failed her trying to hoist Bran's body over its back. The Stranger was outside, cutting through men with such ease its movements seemed lazy.

Bran could feel it. His lungs froze in its presence. He could feel it staring at him, even through the wall, its single blue eye as bright as a star.

"Scared little boy," its crackling voice was almost soft as snow. It lifted the milky blade and limped forward. Even despite its lopsided gait, its every movement was sleek and graceful, like a predator in its element.

The Other was only a dozen heartbeats away. Meera was screaming something. Bran couldn't hear it. Couldn't think. There was nothing but terror.

And then suddenly a black cloud dropped from the sky. Everything exploded into flailing, squawking bodies, lunging and flapping at the Other. Meera fell to the floor as the shapes burst through the windows, tearing over Thistle Hall.

" Bran! " Meera screamed.

It's not me, Bran would have shouted, if only he had control of his tongue. Ravens, crows, bats and a hundred other creatures swarmed around them. There were even moths, flies, hornets and wasps. Insects. Bran hadn't even known it was possible to possess insects. Hundreds, thousands of swarming creatures all bursting around them. Bran could feel the presence blanket over the keep - an immense, shapeless being that seemed to swell upwards from the earth.

The three-eyed crow. The greenseer. Bran could feel his power in the air, seizing control like a force of nature itself. The greenseer had been unwilling to intervene to save Bran from men; perhaps the greenseer had even preferred Bran to be held captive and out of the way. Still, the greenseer would never allow the Other to reach Bran.

It was a power so immense Bran could hardly even imagine it. The birds were all around them, so many that the Other had to slash its way through. The Stranger spat a sound, a word Bran couldn't recognise - not so much in anger, more like annoyance.

"Old crow," Bran heard the Other tut to the screeching air. "Lost watcher. Tree-fiend. Death-stealer ."

Death-stealer? Bran didn't know what the what the words meant, but they were said like an insult. Like it was something taunting, foul. There was no time, Meera was already pushing him onto the horse's back. The birds spiralled and burst around them, forcing a path for them.

It felt like the wind and snow were clashing above them, like the clouds were wrestling. The storm was raging, the air crackling with power. It was so intense Bran could barely even process it, he could do nothing but try to hold on.

Bran felt himself tumbling. He was falling out of those bodies, his mind dislodged and spinning.

Behind him, he heard the creak as the tide of the dead pushed their way through the wooden palisades. The gale tore the roof off Thistle Hall, sending tiles and bricks scattering over the yard.

Bran felt Meera fumbling, trying to fight off some bloated dead woman in washerwoman clothes. Meera could only slash out with her iron bar to beat the thing back. The horse didn't wait for her as it broke into a gallop. Bran couldn't even be sure who was controlling the horse anymore, but it wasn't him.

He felt Summer, rushing through the gate with jaws bared. The great wolf tore a dead man down with his fangs, and then shook the body like a rodent. Bran's heart nearly pounded out of his chest when he saw his old friend again, leaping to protect him.

The three-eyed crow's birds were slamming against the Other like a hail of frantic bodies. They couldn't hurt it, but the animals were throwing themselves just to try and slow it down.

The wind, the dead, the panic… it was all too much. The air crackled. Bran felt it all spinning, burning, screaming, unable to make sense of it. It was all blurring. The world - blurring around Bran… He couldn't…

He felt himself falling off the horse at the gates, only for Summer's jaws to yank him out of the mud and drag him away. He remembered how the ground seemed to be shaking. He saw the forest was rippling, every tree seemed to shift in the wind. Summer dragged him roughly through the brambles, while Meera ran backwards as she fought off the dead things as well.

The earth was churning. Bran could feel an otherworldly sound echoing in the air, ringing like a song that roused the woods. A dead corpse of a black-cloaked man tried to lunge at Bran, only for the trees around it to twist - the roots of the ironwood trees seemed to curl around the thing's legs, gripping it still. Another dead woman, entangled in rippling branches. The forest itself, Bran realised, the greenseer is in the trees .

The trees themselves were dancing around them, clearing their path and blocking the dead.

In the moment, all of the old stories that Maester Luwin or Old Nan had ever told him about the magic of the children of the forests came rushing back to him. Wearing animal's skins, possessing the trees and the streams, moving through rocks, like reshaping the earth and the hammer of the waters. Bran could feel the power - the magic - all around him, and it was so intense it felt like a different scale to warging. This is a greenseer's power .

Bran could see the Other's blue eye watching him. There were yards of trees and palisades blocking the distance between them, but Bran could still feel the Other's gaze. Above them, the storm seemed to be growing.

The last of the Bastard's Boys was hiding, weeping, in the cellar beneath the main hall. Bran could feel him vaguely through a dozen scattering rats. The Stranger killed the man with a lazy lunge through his chest, barely even breaking stride.

We would never have escaped without the greenseer's assistance, Bran thought with a gulp. He didn't know how many dead things there were, but they couldn't overwhelm an entire forest. There was strength in the trees. Even the Stranger itself seemed hesitant to follow them through the thick forest.

Meera was screaming something at him, but Bran couldn't hear it. He couldn't feel or hear a thing from his own body. Sometime in the clash of elements, he had become dislodged from his skin. Everything just felt numb, surreal.

Visions swirled around him. Bran saw an ancient lord - as pale as a corpse - coughing and spitting blood amongst old white roots, as he was tended to by small creatures with the shape of men. Bran saw a frail, wailing babe abandoned in the snows, waiting as silent figures came to collect it. He saw nearly a hundred cloaked men dying to an

icy blade, their eyes bulging in horror before their bodies turned cold.

The visions flashed before him, writhing and dancing in the air.

The whole forest was alive, pulsing with a power the trees hadn't known for millennia. The snowstorm was spreading outwards over the mountains, the clouds brewing and churning. Flashes of cold lightning burst through the dark, and thunder rolled over the hills.

It's a song . Bran didn't know where the thought came from, but he knew it to be true. It felt like song, reverberating in the earth. A song so intense that Bran was left spinning in it.

And Bran saw Meera. She was gasping, wheezing and coughing blood. She looked barely able to stand, but she was dragging his limp shape, shambling through the snows. Meera was the only thing keeping him tied to his skin.

It will be chasing us, Bran thought with quiet horror. Whatever it was that the greenseer did to let them escape, Bran didn't think he could keep on doing it.

It was a long and cold night, huddled for shelter on the mountainside, shivering in the fierce winds. Meera kept on trying to rouse Bran, but he faded in and out of consciousness. There was so much energy all around him, Bran didn't understand how Meera could even stand it.

It felt like the earth was still quaking, squirming beneath them. It was a power so vast that Bran fluttered before it like a leaf in a gale.

"Bran!" Meera was shouting in the distance, shaking his shoulders. "What do we do? Where do we go?"

I don't know, Bran would have replied. He could feel the Stranger moving over the hills, leaving a ruined Thistle Hall in its wake. Bran remembered the warning of Osha, a lifetime ago. Osha had warned him where to run. South, as far south as south goes .

"Bran! Bran, wake up!" Meera hissed, trying to shake him awake. Bran was outside, staring down at his own unconscious body. "Bran,

I don't know what happened back there or what you did, but… but you've got to…"

She didn't seem to know how to finish that. Summer moaned, nuzzling against Bran's chest.

Meera had to hoist Bran over Summer's back to move him the next morning. The direwolf whined in protest. They had to trek through the winds, moving as quickly and as quietly as a fatigued woman and a cripple could. The storm didn't ease - the winds were so fierce that even Summer struggled, so sharp that they could kill a man within minutes.

The only cloak that they had was one which Meera snatched from a dead man - a hemp cloak that felt mouldy and smelled foul. Still, they both huddled beneath it, desperate to preserve any heat on their skin. Bran pressed against Meera, her lean and strong arms hugging around him so tightly, but he flickered in and out of his skin.

They could light no fires. The snows swallowed all warmth.

Vaguely, Bran could recognise the plains stretched out before them - the fields to the north of Winterfell. We trekked through here, once, he thought, back when we heading north towards the Wall . There had been eight of them back then - six people and two wolves - but now there were only two and one wolf.

Osha, Rickon and Shaggydog were gods-know-where, while Hodor and Jojen could well be dead. Ramsay had said they were dead, but Bran wasn't sure if he believed him. How many people died, all because the three-eyed crow was calling me?

Once, these fields had been grassy and green, but now it was hard to see anything but endless plains of snow. Winter isn't coming anymore. It's here .

They holed up in the roots of an old birch tree, and they chewed on bark for dinner. Not even Meera could hunt in weather like this. They

had few supplies after their escape, and no help. We will starve if we do not escape the snows quickly, Bran knew.

They hid from any hunting parties, either Boltons or worse, all the while trying to make their way south. Meera had to lash Bran onto Summer's back, despite the direwolf's protests. A direwolf was not a pack mule - Summer might have lashed out, if they had not been so desperate.

It was an uncomfortable journey, but Bran spent most of it unconscious as he scouted around him. The storm scattered everything, even the wildlife. There were no fluttering wings in the branches, there were no foxes scratting through the trees. The north seemed to be huddled, hidden, bracing against winter.

Then, to the south, Meera reported seeing a shadow in the distance

a huge host of men marching south towards the kingsroad. It was an army, but there was no way of telling whose or where they were heading. Meera wanted to follow in their wake, to see if they could sneak in amongst the camp followers to find shelter.

"A cripple will draw attention," Bran mumbled weakly. They had to press up close to hear each other over the sound of the snows. He was so close he could feel her heartbeat, soft and steady.

"I know," Meera said with a grimace. "But I could go myself, try to steal some supplies for us."

It spoke to how dire their conditions were, that Meera would even suggest leaving him.

They made poor time, and all the while the winds didn't ease. Bran could only watch as Meera became more frail, pale and helpless - weaker than he had ever seen her. If not for Summer sticking by Bran's side, he didn't know how they could survive.

No, Meera would be able to survive. If she left me, she would be able to survive by herself . The very thought caused his stomach to

twist. Perhaps I could survive without her too - if I left my old body behind and moved into the trees .

Still, neither of them did. They clung to each other, still futilely trying to push through the snows together.

"I can see the wolfswood," Meera called to him. "We can shelter there. This is the last chance if we want to meet up with that army."

Bran only nodded. Winterfell, he thought with a gulp. We must get to Winterfell . The Boltons in Winterfell didn't matter, not anymore. Branhad to return home.

It was a dark morn when they reached the first pockmarked sentinel trees of the wolfswood. He knew these lands; he had ridden through them with Father as a boy. Those days felt like an age ago. Bran had never seen the forest so grim, so foreboding, every tree trembling in the gale. Meera clutched that rusted iron bar - the closest thing to a proper weapon they had - with both hands. Even Summer was so frail they could barely last much longer. Bran watched Meera fumble uselessly trying to light a fire, cursing and begging the woods, and he felt his gut clench.

As night fell, they saw the bulbous full moon shimmering over the woods. With the light reflecting over the snows, the moon seemed to glow as bright blue as an eye.

The weather had followed them south. Bran could feel the rumbling of northern winds moving closer. There was something in the air, that power again.

The cold crept after them, sucking their strength. The snows made hard travelling, and they had to retire for shelter quickly. We need help, Bran thought. We're going to die out here, buried under the snows…

There was no choice. Bran took a deep breath, and he stretched out his mind.

For a second, he felt nothing but emptiness, or animals hiding against the snow. He felt an owl stranded by the winds, torn out of the sky. He felt a fox starving in its den.

Then, he felt something at the edge of awareness, like a bonfire in the darkness. There were men, thousands of men all huddled together. The minds of men felt so different from animals - where animals were sharp, distinct and focused, humans felt intricate, bright and wispy. Bran could barely focus on the presence of humans.

There were more. Horses, plenty of horses, and there were ravens too. Birds squawking in cages. He reached out to them, trying to understand, trying call for attention.

It was an army. Not too far from them, either. Ramsay had been preparing to fight against someone, Bran remembered. The Bastard King, he had said. Wildlings?

Bran reached out further, trying to understand. His mind extended, his presence flittering over the fields.

Then, he felt something recoil. A mind that snapped back at Bran's touch, responding to him. It felt sharp, primal even. Familiar. The boy gasped, his body jerking. "What happened?" Meera called instantly. "What is it?"

He could only blink, stuttering. Bran recognised that feeling in a way he could barely describe. "It's my brother," Bran stammered out. "Jon." Jon?

Meera gaped at him. Bran could barely make sense of it. Around him, the winds howled.

They sat for a while in quiet confusion, huddled by the trees, as Bran reached out, trying to feel what was happening. Bran couldn't make sense of half the things he sensed through his third eye.

Then, in the distance, Bran felt something spark. Like a little flash in his mindscape. It was followed by a second, and then a third, until one by one there were dozens. Each one was so wispy that he could barely feel it, but together they became something more.

It was only by the hundredth spark that he started to understand. In his mind, every presence was like a little light and when they died, they flashed. People are dying, Bran thought. I can feel them dying .

It felt like power. Like every person was a little bit of power, and when they died they sparked. Like fireflies in the night, that he could reach out and hold.

I felt the same thing at Last Hearth and Thistle Hall too, back when I had been so close it felt overwhelming. I blanked out both times, Bran realised. The feel of all those people dying around me overwhelmed me .

The tide of deaths didn't stop. Bran could feel it growing in intensity.

It was a battle. A storm of death.

Meera shuffled to his side, staring wide-eyed. Her brown hair looked wispy, like it was going grey in the snow. "Bran?" Meera asked. "What's happening? What is it?"

Bran wasn't sure how he could answer that. He felt like a near-sighted man trying to describe events in the distance.

He couldn't make out any details, but he could make out the general shape of it. A cluster of men, the air broiling in the storm, and more and more presences were being extinguished. Sparks of power lighting up the sky as they dissipated. It was like raw energy, the same type that had been at Thistle Hall. Bran could feel it…

He could feel it. He felt it so much it hurt.

The flow of energy didn't stop. He was too alert, too aware. It felt like his skin was on fire, it felt like burning.

His body started to spasm, gasping. "Bran!" Meera shouted in his ear, holding him uselessly. "Bran!"

A battle . Bran thought. It was a battle, and the clash of men - the emotion, the pain, the deaths… Bran could feel it all.

Oh gods…

"It's Jon," Bran sputtered. "My brother. Jon. I… I can feel him, and…"

The tide didn't cease. In the sparks, Bran could see flashes of visions. Like beyond the green, he thought with a gulp, but… but closer… coming closer… "It feels like Jon's going to die."

All around him, the sky cackled and rumbled, the winds and snow tearing over the earth - like immense giants rumbling and wrestling in the sky.

The False Guard

"Oi, Harlow," the wildling called. "Bring the bloody horses around, will ya?"

Harlow jumped to his feet at once, as quick as a rabbit. "Yes ser, right away!" he replied, grinning brightly.

"Boy, you were meant to sharpen this blade," another Dragonguard complained, not too long afterwards, dropping the bone-handled greatsword onto the snow. "How am I supposed to swing an edge like that?"

"Oh - apologies, ser, I'll sharpen it now," Harlow gushed as he bowed low.

"Squire!" another shouted for him later. "Message from Eastwatch came in, deliver it on to the king."

Harlow dropped all of his many tasks to run to his feet, eagerly. "Yes, of course!"

"Oi! And fetch us some ale while you're up," a Dragonguard ordered from the campfire.

"I will, ser." Harlow broke into an urgent jog through the flurry of snow.

As soon as he returned, he heard, "Those stables are a bloody mess!"

"I'm so sorry, I'll clean them now," Harlow replied eagerly.

"And ready those saddles when you're at it," the man ordered, before shuffling away with a skin of ale in his hand.

Harlow bowed and hopped to it. "Right away!"

"Harlow, where the bloody hells are you?" another called for him shortly afterwards. "We need to prepare the dragon's meal."

"Of course, I'll handle it." He bowed again, just for good measure. "I can handle it all."

"And gods, Harlow," the great bearded figure snorted, his nose crinkling. "You stink of shit."

"Ahaa," Harlow laughed brightly. "You're right, ser, I do."

He did everything they asked of him and more. He took on the duties of half a dozen squires, and he devoted himself to each task eagerly. He smiled and he laughed, and he laboured with such zeal.

They could have fucked him up the ass, and Harlow would have grinned and asked for more.

He wore a white stone on his chest, polished to perfection. At night, Harlow would pray with the free folk around the idol of the dragon,

accepted into their fold. Even as only a squire, he was a member of the Dragonguard too. The woods witch said that he was blessed, to be able to serve the dragon so.

When the dragon shat, Harlow would be the one to clean it up. He was so very grateful too.

It took a very special type of man to be able to maintain such an act for months. One day at time - bowing low, obeying orders, and all the while he watched, listened and planned.

Of all the accusations they could lay at him, nobody could say Ramsay was not devoted.

Every single time Jon Snow greet Harlow, he bowed deeply. Ramsay bowed like a buffoon and he lowered his head - all to hide his eyes.

Dressed in finery, in his armour and bloody helm with his bone falchion, Ramsay was the Red Helm, the Monster, the Bastard of the Dreadfort. Without them, he was just a podgy young man with wide eyes and slumped shoulders, who stuttered as he spoke and was always eager to please. A boy like that could go anywhere.

It was a scheme that had been months in the making, the plan evolving and adapting at every step. The Bastard King had required extreme measures. You couldn't backstab anybody, Ramsay had reasoned, unless you got behind them first. Jon Snow would be planning a campaign, Roose Bolton would be scheming to stop him, and so Ramsay made a plan of his own.

It had been the middle of the night in Winterfell, after a very rushed wedding, when Ramsay and his men abandoned his father's plan and snuck off into the night.

First, Ramsay had ridden fast and sacked Last Hearth for all it was worth, and put every man, woman and child to the blade. Ramsay couldn't allow his father or the Bastard King to get their hands on Bran Stark - either one of them would happily replace Ramsay's

status as Lord of Winterfell. Razing Last Hearth to the ground had helped Ramsay get things moving in the right direction.

While most of the Bastard's Boys took shelter in Thistle Hall, Ramsay himself took a few handpicked men, and rode north. Ramsay killed his own horse, and dressed himself as a commoner. They buried their swords, wool and mail in favour of bows, hemp and hide. Without any armour, they became just another group of huntsmen, stumbling around the forest after the battle at Last Hearth.

There was a refuge in audacity. They had been captured, stripped, and interrogated. He had begged and shivered. Ramsay Bolton had walked right into the wildling's army, cold, scared and exposed.

After all, acting the prisoner had been a tactic that had served Ramsay very well indeed with Theon Greyjoy at Winterfell. Ramsay's impression of Jon Snow had reminded him much of Theon, actually. Ramsay had known that the wildlings were capturing villages rather than killing them - the risk of being put to the sword was very low. At the time, Ramsay figured that the Bastard King was trying to expand his ranks, that they would be very eager to recruit another few northmen soldiers.

Very quickly, Ramsay realised that acting servile, young and innocent would serve him far better. Even from their very first meeting in the woods by the kingsroad, Jon Snow demonstrated himself as a man who went out of his way to save the 'innocent'.

That was what Roose never really understood. His father could only think in terms of the 'big picture' - he was a man leaning over a cyvasse board. Ramsay knew differently; armies were more than just blobs, they were people. Together they became a force to topple countries, but individually each man was weak, exposed and prone to manipulation. If you wanted to beat a bigger army, you had to do it man by man.

Ramsay had been born a commoner. So often, the generals forgot that their army relied on the messenger boys, the scouts, the watchmen. It was quite easy to infiltrate an army if you were alone and looked harmless, and if you could outwit a single, bored sentry keeping watch on a snowy night. The little pieces were as important as the big, but nobody ever focused on them. One man, Ramsay told himself. One man, one blade. One very… focused man is all it takes

.

That's what made the Bastard's Boys special. They were a small force, handpicked for their cruelty, but without the cunning for treachery. Every Bastard Boy had no greater ambition than to kill and rape. Ramsay considered each one of his men, his hounds, to be worth a hundred sheep, and so far he hadn't been proved wrong.

It had served him at Hornwood, it worked at Winterfell, it worked at Moat Cailin, and it worked at Last Hearth. Wildlings or not, Ramsay knew about human nature. Hounds and sheep.

The plan hadn't been perfect - the dragon's attack on Mole Town had been unexpected, and too often Ramsay had to fluke his way through. Still, he had walked into Castle Black unarmed and he made it work.

During the assassination attempt by the Night's Watch, Ramsay had been tailing Jon Snow. The only reason that 'Harlow' managed to save the Bastard King's life by raising the alarm was because Ramsay had been prepared for it. And so Ramsay acted the resourceful little goon, and he screamed for help and he saved the king. The dragon's rage proved that it would have been unhealthy to do otherwise at the time.

Afterwards, once in earshot of King Snow, Ramsay meekly revealed a secret route to make contact with the mountain clans. Ramsay himself had been planning on ambushing the mountain clans, but he surrendered his plans to the Bastard King and Harlow started to work so loyally and gratefully to earn his place.

For all his efforts, Harlow had been so grateful to be named to the king's Dragonguard, and very dedicated to prove himself too. The pink letter that arrived at Castle Black had been written months in advance, and prepared to provoke the wildlings into moving south with Ramsay among them. The king's attack on the Twins in retaliation had been unexpected, but Ramsay hadn't been disappointed.

And so Ramsay's plan started to adapt. It wasn't so much a plan - he didn't need a step by step scheme, that was far more how Roose thought. Instead, Ramsay had only an intention, and the dedication to see it through.

They had planned everything to come together on the night of the full moon, all that work for a single night. The Bastard King had made his moves, and the Boltons had prepared for their own. Their armies would have been soundly defeated in the field; there had been no other choice but to risk everything in a different form of battle.

The goal had always been the same; either kill Jon Snow, or capture him, and then see to the dragon. Roose had preferred assassination, but personally Ramsay had been really, really hoping they'd capture him. With the dragon, even a rampage, even uncontrolled chaos had been acceptable to his father. If it were to rampage free, bereft of its master, his father had explained, it would only drive the realm back into their own hands. Eventually the dragon would retire and find a roost like any other beast, or the north would be forced to rally together to stop it.

For the same reason, even a mass wildling horde raiding through the north was manageable.

"War is a zero-sum game," Lord Bolton had told him once, months ago, "and where absolute victory cannot be had, relative victory will suffice. There will be chaos, but we will cope with the chaos better than our enemies can. It doesn't matter whether or not victory is found cleanly, so long as our enemies lay defeated at the game's end."

"That sounds like a complicated way of asking me to kill somebody for you," Ramsay remembered scoffing.

Of course I'm asking you to kill somebody," Lord Bolton had replied calmly. "That is your talent, that is why I tolerate you. And I have no doubt that you will - you are my son, after all."

Despite all of their differences, despite their clashing mentalities and styles, there were times when Ramsay and his father did work together quite well. My father's plan, my execution .

And now, he could see the end. Harlow stepped over the frozen bodies of the men he had spent months serving, and he laughed.

Months of work, of study, of worry, of copying orders, of passing secret messages and discreetly forging replies, intercepting ravens and constantly acting clueless… so much effort, all for working towards a single night.

And it was glorious.

The look in the Bastard's face, as he stared up at Ramsay's bloody grin. All around them the wind was howling and the men were screaming. " Bastard! " Ramsay cried, his heart beating in pure elation. "There you are, Bastard! Oh, I was really hoping I'd see you!"

The Bastard looked as lost as a puppy. Around them, the night screamed. "You hear the music?" Ramsay called as he stepped forward. "That's my father slaughtering your troops. Oh, is it not the most lovely sound?"

Ramsay stepped closer. The Bastard was on the snow. His eyes were wide, his face as pale as his hair. His furs were bloody, his face pale and dishevelled. He didn't look the king anymore - he was nothing but a frantic, wounded man lost in the snows.

While Ramsay… Ramsay felt like a god.

The Bastard still didn't understand, not really. Ramsay loved this moment. He loved the faces. He loved be close enough to see their expression after he screwed them. "Did you not think didn't think that some of those northern lords seemed all too eager to join your side? We've got ten thousand men outside your camp and one thousand inside it. Which means you really didn't stand a chance at all, bastard.

"Except for the dragon, of course," Ramsay continued with a sneer, as he drew his sword with the utmost care. "The dragon would have been a problem. That was my job, you see; get close enough to put the dragon down."

"Harlow?!" the Bastard gasped finally. Ramsay could have choked with mirth.

"In the flesh," he chuckled.

"Yo-You saved my life," he stuttered.

"Why, of course I did." Ramsay stepped slowly, waiting for his men to catch up. He wasn't fool enough to risk a wounded wolf by himself. "I don't want you dead, Bastard. I don't want to kill you. I was really, really hoping we'd have this moment."

"Harlow…" the Bastard's voice turned to a growl, staggering as he pulled himself to his feet.

"Oh, we haven't actually been properly introduced, Bastard," Ramsay mocked, lingering for that one last moment of satisfaction. "My name is not Harlow. I am Lord Ramsay Bolton, and from now on I think I'm going to call you Reek. Do you like that, Bastard? Reek . Reek - it rhymes with bleak."

Ramsay didn't need to draw out the moment, but he wanted to see the man's face. He loved savouring their expressions. He watched, and watched, and smiled, as the Bastard's features twisted, his skin paled, and the wind howled.

The moment passed. Ramsay drew his sword high, and the laughter broke his throat as he leapt forward, blade swinging in a downwards arc. The Bastard stumbled backwards, almost slipping on the ice.

There was laughter by his side. Two of the Bastard's Boys paced next to Ramsay, stalking forward. Werwick and Lems were both sniggering, their hands on their weapons as they moved after the king.

They could see the battle in the camp in the distance. Northmen and wildlings, men and women, all running mad. Behind him, Ramsay heard the rumble of the ice dragon's great breaths - each one was laboured, hoarse and weak.

There were only fourteen Bastard's Boys with him on the ice - as many as Ramsay had been able to sneak through with him into the camp - but it was enough. Fourteen men were enough to hold position until the Bolton forces won the battle.

They were in the middle of it all - just a few men scattered over a black, frozen lake, sheltered by a sleeping dragon, as the battle waged on the shore all around them. Warhorns, drums and screams all echoed together in a dull roar in the distance, drowned out by the fury of the storm above them.

There were no torches, they didn't want to make themselves a target with the light. Instead, the Bastard King was naught but a shadow as they scrambled in the dark, illuminated only by the rippling light of distant fires through the snows.

"How…?" the Bastard gasped as he stumbled, hidden in the dark. "How could…?"

Ramsay only laughed, stalking forward and swiping with his blade. The Bastard had his own black sword drawn, fumbling in the dark. Ramsay had heard that the Bastard was a great swordsman, but all the skill in the world couldn't help if you couldn't even see your opponent.

Footsteps shuffled around him. Werwick and Lems went far, circling around to stop the Bastard from running. He snapped out in the dark, like a wolf surrounded by hounds.

The dead men's camp littered the snows, their blood already cold. The 'Dragonguard' died scattered around the ice. Ramsay heard the strained gasps and grunts as the Bastard stumbled over the half-buried body of his own men. Dark blots stained the snow with each of the Bastard's steps.

The blood of the leader - Furs - was already cold. He died face first in the snow, his throat slit, his body stiff, frozen and contorted.

"Your men died painlessly, I want you to know that. Mostly painless," Mock him - Make him angry. Lure him into a mistake . "It only tookjust a bit of poison in their cups - they drank it all." Cold men huddled on a lake, drinking to stay warm at night. Nobody even thought twice when Harlow rushed around with skins of ale, as he had every night for months. "Some of them died quickly, but him - Furs tried to run. I had to cut his throat myself."

"What did…" the Bastard stammered. "What did you…?"

Behind them, the bulk of Sonagon shifted slightly, a long drawl breaking from the dragon's maw. "What did I do?" Ramsay laughed.

I beat you ."

His voice was loud and clear. The Bastard focused on the sound, and he lunged. He was quick, and sword was sharp. He swung fast and darted over the snow with surprising speed, but Ramsay was ready for him. Ramsay ducked low, and hacked forward with his blade like a cleaver.

Metal chimed. The Valyrian steel jarred against Ramsay's blade, taking a notch out of the iron, but the ferocity still knocked the Bastard backwards. He recovered swiftly, but Ramsay was already hacking again - screaming like a madman as he slashed and hacked

There was no skill to it, no restraint - nothing but a bloodthirsty growl between crazed chuckles of laughter.

The first few strikes caught the Bastard off-guard. He managed to recover, and that sharp black blade of his struck out like a snake. It sliced straight through Ramsay's shoulderguard, the leather splitting and the blade cutting deep through skin.

If not for Lems stepping in, Ramsay might well have lost his head. Instead, Jon Snow crumpled as the Bastard's Boy lunged his sword into Jon's back. Ramsay didn't stop laughing, even with the blood swelling from his shoulder. Ramsay couldn't even feel the pain, he was too high.

Lems' iron blade didn't pierce the armour, but the Bastard still staggered. He reacted admirably, twisting to meet the attacker behind him, and then Ramsay charged forward with a backhand strike with his other arm. His sword crashed into the Bastard's ribs, clattering against chainmail under hard leathers.

Blood splattered from the Bastard's mouth. Ramsay felt the warm droplets against his face. His smile widened.

Maybe one on one, Ramsay might have lost, but three-on-one? While the Bastard was dazed and wounded? Not a chance. The Bastard staggered, but Ramsay's boys surrounded him. Both Lems and Werwick were there, darting around from either side and forcing Jon to twist and parry.

"Sonagon!" the Bastard screamed at the top of his lungs. "Sonagon!"

The dragon stirred and groaned, but it could hardly even twitch. It was left too weak, too strained. Ramsay's laughter didn't stop.

"What did you do?" the Bastard bellowed. " What did you do? "

It was almost impressive, how the man was fast enough to hold off two at once. Ramsay held back, nursing his wounded shoulder.

Blood wept from the cut, stinging against the cold. In the dark, Ramsay could only see the blades flashing. The Bastard rippled and parried, while Werwick and Lems hacked closer. It was a dance of steel and snow - desperate, strained.

Ramsay heard the squelch of blood. The Bastard's blade lashed out, gutting Lems straight through the stomach.

Ramsay struck. Before the blade could even recoil from the Bastard Boy's stomach, Ramsay's fist slammed into his face. Both Jon and Lems fell to the snow at the same time. "Bastard!" Ramsay howled as he kicked the sword from the Bastard's writhing hand. It clattered away over into the snow. " Bastard! "

The Bastard was left unarmed, trying to flail, trying to find his feet, but Ramsay was all ferocity and strength. Ramsay was shorter, but stockier and heavier, and still strong enough. He kicked the Bastard's feet out from under him, and kicked again where he saw dark fluid staining the Bastard's furs. Jon retched and Ramsay fell on him, grabbing him. They writhed in the snow. The Bastard twisted and punched, splitting Ramsay's lips. Ramsay could taste the red, where his lips had been cut on his teeth.

His eyes glittered. His lips widened. Ramsay had felt harder blows before his eighth name-day. Weak. He's so weak now. Ramsay felt the world… widen. Come into clarity. Oh, I will so very enjoy this.

Ramsay smiled, twisting his form, and answered the bastard with his own punch, then another, and another. The Bastard weakened, his limbs shaking, and the dragon twitched. Ramsay hooked around the Bastard and dug the hilt of his blade under the Bastard's chin. Ramsay heaved in and dragged the Bastard him a few paces away, letting the iron crush into the Bastard's soft throat. Ramsay could feel him gurgle and thrash through the metal.

"Sonagon!" The word split the Bastard's throat. A desperate cry for his dragon's attention. "Sonag-"

"Come on now, Reek," Ramsay growled. His grip tightened. "Do you really think the men were the only ones I poisoned?"

Ramsay yanked the Bastard's neck. The dragon didn't even squirm, even as its master was being strangled right under its nose. The Bastard gargled for breath, squirming beneath him.

"Do you know how long it took find a poison that would work on your dragon?" Ramsay whispered in his ear, and Jon convulsed. "Why, I spent months researching what it ate. I spent a long time taking care of it. Beautiful animal."

Discovering a means of disabling the beast had always been the hardest task Ramsay faced. Poisoning it had been difficult - the beast could eat metal and stone, even. Trial and error had been needed; every night for months Ramsay had been switching up what went into the dragon's meals, and then observing its behaviour afterwards. It had required months of study to develop a poison that would be crippling for a dragon.

He'd gone to the greatest lengths, never allowing himself to be discovered. Many ideas had been settled on, tried, and discarded. Flesh infused with the bloody flux, the pox, the greywater fever - even the flesh of rabid foxes. The dragon had shrugged it all off, not even noticing his efforts. The heavy metals had proven more promising - a mixture of natural waste-rock, lead and sulphur from the Manderly silver mines could make the dragon sickly. It was not obvious at first; the dragon's constitution was just too great, and it had not been enough for a reliable poison.

Their deadline had loomed with little success. The easy solution that Ramsay desired proved difficult, and all other alternatives were rather more… messy. Ramsay had nearly thought the mission lost, his task failed, until they had found an ally - ready and willing, dancing to another's strings for the same end. A maester, with whose assistance he had finally made the true breakthroughs.

Greyscale. Greyscale-tainted flesh, mixed into the dragon's meals… now that had given a marvellous result.

The first sample had come from a plague ship quarantined by the White Harbour port, but the maester had access, and then House Bolton had allies that helped ferry it through the city. Ramsay brought it to the dragon's roost. The plague flesh required extraordinarily careful handling, and afterwards Ramsay had planted the contents into the dragon's meals, one small strip at a time.

His initial source had been too small to debilitate such a large beast, but greyscale was so infectious; Ramsay had found that it was easy enough to simply create more stock. All it took was a thick pair of gloves and a piece of raw, poisoned meat - for every barrel of raw fish that came to the dragon, Ramsay dropped an extra piece of meat in it, and then let the fish simmer for a day or two before serving. Sometimes Ramsay had taken aside barrels and let them linger in fermentation for weeks, scurried away in dark corners, to replenish his stocks. No one but Ramsay had noticed that the dragon was eating a few barrels less on some days, and a few more on others. If a few barrels happened to stink more than the others? If the dragon didn't care, why should they?

The 'Dragonguard' trusted him to watch over the dragon's food, and no one noticed. The Bastard King filled his guard with dumb warriors, not a drop of cunning between them. That Hatch, the big one, the supposed leader, was the worst. All of them were fighters, they were above such stewardly duties. Ramsay ran circles around them all.

There was no food-tester to protect a dragon. The dragon was gluttonous enough to eat it all.

Even from the first meal, the results were instant. Whatever the disease did to the dragon, it seemed to drain the beast's strength. Ramsay had been carefully, increasing the dragon's intake of tainted food only in small increments, so as to avoid attention. Eventually, as the march to Winterfell began, he'd settled into a pattern, constantly weakening the dragon over many tainted meals, and eventually

drawing it into a lull. The others had dismissed it as the dragon just being tired on the march, perhaps they had even been grateful for how complacent the beast had become, but Ramsay had known the truth.

The Bastard's dragon had unknowingly consumed nearly all of Ramsay's tainted supplies earlier in the day, and now it could hardly seem to breathe. Ramsay honestly wasn't certain whether it would survive or not. He hoped it would; he didn't want the dragon dead, after all.

The disease drains their strength, makes them weak, Ramsay had decided, weeks before. The symptoms differ, from human to dragon, but the terminal result is the same. Petrification. Outwardly in man, inwardly in dragon. The maester had been so very helpful. Ramsay had started to wonder just how exactly the dragons went extinct the first time around.

Ramsay could feel the fear in the Bastard's body, in his desperate shudders and strained breaths. Ramsay squeezed, pulling backwards tighter and tighter, choking the life out of him. Ramsay only laughed.

It felt like the world was cheering for him. The sky was screaming, and the ground was rumbling.

Ramsay watched the Bastard's face turn red, his eyes bulging so much that they might pop…

The Bastard jerked, like the final spasm of a convulsing fish. "No…" Ramsay muttered. "I'm not going to kill you, Bastard. I don't want to kill you."

After a moment's pause, Ramsay relented. He had to force his hands to relent. His grip slackened, and the Bastard gasped for air. Ramsay still hugged him tightly, pinned to the ground.

"I'm going to destroy you," Ramsay whispered. "I'm going to break you, piece by piece. You are mine. You will be my new Reek."

Oh, you'll be the best Reek too. Theon is nothing compared to you. I will have the whole world coming to see my Reek, crawling and begging around on the floor. You will lick the stones under my feet .

They would look at the great and proud Bastard King, once a conqueror and a dragonrider, now something less than human and dancing for Ramsay's pleasure. He would be Ramsay's pet. No, pet was the wrong word, Ramsay quite liked his pets. Rather, puppet . Yes, Reek - Ramsay's little puppet.

Werwick was hunched over the wounded Lems, wailing in shock as his guts spilled outwards. Lems gut was oozing outwards, where the black blade had slice his chest open. "Werwick!" Ramsay snapped, with no regard to his fallen man. "Gather up the others, as many that are still alive. We hold position on the lake, keep near to the dragon."

Werwick jumped to attention, shivering and trembling in the cold. Lems was still gasping with his stomach bleeding out. If Ramsay had his hands free, he would have cut the man's throat just to get it over with.

Instead, Ramsay hooked his arm around the Bastard's neck, and dragged him to his feet. The man tried to thrash, but the headlock was too tight. His feet kicked at the snow, slipping on the ice while Ramsay heaved him upwards.

"Your training begins now, Reek," Ramsay said, his voice bouncing with joy. Cold, bleeding and fatigued, but Ramsay had never felt happier. "We're going to watch, you and I. Let's watch everything you care about be destroyed."

The storm was deafening, but they could still see the flurry of battle. There would be warhorns, charging horses, arrows raining and boots stamping, but it all felt just strangely unreal watching from a distance. The Bastard might have tried to say something, but made nothing

but a choking sound. "It's already over," Ramsay cackled. "I poisoned your dragon. I killed your men. Mine were set to raise havoc in your camp, and my father convinced yours to betray you. We beat you."

More of Ramsay's men were slipping out of the shadows. He only had only a dozen of his Boys with him on the ice, but that was enough. The Bastard squirmed, and Damon Dance-for-Me slammed his fist into the Bastard's stomach. Werwick, Lou and Merwyn all laughed. "I need him alive," Ramsay ordered to his men, "but I don't want him healthy. Wrap up his wound, and then beat him until he stops resisting."

Ramsay stepped backwards to tighten his cloak around his bloody neck, to stop the bleeding. All the while, Lems was left gurgling in the snow - dying slowly as his intestines spilled out. Ramsay ordered someone to shut him up, and, finally, Yellow Dick hacked open Lems' head to silence him, before stealing the sword that killed him.

The Bastard was left flailing on the ground. Ramsay's men were already thumping spears into the snow, ready to defend against any who might be coming to save him. They all knew the plan - the Bastard King would die before they would ever let him be recovered.

There was still a fire - a defiance - in the Bastard's grey eyes. Ramsay leant over him, pulling him close. That is good, Ramsay thought with a laugh, I will have fun beating that fire out of you .

"The only reason you made it so far was because we let you," Ramsay whispered into the man's ear. He made gasps that could have been pleas. "We wanted you here, your army gathered right now - so we could destroy all of our foes on a single night. What use is an ambush, if the prey isn't all gathered for it?

"But do you want to know the secret?" Ramsay's voice lowered slightly. " We didn't win. This isn't our victory, this is your loss. We wouldn't ever have beaten your army in a straight battle. If it was anyone else, any other commander, I don't think this trap would have

worked. No one else would have so often hesitated, while wielding so much power. No one else would have let me get so close. An anonymous man, with no family and no past save that I spun out of whole cloth, and you let me so close to the most precious beast in the world. No one else… But it wasn't anybody else, it was you ."

He moved so close his lips brushed against Jon's ear. "This is your loss, yours," Ramsay whispered. "Your failure, your fault - all yours."

The look on the Bastard's face - the pale, wide-eyed look of horror as he stared out and struggled futilely - it was just… it was beautiful. It sounded like the Bastard would have screamed, if only he could breathe in Ramsay's chokehold.

The snowstorm was only getting stronger. Ramsay laughed and laughed and laughed. Even from over a mile away, they heard the tremble as camp's bulwarks collapsed, and heavy cavalry pierced through the host. The wildlings were all disorganised, their camp was in shambles, and Ramsay knew that his well-prepared assault would make short work of them.

If the fighting did break out to the ice, Ramsay would hold their king hostage until his father's army slaughtered them. Ramsay's men could hold position, or Ramsay would cut the Bastard King's throat and run.

Either way, as soon as soon as the battle was won, they'd have the manpower to secure the dragon. Ramsay reckoned he'd be able to tame it. The methods… starvation and chains, certainly. Whips wouldn't do, the hide was too thick to inflict pain by ordinary means, but what of needles in the eye? It was an ice dragon, could it be made to feel pain by fire? It was a beast, not so different from any other, and he hadn't met a beast yet that couldn't be broken. And, after all, the dragon liked Harlow. The thought made him smile. Maybe it won't even be so difficult.

His grip around the Bastard's throat tightened. First, I will break the dragonrider, then I will break the dragon . With a dragon under their

thumb, the Bolton regime would truly begin - and Ramsay would become invaluable to it. Indispensable to his father.

It was all about the dragon - that had been the only thing that the Boltons could not handle, and so instead they targeted the dragonrider. You came prepared for a battle, but we spent our time readying a trap, Ramsay thought with satisfaction. Several traps, in fact .

Sound gargled from the Bastard's throat as he thrashed against Ramsay's grip. They were short, sharp and hoarse cries, as if the man could overpower the storm, screaming for his army in the distance. The army that was being massacred.

Look at it," Ramsay whispered into the Bastard's ear, smiling, as his Boys took him away and set to binding his injuries. "This is you. All you. You did this. Your army, your allies, your dragon, your loss."

Tonight will be a good night, Ramsay thought. Oh, tonight is a good night!

Val

The commanders bickered. Even as the arrows rained down from the sky, she heard a hundred voices and a hundred conflicting orders, orders that few had any business giving. Trying to project authority by sheer overwhelming volume. It was all such a blur that in the din she could only make out the loudest of the rabble.

She stood by the commander's tent, near the central stead of the fishing village, staring over the horizon where great army was being torn apart. She couldn't see the charge, she could only see the haze of a thousand torches writhing, and the shimmer of arrows raining downwards.

They were a good day's march away from Winterfell, maybe half a day if they really pushed. The Boltons must have left the gates even

before the fighting in the camp began. It was coordinated.

Val could hear the horns echoing, the sounds of battle chiming in the pandemonium. The Boltons were at the perimeter, with absolutely no warning from the scouts or outriders. An organised defence could have routed the Boltons - fortified men on the earthen encampments could have resisted the ambush, sent them back bleeding - but there was no organisation. No discipline, no clear-minded orders. Their camp was large, dispersed and now fractured; even by the time the northern coalition gathered to resist them at the fortifications it would be too late.

The storm was growing like the wrath of gods. Val could only stare, feeling numb with fear and cold. There were no details, she could see nothing of the battle - it was too dark and too chaotic to see anything other than incoherent panic. The blizzard tore the weaker tents apart, sending the leathers flapping madly in the wind. The howling wind, the snow, the screaming - it all blended together, set the world to madness.

They're attacking from both the north and west, she realised. They're pushing with soldiers from the front, horses to the rear. A hammer from behind, to the anvil. She could see the arrows in the distance, the shafts scattering wildly in the winds. It was an ambush - a solid line of soldiers taking full advantage of superior discipline, bowmen and cavalry. They would be pressing forward slowly to keep their lines intact, but as unstoppable as a dagger through the heart. Rattleshirt's men had been holding the north perimeter, but they were lost. As soon as the Boltons broke through the bulwarks then was no easy way to stop them.

One collected force fighting through a disjointed one.

The snow fell from the sky in a fierce flurry, nearly horizontal with the winds. Tents were torn out of the ground, men running huddled under billowing cloaks. In weather like this, every man would be running blind.

"We got horns over the ridge! West and south!" the Weeper shrieked as he stomped forward. "Warriors on me, we break their charge! On me! On me! "

"Retreat! We must run!" some southron lord - Locke something or other - shouted. "Retreat!"

"Fuck that, where the hell is Snow?" Tormund Giantsbane exclaimed, barrelling past them all. "The king?"

"Archers! Archers! Bowmen!"

"Retreat! Retreat to the southern bulwarks!" a scared voice shrieked. "Cavalry! Cavalry breaking through!"

"Southron traitors!" a wildling's voice - a mad-eyed raider clutching two stone-headed axes, facing off against some Manderly soldiers. "You bloody fucking traitors!"

"Reinforcements to the west!" That was the Greatjon's voice, a heavy bellow as he pushed through, heading towards the Manderly boathouse. "Where are the bloody heavy horse?"

That was the problem, Val thought quietly. In moment of alarm, all rational thought stopped. Men would just follow the loudest voice .

Gods… the fear in the air. It was overwhelming. Every single second, somebody was dying. There were a hundred crises happening all through the camp, and Val just couldn't respond to it. How could you stop a tide of a thousand men?

Her hands were shivering. She could feel it too. A certain type of panic was infectious.

No, Val thought. Now is not the time. Not everybody can be helped, focus on what I can do .

She cast her gaze around the frenzied, burning camp, and her heart skipped. The thought of the battle at the Frostfangs fluttered through

her mind. The Others hit Mance's host from multiple sides, scattering them, before bringing in the main assault. I've seen this type of chaos before. The Boltons are even using similar tactics to the white walkers.

Tormund and the Greatjon were arguing - one wanted to hold the line, the other insisted on reinforcing the perimeter. In the pandemonium, the men looked close to coming to blows against each other. Accusations still ran through the camp - shouts of 'craven' or 'traitors', and Val couldn't even pick out who or what. There's no calm, not here. Their blood is too hot.

Val saw the Weeper already pushing his way through, screaming. The man had no patience for arguing, his warband was already rallying to his roar. The Weeper already had his scythe in hand and he was on the hunt for his enemy's heads. In a pinch, any head would do.

I can't let this happen . Val made her decision quickly; she ignored the others and ran after the Weeper, shoving her way through the snows and the raiders.

"Weeper!" Val snapped, stepping towards him. "You fall back! Gather your men, send the signal to fall back ."

The Weeper twitched, his bloody scythe snapping at her. Blood was dribblling down from his eyes, his face twisted into a feral snarl. "What the fuck-?"

No time to back down now. "Fall back, Weeper," she ordered. "With as many as you can gather, fall back to the shore and regroup."

"Are you fucking mad, bitch?" he snarled. "They're slaughtering us!"

"We got cavalry breaking the encampments," a scarred wildling growled. "The bulwarks-"

"-are already lost. The instinct is to counterattack. That's what they're expecting. Resist that instinct, Weeper." Val was already storming her way through. "Gather them all, fall back and rally!"

Too much of a rabble, her voice didn't gather enough attention among the warriors. "Orders from the king!" Val screamed at the top of her lungs, but it still felt barely loud enough. "Gather anyone you can! Fall back! "

The Weeper's arm grabbed her shoulder, his grip so tight it hurt. He left a bloody handprint on her furs. Manderly blood. "Bitch," the Weeper snapped. "You do not order my men."

His eyes bulged. No weakness. He'll kill me if I show weakness . "If you had your wits, then I wouldn't have to," Val challenged. "You fall back, Weeper, and the ranks rally around you. Let the men see their commanders, know who to follow. Run mad and you'll only get more killed. Again ."

He didn't slacken his grip. They could hear the screams in the distance, howling with the wind. He could kill me. One word, one movement, one look in the eyes, and I'm dead . The thought of SerWylis' bloody head flickered before her gaze. Still, Val said, "Move your hand or lose it."

After a pause, the Weeper relented and lowered his hand, but his eyes didn't lose their ferocity. She caught the flicker of hesitation moving through the men, and Val turned around between the warriors and raised her voice, "King Snow has gone to rally the dragon! He'll be flying through any moment now!" I hope . "So bloody fall back already! "

Jon's name caused a few stirs, but there was just so much confusion and bustling bodies around her. Val was fighting against a tide - the whole camp was flooded with bedlam, and she had to fight and scream just to get a single message through.

The Weeper twitched, but Val was already turning and pushing away. A man with a bloody winged pig on his surcoat moved to stop her, but he froze at as the Weeper shook his head.

She could hear the sound of hooves rumbling closer. It felt like an earthquake - slow, steady, but unstoppable. How many men have died in the last minute alone?

"The men on the perimeter!" someone protested.

"Leave them!" Val snapped. She drew her blade and raised it high. "Fall back! Fall back and rally!"

Men were stirring all around. She had to shove and barge her way through. She glimpsed the Weeper's face twitch, curse, and turn after her.

"King Snow!" a red-faced man - a southerner - bellowed at her. "Where is he? Where is he?"

"He's fighting a battle! Like you should be!" Val snapped, turning and screaming. "Now are you going to stand around with your cocks in the air, or are you going to get moving?"

There was no time to look for Jon. They had minutes to spare, and Val had to make the hard choice. Either Jon was dead and they wouldn't find his corpse until morning, or he was moving but lost. Either way, Val couldn't distract herself with him right now.

"Ser Wylis!" a man, a knight, was screaming. "Where is Ser Wylis? The wildlings-"

"Your commander was a fucking traitor!" that was one of the Weeper's men, an ugly man with a bloody winged pig on surcoat, heaving a greatsword. "House Manderly betrayed us!"

The knight moved his hand to his sword. "Ser Wylis! What did-"

"Enough!" Val shrieked, so loud her throat hurt. "Enough! Fall back! Rally! Fall back!"

Some were trying to keep the fights going, but the call was starting to spread around her. "Fall back!" they were screaming. "Fall back!"

How many thousands would die in the retreat? Val wondered. How many are the Boltons cutting down right now, and how long would it buy us? Still, their sacrifice was the only chance the rest had.

There was a certain flow to battle. The tides of men would wax and wane, and churn like turbulent waters. When one side started to gain ground, they would build momentum. It became more and more difficult for the other side to recover against a moving charge. The Boltons had already had a strong ambush against a disorientated host, there would be severe casualties.

Val turned to the north; she couldn't see anything through the crowds, she couldn't even make sense of all the noises - but she could feel the enemies pushing closer and closer.

We need the kneelers. The free folk have the strength, we need the discipline.

In the camp beyond, Manderly men were rushed to arms, but their ranks had already fallen apart. The northerners and the free folk wouldn't fight together easily.

There were skirmishes all around them, and Val couldn't tell who; nobody who the betrayers were, but the fighting still seemed to be spreading. Val pushed her way through a dozen raiders howling against the Manderly knights, their words lost in the storm. We can't win like this .

She heard bellows. Tormund. The Greatjon. Val saw their shadows, sizing off against each other, clashing. The Greatjon wanted to move men south, Tormund wanted to stop him. They were spitting with each other, each one flanked by a dozen other lords and chieftains.

There are too many commanders in this army. No general.

"You fucking chickenshits!" Tormund was roaring, maul in hand. "You fucking cunts!"

"Out of my way, fat man!" The Greatjon was so much bigger, his ugly greatsword lifted high. "Out of my fucking way!"

Enough! " Val screamed, lurching into a run. "Gather your men! Rally at the lake!"

The Greatjon twitched. Men shouting all around her, but the Lord Umber was louder. "Girl! Where's Snow? Where the fuck is he?"

"These bastards have traitors in their ranks!" Tormund hollered. "Get your fucking men under control!"

"Enough!" Val barked. "Enough! Enough! Get fucking moving!"

She wasn't the only one screaming. Their voices blurred together, fighting against the wind. "Where's the king?" another man bellowed at the same time.

"Ser Wylis!" a northern lord demanded. "What happened to Ser Wylis!"

"The dragon! Where is the dragon?"

"Retreat!" Val recognised the scrawny man - Jeremy of House Locke, heir and commander in Lord Locke's place. "We must retreat!"

The cries of retreat gave Val the most concern. If their ranks fell apart, in this weather, then they would all die fleeing in the snow. Val had seen it happen before.

As the tide kept on crushing them, morale would completely shatter and they would lose as many to desertion to death. After that, there was no chance.

Lord Umber raised his greatsword, ready to swing at Tormund. "You get out my bloody way or I'll kill you all!"

The loudest voice. The loudest voice is the most important . Val focused on the Greatjon, pushing up against the hulk of a man. "Enough!" Val screamed, pushing so hard even Lord Umber was knocked back. "Fuck you and fuck your cock measuring! Get to the fucking centre and rally your fucking army!"

For half a second, Lord Umber looked speechless. A few men made to grab her, but Val twisted away and shoved the Greatjon again. "Move! Rally! Now! "

"They got traitors!" Tormund warned. "Bloody kneelers-"

Val spun her head so fast her hair whipped. "Who gives a fuck!" she snapped at Tormund. "Fuck traitors - there's your enemy!" She pointed to the west, where Bolton cavalry was pushing through their ranks. "If they stab you, kill them - and do what I say if you want to fucking live! "

She sounded crazy. She felt crazy. Good. Crazy is good, so long as they don't try to argue. We can't beat the tide swimming in different directions .

The Greatjon's eyes bulged. He was a hulk of man in leather and steel byrnie, and Val was a slender young woman banging against his chest. "Little girl…" he growled.

"Fuck off," Val snapped, already turning around. "Get moving."

Thousands of bodies frenzied all around her, shoving and bellowing. Horses were galloping. She heard a hundred screams echoing on the wind. Val glimpsed a spear-ridden corpse of a mammoth, littering the ground nearby.

"Retreat!" Jeremy Locke was still shouting. " Retr -"

At once, before anyone could stop her, Val drew her sword and stormed towards the heir of House Locke, pressing the blade against his chest.

"Say that word one more time," Val promised. "I'll kill you right now,"

Jeremy only gaped at her. With Ser Wylis dead, Jeremy Locke was now in command of the White Harbour men. All of the knights had steel in their grip. If I do kill him, then his soldiers will kill me a second later and everyone will dissolve into fighting, Val thought.She couldn't even feel her fingers, that rush of fear was just so… One twitch of a sword and she'd be dead. But there's no choice - if he keeps on screaming to retreat, then too many will follow it.

Val could only hope that Jeremy was not as stupid as he seemed.

With her sword at his chest, the heir to Oldcastle could only stutter. The White Harbour knights seemed speechless too. Good enough, Val thought with a tut. "If anybody calls to retreat," she shouted to whoever was listening. "Kill them!"

It probably wouldn't make a difference, but it made her feel better. Gods, her heartbeat was so fast it was fluttering - fear and adrenaline made everything fuzzy.

"Why the fuck should we listen to Snow's lay, you cunt?" an angry voice snapped. Val turned to see a bald and scarred man in an iron byrnie glaring at her. It took a few seconds for Val to recognise him; the Middle Liddle, of the mountain clans.

Val raised her hands open. "You see anyone else keeping their wits?" The Middle Liddle looked ready to strike her. "No? Then bugger off."

She heard a few grunts that could have been guffaws. Maybe they were laughing at her; the little girl who thought she could boss them around. That was fine. Even mockery was better than panic. Before the Middle Liddle had a chance to respond, Val turned to the men,

and it was the soldiers that were really important, not the commanders. "Whatever grievances you have - whatever problems with King Snow or with each other!" Val screamed. "Then sort them out in the morning! Tonight, you bloody fight them !"

The Middle Liddle spat a word that sounded like 'cunt', but Val was already pushing away. Don't focus on anyone, don't get drawn into an argument. Just keep on pushing through and keep the cry spreading . Everybody had to know the same thing.

"Rally! Rally! Rally at the village - free folk and northerners gather together!"

The village was defendable, at least. The lake at our back would stop them from surrounding us . If the Boltons pushed forward too fast after the perimeter broke, then they'd overreach themselves and hit against a hard defence. If enough of the commanders pulled together, then there would be a chance. If they stayed fractured, there'd be none.

She could feel the rumble of battle pushing closer, the pitch turning so loud it overpowered the storm. They must be through the bulwarks now - there would be horses storming through the camp and raising havoc. Only a solid line of infantry stood a chance at stopping cavalry.

How many men have already died, in the time it took for the commanders to get their shit together?

She hadn't even realised how much they were relying on the dragon until it was missing. Nobody, not even her, had been expecting a proper fight because they had a dragon. Their armies were a smouldering mess without it.

Val stopped. Her eyes flashed around the crowd, trying to find free folk she recognised. She saw a tall and lean raider she recognised from beyond the Wall. "You! Bjarl! Follow me!" Val ordered. There

was another young man she vaguely recognised. Lars, Leif, Lothar, maybe? "And you ! Lars! Both of you, on me."

Bjarl looked surprised. Maybe-Lars didn't react in time, so Val had to grab his hand and yank the man away. The wreckage of Jon's cabin wasn't far; half the building had been pulverised by the mammoth's stampede through, but there was another half that was still upright. Val had to scramble over the splintered debris, noting the bodies littering the ground. In these snows, it was already a foot deep surrounding everything.

It had only been the other day, when Val had taken solace in this boathouse with Jon, wrapped around him and underneath the sheets. The thought made her curse. Gods, how did I let myself become so complacent?

Maybe-Lars gulped. "What are we doing here?"

Val didn't hesitate. She saw a shadowskin cloak littered over the broken planks, Val picked it up and threw it at the wildling. "Get dressed," she ordered. "Into whatever you can find. Both of you. Dress yourselves like a king, and there's chalk over there. Break it and smear it into your hair."

"Wait, what-"

"We need the king. You two, both dress like him, and make your hair white." She found a steel hauberk, right where Jon had left it, and pushed it into Liam's arms. The king had more armour than he could wear. " Now . You go south, and you go east. Shout as loud as you can, and people will rally around you. So give them a king, get them to the centre."

Bjarl's jaw dropped as he realised what she wanted of them. "You can't… we're not…"

Both men were roughly the right height and build. Neither of them looked remotely like Jon, but that wouldn't matter much in the dark

and snow. So long as they could make their hair appear white, then they'd pass. Perhaps any other time, Val would have explained the need to them, but right now she really didn't have the time or patience. "What makes you think you have a choice here?" Val raised her swords, pointing one blade at each man. "Get your clothes off. Now ."

If they had had their wits, they could have maybe protested. The trick was to not give them an opportunity to protest. Men scared witless tend to become compliant.

Val shoved them into Jon's spare armour and cloak, pointing them into the right direction. "If you can't think what to say," she ordered, "then just shout the same word over again - ' Rally' . The words don't really matter, the men just need to think that you're in control. Do you understand me? Even if you're about to shit yourself, even if you don't clue what to do, you must sound like you're in command."

Bjarl gave something like a nod, his mouth agape and a chunk of chalk in his hair. There was no time for anymore instruction than that. As soon as Val stepped out of the cabin, the fighting was coming towards them.

It moved like a wave - like a swell bursting over rocks, sweeping the camp. It surged through the encampments and it wasn't stopping.

She could see the Bolton cavalry was upon them; a tide of horses trampling through tents, each man with a lance in one hand and a torch in their other. It was a storm, crushing men beneath an avalanche of hooves and iron. Their formation was a wall of mounted, armoured horses that scattered free folk. Val heard their chants, a war cry that sounded wordless as it echoed through the winds.

In the fluttering torchlight, she caught a glimpse of the banner flapping at the front - two grey keeps castles on blue, with a red band crossing through them.

Val was already running. She ran as fast as her legs could manage, stumbling through the snows. She heard the Greatjon bellow, and a tide of soldiers was rushing out to meet the charge. "Shields! Shields front!" the cry came. "Shields and lances!"

A few flimsy arrows shot through the air, but they were scattered by the wind. She saw some of the riders fall, but the charge was already shifting direction. The cavalry turned, notching to the side. The horses won't charge against a solid mass of men , Val realised. The cavalry will carve their way south instead and try to flank us .

In the distance, Val saw the Bolton's infantry pouring over the bulwarks, pushing forward with armoured lances. The free folk were falling back; whatever men Rattleshirt had left to hold the perimeter had already crumpled.

They are keeping rank , Val thought with a grimace. She could see the tactics being used against them. The Boltons ambushed the west and north simultaneous to confuse any attempt to retaliate, and then their cavalry charged through to clear the path and divide the enemy. While their flanks held off any attempt to rally using bowmen, the van was free to push all the way through to the centre of the camp.

It's organised. Firm regiments and a coordinated plan of attack. This was rehearsed.

A gale cut through the camp so fierce that she saw tents dragged out of the ground. It was so, so cold but Val could hardly even feel it. Any body that fell would be buried under snow in minutes, or they'd be trampled by the frenzied tide of boots pushing through.

"Hold the line!" The Greatjon boomed. "Hold the bloody line!"

Val had never seen a battlefields so tight, so close quarters and cramped. She had never been in the mash of soldiers slamming together. There were so many men, all ramming into each other like livestock crammed in cages. If she fell, she could be trampled to death and nobody would even notice. This is a southerner's

battlefield - the free folk liked to fight spread out in raiding parties, not rank and file.

It felt livestock, rambling together in a herd - a stampede - towards the slaughter.

A chant filled the air, beating with the footsteps of men. " For the north! " they boomed. " For the north! For the north! "

That's not our side, Val realised dumbly. The Bolton forces were fighting for the north too, as they trampled through them.

All around her, she heard screaming. Crying. Howling.

It was almost overwhelming. Get to the front. They'll need me on the front .

The Bolton cavalry was coming around again, twisting around to the south, trying to flank them. "The south!" someone called. "The horses! The south!"

"On me!" That was the Weeper's voice, a roar distinctive even amidst it all. He was pulling men to meet the cavalry charge. "Raiders on me!"

She saw the shadows pushing through. A few men were still fumbling with bows and arrows, but archers were left nearly useless in winds like these. There was no way to count numbers, there was no way to make sense of it. Val was trapped in the bedlam, every man crashing together like stones in a great wave.

The two battle lines were about to collide. Two tides of men crashing forward to meet each other, the battle churning like a storm.

In the moment… her mind blanked out with the raw frenzy of it all.

The night was too wild, too raw.

There will be no surrender here, she knew. She could feel it her bones. There would be no peace, no quarter given. It was all too

wild; there was too much bad blood between the armies. This war has been simmering, festering, for too long, their forces turned too bitter .

The snows and the wind felt like all of that hatred given form.

Val had to claw her way to the front. Behind her, she heard the cries as her two decoy kings left in opposite direction to rally men from around the lake.

She heard the war cries, the stomps as the Weeper's warband gave chase after the cavalry, meeting lances with axes and shields. Val would have called the Weeper a fool for breaking rank like that, but there was no doubting the man's bravery.

They were coming closer. She felt their footsteps as they broke into a charge, she heard the deafening screams. The earth rumbled with the pounding of boots.

When the two ranks collided, it felt like absolutely everything went black.

It was no 'fight' she had ever seen. It felt more like a riot.

"Hold steady!" the Greatjon roared, ahead of her. "Hold steady!"

The clash eased off, and the wildlings lost ground. She could see anything through all the bodies, but she felt it as the two forces collided again and again, pressing forward until one side fell back. It was like the oceans breaking against the rocks - crashing together all around her, and then easing off. It was waxing and waning, churning and crashing. Two forces tearing against at each other until something broke. The men would pull back only to charge again.

Bodies surged and fell around her. Val had two swords in her hands, but she didn't even have the space to swing them. She could only lunge and hack, all the while she was being battered from all sides.

She was hit more by the men around her than she was by the foes in front.

She wasn't even sure if there were foes to the front at all; there were only black shapes.

Several times, she nearly stumbled over bodies littered in the snow. If you fell, you were trampled, and if she stopped to help anyone she'd be trampled too. Val had no idea whether the men were enemies or allies; there was little distinction between the two in the thrashing.

" For the north! For the north! For the north! "

That chant didn't stop, it only reached fever pitch. A voice at the back of her mind wondered how queer it was that both sides could have chanted the exact same thing.

She couldn't make out any details of her enemies; she couldn't see their faces, not even the whites of their eyes. Bodies blurred together. Instead, it was more instinctual than that - any figure coming towards you was an enemy.

"Press!" That was Tormund's voice. Was she near Tormund? Val wasn't sure; amidst the surge of bodies she had no control of her movement. " Press forward! "

By the time the ranks finally broke, Val had no idea where she was, but it felt like they had fallen back a hundred feet or so. The Boltons were dropping back to retreat, and as they flowed away Val saw a sea of buried corpses scattered like stones.

Val was panting for breath. There was bruises across her body she couldn't even feel. This was a bad decision, she thought with a gasp, the thick of the rabble is a bad place to be .

"Regroup!" Tormund's voice bellowed again. "If you can fight, stand up!"

All across the camp, there were more battles. Skirmishes, really, and the shouts echoed in the storm. If I collapse here, I die . "Tormund!" Val called, her voice turning to a croak. "Tormund!"

"Val," she saw the great white-haired man turn towards her. Tormund was bleeding from a gash across his forehead, but he barely seemed to notice her. "Val, get out of here! Go support the rear!"

"Fuck that," Val gasped. There was blood on her swords. She honestly couldn't remember stabbing anyone. It was all hazy. "How many are there?"

"Buggered if I can tell," Tormund grumbled, casting a wary eye to the west. "But those bloody horses are going to slaughter us like this."

Val understood - their men were on foot, and mostly lightly armoured. The free folk favoured axes and arrows over than lances and shields. Without a solid rank to support them, a mounted force could tear straight through them.

The cavalry charge would be turning around. Their forces were already scattering faster than they could rally them. If the Weeper couldn't stop the charge… "We need the giants, Tormund," Val said suddenly. "The giant camp. We need to get them with us, into the fight."

Tormund caught her gaze, and shook his head. "You want me to go?"

"You know the chieftains better than I do," she argued. "The giants know you, they'll rally with you. Hells, you speak their tongue better than me."

"Bugger that," Tormund growled. "I ain't leaving here."

"Toregg was over there," Val pressed. "Your son was fighting that way."

She caught the flicker of doubt pass over his face, and Tormund swore in the Old Tongue. Once, before joining with Mance, Tormund had many sons, but he had already lost three sons and one daughter in this war. He couldn't lose any more. "Dammit. Fine, aye, I'll go," he cursed, before turning to the men and shouted, "Twenty raiders! On me! The rest to the centre!"

Tormund was already pushing off, moving as fast he cut over the thick snows and scattered corpses. There wasn't a minute to spare, the wildlings were running haggard as it was. "Gather to the centre!" Val shouted to the remaining men, as she pushed through to the opposite direction. "Move! Regroup!"

There were skirmishes all around them - men wrestling in the snows

but there was no time to intervene. The Boltons would be regathering, and the free folk clans were already drifting apart, fracturing away from the northerners. She needed to form a defence, to gather around a single commander and turn the tide.

But it won't be me . Val saw the towering figure of the Greatjon, standing head and shoulders above the rest, as large and bulky as a bear. The loudest voice .

"All free folk!" Val shouted as she approached, raising both her swords to gain attention. "Lord Greatjon Umber has command of the battle! Follow him! The Weeper commands the vanguard and Tormund Giantsbane the reserves - spread the word, all raiders must flock around the Greatjon!"

Val saw the Greatjon turn to stare at her, caught off-guard. A few free folk chieftains shouted objections, but she didn't even hear them. "Orders from King Snow!" Val snapped. She could only hope she had enough of a reputation that the free folk would listen to her. "The Greatjon has command!"

Lord Umber glared at her, and for a second it seemed like he was going to say something to her. Then, a horn blasted in the distance, and the march of men demanded his attention. "Form up, you

bastards!" the Greatjon bellowed, so loud even the storm couldn't match. "Form up! Form up!"

Val was gasping for air, trying to make sense of the rumbling chaos all around her. She would have stolen a shield or lance from one of the men, except she didn't have the upper body strength to wield either properly, and her swords were more comfortable in her grip.

She was a good enough fighter, but she knew she couldn't last on the front lines like this - not in ranks so tight there was no place to dodge or swing properly. That was where big men like the Greatjon excelled, but not her. Val hesitated momentarily, searching through the snows at where she would be most useful.

The rear, Val decided. Let the Greatjon hold the line, I need to keep the host together from the back . She was already running - stumbling, rather - through the snows to the edge of the lake.

Across the fields, she heard the cries as the Weeper kept the push the charge against the cavalry - his warband fearlessly pushing against mounted men. For any other man, Val would have called it suicide, but the Weeper was holding on.

If Tormund could rally the eastern camp as well, then there could be a chance to change the tide. The Boltons had already broken through half of the camp, but there was a proper line starting to take form around the Greatjon. They were pushing back.

Val didn't stop shouting. Even when wheezing for breath, even when she was barely audible over the wind, she still shouted. "Form up! Form up and push!" she called. "They're falling backwards, push!"

It hardly mattered the words she said, Val just knew that she had to keep on shouting anything she could to stop them from breaking down and fleeing.

Crash . Val felt the lines collide again against Bolton forces. It felt different this time, the battle lines were crumbling, scattering

outwards in the snow. Discipline was being shredded, turning into more a skirmish than a charge. Val couldn't tell if that was good or bad.

The fighting felt strained, desperate - there were no great battles, there was nothing but men staggering through the snow and trying to thrust spears at each other. The enemies weren't to the front anymore, they were all around her. Either the free folk were pushing back or they were falling apart, Val couldn't tell.

"Fight! Northerners! Free folk! Fight!" Val shrieked, so loud it hurt her lungs. "Whatever you care about, whatever your reason, just fight for it! For freedom! For honour! For justice!" For Jon .

It was impossible to tell who was 'winning', not from the middle of it all. Not through the snows and screams. Too many men were fleeing, or too many were going wild in the chaos. She couldn't count the enemy, she couldn't count anybody. The winner would only be whoever was standing upright by the end of it all.

In the moment, it felt like a slaughter.

She glimpsed a wild-eyed figure, stumbling mad around the frenzy. Jeremy Locke looked like a man crazed, staggering through the snow. The young heir seemed like he had lost his wits somewhere along with his courage. "Wylis… !" Jeremy called, lost. "Ser Wylis, where are you?"

Even between the dozens of rushing men, they caught sight of each other. Val's golden hair fluttered madly in the wind, marking her clearly on the battlefield. She would have covered her hair, except it was a distinctive enough rallying point. "Get a sword in your hand and get to the fight!" Val ordered. "If you can't fight, see to the wounded, or search for survivors. Collect arrows, secure supplies, or even just stand steady. Whatever you can do, just do something !"

He didn't seem to hear her. Jeremy blinked, mouth agape. Gods, for all he was a man grown, the heir to House Locke just seemed lost.

"You…" he stepped towards her. "It's you… The battle is lost. The battle is lost!"

His voice was too loud. Val grimaced. She couldn't allow anyone to be screaming things like that. Think it, fine, but don't scream it. Morale was fragile enough already. "Ser Jeremy-"

The battle is lost! " the man wailed, crying as he stepped towards her. "I have family, I have a son, we must retrea-"

Val's sword was already swinging. Jeremy Locke was caught completely off-guard as the blade hit him. Her wrist jarred as it hacked through mail, and then jarred against bone. "I warned you," Val cursed. "Nobody is allowed to say that word."

Jeremy dropped quickly, but he was still wheezing for breath as she stepped over him. Val left her blade where it jammed, embedded through his shoulder and neck. Just another corpse for the snows.

Her arms were trembling. No weakness, not here, Val ordered. "To the fight!" she screamed. She saw men holding spears, rushing at her. Maybe they were Boltons, maybe deserters, but they were moving in the wrong direction regardless. "To the fight! Push them back! Push them back!"

The Greatjon was leading the surge forward, a tide of men coming together and pressing outwards. All around her, the screaming, the madness… it was all just so much she couldn't even make sense of it. She might have soiled herself, except she honestly wasn't sure that she would notice if she did.

And all the while, the storm roared above her. The camp was in shambles - so much snow flurrying from the sky that a man could be buried just standing still. She could see snow dunes rolling over the ground, being pushed across the camp by the wind.

The armies were left fighting the wind and snow, shambling in the dark and wrestling blindly. So much fear, panic and rage in the air

that it could have made her sick - physically nauseous. It was all more feeling than sense.

The world is convulsing, Val thought, and the thought made her twitch.

The wind howled over the lake like a banshee's wail. Val stood, staring out, just trying to make sense of the world again.

Then, she heard a voice echoing through the rumble. A voice so faint she could hardly hear make it out. Help him, the ghostly sound cried. Save Jon!

It sounded like a child's voice. A young boy's. Even amidst everything else, the sound made her freeze.

Val turned to stare out over the lake, watching the snow churn across the blackness.

Jon

Sonagon! Jon shouted through the warg-sense, just trying to rouse the dragon, trying to achieve anything at all. Sonagon! I need you!

He had been trying to break through to his dragon for hours, pushing with all the strength he had. But it was so hard. The dragon's mind felt like an ocean of sickness. Sonagon could recover. Sonagon could turn the battle, could save the camp.

The dragon stirred slightly, cracking the ice with every movement, but it didn't wake. Jon could feel Sonagon's pain - its lungs were in agony, struggling to even breathe. Even its heartbeat felt sluggish, straining against the poison in its blood. Jon felt sick and ill. He felt faint. He had lost so much blood.

Jon was left trying to fight on the ice, with Ramsay Bolton's - no, Ramsay Snow's - arm wrapped under his neck. The Bastard of

Bolton's grip was solid, keeping Jon trapped with the blade poised at his throat.

Around him, he heard the cries as the Ramsay's men dug themselves in, but Jon couldn't make out the words over the roar of the wind.

On the centre of the lake, the storm felt earth-shattering. The winds were sweeping across the frozen water so sharp they could cut down to the bone. Whatever hope Jon had that someone would come for him dwindled as the storm grew in pitch.

Even Ramsay's men had to take shelter beneath the Sonagon's mass, all the while the wind swept through snow so furiously it looked like the ground was flowing.

And in the distance, Jon watched as the burning fires were extinguished, one by one. All over the coast, the light fizzled out into shapeless blackness. Swallowed by the snows. He could hear the screams on the wind, the horns so faint they sounded like dying gasps.

Sonagon! Jon screamed. Sonagon!

There was a low groan as the dragon shifted a wing.

Jon's body jerked. Something heavy collided against his skull, and Jon gagged. "Oh no," Ramsay growled in his ear. "You're doing that thing, aren't you? Oh no, bad Reek. None of that. Not until you teach me how to do it too."

The man is mad . Still, Ramsay dragged him backwards, but held off from hitting him again. One of Ramsay's men had even wrapped up Jon's wounded side, and they wrapped him in a cloak tightly to keep him out of the snow. Ramsay even seemed restrained, hesitant.

They can't risk me dying, Jon realised. If they're confronted, their only chance is to hold me hostage . They were only fourteen men,

relying on the cover of darkness and confusion to keep them safe.

"That's some trick you do, Reek," Ramsay continued, hissing. "It made a lot of my men really nervous too - the Bastard King that could control animals. But they didn't see you like I did; they didn't see the little boy who didn't have a clue. You're out of your element, Reek, nothing but a failure."

Ramsay had taken Dark Sister for himself, and wore the Valyrian blade on his hip. He didn't wield it, though; Ramsay seemed to prefer his brute of a butcher's blade rather than the slender sword. Jon was left defenceless. Jon could have struggled, would have tried to wrestle, but the sword was poised to slice open his throat as soon as he twitched.

The Bastard of Bolton was being paranoid, paranoid or carful - he had never once lowered his blade.

Sonagon , Jon pressed so much it hurt, forcing open what felt like an ocean of sickness. Sonagon, I need you. Now .

Sonagon felt so weak, but Jon was close enough to warg as strongly as he ever could. Just raise your head, Jon begged. Just raise your head and crush them .

The dragon could barely even breathe, but he was slowly beginning to stir. Trying to twitch with muscles that felt like lead…

They all heard the dragon tremble. This close, the dragon was a mountain of flesh. Jon glimpsed Sonagon's snout twitch, and then his serpentine body rumbling as the dragon raised its head upwards. Jon's heart was pounding so fast, watching the dragon uncurl laboriously.

Ramsay reacted smoothly. "Move away!" he shouted to his men, as he yanked Jon back quickly. "Move away, take positions!"

The Bastard's Boys scattered around him, fleeing as the dragon groaned. A single wing struggled to unfurl, shuddering as claws scraped against the ice.

Ramsay's arm was under Jon's neck, dragging him backwards. Couldn't breathe. Jon tried to struggle, but he didn't have the strength. His arms thrashed, he tried to get a grip, and then agony shot through his side as Ramsay slammed a fist into Jon's open wound, under the cloaks and bandages. He retched as Ramsay scrambled to his feet, dragging him up with.

"Get back, dragon!" Ramsay was screaming, barely audible over the wind. He was facing up against Sonagon's immense snout, holding Jon before him like a shield. "Get back!"

The dragon was above them. Its neck unravelled, and then they were both staring at an immense jaw of white scales lined with red.

Sonagon's black eyes… even in the darkness they seemed to gleam murderously.

Cold mist billowed from Sonagon's nostrils. The dragon was struggling to breath, but Jon saw dark eyes flickering as they tried to focus. Sonagon's body protested, but the dragon was staggering upwards, its great jaws opening. Sharp teeth as long as swords glinted in the dark, a cold luminescence shining deep in the dragon's maw. Hoarfrost billowed from Sonagon's jaws in faint sheets.

And even when facing down a beast as large as castle, Ramsay didn't back down for a second. "That's right!" Ramsay screamed, and manic laughter broke from his throat. "I'm right here! Now what you are going to do?"

Sonagon could have swallowed him whole without chewing. The man is mad .

His men scattered, running around Sonagon's body as the dragon lumbered. Sonagon body shuddered, trying to unfurl. Immense claws

scraped against ice, uselessly clattering. Sonagon can't pull himself up, Jon realised. The dragon couldn't even find its feet. He was reminded of a wounded man, or a drunkard, fumbling in disorientated anger and pain.

Ramsay's grip around Jon's neck tightened even further, strangling. "One breath of dragonfire," Ramsay warned, snarled into Jon's ear. "We'll die together, bastard. I don't think your beast is that good at aiming."

For a second, Jon could have almost willed Sonagon to do it anyways. The dragon could smell the blood in the air. He didn't know what was happening.

There was raw hatred in Sonagon's eyes as they slowly focused on Ramsay, but the dragon was so weak he couldn't even stand properly. Jon heard shouting, and in the darkness he glimpsed Ramsay's men picking up spears and lances.

"I didn't want to hurt your dragon, bastard," Ramsay warned, his grip not slackening. "But I will. I can't kill it, but I can gouge out its eyes. I can cut out its nostrils. I can hurt it, I can maim it. Lets see what a blinded dragon is worth, shall we?"

Ramsay's men were prepared. A dozen men against a dragon. Normally Jon wouldn't have been concerned about such numbers, but now? A dozen men while the Sonagon was addled and weak, drunk with pain?

Don't, Jon gasped. Can't. Stop him .

Jon's body spasmed with all the strength he had left, his elbow snapping backwards. Ramsay took the blow on the chin, but hardly staggered. Somehow, Jon managed to slip out of the man's grip, but he didn't even make it a single step before Ramsay gripped his furs and dragged him face first into the snow.

A cry broke through Jon's lips. Sonagon growled, but the noise was strangled, strained.

They both toppled. Arms flailed, their bodies grappled against each other in the snow. Jon could feel the hard ice beneath him, could feel Ramsay's grip against his neck.

Ramsay's other hand found Jon's wound, and Jon felt him squeeze. Flesh ripped. The pain… Jon couldn't even…

Amidst all the chaos, just two bastards wrestling in the snow.

"Bastard!" Ramsay's fist collided against his chin. He was on top of Jon, pinning him down. " Bastard! "

Sonagon growled, retching and wheezing before clambering to its feet. Sonagon staggered towards them. Ramsay dragged Jon up. "Come on!" the Bastard of Bolton howled at the dragon. He was almost laughing. "Come on!"

The man's mad, Jon realised.

The dragon could have crushed Ramsay in his jaws, would have, if not for Jon lying so close. Instead, the dragon hesitated. There was no way a thing of Sonagon's size could intervene without crushing Jon too. Because of me, Jon thought, struggling to breathe. My weakness .

The Bastard's Boys shouted something. Jon saw a flash of a spear through the air.

Jon felt the jab, felt a spark of Sonagon's pain, only a foot away from his eyeball. Ramsay's men were all around the dragon, and they had spears. In the dark, weak and poisoned, with enemies all around him, Sonagon could hardly resist. Jon saw a man pull back the string on a longbow, his arms hoisting the weapon upwards.

Straight towards Sonagon's soft, fleshy eyeball. The dragon's scales were hard enough to stop metal, but his eyes were not. Jon felt the ice beneath quiver as Sonagon shuddered, flinching in pain.

The other Bastard's Boys were throwing spears, from all sides. One man was crushed as Sonagon's neck whipped out, but the rest were still pushing. One man was gouged by the horns on Sonagon's crests, but then the dragon fumbled, and two others had a clear shot at its right eye.

Jon heard their cries of victory, and white blood plumed from Sonagon's eye. The dragon cried out - a bone-curdling shriek of pain.

Sonagon was trembling, bleeding heavily from his right eye as he flailed. Jon felt the panic, fear and anger pulsing from the dragon. Sonagon didn't understand what was happening - the memories were vague, sick with pain. He'd fallen asleep after a great meal, and when he woke his body was screaming and there were men attacking him. The pain left the dragon disoriented. Weak and confused. The storm. The wind was so loud it overwhelmed the senses, the poison in his blood paining his muscles.

Sonagon was too weak, too dazed. The men were like fleas, gnashing at the dragon while the animal was wounded.

"Get your dragon to back down," Ramsay snarled into Jon's ear. "Or they will blind it. I will blind it and shred its wings - I will turn your beast into ruin."

Another spear jabbed. Sonagon was so disorientated, so pained and fatigued. The rage was the only thing overcoming the poison. If Sonagon's eyes were pierced, he would go berserk with blind rage…

Through at all, Ramsay just laughed. The world was mad and thick with panic, but it was as though the Bastard of Bolton… loved it. The man holding him was laughing, laughing and howling even as the frostfire welling in Sonagon's throat threatened to freeze them all.

Even in the middle of the chaos, Ramsay Bolton laughed. Sonagon could roll at any moment, and smear them all like ants…

"Last chance to calm your fucking dragon down!" Ramsay cackled, voice howling over the storm. "Calm it down like a good little Reek . It doesn't matter if you live or die here, bastard. It doesn't matter if your dragon kills me here. My father's army is killing yours right over there, our allies are taking your city right out from under you. You've lost! Bastard!"

Those words haunted Jon, trembling in the cold, in the pain. He just didn't have the strength anymore… This is me . My fault .

Sonagon's gasp of strength waned, and the dragon sank into the snow.

"Company!" someone cried suddenly. "Over the shore! Someone! Someone's incoming!"

"No, more!" Another of Ramsay's men bellowed. "Too many!"

At once, the words caused everything to change. " Fuck it! " Ramsay cursed, and then turned to order. "Leave the beast, get ready! Hold position! Hold steady!"

Is it help? Jon tried to focus, tried to see what it was the others could. And then he saw it, the pinprick of a torch fighting against the flurry of snow. Sprinting over from the shore, from the direction of the camp. Jon's heart skipped. A single person, against Ramsay, against a dozen of his men?

No. There was more movement. A single person, leading a column of at least twenty raiders in thick furs. They tore over the ice, bellowing war-cries.

"Hold them back!" Ramsay screamed. Jon's body lurched, the bastard yanking him back. "Hold them back!"

Everything was blurry. Jon couldn't make sense of it, not through the pain, the blood loss and the cold.

Spears and arrows flashed through the snows. There was a strangled cry of pain, followed by the thud of an axe embedding itself into a chest. Jon saw two men crashing against the Bastard's Boys, only for both of them to fall with the whizz of arrows. There were bodies wrestling, and then a flicker of golden hair between the snows.

Jon was being dragged backwards. Ramsay was running away as his men fought, but the blade never left Jon's throat.

The cries of pain and fury could barely even break over the din of the wind. Another two bodies fell into the snow, but Jon couldn't even tell if they were Ramsay's men or his own.

The dragon screeched, trembling with pain. A flurry of arrows wafted overhead, splattering down onto the bodies wrestling in the dark.

Jon was left so weak he could barely even gasp. He heard Sonagon growling - a low moan like a whine - as the dragon thrashed madly with pain. All around them, bodies fumbled and thrashed.

He heard another clash of steel, followed by a strangled scream. Sounds of battle were getting further away. Ramsay still dragged him backwards, still keeping the blade at Jon's throat. Away from Sonagon.

The dragon's tail thrashed again. Jon felt the ice crack with a tremendous crash. Ramsay stumbled, but he didn't fall. Even here, dozens of paces away, it felt like the ice beneath them was groaning, ready to break.

Jon was gasping, but Ramsay's grip felt strong. Relentless. "Come on, bastard," Ramsay growled. "I'm not done with you yet."

Ramsay was fleeing. There was no visibility in this storm. All Ramsay had to do was take a dozen steps and he as good as vanished into the pitch black. Men were running around blind.

Jon heard someone cry out - he couldn't make the words, but he recognised the voice, high and sharp. Val? Everything was spinning so madly he felt delirious.

Jon felt another jab of Sonagon's pain. A spear. In the chaos, the pain, the confusion, Sonagon collapsed. The dragon dropped and thrashed, his claws, his wings, his tail toppling into the ice like the calving of a glacier. Like the falling of a mountain. The ice tore asunder with an unholy roar, the entire lake rippling beneath the ice, swelling and cracking as far as the eye could see.

Shouts all around him. Screams. Men scattered. Men died. Great geysers of slush, blocks of ice the size of horses scattered through the air as the dragon's churning tail tore the frozen lake apart. Jon watched men fall, consumed by the black water.

For a moment, he was alone. Ramsay's grip from his throat had vanished, and Jon gasped, breathing the pure cold air. He looked up imploringly into the darkness. Jon couldn't see anybody coming for him, but he was so dazed he could barely make sense of anything. It was dark, so dark - the wind and snow… and then Ramsay yanked him up, too quickly to see.

The bastard was spitting and cursing a flurry of winds Jon couldn't even make out. Ramsay's footsteps were heavy, desperate, wheezing as he still dragged away Jon's flailing body.

He isn't even trying to fight them, Jon realised. Ramsay had ordered his men to hold position, and then he just ran. All Ramsay intends is to run with me and find somewhere to hide in the dark until morning . The Bastard of the Dreadfort expected Roose Bolton to win the night, after which Ramsay could deliver Jon to his father.

Even in the worst case for him, Jon thought numbly, Ramsay will cut my throat before he lets anybody recover me .

Either way, the Boltons would win.

The sword's edge was on his neck, pressing into his skin as Ramsay jerked. Jon felt his blood oozing out into the cold.

Behind him, Jon felt Sonagon split the ice further. The frozen lake burst with a crack like thunder, and more bodies toppling into the water. The dragon staggered, half-collapsing into the lake and too weak to drag himself out. The dragon was groaning, breathing with a bellows and shuddering in agony, trying to hold on…

Ramsay was gasping for breath, but he didn't stop running. A man could die from frostbite in this weather, but Ramsay didn't seem to care. His eyes were crazed, still holding his cleaver to Jon's throat.

There was nothing but darkness. No torches, no light, only snow and wind. He's going to do it, Jon thought. He's going to kill me. Maybe we will both die, trapped in the storm…

"JON!" He heard the cry split through the wind. Coming towards them. Ramsay stopped. Jon's heart pounded, his hands flailing uselessly.

That voice. Even in the black, he recognised Val's hair, streaming in the blizzard like a golden banner as she pushed her way through the snow, staggering with every step. How did she find me? How could she…? Even in the dark and the storm, despite Ramsay runningrandomly, Val came straight for him. Jon had no idea how she had found him, but she had.

"Jon!" she called again. It sounded like her voice could have cracked. She was panting for breath.

Ramsay's hands tightened, and Jon glimpsed bloody teeth. It wasn't a smile, not really. "You…" Ramsay growled, raising his blade closer

to Jon's neck.

Val had a sword too. A single short steel blade she gripped with both hands, the edge slick with frozen blood. "Harlow. You fucking bloody bastard…" Val snarled. With every step, she had to push her way through three feet thick of snow, struggling to balance in the wind.

"Stay back," Ramsay shouted. "You step closer, I'll slit your little boy's throat! You hear me? Don't you take another fucking step!"

Val didn't even hesitate. She took another step. " No. "

Ramsay's face twisted. "You fucking bitch. I'll kill him, you hear me? I'll kill him."

"Fuck you," Val replied simply, shambling another step, her sword still raised. " Bastard ."

In that moment, Jon's heart was beating and his head was spinning so fast he could barely even think. Ramsay's blade hovered less than inches away from carving out Jon's jugular, before he stopped. Ramsay's eyes scanned through the snow, glaring around suspiciously.

Every heartbeat felt painful. Ramsay was looking back to front, squinting for any more shapes, any movement between the snows. Jon could only gape and beg quietly, willing for there to be more figures materialising behind Val in the dark, but there was nothing. There was nobody left but her, shuffling forward through the snows.

"You're alone," Ramsay said slowly.

Val didn't reply, she just kept on pushing forward, sword drawn. They stared at each other, both squinting as the snows roared. Then, Ramsay started to laugh.

"Oh!" Ramsay's voice turned into a howl. " You're alone! Oh, this is my lucky day. This is going to be good."

Without even another word, Ramsay's grip slackened, and Jon collapsed weakly into the snow. Even an hour ago Jon still had strength to move, but now he could barely tremble. Move, Jon tried to force himself, but his limbs weren't replying.

Jon could barely even pull himself up, but Ramsay was still moving strong. The man was a monster - relentless as a hound. Ramsay held his blade tightly, and stepped forward to meet Val. "Are you watching, bastard?" Ramsay called happily without turning. "I want you to watch. I told you I'd make you watch!"

If Jon was strong enough, he would have screamed for Val to run. He couldn't, he could barely even gasp. Too much blood loss, too much pain. His wound was seeping blood, frozen solid against his furs. Run, Jon begged. Just run .

Val didn't make a sound, she just stared. Ramsay's pale blue eyes glinted in the dark, his chuckles like a rabid dog's growls.

"And you. Bitch . I've been wanting this for a long time. I'm not going to kill you," Ramsay promised. "Not straight away. I want my Reek to watch."

"You bastard," Val replied darkly. "You bastard. Bastard. Bastard ."

Ramsay lunged. The cry broke his throat as he brought his cleaver downwards, hacking like a butcher. Jon heard the ringing of steel as Val parried, and fell backwards under the assault. Ramsay was relentless. Like an animal, not a swordsman. Val was a good fighter, but…

Move, Jon cursed himself. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but the wind took him down again. His body was trembling, his knees failed him. Have to move. Have to…

Jon didn't have a sword. He didn't even have any strength left. He couldn't walk, he could barely even crawl.

Val met Ramsay's blade, time and time again. Val might have been faster, but the snows were too thick for mobility. The odds were against her from the beginning. Ramsay had more weight behind him, he had the heavier weapon. Val's short sword could barely even compare to Ramsay's cleaver, and yet the sound of steel rang out, the blades chiming like bells in the storm.

He saw Val fall onto the back foot, stumbling in the snow. Ramsay was injured too, but the man was a monster. Val couldn't keep up. She stumbled, and…

It should have been me . That was the last rational thought before raw emotion consumed everything. Jon staggered upwards, just trying to reach her. He was so weak. He'd lost so much blood, taken too many wounds.

They were a dozen yards away. It might as well have been a dozen miles.

Ramsay saw the advantage and he took it, laughing like a madman. Val stumbled, and Ramsay lunged. In that moment, it seemed like time froze, and Jon could count every frenzied stroke of his cleaver. One, two, three, four…

And on the fifth stroke, Val's grip broke. Her sword fell from her hands, she fumbled to grab it, and then Ramsay's blade hacked straight down into her chest.

His throat jammed. Jon couldn't even scream.

He just watched Val stumble, red pluming against white.

The butcher's blade hacked through her furs, straight down into her shoulder and down into her chest. She didn't scream, there was no sound except a strained gasp.

And then, a heartbeat away from ripping open her ribcage, Ramsay froze. His lunge stopped, his sword embedded her chest, and Jon

saw the bloody grin flicker over his features. Ramsay pulled back before giving her the quick death. He wants to savour it, Jon thought dumbly. He likes to savour the moment .

That moment seemed to last forever. Jon frozen, Val falling, and Ramsay grinning.

Val's knuckles tightened around her blade. Even before Ramsay could retract his lunge, Val's sword slashed upwards.

Ramsay's smile stopped. Val's sword cut sliced straight through his stomach. Perhaps it was just a trick of the dark, but Jon could have sworn that she spat at Ramsay just as time reasserted. He made a noise that sounded a lot like "Oh."

And then they both dropped together, falling backwards into the snow.

"Val!" Jon screamed, and his voice broke. "VAL!"

She landed on her back, trembling, bleeding. Jon could see the life pouring out of her, blood swelling from the cut, her warmth steaming against the stone. She was alive, gurgling for breath, as Jon collapsed over her.

Ramsay was struggling too, dying - gargling in agony, flailing with Val's short sword embedded in the bone of his chest. Jon glimpsed the man's hands clutching at his stomach, trying to hold in glistening loops of intestine.

Jon's numb fingers went to her wound, as if he could hold her body together himself, or squeeze the blood back into her veins. The blade hacked all the way into her breast. He could feel sliced flesh, the cut from her shoulder down to her torso.

He couldn't even see her properly in the dark. There was nothing but snow, darkness and blood.

"Val!" Jon's voice was a strained cry. " Somebody! Somebody help! " The shriek of the wind was his only reply.

Val was making sounds that could have been words. He couldn't hear her. He couldn't hear her words. A gurgling noise came from her throat, coughing up blood. He could hardly even see her in the dark, instead his fingers were left groping helplessly.

Jon was left kneeling in the snow, clutching her body, his tears freezing against his cheeks as the storm howled and wailed. The snows fell so furiously they could bury him.

Chapter 34

Chapter 34

Sansa

The world was screaming. There was no logic, no understanding, no civility. There was absolutely nothing but an unending frenzy - a drumming in the air like the heartbeat of a crazed god - that sent the world mad.

"- hold fast, hold the line, hold the line, HOLD THE LINE… !"

Sansa could have shrieked, as another tower collapsed over the harbour in the distance and stone rained from the sky.

The hulls of the enemy fleet were launching barrels by trebuchet; filled with sharp stones and nails, raining death over the harbour and decimating whatever they crashed into. The heavy, tumbling projectiles crashed through the walls, tearing through mortarworks as shrapnel scattered like hail. A few of the enemy vessels, larger, further in the water, were launching flaming barrels of oil, setting aflame even the stones they splattered over. And the people, the people…

She did shriek as nearby a stout stone building next to the Merchant's Quay collapsed, rubble scattered everywhere. The last vestige of morale among the guards of White Harbour outer docks collapsed along with their barricades.

"Stand and fight!" Ser Jorah roared, standing tall and strong against the current of men. "Hold the line! Hold the line!"

But it was meaningless. The barricades on the Merchant's Quay had already fallen. The Fisher's Port probably had as well. The outer harbour was lost. Only the Lord's Port - the defence that Ser Jorah

led - had managed to cling on, their discipline holding despite the frenzied human tide slamming against their chokepoint.

Ser Jorah was nothing but one man trying to stop a flood. He could swing his sword at a hundred men, but there were a thousand pushing behind them. They thumped upwards from the docks in a great mass, each one shapeless, faceless and never-ending.

Sansa could feel it in the air. The tide of the battle was already set. It was rising, rising and set to drown them.

The enemy fleet assaulted the outer and inner harbour, overwhelming the ships blockading the harbour as they pushed their way through to the docks. The Manderly's fleet was lost, and now the fighting was in the city. Arrows and stones rained from the wharves and walls, but they were met by scorpions and trebuchet, longbows and heavy crossbows. All the while, the frenzied guards tried to hold the piers against the attackers - they had torn down trader's stalls and merchant carts for makeshift barricades to bar the way up the docks. There were dozens of men bearing tridents clad in the tabard of the Manderly merman, trying to huddle behind flimsy barriers of broken wood and cloth, organising a desperate defence and failing.

Sansa had watched the Battle of the Blackwater from afar, but she had never been so close to so much fighting before. She had never seen the fear in the men's eyes, or heard the clattering of arrows as they scattered on the cobbles around her. She'd never smelledthem as they died, crying and wailing and full of fear.

"Stay low and hide," Ser Jorah had said, as he pushed her into a crevice by the road, a cleft in the storm drain running along the stone wall of the wharf. The grating was not large enough to clamber through and climb down, otherwise she might have tried to escape down into the sewers, but the enclave was still enough to shelter her in the alleyway. The stink was horrible, her dress was grimy with mud, but at that moment Sansa simply didn't care. "Tear your dress," Ser Jorah ordered of her. "Smear mud on your face and - if they

come for you - cry and wail and sob. Spit, wail or piss yourself even. If they get past me, you must cry for your mother and hope these men have some conscience."

He's worried about the city being sacked, Sansa had realised. He doesn't want me to be identified as highborn .

"We must- we must head for New Castle," she had argued, shaking and stammering.

"There will not be time, Beth ." His grizzly head shook, and she noticed the glint in his eyes. Beth - I am back to pretending to be his daughter . The Manderly guards were nearby, Jorah deliberatelyhadn't addressed by her real name. He doesn't want me to reveal myself, not in the mere minutes before the battle . "If we run to theNew Castle now, we are liable to end up trapped outside its gates. And the city is in a panic, I dare not risk these streets. The wharves are the only place that they stand a chance at holding the enemy, so I must stay here. Stay near me; the fighting will be close, but you are safer with the guards than you are by yourself."

The Merry Midwife had sailed past the blockade, and as they'd hurriedly disembarked there were Manderly criers calling for able-bodied men to help hold the docks. Jorah had walked into the Lord's Port holding himself high, looking so strong and experienced that it seemed the Manderly men just parted around him. Jorah had introduced himself as a knight - sounding loud, strong and sure - and the men were so desperate that they'd just accepted his authority, put him at the head of the port's defence. In the distance, despite its captain's protests, the Merry Midwife was joining the force of ships to meet the enemy on the water.

"And if you hear me screaming your name - if you hear me screaming Beth - then I am lost and you must turn and run," Jorah said grimly, lowering his voice. "Just run and hide, no matter where. Hide in a sewer, hide in a latrine, or hide in the manure of tanner's shop. Do it without shame, just hide . Stay away from the crowds, any crowds, and hide and wait."

Her hands fumbled at the Valyrian steel dagger, hidden in the folds of her dress. Her hands gripped the plain black handle. "Put that away," Jorah ordered. "Keep that dagger hidden at all times. Do not let anybody see you with it."

"It's a sharp blade, it could-"

He shook his head. " No . Keep it hidden. If they see you with steel, they will treat you differently. A man might show compassion to a woman, but he won't if there's a blade in her hands. Your best defence is to have none. Just run."

The soldiers wore steel or leather, but a woman's only defence was to try and look so ugly, weak or mad that no man would take her. They always said that during the Sack of King's Landing, women had been raped by hundreds in the streets.

"Ser Jorah," she choked, trying to protest.

"You don't understand," he growled. He looked… scared. She'd never seen him with such a look before. "Panic is the worst enemy tonight. You will want to run for help, to seek shelter in a crowd of people, but you must overcome that urge. You do not know how quickly a crowd can turn to mob, or how quickly such a thing can trample a young girl to her death."

Her heart was beating so fast. She remembered all of the warnings she had been given before the Battle of the Blackwater. It had been terrifying, but she'd been a lord's daughter sheltered in a strong keep. Now, she was nothing more than a young woman exposed on the streets.

The bells were ringing madly as the dromonds on the water rumbled closer, ready for battle. They moved like a storm through the mist, each splash of the oars like a drum.

If the soldiers catch me, they will rape me, Sansa thought. Lollys Stokeworth had been raped by half a hundred men behind a tanner's

shop, in broad daylight. The thought of being dragged to the cobbles and defiled in the street was more frightening than death itself.

That quiet dread in the knight's eyes made her shiver. "There is a beast in every man," Jorah muttered, his voice turning low. "It growls when you put a sword in his hand. You can feel it in the air, can't you? Tonight the beasts run free."

Then, the knight pulled himself straight, turned around and bellowed orders to the guards around him. Sansa didn't think it mattered what he was shouting - the men just needed to hear a strong voice.

She noticed how Ser Jorah positioned himself with his back to her hiding spot, as he bellowed orders at the White Harbour guards. In times of crisis, it seemed that scared men would listen to anyone with a loud voice. He ordered them to seal the streets, to prepare to resist enemies coming through the pier. But he's not trying to save the city, Sansa realised, he's only trying to protect me .

For all his crimes and flaws, none could fault Ser Jorah's bravery in the face of battle.

The battle seemed to move so slowly. Perhaps it would have been easier if was quick. Instead, Sansa was left crouching in the mud, while the oars of the ships and the bells of the city reached a deafening frenzy. Through the harbour, through the ships, and against the docks…

Slow, but inescapable . Sansa thought. Like the tide .

Boom . When the first dromond collided against the White Harbour galley, black iron ram tearing through oak, it was like the world cracked.

Shouts. Screams. Boots running past, frantic cries and dull crashes. Loud voices and sudden, abrupt silences. Sansa remembered being in King's Landing again, sheltering in her room in Septa Mordane's

arms as the flood of red cloaks swept through the Tower of the Hand and slaughtered her father's men…

Sansa didn't close her eyes. She didn't want to watch, she didn't want to be there, but she refused to close her eyes.

" Stand and fight! " Ser Jorah was screaming. "On me! On me! "

Sansa couldn't even count the men. She was struggling to make sense of it, her mind reeling to fight back against the panic.

As the ships clashed in the harbour and men fired arrows down from the towers and walls along the docks, it was left to the White Harbour guards to try and hold the wharves at a few dozen choke points.

Ser Jorah hadn't been sure whether or not they would dock and take the plague wharves first, to attack the city from land as well. Instead, the enemy chose to sail straight against the main harbours with their full strength. It was the fastest, most direct, route of attack, but also the most dangerous for them. Maybe the garrison has a chance to resist?

But her hopes were dashed, as the enemy came closer into view and she saw the immense size of those three-decked dromonds. The ships on the water didn't stand a chance. The White Harbour vessels folded around them, and the first of the dromonds pushed all the way up to the jetty.

The ships let fall thick planks, and began to disgorge their contents into the city. Soldiers came up from the docks with lances, halberds and polearms - all manner of long weapons at the column's vanguard, forming a wall of spikes and blades. They were not marching. Nothing so rushed, so mad, could be called a march. A stampede. A tide, maybe.

Many of them wore rapiers, shortswords and cutlasses sheathed at their sides, or javelins slung across their backs. They were dressed

for war in the fashion of corsairs; clad in mismatched boiled leathers and jerkins, some with arms threaded through small bucklers. Not many were wearing plate, instead they clad themselves in coifs and hauberks. A few of them wore peacock plumes on their heads, or had bright colours like yellows and reds smeared over their tunics. Through panicked glances from behind the wall, Sansa glimpsed tanned skin and dark hair, in so, so many shades.

These men aren't Westerosi . The soldiers were chanting something as they marched; at first Sansa thought it was gibberish, then she made out the tones and pitches of words she couldn't understand. Tyroshi, Sansa realised dumbly. Why are Tyroshi men attacking White Harbour?

She glimpsed a figure in purple-trimmed furs trying to charge through the failing barricade, only for Ser Jorah's bastard sword to cleave his head clean off. Red splattered against the cobbles, and a bloody blond-haired skull rolled. Before he died, Sansa recognised words of bastard High Valyrian. Lyseni, Sansa thought. That man was Lyseni .

Jorah and the White Harbour men were holding the alleyway, barely, but then Sansa caught sight of figures scaling up the buildings and scattering over the tiled roofs. Voices screamed to stop them, but the men were slipping through from above. One of them raised a rapier high, and screamed a war cry in a different foreign tongue. Braavosi, Sansa recognised. They are speaking Braavosi .

They were from all the Free Cities, in clad in armour as mismatched as their fleet. Most didn't even seem like they spoke the Common Tongue. These are sellswords, sellsails, pirates .

On the water, the fleet was powering through what remained of the White Harbour defences, cracking the Manderly galleys with ease. The red dromond towards the front looked as big as the King Robert's Hammer, while the flagship at the rear looked even larger.Such ships were immense leviathans, wildly superior to the White Harbour galleys. They would be the pride of any great lord's fleet. It doesn't make sense; how could sellswords have ships like that?

There had been nineteen vessels in the White Harbour blockade, and then reinforced by another seven galleys resting in port, plus a motley ragtag of hastily 'requisitioned' merchant vessels. As many as they could muster, but the White Harbour fleet was already either falling back or being crushed by the enemy's might.

Another flaming barrel launched overhead, scattering into the street beyond. The screams rising from where it landed were as nothing human. The fleet was already through the harbour, and slamming up against the port. To the west, Sansa saw the Merry Midwife blazing, the sails aflame, the ship falling to a striped Lysene vessel's black iron ram and breaking into the waves. Men were jumping overboard, but archers from a nearby dromond picked them off in the water with methodical and well-practised volleys. Less than an hour ago that ship had ferried her to the harbour, and now it was a wreck in the waves.

That was me, Sansa realised breathlessly. It was me who convinced Captain Casso to volunteer to defend White Harbour. I warned him of Lord Borrell's wrath should he run, I pleaded with him that he would be safest among the defenders even though I knew it was a lie. His ship was destroyed, his men dead, because of me . There was no guilt, only shock.

From the sounds of things, Ser Jorah was the only thing keeping the White Harbour men fighting. Their courage would have broken long ago, if not for Jorah's booming voice and relentless blade. But all the while Ser Jorah holds this one alleyway, will all of the other barricades hold as well?

Despite all the knight's ferocity and resolve, the enemy was still slipping through into the city itself. Most of the enemy ships on the water hadn't even pushed through to the docks yet. There would be more men in their hulls, more sellswords waiting to unload.

The unloading is the only saving grace we have, Sansa realised. Even the inner and outer harbours together weren't large enough to fit so many great ships at once. Shallops or rafts could have

unloaded faster, but those would leave their men more vulnerable during the approach. The docks were crammed, the piers were raining arrows - their ships were limited in how many men they could actually land at once. It was the only reason the White Harbour soldiers on the wharves could actually put up a fight.

Sansa didn't know how much of a garrison White Harbour had, but she could tell it wasn't enough. Sansa saw greenboys and greybeards wearing green cloaks, fumbling to hold their tridents. The older men kept to the bowmen on the walls, leaving the boys failing as they tried to hold the barricades.

"Stand fast!" Ser Jorah boomed, but Sansa saw two young recruits throw down their spears and turn to run.

She heard screams behind her. The sellswords had already breached the city, White Harbour was being sacked. She saw smoke rising from the stout buildings near the Merchant's Quay, corsairs pushing towards the banks, the insurers, the silversmiths. From the port authority geysered yellow flames so strong they seemed to split the sky, as pirates carrying blazing torches marched up the pier for the merchant's warehouses.

Ser Jorah was a man swinging his blade trying to stop a river, all the while the current rushed around him.

There was no mercy from the sellswords, no restraint in their assault. They attacked hard and fast, and seemed intent on looting the city as quickly as possible, and burning all else.

The dragon, Sansa thought suddenly. Perhaps they fear the dragon could return at any moment? Their fleet was only exposed during the approach to the city, so they tried to cover the distance and break the defences as quickly as possible. As soon as the sellswords reached the streets, then not even dragonfire would be able to target them easily from the air. Not without hurting White Harbour itself too.

What if they manage to hold? Will the Manderly men hold the streets, or will they have to fold? They can barricade themselves up in the New Castle, but if their -

Boom . Another barrel crashed from the sky, stone and rubble scattering, and instantly all of Sansa's thoughts went blank. It came so close that the wall opposite her collapsed and Sansa felt a wave of dust against her face.

"Hold!" she heard Ser Jorah's voice. It sounded like he was in the distance, although she knew he was less than a dozen yards away. " HOLD! "

Bodies littered the alleyway, so many that men staggered trying to step over them. She saw arrows raining down through the gap between the walls, their barbed shafts squelching into corpses. She saw tanned men in boiled leather raising crossbows, pulling back on heavy winches. They wielded big, ungainly crossbows, the Myrish type so rarely seen in Westeros, that could fire three quarrels at a time. The crude barricades couldn't stop the salvo of bolts.

The first twang of a dozen bolts together shredded through any fight the Manderly guards still had. The green cloaks either fell or ran.

She heard heavy footsteps, and saw the bear knight staggering backwards towards her. Blood dripped from his forehead, and she saw the shaft of an arrow sticking out of his left forearm. Jorah cradled the arm, but made no move to remove the arrow.

"Come," he panted. "Now. Run ."

She staggered to her feet, flinching as she stepped out onto the bloody cobbles. Blood and mud and corpses. "Run where?"

"To the walls. Still men holding out. Hurry." His feet shambled, nearly tripping over his boots. The knight was so exhausted he could barely walk.

"The city-"

He shook his head. "The city is lost."

As soon as she left the alleyway, she saw a wider view of the battle. A cold morning mist filled the air, and there were a dozen burning wrecks on the water. They were through the wharves, and flooding out into the cobbled streets.

The soldiers would be rushing forward to New Castle. To fall back would leave them trapped in the thickest fighting. Ser Jorah meant to go east instead, along the Fisher's Port and towards the shipyards and inner harbour.

She could still hear fighting. The outer harbour had been overwhelmed, but it looked like the wharfs along the inner harbour was still holding. A mile-long thirty-foot-tall granite wall surrounded House Manderly's private piers and shipyards, with towers every hundred yards, leading down to the Wolf's Den on the rocks at the far end of the pier. The sellswords seemed intent on pushing through into the city's heart, but even as they surged past the defence on the inner harbour still held. There were still green cloaks holding the walls of the shipyards, the garrison based around the Wolf's Den.

Ser Jorah wrapped his beefy arm around her, clutching his sword tightly with his one good hand, but he was so exhausted that she had to try to carry him. The knight stunk of sweat and fresh blood. She saw the old bandages around his missing fingers weeping again, the blood from his maimed hand dripping onto her shoulder.

As they stepped onto the street, she saw a gaggle of sellswords marching down the road, bursting through houses and slinging stones wrapped in burning rags through shuttered windows. They scattered the cityfolk around them, screams and wails filling the air. Sansa and Jorah slipped out behind them, and ran in the opposite direction.

"Surrender! Surrender all defiance!" one of the sellswords bellowed from a rooftop, clutching a flaming torch. One of the few Westerosi voices she had heard from them. "The Lord of Waters owns this city now!"

She barely made out the words. The Lord of Waters? What?

There were skirmishes in the streets. Sansa saw soldiers clashing with figures in furs with spears. Women, she realised dumbly. She saw women clad in furs, with hard-bitten features wielding spears, shrieking battle cries in a queer language, clashing with corsairs on the cobbles. Sansa could have stared, but Jorah was pushing her forward into another alley.

Behind her, she heard the rumbling footsteps as the soldiers pressed through.

Less than a few hours ago, she had arrived in hectic cobbled wharves of a strong port city, filled with stalls and fishmarkets. Now, the wharves were burning, the stalls had been smashed and the docks looked like a totally different place.

Men, women and children gushed in the streets around her, trampling to the west away from the battle. The Manderly guards were falling, trying to recover some semblance of order. There are not enough fighting soldiers, she thought. This attack came whenthere was not a proper force to defend against it. The streets felt like they were full of women and children, old men and mewling babes, or scared folk trying to push away. She heard clashes, snapping voices and cries of pain…

The crowds were different to what she would expect, Sansa realised through the fog of fear. She didn't know what was happening, but it all felt… tense. She saw women wearing animal hides rather than wool, and old men with shaggy figures with bone daggers. There were fishwives and sailors among them - cityfolk - but also crowds of hard-worn figures that just seemed different. Like they had come out of the wilderness, filling the city. Refugees? she thought in a daze.

Across the yard, Sansa saw an aging woman with skin like leather, wearing a necklace of a white stone, step on top a cart and raise a spear high - shrieking in a weird language for others to join her.

Sansa couldn't even recognise the language. She nearly tripped as she stared, but Ser Jorah pushed her forward towards the gates.

She heard shouting from the men on the walls of the inner harbour, and Jorah pushed his way out of the rabble and towards the huddle of Manderly men at the base of the tower. Sansa half-expected someone to demand Jorah and herself to identify themselves, but nobody did. Perhaps it was because Ser Jorah had fought with the soldiers on the pier, or maybe because he was sheltering a girl.

"They are coming up behind us," Ser Jorah shouted at once, looking around the men. "A dromond and a galley docked at the east pier. They broken the wharves, heading towards us through Baker Street!"

"Baker Street?" a man looked alarmed. "The crowds-"

"Get them in or get them away!" the knight snapped, glaring at the shocked soldiers. "Move! Now! They've already got a foothold - close the gates and hold them!"

A few of the men were already moving even before waiting for command from their superior. The others turned to look for orders from their officer - look to a white-bearded man with a gnarled face and a green cloak, swaying slightly on the spot. The man wore a greying hauberk and ringmail, with one of his eyes gouged out from an old battle wound under its helm. "Aye," the one-eyed soldier ordered. "Get to the gates, prepare to hold the yards!" He turned to Jorah with a heavy limp. "And you are?"

"Ser Jeor, knight of House Mormont," Jorah replied promptly. Why give a false name? Sansa wondered briefly, before realising herself;on the off-chance that anybody had heard of Jorah Mormont the slaver, he didn't want the issue to distract them now. If it came to it,

the names Jeor and Jorah were similar enough that he could claim they misheard.

"Ser Bartimus, castellan of the Wolf's Den," the old man introduced. He didn't look much like a knight. It was only when he staggered around that Sansa noticed Ser Bartimus had a peg-leg. "Ser Marlon is off at war, Ser Garth ran for reinforcements to the New Castle, I am in command here."

"How many?" Jorah demanded.

"Not enough. We held them back at the harbour, but these gates haven't been sealed in a hundred years," Ser Bartimus said, shaking his head as he hobbled forward. "We must hold the Castle Stair. I need every man I can get to hold the gates!" He turned towards another greybeard. "Serjeant! Clear the yard of savages and brace for attack!

Savages . Sansa noted the word even between a hundred other shouts, thinking of the women in hides clutching spears. She could hear the scuffles even from here. While the cityfolk ran to the Manderly guards, the 'savages' were huddling in the streets, holding their own councils as they prepared to battle.

Those are wildlings, she realised suddenly. There were wildlings filling the streets.

"All women and children get to the Old Mint," a Manderly man-at-arms shouted. A heavy figure moved to grab Sansa with a beefy hand. "Women and children run to the Old Mint!"

Jorah stepped into stop him, keeping Sansa close to him. "The Old Mint is already lost. They've broken Fishfoot Square."

Sansa didn't know enough about White Harbour's layout, but the words caused ripples through the guards. They all seemed so young, so pale, quivering and pissing in their breeches.

"What of Sept of Snows?" a man demanded, his voice breaking. "

My wife and daughter ran to the Sept of Snows ."

"Dammit, we can't help them now," Ser Bartimus ordered. Even despite his age, he had the grizzled and loud voice of a captain. "If you're lucky, they will have made it to the New Castle, but we must hold position. Serjeant - open up the Wolf's Den, get as many as we can in there. We hold steady here for as long as we can fight, and then fall back to the Wolf's Den!"

The Wolf's Den is a prison, Sansa remembered. She had seen the old and squat fortress during their approach, dark, thick and dreary like a cave on the rocks at the easternmost end of the docks. It used to be a castle; once the seat of the Greystarks, but then it fell into ruin after their rebellion, and the Manderlys built New Castle as its replacement.

She could hear chaos clamouring outside. The cityfolk gushed through the gates, but the others - the wildlings - were clashing with the guards. Either the Manderly soldiers weren't letting them through, or the savages refused to go - Sansa couldn't even tell.

She could still feel the booms of stone-throwers from the ships, and smoke billowing over the tiled roofs. Houses were burning towards the city's centre, along the plaza through which the Castle Stair ran.

The assault has broken the city in half, she realised. The sellswords had breached the outer harbour, the main docks, and they rushed to the centre of the city; the New Castle, the Sept of Snows, and the bulk of the city was on the west side, while the inner harbour, the shipyards, and the Wolf's Den were on the east. If the sellswords controlled the Castle Stair and the central plaza, then they could choke any defence trying to muster against them.

Jorah pulled himself off her, staggering forward with a visible wince of pain. The arrow was still embedded in his arm, but he didn't remove it. A barbed arrow, Sansa realised. He would maim himself even more trying to remove it.

Still, he didn't lower his sword, not for a second. Sansa was dazed in the moment, watching so many men either rushing with purpose or running mad with panic.

"Any able man, get to the bloody gates! Block the road!" Ser Bartimus bellowed. "We've another two ships coming in towards us! All women, children, get to the Wolf's Den!"

They were pushing around her, shoving and trampling. A man-at-arms made to move drag Sansa away, but Jorah stopped them. Sansa was left clinging to the knight's side. "My daughter, Beth," Jorah snapped quickly. "She knows how to shoot a bow. She can help."

Sansa stared speechless. For a second, the old knight looked like he might have objected to a woman fighting, but then he thought better of it. It was too dire, he need every able body he could get. "Get the bloody lady a bow!" Ser Bartimus snapped. "All bowmen, get to the walls!"

The walls? A bow…?

The rush of bodies almost pushed her away, but Sansa clung to Jorah like a rock. She stared at the man in horror, stuttering. "The Wolf's Den is a cave, it has no escape route," he muttered lowly in answer. "If they break through, you would be trapped there. The bowmen, though, are always kept in the safest place in a battle."

"I don't know how to fire a bow!" Sansa shrieked. She didn't mean for her voice to be so high-pitched, but she was breathing so hard, her heart was jumping so fast, she couldn't stop it.

"Doesn't matter. It's simple enough," Jorah hissed, his eyes commanding her to quiet . "Just take a bow, and get to the quietest corner of the walls you can find. Whichever side they attack us from, you run in the opposite."

He expects them to lose, she realised. He wants me to have an escape route when they do . "I…"

People were shouting all around her, calling for arms. Her hands clung to the knight's shoulder. "Go, Beth," he roared above the clamour, with a firm shove towards the tower. "Go!"

She could have stumbled. A man-at-arms slammed a flimsy willow shortbow into her hands and pushed her forward, in through the gatehouse and up the stone spiral staircase. Sansa stared at the wooden thing like it was foreign object. I've never fired a bow before . Her mother would never have allowed it.

Sansa wasn't a lady here; she was just a scared young girl, smeared with sweat and mud, shivering in the cool and bloody air. Nobody even gave her a second glance. Panic is the worst enemy, she thought vaguely. I cannot be a mindless body in the herd here; I must keep my wits to survive. I am not Lady Sansa Stark today .

She smelled smoke. She was nearly knocked down, as two men heaved a huge pot of boiling, bubbling oil up the staircase, so frantically the pot sploshed.

Her heart was beating so fast the pounding of her own blood was deafening. People were shouting things, but she couldn't even make them out. Each step up the stone wall felt bone-shuddering. Her first sight from atop the walls, and she could see nothing but smoke and chaos.

She heard the cries, the screams, the wails, echoing from below. She heard the creaking as the old wooden gates were heaved shut. Sounds of scuffles, stampeding boots, bodies clashing - it was all coming closer.

She tried to focus, she did, but it was too much. Sansa couldn't even make anything out in the seething frenzy.

Around her, men were already firing shafts, bow strings snapping. Pots of wooden arrows were dropped around the battlements, every man rushing to grab them. "Fire!" somebody was crying. "Notch! Ready! Loose! Notch! Ready! Loose!"

She fumbled with the bow feebly, but her fingers couldn't even find a grip on the string. Then, objects clattered over the stone, and something solid chimed off a man's helm right next to her. Blood plumed, and he fell screaming with a notch carved through his helm and cracked his skull. Slingshots, she realised dumbly. The corsairs were firing slingshots, launching stones hard enough to crush bone.

Footsteps stormed beneath her. They had reached the walls, slamming their way through the guards.

"Push them back!" that was Ser Jorah's voice. "Push them back!"

Sansa clung to her useless bow and hung back among a pile of crates, paces away from the battlements. Bodies were falling around her, stones clattering, shafts falling. The morning sea breeze brought with her the sound of screaming and the stink of smoke.

There were mobs beneath her. Mobs of soldiers, mobs of sellswords, mobs of panicked wildlings. It all mixed together in such fury that the streets were writhing and crashing together.

It felt like the boots were retreating - no, regrouping - but the clamour didn't stop. She could see them huddling out of bow-range at the edge of the yard, she could even hear the foreign tongues as commanders ordered them to reform ranks, for archers to climb the buildings, ready for another surge.

The white city was burning. She could see fires as far off as the gates of New Castle, and the blur fighting on the Castle Stair. The harbour was a massacre - a graveyard of broken ships being washed up against bloody docks.

And yet, still, the rear ranks of the dromonds were only just reaching the shores of the city. The final ship at the very rear was a striped galley hovering at the edge of the harbour. More and more men were rushing out their hulls - their bright colours clashed against the cold and dreary morning mist of the White Knife.

Tides of refugees were filtering in from the north. The guards could barely control them. They tried to bring as many as possible into the Inner Harbour, but then the orders rang out to seal the gates. The cityfolk barrelled against them, while the soldiers shouted them to go elsewhere. They couldn't risk enemies slipping in amongst the refugees, perhaps, or maybe the soldiers just didn't have the manpower to protect them anymore. Citizens were left stranded, wailing, in battle-torn streets. The city was seething like a melting pot, bubbling and thrashing all around her.

"Incoming!" the cry called from the gatehouse. "They're coming!"

The flagship of the enemy fleet had finally reached the docks. Sansa saw the shadows of men struggling to pull out wooden logs - rams - over the gangway while the echo of boots clattered over the commons.

Sansa watched it all happen from a distance, and she just felt numb.

Dazed and numb, like it was all a dream.

The inner harbour had walls to split it from the rest of the city, but it wasn't a fort, not truly. The shipyards were never built to withstand siege. As soon as they breached the wharves, the defenders were left at a disadvantage - the only true way to protect a city from naval assault was to hold the ships in the harbour, to prevent the battle from spreading into the streets, but those dromonds had proven far too powerful for that.

Even while more and more men charged through the city, she could see the catapults and stone-throwers from the ships raining destruction downwards. The charge of soldiers seethed through the streets, burning buildings, cutting through panicked mobs.

Among the sellswords flooding up the narrow-cobbled streets, she heard Westerosi voices. "Surrender now!" a loud and shrill voice called, to the beat of thumping spears. "Surrender and open the gates, or we'll bring them down."

There was no reply. The sellswords didn't wait for one either.

Instead, the footsteps reached fever pitch as they stampeded.

Archers were shouting for more arrows. Then she saw a pocket of swarthy figures clad in the seahorse tabard, clutching crossbows on the opposing rooftops, and then she heard the pang of a score of crossbow bolts fired as one. Organised crossbowmen moved in formation, reloading and firing with perfect synchronicity and shredding through the archers. A dozen men fell from the battlements, raining down onto the streets, screaming right up until the thudded against the stones.

The sellswords pushed forward in organised ranks, spears and shields paired together - one rank covering the other as rams were relayed to the front. These were men that did this for a living; sellswords that just wanted to do the job and get paid. Their ranks were filled with experienced and hardened soldiers. The leftover Manderly garrison and its sloppy defence couldn't even compare to them.

Jorah knew it. He knew that the garrison wasn't going to last.

Sansa did what she was told - she fell backwards and found a place to hide. She ducked and scrambled for cover against the battlements, all the while steel-tipped bolts scattered overhead.

There was a corner on the walls, near a stout guard tower, and she curled up as far back as she possibly could. There was no order, no discipline left.

So many deaths, and she just felt numb to it. She had never even imagined what this moment would truly be like. She could never have comprehended it. Somehow, Ser Jorah and only a few

experienced soldiers managed to make sense of it, to stay focused, but for all the rest the panic and chaos was suffocating.

She kept on crouching, eyes skittering as she tried to search for something to focus on, something to make sense of. From the walls, she could see a flag fluttering over the largest dromond on the water

black and red and fluttering in the wind. Even despite the colours, Sansa recognised the sigil; the seahorse of Horse Velaryon, but it had inverted colours. A black seahorse in red waters - the Velaryon sigil but Targaryen colours.

She couldn't understand it. House Velaryon declared for Stannis. But didn't they change fealty after the Blackwater? That means…

Those dromonds must be of the Royal Fleet, Sansa thought suddenly. Some of the galleys looked like they were of the Redwyne fleet too. There were many more ragtag sellsail vessels or reclaimed merchant ships among them, and they didn't bear the colours Sansa would have expected, but the bulk of the fleet must have come from King's Landing.

That means Cersei. She did this . Cersei wants to scorch White Harbour off the map. Maybe the royal army was too depleted, so she hired sellswords by the thousands to do it. It must have been extraordinarily expensive, but she paid it.

She heard the boom of the rams slamming against the gates, and the sound of straining wood. There was another bellow demanding surrender, but none answered it.

Across the commons, there sellswords chasing down to grab figures fleeing their houses, or barricading streets to herd the crowds of stampeding cityfolk. Others were marching lines of wailing captures backwards to docks at spearpoint, or dragging women into dark corners. Their shrill screams carried even over the cacophony of battle, and sent tremors down Sansa's spine.

They are going for the civilians, Sansa realised. The sellswords were deliberately targeting the cityfolk. Of course, it made sense - they wanted hostages, just as many hostages as possible. They would burn the city and capture prisoners.

The dragon. If this is part of an organised assault to outmanoeuvre the dragon, then attacking fast and taking captives is the only way to win .

Sansa stared up at the sky, and wondered if she would see wings. If there was ever an ideal time the dragon could appear to save the city, then that window was closing. She looked upwards, and no help came.

She heard the bone-crunching crack as the gates snapped, the desperate cries as men tried to hold them. The defenders would be poking spears through the gaps of the splintering wood, just trying to force the assailants backwards. It sounded like the gates had been torn off their hinges, but the men were still trying to hold them up.

Sansa's heart could have stopped. All around her, she saw bowmen falling to arrows, or breaking ranks completely. Sansa took shelter at the back of the walkway, but she could still feel shafts scattering around her.

Whichever side they attack from, move in the opposite, Ser Jorah had told her. She repeated the instructions to herself, over and over in her head. But right there, in the moment, it was hard to see anything that wasn't battle.

Then, she heard the clunk of metal against stone. The sound of metal hooks clanging against the gatehouse's battlements. Grapnels, she realised suddenly. Hooks were being flung upwards -some as crude as ropes tied around axes. They were climbing over the walls, right towards her.

Men tried to unhook the ropes, but there were too many of them. The walls weren't high enough and there weren't enough defenders.

Sansa knew she needed to run, but the arrows… so many shafts scattering through the air, even a single one might pierce her skull as soon as she raised her head.

She saw the first figure climbing over the battlements, clutching a rapier in one hand and the rope in the other. The man was straining for leverage against the stone, with a knife in his teeth.

The gates were breaking, the walls falling… Sansa was left paralysed, gasping for air.

"Beth!" the cry came from below. " Beth! "

That was the signal. Run . She knew she had to. She had to crawl away over the walkway, but she risked a glimpse down below into the yard. Her eyes couldn't recognise anyone through the flailing bodies, but she looked for her knight in the chaos. "JORAH!" Sansa screamed, her voice breaking. "JORAH!"

"Beth!" the cry came again, moving away from the fighting too, and Sansa turned towards his direction. The stairwell. Get off the walls, get to safety. Find a place to hide. Maybe I can slip towards the docks, swim down the shore…?

Sansa turned and ran. South, away from the gates. Away from the Wolf's Den and towards the jetty between the two docks. She turned and ran over the walls. Her dress was so shredded it barely stopped her feet.

She saw the streets collapsing into chaos. It looked like a mob - a riot - flushing through the streets and rumbling towards the city centre. Manderly guards, against wildlings, against corsairs.

She glimpsed Ser Bartimus, the old one-legged knight stumbling as he tried to swing a sword, only to be hacked apart by the men pouring through the broken gate. The Castle Stair is lost.

"Jorah!" Sansa shouted as she ran, and she was replied to with a cry of, "Beth!"

Sansa caught sight of him. A tall figure in bloody wool and sealskin, shambling through the muddy backstreets. Ser Jorah stood head and shoulders over the figures fleeing around him, using his bastard's sword like a walking stick. Their eyes met. He was running towards her. Where are the nearest stairs? I need to get off the walls…

"Jorah Mormont!" a voice called suddenly, splitting the air. " Ser Jorah bloody Mormont! "

Even in the chaos, Sansa froze at the sound of the voice. She turned, just as a figure cut down two green cloaks at once, shoving their bodies out of the way to push forward.

She saw a short and stout man in grey dour armour, crouching behind a shield to ram a bloody path through Manderly men. There were sellswords around him, but he turned towards the direction of her cry. Following the sound of my voice, Sansa realised. Even amongst all of the other screams and shouts, the man focused and followed the name 'Jorah'.

"Jorah Mormont!" the man bellowed again, sounding the name like a war cry. "You here, Jorah Mormont?"

Ser Lothor Brune, the knight of Brownhollow, was covered in blood. She recognised his squashed nose and square jaw even underneath the iron helm. His heavy plate armour wasn't shining or polished, but it was hard and worn. Not a strong or gallant figure charging through battle like the knights Sansa used to dream of, but he was sharp, lean and hardened.

The sight of him even in the battle, this battle, caused Sansa's heart to shudder. If he's here…

The tide of sellswords pushed down the road towards the Wolf's Den, but Ser Lothor shoved his way free of it. "Ser Jorah Mormont!" Ser Lothor called, striding towards Jorah with his sword and shield raised. " I bloody knew it! "

Lothor Apple-Eater, she thought in a daze. During the Battle of the Blackwater, Ser Lothor was said to have cut a bloody path through Fossoway men-at-arms, to capture the Fossoway heir and kill his brothers. Sansa heard the tale, but never really understood it; at the Vale, Lothor had been quiet, polite, respectful and even gentle.

Sansa had danced with Ser Lothor at the start of the tourney, and she had giggled with how he fancied and smiled towards Mya Stone. An honest face, Sansa had thought of him when they first met, what felt like so long ago, and later it had always struck her as queer how such a stoic and unassuming man could earn a knighthood by such rumoured brutality.

That was before she saw him in battle. Now - Lothor Brune's sword was bloody and he walked over the corpses, and it was like seeing the man in his natural element for the first time. Where other men would walk through a battlefield, he strode. A short, grey-haired, middle-aged man, but he moved through the battle as if he lived for it.

Jorah fumbled, gasping for breath. In the moment, Jorah gaped towards Lothor, and his eyes flickered back at Sansa. Ser Lothor followed his gaze, turning to stare at the muddy, dishevelled woman watching from the walls.

Their eyes met, and everything froze. Sansa saw the flicker of surprise pass over the knight's face. He came expecting to see Jorah on the battlefield, but he wasn't expecting to see me .

But if Ser Lothor is here, then that means…

There was that moment where everything seemed to click. Ser Lothor looked between Sansa and Jorah, evaluating it the situation.

"Lady Alayne," Ser Lothor's voice turned polite, like the respectful, quiet man she had once known. "I'm here to take you home."

Sansa's heart could have stopped.

Beth! " Jorah roared, raising his sword with all the strength he had left. " Run! "

She did. She turned and ran, even as Ser Lothor flourished his blade, racing to meet Jorah's in the middle of the road.

Alayne! " Lothor shouted at her, his voice broken by the clash of steel. "Come to me, I can keep you safe!"

Their blades rang out. Jorah charged, and Ser Lothor fell back. "Alayne!" he called again, crouching behind his shield. Clash . "Your father has been missing you so!"

Sansa didn't stop. She just ran, faster than she ever thought she could. Faster than she ever thought she would have to.

Ser Lothor cursed, while Jorah roared bloody fury and tried to overwhelm him. Both hands were on his blade, staggering and screaming with every swing. Sansa could only watch through strained glimpses behind her. The first blow Ser Lothor deflected on his shield, and then the second and third he sidestepped. His footwork was faster, and Jorah had to swing wide to keep up.

The moment Ser Lothor counterattacked, his lunge very nearly sliced through Jorah's chest. Jorah stumbled, barely able to swipe upwards before Lothor's second lunge parted his head.

Ser Lothor was the better fighter. It was obvious from the very first strike.

Jorah's sword was twice the size of Ser Lothor's, and he swung it like a club. Flailing like a bear - strong, big and desperate. But Ser Lothor crouched behind his shield, dodging as often as he blocked,

with a fine and tireless footwork. The man moved calmly and with experience, yet striking with startling speed, methodically stepping and sidestepping into flanking strikes. Strike after strike, clash after clash, Jorah was being forced backwards, blood trailing at his heels.

The great bear of a knight panted with every clash, the exhaustion deeply set in his hard features, but he swung with all the might he had left. Even in his prime, Sansa didn't think Jorah could have matched the Apple-Eater. The only thing keeping Jorah alive now was pure desperation. Ser Lothor took the strikes on his shield, and then pushed him backwards. The sword in Ser Lothor's hand was singing, while Jorah was left staggering trying to keep up, grunting and sweating.

Ten strikes and a dozen heartbeats and it was over. The fighters broke away from each other, distracted by the bodies swelling behind them. Jorah took one look at all the men rushing towards Ser Lothor's side, and he turned around. Jorah was shambling down the road, running west along the walls. He was gasping - heavy, heaving pants - as his footsteps stomped over the cobbles.

Even as Sansa ran, even as the battle flooded the shipyards, she heard Ser Lothor bellow. "After him! After her!" the knight ordered, motioning to the sellswords behind him. "The dark-haired girl on the walls, catch her, bring her to me! Do not hurt her, not a hair, just catch her!" He then repeated the orders in Tyroshi, and over a dozen men rushed to his side.

Ser Lothor is not with the sellswords, Sansa realised foggily. He's leading them .

Of course he is, a small voice in the back of her mind replied. Ser Lothor is exactly the sort of man that Littlefinger would send to reclaim back his property .

White Harbour was in shambles. This assault had been ruthlessly effective, well-planned, and well-financed, and suddenly everything

clicked into place. Cersei wouldn't have been able to do something like this. This is all Littlefinger.

I'm here to take you home, Lothor had said.

Sansa ran. Her legs ached. Run. Too fast. Couldn't breathe.

Even as her feet clattered along the stone walkway, her mind raced trying to piece it all together.

He used sellswords. Of course, Littlefinger wouldn't have the influence to commit the knights of the Vale for such an assault, so he'd called upon sellswords and sellsails from the Free Cities instead. They were expensive, even more with them so far from their usual climes, but Littlefinger could afford it. More importantly, sellswords were both expendable and deniable.

Footsteps behind her. Ser Jorah was running too, trying to reach her, with Ser Lothor not far behind. There was fighting all around her, battles raging in the street. Women with spears and white stones, men in green cloaks, battling the sellswords and corsairs. A beast in every man.

White Harbour was in flames. This is what Littlefinger is. Hundreds, thousands dead, just to get at her.

How did Littlefinger know I'd be here? No, he didn't need to know; he only needed to suspect. White Harbour was a likely target to where she might run, and in any case was now her brother's seat of power, and so he'd moved to wipe it off the map. Maybe he hoped to flush her out, or to cut off a kidnapper's options. Maybe he suspected that Ser Jorah had been working with the Manderlys, or maybe he just didn't want to take the chance.

I should have known that Littlefinger would never stop until he got me .

And even if he hadn't gotten her, in this assault, he'd still strike the King-beyond-the-Wall's cause a blow; maybe even a mortal blow, by the mere act of sacking the city. Even in failure, Littlefinger would find success.

The blisters on her feet burst, but Sansa didn't stop running. The pain was everywhere. Ladies shoes weren't made for running. Why aren't they made for running?

"Alayne!" Ser Lothor shouted after her. "Stop, please, stop! I promise, I can help you!"

No. You will only help Littlefinger .

The wall turned around, stretching towards a gatehouse across from wharves. Fighting was everywhere, but Ser Lothor abandoned the battle to chase her. Behind her, Sansa could see the White Harbour shipyards, where the half-constructed skeletal husk of a galley stood out of the water. The wharves were in the distance - the docks burning with great billows of smoke.

All of the ships were finally docked at the coast. There was only one vessel still on the water - a Lyseni ship with a striped, painted hull - that lingered in the harbour while the rest were storming the city.

Sansa heard cries coming from the docks, but she couldn't focus on them. She couldn't focus on anything, it all blurred.

Feet behind her. Clattering of boots, running up the stone stairs. They were behind her - she could hear the grunts and frenzied swings. Jorah almost fell to his hands as he stumbled up the steps, flailing his sword to push back the men chasing her. There were a dozen of them, with Ser Lothor at the very front, and Jorah could only flail as he tried to hold them back at the staircase.

The staircase. The wall. Sansa realised too late - the walkway came to an end as it curved around to another set of gates. There was nowhere else to run, not over the iron-spiked edge of the wooden gates. I should have run down the stairs, Sansa cursed. Maybe I

could have lost them in the shipyards, but there's nowhere to hide or run atop the wall…

She turned, yet Ser Lothor and his men were already pushing through up the stairs. Even when fighting from the high ground and using the steps to channel, Jorah couldn't hold them back. They were there, blocking anywhere she could go.

Can I jump down? Could I climb the wall, just find some way to get to the ground? No, it was too high and the walls were too smooth. The thirty-foot drop onto hard cobbles would surely kill her…

Ser Jorah could finally run no more. The knight looked ready to keel over in exhaustion, but even as he gasped and staggered, he turned and he swung his sword. The soldiers easily avoided the swing, and one of them stepped forward to bring the flat of his blade against Jorah's leg.

Jorah collapsed to his knee. He was a bloody wreck, beaten, bruised and weak. His size was the only thing keeping the men back - even bent and bowed, he swung his huge sword like a man possessed, defiant to the very last. Even as they surrounded him, even as he was on his knees.

"I knew you were a bloody traitor, Mormont," Ser Lothor said darkly. "Lord Baelish welcomed you under his roof, gave you his hospitality, you repaid him with treachery!"

The knight didn't reply. A guttural noise spat from his throat as he rose once more, bracing his weight against the blade's pommel as he forced himself back to his feet.

For a second, it looked like Jorah was praying as he fought for his life.

A Lyseni sellsword stepped into the fray, his blade flashing as he swung. Jorah batted the scimitar aside with a gloved hand and crashed the pommel of his huge sword down the corsair's skull. The

pirate cried out, shrieking, the orbits of one his eyes shattered, pale gelatinous fluid mixed with red leaking from behind clenched fingers. Jorah trembled, retching in exhaustion. The other sellsword hesistated uneasily, but then, Ser Lothor stepped forward in bounding strides, one, two, three, and slammed his shield forward like a battering ram into Jorah's two-handed guard.

She didn't see what collided, but she heard the distinctive crack of bone. Sansa screamed, but her throat could hardly form the word. She felt like she was shaking. " Ser Jorah… ! "

Jorah was half on the ground, blood dribbling from his beard. He took one gasp for breath and pulled himself up, clutching his sword with both trembling hands. It was as though he could scarcely lift it. Ser Lothor stepped forward to meet him. "You are a traitor, ser," Ser Lothor muttered, levelling his sword. "And this is the only reward you have ever deserved."

"For my queen." Jorah's voice was so low Sansa barely heard it. "For my queen."

Jorah lunged at the knight with a great upwards slash, face twisted, eyes bloodshot. Lothor Apple-Eater easily blocked the attack on his shield, and then his sword lashed outwards.

The air turned red as the blade plunged straight through Jorah's cheekbone, and out of the back of his skull.

NO! " Sansa was screaming, as the great bear of a knight collapsed to the stones. " Ser Jorah, no… ! "

Even in death, the man's bloody face was contorted into a snarling growl. She heard the sickening squelch, saw the squirt of gore, as Ser Lothor dragged his steel out of the man's brains.

Jorah flopped. Even with a sword through his head, the man's limbs spasmed and grasped.

Her lungs weren't working. It felt like Sansa's whole world was breaking apart. He's… he's dead… he's just…

The image flashed before her eyes over and over again - watching Ser Jorah flop .

Lothor Apple-Eater turned to her, his sword still slick with blood and brains. The sellswords stood back to let the knight pass. "Lady Alayne…" he said softly. "It's alright. It's alright."

She stared at him like he was a monster. A monster with soft and honest eyes. "No… !" Sansa said blankly. "No… !"

"My lady… !" He stepped towards her, and she recoiled back. "Stay away!" Sansa shrieked. "Get away! Get away!"

Defenceless. I'm defenceless. He could overwhelm me, grab me… pull me away… deliver me to his puppetmaster…

Her legs clattered, shoes knocking against the stone as she shambled backwards away from him. She felt something tear, tripping over her own tattered dress as she staggered. Her whole world was rocking, tears streaming from her eyes.

It's Littlefinger. It's all Littlefinger.

"My lady, the edge!" Ser Lothor cried in alarm, as Sansa tottered closer and closer towards the edge of wall. "My lady… !"

He made to grab her, but she recoiled from his touch like it was foul and shrieked. "Get away, get away! "

Her foot spun off the side of the edge, and she very nearly fell off the wall.

"No!" Ser Lothor cried, and Sansa barely managed catch herself onto the battlements before she toppled.

There was a cool sea breeze wafting from the coast. The moment was frozen still. Sansa was left hanging at the very edge of the wall, above a twenty, thirty foot drop onto cobbled stones. Her body was trembling, tears pouring from her eyes and her breath broken by frantic gasps.

Sansa turned to stare down at the drop.

Ser Lothor caught the look in her eyes. He stopped still, his face going pale.

"I won't let him take me," Sansa promised. "I won't, I won't, I won't…"

"My lady," Ser Lothor gasped. "Don't do it, just… step away from the edge. Step away."

"He won't have me!" Sansa cried, her shrill voice turning into a shriek. "I'd rather…"

I would as well , she realised, feeling numb. I'd rather drop than let Littlefinger win .

The thought of crazed Aunt Lysa shrieking and dangling over the open Moon Door flashed before her eyes.

Ser Lothor tried to step forward, trying to calm her down. He looked scared, more scared than he had been in battle. "My lady," he gulped. "You can't… Lord Baelish cares about you. He only wants to protect you - he made me swear to bring you back at all costs. On my honour I will protect you."

"He doesn't. He wants me for himself," she sniffled, casting another look behind her. "I won't let have me, I won't be part of his scheme."

"Alayne… Sansa…" Ser Lothor pleaded, risking another step. There was about a dozen yards between them, any closer and he'd be able to catch her. Sansa shuffled backwards, so far back her heels were dangling off the precipice. "I don't know what lies they've been telling