DD

by Renato1235

gwegweg

2. Chapter 2

you, but it's not true. Everything he's done has been for your own good."

"This?" Sansa shrieked, staring wide-eyed at the sellswords behind him, and at the burning docks. "This is good?!"

"This city is in rebellion! The streets are filled with savages. They are traitors to the realm, this is war." The sellswords were looking confused. One man stepped forward, and Ser Lothor motioned him back. "Lord Baelish offered his aid in routing them, for the good of the Seven Kingdoms."

She could see Jorah's corpse staring at her. "You killed them!" Sansa cried, sobbing shrilly. "You killed them all! He killed everybody - he killed my aunt, he… he killed them all! "

A sellsword called something in a tongue she couldn't tell, but his face was uncertain. Asking for orders. Ser Lothor turned and snapped, "Get back! Leave us!" The men didn't react, not until the knight then hissed a string of Tyroshi words. Then, the sellswords hesitated, before turning to move back down the stairs.

They stepped over Jorah's corpse as they pushed their way back down. Sansa caught a few of the looks towards her. He thinks I'm liable to spook, she thought, and so he cleared the rest away. Thesellswords were running towards the gate. And he's ordered them to run around to try and catch me under the gates, should I fall.

I won't let them . She could jump headfirst into the ground. Sansa met Lothor's gaze and she could feel nothing but a crazed desperation.

"It's alright," the knight soothed. "Look, it's alright… It's just us." In an idle motion, Ser Lothor dropped his sword and slung his shield off, both clattering to the stone. He opened his arms wide, unarmed, but there was still blood splattered over his armour. "Nobody is going to hurt you, Alayne. I promise it. I swear it on my life, my family and my honour. We're here to protect you, that's all…"

She didn't twitch. Ser Lothor held himself low, with a bent back, moving in small steps to make himself seem less threatening. Approaching her like she was unnerved animal, like a spooked bird that could fly off. All around him, all across the city, there were screams.

"I protected you once, remember?" he said softly. "At the Fingers, the singer - Marillion - he was drunk and would have forced you, overpowered you, but I stopped him. I saved you. That was the only thing my lord ever commanded of me - to protect you. I saved you then, let me save you now."

She didn't twitch. "Maybe you're unhappy about what happened to your aunt, or what Lord Baelish did to the singer." Ser Lothor said, taking another careful step. Sansa's eyes were fixed on his feet, measuring the distance. "But that singer was a bad man, and Lysa would have thrown you from the Moon Door. Lord Baelish just wanted to protect you. He saved you from King's Landing, from Joffrey and from Cersei. I don't know what lies they told you to get you to go with them, but that's all they were - lies . Lies to steal you from the man who sheltered you, who rescued you."

There were not many steps left. A few more feet and he could grab her. She would have to move soon, or she would lose her chance. Sansa's body was so tense it was trembling.

"Lord Baelish isn't angry with you. He's worried," Ser Lothor said. One more step. "He's been searching the whole realm and beyond. I didn't know you'd be here, but Lord Baelish warned me there was a chance, and I…"

His throat seemed jam, as he gulped. She could see the sweat dribbling from his brow. Sansa pulled her gaze to meet his. He had honest eyes. "Think of your friends," Ser Lothor pleaded. "Think of Randa. Sweetrobin. Mya. Think of all those who love you, who are missing you so."

Believe me, I am.

She couldn't feel her heart beating. She felt too numb. After a long moment of tense hesitation, she pulled away from the edge. She heard Ser Lothor's deep sigh of relief. "Come to me," the knight promised softly. "I can bring you home."

Ser Lothor's arms were wide, as if to hug her. Sansa stood still, shaking, as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders in a soft, comforting embrace.

His armour jangled around her. She felt the blood smeared on his breastplate.

Ser Lothor didn't even notice the Valyrian steel dagger hidden in her grip as he moved in to hug her. The blade had been in her hands the whole time, hidden from view as she cowered, and as soon as Ser Lothor held her it was in her hands again. She held it tight, bringing the blade down against the nape of his neck as she returned the hug.

Blood splattered beneath the sharp edge. The knight convulsed so tightly he could have crushed her.

She felt that gasp - a gasp of pain, shock and horror - as Sansa pulled the blade in and twisted it against bone. The blow was awkward, unsteady, but the blade's sharpness, her desperation - drove it home. Like coring an apple, she thought, hysterical - and the thought was so jarring so could have laughed.

His heavy body fell onto her, she nearly toppled before she managed to push it backwards. It clattered, flopping against the stones. Sansa was left standing there, bloody with streaks of tears down her face, clutching the dagger with horror. It was like they were someone else's hands.

Then, before anyone even managed to react, Sansa turned and she ran.

The Leech Lord

He watched the battle from the hills, using a Myrish spyglass to try and find the answers through the snows. Roose had his squires boil up a skin of thick brew, which he sipped to warm himself as he watched it all unfold.

In the valley below, by the lake, raged the storm of steel.

Roose always enjoyed the moonlight. He found that he was so often bored and dreary during the day, but at night everything seemed to come alive. It offered a rare clarity, a perspective, a solace that he found… comforting. He stood as still as statue, staring down through the darkness, before turning around to the pale faces surrounding him.

"Send a runner to Lord Ryswell," Lord Bolton quietly ordered to his serjeant. "Begin the western charge."

The mounted man nodded, and quickly turned and cantered off through the drifts. Roose only had eighteen men with him on the hills as a personal guard, all trusted Bolton men-at-arms. There had hardly been a point, to bring any more than that. Roose didn't consider himself a wasteful man.

Besides, every last soldier was needed for the assault.

His guard were all mounted, but the frenzied snows were swiftly reducing horses, even the sturdier northern breeds, to barely a step above useless. Our cavalry will be hindered in this weather, Roose thought with mild annoyance. He was a making a mental list of everything that could go wrong, and trying to think of how to compensate for it.

"I cannot see a flare!" one of his serjeants called, bellowing to be heard over the wind even half a dozen feet away. "Ser Aenys was supposed to light a flare!"

Lord Bolton didn't reply, or react. One of the more likely points of failure. The signal flare could be all too easily missed in these inclement conditions, or, even more likely, it had simply failed to fly. Perhaps they hadn't even tried, perhaps they'd been slain, perhaps they'd panicked at the key moment and failed in their task.

Either way, regardless, he had to proceed without the signal. There was no practical option, save to attack. This ambush had been far too long in the making. Every resource, every soldier, every sword - everything that could be wagered, had been wagered. There could be no retreat.

The armies had ridden out from Winterfell before the break of dusk, their force a touch over ten thousand strong. The Bolton army had been readied for a night-time march at breakneck speeds, as Lord Rodrik Ryswell led the centre, Ser Aenys Frey led the right, and Ser Walder Rivers led the van. Roose claimed to be commanding the reserves, but in truth, he delegated that duty to Arnolf Karstark while Roose moved out of the way just so he could watch from an isolated area.

If - despite all his efforts - the dragon was still active, then Roose really didn't want his person to be anywhere near the bulk of his men.

Roose allowed himself a small smile as the initial charge proceeded perfectly. True to his word, the wildlings had no warning. The commander of the enemies' outriders, Robett Glover, had quite helpfully ensured that all of their scouts would be blind to the Bolton's approach.

He could barely make out the assault through the dark and snowy night, but he knew it would be starting. He had rehearsed it all in his head.

The wind was vicious, even through his black ringmail lined with wool. Unlike most of his past battles, his armour was unimposing. Roose had left his distinctive spotted pink cloak behind, and had

selected the plainer boiled leather and ringmail of his house guard, rather than the suit of dark grey plate armour with rondels shaped like human heads, quilted with blood-red leather. Such extravagant, imposing armour had its uses to inspire fear and mark him on the battlefield, but it would have been nearly useless on a battlefield fought in the dark. Even despite the usefulness of pageantry, Roose preferred much a plainer, tasteful decorum.

Not that it really mattered. Roose himself had absolutely no intention of fighting tonight.

The riverlanders would lead the charge. The two thousand men from House Frey that had been stationed at Winterfell were eager for blood. After the destruction of the Twins, Ser Walder Rivers - the eldest bastard - had vowed revenge and gathered as many men he could rally from the ruin to ride north for Winterfell. Ser Walder Rivers had brought another one thousand-plus riverlanders - many Frey remnants, but also including Blackwood, Bracken, Mallister, Vance, and Ryger men - and Roose wanted those men at the very front of the ambush.

He stared out through the spyglass, and tried to judge what needed to be done. "The van is faltering," Roose decided finally. "Send a runner with all haste - Ser Aenys must move south urgently to support."

In the dark, there was little else to do but stare at the squirming mass of shadows through the Myrish glass, willing himself to make sense of the flow of battle. In this storm, it was a coin's flip of whether or not any orders he gave would actually get through. Roose allowed himself a small tut, before taking another sip of his brew.

The night passed by, the hours churning, all the while Roose watched from the hill.

He had hoped that the weather would turn, but the snows only seemed to be growing in intensity as the night went on. His men

around him were getting nervous, warning him that snows threatened to overwhelm their hosts.

Roose himself could have laughed. So much preparation, and the one thing that I couldn't predict, he thought with a bitter, soft smile. The weather .

A lesser general would have screamed or cursed, or howled at the gods. Roose considered such acts with disdain. Instead, Lord Bolton remained completely calm and focused, as he made preparations and tried to recover from the disadvantage.

From the few details he could make out, Roose eventually decided that Walder River's charge must have failed. A pity. The bastard of the Twins had certainly been… passionate about taking vengeance. Roose had hoped that such passion could fuel the heaviest fighting.

We had as much of an advantage as we could have ever had, Roose reminded himself. He had taken the mark of his enemy, measuring their strength and weakness, and reacted accordingly. The attack on White Harbour would be well under way by now, if his ally had come through; and thus the enemy's organisation would be broken on two fronts. They had the advantage of surprise, of superior discipline. Roose had spent months planning, preparing for this single night. Now, all that remained was to see it through, and find out whether or not it was enough.

It had always been a gamble. Roose knew from the beginning that they were going up against far superior numbers, but he had tried to play the odds as best he could.

He could see the writhing shadows in the dark; the armies were… shifting, but the mass of men was shifting towards the wrong direction. The wildlings were gaining ground, rather than losing it. Their camp wasn't falling to pieces like Roose had been counting on. He had wanted to settle the battle by ambush - by meeting the enemy in pitched, confused slaughter, before their numbers could be rallied. To break their organisation before attrition could come into

play. If it ever came to that, then the Bolton forces would lose their edge. Precisely the possibility he'd been trying to avoid, and yet, it had happened still.

The battle still looked like a massacre, but not the type Roose had been planning.

It's the snows, he thought sourly. The weather is hurting us just as much as it hurts them . His ambush was stalling. What should have been a well-coordinated and prepared pincer charge was slowly degrading into an incoherent mess. The snowstorm had blunted the momentum of his ambush, given the enemy more time to organise.

Still, Roose couldn't see a dragon flying overhead, so that gave him hope. There was most certainly no option to retreat, in any case. He gave the command to commit the reserves into the fight.

Afterwards, Roose stood back, watching and waiting.

Around him, amidst the blizzard, his men had been forced to slaughter two horses, to put the beasts out of their panic. Their horses had been bred from a long, long line of Bolton horseflesh, with an eye for hardiness and reliability. No mere weather, save the deepest winter or thunderstorm, would scare them so. Still, there something was in the air, something that Roose liked little, and the horses liked still less.

Perhaps an hour later, and they received a frantic runner from Lord Ryswell. The courier was a seasoned northmen, but he was gasping, pale and shivering. In the frigid wind, Roose noted the stink of piss. "Giants, m'lord!" the man wheezed. "Giants have taken to the field!"

Ah, I had been musing over those inhuman figures, he thought, staring through his glass into the battle's heart. Giants, indeed . The view was so dark, so obscured he hadn't been certain on what the shadows were. All he could see was that where they went, the field parted before them. In a flash of morbid curiosity, Roose wondered

how many of the giants there were, or if it would be possible to see them up close.

Roose had anticipated that they would likely have to fight a number of such beasts, and still irked him that he hadn't managed to come up with a way of combating such monsters. There were limits to what spies could accomplish, and in the open field only mounted cavalry with lances of the longest stripe seemed like they would be effective, and only in overwhelming numbers at that. By all reports, the giants possessed a constitution, a natural resistance that shrugged off most weapons and arrows. Perhaps scorpions… but no, that never could have been a possibility, never in a battle of this kind.

His officers were squabbling, but Roose barely heard them. He was too busy thinking, deliberating. Ramsay is surely dead by now, Roose decided, and he surprised himself by feeling a twinge of sadness towards his bastard son.

All around him, the men were having difficulty controlling their horses. The beasts were nickering, neighing, even screaming where discipline fell lax. Even the horses were going mad, turning useless. Why? Roose wondered with narrowed eyes. These snows wereextreme, but he had seen the stallions of the Bolton bloodlines endure past winters with little complaint. What is scaring them, so?

Regardless, fleeing men wouldn't make it far in snows like these, not afoot. Roose paused, pondering over his options. The weather continued to turn for the worse, the snows becoming so heavy that they could swallow them. The night was pitch black, with winds howling over the hill that could bowl a man over.

The battle was breaking out of the camp, rumbling through the hills. By Roose's reckoning, his ambush had been fairly successful, all things considered. He expected there would be mass casualties to testify to that.

Still, he thought with a sigh, it seems it simply comes down to pure numbers . The 'northern coalition' was large enough that they could

suffer mass casualties, and still have enough men to match them in the storm.

He saw the shape of men break - the Bolton reserves were being crushed under the force of the giants, their once-disciplined formations degenerating into a crazed, vulnerable incoherence. The fighting was breaking out over the hills, but Roose expected it would be more a slaughter than a fight by now. A fight without discipline. Men cut down in the snow.

"We must retreat!" one of Roose's serjeants was screaming at him. "Retreat! We must run!"

Lord Bolton paused, considering it. "Why?" he said finally. He still didn't raise his voice, his tone was as calm, as soft as ever. "We will not escape, not in this weather."

In other circumstances, Roose would have agreed with the serjeant-now was indeed a good time to run. But even northern horses would be trapped in these snows, if they were fit to ride at all, and Roose had no interest in dying while blindly and futilely trying to sprint away in the dark.

There was no emotion. He had bled himself of emotion a long time ago.

They were coming closer. He saw immense figures - taller and broader than any man - tearing through the collapsing ranks. He heard their roars, as loud as thunder. He saw wildlings storming the hills with axes. It seemed that, as the weather turned worsened even further, the wildlings retook more of a relative advantage. The blizzard hobbled the wildlings, but not so much as it did his own men. The cavalry had been far less useful than anticipated.

Half of his guard had already broken ranks and scattered, but it didn't seem like there was any point in trying to recover them. Let them run. Roose could already see wildling raiders with axes and spears, mercilessly hacking down fleeing figures in the snows.

No, he decided, I always knew that there would be no retreat here .

It was the risk he had decided to take, months before. To fight, rather than flee from this King-Beyond-the-Wall. A gamble. And sometimes, the coin just doesn't go your way. Roose could accept that. Thegarrison he had left behind at Winterfell had been prepared for this eventuality, as bitter as it was.

He had never enjoyed gambling.

In any case, he thought with a sigh, there is only one thing left for me to do . Roose drew his sword, and then idly let it fall away from him. It sank into the snow.

He calmly knelt down into the drifts. He raised his hands above his head, gloved palms open, unarmed, and waited until the savages came for him. There were half a dozen brutes in furs, the blood rage shining in their eyes as they stomped through the darkness.

"I surrender," Lord Bolton said meekly.

Theon Greyjoy, Heir of the Iron Islands, Turncloak, Kinslayer, Ghost, Prince of Winterfell, Prince of Fools, Prince of Stink…

They were dragging her. He saw them yank her by the heels and drag her through the corridor, even as the girl clawed and scratched, trying to find a grip against the stone floors. Reek watched it happen, and he just froze like a scarecrow. Twitching. Like a useless, pathetic scarecrow.

No! No! " she wailed. "No, don't, I - I'm Arya Stark! I swear, I'm Arya Stark !"

She used to be pretty , Reek thought dumbly. She had dark mousy hair and sweet brown eyes. She had been pretty, once. Not beautiful, but cute, full of life and giggles, and so very pretty. But being trapped in this cursed place had left her body a wreck, her

face a ruin - her eyes red with tears, her jaw jarred and bruised and an ugly gash across her brow. Every time she screamed, he saw a mouth of broken or missing teeth.

Ramsay's doing, Reek knew. The Lord of Winterfell had spent only a short time with his wife, but he had been sure to leave his mark. He had broken her jaw and pulled out her teeth when she tried to bite him. And he forced Reek to watch.

Arya clawed so furiously that her fingernails snapped against the rough stone, leaving a bloody trail from her hands, but the men didn't care. It wasn't Ramsay's men dragging her now - it was Rorg the Queer, Red Luey, Halvert and Dirt Dalton. Big, ugly men - Roose's men-at-arms. The four of them had barged through the tower at the break of dawn and dragged the Lady of Winterfell away. Reek was left quivering at the end of the corridor, staring with wild, fearful eyes.

They were dragging her towards him. Arya was screaming, convulsing, Rorg had his hand on his sword… "Move out of the way, Reek," Halvert spat.

Reek stared. He saw her bloodshot eyes staring at him, begging him…

Then, with a gulp, he stepped out of their way and he let them pass.

They were dragging her up to the West Tower - back to Arya's own bedchambers. They had been sheltering in the Great Keep when the men came for her. She was screeching, sobbing, wailing. She pleaded for mercy, she begged to know why they were doing this. None of them replied. They didn't even look at her.

He stepped after them, and then flinched as the winds broke through the shuttered windows, slamming and bashing the wood against the frame. Reek could hear the sounds of screaming, and of arrows flying over the gates. Down below, he saw the ant-like figures of the remaining Boltons scattering around the courtyard - they all would have fled, if there had been anywhere to run.

The savages were at the gates, and slamming against them as madly as the wind.

Winterfell was falling, and the world was falling with it.

He could see it all going mad. He could feel all semblance of order collapsing. The feeble Bolton garrison was confused, helpless, being overwhelmed. It was morn, but there was no sunlight to be seen through the grey thick clouds. The towers of Winterfell were trembling against the winds.

He heard the clattering of the bell, so loud and frantic it was like a drumbeat. Reek couldn't tell if there was actually anybody ringing it from the Bell Tower, or if the bell was just chiming madly with the wind.

Reek stood on the upper floors of the Great Keep, watching the castle - the castle he once called home, the castle he had conquered, the castle he had been imprisoned in - dissolve around him. Technically, Lord Harwood Stout had been left as castellan of Winterfell in Lord Bolton's absence, but he was an old and tired one-armed man. Everyone knew that Lady Barbrey Dustin truly had command. Reek had crept passed her, earlier in the morn, shrieking commands, trying to order the remaining scrapings of men-at-arms into something resembling a formation.

Lord Bolton had taken nearly every fighting man Winterfell had with him on his march. The castle had been filled to bursting the day before, reinforced by the men of the lesser houses garrisoned in the winter town. The army of Boltons, Freys, Ryswells, Dustins and a dozen other northern houses left the castle before dusk the previous night, nearly ten thousand strong, and they hadn't returned. The garrison left behind was a skeleton crew, barely fit to maintain the castle; mostly women, children, or the old and infirm.

"The gates!" a voice cried from below. "They're at the gates!"

The outer walls have already fallen, Reek realised. Along with most of their army.

Lord Bolton had gambled everything on his night-time ambush. There had been no preparation, no men to spare, for a defence should the attack fail.

A boulder barrelled through the sky, collapsing straight into the stables. How could they have siege weapons? Reek stared and stared at the immense shadows, and then he realised. Giants. Not siege weapons, giants. He was felt… numb, with fear.Uncomprehending. Giants. There were giants storming the gates.

They were throwing the stones, throwing them with an immense, inhuman strength. Even from here, so far away, Theon could feel the tremors in the air as huge forces collided against the outer gate again and again. Winterfell's gates were ancient, carved of old growth oak fourteen inches thick, reinforced with iron bars and steel hinges, but even they were failing against their inhuman might.

And then a dozen giants slammed forth, pushing and heaving, roaring in effort, and the gates fell.

The 'northern coalition' that poured through the outer gate didn't look like an army at all. It looked more savage than that, more like a horde. There were no ranks, no formation, there was nothing but maddened warbands. The wildlings had chased and cut down the retreating Bolton men, and then they kept storming all the way to Winterfell itself.

The booming figures of giants stood twice as tall any man, but they were not like men. They were far too broad at the hip, too thick at the leg. Like hills, hills carved of flesh and clad in furs. They were too hairy; like beasts, beasts out of legend, set loose against the Boltons.

The inner walls would fall shortly. Maybe Lady Dustin would try to hold up in the keep, but it was useless. Reek could feel it in the air,

everybody knew it. Lord Bolton had lost. They were all going to die.

Is this how it ends? Reek thought numbly. The castle stormed and razed - again - and every man and woman put to the sword?

Reek could have laughed.

He could hear the wildlings below, howling savage war cries as they climbed the walls.

Reek stood there on the balcony, frozen, with the wind whipping through his white hair. His hair used to be dark, once, but then it had greyed and turned white after Ramsay reshaped him into Reek. The whispers said that Jon had white hair now, too. Any second now, the Bastard King, Jon Snow, might be bursting through the gates, riding upon dragon or wolf or whatever the rumours were saying. Jon was a wildling king, now, while Reek was… something else. Reek wondered briefly whether they would be able to recognise each other.

No, Reek thought, as he gulped. His thoughts felt blank. Theon Greyjoy is dead . That smirking, dark-haired youth was dead. Reek didn't know what he was anymore, but he wasn't Theon. He didn't want to see Jon Snow again, he didn't want Jon to see him.

I should just jump . He knew he should. His life was worthless, and all he needed to do was step off the tower and fly. Of all the ways he had been thinking about dying, a long fall and a hard landing didn't seem so bad.

There was nothing left for him in this world. Asha was dead - the Boltons had routed her men while reclaiming Deepwood Motte, and then afterwards Ramsay had gifted Reek his sister's tar-smeared head just to mock him. The Crow's Eye had taken the Isles, and murdered his father. His brothers were dead. They were all dead. Theon Greyjoy was a ghost now, a dead man.

A while back, Lord Bolton had even sent a raven to the Crow's Eye, demanding ransom for Theon, and his nuncle had replied with his own raven, asking how much it would cost for the Boltons to keep Theon instead. His nuncle didn't even care enough to ask for him back.

One more small step, he thought. One small step, before the wildlings reach me, that's all I need…

He raised his foot, hovering…

He heard her screaming. She was screaming, wailing for help.

Reek paused. Her cries cut through the wind - Arya was shrieking for somebody, anybody, to save her.

There were tears down Reek's cheeks and he didn't know why. Didn't know why he bothered. It didn't matter, nothing mattered. Still, before he even realised that he made a decision, he had turned and was shambling down the corridor.

The tower. Arya Stark's bedchambers. Her screams. He could hear the rabble of voices as he loped up the stone staircase. "Chains!" a gruff voice called. "Bring the bloody chains!"

"Hurry!"

"Where's the oil? We need more-"

"Please don't! Please, by the Mother's mercy, you can't-"

"Orders from the lord, m'lady. Don't-"

Reek burst through the doors. These chambers… the same chambers where Ramsay had defiled her, where Ramsay had played all of his wicked games… the winds sheering through the windows sounded like Ramsay's ghostly laugh.

Everything blurred, in the moment. He glimpsed Arya on the floor, with heavy manacles around her wrists, fastening her to the bedpost. Chains fastening her to the thick support of the four-poster bed, rattling against oak. The men were fetching lamp oil…

"No!" Reek screamed. "No, you can't!"

Bodies moved to block him. He threw himself at the nearest man - Halvert. Reek was all skin and bones, and maimed flesh. There was no muscle on him, no strength in his arms. The Bolton man staggered backwards, but it was like assailed by a feeble, old man.

Still, Reek scratched and clawed with bloody nails, trying to push his way through.

"Bloody Reek!"

"What's he doing her-"

"Get him off me!"

Oomph . Something solid and heavy collided with his jaw. Reek staggered, but he couldn't feel pain. He lashed out with maimed hands, all the while screaming near-nonsensically. "NO!" Reek howled. "Don't! Get away from her! Get away!"

Strong, gauntleted hands gripped his shoulders, yanking him backwards. A Bolton man slammed their fist into Reek's chest.

He could see Arya's wide eyes, staring at him with horror. "Get away!" Reek protested. "You can't, just… don't…"

Another blow rattled his skull, his world spinning. Reek couldn't even… wasn't strong enough…

Her marriage bed, that same bed where she had been… all of those soft hideous velvet pillows and sheets were soaked in oil. The soldiers were piling kindling from the fireplace at the doorway. Arya was shaking the chains, trying to pull herself free, and Reek tried to

push forward. Her hand was outstretched, reaching for him, and Reek just tried to hold it…

He tried to grab her. He just wanted to hold on to her.

He saw Dirt Dalton ready a matchbox, holding the flint ready to strike over a candle.

The world was drumming as fast as his heart. Reek stared at Dirt Dalton, the man's hands fumbling slightly with the flint. "Don't… !" Reek begged. "You can't."

He did. The spark flashed.

The candle hissed into life. Dirt Dalton lit another two candlesticks, before passing them around and throwing the fire onto the bed and into the pile of kindling.

The fires were crackling, fizzing and sparking for more. Growing into life. The flames were hungry like rabid dogs, blazing even despite the cold wind shaking the tower.

Flames fluttered from both corners of the room, but they were already jumping to the drapes. Then the Myrish rug over the stone floors, and then the bed.

Arya was shrieking. She was shrieking. Reek was screaming too, but he couldn't hear any words.

It took two men to drag Reek out of the chambers - hoisting his frail body upwards and dragging him away. He flailed and scratched and squirmed but it wasn't enough.

The Bolton men were already stomping down the staircase, moving quickly as the fires crackled to life behind them.

The sight of Arya - slender, frail and broken Arya - thrashing against the bedpost haunted Reek's eyes.

The hissing was turning into a roar. Smoke billowing out through the doorway. They soaked the floors and stairs in lamp oil. The entire West Tower could be consumed. The door was blazing, the flames spreading down the tapestries over the snows.

The Bolton men finally released Reek. They dropped him onto the stones, like discarding a hunk of rubbish, and a heavy boot kicked into his chest. Reek could only stare upwards from the floor, mouth agape, at the flames and smoke hissing above of him.

He heard laughter. They were laughing at him, laughing at his expression. He was Reek, the court jester, and they laughed at him.

"Remember, boys," one of the men said behind Reek. "The wildlings did this. The wildlings killed Arya Stark."

The fire was roaring now like an animal, hissing so madly. The only thing that Reek could hear was Ramsay's laughter.

The tower was blazing, the heat so intense that it scorched his face even from the bottom of stairs. Burning ash snowed down the keep. They had left the Lady of Winterfell to her bed, Reek thought numbly. Death by fire.

"Grab that thing," Halvert ordered, pointing to Reek in the same way he might point at horseshit. "We got our orders."

Reek was a trembling wreck. He was pathetic, mutilated lame excuse of a man. No - less than a man, a thing . Reek, reek, it rhymes with weak…

She was the only one in this twice-cursed castle that had ever treated him as a human. The only decent human among them. She was a better person than Reek could ever be.

They left her to burn .

The Bolton men were stepped towards him, moving to grab him. Reek was left paralysed, looking upwards at the burning, howling tower. Ash and soot flickered down the stairwell, burning sparks fluttering down into Reek's face like painful kisses.

The whole castle was mad.

And suddenly Reek was running. Running upwards, clattering over the stairs and into smoke.

He heard the bark of laughter behind him. "Oi! Where do you think you're going?"

Reek didn't care. He just kept on running.

A blazing tapestry crashed off the wall, showering sparks all over the stairwell. Fires fluttered upwards, but Reek kept on running. None of the Bolton men moved to follow him - they were just laughing at him. Laughing at his desperate attempt to die by running into a burning tower.

Smoke, so much smoke - he couldn't breathe, he couldn't see. Everything was just black and hot, flames dancing over the stones. The walls were on fire, and the flames were spreading upwards to the ceiling. He couldn't hear a thing; there was absolutely nothing but the howling crackle of the fires.

No, he realised suddenly. I hear her . He could hear screaming. She was screaming.

The tower shuddered and Reek almost toppled, but he clambered upwards and kept on running. He tried to push his head to the floor to escape the smoke - crawling - on his hands and knees.

The doorway. The doorway was on fire. Reek couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, but…

But she is screaming.

There was no decision. She was screaming, and he need to go through.

He braced himself, and barged through the blazing timbers with all the might his broken body still had.

Pain . So much pain. He felt the fire bite against flailed skin, burning tendrils whip his arms and chest, the sparks catching his rags and white hair. He was on fire - his shit-stained clothes were burning, the flames lashing his skin. His rags had been soiled with piss, shit and blood, and they were burning.

Reek could have screamed, but he couldn't even breathe.

There was soot everywhere, burning ash scorching his face. He squirmed and mewled, rolling over the floor like a mewling babe, trying to strip off his clothes. The fires had engulfed the entire chamber, howling all around him. Like one of the seven hells themselves had overflowed, to consume these horrible chambers.

It felt like the fire was scouring his flesh bare.

This is the first time I've been free, he thought suddenly. He didn't know where the thought came from, but it jarred his mind. The first time he had ever been away from the Boltons' control, out of those rags. The first true decision that Reek had ever made for himself.

It hurt, it hurt so, so much, but he kept on crawling through the fire.

He saw her. The air was so hot that it was flickering, but he could see her. Arya was still chained to the bedpost, flailing and trying desperately to swat the fires away from her. She was screaming, weeping, trembling - eyes bulging so madly they might pop.

The flames snapped around them, like a pack of dogs barking hungrily. The walls, the bed, the lady's vanity, the closet full of fine dresses, and the furniture - it was all on fire.

"It's alright," Reek heard himself saying. "It's alright, I'm here, I'm here…"

She reached for him desperately, hand engulfing his. Their hands were touching. It felt like the first true human contact Reek had felt in months, years. Nobody hitting him, just holding him.

Even despite his flesh screaming, he could feel her. He could feel her crying, could feel her against him. His heart was fluttering like he had never known, and then suddenly she was clinging onto him for dear life.

Frantically, he tried yanking her away, but then he felt metal jar. The chain on her other wrist rang. She was still bound to the burning bed. The mattress and sheets were on the floor, where she had tried to throw them away to shield herself.

Wide eyes wet with tears stared up at him. "Theon…" Arya gasped.

He was left naked, covered in ash, his scarred and tortured body pressed up against hers. "It's alright," he gasped. "I'm here."

His head was foggy. Suffocating. Couldn't breathe, smoke burning his lungs. The ceiling was shuddering. The fires burning away at the roof. He didn't know which death would come first - he didn't know if they whether they would burn, choke, or be crushed by the debris - but he knew it wouldn't be long now.

They both turned to stare at Arya's skinny, manacled wrist. Her skin was mutilated and blistered from where she had tried to drag herself out of it, but the Bolton men had clamped her so tight.

Hands groped at the steel links, as if he could tear it apart. He didn't have even have enough fingers left for a proper grip. Even the metal burned, it must have been so painful for her. "I've got you," Reek gasped. "I've got you."

He could feel the burning bed creaking as they both tried to pull.

Trying desperately to pull her free.

The steel was solid. The bed post was hard oak; solid and thick, it would not snap. The wood was charring, but old wood like that burnt slowly. Her body would burn before the oak did.

Every heartbeat was pure, frantic panic.

What about her arm? Reek gripped her arm, squeezing. There was no time to be gentle. The metal was too strong, the oak was too thick, but what about flesh and bone? He needed to snap the bone, or cut off the hand.

The bed was already on fire, the flames creeping closer even despite her desperate attempts to push the mattress and sheets away. I need a blade, Reek thought desperately. I need a sword, or a knife - maybe even just a poker .

There was nothing but fire. Nothing but hell.

They dragged the four-poster bed away from the walls as far as it would go, trying to hide under it as they pulled. They threw whatever they could to form a barrier against the flames. There was too much smoke, too much hot ash blazing against his face. He needed a tool, just something to give him a bit more strength.

There's nothing sharp, he realised. They hadn't allowed sharp objects into Arya Stark's room, not since she had been found bloody, with a sewing needle on the floor. There were still bloody scars across her wrists, where the maester had ministered to her. He grasped her arm, braced it against the bedpost.

Could I lever it? Break the bone, drag it through? Maybe just pull it enough to snap…

She was shrieking, wailing in agony. It was her arm . Reek could have screamed, with both pain and frustration.

I need to do this, he thought desperately, pushing his weight into it. I need to… I can do this… I have to…

… I just have to be the hero…

The tower rumbled, the first supports already quivering. He looked down into her eyes, and he realised that he couldn't. He looked at her, and he just knew.

The chains were tight. She was trapped. Their skin, their flesh, was their prison.

I can't do it .

The flames crackled and laughed, mocking him.

"Run," Arya gasped, tears running down her eyes. "Just run. You can still get out… go!"

Time seemed to freeze. She was on the floor, frail and innocent, bloody and maimed, the flames and ash spitting at her. She needs me, he thought. I can't save her, but she needs me .

"No," Reek shook his head. "I don't want to."

"You have to-"

"I'm not leaving you." He knelt down by her, pressing up close.

"Please," she wept. "Please, Theon, just ru-"

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, hugging her as tightly as he could. "My name is Reek, my lady," he croaked as he wept. "Reek." It rhymes with shriek .

Fire was a horrible death. It was slow, gruesome and agonising, and he would feel every moment of it. Reek had seen it before. He had seen men watching their own skin slough from their flesh, melting and dribbling like tallow, screaming and shrieking, right up until their

eyes popped. Burning was like being maimed, being eaten alive by the flames. He could hardly imagine a worse way to die.

"W-w-why?" Arya stuttered.

Reek gulped. "I won't allow let you go through it alone."

I hadn't been able to help her before, but he couldn't… I need to…

There was a heartbeat of stunned silence, and then Arya hugged him back. They both cradled each, dropping to the floor in the middle of the blazing room. The ceiling was alight like a sky of burning red - spewing ash over them.

"Jeyne," he heard Arya whisper in his ear, through desperate sobs. "My name's Jeyne, I…"

"Jeyne," Reek repeated. "Jeyne."

Reek held her so tight, like he could smother her with his body and

take the flames for her. His body was being scorched, but he could

hardly feel it. He was on top of her, trying to shield her from the ash.

Outside, he heard the storm howl against the fire's roar.

This was never how I wanted it. Any of it. I just wanted a family, I wanted to prove myself. I wanted to belong . He had never wanted the tarred corpses of children, or dead and bloated drowned men, or the charnel-prisons of flayed skin and blood.

He never wanted to disappoint his fathers - neither of them, Ned Stark, Balon Greyjoy - or his brothers - Robb, Rodrik, Maron, Bran and Rickon. He had wanted the north and the Iron Islands. He had wanted to be a man. They had warned him, they had given him a chance. He could have been a good man, but he…

I deserve it. I deserve Reek .

Still, then he looked down at Jeyne's wide, beautiful eyes and, well, maybe there were worse ways to die.

They held each so close, like lovers embracing, pushed against the smoking stone. They were both crying, and Reek could taste the salt of her tears on his scorched lips.

Reek could have laughed. It was romantic, even; the Prince of Winterfell and the Lady Stark, holding each close as their castle burned.

No, not romantic . There was nothing romantic about it. Still, it was all Reek had to hold on to.

She wasn't shaking any more, she wasn't screaming. She was still weeping into his shoulders, but they weren't fighting it. He didn't want to die fighting. He wanted to find whatever peace a creature like him deserved.

"I… I don't…" Jeyne wept, before she gulped. "The mother used to say that the Seven were kind. Gentle. That all our sins are washed away, they'd welcome you into their light."

Reek only nodded, barely able to hear her panicked mutter into his ear. The flames licked at his toes, and Reek tried to curl up as small as possible. The red priests said that death by fire was a clean death. A pure death. He wasn't sure where that thought came from.

The Drowned God had renounced him. It seemed urgent - he needed to find another deity quickly. The Drowned God was cruel, the Red God was harsh, and the Old Gods were silent and distant. Reek just wanted something better, something kinder. "The Mother's mercy," Reek croaked. "The Father's judgement."

"I tried to be good. I tried. The Father will judge me as good, won't He?" she murmured desperately.

"He will," Reek gasped. The fires were crawling closer, so hot even the stones burnt. "You are."

"The…" Jeyne yelped in pain as ash fell from the ceiling, before she gasped, "The sisters said that fair maidens and heroes hear singing when they die." Her frail voice nearly shattered. "… I loved singing."

Reek's vision blurred in blackness. His head felt delirious with agony and fear, but trying to think of a song. There was nowhere to hide, the flames were coming for them - they were burning up through the floor now. A song, Reek thought, she deserves a song .

In the moment, there was only one tune he could think, the only one that scorched and dry lips could gasp out. "… The-the Dornishman's wife," Reek gasped, shivering, "was as fair as the sun, and her kisses… her kisses were warmer than spring…"

Jeyne didn't react, she only shuddered into his shoulder. Reek took a deep breath of smoke, and wheezed out, "… But the Dornishman's blade…" A coughing fit broke his words, spluttering them out. "Dornishman's blade… was made of black steel… and its kiss was a terrible thing."

"The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed." Crash . The ceiling collapsed, dust and ash hissing everywhere. "… In a voice smooth and soft as a peach. But the Dornishman's blade had a… !" The groan of timber supports beneath them, the tower wobbling… "… had a song of its own, and a bite as cold and as sharp as a leech!"

Reek didn't even know why he was singing, why he was so desperate to force out the words out of his throat. The song was an absolutely horrible, horrible one - such an inappropriate song for the circumstances. It felt jarring, incoherent, but now, now Reek could think of nothing else to sing.

It was supposed to be a merry, bawdy chanty thing, to be sung in taverns among friends. It was supposed to celebrate life, it wasn't

meant for… for…

"But as he lay on the ground, darkness around, the taste of blood on his tongue… his brothers knelt by him and prayed him prayer… !" Reek felt the flames roll their barbed tongues over the scarred skin on his back. Like being whipped by invisible tendrils. Reek bit back a scream, strangling out the words. "… and he smiled and he laughed and he sung! "

"Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done," Reek choked, as Jeyne wept into his shoulder. "The Dornishman's taken my life…"

Jeyne's arm was clenching around him, so tight it was choking. "But what does it matter…" The fires inching closer, the pain. The pain! "But what does it matter, for all men must die… !"

They couldn't scurry away any further. There is nowhere to hide, there never was. Reek squeezed her hand, even as he shudderedand coughed and cried, and even as the white agony began to eat - for a moment, for a single moment - he remembered what it was, to be home.

Gods, gods, gods. The fire… It was all around him, in the floor, in the walls, in the air… The fire was like a huge monster, a giant slobbering yellow monster as it opened its maw, licking at his skin and beginning to eat. "… and I've… and I've tasted… tasted th… the… ahh! Oh gods, no, no… Theon! AHH! THEON - "

The flames swallowed them.

…

The Battle of Winterfell, "The Battle of the Snows"

Date: 301 AC

Place: Lake on the fields outside Winterfell, the north

Combatants:

The northern coalition:

Free folk:

Assorted wildling clans and warbands. The north:

House Manderly;

House Woolfield,

House Whitehill,

House Poole,

House Waterman, ● House Locke,

● House Flint, ● House Umber;

House Mollen,

House Moss,

House Lake,

House Mormont,

House Glover; ○ House Bole,

○ House Woods,

House Forrester,

House Karstark (nominally). Northern mountain clans:

House Burley,

House Flint,

House Harclay,

House Liddle,

House Norrey,

House Wull.

House Bolton

The north, led by House Bolton:

House Cerwyn,

House Dustin,

House Hornwood,

House Karstark,

House Ryswell,

House Slate,

House Stout

House Condon,

● House Tallhart.

The riverlands:

House Frey,

Factions of Houses Bracken, Blackwood, Vance, and Ryger.

Strength:

The northern coalition:

12,000 wildlings,

Including 500 giants, fewer mammoths,

6000 northmen,

Sonagon.

8,000 northmen,

2000 Freys under Ser Aenys Frey,

1,500 rivermen, largely Freys, rallied by Ser Walder Rivers.

Commanders:

The northern coalition:

King Jon Snow,

Tormund Giantsbane,

The Weeper,

Val of Whitetree,

The Lord of Bones,

Ser Wylis Manderly,

Jeremy Locke (betrayer),

Lord Greatjon Umber,

Alysane Mormont,

Robett Glover (betrayer),

Old Torghen Flint,

Hugo Wull,

Morgan Liddle,

Brandon Norrey (betrayer). House Bolton:

Lord Roose Bolton,

Ser Aenys Frey,

Ser Walder Rivers,

Lord Rodrik Ryswell,

Lord Ramsay Snow.

Prelude:

The northern coalition declares an alliance with the free folk and declares rebellion against House Bolton. The coalition begins a campaign to rescue Lady Arya Stark and take Winterfell in the name of the Starks. King Jon Snow leads hosts from White Harbour and Castle Black, in a slow westerly conquest of Bolton and Bolton-allied

lands. The coalition slowly approaches from the Dreadfort in the west, to allow them time to rally to more houses to their cause, to combine with forces from Glover, Mormont, Umber and northern mountain clans, and to integrate the free folk hosts with allied northmen. King Jon Snow's ice dragon makes the coalition's armies seemingly unstoppable.

This, however, grants House Bolton plenty of time to prepare. Roose Bolton consolidates his power in Winterfell, and the northern coalition's eager search for allies allows Bolton the opportunity to slip his own sympathizers into enemy ranks. House Bolton successfully manages to separate and harry many of their enemy forces, gradually weakening them during their march. The Battle of the Weeping Water highlights several weaknesses in the northern coalition's armies and within their command.

Ramsay Bolton breaks away and disappears with his own force of men, loyal to him alone, to seek an advantage against Jon Snow and his dragon.

After the destruction of the Twins, reinforcements rallied in the riverlands, led by Ser Walder Rivers and the remnants of House Frey, ride north to assist House Bolton.

Battle:

The northern coalition prepares for siege against Winterfell, encamped on the plains a half-day's march away from the castle. The winter snowstorms threaten the march, and the army is plagued by command-level personality conflicts and conflicting secondary objectives, leading to a state of uneasy tension and potential conflicts within the host of the allied coalition.

News arrives of a naval assault against White Harbour. The command is torn, uncertain about their course of action. Debate is derailed by the spread of false information by Bolton sympathisers within the allied host.

Miscommunication, false information and false orders are spread throughout the camp at night, exploiting the simmering instability within the northern coalition's forces. The Bolton forces emerge from Winterfell under cover of darkness and march quickly against the encamped host.

Robett Glover, in command of the scouts and outriders, deliberately neglects his duties. The camp is given no warning of the ambush.

False allies turn their blades within the camp, burning tents and inciting mobs. The mammoths stampede, and assassins strike. In the chaos, nobody can tell which party is responsible.

Unbeknownst, Ramsay Bolton (masquerading as the Dragonguard steward 'Harlow') effectively poisons Sonagon's meals over the course of months. Ramsay's loyal men, the Bastard's Boys, are smuggled into the northern coalition's numbers. Ramsay Snow poisons the Dragonguard at their posts, and spreads false information and then ambushes a wounded Jon Snow as he attempts to rally Sonagon.

The chain of command is left uncertain by King Jon Snow's disappearance. Traitors have crept inside the command's ranks, all the while the first wave of the Bolton ambush collides with perimeter forces. Amidst attack, tensions between northmen and free folk boil over. The Weeper - believing that Ser Wylis Manderly and his men are among the betrayers - kills the heir to White Harbour and all his knights.

Cavalry led by Ser Walder Rivers pierces the coalition's bulwark, while Roose Bolton leads from the rear. Superior discipline from the Bolton men against the camp's disorganised state proves devastating.

The coalition's perimeter fighting lines break, all the while the high command struggles to determine leadership. The command's indecisiveness is fostered and exploited by traitors within the ranks, until Lady Val of Whitetree proves vital in establishing a command,

subsequently rallying the allied forces to counterattack. The joint efforts of Tormund Giantsbane and Lord Greatjon Umber succeed in holding the line, while Val re-musters their men.

The storm continues to grow. The snows begin to work against Lord Bolton, routing his cavalry and hindering his infantry, and spoiling his plan for a coordinated attack. The Bolton ambush flounders in the poor visibility and broken communication lines.

The arrival of the giants starts to turn the battle. The Weeper manages to break Ser Walder River's cavalry charge.

Jon Snow and Ramsay Bolton fight on the ice amidst heavy snows, but Jon is bleeding, injured and outnumbered, and loses his connection to the near and desperately ill dragon. Ramsay captures him, and attempts to hold him hostage. After turning the tide of the battle, Val of Whitetree musters a score of raiders and turns to rescue Jon. The Bastard's Boys are routed, Ramsay defeats Val, but Val kills Ramsay as she falls.

The Bolton ambush fails, and their men forced to fall back. Despite severe losses, and the efforts by Bolton sympathisers to spread confusion in the ranks, the northern coalition wins by pure numbers. Wildlings lead the front ranks, breaking the Bolton men in the snows.

Once his defeat becomes clear, Warden of the North and Lord Paramount Roose Bolton surrenders non-violently.

The wildling forces under The Weeper, Tormund Giantsbane, and the Lord of Bones hound the fleeing Bolton forces through the snows, chasing them down. Winterfell is left undermanned, and the castle falls easily to wildling warbands in the morning of the following day.

The fighting begins after the hour of ghosts, lasts all night, and continues until noon the next day. The storm does not subside. Extreme casualties on both sides.

In the fall of Winterfell, Arya Stark is murdered. Her tower is set alight. Other highborn hostages, including Lady Jonelle Cerwyn, Lady Berena Talhart and Lady Walda Bolton, are massacred and mutilated. The deed is blamed on blood-crazed wildling warbands.

Casualties:

~7,000 of House Bolton and allies.

~13,000 of the northern coalition.

Lady Arya Stark.

Result:

Pyrrhic victory for the northern coalition.

Jon Snow takes Winterfell, regardless.

Ice dragon is left sickly, state unknown.

Several highborn hostages are murdered. Nobody who was capable of testifying that Arya Stark was an imposter survives the battle, with the exception of Lord Bolton. Lord Bolton does not testify, and her identity remains undiscovered.

Extreme tensions within the northern coalition.

The Attack on White Harbour

Date: 301 AC

Place: White Harbour, the Bite

Combatants:

House Manderly:

The Defence at White Harbour:

● 26 Manderly war galleys;

19 participating in the blockade, another 7 tied up in port during their rest-shift.

6 requisitioned merchant vessels, including the Merry Midwife,

Garrison of ~500 men-at-arms,

~1,000 militia and volunteers.

Between 3,000~6,000 spearwives, old men, and young boys; the families of raiders, and refugees from the Wall.

Mercenary Fleet:

10 dromonds, formerly part of the royal fleet,

17 war-galleys, formerly part of the Redwyne fleet,

21 assorted sellsail vessels,

~6,000 mercenaries, sellswords and pirates.

Commanders:

White Harbour:

Lord Wyman Manderly,

Ser Mardrick Manderly,

Ser Garth Woolfield,

Robin Flint,

Ser Bartimus,

Ser Jorah Mormont,

Mother Mole. Mercenary Fleet:

Aurane Waters, the Lord of Waters,

Ser Lothor Brune,

Oswell Kettleblack,

Salladhor Saan (betrayer).

Prelude:

After the Scouring of The Twins, the Lord Paramount of the Trident, Lord of Harrenhal, and Lord Protector of Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn, Petyr Baelish, offered support and coin towards Lord Paramount Roose Bolton's efforts against the King-Beyond-the-Wall Jon Snow. Lord Baelish's coin helps House Bolton to remain strong, to maintain their levies, and to ensure that their bannerman loyalty despite the northern coalition's conquest of Bolton territory.

Lord Bolton planned a simultaneous assault on both the northern coalition forces in the field, and their primary seat of power, White Harbour. Lord Baelish sponsors the White Harbour attack.

The naval raid was part of a coordinated attack intended to pursue several objectives at the same time; the recapture of Sansa Stark, the destruction of the northern coalition's seat of power, the capture of highborn captives, the distraction the ice dragon away from the primary battle should efforts to kill or disable the dragon fail, and to more broadly defeat the northern coalition and its allies on two separate synchronous fronts.

Lord Baelish, partly motivated by strong suspicions that House Manderly was behind the disappearance of Sansa Stark and Ser Jorah Mormont, financed the assault from the background. Lord Baelish also heavily funded efforts to sabotage the dragon, as it was an obstacle against Lord Baelish's own ambitions towards the north.

Aurane Waters, former Master of Ships to the Iron Throne, now pirate lord of the Stepstones and self-styled Lord of the Waters, leads the assault against White Harbour, commanding dromonds and galleys stolen from the royal fleet and the Redwyne fleet. Mercenaries, sellswords and oarsmen staffing the ships were recruited from the Stepstones, Tyrosh, Myr, Lys, and Braavos. Ser Lothor Brune and Oswell Kettleblack commands the mercenary fleet's ground forces on Lord Baelish's behalf during the assault.

A large number of free folk refugees were being housed in the city, led by the Mother Mole, the leader of the Cult of the White Dragon. Some several thousand free folk, primarily the families of raiders and clansmen, arrived from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea to White Harbour over the course of several months.

Salladhor Saan, on assignment for King-Beyond-the-Wall Jon Snow, joins up with the mercenary fleet as it was recruiting in Braavos. Upon hearing of the attack on White Harbour, Saan joined the pirate lord's fleet, pledging apparent loyalty.

Lord Godric Borrell of Sweetsister was offered an alliance with the north by Sansa Stark. Lord Borrell provided early warning of the attack to Oldcastle as the mercenary fleet passed the Bite.

Battle :

Warning from Sweetsister sent by Lord Godric Borrell provides some time to build a defence. Timing coincides with Sansa Stark's arrival in White Harbour, and her companion Ser Jorah Mormont joins to lead the defenders at the harbour.

The mercenaries attack with overwhelming force, and their fleet makes short work of the freshly commissioned navy of White Harbour.

Sellswords and sellsails overwhelm the outer harbour's garrison. The Merchant's Quay and the Fisher's Port are swiftly lost, and the Manderly men retreat to the inner harbour. Meanwhile, the cityfolk run to the Wolf's Den and the New Castle for shelter. The sellswords push up through Fishfoot Square and to the gates of the Castle Stair, burning and razing the city as they go.

Manderly soldiers at New Castle manage to hold, but the city itself is left defenceless. The White Harbour defenders can only hold out at a few locations, while the rest of the city burns. The sellswords are given free rein to loot and pillage and raze as much destruction as possible.

The defence at the inner harbour collapses, but the sellswords fail to break through to the Wolf's Den. The sudden disappearance of their commander, Ser Lothor Brune, causes the attack to stall.

The sellswords attempt to take prisoners of the smallfolk, and capture refugees taking shelter at the Old Mint and Sept of Snows. The mercenaries try to force their captives back to the ships, but they encounter unexpected resistance from the free folk refugees in the city. Riots are triggered in the streets.

As the sellswords pierce further through the city, the fighting dissolves into mass pillaging and looting. The leader of the free folk refugees, Mother Mole, raises the wildlings into a frenzy. The mobs force the attackers to fall back.

Meanwhile, Salladhor Saan, captaining a single ship among the mercenary fleet, waits until Aurane Waters is fully invested into the battle on the docks, before changing his banners to support King Jon Snow, and proceeds to ambush the other vessels from behind. Several dromonds are captured as such, devastating the

mercenaries. In the confusion, several other vessels botch their retreats, and are seized by the mobs on the harbour.

The sellswords are pushed out of the city, and Aurane Waters is forced to retreat on his flagship, the former Lord Tywin, with half his force and twenty-four ships, remaining.

The battle lasts from early morning until dusk. Even after the fleet's retreat, large groups of sellswords are left abandoned in the city, and the riots continue to rage. It takes two days for the Manderly garrison and reinforcements from the surrounding area to restore order.

Result:

House Manderly victory, although with very heavy damage to the city itself.

All twenty-six Manderly galleys in the harbour are destroyed or damaged, along with all six requisitioned merchant vessels, but twelve enemy hulls are captured, including the former Sweet Cersei, a flagship-class, four-hundred-oar dromond, and the Lioness and the Queen Margaery, eighty and one-hundred-and-twenty-oar classdromonds respectively.

Large number of casualties among the free folk.

Sansa Stark remains uncaptured.

Aftermath:

The attack leaves White Harbour and its docks heavily damaged, with the breakout of fires along the inner harbour and core merchant districts. Riots are triggered between free folk refugees and White Harbour civilians.

As the mercenary fleet flees through Bite, Lord Godric Borrell smothers of the Night Lamp at Sweetsister. Shipwreckers and

lampers associated with House Borrell carry dummy flares along the beaches. At the lord's orders, the lights of Sisterton are dowsed.

The fleeing mercenary fleet under Aurane Waters lose their bearings in the night, and significant elements of the fleet are foundered against the rocks of the Three Sisters. Less than a quarter of the assembled fleet makes it out of the Bite.

A large investment by Petyr Baelish is spoiled.

Author Notes:

Well, I try to avoid doing this, but there's been enough comments to justify a blanket response, I think.

Winterfell was never going to fall easily. The Boltons were always going to find a way to fight back, and it wasn't even just the Boltons this time. You had Roose Bolton, Petyr Baelish, and the conclave of maesters - some of the best players of the game in all of Westeros - all coming together to decide that Jon Snow and his dragon needs to die.

Regardless of Jon's leadership ability, political acumen, his age

that type of opposition is not something you can brush past. That's the type of resources and sabotage that would hurt absolutely anybody.

Littlefinger has ambitious on the north of his own, and Jon was ruining them. The best outcome for Littlefinger was if the Boltons and Jon would both kill each other, leaving the north vulnerable for Littlefinger to swoop in. Littlefinger thought that Jon was going to win too easily, however, and so suddenly there's a lot of Littlefinger's support going to back the Boltons to even the odds.

The maesters are regarded as completely independent, but there have been more than a few times when they have pulled

the strings behind the scenes. One of the big reasons that Roose was able to recruit so many traitors was because every northern house had a maester in it, who was subtly leaning against Jon. After all, maesters serve the realm, while Jon is the leader of wildlings. The maesters are the closest thing to dragon-killers that Westeros knows - they don't like dragons, they are responsible for the Targaryen dragons dying. The maesters have manipulated wars and poisoned dragons before, and they fully capable of doing it again (see the maester conspiracy).

And then there's Roose Bolton, professional backstabber with a few decades more experience than Jon. Roose was always, always, going to find some vulnerability, any vulnerability, and then stab a dagger into it.

It's like chess; imagine a competent-but-still-beginner player going up against a grandmaster. If the younger player starts with enough of a material advantage, then the grandmaster is not guaranteed to win. However, it is absolutely certain that the grandmaster will still find a way to make the other guy bleed for it.

As for Ramsay, well, he got involved because Roose needed somebody who: a) has experience with poisons (which Ramsay does - see Domeric); b) is a good liar (which Ramsay is - see Theon); c) has investment enough to be dependable for a high-stakes task (which Ramsay does, actually) and d) is a very, very good murderer (which Ramsay very much is). Ramsay fits the qualifications of someone who could do very well in those circumstances.

Just because you don't like the character, don't pretend that he is totally incompetent. In the books, Roose tolerated Ramsay, not because of any emotion, but because Ramsay was very good at killing all of House Bolton's enemies. In the books, Ramsay has captured three of the strongest castles in the realm (Hornwood, Winterfell, Moat Cailin) and defeated much larger

forces to do so. Ramsay has cunning enough to assemble and lead his Bastard's Boys, and singlehandedly go from being a disregarded bastard to the Lord of Winterfell. That is not incompetent; Ramsay is exactly the sort of person that Roose would exploit for a task like infiltrating an army. After all, there's nothing for Roose to lose if it fails, but everything to gain.

In the books, Ramsay has been well-established as a major foil for Jon and I can all but guarantee that book-Jon will have a lot of trouble with Ramsay too. Just because the show did a lot of things wrong, doesn't mean that you should cross it all out just because of 'twenty good men'. Don't conflate them.

And, while I'm at it, in the books Ramsay's weapon of choice was a falchion. He only ever used a bow in the show. Ramsay was described as being very strong and ferocious with a blade, although with little skill and proper form. More like an animal with a sword. There have been over a dozen reviews so far saying "you powered up Ramsay by making him a swordsman - he should be a bowman!" which is just, no, not true.

This is very much the books, not the show.

Again, thanks to Diablo Snowblind for his beta/editing work, check out his Gundam: Iron Blooded Orphans story.

Chapter 35

Chapter 35

The King in the North

Even after the battle, it wasn't over. In a fairer world there would have been a moment to rest, a moment to think. But the chance never came; the challenges kept coming, there was never a moment to breathe, and that just made everything more tiring. Like Jon had to force himself to keep on going, to pick up the pieces even after it all collapsed, trying to stop everything from shattering.

The storms faded, but they never quite broke. The snows never stopped. The winds were still buffeting the towers, the snow blanketing the land. The world outside Winterfell's walls became smothered in white and cold. The clouds above were grey, and dark.

Lady Barbrey Dustin and the last of the Bolton garrison had managed to hold out for the better part of a week by barricading themselves in the crypts, and it took Jon most of that time just to find his feet again.

There were a hundred schisms in the wake of the battle. A hundred crises that he couldn't handle, a hundred emergencies that just overwhelmed him. Reports were coming in daily of skirmishes as far south as Cerwyn, as warbands of the free folk pursued the surviving Boltons. Jon was left frail and injured, left behind, trying to sort it all out.

The first time that Jon finally laid eyes upon Roose Bolton, the Lord of the Dreadfort was behind bars, in bloody rags. Rattleshirt hadn't been gentle when they captured him; Lord Bolton hadn't resisted, but the wildlings had still stripped him of his armour, beat him with the butts of their spears, and frogmarched him through the cold into

Winterfell's prisons. Then they had beat him again before putting him in chains.

And yet, despite it all, Roose Bolton didn't twitch. The man's face was bloody, his left eye sealed shut with swollen bruises, chains on his wrists and ankles, but he was still, straight-backed, and composed in a corner of the stone cell. Most injured people couldn't help but tremble - it was a reflex, and yet not for Roose. He didn't even twitch. That sort of eerie, inhuman calm made the whole room uneasy.

Roose Bolton was behind bars, beaten and in chains, and yet it was like Jon still felt the weight of his wounds more than Roose.

There was a long moment of silence as they both stared at each other. It was the first time they had ever seen each other, the first time that Jon had laid his own eyes on the man who'd brought him to the edge of ruin. Jon was still staggering with every movement, bloody bandages still wrapped around his torso under his furs. The snows, his injuries, the battle and the fallout had left Jon's face pale and sickly, while Roose's was bloated and red.

They looked at each other, unnerving pale blue eyes against barely restrained grey.

"Is this the interrogation?" Roose asked finally, his voice a croak. His calm eyes took in each of them in turn. "I suppose it is time."

Jon felt his hands curl into fists. That voice, that calm, calm voice…

So much anger, pounding through his body, he could barely breathe.

He needed to say something, but that rage…

"This one is still too smug by half," Rattleshirt growled, bones clinking as he walked up next to Jon. The Lord of Bones had a bloody brow, and a bone dagger in his hand. "Let me spent some time with him first. I'll make him talk."

"Excuse me? 'Make me talk'?" Roose said, managing to sound mildly amused. "I'm curious, how exactly are you going to do that?"

Rattleshirt growled, and would have lunged at Roose, if not for Tormund holding him back. "You want to fucking bloody see-!"

"Enough of this," Tormund ordered, glaring at Rattleshirt. "This fucking leech," he spat at Lord Bolton's face. He didn't even twitch. "loses his bloody head, that much is certain. Don't let him provoke you any more than that."

Rattleshirt scowled angrily, but Jon's gaze flickered behind him. Lord Greatjon Umber stood by the doorway, with pure, silent hate. The Greatjon's silence felt more dangerous, more murderous, than when he was roaring bloody fury.

"Why, Roose?" Lord Umber said, slowly. His eyes were on the prisoner, narrowed and dark, all his hatred focused on the man behind bars. "For all this time… for all those months I rotted in the Twins, locked in the same cell as my own son's headless corpse, I wanted to ask that one question." He took a brittle breath. "Why did you betray us, why did you kill Robb Stark?"

Roose's bloody lips twisted, like he could have smiled. "I never expected to see you again, Jon. Not with my own eyes. You look… well."

" Answer ." The Greatjon's voice was lower than a growl.

Roose shrugged, his pale blue eyes still and calm. "The boy was a weak fool, he and his Tully mother and his Westerling whore. He led us all to the brink of ruin, in wars and lands that didn't concern us. Ironborn in Winterfell, ironborn in Moat Cailin, wildlings at the wall, winter howling from the north, crops rotting in the fields for lack of men to the harvest, and he had us marching on Lannisters . He ignored my advice, and he played the part of a foolish boy to the last. Tywin Lannister simply made me an attractive offer." He tilted his head. "I saw a chance and I took it. I am a pragmatist ."

"I… proclaimed him my king…" The Greatjon's hands trembled, his eyes bulged. His breath was faint, almost strangled. "Three times, Roose. Three times… the Boltons have risen against Winterfell. There will never be a fourth. You will be the last."

"So it would seem." Roose Bolton said, his voice a croak, but his posture uncaring. He didn't even flinch.

Jon ignored it all. He couldn't talk. He couldn't think. He didn't trust himself to open his mouth. He could only stare, his hands trembling.

Rattleshirt stepped forward, bones clattering. He had jagged bone blade in his hands, holding it like a saw. "I see no point in drawing it out," Rattleshirt growled. "Do you want to do the honours, or should I?"

"He has crimes he needs to answer for," the Greatjon muttered. It was weird to hear the Greatjon speaking so quietly, so low. "Confessions that he must give."

"Aye, I get that," Tormund agreed, as Rattleshirt spat. "And he can he either give his answers and lose his head swiftly, or maybe he'll decide to be stubborn and lose his arms and legs first."

Rattleshirt grinned evilly, like nothing would please him more. "Not the arms and legs," the Lord of Bones snarled. "I'd start with the fingers and toes first, and I'd shred him inch by inch. Let him see his body being cut down slowly, as I make a necklace from his bones. I'll cook his own meat and make him eat it. He will do whatever I want him to, I promise it."

Roose raised an eyebrow. His eyes were on Jon, unblinking. He didn't even look at Rattleshirt. "And then will you cut off my cock and force me to swallow it? I'm guessing needles in my eye as well. You'd probably pull out my teeth - brutes like you tend to think that's the height of torture. Do you think that more pain equals more compliance?" Roose croaked, that half-smile still playing over his lips, like this was all just a little joke. Rattleshirt didn't reply. "Low

cunning. No imagination. I have been on the other side of the knife more times than you have. There is nothing you can do to me that I haven't done myself. I have seen torture, and all the ways to resist it. I have made songs of the screams of better men than you."

His pale blue eyes were still boring into Jon. "Defeat is a state of mind more than a circumstance, boy. You can never be beaten if you do not let yourself lose." He turned to glance at Rattleshirt. "So go ahead, wildling; work your trade if you wish. The worst comes to it, I think I will just bite off my tongue or choke myself until I die."

Nobody replied. If looks could kill, Roose would have been burnt alive. "But my confession isn't the point, is it?" Lord Bolton mused. "You don't really care about what confessions I have to give, they are irrelevant. You just want to hurt me, to punish me for my crimes. Will my torment make you feel better? Will it ease your minds? Which is fair enough, really; who am I to judge you for taking that satisfaction? But at least be honest with yourself for your reasons."

The voice was a croak through cracked lips, but still so soft, so gentle. Even when he was in chains, Roose had a way of silencing the room as he spoke. He's smiling, Jon thought hollowly. He's smiling.

"Nevertheless," Roose said after a pause. "It will not be necessary, for I will cooperate with you completely. Pray tell, what do wish to know, Your Grace ?"

He did as well. Lord Bolton answered absolutely every question without hesitation. He didn't shift, he didn't stammer, he didn't even begin to resist in the least. Questions were answered exhaustively, with details expounded on to the second and third degrees and beyond. The lords spent the full day down in that cell, nothing but questioning him. Afterwards they walked outside the prisons and bellowed at each other. Men-at-arms scampered off to search out the men and women who'd been named.

Jon could hardly even twitch, after it all. Traitors. He just felt numb. His mind was spinning. More traitors than I ever…

Winterfell felt like a ruin, or maybe a crypt. There were bloodstains in every room, a mountain of corpses piled in the courtyard. Women, serving girls, and stableboys had been butchered when the castle fell. His own army had been filled with bloodlust.

Jon himself hadn't even been present for the taking of Winterfell; he had been found unconscious and half-dead in the snows. He had only woken up, bloodied and pale, in the castle's dining hall as it was being used as infirmary.

They had won ; House Bolton was defeated, Jon could walk - or limp, rather - through the halls of Winterfell. And yet he had never known such a bitter, foul victory.

Early the next morn, Jon found himself back in front of Roose Bolton's cell again, staring through the bars at the leech lord's pale eyes.

"Your Grace." Roose even bowed as far as the manacles would allow. "How may I help you?"

Jon could hardly speak. His throat… it jammed. The heartbeats passed in pure silence. They were alone, just two men staring at each other in the cold and dusty prisons beneath the keep.

"Do you have more questions, Your Grace?" Roose asked eventually.

Finally, Jon spoke. "Tell me how," he said lowly.

"How what?"

Everything ." There was so much anger, hate, pounding through him his voice almost cracked.

"Everything," Roose repeated. "How I conspired against you? How I achieved it? Or how could I?"

There was no reply. Lord Bolton pulled himself closer, as far as chains allowed. "If you're looking for some kind of meaning, Your Grace," he whispered, "then I have little to offer you. I did it because this is war, and it was my job."

Jon was trembling. His fists were actually trembling.

Roose leant back.

"As far as specifics go, it was… it was a tedious effort," Lord Bolton said with a sigh. "From the moment you crossed at Eastwatch, I knew that I was likely facing certain defeat. Your appearance was really quite vexing, I admit. My moves against House Stark, my appointment as Warden of the North, they had been calculated risks which left me in a quite unpopular position. I had really been gambling on a long winter to freeze any movements against me, a stretch of peace and quiet in the north - I needed some time to let the resentment bleed away while I solidified my power. Your appearance - your wildlings, your dragon - occurred at the absolute most inopportune moment for me. I could not predict it, I had no preparations for it.

"I had hope I could maybe recover, maybe rally a divided north in time to oppose you," Lord Bolton said with a sigh. "But then once I heard that you were Ned Stark's bastard, of all people, then I realised I stood no chance. Not by traditional methods. From that moment onwards, I retreated my men and pulled back into damage control. There was no real option otherwise for me - but did you really think I would just let you come and usurp my position?"

" Robb's,"Jon said lowly. "My father's. My brother's. Never yours."

"You really think so?" Roose tutted, and shook his head. "Millennia ago, the Red Kings and Kings of Winter came to an… agreement. The Boltons bent the knee, but the Starks would never take that for

granted. Never take advantage. The Dreadfort was what kept the restless loyal to Winterfell; we kept our blades sharp, while the Starks united. The mailed fist, to the gloved hand.

"If a restless lord were to refuse Winterfell's welcoming hand, then they would know the Dreadfort's blades. That was the partnership that built the largest and oldest kingdom of Westeros. Even the most pricklish of the Kings of Winter knew to appreciate the alliance; they learned that my family was too useful to extinguish and too powerful to neglect. That has been the rule of this land since time immemorable - so long as the Starks stay strong and put the north first and foremost, then the Boltons are their sturdiest ally." Roose tsked slightly. "But if they don't… for any Stark who breaks thatpact… and then, well, the collection of skins that we keep beneath the Dreadfort becomes slightly larger. Your brother broke the rules, so I did my civic duty by putting a dagger through his stomach. His skin now rests in my dungeons too, next to a few of the more foolish of the old Kings of Winter."

His voice… it was patronising . The edge of his vision blurred with rage, but Jon didn't speak. Robb. He couldn't speak, Jon didn't dare open his mouth. He didn't know what he would do if he did.

"As a matter of fact," Roose continued slowly, "My plan was to make life as difficult for you as possible, for as long as possible. Defeating you in the field was desirable, but I would be satisfied with starving you out as winter came. I resolved myself to accept any victory, no matter how bitter, so long as you were dead by the winter's end. I knew that I could not defeat you through conventional means, and so I was forced into my gambit."

" Ramsay ." Jon's voice was a growl, the name like a curse.

"Ramsay." Roose nodded. "Among others. There were other attempts made, but Ramsay was just the one that got the furthest." A pause. "Truth be told, Ramsay was never critical to the plan - I had nothing to lose if Ramsay failed, but I had everything to gain if he

succeeded. My own plans would have proceeded with or without his."

The thought of Ramsay's blade hacking into her chest flashed before his eyes. Jon had to take a deep breath just to calm himself.

"The core plan was relatively simple, actually," Roose was talking, so easily, almost like it was conversation. "You had a dragon that could stop any army, but you only had one dragon. It could only physically be in one place at a time. Thus, I had resolved that I had to attack you from multiple fronts.

"Two simultaneous assaults; one against White Harbour, one against your army. Not even a dragon would be capable of stopping them both."

He paused, like he was waiting for a reply. Jon didn't give him one.

After a long silence, Roose continued.

"I expected that at the first word of an attack, you would fly off on your dragon with all haste to White Harbour's defence, like the chivalrous, bold and foolhardy boy I believed you to be - much like your brother. In doing so, you would leave your army unprotected, and mine would assault it at night," Roose explained. "If I was lucky, you would have arrived too late to save the city, and you would have ended up losing on both fronts. Even if I was unlucky, you would obliterate one of the assaults from dragonback, but then the other one would have still stood a reasonable chance of success.

"I would have been content with either victory, truth be told. You would lose either your infrastructure or your army, and your efforts would be crippled either way. Without your army, it would become impossible for you to hold all of the land you had already conquered. Without White Harbour, your alliances with northern lords would fracture, but more importantly you'd be unable to provide for your wildlings. Winter would come, and your army would starve. Maybe even turn against you. It would have bought me time - time enough

to consolidate my position, to position my agents, perhaps time enough to assassinate you."

Jon struggled to even process the words. His voice was just so cold, emotionless. Even mocking. "Afterwards, circumstances became harder to predict," Lord Bolton mused. "but my odds improved regardless. I expected that as you became desperate, you would be forced to use your dragon more aggressively by razing castles and holdfasts freely - which would be devastating, true, but it would also turn the masses against you. As Aegon experienced in Dorne to his torment; if you act the tyrant, then people will oppose the tyrant to their last." Lord Bolton smiled faintly. "Every castle you raze, every pile of corpses, and, well, that just makes my reign look all the better in comparison, does it not?

"In any case, sooner or later, I believed it would just become a matter of logistics," he explained softly. "Winter would come, and the snows would freeze both our efforts. Your wildlings would starve, you would lose your control, they would raid the smallfolk and the lesser lords, and then any hope you had of free folk reconciling with the northmen would shatter. Nobody would support you, nobody would ally with you, and, in true northern fashion, winter would damn you. All I needed to do was stay in the game, shielded behind the walls of Winterfell, shielded by your sister, and watch it all happen."

He stopped, took a breath, and thought about it. "Yes," Roose decided. "That is the 'how' of it. Do you have any questions?"

The air turned dead. Jon's eyes twitched. He had never felt such hate before. It was a hatred so intense he couldn't even speak, like all the fury was jamming up his body.

He surrendered, Jon thought. Roose Bolton bloody surrendered . After everything he had done, the man could have at least had the pride to die in battle, like ten, twenty thousand better men already had.

"You are going to die here," Jon promised, his voice cold.

"I am well aware," Roose sounded like he could have shrugged. "I never claimed my plans were perfect."

Another silence.

His capture is a victory for us, Jon tried to tell himself. It meant that Roose could be judged, that they could bring the north to order . He wasn't a martyr, he was a hostage against any that might still fight for him. Lord Manderly had already sent word that they wanted Lord Bolton alive; to be tried and to answer questions.

And yet still, Jon just looked at those pale eyes and imagined them bleeding. He imagined them screaming. That vision… it was so, so close. I want him to scream .

"Tell me about Ramsay," Jon demanded, after a passing of minutes.

"Ramsay's solution was the optimal one," Roose admitted. "Many of my headaches would have vanished if Ramsay had been capable of removing you or your dragon. I encouraged Ramsay's efforts to that end."

Optimal . Ramsay's phantom blade still hovered at Jon's throat. "How?" Jon said lowly. "What poison did he use?"

This time, Roose did shrug. "I haven't the foggiest."

He's lying . "Tell me the poison."

"I told you, I don't know it." Roose paused. "But should I take from your questioning that you don't have an antidote?

"I could bring Rattleshirt back in here," warned Jon, throat strangling. "I will let Rattleshirt have you."

"Go ahead. And - who knows? - if your 'Rattleshirt' is capable enough, then my answer may even change." Roose sounded doubtful. "But it won't change into anything more coherent or honest."

Jon's eyes were unblinking, trying to look for any sign of weakness. He saw nothing, not even a twitch. "Ramsay handled the poison, not me," Roose said. "Ask him yourself."

"He is dead."

"He is?" Roose sighed. "What a shame. My son was a brute, yes, but he was always a very useful one."

Trembling. Jon's hands were trembling. He had to grip his knee, forcing himself still. He saw her falling to the ground, red blood and golden hair.

Focus . Jon took a deep breath. Just focus .

"What of my wife?" Roose asked in a mildly curious tone. "Does she still live?"

No . Walda Bolton, Walda Frey, was one of the highborn who'd been killed in the castle, when the free folk broke through. Jon didn't reply, though; he let the question linger in the air.

"Why did the maesters side with you?" Jon demanded finally. They had discovered of at least two different maesters, from Hornwood and Ramsgate, who had assisted the Boltons when by rights their loyalty should have been to their lords. They were being kept in the higher levels of the dungeons, alongside Lady Barbrey Dustin and the few other prisoners. A half a dozen maesters were being imprisoned, in all.

Another ring in the chain that choked me .

Roose shrugged again. "Because they are intellectuals, perhaps?"

he suggested. "And any learned man would choose me over you."

Focus. Don't rise to the barb . Jon didn't want to press Roose on any subject, not right now - for now Jon just wanted to probe him, to see

which subjects Roose was willing to answer and which he deflected.

To try and understand.

"Who attacked White Harbour?" Jon demanded.

"Oh, sellswords, pirates and such. Mostly from the Free Cities, a large portion from the Stepstones. There was little time to hire any of the larger mercenary companies, so I had make do with enough of the smaller ones. They were just hired blades that were willing to sack a city for coin."

That answer - he answered the question, but not the full question. He was subtly trying to avoid more questioning by providing unnecessary details. "You couldn't have paid for them yourself," Jon said slowly. "You never had the gold, you never had the opportunity."

"A large portion was from the Dreadfort's vaults, actually." Lord Bolton actually managed to sound insulted. "But you're right. I had… hmm, let's call them sponsors ."

Jon was sure he didn't visibly react, but Roose still smiled. "Are you surprised? You shouldn't be - the dragon was a threat to the status quo, and nobody wanted a beast like that flying around. The beasts caused the realm enough grief during the Targaryen's civil war. I was the first line of defence to stop it, so my efforts received… I suppose charity is the right word." He cocked his head. "All the while youwere reaching out to House Manderly and the other northern lords, I was reaching out for support as well - to the south and beyond."

He's a good liar . "Who?"

"Many different sources. The crown promised support, but they were too distracted to ever provide it. Your scouring of the Twins was an unexpected move, but hardly a setback. Men only believe what they can see, and the trickle of support I had from the south before your flight became a flood. Your power made you sloppy, and arrogant, and, it brought me many benefactors. I received more from the

Reach, as a matter of fact - House Hightower sent two cogs, loaded with weapons, arms and currency, in contribution.

"After your… Frayed Crossing," Roose's lips twitched, "the riverlords were left panicked that any of their castles could be next, and so I bargained for aid. The remnants of House Frey received unexpected support. But, by far, the biggest benefactor was from Braavos - the Iron Bank was very generous."

Jon bristled at that. "You're lying," he growled. "I'm in negotiation with the Iron Bank. They wouldn't have moved against me."

"Really?" Lord Bolton said doubtfully. "But that's how the Iron Bank operates. The Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms owes them a great debt, and you threaten the Seven Kingdoms. Therefore, you threaten the Iron Bank. Every time a king or conqueror threatens the Iron Bank's interests, all of their enemies suddenly receive an influx of funding. Empires come and go, but the Iron Bank takes their due. Do you think I'm ruthless? I'm nothing compared to those bankers, stamping their sheets of parchment."

Jon had received the early messages from White Harbour. They used blunt words - like death, devastation, destruction. Tens of thousands - smallfolk and refugees, not even soldiers - were dead in the city alone, but nobody had yet been able to count them all.

This man orchestrated all of it. He masterminded such chaos without ever even going near . It was mass murder through parchment, dark wings and dark words, and Jon held his 'sponsors' just as responsible.

"Who?" Jon growled. "I want you to list all your accomplices, right here."

"I told you last night."

Do it again ."

"Very well." Roose nodded. "Well, House Glover deserves special mention. Robbett Glover was very helpful in his job as commander of the outriders-"

"Robett Glover. And his brother?"

"Oh yes, Galbart too. I made contact with Galbart first, actually, while he was at Ramsgate - he accepted the deal I offered, and passed on my letters to Robett." He paused. "Did you find the correspondence I told you about?"

They had. Roose had logged all of his ravens in an exquisitely organised filing system, including letters supposedly written in Galbart Glover's own hand. Jon didn't reply, though. He would not answer a single question Lord Bolton asked. Do not let him turn this interrogation around .

"From the mountain clans, there were quite a few allies of mine," Lord Bolton continued regardless. "Brandon Norrey lost two daughters and a son to wildling raids, he was quite easy to convince that your free folk were bad for the realm. Clan Norrey supported Bolton from the moment the Wall fell. Old Torghen Flint has fought against wildlings half his life, while The Harclay had very strong links to the Night's Watch. I offered them all the same promise; that I could stop the wildlings plaguing their land.

"Aside from the mountain clans, let's see…" He raised his hand, chains rattling, to count on his fingers. "Jeremy Locke of Oldcastle refused the marriages that Lord Manderly was trying to force onto his family, but he couldn't protest safely. He chose the options I offered instead. Lady Lyessa Flint was a scared pregnant woman, who wanted the security I offered rather than the wrath of a dragon. Lord Woolfield was trapped underneath Lord Manderly's thumb. And of course House Umber…"

"The Greatjon did not side with you." Jon was unable to hold his tongue. The man is a liar .

"The Greatjon didn't," Lord Bolton agreed. "But his uncle, Mors Umber, the Crowfood, did. Lord Umber came back from the Twins a shade of his former self, unhinged and disturbed from captivity - many of the Umber petty lords have fought wildlings for centuries, and they thought their liege mad for siding with you."

"You're lying." Last night, when Roose gave the same accusation, the Greatjon had been in a fury. "Mors Crowfood would have never betrayed the Greatjon, not after Last Hearth."

"Last Hearth?" Roose looked confused. "Do you mean when the wildlings razed the castle?"

Jon bristled. "The Bastard's Boys razed Last Hearth. Ramsay Bolton did that me, not me."

And Roose smiled. Actually smiled . "Prove it."

Jon could have exploded. His hands clenched so tight his nails almost cut through skin. "It seems to me more logical that it was your wildlings, Your Grace," Lord Bolton noted, innocently. "After all, the wildlings breached the Wall, and immediately afterwards Last Hearth, the northernmost castle of our lands, was razed and pillaged. You say it was my bastard son, and yet he was at Winterfell at the time, by all accounts. Many and more can attest to it."

"You dare…?" Jon snarled. Rewriting history, twisting all the facts…

"I apologise, Your Grace." He held up his hands, chains rattling. "But frankly, it doesn't matter what I think happened, or even what you think happened. What matters is what the realm thinks happened. Who will history judge as the villain, or the champion?"

Jon had seen the letters that the Bolton's maester logged. All the while Jon's campaign had been ongoing, Roose Bolton had been sending ravens to the northern lords, spreading his own narrative of events. They had been subtle lies, a web that Roose weaved like a spider.

"And Mors Crowfood thought the wildlings responsible too," Roose continued, in quiet mocking. "Mors, a man present for the attack, believed it had been wildlings. He thought that wildlings had murdered his family, but then you hoodwinked his nephew into blaming someone else. Mors couldn't confront you over it, of course

not while your armies and dragon were on the move - so instead he came to me."

He's lying, Jon told himself. Still, the lies came so easily from his tongue.

Jon had to wonder - the Crowfood had taken a spear to the gut during the Sack of Last Hearth, and it had been sudden. It was unlikely that Mors actually had a good view of the assailants. How many men might have died, just because an old man might have misidentified the attackers in the dark?

Jon had only met the Crowfood twice, both years ago, but the letters from House Forrester said that the castellan of Last Hearth had recovered. Mors hadn't been with the army, but he had been rallying soldiers from Umber lands. The Greatjon had been in a fury at the charge against his uncle, but then there were Umber men-at-arms who confessed to where their orders came from.

Jon wasn't sure. Some part of the chain of command had been hijacked, but he wasn't sure which part, or how much of it.

It was Roose. Even from the beginning, it was him . Those unblinking eyes as pale as ice stared back at him. Every alliance I ever made, Roose Bolton was there to corrupt it . The amount of work that had gone into sabotaging him was staggering. A war in the shadows, a false war, waged by quills and golden dragons, all the while Jon had been waging a real one with blades and dragonfire.

"Go have a look at my letters, Your Grace," Roose said softly. "I assure you I kept them all - every betrayer that worked against you put their name to writing. Please, take them - use them to punish those responsible."

Jon had seen the letters; the Boltons had kept every letter and then some. Too organised , as if Jon had been meant to find them. Copied in triplicate, filed and organised by date, and stamped with official seals. If the letters were to be believed, then about a third of the lords under Jon had accepted promises or sabotaged him in some way or another. Some of the betrayals were small - like promising the Boltons they would deliberately hold back on the number of men they were committing to the war - and other betrayals were major - like northmen turning their blades against others in the camp.

Maybe they were genuine, or maybe Roose Bolton had just spent a long time crafting a fine web of lies, and this was just another way the man meant to trap Jon.

Roose was telling the worst type of lies - he was telling truths and lies mixed together, and his face didn't even twitch.

Jon tried to relax his grip. "Enough," he growled. Focus . There were more questions that Jon had to ask. "What did you do to Bran, to Brandon Stark?"

"How queer," Roose mused. "I was going to ask you the same thing, I assumed that you killed him, in the same way you killed your sister."

That did it. Jon finally snapped. "YOU DARE?!" Jon roared, composure broken. His fist crashed against the bars. His knuckles rang against iron, the sound ringing out. "YOU BLOODY DARE ?"

The bars were between them, and Jon didn't have the keys to the cell on him. He kicked his chair to the ground, groaning and pacing. Roose didn't twitch, but his eyes were glittering. He's trying to provoke me, Jon cursed. The more unsettled I become, that's another small victory to him .

And it was working. Jon's breaths were hoarse, his fists screaming to punch something.

"She's dead, isn't she?" Roose's voice was a whisper. "Your sister died, your wildlings caused it."

Arya. Jon didn't even know how it happened. Somewhere, as men shuffled through the mountain of corpses, somebody began calling for Arya Stark. It had taken two days before they realised, and they turned to look at the wreckage of the West Tower. It would be even longer before they could dig out the charred corpse.

My wildlings. The free folk had been berserk, and swinging torches…

That wound should have hurt, but Jon couldn't feel it. There were too many wounds, too much pain, like he had been stabbed a dozen times. He just felt numb.

They still hadn't fully identified the bodies. There were many dead, many women. Wives and babes in particular; Lady Jonelle Cerwyn, Lady Berena Talhart, Lady Walda Bolton, and Lady Arya Stark…

Wildling raiders were renowned for targeting the women first.

"So what did you do to your brother, Your Grace?" Roose continued. "After all, Last Hearth is only ten leagues from Castle Black - your army was very much in the vicinity. Do you really claim to be ignorant? I'm sure others must be asking the same question."

Lord Bolton's voice was so soft. "And Brandon Stark was a threat you, was he not? A trueborn child that might steal the position you fight for."

Jon knew what Roose was doing. What he had done. He remembered the letter that the mountain clans had 'come across' - the letter where the Boltons offered surrender. There would be more letters, which would have found their way to other houses.

Anybody who heard about those letters, who heard about the disappearance of Bran, then the death of Arya… they would come to their own conclusion.

Roose had been writing his narrative for a while now; framing Jon as responsible for Last Hearth, painting him as a conqueror and tyrant, a liar, usurper and kinslayer. A bastard. The death of Arya Stark would clinch the matter for many people.

Even when Lord Bolton lost, he still found a way to win.

He did this, Jon cursed. Even months ago, it had been the reason that the Boltons had sacked Last Hearth. The Bastard's Boys deliberately hadn't flown banners, deliberately left few alive. He framed me for Bran's death and I wasn't even aware. Even when he lost, he planned his defeat just to hurt me too .

And Arya. Bright, wilful, wild Arya. She had been married to a monster, held captive for months, and then burnt to death as she hid in the tower. In Winterfell, they described Lady Stark as a meek, timid and fearful girl, and Jon could only wonder with horror at what his sister had suffered to break her spirit such.

Ramsay would have tortured her, a little voice in Jon's head whispered. She was strong, so Ramsay broke her .

Nobody had heard anything from Bran for months. If Ramsay had truly gotten him too, then his brother was likely dead as well.

Jon's breaths were strained. He stared at Roose, and… by the gods, that hate . Jon had never felt a hatred like it.

I want to hurt him. I just want to hurt him. Make him feel it too .

The blood rushing through Jon's body, drumming against his ears, sounded like Ramsay's laughter.

"I will bring back Rattleshirt," Jon promised. "I will bring worse than Rattleshirt. This is the only time that I will ever ask these questions nicely. I will take the truth from you, regardless of what else I have to take."

"Go ahead," Roose replied. "And will that make you happy? To hear my screams?"

Yes. Very much so, actually . Still, somehow, Jon just couldn't imagine Roose ever screaming. Jon's eyes narrowed.

"Why?" he asked finally. "Tell me why. Why are you doing this, why go so far? You have nothing to gain by being difficult now, you've already lost."

"I told you," Roose said, as if were obvious, "I will take whatever victory I can get. I may not be triumphant, but I can still be spiteful."

Jon could only stare. What happened to him, what was broken inside of him, for there to be any man to live that was just so… cold? Empty? Jon had known plenty of killers, but even the most blood-crazed warrior would be unnerved by that soft voice, and the complete and utter disregard for life.

The man is madder than Ramsay ever was.

"Still, do you know a secret, Your Grace?" Roose continued, while Jon was left frozen in anger, still as a statue. "If you want to know who I was working, who plotted your downfall, then… well, there are many responsible, but if you wish to know my greatest accomplice, you need only look in a mirror."

Jon's arms were trembling, fists clenched so tightly it hurt.

"I played you," Roose said, his voice a whisper. "You had an easy victory, and you let me turn it into a near defeat. It was your own incompetence that saw your army destroyed. I think you would have been completely destroyed too, if not for the snows. I think that you only survived that night by sheer chance.

"And I think that if I had been leading your army, then I would have won this castle without issue."

Jon had never, ever wanted to hurt somebody as much as he did right then. It's what he wants, he told himself. He wants me to lose control .

"The north is already starving, Your Grace," Roose said slowly, as Jon could only glare, teeth grinding together. "I can promise you, the granaries have already been spoiled, the last of the harvest is gone, and winter is already upon us. The west has been ravaged by ironborn, the north and east abandoned and pillaged, the smallfolk and petty lords have fled before your wildlings. Robb Stark lost our armies to the south. Ten thousand men of working age, and you lost us even more. Lords and knights and heirs, the cream of the north, lost. How many great houses will even remain after you punish your traitors? White Harbour burns. Our lands are barren, there is no more coin, and no one will trade with us. Winter is coming, and the north is ruined."

That wasn't a lie. None of it was a lie. Jon was so painfully aware that those words were all true, however distorted. "You have… however many tens of thousands of wildlings coming south, but we can't even feed our own people. They say that this will be the longest winter in a generation. How do you hope to maintain this fragile independence of yours, without trade and produce from the south?" Roose scoffed quietly. "You may hate me, you may despise me, but I can promise you something; I could have kept the north fed."

Jon didn't reply. There was a smirk on the man's swollen face. "Mine was a quiet and peaceful rule. My reign was born in blood, yes, but only after your brother took ten thousand men to their deaths down in the south. I killed Robb Stark with my own hand, I did, but I saved the north from his war by doing so. There had been no need for further conflict; there were no wildlings pillaging the countryside, or dragons devouring villages ." Jon twitched. "And yet, you ruined it all when you opened the gates and you came south."

"That's not true," Jon growled.

"Which part? You didn't open the gates, or you didn't come south?" he scoffed. "Go outside and count the bodies, Your Grace. Go look at your sister's corpse."

Jon's voice guttered in his throat. He thought of the white walkers, but he didn't, he couldn't reply, and Roose Bolton's eyes flashed like a predator sensing weakness. "I believe you had the best intentions, I'm sure," he said nodding, "but you asked me what I wanted, so allow me to answer… when this all done, when the cold winds blow and castles of the north turn to charnel-houses and the trenches overflow with corpses… I want you to look in a mirror, 'King', and ask yourself, really ask yourself - is the world better for all I've done?"

He was met by silence. Jon turned stiffly and limped away, staggering heavily with his wounded side. He heard Roose chuckle behind him, the noise like nails scratching over bone.

Damn him , Jon cursed. Damn him to seven hells and more, damn him to the fire, damn him to the Others. Whatever the worst torture there is, he deserves it and more. Damn him, damn him, damn him .

Roose had been behind bars and in chains and Jon had been the one interrogating, yet somehow Roose Bolton still managed to get inside his head.

As he left the dungeons, Jon passed an old man in grey robes rattling and pleading at a cell door, his chain chiming around his neck. Jon ignored him. Every maester with the northern coalition had been placed in chains and locked up, save one. There had been too many ravens sent, too many missing letters. Nobody was sure who was responsible, but not a single maester could be trusted, not any more.

Outside, the wind still hissed. The storm had cleared, somewhat, but the snows hadn't stopped. The sky was spitting clumps of snow, the winds were still hard enough to shake the keep. As he pulled up his hood and stepped outside, he saw a pile of corpses littering the courtyard, a hill of the dead already peaked with cornices of snow.

Over a week later, and they still hadn't cleared even half of the bodies.

Jon saw the spires and burnt towers of the Great Keep. Winterfell looked charred and blackened, even under the layers of ice and sleet. Black and white. The castle looked so different to how Jon remembered it, but still so hauntingly familiar. A burnt memory.

He needed to take deep breaths to control all that frustration. The anger. Jon hadn't known what he wanted from Roose Bolton, but he should have known he wouldn't get it.

"Snow!" a voice called for him across the yard, and he heard urgent footsteps. Toregg was looking for him, running with three other men. All were armed. "Snow, where did you-"

"Alone." Jon's voice was cold. "I needed to be alone."

"Aye, well," Toregg scoffed, glancing behind him as he panted. There was noise in the distance, sounds of shouting. Jon tensed. Another schism? "The dragon is over the walls. Come quick."

Even from the opposite end of the castle, Jon heard a great moan from the godswood, and then a creaking of trees. Sonagon . The free folk were already scattering, the giants in the courtyard wailing. Birds - snow shrikes, robins and ravens - burst from the woods. Jon was already striding quickly towards the ruckus, wincing so badly with every lopsided step.

Jon saw a flash of white wings over the top of the Guest House, followed by an immense boom of the beast dropping downwards.

He was running. He could hear the growling as the dragon twisted restlessly, crashing through rubble and trees with every pained movement. Sonagon's wings were flapping, the huge beast trying to clear a space for itself.

The godswood was the largest, most isolated area of the castle; three acres of old, packed earth and humus and moss, a grove that had stood untouched for ten thousand years. Even in the centre of one of the largest castles in the realm, the godswood was a small forest. It would have been an ideal place for the dragon, if not for all the densely-packed trees. Instead, the huge beast had to push its way through the chestnuts, hawthorns, oaks, ironwoods and soldier pines, clearing a place to curl over the frozen pond.

Once, the godswood had been a place for rest and meditation, but now the air was filled with sounds of immense trees splintering and men shouting.

As Jon got closer, he could see the white mass of scales writhing. He heard pained moans and pants, followed by a gagging noise so loud the earth rumbled.

"Get everybody back!" Jon ordered, but his voice was barely audible over the roar. He saw great plumes of cold mist rising. "Get them back!"

He was close enough to the hot spring pools to see Sonagon; the dragon's jaws were open as it gagged, the great tail whipping. Globs of frozen ooze splattered from its throat, bursting over an oak tree. He is puking, Jon realised quietly. As Sonagon heaved, frostfirespewed from its jaws.

Jon saw black and yellow bile splatter and hiss out of the dragon's throat. The great dragon made a pained noise, so loud and high it caused his eardrums to ring.

He moved to comfort it, but Toregg placed his hand to stop him. "Stay back," the Dragonguard warned. "Your dragon trampled two men outside the walls and didn't even notice."

Dammit . Jon had never seen Sonagon so weak; it felt like the dragon's stomach was burning. The poison . "We have find a way to treat him."

"How?" Torregg asked, looking baffled. "How the hells are you supposed to treat a dragon ?"

Jon didn't reply, but his jaw clenched. It had taken two days to even rouse Sonagon from the lake's edge, and another two to herd the dragon towards Winterfell. From the looks of things, even the very short flight over the castle's walls had robbed the last of Sonagon's strength.

Another great sentinel tree crunched, roots tearing from the ground, as Sonagon twisted. He was lucky that the dragon hadn't destroyed the heart tree itself as it tramped through, but even the ancient weirwood was now missing many of its red leaves. The bloody face on the white bark stared mournfully out over the pools, where Sonagon panted and writhed.

Steam from the hot springs shimmered in the air, crackling against ice. The dragon's tail splashed across the water.

Finally, Sonagon's sharp spasms started to settle, and it collapsed in between the broken husks of trees. The dragon's convulsions of pain could be destructive, but they would die as its strength faded. The dragon was weak, still falling in and out of consciousness; barely even able to breath.

They needed to keep the dragon out of the open, especially while it is sickly. Toregg was already shouting orders, assigning men to seal the godswood. The gates of the grove were to be shut and barricaded. Nobody was to be allowed anywhere near the dragon. Sonagon is strong, Jon told himself, his body would burn through the poison sooner or later. He will recover, surely .

Still, Sonagon hadn't been eating. The dragon's body was trembling, spasming as it tried to fight against the weakness. The dragon's muscles felt like lead.

Sonagon's wounds were fairly minor. The spear to the eye was less than a flesh wound, it would heal. The rest amounted to a few

shallow scratches, but the poison was something else.

Jon stared at the great beast, feeling his own gut wrench. Nobody knew what poison Ramsay Bolton had used, there was no treatment that any healer could offer. Either the maesters didn't know, or they refused to tell. His dragon was suffering and there was nothing Jon could even do to help.

"Pass word to Rattleshirt," Jon ordered stiffly. "Task him with finding out what poison was used. Whoever he needs to question, do it ."

He felt Sonagon rumble - a low and weak growl as its serpentine body curled. Jon just went stiff as he stood and watched. "It's not safe for you out here, Snow," Toregg warned, his voice low. All men kept weapons close to hand. "We don't how many more might be…"

His voice trailed off. How many more traitors might still be biding their time . Jon's hand moved to hover over the wound on his torso,where the assassin's blade had cut straight through. He had spent the days after the battle being nursed in a bed of the infirmary, and his control over Winterfell was less than a thread. He couldn't even walk through the grounds for fear of a dagger, or an arrow.

Everywhere he looked, he saw dark gazes lingering at him. The air felt so tense it was simmering.

S onagon is just vulnerable as I am, Jon thought quietly. A dragon was only fearsome while it was in the air, untouchable and unstoppable. Every other time, every time it rested or grew lazy, it could be hurt. A week ago, Jon had been strong and powerful too - but that power had been all too easily stripped away. Power evaporated like a shadow on the wall, or dissolved around a single, unexpected blade.

There was no more Dragonguard to protect Sonagon, not anymore.

Every single member of the Dragonguard travelling with the host, bar

Toregg the Tall and Ser Alek, had died that night.

The north had known many bloody battles, but that one would surely go down in history as one of the worst. There was were as many men that died to the weather as they did in the fighting. Out of their eighteen thousand men, over two thirds were dead.

Alysane Mormont had died trying to hold the perimeter. Hugo Wull had took an arrow through the chest, and died bleeding out three days later. Jeremy Locke had been found dead on the ice. Many and more were still missing, or injured. The lack of supplies and the overflowing infirmary in Winterfell meant that more were still to die.

And Val… No, Jon cursed. Don't think about Val. Not now .

There had been schisms all while Jon had been on a hospital bed - the Greatjon and Tormund Giantsbane had been the ones to hold the army together. Clans Harclay and Knott had already broken away altogether to return to their own lands. As had Houses Forrester, Woods, Mollen, and many of the Mormont bannermen. Jon had been unconscious, he hadn't even been able to stop them.

Personally, Jon suspected that more would have left if the snows had allowed them to leave. For the ones that remained, the castle was like a melting pot, set to boil over.

The remnants of the Bolton host had mostly been slaughtered, though some few had fled south for Cerwyn. Only a precious few had been taken prisoner.

And the word of Arya Stark's death had spread like wildfire. How long, how long before the entire north is thinking 'Jon Snow's wildlings killed Lady Stark'?

The memory of pale blue eyes haunted the edge of his vision. We need order again . "Send word to the Greatjon and Tormund. Call theWeeper's warband to return," Jon said quietly. "Have them gather up the accused."

"The accused?" There had been many, many accused. "Which accus-"

All of them." Jon ordered, and Toregg grimaced. "As many as we can find - any with doubt to their name. Any traitor who marched in my army, I want them in chains." He paused, thinking of Roose's smug pale eyes. "The suspicion is a worse of a poison than anything, so we will cleanse it. There will be a trial."

"Hells, Snow…" Toregg shook his head. "I don't even know how many men my Pa can still round up to follow orders. You start this and we might have to arrest half this bloody castle."

"Ser, I am in no mood to debate this." Jon's voice was like ice. " See it done ."

He didn't take his eyes off Sonagon. He could feel the dragon's pain, ringing at the back of his mind. Still, there was nothing he could do to help Sonagon, not right now. Jon could barely even help himself.

Lady Stark

Pure, feral panic.

She didn't know how long it lasted; it could have been hours, it could have been days, could have been weeks - there was no way to tell when her vision was blurred with tears, her heart skipping like it would burst from her chest. She ran until her side was a black stone, she ran some more, she vomited into a ditch, and she kept running, she just kept running until she found a street that wasn'tgripped by battle.

Sansa crawled into the mud beneath the foundations of a brewery, hiding among the rats. Hide, just hide. She ran, had slipped away in the chaos, but there was no telling how many sellswords were still looking for her.

Outside, in the streets, White Harbour burned and raged.

It was dawn when she finally emerged - barefooted, filthy, and ragged. The fires were extinguished, leaving only charred remains, but the streets were still heaving. It felt like the city was convulsing and spewing around her like a drunken man. Sansa hesitated, but she couldn't hide any longer. Instead, she turned and moved hesitantly towards the plaza at the city's heart.

She saw crowds of men, women and wailing babes; smallfolk, all swarming around the gates of the Castle Stair. She looked down the hill, into the city. Fishfoot Square was a Lord's Port was a ruin. It looked like there was still fighting to the outer wharves; she could see sprawling groups of men and plumes of smoke. Broken husks of ships filled the harbour.

All throughout the city, bloody corpses littered the streets, left where they fell. Everything smelled of smoke and blood. It made her want to retch, but her stomach was so empty.

"All wildlings!" a voice boomed from a cluster of men-at-arms. They looked scared, clutching their tridents tightly. "All wildlings are expelled from the bloody city! Clear the streets! Savages clear the fucking streets!"

Sansa could only watch. It sounded like riots in the farther streets - wildlings facing Manderly men-at-arms. The surviving sellswords must be trying to flee the city on foot. Nearby, Sansa saw that the Old Mint had been burnt into ruins. All of the smallfolk had nowhere to go, they could do nothing but huddle around the steps to the New Castle, begging for aid. The castle didn't open its gates.

The whole city felt dazed. Broken. There was nothing Sansa could do, no one to approach, no one to look after her; she was just another face in the crowd. Just another of the filthy, powerless smallfolk.

She didn't cry. Maybe it was just dehydration, but she refused to cry. She found a place for herself beneath a statue of a merman in the plaza's centre, and waited.

It was dusk, when she saw the columns of men-at-arms flying banners push the plaza. She saw the crossed keys of House Locke, the woolsacks of House Woolfield and the eyes of House Flint marching through the streets. Reinforcements from the nearby lands had arrived, but it seemed only a pitiful few of them. There were a few cavalry, men garbed in in hauberks of mail and plate - knights who cleared a path through the crowds and trotted into the New Castle. Sansa tried to call out to them, but her voice was lost in the cacophony of smallfolk.

It was a long night. The wailing of women, the cry of babes filled the air. Arguments. Fights.

The next morning, someone in the castle finally must have realised that the smallfolk desperately needed food, water and shelter. She saw a convoy of men coming down the Castle Stair, bringing blankets and rations into the crowd. The smallfolk were all so desperate it was almost a riot right then, and Sansa had to fall back from the front or be trampled.

Still, she caught a glimpse of figure in a green dress, with brown hair bound in a long braid, guarded by men-at-arms while she passed out bags of onions. The young woman's eyes were bloodshot, nearly red

she had been crying. Sansa's heart nearly stopped when she recognised her. "Spring solstice, they played Fair Maids of Summer and we ate lemon cakes!" Sansa screamed at the top of her lungs. "Your sister dyed her hair green, and we called her Froggy for it!"

A few of the women around her looked at her like she was crazed, but Sansa kept on repeating the words. She kept shouting, just hoping the words would draw attention. Finally, or maybe she was just lucky, Sansa saw the young woman step forward from the convoy, staring around at the hustle of filthy faces. Look at me, Sansa could have begged. I'm right here .

"Wynafryd!" Sansa shouted. "We ate lemon cakes, it was at the spring solstice. I braided your hair!"

Even from the distance, even through the mass, she saw Wynafryd Manderly's mouth hang open. Sansa hadn't been sure if anybody would even be capable of recognising her, but Wynafryd did.

" Sansa?! "

After that, everything was a whirl. She could have collapsed. Men-at-arms stomped forth to drag Sansa out of the crowd.

There were questions, many questions, to which Sansa gave dazed answers - but honestly she just wanted to get something to eat. It started with Wynafyrd staring at her like she was a ghost, stammering as she tried to explain it to the men. Soon there were more people, knights and smallfolk staring at her - some with disbelief, others with suspicion. One knight tried to insist that Wynafyrd was mistaken, that Sansa was crazed, right up until she recounted the names of every single member of the Manderly delegation to Winterfell four years ago.

She had spent a long, long time in the mud under that filthy brewery preparing all the knowledge she could remember, anything that could prove her identity. She needed every last scrap of it.

New Castle hadn't been breached in the fighting, but it felt like it was just as much of a shambles as the city. There were wounded men littering the main hall, the infirmary overflowed into the hallway. There were arguments from the Merman's Court, shouting matches in the corridors, and soldiers running around like chickens; still terrified but they didn't know what to do.

Wynafryd clung to Sansa's arm, trying to drag her through it all. "Sansa?" Wynafyrd gasped. "By the Seven, it's been so long. Where have you been, how did you get here? How could you…?"

Sansa tried to explain, she did, but she could barely a say word through all the panic and confusion around her.

"The wildlings are in riot!" a voice bellowed. "They refuse to leave the city!"

"The Commoner's Quarter is in flames!" another voice called. "We need more men, men and water!"

"To the sword!" an old, toothless lord demanded. "Put the wildlings to the sword."

Of all the ways that I wanted to return, this is not one . Not when tensions were so high, not when she was so shocked she could barely think. Maybe Sansa could have talked to the lord in a private audience, but it looked like the castle was dealing with a dozen crises at once. She caught a glimpse of Lord Wyman, standing, not sitting, before the throne of the Merman's Court. He was obese, a red-faced lord even fatter than she had remembered, bellowing bloody murder and staggering for breath while a plump, blonde-haired woman was weeping on the floor.

"Traitor!" a voice called.

"Where is King Snow? The dragon should be here!" another bellowed.

"The wildlings are decapitating the prisoners! Hundreds are marching on the Merchant's Squares!" A red-faced man-at-arms called. "An old woman is marching at the front with spikes of severed heads!"

"Corsairs fleeing the docks!" a knight bellowed, clambering to be heard. "Corsairs fleeing for the plague wharves!"

"To the sword!" the toothless lord shouted, stomping his foot. "Put the traitors to the sword!"

It was all so hectic. There was nothing she could do about it, so she didn't even try.

"Salladhor Saan!" that was a voice Sansa turned to see, made distinctive by the accent of the Free Cities. She saw an aging, slim man with tanned skin, wearing boiled leather and silks and a bright green cap, trying to call for attention. "Let the king know he has no better ally than Salladhor Saan - no greater friend, none more loyal! Salladhor the Saviour! I demand audience with the king!"

Wynafryd was pushing through the throng, and Sansa heard her name being called. More and more attention was turning towards her. Sansa just went numb, answering every question they asked and forcing herself not to be overwhelmed.

"The king!" a woman called over the clamour. "The king must-"

"She's a Lannister!" she heard one voice exclaim. "The Lannisters attacked us!"

The world was spinning. Sansa was so hungry, so thirsty. She could barely understand anything. She shook her head, just trying to clear the fogginess vagueness. More and more were turning towards her, her name was spreading through the Merman's Court. Some demanding to know where she came from, others were calling her a fake.

There was no chance to answer any of them, not truly. Her words would be wasted in the moment. Instead, Sansa only said, "I fled from King's Landing, and I ran north. I arrived in port moments before the battle." She repeated the words dumbly to any that shouted at her, forcing herself to stay detached. It is too dangerous to mention Littlefinger, not right now .

The room exploded.

Questions.

Accusations.

Questions.

Screams, but not at her. Men were screaming at other men, more bodies still rushing into the hall.

Questions.

Men-at-arms were marched into the Merman's Court, and then there were men, hysterical with panic, being marched out .

More questions.

At the end of it all the world was spinning, and attention turned away from her and the lords were screaming at each other, Lord Wyman attempting to bellow over the cacophony, trying to restore order. Sansa would have stayed, but went she went numb and Wynafryd was already dragging her away. "Come, my lady," she hissed. "It is not…" her voice trailed off and Sansa didn't press her. Wynafryd shuffled her upstairs, and dragged her into her bedroom.

Wynafryd gave her stale bread and water, and tried to dress her, tried to clean the grime off her face, but there was no time for a proper bath. Sansa was reminded of how Arya would always run off and get filthy before noble guests arrived, leaving her mother in a fluster to try and clean her. Sansa tried to ask of Arya, but Wynafryd wouldn't answer. There was banging on the door. They were already demanding to see her, more voices demanding Sansa answer their questions. Wynafryd reluctantly dragged her downstairs, back into the chaos.

So many unknown figures all boomed across the Merman's Court, she could hardly make sense of it. She answered what little she could, and listened to what little she could understand. Sansa caught fragments of words being yelled, like "wildlings", "treachery", and "battle". At some point, Wylla left the hall, trembling.

So much information she had to digest quickly. Wildlings south of the Wall; the north caught in a civil war and an invasion. Mercenaries amassing on the roseroad against King's Landing, and a storm in Oldtown. The northern coalition, the Bolton ambush. King Snow fighting a battle in the snows, and the only raven White Harbour received said that the wildlings had taken the castle.

"Send her off to Winterfell," she heard Lord Wyman proclaim later towards dusk. The grossly fat lord looked sickly, wheezing for breath. Wynafryd was still clutching on to Sansa's arm, but the daughter of White Harbour was crying too. "King Snow must know."

There had already been a supply convoy set for Winterfell, to bring arms and food that were said to be sorely needed in the wake of the battle. Sansa was to go along with it.

Less than a day later, there was a wheelhouse rumbling into the castle's courtyard, and a small force of mounted men were very hurriedly trying to push her on her way. To Sansa's mild surprise, Wynafryd came too, along with her sister, Wylla, and their weeping mother. Wylla Manderly was older than Sansa remembered - she was now nearly a woman grown, still with that green hair tied into a braid, but her eyes were fierce. Wynafryd tried to comfort Sansa, but Wylla glared suspiciously at her. Sansa saw Wylla snapping at her mother, crying and hissing angrily as they were shoved into the carriage. They loaded the wheelhouse to the brim with tents and supplies, loaded for urgency rather than comfort.

"We are to go to Winterfell with all haste. The snows could soon seize the roads, and we must get through before they do," a plump, fresh-faced knight explained from outside the wheelhouse - Ser Mardrick Manderly. "Winterfell has been taken, my - my lady."

They didn't know the honorific to use , Sansa noted. There had been many who called her an imposter, or a traitor. They needed King Snow's judgement, and Lord Wyman didn't think White Harbour was secure. Still, the news of Winterfell made her heart flutter. "What of my sister?" Sansa demanded. "What of Arya Stark?"

The look on his face told her everything she needed to know. Oh . "I… I am sorry, my lady."

Oh . Sansa knew that it should have hurt, but, honestly, she was just too numb to even feel anything. Three years, she thought, it's been three years since I've even last seen Arya. My sister was wed and murdered without me even knowing .

Wynafryd was chattering - jabbering in the way nervous young ladies did - but Sansa just felt too cold.

The last time I saw Wynafryd, she thought numbly, she was only a few years older, but she was so kind. We ate lemon cakes, we danced and played with each other. She showed me how to stitch a merman. I begged Father to let Wynafryd stay, but Lord Wyman… was Lord Wyman looking for a match? Did Father turn him down? We hugged, and Wynafryd promised to return often and I thought Wynafryd a better sister than the one I had .

Looking back, Sansa wished she could have slapped herself.

They were escorted by a half a hundred knights and men-at-arms, along with twenty, thirty wayns filled with supplies and pulled by oxen. There still heavy snows around the barrowlands, but their escort pushed the beasts hard to make good time. She could feel the wheelhouse buffeting in the winds, the snows howling outside. The worst of the storm had past, but several times Ser Mardrick shouted from his horse outside the wheelhouse, warning that their convoy might well be left stranded until the weather broke.

Sansa half-expected that they would be trapped, as if the gods themselves were intervening to stop her from seeing Winterfell again. Still, the sturdy horses managed to push their way through, and the wheelhouse rattled on through the snow.

The wheelhouse wasn't very big; it felt like a coffin, and their escort a funeral procession. All of the occupants braced themselves in uneasy silence. She barely said a word unless spoken to. Wynafryd

held her mother's hand, but Wylla just glared at them all and huddled in the corner.

Finally, they were on the trade road following the White Knife and she was told they were only two, three days away, but Sansa couldn't see through the haze of snow. They stopped at a minor Woolfield holdfast briefly, but the other nights they slept in tents and in the wheelhouse on the road. Ser Mardrick pushed their way forward even past dusk, for as long as the horses and oxen would allow.

They weren't heading towards the kingsroad, Sansa noted. She had had expected them to cross the White Knife. "The Cerwyn lands to the west of the White Knife are not secure," Ser Mardrick explained when she asked. "We will take the coming roads through Hornwood lands instead, and cross near Peddler's Crossing. Slightly longer, but we will keep the river to our left."

That route would also take them very close to Bolton lands, but she was told that the armies had already passed through. It all belonged to the King Snow now. The journey was long and uncomfortable - Ser Mardrick refused to stop for anything more than the bare minimum, and snows didn't cease. They passed through a few villages, but Sansa saw nothing but barred doors and snow-smeared thatch houses.

To the very end of the third day, they finally reached the crossing, and the men needed to drag the wayns over the uneven and cracked stone bridge. They made camp near the frozen water, and she was told that Winterfell was less than a day away, though she couldn't recognise anything through the flurry. Early the next morning, as the wheelhouse rocked, Wynafryd suggested that she needed to dress herself for meeting her half-brother again, and Sansa just nodded.

She approached the trunk of lady's clothing slowly, and picked her dress in the same way a knight would choose his armour.

Sansa clad herself in white fur and silver. The cloak was like none other she had ever seen; a thick, white and rich white that was so heavy and warm it was nearly suffocating as it draped over her shoulders. It was a gift that the wildlings brought to House Manderly; the furs of a snow bear from beyond the Wall, one that could stand twelve feet tall, Sansa was told, but she struggled to imagine it.

Her dress was white samite with a light saffron lining, and Wynafryd braced the corset up so tightly it was suffocating, while Sansa braided her hair in silver hairnet. She had spent a while staring at herself in the looking mirror. She looked beautiful, with her bright red hair and pale face, but also older, more mature. All Sansa could think about was how much she looked like her mother.

That could have been a thought of pride, once, but now there was nothing but sadness. I am Lady Stark now .

The final leg of the journey felt so tense it was suffocating. Wynafryd ran out of things to say, and her mother wouldn't stop sniffling. They all sat in uneasy silence against the wheelhouse's jostling, the windows shuttered against the gale.

I will see my bastard brother today, she thought. Perhaps I will see a dragon too . She had heard all of the talk, but she still couldn't match the words to the Jon Snow she remembered. Still, there was no running or hiding now, and no matter what happened Sansa resolved that she would be ready for it.

The coach had trundled over the snowy roads for miles, and then finally she heard the sound of clattering wheels as they hit the cobblestones of Winterfell's road. The winter town, she remembered. That was where the cobbles began. The wheels clattered as fast as her heartbeat. Sansa wanted to stick her head out of the window to see Winterfell again, but she couldn't trust herself to look. She kept the windows firmly shuttered against the howling winds.

Even when the coach stopped in the courtyard, it took several deep breaths to compose herself before she opened the door. The

Manderly knights trumpeted her arrival. The snow hissed around her face, and Sansa's first sight was of the dark and cold walls standing high, icicles hanging like swords.

By the Seven… Winterfell looks so different . There was smoke in the air, and tents had been erected all over the yard. The thick oak of the East Gate had been smashed through, torn from its hinges, splinters scattered in the snows. The towers had collapsed, the guest house was a burnt-out ruin, the Guards Hall looked destroyed and crudely rebuilt, and absolutely everywhere rubble, arrows and debris littered the courtyard. Winterfell looked burnt, broken and turned savage.

"My apologies, my lady," Ser Mardrick said with a grimace. "The battle is still fresh, there was fighting here not a week past and they have not disposed of… well, please avert your eyes."

Sansa could have snorted. There is no need to hide the corpses from me, ser, she thought.

If she had thought New Castle was in shambles, then Winterfell felt like a broken ruin. There were tents and bonfires sprawled over the snowy courtyards - an army camped in the grounds outside rather than inside the castle.

Sansa had resolved herself, promised herself, that she wouldn't flinch, gasp or turn away no matter what she saw. She had heard all of the rumours, all the whispers, and she vowed that she would face them all without a flinch. That promise became very hard to keep to keep when she saw the massive beasts of brown fur, muscle and tusks lumbering in the courtyard.

Mammoths. Giants and their mammoths, camping outside the Great Keep of Winterfell itself. They were the biggest creatures she had ever seen. Many of the White Harbour knights stared open-mouthed at the sight, staring at the immense humanoids towering over them. Sansa forced herself not to gape. One of the giants roared when a mounted knight trotted too close, a cracking wail splitting the air as it

stomped its huge foot. The knight's horse reared back, sending the man tumbling into the drifts.

This is a different place now, she thought, staring at it all. The wildlings and the Bastard King rule Winterfell now. Where is the dragon, though?

The stairs of the keep were so familiar from her childhood, but she had never seen them smeared in dried and cracked blood. They had never felt so cold either. So many of the windows were broken. The hissing snows were all around them, the Manderly knights escorting them in a tight procession. Sansa saw the eyes of wildlings glaring suspiciously at them. White Harbour brought food and aid, but they still look at them like they're the enemy.

Wynafryd clung to her arm tightly. "Welcome home," she croaked under her breath into her ear. Sansa didn't reply.

Despite how she kept her posture rigid, her heart was beating wildly as they escorted her into the hall. The men lingering the corridors to the Great Hall weren't knights; they were rough figures in hides, and they all kept spears or axes close to hand. The battle may have been a week ago, she thought quietly, but there has been fighting here, more recently than that .

"Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell!" the crier called, when the great doors of oak and iron opened. "For her half-brother, King Jon Snow of the North!"

The Great Hall. It had once been so familiar, now it felt so foreign. The rafters along the roof were charred - it looked like it had been burnt and then repaired. Once there had been eight long trestle tables that could seat five hundred people, but now those tables were gone and every man inside was standing up, and armed.

A hundred eyes were on her. She heard the mutters, but the cavernous hall still felt quiet. Her gaze turned upwards to the raised platform at the hall's far end, where her father had once supped with

noble guests. The lord's table was gone, and now there were a score of savage figures that had to be wildling chieftains. There were few lords, but she did recognise Lord Greatjon Umber, who looked so much thinner, and darker, than her memories. His arms were folded, his face a scowl.

Looming over them all, there was only one who was sitting. He is sitting on father's seat, she realised suddenly. On Winterfell's throneof ironwood, weirwood and steel; a thing of silver and white and dull grey looming over the hall - the seat of the old Kings of Winter. He was sitting on her father's throne.

Her eyes focused solely on the dark figure, looking down on her. A figure with white hair, slouched on the weirwood seat, resting one cheek on a closed fist. Staring at her. That is not Jon, Sansa thought instantly. Gods… It is an imposter stealing Jon's name . For that moment, she wasn't sure whether to be horrified or relieved. She let nothing show on her face.

She stepped forward, walking the distance. Her eyes never left his, her mind reeling. So long had been spent preparing for this moment, bracing herself. So a wildling king must have stolen Jon's identity to trick the northern lords into supporting him? It made sense - Jonmust have died at the Wall, few people would recognise Jon in any case, and claiming to be a bastard of Ned Stark gave the imposter some legitimacy.

But that means he will likely have me killed if I expose him, she realised . Perhaps this king was panicking, expecting that his ruse could now be foiled. Perhaps that was why his soldiers were so tense, holding their weapons so close. He will expect me to call him a fake, to denounce him .

So what is his plan here? To kill me? To name me an imposter instead?

She kept on walking towards the stranger, feeling the air stiffen around her. No, she thought. Neither of those options were very

good. The Bastard King had already won. So what if I don't? What if I verify his identity instead, and greet him like a brother?

Sansa could pretend to greet him like a brother - she could even greet him with more kindness than she had ever shown the real Jon.

Her head spun, deliberating a hundred different possibilities with every step. Yes, Sansa thought. I will be useful to him. Telling the truth would gain her nothing, so she would have to go along with his ruse. She would treat as if he really were her brother, and he would pretend too. Sansa would become indispensable to the wildling king, the perfect way to maintain his act, so long as he treated her as if she was his kin.

He would become reliant on her, on her lie, and she would have power over him. She felt relieved - she felt like she had a plan, she felt she had control.

She walked closer, measuring the man up. His posture was slouched, but tensed and wary. His mouth pursed, his eyes narrowed. The white hair gave his dark eyes and pale skin a ghostly look. Definitely not Jon, Sansa thought surely. This wildling king is too old .

Her footsteps ticked across the hall. The King Snow wore black - a thick black shadowskin cloak and dark grey chainmail underneath. White hair against black clothes, clashing with her red hair against a white cloak. He is handsome, Sansa decided, in a grim and well-worn way . His face was too gaunt and his eyes too dark to betypically good-looking, but he had good cheeks and a strong chin. Maybe he could even look fair, if he smiled. Perhaps she'd be able to seduce him, but it was too soon to make that decision.

Sansa was already rehearsing what she would say. 'Jon! My brother, it's truly you!', perhaps, and then her voice would crack as if she wasabout to cry. She was still debating on whether she would break down in tears, or if she would rush to hug him. Or maybe she would

bow, that might be better - the respectful, emotional sister. It was all about making the right impression, particularly to those watching.

She was close enough to see his eyes. He looked restless, with dark bags under his eyes and lines at the corners. He had grey eyes. Sansa paused, and a flicker of a frown fell over her face.

No, she thought firmly. The memory of the raven-haired youth flashed across her gaze. The hair, the face… it definitely wasn't Jon.

She stepped closer, trying to trace his features. No…

The King Snow stood upwards, staggering slightly. Her eyes glanced to his leg. He didn't step forward to meet her, but he bowed his head in a polite, respectful nod.

Jon?!

Sansa could only stare. Her whole body froze. Neither of them spoke. There was something in his gaze, as if he were greeting a ghost.

"Lady Stark," the king greeted, and his voice choked slightly. "Sansa."

Her mouth opened, and for once she didn't know how to reply.

"You… Your Grace," Sansa stammered finally. She didn't bow.

That moment stretched out for what felt like an eternity. Neither of them said a word after that, just looking at each other like strangers.

Author Notes:

Well, this chapter has been something of a pain to write. Originally, this chapter and the next were a single one but, for various reasons, I had to cut them into two. As such, expect chapter 36 to be coming very quickly.

Chapter 36

Chapter 36

Jon

He broke his fast on dried, salted bacon, and a turnip he snatched from one of his men. Hardly the feast of kings, but it was all so hectic that Jon had to eat while walking.

Outside, around the steps of the Great Keep, he could see the castle stirring. Crowds of men were slowly moving through the main hall. Jon lingered at the edge of the balcony, half-hiding out of the way as he watched.

The stitches on his side were bleeding again. Jon could feel the blood welling in the wound, threatening to dribble down his torso, under the furs. His side felt fit to scream, every time he moved his leg.

There were footsteps behind him. Tormund Giantsbane walked with his arms folded, his white beard speckled with snow. "Snow!" Tormund called for him, keeping his voice low. "We're ready for you, Snow."

"The Great Hall?" Jon asked, and the man just nodded. The Great Hall, and the ancient carved weirwood seat of the Kings of Winter. My father's chair. My father's throne, my brother's throne. My throne.

Tormund looked at him expectantly, but there was nothing more to be said. Jon was already walking away, wincing so badly with each step he walked lopsided. Tormund stuck closely by his side, heavy footsteps next to his. Ever since the battle, over the course of a long, long week, the number of men that Jon could actually rely on had fallen to single-digits.

The castle was simmering. Jon knew that Tormund's raiders would all be on high-alert, watching for any moves to cause disturbance, on any side. Jon just felt stiff as he limped down the steps.

Every man they passed had a white stone on his chest. Without the Dragonguard, Jon had been forced to rely on men of the Cult of the Dragon to secure the Great Keep and the godswood. It wasn't the most reliable protection, but it was the closest thing Jon had.

This has to be done now, he told himself. Even over a week after the Battle of the Snows, they were struggling to pick up the pieces.

The mood in the Great Hall was sombre, tense. He saw the Greatjon glowering at the edge of the throne, while Tormund took the other side. Jon needed Toregg's help just to climb up the stairs, and he couldn't help but breathe a deep sigh of relief when he removed the weight from his legs.

It was a sign of weakness, he knew. Jon was still injured, he hadn't slept in days, and the vultures were everywhere.

"Snow," the Greatjon muttered to him. "We need to-"

"Did you find them?" Jon said sharply.

Lord Umber hesitated. "Aye," he replied. "We got them."

"All of them?"

"They're in chains now."

"Then bring the first one in," Jon ordered.

The whole castle was still reeling from the battle, but Jon couldn't let the tensions simmer. Every man, every chieftain, highborn or commander that could still walk had crowded into the hall. He saw hundreds of eyes filling the hall and flooding the podiums, all staring at him.

The room was still. All those gazes, they felt accusing.

No, Jon thought. This has to be done now. They need to see justice .

His army had nearly been destroyed by sabotage, distrust and treachery. The recent White Harbour reinforcements helped, but tensions remained. The anger was still dangerously high, still volatile.

The guilty needed to be punished, that was certain. They needed order again. Jon had agreed to hold the trials in the way of the free folk - where the accused would be walked through a public forum, and the chieftain would pass judgement openly, before the whole clan. Everyone could air their grievances, witnesses could come forward, and justice would be done, for all to see.

Four men-at-arms pounded spears against stone. The doors opened, and Jon heard the rattle of chains as Robett Glover was walked through.

He was wearing chains, frogmarched at spearpoint, but he didn't lower his gaze. His brother, Galbart Glover, Master of Deepwood Motte, walked behind him. Galbart wasn't wearing chains, but the men-at-arms still shadowed him closely.

There was a long pause, as they stood before Jon. A few wildlings in the crowd jeered, but others hushed them silent. Robett met Jon's gaze, while Galbart was staring at the ground.

No weakness. Not here . "Robett Glover of Deepwood Motte," Jon announced, forcing his voice to stay firm. "You stand accused, before the laws of men and the honour of the Old Gods, of treachery and oathbreaking. Of murder by conspiracy with the enemy. How do you plead?"

Both brothers had been accused, in days past, but Robett was the only one on trial now. He held himself well, for a man facing death.

"Guilty, Your Grace," Robett said, his voice gruff and loud. Galbart's shoulders were shaking.

Jon wasn't surprised. There was little for him to deny, and scores of witnesses. Robett had been the commander of their outriders, and all the outriders had reported that Robett had deliberately sent them away, letting the Boltons strike without warning. Robett had claimed it had been the king's orders - for the scouts to move south urgently to search for a missing caravan. There had been nobody on the plains to blow the warhorns when the Bolton army came through.

Still. Justice had to be seen to be done, for all to see.

"You willingly and knowingly participated in the Bolton attack?" Jon demanded.

"I… I abused my duty. I was ordered to clear the scouts, and I did." His eyes were hard. "I stood back, but I did not raise my blade against any man. I had no part in the violence, I committed no murder."

"I do not see the difference. Men died by your actions. You must have known the ambush was coming, did you not?"

"Only hours before it arrived," Robett explained dourly. "There was another man, called himself Gregor, but others knew him by different names. I only knew that he worked for House Bolton. He was pretending to be one of your soldiers. He tapped me on the shoulder and ordered me to do it, and stood by acting like my guard as I did."

"You were not forced." That dark growl was the Greatjon, his eyes bulging. "Do not claim to be a victim here."

"I was not," Robett admitted. "I could have overpowered the man, or alerted others of him. And yet the Boltons had my wife and children, Your Grace. I received the first threat from him months ago - telling me they wouldn't be harmed so long as I followed instructions when

they came. Otherwise, my wife Sybelle, my son Gawen, my daughter Erena - they would have been flayed alive."

Jon shifted in his seat, glaring. " That is your excuse, for condemning many more to certain death? You allowed the Bolton army to ambush us without warning - a warning that would have saved lives."

"Aye." He gulped. "And it did save lives. It saved my family."

There were rumbles in the crowd. Robett grit his teeth and pushed forward. "I did not think the ambush would be so bad! I expected a raiding party, or something that the bulwarks would have held against. I did not think the attack I allowed could have threatened us, not with the dragon."

"You believed treachery would be inconsequential?" The Greatjon stomped his foot. Others in the hall were muttering accusations too.

Robett nodded. "But that is an excuse. I am guilty - I knew the crime and I committed it." He took another deep breath. "And I would do so again. They honoured their deal. I thought my family would be doomed, but they are still alive."

Jon believed him. He held himself with honour - he had prepared and resigned himself to this. Jon looked to a northmen serjeant, and the man nodded. "We received word from Deepwood Motte," the serjeant admitted. "Sybelle, Gawen and Erena Glover have all been released unharmed. Roose Bolton did honour the deal." Damn him.

"Were you aware of any other traitors in the camp?" Jon demanded of Robett Glover.

"I was not. I thought I was the only one."

"And what of your brother?"

"He had naught to do with it." Robett's voice turned sharp. "Lord Bolton lied on that count. I hid the blackmail from Galbart, I was

ashamed. My brother didn't know anything."

The letters that Lord Bolton had said otherwise, but they had found no witnesses to implicate the elder Glover brother as well. The parchments, the handwriting and the seal could well be forged. Lord Bolton had reason to lie, Jon reminded himself, to try and trick me into persecuting innocents as well .

The crowd was chanting. The northmen were more reserved in their judgement, but for the wildlings it was clear. Damn him, Jon cursed. It would be easier if Robett was cowardly, and yet he held himself with honour. Too many had died that night because of him, Jon couldn't do anything less. He knew the mood in his castle; there would be riots if he pulled back in judgement now.

"For the lives of your family, you knowingly condemned thousands of others. Robett Glover. I sentence you to death."

Galbart looked ready to fall apart, shaking and trying to restrain himself. There was no outburst, just a hard and grim nod from Robett.

An honourable sentence, Jon remembered saying those words. He would swing the blade himself, he had promised, and his family would be protected and provided for. Robett didn't respond.

"His brother is just as guilty as he is," Rattleshirt growled to Jon. "They planned it together, they must have. The man knows he's dead, but he can still lie to save his brother."

"We have no evidence against Galbart," Jon said. He turned to the men in the hall, and raised his voice slightly. "But neither will Galbart Glover walk free. He will remain in Winterfell, under supervision. Robett Glover's family will be brought to Winterfell too, to remain as hostages. I will take many of the lands sworn to Deepwood Motte, and give them to distinguished warriors of the free folk. House Glover will rue its betrayal, I promise you."

Rattleshirt was still fuming - the Lord of Bones had lost more men than anyone trying to hold the bulwarks against the surprise attack. Jon wondered how many others would agree with Rattleshirt's assessment of Galbart.

Jon just felt numb. That look in Galbart's eyes haunted him. Still, it wasn't over. No weakness, not now. The spears thudded again, and the next traitor was brought through.

Brandon Norrey of Clan Norrey still had defiance in his eyes, spitting against the men who escorted him. He was brought along with three of his sons, and two other leaders within Clan Norrey. One of the men spat "Fucking wildlings!" into the hall.

Jon had hoped Lord Norrey's sentence would be easier. Clan Norrey had worked with the Boltons more than most; helping to smuggle Bolton men in the camp. Several of Clan Norrey had dressed themselves in furs, pretending to be of Rattleshirt's warband, and they had executed the ambush against the giants. Afterwards, The Norrey had started screaming to the clansmen that the wildlings had betrayed them, and many otherwise loyal men had believed him.

His charges were levelled against him, and Brandon Norrey spat on the floor and said, "Aye, I did it."

"What did the Boltons offer you?" Jon demanded.

"Protection. The north," he turned to glare at the Greatjon. "We loved the Ned, we owed him much and more, but not this. Never this. You are all fools if you think those wildlings can be trusted. They are savages, rapers and murderers and you - Lord Umber, you should know that better than most."

"Just looking at some of Snow's savages sickens me," the Greatjon growled at the man. "But you're the goddamned fool, Norrey, if you think the Boltons are any better."

"This bastard, the Ned's little girl-!" The Norrey's eyes widened fit to bulging, he almost shrieked in fury. He struggled and writhed and spat curses until a man-at-arms laid him low, with a punch to the gut.

"I've heard enough," Jon announced, his voice hard. "For your crimes, Brandon Norrey of Clan Norrey, you are sentenced to death. I declare your clan attainted. Your sons shared in your crime, and will share your fate."

His sons screamed protests, but they would share their father's sentence. They'd willingly assisted in their father's betrayal. Their entire clan would be stripped of their holdings, their fief given to the free folk. The Norrey didn't flinch when Jon passed his judgement, but his sons wept. "And what of his crimes!" He slammed his finger at Rattleshirt. "How can you punish me, you bastard, and turn a blind eye on the crimes of those around you?"

"The free folk have renounced their old ways," Jon said, raising his voice to cut off any defiance, "Their days of raiding smallfolk will never come again, and they received amnesty for all past crimes when they crossed the Wall."

"You say that?" The Norrey howled, stepping forward. The men-at-arms had to stop him. "You dare to say that! My daughters ! Two little girls of twelve and eight!" He tried to lunge forward, squirming against the grip. "They were raped and mutilated by a wildling in an armour of bones! "

Jon paused, posture cracking slightly. By his left, Rattleshirt's eyes narrowed, but he didn't object to the accusation. That was the reason Clan Norrey had been against him from the start? Dammit. I did not know that .

It can't make a difference, Jon told himself. There was nothing he could do. Nearly all of the wildlings raiders had kills to their name, and were many who'd stolen women. If I punish Rattleshirt, I'd have to punish a thousand others .

Still, Jon's eyes lingered on Rattleshirt for just a moment longer. "… They received full amnesty," Jon said finally.

"YOU BLOODY BASTARD!" Brandon Norrey shrieked. "You fucking bloody bastard! They were my girls ! It only happened a year ago! He butchered them! He's wearing their fucking ribcages around his fucking waist! "

Jon winced. Rattleshirt's armour, Jon remembered vaguely, was made out of the bones of the people that he'd killed.

They had to drag The Norrey away, still spitting curses as his sons struggled, or wept. His clansmen will have to stew in the prison cells, Jon decided. The mountain clans were different, their loyalty to their lord was stronger than most - a loyalty more akin to that of family, rather than house. Jon would take the guilty's heads, but others could well kill themselves trying to take vengeance. Still, there was nothing else he could do. Clan Norrey had knowingly, wilfully, betrayed them all, and they would pay the price. From root to stem, if need be.

The Greatjon had to excuse himself, he was shaking with rage. The Lord of Bones smiled hesitantly. "Huh. Never knew who their father was," Rattleshirt admitted sheepishly, before resigning himself to the very back of the room. Jon's glare followed him. Damn him .

The others in the clan, first cousins and lesser relations, were questioned further, cross-referencing with the stories of other traitors. They answered the same as Robett did; none of them knew of any other traitors in the camp - as far as each had been aware, they had been the only Bolton spies. A hundred little mice, scurrying about, each thinking that they were alone in the world.

It wasn't over. The spears thumped again, and more traitors were brought out.

Lord Cregan Karstark was brought out, even though he was one who Lord Bolton hadn't named. Cregan Karstark stood in front of the hall,

and Jon called for testimonies from men who had been near Karstark during the battle.

Nobody was quick to step forward. As far anybody could tell, the Karstark men hadn't betrayed them. When the battle happened, the Karstark men had fought 'loyally' to the coalition.

Of course they did, Jon thought. Cregan Karstark's loyalty is clearly tenuous, but Roose Bolton would have known we'd be suspicious of him . The Boltons hadn't even tried to bring House Karstark into their scheme.

Jon dismissed the unsupported charges, and Cregan left without a sentence. Still, Cregan glared at Jon darkly as he was walked away. Arnolf Karstark, Cregan's father, had fought and died for House Bolton during the battle. Cregan Karstark may not be a traitor, not this time, Jon thought sourly, but he's no friend. Lord Karstark's guard won't be disappearing anytime soon .

Four more 'trials' followed; each one of them very guilty. Lord Ethan Whitehill stood accused of smuggling Bolton men into the camp and sneaking supplies through White Harbour; Mandon Slate, heir to Blackpool, and his men were accused of setting fires in the camp, Lord Hoster Moss accused of assaulting free folk patrols, and Old Torghen Flint accused of deliberately spreading discord.

Lord Moss was the only one who tried to deny his charges, claiming he never knew what his men were doing. The others pled the same as Robett when they admitted to the charges; that they didn't know that anybody else was involved in the plan. Roose Bolton recruited traitors to raise havoc in the camp, and didn't tell any of them who else was in the scheme; none of them that could point the finger at anybody else.

It had been nothing short of masterful, the way the Boltons had organised them.

And each one had their own reasons; Lord Whitehill was fuelled by suspicion of Jon and the new religion that the wildlings brought, Mandon Slate feared for his family, while Old Torghen Flint had just spent too long fighting wildlings to ever abide them. Not a single one had betrayed them for greed or personal ambition. They had been fuelled by fear - or by duty, as they understood it.

Jon shifted in his seat. The sentences would remain the same; they would all be executed. Regardless of their reasons, it could not be forgiven.

"There were more than this, you know that, right?" Tormund muttered to Jon quietly after Lord Moss was dragged away weeping. "I don't know who, but I was in that camp. There were far more saboteurs in that camp than what we're seeing now."

"I know," Jon replied, his voice a whisper. "Not all the betrayers are with us; there are more trials to be had. Ondrew Locke, Malcolm Woolfield, Mors Umber and Lyessa Flint must stand trial." Jon shook his head, remembering that night. "And other traitors likely would have died in the snows. We can only guess how many."

Still, they had only managed to 'catch' the traitors that were very obviously guilty - so many others had managed to slip away in the confusion. If there aren't witnesses that can finger them, Jon knew, then everybody else will deny being involved to their dying breath .

Roose Bolton knew it too. The letters. Jon suspected that Lord Bolton had honestly confessed as to who the actual traitors were, but had also thrown a few other names in there for good measure. Many more, perhaps. Enough to muddy the waters, to make everything a bit more doubtful and to spread as much suspicion as possible. If Jon were to punish everyone that Lord Bolton had named, there would hardly be an army left to command.

Trying to sort out the lies from the truth was the hardest part. Damn him. Damn him .

Perhaps harsh interrogation of the maesters would yield some answers, but Jon had his doubts. Everything he had found so far was indicating a higher influence coordinating them all. Strangely, Jon thought of Luwin. Would he have opposed me too?

It was already getting late, but he could hardly tell through the thick storm clouds that were beginning to rumble once more outside. Jon was sitting tense in his seat, so upright he might snap. He had to force himself to stay stoic.

The spears thumped again, and the last traitor was brought out.

Jon's stomach lurched, while the men in the hall shifted.

Lady Leona Manderly was weeping, tears staining her yellow dress. She was a plump, homely woman with blond hair that was now more like a straw heap. Her eyes were red, bloodshot. She looked so haggard, her face somehow both flushed and ghostly pale with snot dribbling down her chin. She could barely breathe, she had to be half-carried, half-pushed. Last he had saw her, Lady Leona had been poised and well-dressed, however nervous, but now she looked like a wreck.

Both her daughters, Wynafyrd and Wylla, entered with her - the daughters weren't on trial, only the mother was. Wynafryd, sharp-eyed with long braided hair, supported her mother as they walked, arms wrapped around her mother's. The younger daughter, Wylla, followed behind from a short distance. From the red in their eyes and their cheeks, both girls had been crying.

I had to do it, Jon cursed. He had already promised that all traitors among them would be tried publicly. And then another traitor arrived along with the convoy from White Harbour, the day before. This one is a mother where the others were fathers, but it can't make a difference .

"Lady Leona Manderly, of House Woolfield," Jon said, taking a deep breath. Give me strength . The hall turned quieter that it had been.

"You are accused of treason and conspiring with the enemy. How do you plead?"

She was too busy sobbing, her daughter had to shake her to respond, before croaking out the words. "G-Guilty, Your Grace."

They would never have even discovered Leona's treachery, if she hadn't broken down and confessed it all herself in a fit of weeping panic, in the aftermath of the assault on White Harbour. She had been working with Lord Bolton from the New Castle itself. Ever since the Manderly maester was arrested, Lady Leona and the castellan had taken over the maester's duties at the ravenry. And then, every letter that the city had sent out, Lady Leona made a copy of, and relayed it to Winterfell.

The Boltons had a spy in White Harbour all along, passing information straight to Winterfell.

And of all the names that Lord Bolton had admitted to, Leona's hadn't been among them, Jon remembered. Lord Bolton hadn't given her up. Perhaps he thought we would never have believed it .

"Tell me what you did, Lady Leona," Jon ordered, though he already knew.

"I…" Leona sniffled. "I forwarded ravens to Winterfell, Your Grace."

"How many?"

"I do not… I don't know. As many that concerned you, I was told to forward anything that could be useful," she croaked. "The castellan would log the parchments, I made a copy."

"You were working with the Boltons?" She shakily nodded. "Did Roose Bolton approach you with a deal? Did they hold a hostage over you?"

She shook her head, still sniffing. "I approached him. I sent a message to Winterfell."

There were stirs in the crowd. "Why?"

"I… I…" the woman looked like ruin, barely able to stammer out the words. "I just wanted…" she gulped, between sobs. "I wanted to protect m-my family."

The Greatjon stepped forward, looming imposingly. "You fucking what ?"

Her eldest daughter, Wynafryd, moved to cover her mother against the Greatjon defiantly, as if the Greatjon could charge the woman at any moment. Wylla just lingered back, her eyes wide and twitching.

"It's…" Leona stammered from behind her, looking everywhere but at Jon. "You don't understand! It was only a few letters!"

"Those letters gave away all of our troop movements, my lady," Jon said darkly. "The Boltons knew exactly when and where we were coming."

Even from the beginning, Lord Bolton had known straight away of absolutely every alliance Jon was trying to make, every troop movement, every order he had given. At a certain point, Jon thought foully, it must have become easy for him .

"I…" she was gasping. Her head was swivelling desperately, looking for help from the crowd, but finding none. All glared at her. The air was thick with condemnation. "It was… my husband . My children. I… I…" Tears in her eyes. Jon wished he could scream at her to stop crying and face him. "I didn't want…"

"Your husband was with that bloody army!" a White Harbour knight shouted to mutters of agreement. Ser Mardrick, from a branch of House Manderly. Jon couldn't bring himself to speak. " You put him at risk!"

"No, I… no…" Leona looked ready to keel over. "I made a deal," she gasped finally. "He promised he wouldn't hurt my husband… my family… if I helped him."

Damn him. DAMN HIM .

Wylla Manderly started trembling, fists clenched. Voices murmured accusingly. It was a lame excuse, but Jon knew the real reason she had done it. "You don't understand!" Leona wailed, after a passing of moments. She was weeping, insensate. "They said that he would be safe, but they said he would be safe with Robb Stark too! I lost my husband for nearly a year at that horrible place - he could have died at the Twins! My girls lost their father! I couldn't, I couldn't take it…"

"Mother…" Wynafryd whispered, moving to hold her. Wylla didn't step close, she didn't budge. The daughters were both crying, but their expressions were so different.

"It was only some letters," Leona cried. "I didn't think it would make any difference - not with a dragon, we were going to win regardless - but just in case !" She gasped for breath. "Just in case we didn't win. Just in case the… the dragon betrayed us… !" She shrieked the words, finally managing to stare at Jon. Her eyes were filled with pure fear. "They said that the wildlings couldn't be trusted, and I… Lord Wyman was gambling everything, but I… just in case it didn't go, I wanted to give my family a safety net!"

The fool. Damn him and damn her . "That's all it was, just a safety net. Just in case. But it didn't really matter!" Leona insisted. "It shouldn't have made any difference at all, because, well, the dragon!"

I saw her, Jon thought softly. I saw her, I noticed how disturbed she was. I was just too busy to even focus on her . Leona had thought victory with Sonagon was guaranteed, so therefore her own betrayal would be inconsequential. And Lord Bolton would have encouraged that mindset, wouldn't he?

If that was the attitude within my army, then no wonder Lord Bolton screwed me.

"They were burning septs!" Leona pleaded, her voices nearly nonsensical through the panic. "The wildl- the free folk were burning septs and worshipping dragons! They said that they were sacrificingmen to the dragon, bleeding men to the trees, and there were so many horror stories, and…" She collapsed to the ground, taking deep gulps of air like she could barely breathe. " I just wanted to protect my husband! "

Jon winced. Wynafryd moved to support her mother, but something snapped in the air.

"You killed him!" Wylla Manderly screamed, recoiling back . She was pointing her arm at her own mother, her slight frame quivering. "You killed father, you killed father!"

Leona Manderly stiffened, trembling, as she stared wide-eyed at her daughter. Leona would have fallen to her knees, if not for Wynafryd holding her half-upright. The mother was sobbing, and Wylla was still screaming. "YOU KILLED FATHER, YOU-!"

"Take her away!" Jon slammed his fist on the throne's arm.

Wylla was shrieking all the while that Toregg dragged her from the Great Hall. The young woman's red and wide eyes locked on Jon, thrashing in grief and rage. "Kill her, kill her, KILL HER… !"

The doors slammed shut, and Jon could only feel a bone-deep exhaustion, while the men in the Great Hall muttered amongst themselves, a low chorus of voices.

Leona Manderly and her daughters had only discovered that Ser Wylis was dead after they arrived in Winterfell. They had come to bring their mother to trial, and discovered on arrival that their father was dead. Nobody had put it to writing, the maesters were all in chains. No one had even told Lord Wyman yet.

Jon's head felt like it was spinning. Focus . Do not let yourself be moved just because she's crying . "Did Ser Wylis know of your actions?" Jon demanded, but she was on the floor in hysterics. "Answer the question; did Ser Wylis know? "

"No! He would never, he…" Her voice stammered, breaking down into wheezy gasps and sobs. "… I didn't mean… I never wanted… Oh gods… I… I… I'm sorry, I never wanted… ! "

"Did you ever meet with anyone else, any other conspirators, anyone working with the Boltons?"

She shook her head frantically. " It was only letters, it was only… ! "

"Did you ever send letters, anything concerning us, to anywhere other than Winterfell?" Like Braavos, or King's Landing? He could feel the question churning in his gut, so violently he wanted to scream. Who else was Roose working with?

She shook her head, sobbing madly, and Jon stiffened. She knew nothing. She was just a tool.

The only sound in the room were her sobs. Nobody was chanting, not for her. She's a fool, Jon cursed. A traitor, but not a malicious one. Still, Leona's treachery had been more damaging than many ofthe others he had judged. Lord Bolton could never have planned his assault without her.

"… I cannot make final judgement at this time," Jon said finally. "I will withhold a sentence and deliberate for the time being. Lady Leona, you are excused for now. You will stay here, in the Great Keep, under guard."

She was such a wreck that the men had to carry her out. Wynafyrd's glare never left Jon's eyes. Even when all the others were moving away, the daughter of White Harbour, and new heir of the house, walked forward, and stood before Jon's throne. "I will not condone my mother's actions, Your Grace," Wynafryd said quietly, her voice

thin, like a thread at the edge of breaking. "But you will not execute her."

"Lady Leona committed treason," Jon replied coldly. "Thousands may be dead because of her. Do you expect me to forgive that because she is a woman?"

"I expect you to treat her kindly because she is my mother ." With that, Wynafryd pulled up her dress and walked away, her jaw clenched.

Jon could feel the weight of the eyes of those men, still in the hall, weighing on him. Judging him.

"Lady Manderly," Jon called after her. She stilled, without turning. "Your grandfather sent your mother here to die. She was sent to Winterfell to be tried for treason, and Winterfell's punishment for treason is death." She turned then, eyes wide, staring at him as though she'd never seen him before.

No weakness, Jon reminded himself. All your fault, a mad voice howled.

"Even with your defence of her, even if your grandfather were here to speak for her, your mother's crimes are clear." Jon warned. "I will deliberate on a final judgement, I will speak with her further, but she will pay a price for her treason."

"I simply…" She gulped, nearly stammering. He could see the sweat beading on her brow, the paleness of her skin. Her whole body began to tremble. "I merely ask… Your Grace, that the punishment not be death. That… is all."

Jon slowly nodded, attempting to keep his voice hard. It was… difficult. He could feel his throat beginning to go hoarse from overuse. "You are dismissed, Lady Manderly." The hall slowly started to file away, and few left feeling satisfied. Jon just left numb. I will have to behead over a score of men on the morn . He would kill

more men, so many more men in the executioner's yard than he had during the actual battle.

Sooner or later, Jon thought, I will have to pen a letter coursed for White Harbour, to inform Lord Wyman of his only son's death . He honestly couldn't even imagine the lord's reaction. His memories flashed, and he remembered the breaking of the Frey delegation, in the middle of the Merman's Court.

Jon could have screamed.

"Rattleshirt," Jon called to the wildling, one of the last men remaining in the hall.

"Aye?"

For a moment, Jon just stared at him, eyes glancing over suit of bones. "We will… speak with the other prisoners after the morn on the morrow. I want you there."

The Lord of Bones just grinned in a sickly way, and shuffled away.

Jon dropped out of that horrible weirwood throne and limped away as fast as his lopsided gait would take him, wincing with every step. Jon limped quickly up the stairs, Toregg on guard, passing the bloodstains on the walls.

He retreated to the lord's solar - his father's solar - but it wasn't over. It was already dusk, and the castle was still hectic. He heard the angry barks and snaps outside as the accused was escorted through the keep. There were knocks on the doors behind him, demanding attention. One more urgent issue to see to. One more judgement I must give, he thought hollowly, one more traitor .

Lord Bolton had kept a tankard of mulled wine under the desk. Jon yanked it and took a large gulp, just to calm his nerves. It tasted foul, nearly made him gag. "Bring him in," he ordered to Toregg, without turning.

This was one trial that Jon didn't dare hold in public, this one he had tried to keep as quiet as possible.

The Weeper barged through the solar door, spitting curses. Jon could feel his glare on his back, and he slowly turned. Tormund's men had escorted the Weeper, and the wildling warlord looked furious. Jon gave Tormund a look, and the door was shut.

"Boy," the Weeper spat, snow still coating his furs. "What the bloody hell is this?"

"Weeper." No weakness. Not here . "You stand accused of murder."

Behind him, Ser Alek of White Harbour crept through the doorway, his face pale and his eyes wide as he stared at the Weeper. The young knight was trembling slightly, Jon noticed.

The Weeper only snorted. "Oh bugger off, Snow."

Tormund and Jon shared a dark look."Do you deny it?" Jon growled. "You murdered Ser Wylis Manderly and over a dozen of his knights, Weeper."

"Snow," the Weeper said, like a talking to a child. "I murdered a lot of people that night. I helped win the bloody battle for you ."

"There is killing, Weeper," Jon said. "And then there is murder."

Still, it was true - the Weeper had more than distinguished himself on the battlefield. Jon had heard that the Weeper nigh-singlehandedly broke the cavalry charge, and took their commander's, Ser Walder River's, head himself. He'd been one of the first men to breach through the gates of Winterfell. And yet, still, he committed murder too.

Ser Alek was standing as far away from the Weeper as the room would allow. The knight of the Dragonguard had been a wreck ever since the battle, ever since he had been the only survivor of that

boathouse. The only Manderly man to survive, and the Weeper only spared him because Ser Alek wore a white dragon on his hauberk. "You took his head!" Ser Alek shouted. "Ser Wylis didn't do anything to you, he wasn't a traitor and you took his head! "

The Weeper snarled, snapping around. "I could have taken yours too, runt," he snapped. "Don't make me regret that one."

"Enough!" Jon barked, but his eyes were on the Weeper. He didn't have his scythe, and that was a small mercy. Jon couldn't even imagine how hard it must have been for Tormund and the Greatjon to confiscate the Weeper's weapon. "Tell me why, Weeper? Explain this to me."

The Weeper shrugged. Not even a hint of guilt. "I thought he was an enemy. I'm still not sure that he wasn't."

"Ser Wylis did not betray us."

"So you say. But his bloody wife did, didn't she?"

"There is no evidence against Ser Wylis." Jon's voice was a growl. He stepped forward, meeting the Weeper's mad eyes. "The Manderly knights fought loyally. White Harbour is our strongest ally. Why did you do it, Weeper? Walk me through it ."

The Weeper's lips twisted. The whole room was tense; only Jon, Tormund and Ser Alek facing off against the Weeper. "It was a bloody battle, Snow," he said after a pause. "There were assassins, it was an ambush. You were missing, maybe dead - I didn't know. I saw there was a battle, and then folk screaming that the kneelers had betrayed us. So I grabbed my raiders, and I marched into the boathouse to demand what was going on."

Nobody spoke. The Weeper grunted. "That fat kneeler - Ser Wylis - he was there. His guards drew their swords when they saw me, but I decided to let that one pass. I walked straight up to him and

demanded to know what was bloody going on, and then that fat man goes on and gives me this bloody smug, smartass reply."

It wasn't a smug repl y!" Ser Alek cried. "Wylis didn't know - he was actually asking! He said 'what are you talking about?'!"

"Well, it sounded smug to me," the Weeper grumbled. "At that point, I figured these kneelers were clearly responsible, so I handled it."

Jon stared speechless. "So… So Ser Wylis picked a poor choice of words," Jon said slowly, "and you decided to kill him for it."

"They could have been traitors, Snow," the Weeper said, with another shrug. "I didn't have a chance to find out for sure."

"They were not traitors, Weeper, and you murdered the heir to bloody White Harbour! "

"Fine." The raider rolled his eyes. "Let's say I believe that. Whatever. It was a battle, Snow, a bad one. Sometimes it happens. I'd reckon every single warrior out there has seen men stab at their allies in the dark, or shoot arrows at the wrong side. Sometimes you just get confused."

Jon wasn't even sure how to reply to that one. His mouth stammered. The thought of Lady Leona's desperate gulps for breath flashed before his eyes. "How many men died?" Jon asked finally, turning to Ser Alek.

Fourteen," Ser Alek said instantly, glowering. "All knights of White Harbour, Ser Wylis' personal guard. There were six other raiders with the Weeper, but he still killed nine himself. He sliced them apart singlehanded."

"Aye," the Weeper agreed. "Those guys were fucking soft summer pansies."

Wylis' guard would have been the heirs, the second sons, of the most powerful Manderly bannermen . Ser Alek looked, half-crazed, ready to snap. Jon's head was spinning. "Are we done here, Snow?" the Weeper demanded. "I got a warband ready and waiting for me down there, and there are bunch of fleeing men that I ain't planning on letting get away."

"Weeper…" Jon said blankly, almost disbelieving. All our food, our weapons, our supplies, our allies… The wealthiest family in the north

. "Can you truly not see how much of a problem this is?"

"I don't see a problem at all," the Weeper grunted. "If that fat fool's fatter father wants to take vengeance against me, then fine - let him try. I'll go to that bloody castle myself and explain why that'd be a poor idea."

Ser Alek looked horrified. He turned to Jon, begging. "Your Grace! He was the lord's son, my liege lord! I swore loyalty to you, but I swore myself to House Manderly too, and he… !" Ser Alek gulped. "Lord Wyman will demand - he deserves - justice!"

Jon hesitated. Damn him . "Ser…" he said slowly. "… there was a lot of chaos in that camp. The enemies deliberately spread discord. The Weeper was not the only man who turned his blade against others in the heat of the moment."

By the gods… Would my father curse me for saying those words? "It… it was murder!" Ser Alek stammered, appalled.

"It was bloody war," the Weeper scoffed. "I mean, 'murder'? What a load of fucking kneeler shit. There were a lot of sons that died in those bloody snows, are you going to demand 'justice' for all of them?"

Jon turned to him. "Weeper," he warned. "You are not helping your case here. Have more respect, show more remorse."

He spat on the floor. Jon twitched. "Bugger that. I've been real good to you, Snow. I've been loyal, I've fought for you. Ever since I met you in those woods, I've been working with you - you owe me for that. You promised the free folk that you'd take us south and protect us, and there's me keeping the others to their fealty too." He stepped forward. " Was I wrong? "

Damn him. Damn them all .

Ser Alek looked between them, agape mouth agape. "There must be justice. I…" He stammered, with another gulp. "I demand trial by combat, Your Grace." The knight turned, trying to face off against the Weeper. "I made the accusation, and I will stand as House Manderly's champion. I will fight to avenge Ser Wylis."

The Weeper stopped, and the guffawed. "Aye? Alright, aye!" the raider barked. "Alright, I'm happy with that, runt. Give me my scythe and let's deal with this one quickly."

Jon could have groaned. "Ser Alek," he said lowly. "Please retire to your quarters."

"Your Grace-"

"This matter will be resolved later. Leave."

Ser Alek looked like he had been slapped, but he turned away. Jon was pacing, stepping back and forth across the solar as he cradled his head in his hands. Damn him . "If that boy wants to die for his dead friend, then I'm happy for it," the Weeper called.

"Ser Wylis had a wife, Weeper," Jon replied tiredly. The day had drained his strength. "Two daughters."

"Lots of folk have daughters, ain't nothing special about that," the Weeper grunted, "and everybody dies occasionally, no need to make a big fuss over it."

Jon stiffened. " Leave ."

His hands were shaking. Damn him, Jon cursed. Damn him and damn them all. Damn myself too .

The Weeper barged out the solar. Tormund lingered, looking at Jon cautiously. Jon didn't even know what to say.

"Every man has a right to justice," Tormund said, breaking the silence. "If the fat lord objects, let him take it against Weeper. Trial by combat, you call it? The free folk way is similar enough, when you get down to it. If the young boy wants to fight, then let him."

"The Weeper would win, Tormund," Jon groaned. "The Weeper is one of the best fighters I have ever known. He's the only man I know of to survive trading blows against a white walker." Myself included . "The Weeper will cut down Ser Alek in a heartbeat, and that would be salt in Lord Wyman's wound."

Tormund didn't disagree. The wildling hesitated. "How many men follow the Weeper?" Tormund asked finally.

Jon knew what he was really asking; how much of a problem could the Weeper be? "I don't know," Jon replied honestly. "Hecommanded over four thousand raiders at one point, but I don't know how many still follow him. But it's more than that - there were a lot of the free folk who were unhappy when I forced their fealty. There were many that only ever chose to follow me because the Weeper did it first. Anybody who doesn't trust me, trusts the Weeper. He's a very influential figure among the raiders."

" How influential?" Tormund pressed.

"I don't know," he admitted. And I don't want to test it, either .

Jon's hands were shaking, his world strained, his body raw. The stress he felt - physical and emotional - had never felt so hard.

Finally, Jon had to ask, "How many men know of Ser Wylis' murder?"

Tormund paused. "Well…" he paused, considering the words carefully. "The Weeper's raiders are the only witnesses alive who saw the deed. And that Ser Alek of course." A moment of hesitation. "Lots of rumours are going around about it, though - but I don't know how many could actually say for certain ."

Jon felt like a bastard for even thinking those thoughts.

"I need time to think," Jon said finally, pushing himself to his feet and hobbling to the door.

"Hells, you've been running yourself ragged," Tormund grunted. "How bout some rest instead?"

"I'm fine, I just-" he stopped and winced, cursing slightly as he jerked his leg too fast. The stitches, Jon cursed. The stab wound from the assassin's blade on his lower torso was not healing well. It needed rest and recuperation, but Jon had none to spare. He hadn't even been able to eat enough. Jon's jaw clenched, his body staggering against the doorframe.

"Dammit, Snow." Tormund moved towards him, as if Jon might topple. "Rest yourself."

"I'm fine!" Jon snapped clutching the doorway. "I just need-" Jon hesitated, and then relented. "I need a walking stick, Tormund - can you have one of your men fetch one?"

And just hope that nobody sees me limping around like a cripple . Jon's command was hanging by a thread as it was, the sight that their king might be lame could certainly snap it.

Not long afterwards, and Jon was hobbling up the stairs of the west wing - past the old rooms where the Stark children had once roamed. His cane thumped against the steps, tapping with each

step. There had been corpses even here, and black drag marks were the soldiers had pulled the bodies down the stairs.

The thought of Leona Manderly's red and weeping face flashed before his eyes. He wondered how many of his men were ruthless enough to demand a death sentence for a grieving widow, and then he tried to imagine himself swinging down the blade…

The ruins of the West Tower weren't far from here, and the bedchamber where Arya had tried to hide while the wildlings stormed the keep…

It was all too much.

"Dammit!" Jon screamed to the empty halls. "Dammit! Dammit! "

His fists collided against the stone walls, so hard it hurt. He kept on punching until his knuckles were bloody, and the pain started to numb.

He could have torn this whole cursed castle down with his bare hands, and it wouldn't be enough. It wasn't enough.

The winds were outside were still fierce, and from the great keep it sounded like Ramsay Snow's ghostly laughter shaking the castle. Jon could feel it ringing in his ears, Ramsay's blade against his neck…

That moment in the snow. He relived it a hundred times. The images flashed before his eyes, all vivid in red and black. Jon kept on punching the wall.

Finally, Jon stopped, picked himself off the floor again, and kept on limping down the corridor.

He headed towards Sansa's old room, the chambers on the far end. Under Bolton occupation, it had been held by Lady Walda Bolton,

but then it became another infirmary. Jon's hands were still shaking, he had to force himself into the room. Val .

Jon walked in and saw Val lying unconscious on bloodied sheets, her breaths hoarse and shallow. Exactly where he had left her. Val's skin was milky pale. The room stank of dried blood.

It was the cold, Jon thought. The prolonged exposure, bleeding out in the elements, threatened her almost as much as the blade had. Severe shock, the maester, the only one they still dared to trust, had called it. Val had been alive when they found them in the snows, but she still hadn't woken up yet.

Ramsay's blade had sliced her from shoulder downwards, severing straight through her right breast, hacking into the shoulderbone. Mutilated skin had been stitched together, but it still looked as bad a wound as any Jon had seen. He could see the ugly gash, the tear under the bloodied sheets, like a solid chunk out of her shoulder. The maester hadn't been able to say if she'd survive, but then warned that she could well lose the arm even if she did. An infection now would kill her as surely as any sword, if the hypothermia didn't first.

Jon had never seen Val so frail. She was always so bold, so fierce, so strong. Lying on the bed now, she was a pale and weakened thing.

Val had been awake but near-delirious for a while; moaning in pained fever dreams. She had been made to fall unconscious, as drank of the scant few precious stores of milk of the poppy, and the maester stitched together her hacked flesh. Jon hadn't even been able to talk to her, unable to form any words.

She had been barely clinging to life for over a week, yet Jon had only visited her four times. Jon had to force himself, drag his legs through the corridor, just to come to her bedside, because it hurt so much.

She's alive, Jon told himself. Val was breathing and Ramsay was dead in the snow. Still, no matter how much he reminded himself, it

didn't feel like much of a victory.

"I'm sorry," a voice said quietly, from behind. "I didn't know what other room to go to."

Jon didn't jump at the sound, but his shoulder stiffened. He turned to see Sansa, sitting upright and alert behind the doorway. Her eyes were on his, and then slowly looking up and down, between Val and him.

They looked at each other like strangers, tensing in each other's presence. Every time he saw her, Jon's instinctual reaction was to think of Lady Stark, her mother. They looked so alike it was jarring.

Sansa. Perhaps it is a trade - I lost one sister, but the gods returned to me another , he thought . I lost the little sister I loved and played with, in return for the sister that shunned me . It was a cruel thought, but he was feeling too bitter to care.

She was looking at him, waiting for a reply. It was the first time that Jon had even been alone with Sansa, and only the third that he had seen her since she had arrived in Winterfell two days ago.

Everything had been so busy, so urgent, that there had never been a moment. Or maybe I just didn't want to face her .

Jon blinked. It was dusk. She was in Val's room, Sansa's old room. Sansa hadn't been assigned new chambers. Another of the many things that he had let pass into oversight.

"It's… it's fine." Jon didn't shake his head. He didn't know what to say to her. "Where is the maester?"

"He went for some more milk of the poppy," she explained. "The guards followed him."

"Ah." The single word hung in the air. Maester Henly was a young maester with honest features, the only one that Jon had been forced

to trust so he could treat Val, but every move the maester made was still done under escort, and watched.

"I was told to keep the fires warm for her." Sansa's eyes drifted towards to the unconscious woman. "She is… Lady Val, yes?"

A nod. "Just Val."

"You were close." It wasn't a question, but Jon nodded again. Her eyes slightly widened. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"She's clinging on." His voice was low. I couldn't even come to her bedside .

There was a long, long silence.

Sansa was so, so different to what he remembered. He remembered a young girl full of polite courtesies, who loved to sing, loved to dance, who longed for all the comforts of a southron lady. She loved the harvest feasts, the masked balls, the mummer's shows. The woman before him was… harder, more jaded, with sharper eyes and fewer smiles. Her hair was shorter and darker, worn downwards rather than in a braid.

The eyes were the most unnerving - it was like Jon half-expected to hear Catelyn Stark's cold, chiding voice every time Sansa spoke.

I never expected to see her again . Somehow, he didn't think she expected him either.

The only sound in the room was crackle of the flames, and the wheeze of Val's unconscious breaths.

Her gaze was guarded, suspicious. He noticed how she always kept two steps between them, as if he might lunge at her at any moment. "Tell me something, Your Grace," Sansa said finally. "I spent a full day explaining myself to Lord Umber and the others. They demanded to know everything about me, for me to describe

everything that happened at King's Landing. Even now, some still call me an imposter, a traitor, or Lady Lannister."

"When things go wrong, when the unexpected happens, people look for someone to blame," Jon said lowly. "Tensions are high."

"They are," Sansa agreed. "I came prepared for it, since I knew they'd be suspicious. And yet you never questioned me at all."

"I did not."

"Why is that, King Snow?"

Because you look just like her. It was like seeing a ghost . "You are my sister, Lady Stark," Jon said instead. "We grew up together."

"We did. And yet this is already the longest conversation I can ever recall us having," Sansa agreed. "Do not feel obligated to pretend otherwise. I do not expect warm feelings from you."

For a second, he was caught off-guard with the bluntness. They had been estranged as children, distant, but never that cold. Jon blinked. "Then why are you here?"

A humourless ghost of smile passed across her face. "Where else should I be?"

Jon stopped and stared. "What happened to you?" he asked finally, "Sansa?"

"You first," she challenged, and then hesitated, "Jon."

He paused, and then scoffed as he sat down on a chair by Val's bedside. Slowly, hesitantly, he began to explain. He told her about joining the Night's Watch, about taking the black, about the Great Ranging. He explained about Craster's Keep, the Fist of the First Men, about meeting Qhorin Halfhand and joining his expedition to scout out Mance's army. He talked encountering Rattleshirt's men, being ordered by Qhorin to abandon his cloak, to infiltrate the

enemy's army. He told her about the white walkers attacking them at the Frostfangs.

Perhaps Sansa didn't believe him, but there wasn't a flicker of doubt or surprise on her face as he mentioned the Others. She was too guarded to let any emotion through. Jon didn't mention anything about Ygritte.

When it came to Sonagon, he became more vague. He didn't want to speak of the undead ranger, or the greenseer, or the children of the forest. He only told her the broad terms; of uniting the free folk, the attack at Hardhome, of flying the dragon over the Wall at Eastwatch.

Sansa just stopped and listened. The hours ticked by, the logs burnt.

It was the hour of the ghosts when Jon finally went quiet, and it was her turn to speak. Her voice was low, soft in the still air. She told him of going to King's Landing, of the Hand's Tourney, of father's sudden decision to flee the capital and then King Robert's death in a hunting accident. The Stark men murdered, Ned Stark imprisoned as a traitor, Arya disappearing, and Sansa begging for mercy for father's life. And then Joffrey taking their father's head, on the steps of the Sept of Baelor.

Her voice didn't even waver. After that, it was the Battle of the Blackwater, then Queen Cersei's madness and being married to the Imp, and then Joffrey's wedding. Being smuggled to the Vale by Lord Baelish, sheltered by her aunt until Lysa was murdered, engaged to Harry the Heir and then her betrothed murdered when she was kidnapped. Ser Jorah Mormont rescued her, fleeing across the Bite…

She has been set to marry to four different men, Jon thought quietly, and then they all either died or betrayed her .

We both took the long route home .

"The attack on White Harbour," Jon said eventually. "You were present for it."

"I was." She nodded. No emotion, not from her. "Ser Jorah saved my life."

"Jorah Mormont," Jon repeated. "I knew his father."

"Jorah died nobly. Tis a small thing, but it would be good to tell his aunt the same. Let his family know that he did try to redeem himself."

Jon just nodded quietly. He didn't even know what he could say to Lady Maege. Alysane had left behind two children, by the tell of it.

The air was so tense between them, the words were so awkward. She was the last of his family, but they had to force the words out, struggling to even talk over the chasm between them. "The attack on White Harbour," Sansa continued, "has Lord Bolton answered for that?"

"He planned it," Jon admitted. "As a way to destroy me from the rear, with funding from the Iron Bank."

With that, Sansa shook her head firmly. "No. Lord Bolton has been lying through his teeth. It was not the Iron Bank - it was Littlefinger who supported him."

"Littlefinger?" Jon frowned.

"Lord Petyr Baelish . The same man that smuggled me from King's Landing." Jon was confused, but she explained. "Former Master of Coin, Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, Lord Protector and Regent of the Vale. Littlefinger is what we call him. He is the man who betrayed father, who started the war, who tried to destroy you."

Jon felt lost. "What? Why would he-"

"Littlefinger would burn the world down, if only so he could be the king of the ashes." Her voice turned dark; the first emotion he had really seen from her - anger. "I think Littlefinger never really wanted the Boltons to win, but the best option for him would be if you and the Boltons destroyed each other in a long and bloody war. That is what Littlefinger does ; he turns chaos into profit. He wants the north, and then the Iron Throne, and he thought me the key to getting it."

He almost stammered. "There are letters that we took from Roose Bolton," Jon said slowly, "that say the Iron Bank offered him funding."

"Are those letters forgeable?"

"Perhaps," Jon admitted.

"Then they are fake," Sansa said with a nod. "Lord Bolton is trying to play you. He doesn't want you to have the Iron Bank's support - that would make your reign more stable. It is far better for him if you believe the Iron Bank is your enemy instead."

"And you are sure?" Jon insisted. "That this man… this Littlefinger is responsible instead?"

"I am." Sansa's voice was definite. "I know how Littlefinger thinks."

Still, for a moment, Jon wasn't sure if she hated or admired the man.

There was something of both in her voice.

"I… I will consider it." Jon didn't even know what else to say.

"Do more than consider," Sansa replied coolly. "Take my advice; the realm will be a better place if you fly to the Eyrie and scorch Littlefinger off the map." She paused. "But your dragon. I heard that it is in the godswood, but I have not approached it. It is sickly?"

"Poisoned," Jon said darkly. Sonagon had been puking globs of frozen ooze from his stomach just days past, the dragon was still writhing from whatever poison they had used. "Boltons' work."

"Then just be careful," Sansa said lowly. There was a flicker of nervousness on her face too. "One mistake. That's all it takes to damn you. Just one."

He didn't reply. Nobody had told him just how it easy it was to make the mistakes. The thought of his father's severed head, or his brother's mutilated corpse, flashed in the still air.

Unwillingly, Jon's gaze flickered towards the sealed window, rattling slightly in the wind, beyond which he knew lay the burnt ruins of the West Tower. Even now, the cinders still plagued Winterfell's spires. Sansa caught his glance, and they both knew what he was looking at.

"… You never asked either," Jon said slowly. "Do you blame me?"

She hesitated, for longer than he would have preferred. "No," Sansa said. "I do not. You were not the one that abandoned her, not the one that dragged Arya off to be married, not the one that trapped her here. You were not the one who killed her. It was Cersei. Cersei, the Lannisters, and the Boltons."

Then why is my stomach still churning with guilt? Sansa's eyes flickered back to Val, so still she could be a corpse. "You loved Arya more than anybody," she said lightly, her voice softening for the first time. "I know you did. She was more your sister than mine."

"That's not-"

"You tried to save her, and it wasn't you who killed her." Sansa insisted, and there was a sharpness in her eyes. "I will tell the northern lords that too, I promise. I will support you."

He had to blink to stop the itch in his eyes, taking a deep breath. What time is it? It felt like the hour of the wolf or later, the dead ofnight where everything felt stiff and sluggish. "Sansa you don't have to…" His voice trailed off. Do what? He wondered vaguely.

"I do." She stood up from the chair. "Winterfell is my home, and I will not let them take me from it again. Do not let them take this from us." Her mouth curled, her jaw set. "We've both lost too much to be here. You are king now. Do not let them."

He shook his head, blinking and rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I am king," he said, humourlessly. "I never wanted this, I didn't want any… I…" Jon's voice flickered, casting another glance towards the window. "I am a better fighter than I am leader."

"Then fight," Sansa said, her voice low. "That's all you've got to do. Just fight."

The silence dripped by slowly. Jon had to turn away, forcing himself towards Val's body, as still as the grave. The entire day had been exhausting, draining his strength, but it wasn't over. Jon couldn't let it be over.

"I… I should go, my lady," Jon said eventually. "I will see you are prepared a room."

"As you wish, King Snow." Sansa gave a small curtsy, a light movement something so automatic it felt aloof.

She opened the door for him, and he hesitated before crossing it. "It was… It was good finally talking to you, Sansa."

"It was." She nodded, and then bit her lip. "Do you know that I didn't recognise you at first? You changed so much, you look so different. I thought you were a stranger sitting on father's chair." Sansa cocked her head. "Tell me something, did you recognise me?"

"Yes," he replied truthfully. "Very much so."

"Perhaps you shouldn't have," Sansa said quietly. "Neither of us are the same children are the same children we once were." She hesitated. "We're… We're different people, Jon, and I think it's okay to embrace that. Do what you have to do, King Snow."

He didn't know how to reply. He didn't. Jon just nodded as he walked out of the room, casting one final glance at Val, lying bloody in the bed.

Jon took a deep breath as he walked out into the hallway, the tap of his cane against the stones. He felt raw. He felt so weary that all he wanted to do was lie down and fall away, but he couldn't. There is no rest for a king .

I chose this, he thought as he sighed. Dammit, I chose this .

He kept on walking down the hall, his mind spinning with so many different visions. The bodies he had walked over, the men he had sentenced. The only sound he could hear was the tap, tap, tap of the cane.

Jon hadn't even realised he had made the decision until he was hobbling back down the steps, out of the west wing.

There were five guards - all free folk raiders - lingering tiredly in the clearing at the bottom of the steps with spears in their hand. They all straightened, looking surprised, as Jon stepped down the stops. "Send a message to the Weeper," Jon ordered to one of the man. "Find him. Have him meet me in the godswood right away."

"King, you shouldn't-"

Now ."

They scattered around him, but he was no mood to explain himself. Jon also took a hemp hood off one of the men, and he slung it over his head to hide his hair. As he limped down towards the main hall, he saw another group of raiders guarding the main hall. "Who goes there?" one of the men called as Jon approached, raising spears.

The guards were on edge. It was only when Jon came closer that they made out his features, and stiffened.

"Find Toregg of the Dragonguard," Jon ordered. "Have him bring Ser Alek to me in the godswood at all haste."

"Tormund said that nobody was to leave the keep," a raider hesitated.

"I gave you an order, ser. Now."

Jon was already walking away, through the great double doors. The whole castle felt eerily silent at this hour. He crossed the yard, towards the outhouse leading down to the dungeons. There were five men guarding the prisons, the doors sealed. Jon had to bang onto the wood, and then order them to give him the keys to the cells. The men looked flustered by Jon's sudden arrival, but he was already sweeping past.

The dungeons felt eerily silent. As he passed, Jon saw Lady Barbrey Dustin staring up through the bars, looking at him like he was a ghost limping through the cold and dusty hallway.

He reached the cell. The keys jangled against the lock. Roose Bolton was wide awake, even despite the hour. The prisoner's chains rattled as Jon opened the cell door, his eyes narrowing. "You're back," the leech lord said. "Do you have more questions, You-"

That was the only thing he managed to say, before Jon swung his walking stick straight into Roose's skull. Heavy oak crunched against flesh and bone.

Not even a moment of hesitation. Jon's whole body was screaming to hear the man's scream. There was much rage that he just felt cold.

The cane cracked into the man's skull and then clattered the stones, but Jon was already lunging. Roose tried to squirm, yet Jon's hands were already wrapping themselves around the man's throat. His knee collided against Lord Bolton's stomach.

A cry - a snarl - broke Jon's lips, but otherwise he didn't say a word. There was nothing to say. There was no reason behind it. Jon just really, really wanted Roose Bolton dead.

He grabbed Roose by the neck and he forced him downwards, slamming his skull into the stone. Whacking the man's head off the wall. Hammering his face into rock with all of Jon's might and fury. Over and over again, each time gasping as Lord Bolton's head thudded against the stone, until blood smeared and teeth cracked.

Roose didn't scream. He hardly even gasped.

Even after the man's face was a bloody pulp, he was still twitching. Jon was on top of him, his knee jammed into the man's chest and his hands on his throat. Jon squeezed and wrung Roose's neck so hard he felt his throat crack.

The chains jangled, as Roose's body flopped.

Afterwards, Jon let Lord Bolton drop, before taking a deep, deep breath. I needed to do that, Jon thought with a sigh, staring down at the corpse. Had to be done .

There were already armed guards running through the dungeons, shouting to know what was happening. Jon cast one final look at the corpse beneath him, the man who had nearly damned everything, before turning away. "Roose Bolton strangled himself in his cells," Jon explained simply, wiping the blood off his hands.

"Wait, h-"

" He strangled himself," Jon repeated. "Do you understand?"

The free folk on guard blinked. "Ah. Yes, of course, yes - Your Grace."

Jon winced up his cane again and started limping away. "Then deal with the body. There are hungry dogs in the kennels, are there not?"

Lord Manderly had wanted Roose alive, but Jon simply couldn't find it in himself to care. The man needed to die, and Jon needed to feel it. "When Rattleshirt arrives in the morning," Jon told the guards, in full earshot of the other prisoners, "tell him that he has full permission to do whatever it takes to draw the truth from the others. He is to start with the maesters."

Wide and pale eyes stared at him through cell's bars as he left the dungeons.

Afterwards, Jon pulled his hood up again and crept outside, moving through the snowy night towards the godswood at north-western edge of Winterfell. He walked quickly, keeping his distance from the bonfires of the camps sitting in the grounds. He could feel Sonagon snoring, coiled through a mess of broken trees, his body resting over a ruined pond, twitching slightly while the dragon slept. In the distance, he could see the ruined glass houses, and slight puffs of steam billowing from the hot springs. The heart tree loomed over it all.

The Weeper was already waiting for him, at the rusted iron gates surrounding the godswood. The Weeper had his scythe over his back. The air was so quiet, even the flurry of snows seemed tamer, less frantic.

"Snow?" the Weeper demanded as Jon approached. "I got your message. What the hell is so urgent?"

He didn't reply. Jon turned, and he could see the figures of Toregg the Tall and Ser Alek shuffling through the snow towards them. Both men were armed, both squinting to see through the darkness. Even in the pale and fragile light, Jon saw Ser Alek's features turn ghostly white as he recognised the Weeper.

"What-" Ser Alek gasped, and then gulped. "What is he doing here?"

"I invited him, ser," Jon replied, leaning on his cane. "You challenged him to trial by combat, did you not?"

"I… I…" the knight froze. The Weeper straightened, step forward to stare at Ser Alek with folded arms. The man was shivering as he mustered about his courage. "I did. There must be justice, Your Grace."

"Aye," Jon agreed, bracing himself. "There must be."

Then, without even another word, Jon picked up his walking stick and swung it like a club. There wasn't even a moment's hesitation before the solid wood collided against the Weeper's face.

No warning, the raider couldn't even react. His arms had been folded, and he didn't see the blow coming. Jon just heard the crack of the man's nose beneath the impact, and he staggered.

Jon was already swinging again. In the torchlight, he saw mad, bloody eyes staring at him in shock.

Crack . Another impact against the Weeper's skull, and the raider dropped. "Is this what you wanted, ser?" Jon demanded, turning back to a dumbfounded Ser Alek. "Is this the justice you wanted?"

You bloody- " the Weeper gasped, blood pouring down his face, just as Jon lashed out again. There wasn't time for the man to draw his weapon. Another solid impact took him down to the snow.

The Weeper tried to recover, but Toregg was already there to stop him. The taller man pushed the Weeper to the ground, just as Jon whacked the cane into his jaw once more.

Jon heard the crack. His tooth, Jon thought.

In a fair fight, Jon would have been soundly defeated. Still, all it took was one sudden impact over the head with a heavy stick, and afterwards it wasn't much of a fight.

The Weeper seemed to lose consciousness out for a few heartbeats as flailed madly in the snow. He recovered his senses, spitting and

cursing, but Jon gave him no chance to fight back.

"Is this the justice you wanted?" Jon demanded again, while Ser Alek paled and sputtered. He hit the Weeper again. Crack. "Does this make you feel better?" Crack. " Is this what you wanted? "

The last blow was so hard that the walking stick slipped out of Jon's fingers as his hand jarred. The Weeper screamed, sputtering blood and trying to thrash, but Toregg kept the man's arms pinned behind his back. Jon turned to face Ser Alek, before turning back and kicking the Weeper in the stomach. His leg jarred, and Jon nearly tripped while the Weeper wrestled.

Ser Alek didn't reply; the knight looked frozen in the snows, like a rabbit quivering in fear. Jon picked up his bloody cane, and held in outstretched to the knight. "Take your vengeance, ser," Jon ordered. " Go on . Hit him. Beat him. If this is justice, then take it."

The knight was sputtering, his mouth flapping. The Weeper screamed a roar like an animal, trying to squirm. Jon slammed the butt of the stick into the wildling's stomach, a cry of pure rage breaking Jon's lips.

I gave you an order! " Jon snapped, and Alek flinched. "Whatever vengeance you want - whatever Wylis' death deserves - take it now. This is your chance. This is justice, is it not? He killed your friend, and you wanted to beat him?"

The knight was staring at him like he was mad. "And - after tonight - you forget about it," Jon growled. "Do you understand me? After tonight, you will never mention it again."

"You-you-your…" Alek stammered.

The Weeper almost succeeded to squirm to his feet, but then Jon hit him again. The Weeper was a tough man; he didn't stay down for long, even despite all of Jon's strength behind each blow. A sharp cry burst from Jon's lips, and the thought of Lady Leona flailing on

the ground flashed before his eyes. "Lord Wyman will never know how his son died, ser," Jon snapped, pacing in the snow. "Ser Wylis was killed by Boltons, and that is the only truth you will ever speak of. There is nothing to be gained by saying anything else, and any justice you require - any punishment, any retribution - that happens tonight. So swing the damn stick if you need to, but do you understand me? "

Alek could have said something, but it was drowned out by the Weeper's howl. "He deserves it," Jon spat. "He does. He's a violent bastard and he killed Ser Wylis for no other reason than because he was angry. It was murder, it was, and the Weeper killed your friends, but that doesn't matter because I still need him. I need him, and I need White Harbour." Jon shook his head, jaw clenching. "Lord Wyman will never know and you will never speak of this."

There was a pause, waiting for a reply. Jon threw the cane onto the snow at Ser Alek's feet. "So hit him as many times as you want," Jon warned. "But either pick up the stick or walk away now."

The man was twitching, wide eyes looking desperate. After a long, tense moment, a flash where their eyes met, Ser Alek chose to walk away, nearly stumbling over the slush.

There was no breath of relief. Instead Jon just screamed wordlessly into the night - all of that rage, pain and guilt bursting out of his chest. Jon's hands were still shaking. He just felt like hitting something again.

The Weeper was still trying to struggle against Toregg's grip, but his movements were haggard, his throat coughing blood. Jon picked up the cane, hobbling on it as he took the weight of his leg. "You were right, Weeper," Jon said finally. "I do owe you. I likely wouldn't be here if not for you, you have helped me… many, many times. It's because I owe you that much, that you get a second chance."

He motioned for Toregg to back away. Jon knelt down, and whispered in the Weeper's ear, "And if you ever put me in this

situation again," he snarled. " I smash your fucking skull ."

Jon shuddered as he tried to calm himself, nodding at Toregg. The Dragonguard looked nervous too, but he let the Weeper drop and sag into the snow. "Get him to the infirmary. The Weeper will stay as a guest in Winterfell as he recuperates," Jon ordered to Toregg. "In the meantime, Tormund will lead the Weeper's warband. I will talk to your father shortly." And Tormund will bring the Weeper's raiders into line. I need to get the wildlings under control too .

He was already limping away, leaving the Weeper bloodied and sputtering in the snow behind him.

Winterfell was a melting pot, and Jon had to cool it. The Weeper was better off in an infirmary bed than he was leading warbands right now. Jon returned to the Great Keep, to his father's… to his chambers, but he couldn't rest. He was pacing over the open balcony even as the snow flurried into his face. Jon didn't mind the snow. The cold gave him focus, clarity. It kept him awake.

As soon as the storm clears, he thought, I need to write a raven for White Harbour . He would need to write a letter with the list of those killed by the Boltons, but also declaring the return of Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell. That was the only victory that gave him hope.

I can keep the Weeper under control, he thought with a sigh, Lord Wyman will be furious, but so long as his anger and grief is in the right direction the alliance will not break. I could grant Leona Manderly a belated sentence, but her and both of her daughters will need to be stay in Winterfell as 'guests' . Lady Leona's betrayal gave him justification, Lord Wyman wouldn't be able to object. Jon needed to take hostages from all the northern families. Just in case the White Harbour alliance did turn sour, then House Manderly was the first that Jon needed to secure leverage over.

He would have to refuse the betrothal to Wynafryd that Lord Wyman had offered. Lord Wyman would need something to distract, to placate his rage. The lands of Hornwood, perhaps.

He needed to be careful. He couldn't allow a single house, however useful, however loyal, to gain too much power. Not if their loyalty could be turned. The highborn are just as untrustworthy and as dangerous as the wildlings, Jon thought foully, just in different ways .

The north was not at peace, there would be more battles still. What if the Ryswells of the Rills, the Tallharts of Torrhen's Square, or the petty lords, still refused his new rule? Would he have to march on them, even as winter raged? The Wall desperately needed men to hold it, while Moat Cailin was presumably still under Bolton control. There were still ironborn raiders along the Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point. There were pirates to the east. He needed to deal with the Bolton's southern allies. He needed to visit Braavos. He had no idea how Bullden's search to find Rickon was proceeding, he hadn't felt Ghost's presence in days. There were still hunting parties pursuing the white walker. The exodus of the free folk south of the Wall was still on-going, the Others still plaguing refugees while the search parties hunted for survivors north of the Wall. Had the wildlings of the Frozen Shore been evacuated? The clans that were still lingering in the Frostfangs? Jon honestly didn't know how many of the free folk Mance and the other chieftains he'd left north might have assembled by now. Fifty thousand? Sixty?

There were reinforcements on the way to Winterfell, led by Lady Maege Mormont and Sigorn of Thenn. With them, he would have more men that could keep the peace. Jon didn't know how much territory he had lost in the fallout of the battle, but it had to be secured before the snows settled. The allies that had already left them had to be brought back into line, and those few that had stayed neutral had to be forced to accept the new regime.

He didn't even know where to begin.

And the force besieging the Dreadfort, Jon thought bitterly, has until Sonagon recovers to secure a surrender - else that castle will be destroyed by dragonfire, hostages be damned . He needed the men more than he needed a castle, or the prisoners.

A haze of torches flickered below him, but the rest was all pitch black. Jon couldn't see the ground; he couldn't see the frozen fields spewed with bodies, or the charnel-pits of corpses. He had ordered men to deal with the bodies, but they would be burning all those corpses for weeks.

He thought of his father and Robert's Rebellion, and he wondered what Robert Baratheon had felt after arriving in King's Landing after the Sack - after receiving the throne only when a devastated city and a mountain of bloody bodies were spewed around him. Jon had never imagined that feeling before, could never have even visualised the experience. 'King' was such a bitter title, a bitter reward - a reward that only a man like Roose Bolton could relish in. No wonder King Robert turned to drink .

The keep shuddered with the wind, as the storms still stirring over the plains. It wasn't over. It was never over. One battle was done, one 'victory' behind him, but the true war was still to come. Jon was left standing in the scorched castle, the capital of a war-torn and ruined north, just trying to think what he could do.

Jon was still standing hours later, watching the night turn slowly towards the break of dawn. He was huddled over the balcony, thickly wrapped in furs as he watched the men in the tents below begin to rise.

…

A wolf's howl broke over the plains outside the castle - a long, slow and pained sound. The very sound caused his body to freeze, a shiver running up his back as heard the cry echoing through the snows. The sound was strangely mournful, weak and weary against the wind, but he thought he recognised it. A wolf?

Wolf howls in the night weren't uncommon, but this felt different. His whole body stopped, tensing as he tried to listen over the wind. The silence went so long that he thought he might have imagined it, that

his sleep-deprived mind was hallucinating, but then he heard it again. That long, sombre sound, reverberating on the wind…

AAAaaaaAH-OOOWOOOOOOOOoooooo… AAAaaaaAH-OOOWOOOOOOOOoooooo…

No, Jon realised, straining to make out the sound. That's not a wolf.

A direwolf .

Jon was already backing away from the balcony, feeling his fingers twitch. It is coming from the north, he realised.

There was a figure in the hallway; her wide eyes meeting his. Sansa was awake too, carrying a candlestick in her hands. She can feel it too . "Is that…?" Sansa whispered, her voice so low, like she wasafraid to break the fragile silence.

Jon didn't reply. He hesitated for a long moment, but then turned to walk away. Instinctively, he tried to reach out to Ghost, but his friend was so far away, and he felt little. The direwolf was asleep, in what felt like the midst of a distant, icy forest. It wasn't Ghost. That howl was different, but it felt so familiar. Could it be Shaggydog? But wouldn't Shaggydog be with Rickon, or maybe they weren't on Skagos after all? Could Grey Wind or Nymeria have somehow survived? Or could it be another wild direwolf? Sum-

He broke the thought off, and shook his head. Maybe I'm fooling myself. Maybe it's just a normal wolf. Or maybe…

He stepped down the stairs, half-staggering with every step, as quickly his limp and his cane would allow. He could have called for men, but he didn't. Not when it might just be a false alarm, not when he wasn't sure what he might find. Instead, Jon threw the hood over his head to cover his hair, and he walked out the servant's exit towards the back of the kitchens.

The sun was only just starting to rise, a dim haze of light through clouds. The army in the tents started to rouse, only a few patrols

across through the grounds.

Jon hesitated, but he could still hear the phantom echo of the wolf's howl lingering in the air. With the ruckus of men in the background, it was hard to focus on it. He was already striding north, he passed the shattered glass gardens and the slanted Broken Tower. His heart was beating quickly, but he forced himself to stay calm.

The North Gate was sealed - it had been for weeks; the Boltons barricaded it, and his men hadn't cleared it, and now snow drifts were piled before it. Jon was panting slightly as he staggered through the snow, looking for men on the walls and guard tower. He stood alert for any sound at all, begging quietly to hear the noise again.

He heard it. The wolf's cry. It was quieter this time, but closer. A lone wolf crying for attention, howling outside the gates.

"Halt!" a distant man's voice bellowed suddenly, from above. "You take another step and we put an arrow in your skull, girl."

It wasn't addressed at Jon. There was shouting on the wall, movement from the battlements. He heard voices; and then a strained, high-pitched voice came from the other side of the walls. Jon was already running, pushing his way up to the guard tower.

A haggle of men lingered near the battlements. A voice was shouting something, but the words were lost in the wind. He could feel the gale around him, buffeting against the stones walls. "Should we blow the horn?" he heard a voice ask.

"Just chase her away," a gruff man grunted.

"She could be a scout. I've seen clans use children before - the brats can get closer than adults can."

Jon saw a man pulled back on a recurve bow, and shaft notched. "Put an arrow in her," a wildling ordered. "Maybe not the head, but

mak-"

"Stop!" Jon ordered, clattering as he stepped out. " Stop! "

"Who the hell are y-" a narrow-eyed man began to demand, but his voice froze as Jon pulled down his hood and the recognition flashed. Jon's bone white hair was better than any crown.

"Lower your bow. Now," Jon snapped, his hand instinctively moving to Dark Sister. "Who is it?"

The men looked stunned, but Jon saw white stones on a few of their chests. "Um… eh… a looter, y-Your Grace," a man gulped. "Little rat has been stalking around the gate. She had been about to climb the walls too, when we spotted her."

Jon blinked, glancing downwards over the granite battlements at the fields of snow. There was a girl standing before the oak gates, shouting upwards. She was slight of build, huddled underneath a ragged, hoarfrost-coated cloak. A smallfolk?

Winter Town had been deserted as his army approached. Everyone had but the hardest or the most desperate of the smallfolk had fled before the wildlings. The girl below looked fraught - she was shouting, crying for attention. The men had been threatening her with arrows, but she hadn't run .

The wolf's howl had been strained, desperate, too.

"Open the gates," Jon ordered.

"We were told-"

"She's a single girl. Open the gates ."

The men scattered under his tone, and Jon was left pacing. He felt uneasy. He turned, looking down from the eighty-foot drop, with a quiet grimace. The girl had been trapped in the elements, huddling against the razor sharp wind.

It took over a dozen men to finally heave the gates open through the pile of snow. As the North Gate finally creaked open, the wildlings were holding spears. The girl didn't run, even though Jon saw her wide eyes glaring with fear. One man pushed his way forward, but Jon held him back. The girl had a strong gaze for one so frail and weak, even as shivered.

"I don't care who you are. I don't care if you are flayed men or worse," she said, gulping and she walked forward. "I don't care what you might do to me. Just save him. Save him ."

She was staring at him with such fear, her eyes glancing around at the wildlings. She had wide green eyes, wispy brown her that seemed grey with frost, and a face so gaunt she looked all skin and bones. "Who are you?" Jon demanded, standing back cautiously.

Her voice nearly cracked, teeth gritting and hesitating. "Meera Reed," she said finally. "Sworn spear to Brandon Stark."

Jon could only stare. No…

In the distance, over the snow drifts and towards the frozen wolfswood, he heard the wolf wailing.

He made his decision so quick it was nigh-automatic. "Send word to Toregg the Tall," Jon ordered to a man. "And Greatjon Umber. Now. Move! "

The girl - Meera - was staggering. "He was freezing," she gulped, raising a trembling hand to him. "I couldn't carry him, I couldn't…"

He heard a clanging. Jon glanced downwards, and he noticed a ring of iron - a broken manacle - chiming around Meera's ankle. His head was spinning, trying to understand. Could it be?

It wasn't safe to leave the castle alone, and even less safe to bring uncertain men with him. The grounds outside of Winterfell's gates were still unsecured, there were still likely roving groups of soldiers

left scattered in the snow. But, at that moment, Jon just didn't care. "Where?" he snapped, so sharply it caught the girl off-guard. "Where?"

She couldn't reply, too busy wheezing, but her hand raised to point to the north, towards the trees. Jon was already striding away, jogging lopsided through the snows. "On me!" he bellowed to the men. " On me! "

If it's true…

The snows were three-foot-deep, Jon had to force his way through the hard-worn, frozen ground. He broke off the road and headed straight north, into the woods of pines and chestnuts. The men were breaking out of the gates, shouting after him, following him - all the while the snow geysered around them. "Bring horses!" Jon bellowed. "And dogs! Move!"

The forest was so thick and dark it could swallow a man whole. The wolf - the direwolf, it was - needed to howl, it needed to howl, but he couldn't hear anything. The going was hard, but Jon was desperate. He forced his way to the edge of the trees, head snapping around, searching for any sign.

The memory of a different time flashed before his eyes; a different age - back when Jon and his brothers would play hide-and-seek in these very woods. Before the snows, before the death. Back when they had been summer children…

"BRAN!" Jon bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Bran!"

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he had misheard, or maybe this was a trap. Maybe this was another of Roose's Boltons schemes, to lure himself outside the walls and there were assassins in wait. Maybe he was too late. Jon didn't want to believe - he didn't want to let himself believe…

But still… his brother…

He heard the wolf's wail again, and it was so close.

The last time he had even… Jon thought back to that moment when Bran had been bedridden, unconscious, just before Jon needed to leave for the Wall. He remembered Catelyn Stark's cold gaze, and Summer's wail while the pup lay over base of Bran's bed.

The vision of a pale and broken Bran, unconscious in bed, couldn't leave his mind. They hadn't been sure if Bran would survive at the time. That had been the last time Jon had seen his brother, the day he had left home…

I wanted to show him the Wall. I wanted to say goodbye.

Men were shouting behind him, but Jon didn't care. He kept on pushing forward, limping deeper into the wolfswood. He saw the tracks where Meera had run through, and he followed them. The girl had been desperate, cold, but running for aid…

He saw an ancient gnarly oak tree, and there was massive wolf curled into its roots. A direwolf, with silvery grey fur and sharp yellow eyes. The last time Jon had seen Summer, the wolf had been the size of a large dog, but now it was as large as a pony. Frost and dried blood coated its furs. The wolf wailed, mewling piteously, but it didn't move.

There was a small figure in the roots, huddled under a rotten blanket, and the great wolf hunkered down over him, lying protectively, hackles raised. The direwolf lay over the boy, thin and emaciated, fur ragged, but still the size of a small horse. The direwolf was trying to warm him, sharing what scarce little remained of its body's heat.

Jon felt the same twitch - the small shiver over his skin - that he felt every time he met another warg. Summer stared straight at him, quivering, but didn't move.

"Bran…" Jon gasped, before finding his voice. " Bran! "

The small figure wasn't twitching. The boy looked older than what Jon remembered, but still so, so small. Older, but with the baby fat stripped from his cheeks and his auburn hair turned dark. Hoarfrost coated his skin, ice sticking to his brow. The vision of a young, lively boy who loved to climb flashed before his eyes.

But it was him. It was him .

Men were running behind him, shouting, sprinting to keep up. Jon could only grip his brother's limp body, hugging him so tightly. He felt so cold, so frail, like a broken little doll.

How long has he been out in the cold? Jon cursed. How long has it been since his strength failed him? How far had the boy - a cripple! - managed to fight before he finally collapsed? With no shelter, no fire, the snows could smother even the strongest man, and his brother was only a little boy…

Then, he felt his brother shiver, and frail, tiny hands clenched around his shoulders. Jon could have sobbed, the tears freezing on his cheeks.

You Starks are hard to kill .

End of Part 2

Chapter 37

Part 3 - The Convergence

Chapter 37

The Maiden

She could hear the sound of children playing - sweet innocent voices ringing in the clear air. Cobbles of pale pink marble paved the gardens and courtyard, and terraces overlooked the pools and fountains of the Water Gardens. Nymeria was shaded by blood orange trees, standing on the fluted pillar gallery leading to the triple archway.

The Water Gardens were pleasant in autumn. The days were hot and the nights cool, the salt breeze blew in from the sea, and the lily-coated, scented fountains and pools looked so lovely. Nymeria had such fond memories of the Water Gardens - she remembered playing in the pools herself along with Sarella, Tyene and Arianne - all the while her father and nuncle would watch and laugh. Arianne used to be so vibrant and passionate, eager to play pretend elaborate scenarios and determined never to lose, while Tyene stuck closely besides Nym, both of them terrors at the games, while Sarella would just splash everybody all playfully. They had all been closer than sisters, and the memories of laughter and pleasant summer days still echoed in her head.

She could understand her nuncle's love for the Water Gardens. It was such a sweet and innocent place. A refuge from the world.

But it is a place for children, Nym thought, sighing. And now I'm all grown up .

She plucked a dried grape from the ceramic bowl, rocking her hips slightly as she walked across the red terrace, shaded by the palms. Nym had picked a sleek samite dress that hugged her form, showing the yellows and reds of her family's colours, and sleek enough that her tanned skin shivered slightly in the cool air. She would have worn a shawl, but she favoured the sleek fabric; it made it obvious that there were no weapons hidden on her body, and sometimes obvious was useful.

Two men-at-arms with halberds, stood stiffly as she crossed the bridge towards the pavilion. Nym gave one of the men a soft smile, causing the young guard to blush. He had sandy hair and a clean-shaven chin, with small dimples on his cheeks. He's a new one, she took care to note. Usually Doran preferred older and seasoned guards around him, but the new guard was young and foolish enough to be distracted by a pretty face. Nym made note of it, just in case it could be useful. Her father had taught her to use every advantage.

She saw Prince Doran Martell on his usual seat in the evening shade beneath the lemon trees, his face passive. He didn't turn to face her. Instead, he just sat on his cushioned seat, soothing his bloated feet in cool water, looking out over the tranquil trees and pools. He looks old, Nym thought sadly. The news - or rather the lack of news -concerning Quentyn had drained the last of the strength from him.

The Prince of Dorne has a soft heart . She would have felt sorry for him, except Dorne had no need for a soft-hearted prince.

"Well met, nuncle," Nymeria called, flashing him a sweet smile. "It has been so long since I've been in these gardens."

He paused before replying. "I remember a time when you and your sisters would splash in the pools," he said, sounding wary, before turning his gaze away. "How was your journey?"

"Eventful. I docked in Sunspear three days ago." That was a lie, Nym had actually arrived, discreetly, a fortnight past. "Did you hear the

news, nuncle? The queen is going mad."

Prince Doran took a long, deep breath, shifting his feet in the bowl of perfumed water. The rim of his golden silk robes were drenched. "So I hear. The whole realm says the same, and I have lost contact with my friends in the capital since the Red Keep has come under siege. The ravens say her brother tormented her to the edge of insanity."

"Imps are wicked creatures, are they not?" Nym laughed, with more humour than he had. "I find that madness is a slow venom. Slow, but very effective."

She sat down cross-legged on the chair opposite him. Doran cast her a wary look, heavy wrinkles over his eyes. He looked old, older than ever, but his attention was solely on her eyes. He knows me too well .

She picked up another grape. "I travelled all the way to King's Landing, only to be barred at the gates," Nym chuckled. "The queen revoked Dorne's seat at the small council. I think my presence mayhave insulted her. Something about no snakes allowed in her court, can you imagine that? Oh, that was surely the first sign the woman was crazed." She squeezed the moist grape gently, feeling it ready to burst, but didn't eat it. "Still, mayhaps, I was fortunate. If I had been allowed in, I would be a hostage right now, just like the poor Tyrell queen and her little king."

And if I had been taken hostage, Cersei would likely be dead, she thought viciously. Nym had brought with her a dress lined with poisons and daggers, and the Lannisters deserved cruel deaths. But now, she mused, I find that we might be better served with Cersei staying alive. Oh, how quickly things change .

Not so long ago, Nym and her sisters had been all arrested and confined to the Spear Tower of Sunspear for conspiracy to treason. But not long after that, Arianne, Obara, Nym, and Tyene had met with Doran in his solar, to discuss the Dornish plot to rebel. It had seemed a good plan too; Arianne would go north to join with

Daenerys and Quentyn as they landed with the Golden Company, Obara would escort Myrcella and Trystane back home, while Nym and Tyene both went ahead to King's Landing via sea They had all been convinced that their long-awaited revenge would be theirs soon enough. But that was when we assumed it had been Daenerys invading the realm, she thought, not this 'Aegon'. How quickly my nuncle's plans fall apart .

Nym felt sorry for Doran, she truly did. His son Quentyn was missing, and Arianne was in the middle of a war.

Doran always waited a good few seconds before replying. Even when he spoke he thought of every word carefully. "I have not received news from Arianne in near a fortnight. Have you?"

"I have not. Arianne was last at Storm's End, was she not?"

He nodded, unhappily. "Tis not going to plan," Prince Doran said lowly. "What of your sisters?"

"Oh, Tyene stayed behind with the High Septon, I'm sure she's doing well there. Tyene gets along well with holy men - my sister is certainly pious. I thought that I was better served returning home quickly with news, nuncle." She finally ate the grape, smiling sweetly as it burst in her mouth. "And as for Obara, well, I'm not sure, I have not spoken to her," Nym lied.

"Obara is at High Hermitage, along with Ser Balon Swann, to bring the Darkstar to justice," Doran replied. Ah, so he had asked only to see if I would answer .

"How grand, Gerold Dayne should pay for his crimes. But is House Dayne of High Hermitage still sheltering that fiend?"

"It appears so. I have sent Areo Hotah to bring him to justice."

"Ah. I thought that the Water Gardens was lacking the captain's presence."

There was a pause longer than usual. Doran's eyes linger on her.

She smirked, and something in her gaze spoke volumes.

They both knew the smalltalk was meaningless. Their eyes were fixed on each other, trying to measure the other's stance.

"Nymeria," Doran said finally, "whatever you are planning, do not ."

Nym threw her head back and laughed, loud and clear. "You wound me, nuncle. We want the exact same things, do we not? We want to protect our family, to protect Dorne. And we want justice."

"We have different interpretations to what that word means."

"So we do," Nym agreed. "I was willing to go along with your plan before, nuncle. My sisters were as well - we were all eager to assist. I love my family dearly, nobody wants a strife between us. When you told me about the Targaryen alliance you prepared, about Daenerys and her dragons, I was so, so relieved. I had never been happier to learn I was wrong, to learn that you were not the slouch you pretend to be." A touch of sadness entered her tone. Prince Doran didn't speak, he only stared. She still heard the sound of children's cries behind her. "But that plan has not come to pass; neither Daenerys nor her dragons are coming. Instead, I hear that you two Dornish armies amassed at the Prince's Pass and the Boneway which are not marching. You have Lords Yronwood and Fowler standing idle."

"They are waiting on a word," Doran said slowly. "They are waiting for dragons."

"Arianne has already negotiated an alliance."

"I do not call that an alliance," he said foully. "The Imp twisted her arm and left her no choice. This Aegon expects Dorne's friendship, but gives nothing but promises."

"This Aegon could be your nephew," Nym noted. "Elia's child."

"He could be," he said chilly. "Or he could be a pretender exploiting her death, how would I know? Aegon Targaryen was a babe dead for eighteen years, and now he just returns?" Doran shook his head. "My daughter writes well of him, but I will not commit to a failed cause. I will wait, and see if this Aegon is right about Daenerys coming to support him."

Nym's smile turned waxy. Please, nuncle, she begged. I thought you had a spine . "Wait," Nym repeated. "That is all you do, is it not? You waited for your sister's killers to die rather than taking revenge. Doyou consider that a victory?"

"They are dead. Tywin Lannister and his creatures rot in the ground."

"And it only took seventeen years . It wasn't even we who killed him. In another fifty years, absolutely everyone involved with those murders might be dead, and you will consider that a victory?"

He didn't reply. Nymeria picked up another grape, squashing it in her fingers. The juice was cold. "While you waited, Prince Viserys died and Daenerys was lost to the edge of the world. You waited for a betrothal that never happened. Decades wasted by waiting," she pressed. "And now you wait for Quentyn to come back, when he never will."

His eyes turned dark at the very mention of his son's name. "Mind your tongue."

"Apologies, nuncle. No disrespect meant," she lied. "I am just tired of waiting."

"Enough of this. What do you want, Nymeria?"

"I tried it your way, I truly did. But your plan has failed, nuncle. Without Daenerys, the victory you imagined is no longer possible. We must try a different approach, and seize the opportunity before us."

He didn't reply. He just stared suspiciously, thinking. The guards standing behind his chair looked tense. Nymeria leant forward on her seat. "It seems to me that the queen's madness is doing more for our cause than dragons ever could. Tyene reports that Cersei is falling towards the same depths of insanity as Aerys."

"And?"

Nym smiled. "Why not give her an extra push?"

There was no reply, but she saw the shift in his features, the tightening of his lips - the prince knew what she meant. She could see his gaze darkening. "King's Landing is balancing on a knife edge, I've seen it myself. The Tyrell queen is being held hostage, while their lands are plagued by ironborn… The Lannister-Tyrell alliance is collapsing. If Queen Cersei does something really drastic, then it all breaks down and the High Septon becomes sure to renounce her - Tyene is working her magic there," Nym said softly. "And we hold Myrcella, do we not?"

Doran's hands clenched. " No ."

Myrcella Baratheon was currently at Starfall, where her escort had been halted indefinitely. Originally, the little princess was to head to King's Landing, but then news of the Golden Company made traveling north too dangerous. After the Faith's revolt and the Red Keep locked down, Ser Kevan wrote to Doran asking him to keep Princess Myrcella secure and in Dorne, lest her presence in King's Landing turn a dangerous situation even more volatile.

Ser Kevan is afraid, Nym thought. King Tommen was being held hostage by his own mother, and Faith was at the gates. Cersei had quite successfully pitted Lannister, Tyrell and Faith against each other. That left Myrcella in Dornish hands.

"The little princess," Nym sighed, "what a poor girl. I do feel sorry for her, you know. I hear she's sweet and innocent. It's not her fault that she was birthed into the wrong family. But then again, daughters so

often suffer for their family's sins, do they not? I feel like Lannisters deserve a taste of their own medicine."

"She is betrothed to my son." His voice was dark, low.

"Surely you cannot possibly still wish to marry Myrcella to Trystane?" Nym said, incredulous. "Why would we bind ourselves to a losing lion? No, Trystane's betrothal is a union that it is best… severed ."

"Nymeria," Doran warned, "we will not hurt children."

What arrogance it is, Nym thought. A commander will send countless sons and fathers to their deaths in battle, but suddenly daughters are forbidden? Why is it that boys are allowed to die in war, but girls are not? "Justice is balance, nuncle," Nym said in a low voice. "They brutally murdered a daughter of Dorne. I can think of no more fitting punishment against them."

No . Never." Doran's voice turned into a growl. "We spoke of this before. The answer has not changed."

Ah yes, she remembered that 'conversation' well. One time, after the Red Viper's death, the Sand Snakes had been ready for war: Obara had advocated an invasion, Nym suggested assassination, and Tyene favoured rebellion. Doran had replied by imprisoning them all. The Sand Snakes had forgiven the prince for that after he had shared his secret plan, but now his plan had failed.

This time was different. Nymeria and her sisters had come to a compromise that they were all happy with. I want you to be in agreement too, Nym begged silently.

"We will never have a better moment, nuncle. We must act now or we could spend another two decades waiting ," she insisted. "Have you forgotten that Cersei tried to arrange the assassination of Trystane too? She had his ambush planned, she meant to blame it on the Imp while Ser Balon performed the deed. Cersei plotted to

murder your son to free her daughter from their betrothal. Isn't it justice to return the favour?"

"You speak of vengeance, not justice."

Nym thought about it. "Either one will suffice, truth be told."

"Your father would be ashamed of you right now," Doran muttered, his face twitching. "Myrcella is eleven years old. Have you truly forgotten your own childhood, when you would play in the pools right there? Oberyn would never harmed an innocent girl."

"Yes, well…" Nym shrugged. "My father is dead. He died shamefully and unfulfilled, and I don't want the rest of my family to share his fate."

"You sound determined."

"Very much so. I will not wait, nuncle." Dorne will not wait .

"Very well." Doran paused, and then shook his head, coming to a decision. "Captain," he called to one of the guards. "I am done here, bring me inside. Fetch me Maester Caleotte." He glanced at her. "And then arrange a guard to take Nymeria to the Shield Tower. She is to be kept there under arrest."

Nym sighed. " Again, nuncle? I had really hoped we might find common ground, but do we have to do this once more?"

"Do you give me a choice? You talk of murdering a child, an innocent under our solemn protection. You are my family, my brother loved you so, but you will not leave the Water Gardens."

"I really, really wanted you to stand with us," she said sincerely. "Please, let us talk about this. It is a good plan - a way to make sure our enemies destroy ourselves. We hurt Cersei where she is most vulnerable; her family, her alliances, and her sanity. It is a way to keep Arianne safe."

"I will not discuss the murder of children," he said firmly. It took two men to help the Prince of Dorne to his gouty legs. They had to carry him away. M y nuncle has no heart for doing what is necessary .

A big bulky man stood over her suspiciously, holding a spear. She gave him a smile, and then ate another grape. Prince Doran was already having a frenetic talk with the maester as he rounded the corner, and left her sight. I tried, sisters, I truly did .

Nymeria spent the rest of the day watching the pools of the Water Gardens, under guard but with every comfort. Prince Doran refused to allow her another audience. At nightfall, she was escorted back to her chambers. The palm breeze rustled in the cool air, causing her to shiver. The lanterns glowed over the cream spires and arches, making everything seem so serene. Tis a beautiful place .

There were half a dozen men to escort her to her room now. Nym didn't protest, or object. Instead, she just walked inside of her airy chambers she slipped out of her dress. She slowly dressed herself in leather and wool inside, wrapping a dark cloak around her neck. Nym searched for the blades she had brought with her, but found them missing. Doran must have given orders to confiscate my daggers, she thought, amused. Not that I need them .

She knocked on the door, opened it and then sweetly asked one of the two men standing guard out front if he could bring her a cup of tea for the night. He hesitated, but nodded and said he'd find a servant.

Then, as the man bowed and left, Nym turned to the other guard and whispered, "It is time. See it done - quiet and bloodlessly."

That guard bowed and left too. Nym sat back and waited. Let no one say that I did not try to do this reasonably .

Not long later, the guard returned, knocked on her door, and bowed as he entered. "My lady," the man said respectfully. "We are ready."

"Ryden, you are an absolute dear," Nym said with a beautiful smile, flicking her hair. "Any objections?"

"Few, but we can handle them. We support Dorne, my lady. Unconquered and unbowed." Ryden banged his fist against the sun on his breastplate. Then he handed Nym a pair of matching sheathes from his belt. "And I believe these are yours."

She took her daggers back, and placed them over her hips. The dual blades were long and sharp, curved and slender. As she left her 'prison', the guards all bowed their heads. My father always taught me the need to be prepared . "The maester's quarters first," Nymordered. "There are ravens to be sent."

The Water Gardens were still and quiet. It was the hour of the bat, few were moving. Nym had instructed her men that they needed to move swift and subtly.

She saw Maester Caleotte was still awake, moving restlessly between the ravens as she walked towards the rookery. His old, wrinkled face paled, his mouth stammering. Nym's smile was sweet, reassuring. "Lady Nymeria," the old maester gasped. "You are under arrest."

"No, maester," she said apologetically. "You are."

The maester staggered backwards looking at the guards flanking her. "What is the meaning of this?" The man demanded. "Captain Ryden, your prince gave you an order!"

"I serve for the good of Dorne," Ryden said stiffly, stepping forward. "Not Doran. It has become clear that their interests are not in line."

Caleotte gasped, staring around in shock as he backed up, his chain tinkling. The courtyard was so quiet, but figures were stirring slowly. There was no rush, no panic - just men moving systematically from room to room of the Water Gardens. It had been prepared long before Nymeria had even stepped into Doran's sight. "Please do not

fight it, I beg you not to run," Nym said reassuringly, waving Ryden to secure the room. "I do not wish to hurt anyone."

"How could you…?" Caleotte stammered.

"Oh, it was quite easy. After Areo Hotah left, I simply made arrangements concerning the prince's personal guard. There are many in Dorne that are unhappy with my father's death, and my nuncle's inactivity. Many who feel slighted by the Iron Throne." Ryden moved to push Maester Colemon into the wall, but she motioned for him to be gentle. "Our prince has always been reclusive, and the Water Gardens are isolated." Men will not be loyal to what they cannot see. "I had servants placed sleeping draughtsinto the stew of any guards not on our side. The patrols are asleep, and we will seize the castle without a bell being rung."

"Doran is your prince!" the maester protested.

"That's a title which means very little if the people with swords do not wish to follow him," Nym said, sadly.

Doran had once had all of her sisters imprisoned when he disagreed with their intentions. Later, after Arianne had found Doran's trust, the Sand Snakes had been persuaded to forgive and join forces, but they did not forget. Obara, Tyene and Nym had devised the backup plan together; to seize the Water Gardens discreetly, should the prince's plan fall through. We would never allow Doran to do the same thing again, Nym thought. Still, she felt so remorseful that itactually had to come to this. He should have listened.

There was sounds of a scuffle on the terrace below. Nym heard the muffled grunts of a man who tried to protest. She saw servants running quickly, but the guards were sealing the rooms and hissing for people to stay silent. Please do not disturb the children sleeping, she prayed.

Caleotte was trembling, but he didn't try to protest against the men with spears. All around him, the ravens cawed and fluttered, while

Nym took the old man's arm and pulled him to one side.

"Prince Doran…" the maester gasped. "What will you do to him?"

Nym felt insulted by the accusation. "Nothing! He's my nuncle, he's a kind man, I will allow no harm to come to him." She shook her head. "No, but the prince is old and sickly. His legs are stiff with gout, and he needs men to carry him out of bed. Why not grant him more bedrest?"

The maesters eyes were on her, and she could see the realisation dripping before his eyes. "Who helped you?" he said slowly. "Was it Ladybright?"

"I have no idea what you mean," she said innocently, but the truth was yes. Alyse Ladybright, the lord treasurer at Sunspear, was one of three that Doran left behind to manage Sunspear in the prince's absence. Alyse had also been a very close confident of Oberyn's.

"This won't work, Ser Manfrey-"

"- is already taken care of; he turned sickly after drinking from a bad batch of wine, I'm afraid." Caleotte stared in horror. Nym frowned. " Incapacitated, not dead. Manfrey Martell will have an extreme caseof the shits and will be bedridden for weeks, but he won't die. Ricasso is old and blind, I'm sure he won't be a problem."

Both the castellan, Ser Manfrey, and the seneschal, Ricasso, at Sunspear had already been sorted - discreetly, of course, and disabled rather than killed. Nobody could stop a coup if nobody even knew one had happened .

Nymeria doubted that any would even realise what had happened here tonight, at least not for a while. So far as the realm was concerned, Prince Doran was still in the Water Gardens - ruling Dorne from his chair, and sending ravens and orders out to his kingdom - while his stewards managed Sunspear. Sooner or later, the news otherwise would spread - but if she was careful then Nym

might have a good few weeks before that happened. Maybe months, with a bit of luck.

It will be time enough, in any case, she thought.

She walked around the room, inspecting the birds. Slowly, Nym picked up a scrap of parchment from the pile, making note of the correspondence. Captain Ryden's stare alone kept the maester pressed up against the wall. The old man was still stammering. "This is treason," he managed.

"Hardly. I consider it more a leave of absence. We are all loyal to Dorne here," Nym replied, and Ryden nodded. "No, this is a kindness . It has become clear that Doran lacks the resolve to dowhat is necessary, and so my sisters and I will remove the responsibility from his shoulders. We will allow Doran an early retirement - he has long been most comfortable watching the children play in the Water Gardens."

And Arianne will be upset, Nym thought, but when all is done, she will understand . Obara was already in position, waiting on the signal. Nym dabbed her quill in the inkpot and leaned poised over the parchment. The black ink dribbled from the sharp point, dark blots splattering over the table like blood. Nymeria kept the message short and concise.

See it done " she wrote. Three little words, but as dark as the raven's wings.

Maester Caleotte was still making noise, trying to protest, but she barely heard him. Nym spent a long time staring over the letter, just thinking. After a moment's thought, she added another line. Six more words, but they made Nym grin.

" And blame it on Tyrion Lannister. "

For Elia, Nym told herself. For her babes, for justice, and for Dorne.

Blood for blood .

The Mother

It was eleven days until the Mother's Day, the third new moon of the year - a day designated for the celebration of all those blessed by the Mother's hands. This time last year, Tommen had gifted her a cluster of flowers he had picked himself from the godswood, and there had been a special sermon held in the Royal Sept, in which the Queen Mother had taken a seat of honour.

This year, though, Cersei was expected to shame and surrender herself, her family, on that same day. The deadline of seventy-seven days was fast approaching, and no doubt the High Septon had chosen it to coincide with the Mother's Day deliberately. A day blessed by the Mother.

Over two months she had been trapped in the cursed keep, barely even leaving Maegor's Holdfast, and the mood had only become more dire.

Ser Kevan Lannister walked through the Great Hall with his head raised and his gaze hard. He was clad in full regal armour, with a gold-leafed breastplate showing the Lannister's lion, and a red cloak draping from his shoulders and swirling from the floor. His pot belly was tucked in by a belt fastened so tight that it must have been suffocating.

Ser Kevan and his guards had left their swords at the gates, but they didn't remove their helms. He didn't bow either, and Cersei's eyes narrowed. He should bow . The lack of courtesies spoke volumes.

There was a long, long moment of silence, as Ser Kevan cast his eyes over the ghostly Great Hall. The cavernous room was hushed, and the few onlookers hovering between the plinths never said a word. Nobody was allowed to speak in Cersei's court. Their eyes were desperate, pleading silently at the Lannister envoys. Ser Kevan and his five men were the first new faces permitted to enter the Red Keep in two months.

At the base of the Iron Throne, Ser Robert Strong loomed.

Finally, Cersei spoke, and her voice was low, calm and dead. "Nuncle," she greeted. "Why do you dawdle while the traitors stand at our gates?"

"Niece," Ser Kevan's voice was just as cold. "Where is the king?"

"Retired for the night." This is how he speaks to me? "I am Queen Regent, you will address me as such."

"Where is Queen Margaery, Cersei?" Kevan demanded. "Does Margaery still live?"

Insolence . "The traitor Margaery is imprisoned," said Cersei, "awaiting her trial, and she has already confessed to her crimes."

"Gods damn you," Ser Kevan barked a curse, shaking his head. "

Her trial? Cersei, enough. This has to end."

The hall shifted slightly. Cersei could see her guards - her men - stirring at the doors. "Mind your tongue, nuncle," her voice was a whisper, so quiet Kevan could barely hear.

"Queen Margaery is not facing trial, Cersei." Ser Kevan took a step forward. "Your seventy-seven days is nigh at end, and in just over a week the Faith Militant will be barging through the doors. You will either face trial, or you will be brought to trial. The keep will be stormed and the High Septon will accept no surrender after that."

"Then you must stop them. Are you not Lord Marshal, Warden of the West?" Her eyes narrowed. "You lead His Grace's armies, ser."

Ser Kevan shook his head. " You must concede. The High Septon will not allow this, and neither will Lord Tyrell."

Cersei shifted on the metal seat, but she couldn't stand. Her body was hunched, draped in coils of red velvet. Ser Kevan is weak. Why, by all the gods, was my nuncle fated to stand here and not my

father? "You would allow them to break through the gates?" she said incredulously "To ransack the Red Keep itself, to break the seat of royal power? You are letting the Faith seize the Crown, nuncle."

"I do not see what choice I have," Ser Kevan replied coldly. "What choice have you left me?"

"Why not grow a spine and do your duty?" Cersei spat. "You're a Lannister. They stand in open defiance to our throne. House Tyrell plots blatant treason with this puppet of a High Sparrow - and you continue to delude yourself-"

By the gods, Cersei! " Ser Kevan snapped, and the queen even flinched. She had never heard her nuncle's voice break in such anger before. Ser Robert Strong tensed, ready to move should Ser Kevan take another step. "Lord Tyrell is not the enemy! The High Septon is not even the enemy! The greatest enemy to the king is sitting in that bloody chair!"

The words caused her to bristle, pure rage swelling from her body. Her eyes were murderous. One nod, she thought, that's all it would take. I only need to nod, and Ser Robert Strong will smear Kevan's skull over the tiles . Her champion had done it before. "You forgetyour place, nuncle ."

"So do you." Ser Kevan shook his head. "If Lord Tyrell wanted this castle, or even this city, then he could have taken it. I have spent the last two months begging - begging! - Mace to be considerate, but he cannot allow this stalemate last forever. The High Septon most certainly won't." His shoulders were stiff. "At a certain point, they will break down the gates and consequences be damned. Do not pretend as if you have the men to hold the walls."

"I have enough men to hold swords," Cersei warned. "And I gave Mace Tyrell an ultimatum of my own - if he breaches the city, then his daughter, his son, his family will die long before I will."

"Mace Tyrell does not need to breach the city. The city will let him in. The city likes him more than it does you." Ser Kevan's teeth grit. "And what of your own son, the king - do you count him among your list of hostages?"

I will not let them take Tommen . He was the only thing she had left. She would die before she lost her only son. "I will protect Tommen to my dying breath," Cersei warned, her voice a growl. "You are a fool, nuncle. You are such a fool the Imp may as well place you in motley."

"Dammit, you-!" His eyes bulged, and he took a step forward. One more step, Cersei thought. One more step against the throne, and Ser Robert will kill him . She didn't know what would happen afterthat, but she wouldn't allow Kevan one more step. "I do not work for Tyrion!" Kevan snapped. "Neither does Lord Tyrell. There is no conspiracy, this is delusion! This is Aerys !"

"Mind your place, nuncle," Cersei whispered.

His eyes turned to Ser Robert's hulking figure, standing as still as a statue, and he paused. "… Surrender, niece," Ser Kevan said finally. "Surrender Tommen and Margaery, unharmed, and I can still calm Lord Tyrell. I can persuade the High Septon of a merciful sentence - nobody wants to see more war in the realm. You must surrender."

Do not tell me what I must do . "The Imp is playing you-"

"There is no Imp here!" Kevan barked, nearly bellowing. "Tyrion Lannister is three hundred leagues away, raiding my homeland. I am now the Warden of the West, but I cannot even leave King's Landing to stop him! Mace Tyrell desperately needs to return to his own lands too, but he cannot leave his children behind." The man had a pained expression. "Cersei, you are not thinking clearly."

There it is. He considers me delirious, a mad woman sitting on a man's chair . Cersei had suffered it all her life. It would have worked, she cursed. We could have forced the Faith and the Tyrells to fight

each other, we could have played our enemies off against one another . If only Kevan Lannister had a spine, if only men would listen to her.

She hadn't been able to rally any more men to her, not with the whole city in stalemate. Ser Kevan had taken the title Warden of West after Devan Lannister's death, and westerland lords chose him over her. Cersei had fought tooth and nail to secure the Red Keep, to secure her son, but it wasn't enough. Enemies were all around her, yet supposedly 'loyalist' men had still abandoned her, all because she was a woman.

This is Tyrion's doing . She could see her brother's mutilated grin every time she closed her eyes.

There was a long quiet, so long that the entire hall went deathly still. Cersei took a deep breath, just to focus herself. This is my nuncle's final chance . "Ser Harys Swyft," she said finally, her voice low, "yourown goodfather. He is dead, Ser Kevan."

Ser Kevan froze, his face twisting into a scowl. Not surprised, only angry. "Damn you Cersei," he cursed. "How could you-"

"I did not have him killed, nuncle," she said harshly. "Rather, Ser Harys was found dead two weeks past, in Maegor's Holdfast itself, with a crossbow bolt through his gut."

Ser Kevan didn't reply, but his eyes narrowed. "Before that," Cersei continued darkly, "It was Ser Boros Blount - he is on death's door right now, after working as a food-taster and ingesting poison in a meal meant for Tommen himself. A meal prepared in these very kitchens.

"Two of my own handmaidens have disappeared in the last four weeks, nuncle," she continued, "and three of my guards were picked off - one ambushed from behind, one with a crossbow, and the other one his stomach gutted with a blade. I had Lord Qyburn inspect the

bodies - the wound that kill them came from an upwards thrust; the attacker was of a child's stature ."

"Cersei…" Ser Kevan pleaded.

"One of the Redwyne twins - Horas Redwyne - he is dead too, but not by my order. Rather, the boy had snuck out of his chambers, snooping through the keep, he must have seen something he wasn't supposed to, and an attacker killed him," she explained stiffly. "First it was Grand Maester Pycelle and our Lord Hand, and now fourteen more bodies have joined them. An assailant is stalking these very halls, trying to reach me, and my son. How many bodies must there be before you realise it?

"Don't you understand, nuncle? This is him - the Imp is in these very walls."

Ser Kevan didn't reply, but she saw his face grimace, biting his lip. "I locked the gates to keep him out," she growled. "I barred all the exits, there's been nobody in or out, but he's still here . Just like when he killed father, and now he is going for my son."

"Cersei," Kevan said slowly. "Tyrion Lannister is in the westerlands, waging war against Casterly Rock. He leads a force of sellswords hounding my lands, threatening to even sack Lannisport. Ser Benedict writes-"

"The Imp is playing Ser Benedict for a fool!" Cersei could have screamed. "Who else do you think it is? How many other men of short stature do you know, who favour poison and crossbow, with reason to hurt my son? No, the Imp is here - snooping around in secret tunnels and crawl spaces - and it must have been the Tyrells who let him in. He is playing you all for fools."

Ser Kevan gaped at her. "I will not allow him to get my son. Even if I must keep Tommen locked in his room, even if I must keep this whole castle locked down. So no, nuncle, the gates will remain sealed until the Imp and his plans are stopped, once and for all."

Her shoulders were shivering, and she had to flex her hand just to calm herself. "I have given you your orders," she said, lowering her voice again. "Arrest the fraud of a High Septon, force the Faith Militant to disband. Only then will the gates open, and we can focus on these sellswords and the mummer's dragon my brother has arranged."

His jaw was so tense, teeth grinding together. "I will get to the bottom of the murders, I swear I will," Ser Kevan said carefully. "If there has been foul play, I will find out. Nobody - not myself, not Lord Tyrell - is going to allow the Golden Company to take this city. But if you surrender now, I will be able to ensure a compassionate sentence. The High Septon can be convinced. Every man and woman in this castle can walk free out of the gates."

"I will send them over the walls by trebuchet before I allow the Imp to win," Cersei promised. "And Mace Tyrell's family will be the first to drop from the towers. The Imp wants to see me ruined, I will not trust his catspaw."

Ser Kevan froze, glaring. "You have no support, Cersei. None." He doesn't even address me as queen.

"I have the Red Keep. This is the last bastion of the king's rule left in the city, and your negligence could see it ruined. You forget your duty, nuncle."

Kevan shook his head. "My duty is to my king, my family and my realm, but those interests do not align with yours." He paused. "Once, during the Defiance of Duskendale, my brother was forced to sit outside the castle for over a year - unable to act in fear of harming the king, frozen in a stalemate that near-ruined the realm. Tywin could not act, not while the Darklyns held a blade to his liege's throat, but that inaction cost him so much. I will not repeat his mistake." His eyes were grim. "In eleven days' time, when the Faith comes to tear down those gates, I will not stop them. I will help them, and gods damn you for making me.

"So no - House Lannister does not stand with you, Your Grace . House Lannister is in agreement with the Faith and House Tyrell."

I could kill you. I need only say a word, and you will not walk away . Ser Robert Strong was ready and waiting. For a moment, there was nothing Cersei wanted to do more.

She didn't, though. Ser Kevan waited for a reply, but Cersei gave him none. He stood and waited, but then he saw her expression and turned to walk away. Her guards held blades closely, but none blocked him. Her nuncle deserved to die for his defiance, but he was still the strongest voice commanding Lannister men in the city. Matters could become troublesome if Ser Kevan didn't walk out again.

Still, he is a fool . If only Ser Kevan had been willing to act, then maybe it would not have turned so bad. She had allowed her nuncle to enter the Red Keep to negotiate, but in her heart Cersei had known it would be pointless.

Ser Kevan is just too weak .

There was a long stretch of frantic, panicked silence as Ser Kevan left. Cersei didn't stand up from the throne. She needed to stay sitting down on the damnable seat, to hide her swollen stomach from the court. She could not allow anybody to find out the pregnancy, she had taken great care to try and hide it, to stay out of view.

Even after all this time, even despite sickness every morning and constant queasiness, Cersei hadn't the heart to drink moon tea and rid herself of the babe growing in her stomach.

This bastard may be the only chance I have to break that cursed prophecy. If I birth four children instead of three, then the fortune Maggy the Frog set for me will be shattered.

Ser Oswell Kettleblack, upjumped sellsword and traitor, and yet Cersei was still bearing his babe. It was all so bitter she could have

laughed.

"I must beg you to forgive Ser Kevan, Your Grace," a kindly voice said carefully, as the white-robed figure stepped up to Cersei's side. Lord Qyburn's eyes were soft, compassionate, and Ser Robert Strong shifted to let him pass. "I'm afraid he's under a great deal of stress. There has been recent news from the westerlands; the caravan carrying Ser Kevan's wife Dorna, his son Martyn and babe Janei was ambushed less than a moon ago, as they fled from Casterly Rock to Cornfield. There is no news yet of any survivors, and the brotherhood without banners is thought responsible."

Cersei paused, thinking of the wrinkled lines across Ser Kevan's brow. She had never seen her nuncle so disturbed, so frustrated. "The brotherhood without banners," she repeated slowly, "is in the westerlands?"

Qyburn nodded. "I'm afraid so. Lady Stoneheart has been moving west ever since Riverrun."

They're targeting Lannisters, Cersei thought, feeling numb. Lady Stoneheart, the hangwoman, had been picking her targets with cold precision. The brotherhood without banners had been born in the riverlands in the wake of the War of Five Kings, but, as the new war emerged, the outlaws had moved to pillage and raze those they deemed responsible. The outlaws razed the Saltpans to seven hells, they hunted down surviving Freys, they even raided Riverrun itself, and then they brought similar destruction to the west.

"It is the Imp," Cersei muttered, and she knew it to be true. Why can they not see? "Tyrion is behind those outlaws, he's exploiting themjust as he did with the Vale clansmen. He's using them, setting them to pillage and raze while his army moves west."

Of course it is him, Cersei thought, cursing herself for not realising it sooner. A roving group of outlaws would be the perfect tool the Imp would use to hurt my family a bit more. This Lady Stoneheart likely works for him too .

"As you say, Your Grace."

Finally, Cersei dared to ask, though she feared she already knew the answer. "What of my brother?" she asked. "You have made inquiries into Jaime?"

Qyburn's voice was soft. "I know only what the birds have been chirping, Your Grace," he said apologetically, "and yet whispers have been spreading that Ser Jaime was taken by the brotherhood as well. I'm afraid your brother was captured by both the Hound and Brienne of Tarth, and is said to have been executed by Lady Stoneheart."

He paused, trying to measure her reaction. She did give him one. "One whisper said that they pushed Ser Jaime off the cliffs at Acorn Hall," Qyburn said lowly, "but I have not been able to find a soul to confirm."

Cersei just nodded.

She had refused to believe it for so long. For a long time, she had clung to the hope that Jaime would return, bringing reinforcements from their scattered army that might save her. Her beautiful knight would return to protect his sister and his son. But then the weeks had turned into months without sight or sound of her brother, and Cersei's heart had turned to stone.

We were supposed to be together forever; Jaime and I had been joined for life . And yet Tyrion had stolen that joy from her as well. First it had been Cersei's mother, then her son, her father, her brother… Cersei knew what he was doing. The Imp was going to kill her whole family, but leave her for last.

There is no creature more accursed and wicked than a dwarf.

Qyburn was still talking, gently chattering away while Cersei stared down at the doors on the other side of the hall. "I know that Lord Tyrell is feeling very… stretched, as well. The news from Oldtown

has caused many of the Reach bannermen to become restless. The city is said to have been left devastated in the storm, but I cannot tell to what extent the reports have been exaggerated." He grimaced quietly. "My apologies, Your Grace, but with the siege and our movements restricted, I do not have the same sources of information that I used to."

There was no reply. Lord Qyburn sighed, and continued, pacing around the steps of the throne as he talked slowly. "Fear of for his daughter's life has held Mace Tyrell at bay, but that will not last much longer. Without Ser Kevan's support, then we have none of the westerland lords with us, Your Grace. Ser Kevan has seized control of the gold cloaks in the city too," he warned. "And, regardless, both Lord Tyrell and the High Septon maintain a strong presence in the city, and both their forces greatly outnumber his.

"I hear that the Faith Militant continues to grow; a thousand knights have joined the Warrior's Sons, and many times that number Poor Fellows."

A city in stalemate. All around her, it felt like the kingdom was falling apart. The Golden Company had been making great progress, because there was nobody capable of stopping them. Exactly as the Imp planned, Cersei cursed, I tried to break free of the web but I only got myself entangled in it .

"Kevan's inactivity has doomed us all," Cersei muttered.

"Not yet, Your Grace," Qyburn whispered. "We are not doomed yet."

"It proceeds?" she asked, and her master of whispers nodded.

"It proceeds very well," Lord Qyburn said with a smile, but he said no more than that. We can't speak of the plan here, she told herself, not in the court, where there are still those who might overhear . Still,that glimmer in Qyburn's eyes gave her hope.

She knew that he had been scurrying through the tunnel, twice, thrice a fortnight, bringing captives from the city by the score - whores and other lowborn women that she doubted would be missed. The Red Keep had so few serving women left now. She didn't know, or care to know, his reasons for needing so many women. She only knew that he needed captives to… process . Preferably women, and in some quantity for his work. Still, Cersei had seen the results of his efforts, and she was more than happy to finance them.

I am a lioness, she thought, even if my nuncle is toothless, I will bear fangs myself .

"Escort me to my chambers, Lord Qyburn. Your work in the Black Cells is all the more urgent."

"Very well, Your Grace." She winced slightly as she stood up, the pain in her stomach causing her to grimace. "And I will prepare a poultice to ease your back - I know what a burden sitting in that chair is."

"Much obliged, my lord." He is the only true ally I have left . If not for Lord Qyburn's gentle hands, his skills and knowledge, Cersei might truly be doomed. She wrapped his arm around his, stepping down the dais from the Iron Throne. Ser Robert Strong walked close behind.

One week left, she thought. It would be a coin flip whether or not their preparations would be done in time.

I will not let them have my little boy. I am doing this for you, Tommen.

Cersei knew that not even Maegor's Holdfast itself was safe. The Red Keep had degenerated into a tense and frightful place. The cells were overfilled with hostages, many of the doors were locked, and even her own guards never walked anywhere alone. There were shadows everywhere, threatening to strangle her.

The highborn hostages couldn't be trusted, nor could the servants. Lord Qyburn had to prepare the meals for Cersei and the king with his own hands, to avoid poison in their meals. There had been attempts to form riots by their noble 'guests' themselves, and the threat remained of the Faith Militant. Many times now, soldiers with grapnels had tried to sneak over the walls under cover of darkness, to rescue hostages.

King Tommen had to stay locked up in his room constantly; the whole tower was sealed while only a precious few even allowed through. Her son wailed and begged, trapped alone in his chambers for weeks on end, but he didn't understand.

Not even Cersei could walk freely through the castle. Everywhere she went, Ser Robert Strong was a constant shape behind her. Her champion was a hulking, tireless figure clad in steel so thick it could have been used to plate a war elephant. The voiceless knight was stronger than a dozen men, and nothing short of an army could threaten her while Ser Robert was by her side.

It should have made her feel reassured, but it didn't. If they couldn't hurt her physically, Cersei knew her enemies would just find another way to get at her.

One week left . Cersei knew she would need every single day just to prepare.

"Lady Margaery," Cersei whispered as they walked. "Have the men resume their efforts with zeal, we must draw a confession from Margaery quickly. Prepare her, for her trial."

"As your say, Your Grace." Qyburn bowed.

Cersei's one reassurance was that Margaery was surely despising their captivity more than she was. The little whore was locked in the Maidenvault - a place that was too good for her - but Qyburn had handpicked the guards to watch over her and question her.

It was a long day, and a restless night. They barred the door to the queen's apartments, and Ser Robert Strong stood and waited outside like a golem.

She slept in an empty bed, and she despised sleeping alone. Cersei thoughts lingered back to Taena Merryweather - warm and shapely, beautiful and trustworthy. She had been the last person to share Cersei's bed, the last solace Cersei had. And then Taena had been the first victim, the first body to be found, along with her husband and the Grand Maester. The Imp murdered her just to hurt me , Cersei thought, stirring as she tried to sleep. The pain had yet to fade. Another happiness that my brother stole from me .

Cersei didn't actually manage to sleep, but she was still shook by the sound of ringing from the gates early in the morn.

Even before she walked out of her chambers, she knew there was something happening. The drawbridge was raised, but she could still see activity on the streets below. She always could, now. The Faith had been camped outside the castle for months, swarming the streets like rats. A permanent garrison of barefooted mongrels, outside her very gates. They even had raised cloth and straw effigies of topless wantons not too long ago, lifting the caricatures up on sticks in an attempt to shame her.

Now the streets were moving, bells ringing attention. We're not under attack, then - they wouldn't alert us so. Another messenger perhaps? Did Kevan return? Unless her nuncle's stance had changed, therewas little to renegotiate.

Cersei had to dress herself, for there were no handmaids left to tend to her.

She wrapped a heavy, red velvet shawl around her shoulders, so long it covered down to her knees. The cool early winter air was cold enough to justify it, and the shawl was thick and loose enough to disguise her pregnancy, at least to anyone who didn't step too close.

Ser Robert was in the exact same position as he had been the night before, waiting to escort her down the stairs.

As she walked through the main hall, she saw Ser Meryn Trant - the last Kingsguard still serving - while he hesitated in the hallway. He still wore his white and silver armour, but his rich, wool cloak was looking rather more grimy since the washerwomen's rounds had ended. "Ser," the queen called. "What is happening?"

"They have spread orders to clear the streets, Your Grace" Ser Meryn replied, looking hesitant. He had never been the best of the Kingsguard, she thought, but he knew where his loyalties lay. "A convoy of Warrior's Sons wishes to bring a messenger through the gates."

"Really?" She frowned. "The Faith has blocked all messages to the castle." The flea-bitten fools even had archers poised to shoot down any ravens coming to or from the keep. Not that it had actually stopped me, as the secret tunnels under the Red Keep remain undetected .

"The High Septon decreed that this one is allowed through," Ser Meryn explained. "They must see it as important, Your Grace. Should we allow it?"

Cersei considered it. The Faith had been very diligently trying to completely cut the Red Keep off from the outside world. Ser Kevan had spent weeks pleading with High Septon to be allowed through. "Do so," Cersei ordered. "But under heavy guard. Double the patrols on the walls - it may be a trap or a distraction - and alert Lord Qyburn when this envoy arrives. No more than four are allowed through, and bring them straight to me before the Throne - do not let any out of your sights."

That damnable iron seat again. Still, she had to sit on it - she would not let herself be seen as anything less than in control when they arrived.

They rang the bells as the drawbridge was lowered, and again when it raised. Still, the wait until they actually passed through the gates and walked to the holdfast was excruciating. Cersei wouldn't pace or twitch, though - she sat rigid like a statue in the cavernous, ghostly Great Hall.

Four men in bright inlaid silver armour, polished to perfection, were walked stiffly through the doors, none of them were allowed swords on their hip. A seven-pointed star was engraved onto their breastplate, they wore rainbow cloaks clasped with silver stars.

Her eyes narrowed. They didn't bow. Why do they refuse to bow?

One of the men - a clean-shaven man with wrinkled eyes - stepped forward. He was withered stork of a man with a stern, sad face like it was carved from gnarly wood. "I am Ser Bonifer Hasty of the Holy Hundred, serving the Noble and Puissant Order of the Warrior's Sons, my lady," the knight said by way of greeting. "I was given explicit orders by the Most Devout not to lower my head in your presence. The Faith honours King Tommen Baratheon, but it does not recognise the legitimacy of your regency."

She tensed. My lady . Another barb meant to hurt her. That disrespect alone was enough to kill him. And yet the Warrior's Sons could well intensify their siege if I do take his head. The Swords and Stars could well become more aggressive. The High Sparrow will likely demand retribution, and it is too early for such rash action .Cersei still needed more time.

"I know of you, Ser Bonifer. Ser Bonifer the Good, as you call yourself," Cersei replied coldly. "You served for Renly, and then you served Stannis. You submitted to the rightful King Joffrey after defeat, and then you abandoned that duty as well to join a rebellion uprising. You seem to enjoy treason, ser." T he wages of treason should be death.

She expected him to grimace, or to fluster. Instead, Ser Bonifer only nodded. "I serve what is right and what is just, my lady - as the

Warrior commands me to," he said solemnly. "I thought that was Stannis, once, but I was mistaken. And yet the Crone's lantern has cleared the fog from me now, and I serve in the Light of the Seven."

"You serve a fraud, ser." Her eyes narrowed. "You have spent months outside my gates, keeping them closed. Nothing in or out, that was your sparrow's ruling. So tell me, why do you break that rule now?"

"Out of respect for your loss, my lady," he replied grimly, and nodded to his man. One of the knights was holding a box, keeping it at arm's length. "The Most Devout wanted you to see this message as exactly as it arrived."

The Warrior's Son stepped forward, carrying the box gingerly. A heavy box of ebony and silver, smooth and extravagant. The knight placed it solemnly at the foot of the dais to the Iron Throne, and then backed away.

Cersei's gaze went dark, but she didn't step up from her seat to take it. She did not want to reveal her bloated stomach, she would not stand up for these pious fools of knights. She waited until Lord Qyburn scampered across the hall, to lift the box up and bring it to her. The air was silent for a few long heartbeats as Lord Qyburn scampered.

That box, Cersei thought slowly, a hint of recognition coming to her.

I've seen that box before .

There was a parchment fixed atop the lid, the envelope left open. Qyburn picked that up first, unravelled it, and brought towards her. They've already read it, Cersei knew, looking at the gaze in theWarrior's Son's eyes. The knights were all tense with anticipation as the dry parchment reached her hands.

She didn't recognise the handwriting, but her heart skipped as she saw the name signed at the bottom.

My dear sister," the curled letters read. " I promised you that I would hurt you. I said that a day would come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth.

Now you know the debt is paid. "

It was signed, " Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock ."

There was no visible reaction, but Cersei's hands couldn't move. She just froze, as if her blood had turned to solid ice. "It was brought on a galley from Dorne, my lady," Ser Bonifer was saying as Lord Qyburn bent down the box, the old man's back causing him to wince. "They paid the captain fifty gold pieces to deliver it straight to your hand. We intercepted the vessel as it arrived in port."

The lid opened with a creak. As it opened, she saw Lord Qyburn grimace as soon as he looked inside. Her master of whispers gave something that sounded like a sigh.

Lord Qyburn lifted up a bleached white skull, padded inside the large, felt-lined box. Cersei just stared woodenly, and then she noticed the locks of golden hair that were also shoved inside.

The skull was far too small for an adult. A child's skull; the flesh picked clean off it and the bone so white it could have been polished. It had perfect white teeth that seemed to sneer.

Cersei couldn't breathe. The world turned.

Dorne. It came from Dorne .

That hair… The locks of hair that filled the box. Cersei remembered her daughter's silky golden hair, she remembered stroking it, brushing it as her baby fell asleep in her lap. She remembered Myrcella's smile, her laugh, so bright and full of life.

Empty eye sockets stared back at her.

It had been over three years since she had last seen her little girl, and now the skull was sneering at her. You let them take me, the toothy smile mocked, you let the Imp take me away from you .

Couldn't… breathe. Throat jammed, fingers twitching. Her hands clenched the Iron Throne so tightly that one of the blades nicked her wrist. Blood swelled, but she couldn't even feel it…

All eyes were on her, staring at her so intently, but she couldn't even…

That box, a small part whispered in the back of her brain. That's the same box we used to send the Mountain's head to Dorne. My daughter's head.

They used the same box.

She could have screamed, wailed, but her throat wasn't working.

The hall was spinning, the sky was collapsing.

Vaguely, somewhere in the distance, she heard words. Lord Qyburn's voice was weirdly sharp, demanding answers, and the Warrior's Sons recounted the others letters they had received. Even when the skull was set back into the box, she could feel it staring at her. Myrcella's empty gaze was on her, her eyes accusing.

The walls were melting, the ground breaking, her heart dying… And Cersei was left frozen.

A force of men had been besieging High Hermitage on the order of Queen Cersei and Prince Doran's, voices were saying, to bring Ser Gerold Dayne to justice. To punish the fiend that had maimed the princess's face and murdered Ser Arys. The small force of men led by Obara Sand, Areo Hotah of prince's personal guard, and Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard, to bring the Crown's justice.

Ravens from Dorne said that House Dayne of High Hermitage had refused to surrender the Darkstar to Obara Sand and Ser Balon Swann at first, but then Areo Hotah arrived with more reinforcements. After a short standoff, High Hermitage conceded. They opened the gates, and Ser Gerold Dayne was surrendered by his family.

Areo Hotah, Ser Balon and Obara Sand came to collect him. The Darkstar tried to resist, but he was outnumbered and overpowered.

And then Obara Sand switched sides.

Obara Sand ambushed Areo Hotah from behind while the Darkstar attacked Ser Balon. There had been a fight, a battle breaking out in the courtyard. The Darkstar overpowered and decapitated Ser Balon himself.

Obara Sand had fought Areo Hotah off until the Darkstar could join that fight as well. As the captain of the prince's guard tried to match two against one, the Sand Snake put her spear through the captain's back.

Afterwards, Obara Sand and Gerold Dayne joined forces and rode very quickly to Starfall, where Princess Myrcella was being held. They arrived before news of what happened at High Hermitage could follow them. Together they walked through the castle on the Prince of Dorne's command, and they killed Princess Myrcella in the middle of Starfall itself.

"Armies in the Boneway and the Prince's Pass have started to move north," Ser Bonifer was saying. "Ravens have been flying from Sunspear. Dorne has declared open rebellion, my lady."

Obara Sand . Somewhere through the haze of indescribable emotions, that was the name Cersei focused on. Obara Sand - the bastard daughter of the Red Viper. Her father had fought as the Imp's champion, and then he had the bastard daughter kill Cersei's little princess.

"We understand that this must be difficult for you, and the High Septon is not unsympathetic to your loss. The Faith recognises your right to mourn," the knight continued. "There will be candles lit for Myrcella Baratheon, and the High Septon will pray for the Stranger to take her gently to a better place. And I bring a message from Ser Kevan Lannister too, who offers his very deepest apologies, and urges you to be reasonable-"

"Reasonable? Reasonable?! " she said shrilly, the first words she said since the box opened. She was gasping for air, barely able to breathe… " He killed my little girl! "

Ser Bonifer paled. "I assure you, my lady, that the High Septon will never allow such monstrous act - the Most Devout has condemned the murder-"

"Kill them." Her voice turned as sharp as a knife.

The Warrior's Sons blinked, but Cersei was looking at Ser Robert. " Kill them," she ordered.

Lord Qyburn grimaced, rubbing his eyes. Ser Robert took a slow step forward, and the knights backed away. They were clutching at empty scabbards. "Your Grace, I am a messenger - I came under a banner of truce!" Ser Bonifer screamed. "You promised safe passage, you-"

" Kill them! "

"Stop! By the rights of hospitality!" Ser Bonifer screamed to the giant knight. "In the name of the Fathe-"

Ser Robert didn't even need to draw his sword. The Warrior's Sons tried to flee, but the hulking white-cloaked man lunged with startling speed. So fast that the stones cracked under his massive weight, a solid boom of metal against rock as the iron boots hit the ground. A hand like a sledgehammer shot out, and suddenly goliath fingers were wrapping around Ser Bonifer's head.

Ser Robert's arm jerked, and Ser Bonifer flopped.

She heard the crack of bone. The stones cracked as the man's skull exploded over the hall.

Another of the Warrior's Sons tried to stop him, but then he swung a single, massive backhanded swipe from the gauntleted fist. The man's neck cracked.

The final two tried to run, but they weren't fast enough. Ser Robert was already lunging, yanking the first Warrior's Son by the neck and hoisting him physically off the floor in a casual swing. The other knight barely managed to skitter a dozen steps away, before the body of his colleague was being slung into his back like a rag doll.

Cersei heard their shiny armour clinging together like a broken bell.

They both crumpled to the floor, and Ser Robert walked, slowly, towards them. One of them looked dead, but the other Warrior's Son was squealing, begging for mercy in the name of the Mother. He was squealing right up until Ser Robert raised a massive steel boot, and stomped down on the man's face.

"Your Grace," Lord Qyburn said slowly. Not angrily, or even shocked, just… disappointed. "That may have been ill-advised."

She didn't care. Four bloody corpses were left smeared over the stones, Ser Robert Strong's boots stained with red. Cersei didn't even blink. Her gazed was focused entirely on the box, and that smiling, sneering skull…

"'Ther!" Myrcella screamed, gap-tooth mouth grinning. "Mother! Look what I got!"

She held a butterfly in her hands, her tiny little fingers clenched around her. The four-year old had been so determined to catch one, and so eager to show it off.

The babe was so energetic, so youthful. She couldn't quite pronounce 'Mother', instead she'd skip the first syllable. Cersei's little girl was grinning so brightly, so proudly, as the bright red wings fluttered. Cersei heart swelled, it felt like her chest could have burst…

"Your Grace," Lord Qyburn was saying, though she could hardly focus on the words. "We must…"

"Mother!" Myrcella called, running for her. "Mother!"

Even as a child of five, she was so beautiful and courteous. She grinned as she did her curtsies, but Myrcella was so eager she stumbled slightly as she lowered her head. Cersei could only laugh, kneeling down for her little girl. Her daughter's emerald eyes were glowing, as she clutched a wisp of red fabric. "The septa helped me stitch it," Myrcella said sheepishly, holding up the needlework, "but I made it for you to wear."

It was the worst sigil of a lion Cersei had ever seen, in truth - it looked more like a crumpled dog, and the gold thread was stained red from where the needle pricked her fingers. Myrcella so wanted her to wear it on her dress, but Cersei had to wear the golden clasp instead. Still, the queen kept that handkerchief tucked into her dress, close to her skin, all through the feast…

While most girls were stitching favours for boys or gallant princes, Myrcella only ever stitched for her mother or her little brother.

"May the Mother's blessing be upon you," her daughter giggled, just like the septa told her to…

"You Grace!" Lord Qyburn was shaking her shoulder, just trying to get her to respond. "Your Grace, the Faith will expect its messengers to retu-"

"Leave me," Cersei said, her voice so low and her shoulders so stiff. Lord Qyburn didn't move, and Cersei's voice broke. " Leave me! "

Lord Qyburn backed away. Cersei took a long gaze between the silver box and the bloody tiles, and then her arms shook. She stood up herself, storming away…

"I don't want to go to Winterfell," her little girl squirmed, a strong and stubborn child of seven. "It's cold up there. I hear they have snows during summer."

"You've never seen the snow before, my darling," Cersei chided, tucking at the collar of her dress.

"No, but I heard the septa talking about it. She said that the seven hells were cold, filled with ice and heretics," Myrcella said, "and that the north is half as bad. Do I have to go?"

"I'm afraid so," Cersei sighed. She hoped that Myrcella would never have to see snow at all, that her summer would last forever. "Your father insists."

The girl pouted. "I had bad dreams about the north. They scared me."

"None of that now," Cersei tapped her on the head, frowning. "You're princess and you're a lion. You don't show fear."

She turned around to pick out Myrcella's dresses, while the girl folded her arms unhappily.

"Well, will we see Uncle Tyrion?" Myrcella asked suddenly, her voice turning hopeful. Cersei froze, face twisting into a scowl. "I like him!" the girl protested. "He makes me laugh"…

She nearly collapsed. On to the floor, shivering. There were tears down her cheeks, and she couldn't stop them. Her shoulders shaking, her body trembling. Couldn't move, couldn't…

"Mother," Myrcella's phantom voice called. "Mother… !"

Her daughter's cry was drowned out by the Imp's cackling laugh.

Her stomach was churning, the unformed babe felt like it was writhing. She was doubled other in grief and pain. He did this, Cersei thought. The Imp did this. He killed my little girl .

Her demon brother was laughing at her, making his cruel jests. "My sister," Tyrion's voice mocked in her ear, "I returned your box for you, but the rest of your daughter just didn't fit inside of it!"

It was him, him and that sparrow of a septon, those treacherous snakes, all the fiendish cutthroats, fools and flatterers dancing on his strings…

"Your Grace," Lord Qyburn said nervously, hovering behind her. The master of whispers looked more lost than he ever had. "I apolog-um, there's another parchment inside the box. Another letter."

He was a holding out a different leaf of paper. Cersei could barely see straight through the all the tears, but she needed to know, she needed to…

She grabbed the parchment and stared at it. This one was written in a different hand, a different writer. It's my brother's handwriting, it is . Cersei recognised Tyrion's jotted scrawl anywhere.

The parchment read, " Release the rightful Queen Margaery immediately, dear sister, or I will take even more from you. This is your final warning. "

Cersei stared. Her hands tightened, crumpling the parchment in her fist.

It was him. Him and that dolt of a Lord of Highgarden, and the little whore…

I knew it. I knew it was . Her hands curled so tightly her nails pierced the skin. They killed my daughter.

"Where is Margaery Tyrell?" Cersei demanded, so loud that Qyburn flinched. "Where is she?"

"Your Grace, mayhaps-"

"Where is she?" Cersei bellowed, her bloody hands gripping Qyburn's white collar. Her palms were bleeding from the jagged edges of the Iron Throne, but she didn't care. She couldn't feel it. " I want to see her ."

"The Maidenvault, Your Grace," Qyburn gulped. "I will have her brought-"

"No." Cersei's voice was a snarl. "I want to see her."

She was already storming upwards, swaying slightly as she walked, her shoes nearly tripping over her long, red shawl. Lord Qyburn called after her, but she couldn't hear it.

It was the first time in nearly four weeks that she had left the Maegor's Holdfast. The bright sunlight was nearly blinding, her shoes tapping down the stone steps. The guards on the door looked stunned and confused as she barrelled past, but Ser Robert Strong trailed behind her in long, slow steps.

The Maidenvault was a long-slate-roofed keep built behind the Royal Sept, pale and proud overlooking the cliffs at the east side of the Red Keep. Two tall carved doors blocked the way, each one showing images of the Maiden herself - that gentle smile sneering at her.

Cersei tottered up the steps, her brother's cruel laugh still echoing on the wind. The doors were locked, she cursed, and likely barricaded too. "Open up!" she demanded. "In the name of the king!"

A hatch opened on the door, and she heard the rustle of weapons. "Who goes th-" a gruff voice bellowed, but it stopped as the man saw Cersei. "Your Grace!"

"Open up. Let me see her."

She heard the clatter of heavy bolts shuddering. They opened with a groan, and a corridor of half a dozen men in tattered armour looked at her. The corridor was a tip - the marble floors of the hallway littered with splats of ale, chicken bones and scraps of rotten food. A flicker past through their gazes with the sight of her, many glancing down to her swollen stomach, but the hulking figure of Ser Robert kept them back.

"Where is Margaery Tyrell?" Cersei demanded.

"In the whor-" a man with sandy blond hair hesitated. "In Rhaena's Chamber, Your Grace."

Cersei was already stepping forward, moving up to the spiral staircase. Qyburn was behind her, ordering to the men. "Go back to your duties," he snapped, panting slightly as he chased after his queen.

There was a man on the upper landing - a gruff and broad figure with cheeks scarred by pox and a ragged beard over his chin - flinching in surprise as Cersei came stepping up. Craster, Cersei recalled vaguely. The door to the chambers was locked and sealed by a slab of timber, and she noticed improvised… tools piled up before it. Lengths of wood, leather belts, and a few chains.

Craster stood by the marble hearth, where an iron pot filled with water bubbled over the fire. " Margaery," Cersei demanded, deep breaths to calm herself. "How have you been questioning her?"

"You- Your Grace?"

"How?" she snapped, "Describe the methods you've applied."

The man paused, stepping backwards slightly. "Lengths of cloth soaked in boiling water, squeezed around her face," Craster said cautiously, motioning to the pot. "Leather belts, occasionally, but

softened to avoid welts. We give her nothing but vinegar in her drink, sometimes the boys swapped it out for piss. One time, Raff tied her to the bed, and whipped her with a stick wrapped in wool. You said not to leave lasting marks, Your Grace."

"I did." Her eyes turned to the pot of boiling water. "And the questions?"

"Lord Qyburn instructed us what to ask, and the answers she needed to give."

"Does she give them?" She glanced around the pile of tools, eyes searching for one with the sharpest edge.

"Sometimes." Craster nodded. "Not reliably enough. But we're working on it."

"Not fast enough." Her gaze settled on the iron poker sticking out of flames, its edge glowing red hot. " Leave ."

There was a pause. "Leave!" Cersei snapped. "All of you leave, now !"

On the edge of the steps, Lord Qyburn looked disapproving, but he didn't move to stop her. Cersei pulled the iron poker from the flames, flinching slightly as she touched it.

Daena's Chamber had been a lavish room of white marble, but now it was stripped bare - the windows were shuttered and slammed, the silk drapes ripped from the walls and the Myrish carpet torn from the floor. The marble remained, but there was no luxury left - the queen-sized four-poster bed was lacking a mattress, no pillows allowed.

And Margaery Tyrell was standing upright, wide eyes fixed on the door, as Cersei came barging through.

The young woman was pale and gaunt. Her once silky brown hair was like straw, her unblemished skin was covered in ugly, red welts.

Lips that had once been red and plump were dry and cracked. There were no silk or satin dresses for her, not here - instead Margaery only a dress that once might have been fine, but now it was torn and stained. The shoulders of her dress were ripped, and her trembling hands had to clutch the fabric to cover her modesty.

The whole room stunk of piss and shit and tears.

She is not more beautiful than me. She was never anything more than a little whore .

The girl's mouth stammered. Her gaze flickered between Cersei's wide and crazed eyes, Cersei's bloated stomach, and then the red-hot poker in Cersei's hands.

Even just seeing Margaery again… so much grief and rage pulsed through Cersei's body that her vision blurred.

Her hands tightened around the poker, the burning end hissing quietly. Margaery backed away, stammering to speak.

Cersei brandished the poker, gripping it like a sword. "Tell me what you did," Cersei said quietly, "You were working for him, and I want you to admit it."

Margaery's mouth hung open, and a for a few seconds Cersei thought maybe the girl had lost the ability to speak.

" You're mad," the little queen croaked.

Wrong answer. Cersei's body flushed with pure, mindless rage. A cry broke her lips as the burning poker struck out.

Margaery staggered backwards, but the burning edge came so close it clipped Margaery's wrist. She shrieked, squirming. "Get away from me!" Margaery howled. "Get away! Somebody help! Help!"

"Admit it!" Cersei roared furiously. "You will confess, you little slut!"

The feeling… it was like gripping a sword. She had always wanted to hold a sword. I want to do this myself.

The woman fell to the floor, whimpering and squirming. Cersei lashed out again, swinging the poker in mad strokes. Cersei tried to lunge, yet Margaery scampered out of the way.

Release Margaery , Tyrion had demanded in his letter. Why was the Imp so concerned for the little slut's safety, unless they were working together?

A vision flashed before Cersei's eyes. The wedding. The little whore had been laughing and smiling, dressed smugly in silk and sapphires, all the while Margaery watched Tyrion drop the poison into Joffrey's cup. They had planned it together from the beginning. Margaery had distracted Joffrey with her low-cut cleavage, while Tyrion did the deed.

Margaery might have been trying to form words, but they were lost in a shriek of pain.

She cowered against the wall, all the while Cersei held the poker's edge against her pretty little face. " Admit it! Admit it! "

He killed my daughter . Tyrion was trying to intimidate her, to her cow her into surrendering. He hopes that I will be so lost in grief and fear that I'll release Margaery . It wouldn't work. Cersei wouldn't let it work.

They had been working together all along.

The little whore raised her hands to cover herself, and the poker clipped against them with a hissing of burning flesh. Margaery wailed. "You killed my son! You killed my daughter! " Cersei screamed, standing over her. " Admit it! Admit what you did ."

Tears streaming down her cheeks. Margaery's face was red and twisted with pain. Her dress was falling off her shoulder, her modesty

forgotten about. " You evil fucking spiteful bitch! " Margaery wailed through the pain. " You fucking bitch!

She shrieked. The words… they sounded like Tyrion's voice. Cersei's hands lashed out, and the poker stabbed straight into Margaery's shoulder. The girl convulsed, smoke hissing.

Cersei expected her to fall down, and yet Margaery lunged like a wounded animal.

One second she was on the ground, and then the next the little whore was leaping at her. The poker was knocked straight out of Cersei's grasp, and furious hands lunged for her.

The world spun. Everything smelled of burnt flesh. They both landed against the stone floor together with a painful thud, squirming and wrestling.

" You bitch! " Margaery was wailing. " You bitch! You bitch! "

The girl was desperate. Cersei was caught off-guard but her hands struck out, a clenched fist that caught the bitch's cheek. Shrieking, Margaery toppled. Cersei kicked her in the ribs, in the breasts, once, twice, thrice, but frantic fingers grabbed her foot, her dress, and pulled her down.

They were both on the ground. Margaery's arms were skinny, her body frail. Starved and tortured for two months. Even off-guard, even pregnant, Cersei could overpower her.

Yet Margaery kicked and screamed, thrashed and hissed. Squirming with all her might just to push Cersei away.

Cersei's hands were tried to grip her wrists, to hold her down, but them her knees whacked into Cersei's side. She staggered, and lunged for the throat instead.

Margaery was beneath her - on her back like a common little whore - while Cersei's hands wrapped around her neck. She kicked and she thrashed, but Cersei squeezed. She had never squeezed so hard in her life, there had never been anything she wanted to do more…

It felt like her brother's neck.

Margaery's hands were thrashing, squirming at Cersei's face. Her nails were like claws, gouging her. Cersei felt the red worms tear at her cheeks, at her brow, she blinked at the blood swelling over her vision. A knee slammed into her stomach. But she couldn't move her hands.

Cersei was screaming while Margaery gurgled - the bitch's hands tearing and scratching at her cheeks and eyes, her forehead and lips. There was blood spurting downwards, dripping against the floor as Margaery choked.

The little queen's face turned red, and then darker. Her cheeks plumed purple, and her movements became more jagged, more desperate.

Cersei's grip didn't slacken.

It was only when Margaery finally turned still, that Cersei dropped. She was lying bloodied on the floor, tears and blood dripping from her chin. Her hands moved upwards, and she could feel the scratches gouged by the woman's nails. The scratches went deep, they would scar.

Margaery died with her face bloated and eyes ready to burst, and yet she had left Cersei a ruin. The queen could hear Tyrion's howling laughter echoing around the room.

Her stomach was writhing. Cersei felt blood, dripping down the inside of her legs.

As she heard footsteps scampering back at the steps, Cersei was still on the floor. Lord Qyburn looked between Margaery's still corpse, back to Cersei and her bloody face.

"It was him," she gasped. "It was Tyrion. He did this, he did this ."

"My queen…" the spymaster knelt onto the floor beside her, wrapping his arms around her shoulder. Blood against his white robes. "It's alright, Your Grace. We can handle us…"

"My son!" Cersei wailed, through the wheezy sobs. "My daughter! They killed my… !"

Qyburn nodded, holding her so, so gently. "They did, Your Grace. They did."

She could feel his hands patting against her back, his body cradling hers. "But we have solution, Your Grace. We have the ultimate solution," he whispered soothingly. His head turned, to stare at Margaery's wide-eyed body. "My skills… they have improved. Joffrey, Myrcella, your father, your brother…. we could bring them back, Your Grace. We could bring them all back."

Chapter 38

Chapter 38

The Father

He could see the army of men stretched out over the distance, their banners bright against the green and brown landscape. There was a winter chill in the air and grey clouds to the west, but the sun was bright and the morning air crisp and clear with the sound of boots and warhorns.

The Golden Company was camped along the roseroad, a few leagues south from where it joined with the kingsroad. The road was wide and muddy, the trees hacked away and the twisting path through the woods carved by a stream of travellers and carts. Normally there would be caravans, peddlers and horses moving up and down the path, but today there was nothing but quiet, and a tense frenzy in the foreground, where soldiers felled trees of the kingswood to build stakewalls, battering rams and stonethrowers.

The kingswood was thick with oaks and pines, and the Golden Company hacked them down by the hundreds. They were now so deeply encamped and barricaded into the road that it would take a force many times their number to scatter their position.

To the centre of the sprawling camp, all around the cloth-of-gold command tent, flew a forest of banners. Looming over them all was the three-headed dragon, riffling in the wind. For the first time in a generation, the red and black banner of House Targaryen was flying over Westeros.

We are only leagues away from King's Landing, Lord Connington thought. They hold the Blackwater against us, but we hold the roseroad . It was a strategic position; no more caravans from the Reach could get through to the capital, and Mace Tyrell could not

pass back to his own lands - not while the main force of the Golden Company blocked the path.

Still, Jon rode twice around the encampment, inspecting every inch of the fortifications. The Golden Company were professionals, and set a good camp. Even Arthur Dayne would be proud. There can be no mistake, not here.

A sound boomed through the air. A horn, signalling the return of one of the Company's forward parties. Jon kicked and sent his horse into a canter, and was waiting for the troop of men as they came through the bulwarks. They were flying a banner of a black ploughman on brown, one that, until a few fortnights ago, he hadn't seen in years. River's party, Jon realised. They've returned.

Jon glanced over the column of men as they approached. They had sent Ser Tristan Rivers to the riverlands with fifty soldiers over a moon's turn ago, and he had returned as Lord Tristan Darry, with three hundred mustered men in tow. Now the man was returning again, with twenty of his picked soldiers, all mounted cavalry. The men trotted through the bulwarks, and Jon approached their commander, giving a single nod.

"How many are there?" Lord Connington demanded from atop his grey palfrey. There was no waste of smalltalk or greetings.

Lord Tristan Darry paused and scratched his red whiskers. Once an exiled sellsword bastard, now legitimised and married into the newly-reformed House Darry. It had been one of the Imp's better notions, Jon was loath to admit. House Darry lives again. Married less than a moon ago, Tristan's lordship remained tenuous. The man hadn't even had the time to sleep under his new roof, had been forced to leave his new Frey wife behind after a single bedding. Still, it was one of the threads in the rope that was steadily gaining them the support of the petty lords.

"I reckon no more than thirty thousand," the new lord decided. "We saw them amassing on the Blackwater, I spoke to a few smallfolk

running from the capital. Thirty thousand across the river, and far more Reachmen than anything else."

"Not so many," Ser Marq Mandrake argued by his side, his pox-ridden face twitching. "I saw the same host, and my scouts got closer. There were closer to twenty than thirty, I say, but they would not admit it themselves - the rose lord keeps his ranks wide to try and bloat his numbers. I suspect that much of their bulwark guard were scarecrows wearing helmets, trying make his army to appear more imposing than it is. Entire pavilions of empty tents, false fires at night, by my reckoning. Mark my words; say two and twenty thousand."

"We will assume five and twenty," Jon said firmly. Many of their scouts had been similarly unsure. Mace Tyrell leads the forces, but the care and cunning in their tactics reeks of Lord Randyll Tarly's hand. It was not an encouraging sign. "But I want better numbers assoon as possible, and have your scouts log all of the banners they can see. Tell me exactly who we are facing."

"Aye, my lord." They both nodded.

"What of news from the riverlands?" Lord Connington demanded of Lord Darry. "Did you beseech House Mallister?"

"Aye. The new Lord Mallister is a boy of twelve," Tristan said foully. "Too busy pissing his pants in fear of ice dragons to join behind the rightful one. We'll have no support from him."

"Pity." But not unexpected . "That means both Mallister and Blackwood refuse to support us."

"None of the riverlords are rushing to join with the usurper either," Will Cole, another serjeant, noted. "There is little will left to fight left in the riverlands."

Lord Connington nodded. The riverlords were more occupied trying to feed their people, and exhausted by earlier wars. Still so long as

they weren't joining their enemies, he would take that as a victory. The Golden Company still holds Harrenhal and Darry, he thought, with nominal support from Piper, Ryger, Vance and Mooton . With the Twins razed, and the remnant of Frey strength gone north, the Lannisters most certainly had no remaining support from the riverlords. House Tully had been well-liked, and their former bannermen would not bestir themselves to aid Lannisters.

Riverrun itself was said to be poorly held, with a token force of the Golden Company led by Old John Mudd moving to besiege it. Their advance parties had split the Golden Company of a good portion of their strength, but they had proved very effective. Old John Mudd had went towards Oldstones, Jon Lothston held Harrenhal, Lord Laswell Peake was besieging Bitterbridge in the Reach, while the force with Ser Franklyn Flowers went further west. While the bulk of their numbers successfully held Mace Tyrell's army in position, their vanguards had made good progress through the riverlands and the west.

The discussion continued, and Jon pressed the men on everything they had seen. They were gaining ground. They held Storm's End, and the stormlords were scattered. The Golden Company had support from both Rosby and Stokeworth in the crownlands, and Lord Stokeworth was already preparing the way for their siege. Gorys Edoryen was at Evenfall Hall, focused on drawing House Tarth to their side.

Stannis Baratheon had not returned any of their ravens, but so long as the Broken King was harrying the shipping of King's Landing then he still served their cause. Jon planned to isolate King's Landing from any that might come to the city's aid, by land or sea. Jon meant to enclose the city and tighten the hangman's noose, once the Tyrells were scattered.

Force the enemy to lose ground and influence, cut them off from allies, wear them down from multiple fronts, Jon told himself, it is the only way to defeat larger numbers. Fight with patience and discipline

two traits that he had trained himself in for decades, but his enemies were apparently lacking.

"Find me the king," Lord Connington ordered to a page. "He must be updated."

"He was entertaining Princess Arianne at the pavilion, my lord," a young knight said, bowing.

Of course he is . It was a bitter thought. The princess of Dorne should have stayed at Storm's End; women have no place at a battle

Aggravatingly, she had insisted on coming with the host. Lord Connington nodded brusquely, and the men returned to their duties. He twisted around and kicked his mare into a trot, making for the great Targaryen banner in the centre of the camp, overlooking the Golden Company's host.

With every step, he was adding up and weighing the numbers in his head.

Twenty-five thousand against us, Jon thought. The Golden Company had started the campaign with less than ten thousand mercenaries, while the usurpers holding the throne had legions. Still, the numbers were shifting. Slowly, more and more of the realm rallies for us.

He turned to stare out over his men, over the sea of tents and canopies and banners. The red-on-black dragon of Targaryen flew the highest, but it was surrounded by the pure gold banners of the Golden Company, and alongside flew the griffins of Connington, the ploughman of Darry, the three keeps of Peake, the purple maiden of Piper, the bat of Lothston, and black sheep of Stokeworth. Many of the exiled knights and lords had their own banners, banners of lands and fiefs lost for decades, which were finally flying again.

The most recent banners that were only just being raised included the sun and spear of Martell, the gates of Yronwood, the hawk of Fowler, the vulture of Blackmont, the leopards of Vaith and the sword and star of Dayne.

Jon saw a dark-skinned woman waiting for him at the king's pavilion, but it was not the princess. Obara Sand; Princess Arianne's bastard cousin. Rather than the elegant, fair features and silky hair of Arianne, Obara was a squat woman, her hands thick with callus. She had a squashed nose and hair braided like a heavy chain, with a spear slung over her back. She wore boiled leather rather than silk. "My lord," Obara greeted stiffly.

Jon's eyes narrowed. He glowered down on her from atop his palfrey. "Where is His Grace?"

"A raven has arrived for your Halfmaester, and the news seems to have excited His Grace," Obara said with a nod of her head towards the maester's grey tents. "There is much talk of battle, but words are wind, and steel is steel." She met his eyes coolly. "When are we set to march out, my lord?"

His attention shifted to her hand; her fingers were stretching and curving, ever so slightly. Ghost reflexes, already set to clasp around the haft of a spear. He returned to her gaze, and she met his. This one is too eager to fight by half. "That is a decision for the king tomake," Jon replied stiffly, already turning his horse away.

It still bothered him that, of the force Doran Martell had committed, Obara Sand had been assigned its commander. Lords Yronwood or Fowler would be far more respected, but instead it was the bastard woman that Jon had to deal with.

"They are amassing against us and we do nothing," the Sand Snake accused after his back.

Mind your place . The horrible woman would likely want to lead from the front lines too. Lord Connington was riding away, but he turned to her with a rearward half-glance. "I will not see an advantage ruined by rash action." His eyes narrowed into a warning glare. "We will move when the time has come."

"Dorne is waiting for war, my lord," Obara called after him, keeping her voice low.

Let Dorne wait .

Another Dornish bastard was waiting for him on the way to the raven's tents, and Lord Connington's mood fell further. This bastard was wearing a white cloak. "His Grace is waiting," Ser Daemon Sand said respectfully, bowing low. He was lithe and tall figure, with a handsome face, sandy hair and sharp eyes. "He sent me for you. There is urgent news that the king is wishes to share."

Jon didn't reply. He had to suppress his glower, as he looked down upon the Dornish knight. He kicked his horse into a trot through the camps, and Ser Daemon walked after him.

Ser Daemon Sand, the Bastard of Godsgrace - said to be one of Dorne's deadliest swords, the Red Viper's former squire and the princess' sworn sword, he reminded himself. And yet the very sight of the man still caused Jon's mood to sour further. Another of Prince Doran's demands, to give this bastard a white cloak . Jon would have refused the Ser Daemon for his status and repute alone, and yet King Aegon had happily given the man a place in his fledgling Kingsguard.

A Kingsguard consisting of Ser Rolly Duckfield and Ser Daemon Sand, he thought foully. Both knights were frustratingly lowborn - but that was an issue King Aegon could not be swayed on. At least Duckfield was a solid man of the Golden Company, but neither of them had the standing to serve as Kingsguard.

It seemed like half the prince's escort was Dornish nowadays - it was the princess' doing, Jon knew. We bent over backwards to accommodate Dorne and they still want more .

And yet Dorne was far too valuable an ally to risk. The first of the Dornish banners had marched ahead through the Prince's Pass under Obara Sand to join them. Five thousand Dornishmen had

already joined them, with more to come as the Dornish lords continued raising their banners.

But the war is moving fast, and will they be able to come quick enough?

"Any news from King's Landing, my lord?" Ser Daemon asked as he strode to keep pace besides Jon's palfrey. Obara Sand was trailing behind them. As he rode through the clamour of the war camp, the men in his path shifted and lowered their heads.

"Yes," Jon said haughtily, not deigning to look down on the knight. "To be discussed with the king."

Five and twenty thousand against us. Give or take three thousand, perhaps.

After splitting their forces and suffering casualties in battle, only four thousand six hundred men of the original Golden Company remained with their main host. Their numbers had been bolstered by more sellswords, and allies recruited from the stormlands, riverlands, and crownlands. Now, with Dorne committing their strength behind them, the force on the roseroad stood at fourteen thousand strong.

Fourteen thousand against twenty-five. Hardly the best odds, admittedly, but they weren't unworkable either. The men around King Aegon were all seasoned and well-motivated soldiers - soldiers that had joined them for a reason. The defence around King's Landing was far less organised. The rose lord had drawn upon many of the semi-skilled smallfolk from the city, and Lord Tyrell's bannermen must be feeling the strain.

Lord Tyrell cannot be feeling as confident as the numbers might suggest, Lord Connington thought, considering he's trying to puff up his own numbers to intimidate us . To keep wide ranks, dummy tents and false fires at night - all tactics to make an army seem larger than it truly was. It could be effective, it could well work against

inexperienced enemies. But the rose lord underestimates the Golden Company.

He heard the squawking of ravens in cages, and there was already a haggle of commanders and serjeants gathering inside the tent. There was arguing from within, but Jon could catch only scattered mutters. Something has happened.

Jon moved to dismount the horse, struggling slightly with the reins. Ser Daemon Sand extended his hand to help him down, but Lord Connington ignored it. His gloved hand remained clenched, his face hard as he dropped from the stirrups. Ser Daemon faltered, confused, at the slight, but he stepped back while one of Aegon's Dornish squires escorted Jon's palfrey to the nearby commander's stables. Obara and Daemon Sand walked inside, following Jon's flanks.

He nodded at Black Balaq standing by the entrance, while Lysono Marr lingered around the corner. Pykewood Peake, Brendel Byrne, Denys Strong, Lorimas Mudd and Humfrey Stone were all present - along with a few of their new allies; Lord Clement Piper, Ser Ronald Vance, Lord Casper Wylde, and Tristan Ryger. The riverlords stood uneasily at the tent's rear, grouped together and slightly apart from the mercenaries.

The raven's tents reeked of bird shit, and Haldon Halfmaester scurried in the background to see to the letters. Princess Arianne was not visible, for which Jon was pleasantly surprised. He didn't like the way she tried to cling on around the king.

He almost didn't see the Company's commander, but Harry Strickland was sitting atop of a low crate, shouting loudly as he rested his aching red feet upwards. "Too dangerous, I say!" The captain-general called to the men in the tent, not noticing Jon yet. "We must still gather more allies to our cause before risking the city!" the Golden Company's captain-general proclaimed. "Let more flock to the Targaryen banner, let the rose lord come to us."

"We must strike while the fires are hot," protested Ser Lymond Pease. " We have a proven and battle-tested force, our soldiers eager fo-"

"My Lord Hand," a loud and clear voice called, and all others stopped. Jon saw silver gold hair glinting even in the faint light of the tent, and a bright smile looking at him. King Aegon sat at the far end of the tent, cross-legged. "You made it. It seems that an impromptu war council has formed. Do you have update from the roads north?"

The king had let his shining hair grow out into a mane, reaching to his shoulders; sometimes he kept his hair tied back in a ponytail, but today it hung behind his ears. He wore a long and loose gold-trimmed satin shirt of Lysene cut, with a shawl bearing his house's colours wrapped around his shoulders.

By the gods… he looks like Rhaegar . The likeness still made Jon's stomach lurch every time.

"Your Grace." Jon bowed in his saddle, digging his spurs into urge the palfrey forward through the large tent. "Lord Tristan and his party have returned. They report no more support from the riverlords, and between two and twenty or thirty thousand men across the Blackwater. I favour five and twenty."

There were no surprised glances, just nods. "Five and twenty…" Ser Denys Strong muttered. "Even after his losses, Mace Tyrell commands a sizeable host."

"Mace Tyrell and Ser Kevan both," Jon said with a nod.

"We will not be able to defeat those numbers," Lord Clement Piper warned, a short, fat, bowlegged man with bushy and wild red hair. House Piper was one of the few that had joined them against the Lannisters, to resume the riverland's war, but Jon still had his doubt over the man's commitment to Aegon. "There could well be more flocking to them too."

"But Mace Tyrell will be desperate," Harry Strickland insisted. "And his bannermen must be growing unruly. After what happened to Oldtown, they need to return to their own lands."

"He will not leave his son and daughter behind." Lord Connington shook his head. "He cannot move until the crown is secured, he is trapped in King's Landing no matter the pressure."

Behind him Lord Tristan Darry stepped into the tent. "What happened to Oldtown, my lord?" Tristan looked confused, turning for clarification. "I have been travelling, I received no word." He paused. "The ironborn assault?"

The mood shifted slightly, Jon saw eyes become a bit more sombre, and hesitant. "A hurricane, by the tell of it." Pykewood Peake explained gravely. "A great storm from the Redwyne Straits - they saw the clouds from Bitterbridge."

"Yes, a hurricane or a great wave. I heard once of a tremor that sunk an entire island of the Basilisk Isles," Lysono Marr, the spymaster, reported in his soft, silky voice. "The reports I read now tell tales of similar destruction. The first word arrived not four days ago, and the second two days later. Refugees are swarming towards Highgarden itself, but I have lost touch with many of my usual contacts."

"The Hightower," Lorimas Mudd said lowly, looking to the spymaster for confirmation. "That is the only thing the reports seem to agree on. They say that the Hightower has collapsed."

By the Gods… ! " Lord Tristan gaped, and the others nodded with a quiet grimace. Every man in the realm knew of the Hightower, the tallest structure in the Seven Kingdoms. Jon had never even been to Oldtown before, never seen the Hightower with his own eyes, and now it seemed he never would.

"The Gods indeed," Lysono agreed. "We are all ants before them, are we not? In any case, Allyria Dayne of Starfall writes of refugees fleeing the city in droves, and claims that every ship between

Brightwater Port and the Torentine has been wrecked in the winds. The city flooded, and hundreds of thousands are said to be dead in the streets."

"What of the ironborn?" Lord Tristan asked in horror.

"Their fleet was scattered in the same storm, it seems, though reports are conflicting. The ironborn assault either happened during the storm, or shortly before it. Insanity, by all accounts." The spymaster smiled apologetically, tapping his painted fingernails against the table. "I'm afraid there are few more details than that which I can make sense of. In the storm's wake, all letters and responses I've seen have been patchy and panicked. It should be noted, however, that - as far as I can tell - there have been no ravens from House Hightower or from the Citadel, at all."

"The Citadel has the largest rookery in the world," that was Haldon Halfmaester, frowning deeply as he listened from the far corner.

"Not anymore it doesn't." Ser Brendel Byrne, a broad and scarred man, stomped his foot and guffawed. "Aye, divine justice, I call it. The Tyrells support an illegitimate ruler, and the Father Himself opened the heavens to smite them."

"That is a cruel jab, ser," King Aegon said harshly, speaking up for the first time. The whole tent went quiet. "Many innocent smallfolk died and suffered, I will not have that in my name."

Brendel Byrne stammered, but Aegon only shook his head. "Regardless of their lord's loyalties, the people of Oldtown did not deserve a hurricane. Compassion is a virtue of the Father, ser, not cruelty."

The tent stiffened. Lord Connington stepped forward. "Others are calling it the Drowned God's will, or sea gods, or blaming it upon demons summoned by the Mad Maid's witchcraft. My favourite was one blaming the winds and waves on the Bastard King's dragon, flapping its wings," Lord Connington said harshly. "But I put no trust

in storms, nor the hedge tales of smallfolk. Nevertheless, the fact remains that it was a disaster and that Lord Tyrell must return to his lands. Focus on what matters."

Aegon nodded, his voice solemn. "I do not envy Lord Tyrell's position. And I have no wish to obstruct the man from returning to help his people. I will happily allow his forces to pass." He paused. "As soon as he bends the knee to me, he will have my full support in helping the people of Oldtown."

Lord Connington allowed himself a small smile. "That is an offer we should make over raven, Your Grace." And we will offer it to his bannermen too . His eyes glanced towards Lysono, and the Lysenionly smiled softly.

"All the more reason for us to stay put," Harry Strickland declared. "Mace Tyrell needs to get through us, and we need to get through him. He is bleeding power right now, so we might as well let him bleed."

"You have a point," Aegon admitted, rubbing his chin.

Obara Sand shook her head, stepping from the eaves into the tent's centre. Her very presence caused many of the knights and serjeants to bristle. "I cannot claim to be upset to hear of Oldtown's destruction. It was a damnable city. But we do not know how much of Highgarden's strength may remain. They could well rally and march on us from the west," Obara Sand said, her sharp eyes fixed on Aegon. "We stay here, and we may end up trapped by larger forces from both sides, Your Grace. Now is the time to push the spear."

"Then we should turn west, for Highgarden itself!" Pykewood Peake insisted. "A cripple holds Highgarden; the forces of the Reach lie scattered. We take Mace Tyrell's seat, and the strongest force left loyal to the throne is destroyed. The crown will have zero out of seven kingdoms left."

"It is not Highgarden that concerns me," Lord Connington warned. "What of the knights of the Vale that are coming to the Lannister's defence?"

The room grimaced. They had all seen the spymaster's reports, they had read the ravens; the Lords Declarant of the Vale had rallied for defence of the crown. "There may well be fifty thousand soldiers from the Vale of Arryn coming to support the capital," Black Balaq agreed, in his deep and low voice. The Summer Islander was a man of few words, but they were always heeded. "When the Valemen arrive, we will be crushed by the might of Tyrell, Lannister and Arryn."

"Then we attack before they arrive," Obara insisted.

"How do we know they're not already mustered?" Pykewood Peake demanded. Lord Peake and his brothers would far rather attack Highgarden than King's Landing, Jon noted; the Peakes had been pushing for revenge against Tyrell since the first day. "If they've already arrived to reinforce the city…"

"They have not," Aegon said, sounding certain. "I have been assured that their armies have only just passed through the Bloody Gate, and are moving slowly south."

Lord Connington gave the king a glance, but he didn't press him. Not here. "The Vale…" Harry Strickland rubbed his whiskers. "They have avoided the war for this long. Can we buy them off, or offer a different alliance? I hear this Lord Arryn is a frail and sickly boy."

Again, eyes glanced to Lysono Marr for confirmation. Jon hated the need, but their spymaster was a capable man. "Robert Arryn is indeed," Lysono nodded. "But the Lords Declarant stand strong, despite their squabbles. It is Yohn Royce, Anya Waynwood, Horton Redfort, Harlan Hunter and Benedar Belmore leading their armies."

Lord Connington recognised those names. He didn't know Harlan Hunter, and Benedar Belmore was a fat and weak man who didn't

belong in the group, but the others were not names to be taken lightly."What of the coincounter, Petyr… whatever his name was?" Harry Strickland demanded.

"The Lord of Harrenhal," Lysono said smoothly, to the sound of a few guffaws. Jon Lothston and the Company had taken Harrenhal with negligible resistance, many weeks past. "Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Eyrie. As I understand it, Lord Baelish has managed to cling onto his title too. He still stands as regent through Robert Arryn, but only under the Lords Declarant now. The Valemen expect Robert Arryn to die young, and there's a succession crisis already brewing in preparation for that day." A crease lined the spymaster's brow. "Ever since the Vale's heir-apparent was murdered, the politics of the Eyrie have become somewhat… messy."

The Vale's heir. I killed the last heir to the Vale myself, Jon thought. Ser Denys Arryn, Lord Arryn's nephew and the Darling of the Vale, had fallen to Jon's blade at the Battle of the Bells. There would be no love lost between him and the noble houses of the Eyrie.

"I was informed the same; I was told that the Vale may well be the kingmaker in this war," Aegon said quietly. "The Vale has bad memories of the Targaryen regime, and we have little sway over these Lords Declarant. Is that the sum of it?"

"It is indeed, Your Grace." The spymaster nodded. Informed . Somebody else had the king's ear, and Jon had a sickening suspicious who.

"We cannot allow fifty thousand soldiers to take the field against us."

"There will likely less than fifty thousand though," Humfrey Stone commented. "The Vale will not commit itself entirely. Twenty thousand is a better bet."

However many they muster will crush us," Lord Tristan warned. "The Vale's armies are now second to none - they are the greatest

power left in the realm. Every other realm was wounded in the war, but the Vale is untouched."

"Dorne is untouched too," Ser Daemon said surely. "Our spearmen will beat their knights. And Dorne has forty thousand spears to field."

"And how long will they take to muster?" Tristan argued. "And who will arrive first?"

"Dorne is ready to fight now," Obara insisted. "Five thousand spearmen stand with you now. Push on the assault."

"We stand between Mace and his own lands," Lorimas Mudd protested. "We have the prime position, why should we abandon that?"

"We need ships to take the city. We need a fleet-"

"What of the High Septon?" insisted Harry. "Give him time, convince the Faith to declare for the rightful king. Increase our offer to him - we will coat the Great Sept in gold if he brings the Faith Militant over to us."

"The High Septon has so far refused to acknowledge us." Jon cast a disdainful eye towards Obara, his voice foul. "And I am not so certain that will change. The attempts at bribery have been very poorly received."

There was no easy answer. Fourteen thousand men, pushing to take a city against far greater numbers. The campaign had been going well, but their enemies weren't folding either. They were caught in a war of attrition, both sides trying to break the other. How long will it be before they break?

Jon's eyes flickered downwards to his gloved hand. He tried to twitch his fingers, but couldn't. How long do I have?

King Aegon sat quietly for the most part, musing as he listened to the commanders' debate. His legs were crossed, his fingers fiddling as he leafed a small slip of parchment. He looked contemplative, but sure and confident. There were times when it was hard to even recognise him as the boy - Young Griff - that Jon used to know. The boy he raised. War has a way of changing people, he thought.

"There is another concern, my lords," Aegon said finally. He kept his voice low and the room quieted, all heads lowering respectfully. "The news that I summoned you here to share. I have received word from Casterly Rock."

He held up the slip of parchment. Urgent news, Daemon Sand had said. Jon caught the glances around the tent, eyes flickering towards him. "Casterly Rock?" Lord Connington said slowly. "The Imp?"

Aegon nodded, biting his lip, and Jon saw that the young king was trying to stop himself from grinning. "Aye. The letter arrived on the morn, but it had to be relayed through Bitterbridge and Storm's End." The smile finally broke out over his face, unable to hold it back. "Casterly Rock has fallen, my lords."

There was a moment of stunned silence. Harry gaped, while Jon's face just turned rigid. How? How's that even…?

Jon glanced at the parchment, and he recognized the seal instantly. Tyrion Lannister had taken to using the Lannister's coat of arms with the colours inverted - a red lion on gold - as his personal sigil. A bloody demon lion on a field of gold, Jon thought, but he also notedthe similarities to the red lion of House Reyne. Another act of spite against his father.

Confused eyes glanced to the spymaster, and Lysono Marr nodded. "I am still waiting on further confirmation," Lysono admitted. "But yes, it does appear to be true. Lord Lannister is successful, and the Rock has fallen."

Jon's stiff hands curled as far as they were able, trying to clench into fists. I sent the blasted Imp west expecting him to die .

The words caused excited murmurs around the crowd. "You mean the Imp succeeded? " Ser Harys gasped. Jon could practically see him salivating with the thought of the gold of the Rock. "With three thousand men?"

"Impossible," Lymond Pease shook his head. "The Rock cannot be conquered. It has never once been taken, not since Lann the Clever in the Age of Heroes. How? How could he take it?"

"It was won with cunning rather than might, my lords," Aegon explained, grinning. "Lord Tyrion writes of a sly scheme."

"With trickery." Jon's voice was foul.

"The last I heard," Lord Tristan said slowly, looking around the room for confirmation. "The Imp and Ser Flowers had won victories at Ashemark and the Crags. They were heading towards Lannisport to raid the city, were they not?"

Minor victories, Jon thought with a scoff. The Imp hadn't the forces to take many castles, but he had focused on the towns and villages, and blockading the roads and bridges. Using harrying tactics rather than conquering . He had taken his cavalry through the minor roads and trails around headwaters of the Tumblestone, avoiding the Golden Tooth altogether. He then pushed south into the westerlands, and starting by easily conquering the poorly-held castle of the Crags.

As he pushed his way into the west, the Imp had turned raider. Burning bridges, robbing stables, and sacking grain houses - following in the Young Wolf's footsteps, even. Whenever the western lords mustered a larger force to meet him, the Imp would split off a portion of his own and leave the men behind to distract and delay their enemy. Not trying to win, all just to allow the Imp's main force to push forward. The 'battles' had been relatively bloodless, but the troop divisions and garrisons had still hacked away at the Imp's

numbers. The Imp had lost at least a thousand men pushing through Ashemark alone, but the majority of those men had been lost to desertion or surrender rather than as casualties. How many men did the Imp even have left to him?

Lord Connington had been openly scorning Tyrion's efforts for weeks, although secretly he had been pleased. Those men had all been sacrificial, in any case. He had hoped that the Imp would be killed in a foolhardy but damaging raid against Lannisport, if not elsewhere on the campaign trail. But Casterly Rock?!

King Aegon nodded. "Aye, but Lord Tyrion went for the Rock itself. The castle had a strong garrison led by one Ser Benedict Broom, ready to oppose him, while Lannisport itself was mustering a far greater host than any he could beat. But Lord Tyrion still set up camp outside the castle. He offered them a deal."

"A deal," Ser Denys Strong said incredulously. "A deal. He bought the Rock off them?"

"Quite the opposite," Aegon said, grinning, as he passed the letter to Lord Connington. It was filled with curled writing so small Jon had to squint to make the words. "Instead, Lord Tyrion approached under a truce and approached the castellan at Casterly Rock, a cousin of his named Damion Lannister. Lord Tyrion explained how he had been taken been forced to take shelter with the Golden Company, and he had no choice but to support them. He begged for mercy, and explained that he had no loyalty to this 'fake king'." The others looked shocked, but Aegon just laughed. He glanced around their faces, and continued. "Lord Tyrion said that he wanted to leave, but he had been indebted to their service. 'However', the Imp said," Aegon's voice shifted slightly in impersonation, "'there need not be a battle. The sellswords care only for gold - they will far rather accept the gold price rather than the iron, and for enough coin I could persuade their commanders to simply walk away from this war'."

"What?" Ser Brendel Byrne said, outraged. "He thinks so little of our banners?"

"'Persuade their commanders'?" Ser Harys guffawed. "He is the commander."

"It seems the castellan was more inclined to think of Tyrion as a glorified hostage that we were exploiting." Aegon was still chuckling. Jon only glowered. In the Free Cities, large sellswords companies accepted bribes all the time, but the Golden Company had never indulged in such practices. Our word is as good as gold . "And this castellan seemed inclined to accept the deal. After all, the westerlands was in no state to fight another war, and the whole succession of House Lannister is in question regardless. Tyrion tells me in this letter that his cousin Damion had his own ambitions for the Rock.

"In return for the Imp abandoning his claim to lordship and abandoning his rebellion, Damion Lannister was willing to open the vaults. Lord Tyrion was invited through the gates to negotiate - with a small escort under heavy guard - and he was offered two thousand golden dragons, to pay off the Company's commanders if they relented."

There were a few mutters of 'insulting'. Aegon was amused, and seemed to be enjoying drawing out the tale. Jon's eyes glanced over the letter, laid flat on the table in front of his prince. Judging from the small and dense prose, the Imp had written it all out in excruciating and smug detail.

"And so Tyrion left to bring this offer to these 'commanders' of the Golden Company, and then returned the next day to bring a counter-offer. Ten thousand golden dragons. Ser Damion hemmed and hawed, but the Rock's vaults were replete with gold, and so the castellan agreed to pay. The next morn, though, Lord Tyrion came back with a new term to their deal; his serjeants also wanted to ships for transport as well. And so back and forth Tyrion came and went in this increasingly fruitless negotiation, until I imagine this Ser Damion started to feel quite annoyed. But Ser Damion went along with it, because Lord Tyrion was so very desperate, and it also gave the Lannisport army more time to muster.

"However." Aegon's grin widened a bit further, and he took a breath. "All the while that the castellan and his garrison were counting gold, they didn't count the men so well. Each time Tyrion came through the Rock's gates he brought an escort of a hundred men who were forced to wait in the courtyard. And yet each time he returned to his camp, he only had ninety-five ." There was a brief stunned silence. Jon read the letter himself, clenched his jaw, and passed the parchment on to Harry Strickland.

The captain-general blinked. "He left them behind? In the castle? How, surely someone would have noticed?"

Aegon burst into laughter. "His men hid in the drains, my lord. Lord Tyrion ordered his soldiers to hide down the latrines with all the filth, and then wait. Tyrion tells me that he was once in charge of managing the Rock's drains, and more than familiar with the sewage systems and how often they were checked." Aegon's smile widened. "Within a week, he writes that there was enough of a force to climb out under the cover of dark and ambush the Rock's outer patrols."

"And so his men raised the gates from the inside!" Harry guffawed, looking at the parchment himself. "Before the storming the castle with his full force before anyone had a chance to resist. In the middle of the night! What gall!"

There was a stunned silence in the tent. "And that worked?" Lord Tristan asked.

"Even the largest castle is left helpless against enemies from within," Aegon explained, grinning. The captain-general started to laugh first. "Nobody noticed five men in a hundred, not when it was done so slowly, and nobody thought to check the great drains of the Rock, I imagine."

Damn the dwarf . "A castle won by treachery," Jon said foully. "I'm not surprised a creature like the Imp knew of all the nooks and crannies in which to hide."

"A battle won by cunning," Aegon insisted. "Lord Tyrion proves himself Lann the Clever's heir. The founder of his house himself would be proud."

"If Lord Tyrion truly holds the Rock…" Harry Strickland muttered in awe. "There's not a force in Westeros that could throw him out of it now. Even dragons would struggle to take that castle."

"And the gold!" Ser Denys Strong exclaimed, shaking his head. "The vaults are legendary, how much gold does he have?"

"Lord Tyrion doesn't say. But I have no doubt he will be counting."

"The Imp overreaches himself," Jon warned. "He sits in a large castle, without the men to hold it properly. His campaign in the westerlands was a wasteful one. He must have less than a thousand men left under him?"

"Near on a thousand exact," Aegon admitted. "It was not won without cost. But the reward is great."

I sent the dwarf west with three thousand. "Without the men to secure the surrounding area," Jon growled, "taking the Rock is pointless . You can expect that the Lannisport branch of House Lannister will have already set up siege lines. The Feastfires, the Sarsfields, the Lantells, the Kayces, the Lannys, the Lannetts, a score of other houses of the westerlands. They will all rally against the Imp, he's trapped himself in the Rock. A waste of a victory."

Jon could feel the attention of those in the tent shift to him. "My lord!" Aegon seemed confused. "He holds the most prominent castle in the west, perhaps the greatest fortress in the realm. Let them siege."

Harry Strickland leaned forward. "You should read the letter for yourself, Lord Connington," the captain-general explained mirthfully. "Lord Tyrion is sitting atop a full larder, and the Rock has its own wells. He can hold that castle for years. We sent him west to harry and distract our enemy, and that's exactly what he is doing."

Jon's eyes tightened. I am quite able to read. "And yet now we have truly lost three thousand cavalry, for the remainder of the war," Lord Connington said harshly. Mixed muttering answered him in the tent.

Jon knew that that the complaint was moot; he had been the one to order those men west. All to get the Imp away from my king. But he saw no reason to explain himself to the captain-general. Strickland was merely one step above from a common coward; a moneychanger, a dealmaker, not a warrior.

If only the Blackheart were still here. His mentor, Myles Toyne, the former captain-general, had been a different sort of man from the glorified banker standing before him. Strickland doesn't have the Blackheart's steel.

"When the news reaches King's Landing, Kevan Lannister will suffer," Ser Denys Strong said, leaning in from the tent's eaves. He was a veteran of two decades with the Company, with a lord's fortune of gold on his arms, but he sounded awed. "The 'Warden of the West' already has so little support from the western lords. And I imagine the Queen Whore of a regent will be tearing her own hair out."

Kevan Lannister… by all reports, Tywin's brother is having difficulty rallying his banners. Even the Lannister petty lords choose to ride out the winter.

It had been a blessing for the Golden Company's invasion. With Jaime Lannister's disappearance and the destruction of the Twins, the greater part of Lannister martial strength in the field had melted away, and returned to their hearths and homes in the westerlands. Such men would be difficult to rally again, especially as the Imp hindered any attempts to head east.

"So Lord Tyrion plans to sit tight in the Rock until the war's end, then?" Harry asked, and Aegon nodded. "It makes sense - the Imp's contribution to the campaign is effectively over. But what a contribution it was."

"And afterwards he will expect us to march west to rescue him," Jon said, but he knew he was being unreasonable. If any of his men had won such a victory, Jon would have sung their praises. But it's not one of my men. It's the Imp.

"No doubt there will be volunteers to do so, men who will be eager to claim the gold that Lord Tyrion prepares for us," Aegon declared, still smiling. "Casterly Rock will last at least a year in siege. If the besiegers do not bend the knee when King's Landing falls, then I will happily move to reinforce my Warden of West."

Lord Connington couldn't object, but his face hardened. I should have left the dwarf to drown. I pulled him out of the river, and the gods continue to curse me for it .

Aegon believed that Imp was helping him - and it was true, he was. But the Imp was helping himself more. Tyrion Lannister had squirmed his way into a place of command in the Golden Company, squirmed his way into the king's trust.

The Rock was more of a small mountain than a castle, Jon knew. Hundreds of nobles lived in the Rock - a structure that stretched for nearly two leagues, worming all through the mountainous crag overlooking Lannisport. Casterly Rock was one of the realm's greatest castles; what had once begun as a gold mine in the ages of the First Men had been quarried for thousands of years, growing and sprawling into something wholly different. Tunnels and mineshafts had slowly morphed into hallways and corridors, and eventually, a mountain-carved citadel-city, an impenetrable fortress, the home of the Lannisters and their closest branch families. If the Imp took it all, then he's taken the beating heart of the westerlands for himself.

Meanwhile, Lord Jon Connington's greatest contribution so far was a costly victory taking Storm's End from Stannis' skeletal garrison, and a few minor skirmishes through the stormlands. When history was being written, they would write instead of Tyrion Lannister and his daring campaign through the westerlands to take his rightful seat. The thought galled him.

Harry Strickland wanted to call for a toast, to a raise a glass for the little lord Lannister. Others were cheering the Imp's name. All the while Lord Connington stood stiff, and silent.

"Tyrion Lannister proves himself every bit the commander his father was!" Ser Denys Strong proclaimed.

Yes, the Imp is Tywin Lannister's son, Jon agreed. For that alone, Aegon will rue him.

"Princess Arianne was with me when news arrived, she has gone to inform Sunspear," Aegon said to the room, his voice clear and silencing the ruckus. "The lords of the west have so far refused to acknowledge Lord Tyrion's right, but this could change matters. Lord Tyrion gives us a victory that will embolden many - I hope that we can draw more support from the stormlands, riverlands and westerlands.

"And there is more," Aegon continued happily, "Tyrion took numerous hostages; several Lannister cousins of his, many prominent nobles of the west, many Lannister branch families. And, most notably, Lord Tyrion now holds Lord Edmure Tully, and Jeyne Westerling."

"Jeyne Westerling?" Lord Darry frowned. "The woman that the Young Wolf married?"

Aegon nodded, but it was Edmure Tully's name that seemed to cause the most stirs. "Lord Tully?" Tristan Ryger demanded, the first thing he had said since Lord Connington arrived. Tristan Ryger had been a good friend to Edmure, Jon recalled. The riverlords looked shocked at the mention of their lord paramount's name. "Edmure truly survives?"

"He does indeed," Aegon said, nodding. "Lord Tyrion writes that Edmure was freed from his chains, and is in good health. I wish to spread that word as soon as possible."

Tristan Ryger blinked, but nodded. Lord Clement Piper seemed shocked. Lysono Marr grinned a sly smile. "I would reassume your efforts in the riverlands, Lord Hand," the spymaster purred. "I feel like we may be able to draw more support yet."

"If Lord Tully still lives…" Lord Clement Piper hesitated. "I would see him as soon as possible, Your Grace."

"Of course, I mean to ensure that House Tully retakes its rightful seat, my lord," Aegon said earnestly. "We will move Edmure as soon as we can ensure his safety from Casterly Rock."

And as soon as Lord Tully agrees to bend the knee to Aegon, Jon knew. Another achievement that the dwarf would take credit for.

"We hold Storm's End, Harrenhal, and Casterly Rock, Your Grace," Harry Strickland laughed. He's celebrating like it were his merits that brought us here . "Four out of nine realms are as good as ours. Aye,I feel a shift in the wind."

This should have been my victory, my redemption. The Imp is stealing it from beneath me.

"And what of the Lannister murderess still on the throne?" Obara demanded. She wasn't cheering, at least. "There are still five and twenty thousand men standing between us and the Iron Throne that aren't shifting."

"I will consider it," Aegon said. "Thank you for your wise counsel, my lords, but we must adjourn." There were nods and respectful bows as the men turned for the door. "Lord Connington, a moment?"

Jon stopped. Harry Strickland was still laughing, staggering on swollen feet. Aegon remained sitting, his shoulders stiff as the man thanked him and marched away. Overconfidence is a curse in any army, Jon told himself. It was when the battle seemed to be sure thatyou needed to be most careful. My king still needs me now more than ever .

How many lives could have been saved, if only someone had pushed a young Tywin Lannister away from Aerys' ear?

Jon looked at his liege, and he thought of the young boy he helped raise, and the handsome and gallant prince he had sworn himself to follow. He holds himself so strong now .

Jon could feel the gazes of several of the commanders linger on his back, until they stepped from the tent's threshold. It was only when they filed away that Aegon finally seemed to relax. The young man sagged slightly, moving to cradle his thigh. Jon knew the real reason the boy had been sitting down all through the meeting.

"Does it still hurt?" Jon asked, and his voice grew softer.

"A bit," Aegon admitted. He had to wear saggy, long-length shirts to hide the bundle of bandages around his waist. It was unhealthy for a king to show blood. "But Haldon says it will heal nicely."

I should never have let you get hurt . Still, that was a foolish thought; Aegon had insisted on leading the charge against Storm's End personally - and Jon had even been proud of him for it. Proud, but terrified. Jon had urged his king to stay away from the frontlines, to lead from the rear.

That battle had been the most costly one the Golden Company had fought yet, against the starved garrison left by Stannis Baratheon. They had been victorious, but the great walls of Storm's End hadn't fallen easily.

All it had taken was a single arrow, fired by some common soldier, and all had been nearly lost. The arrow came far too close for comfort. The shaft pierced straight through Aegon's hauberk, andinto his upper leg. A few inches to the side, it could have punctured a major vein.

The rightful king, the conqueror returned - my whole purpose, my redemption - could have died by a single stray arrow. There could be

a thousand more random, unpredictable arrows just like it, and yet the whole kingdom would be ruined if even one found its mark. It was a terrifying, sobering thought.

There was a moment's quiet, Jon's eyes lingering at Aegon's thigh. To be a king was to be vulnerable, but no king could allow others to realise that too .

"You look concerned, my lord," Aegon said finally. "I was wondering if there was something you couldn't say in front of the others?"

Jon pulled his eyes away from the bandaged wound. "It concerns the Imp," Jon said. "You should not encourage the dwarf so."

Aegon blinked. "Has Tyrion Lannister not proven himself? He has been our steadfast ally since before the landing."

"He has," Jon admitted, unwillingly. "But only as it serves himself. He could turn against us just as easily. I would strongly recommend distancing yourself, to restrict his influence."

"I have already promised him Master of Coin, and Warden of the West."

"There are others who could take those roles, Your Grace." Let Harry Strickland take over coin-counting, just keep him out of my army ."Warden of the West might suit the Imp, but neither position will sate him for long. I know his type, he will constantly want more ." Aegon looked unconvinced. "Lord Tyrion Lannister taints our cause, Your Grace. He is a kingslayer and a kinslayer."

"Kingslayer? Hardly - Joffrey Hill was no king." Aegon shook his head. "And, in any case, Lord Tyrion was convicted of his nephew's death in a court of shams. The only murder Lord Tyrion committed - one that he happily admits - is of Tywin Lannister, and that is a crime I am more than willing to pardon." A pause. "Do you deny that Tywin didn't deserve his fate?"

"Tywin Lannister deserved that and more," Jon admitted, but he pressed on, gritting his teeth. "But the Imp's reputation is a blight upon us." The smallfolk say the Imp controls you, that you are his puppet . "Men with that foul a reputation drive others away. The High Septon could have supported us, if not for the Imp. Regardless of his actions or justifications, think of how it looks ."

"I will not let slander and rumour rob me of a good ally," Aegon replied firmly. "Tyrion Lannister has suffered such from birth. He has given me nothing but wise counsel and leal service - as much as you have."

Gods curse it, how much has the Imp already squirmed his way into his head?

I should have let the dwarf drown , he thought, as he had many, many times. If he had any feeling left in his fingers, Jon's hand would have hurt from how hard he clenched his fist. "And what of Myrcella, Your Grace?" He lowered his voice. "They say the Imp planned it, and that the Martells-"

"Tyrion Lannister wasn't even aware of his niece's death." Aegon's voice turned sharp. "And House Martell had naught to do with the murder - Arianne swears by it. Myrcella Hill was murdered by Gerold Dayne, the Darkstar, acting alone. Gerold Dayne is a wanted criminal and nobody has condemned his crimes more than Prince Doran has. I will not tolerate such lies against my loyal allies. Our enemies try to slander me, and I refuse to allow them."

I remember a time when I would have clipped 'Young Griff' across the ear for such a tone . Still, that had been before Aegon become a king, and Lord Connington wouldn't cross his liege. Even despite the anger flushing through him, Jon felt a flush of pride too.

Jon nodded curtly and unhappily, but he let the matter drop.

There was no choice. I gave Ser Franklyn Flowers very specific orders before sending him as the Imp's second in command, Lord

Connington thought. Should the Imp prove untrustworthy, should I send word, Ser Franklyn is prepared - and now is time to put the knight into actions .

Jon knew that when he was gone, the Imp would want to replace him as Hand of the King. The Imp would be a worse fiend than Tywin, Jon had no doubt, and he would not allow that to happen. I may be dying of greyscale, but I swear it - by Rhaegar's memory - the dwarf will not outlive me .

He didn't say a word to Aegon of the thoughts and emotions writhing inside of him. Jon kept his face completely passive, allowing absolutely nothing to show.

"Walk with me, my lord. Let us talk privately," Aegon said after a pause, smiling again. "Let us go see the elephants."

Jon frowned, but he nodded. "As you will, Your Grace."

He stepped out of the tent, and the guards bowed as they left. Ser Daemon trailed behind them from a distance, while Jon kept close to his prince. Aegon couldn't quite hide the slight stagger in his steps from the wound.

The elephants were kept to pens at the very centre of the camp, the pride of the Golden Company. In battle they would be clad in steel plate and golden drapes, carrying canopies from which archers could perch. They had been a nightmare to transport across the sea, but there wasn't a warhorse in the realm that could stand against them. They were walking siege towers, trained and bred for battle.

From the distance, they were great shapes of grey muscle, each one standing taller than many houses. They were kept to large pens made of wooden spikes, half a dozen to each pen. Once, the Golden Company had three hundred of the beasts, but now there were only fifty-six remaining.

The Golden Company had first purchased the beasts from New Ghis, Jon recalled. Born and bred for war, and the Company had taken them to them quickly. Most of them had their tusks shortened into snubs, but for battles there were metal elephant blades to be attached to their tusks. War elephants were a fairly common sight around eastern Essos, but even now many of the Westerosi men could be found gaping at them.

The master of elephantry, a tattooed Volentene man named Talek Vhaeros, bowed deeply as he saw Aegon approach. A few of the elephants were bellowing, while keepers marched the beasts in formation around the camp, one pair at a time. Jon had given orders that the elephants were to be drilled alongside their cavalry, so that both elephant and horse would become accustomed to each other.

"Talek," Aegon called to the man. "I wish to see mine again."

"Of course, Your Majesty." Talek bowed. "Will you need your harness?"

"Not today."

Most of the elephants were kept in pens of five or six, but Aegon headed straight towards a single pen kept separate. Jon saw Ser Rolly Duckfield, standing outside the pen with his white cloak draped into the mud. The large man bowed as his king approached.

The king's young face lit up as he saw a group of elephants marching past - the keepers pushing them into formation as horsed men rode circles around them. "Magnificent, aren't they?" Aegon grinned. "They are such huge, gentle beasts."

"They are not so gentle in battle, Your Grace," Jon warned. Aegon walked forward towards the pen, while Jon lingered back slightly. "You have never seen a man crushed beneath them as they charge."

"Not in battle," Aegon allowed. "But in battle they follow orders, and they charge when they are commanded to. Outside of battle, they

are remarkably intelligent. That old matriarch, she is called Shaela." Aegon pointed to a large grey beast, resting on the grass in the opposite pen. "Talek was telling me that she learned how to stamp her foot come feeding time, to make sure the keepers never forget. No one taught her that; she just learned by herself, and she taught all her children too. Now, every elephant stomps their feet on the hour, so precise the keepers set their rounds by it."

There were times when Jon was still reminded of the boy he helped raise, the insatiably curious and bold boy. Jon didn't reply, but his heart fluttered. "Shaela is the oldest elephant we keep," Aegon continued, as he stepped by Ser Duckfield. "She's sixty-seven years old, with twelve children and grandchildren. Nearly as old as the Golden Company itself. She's too old to ride in battle anymore, but they keep her because she helps train the others. They didn't think she'd survive the ship journey, but Shaela is a stubborn old bitch."

Aegon opened the gate, and stepped inside the pen. Jon saw a massive grey beast shake its head, blowing a trumpet horn from its snout. "Your Grace," Jon warned.

"It's quite alright," Aegon reassured. "Come, Lord Hand."

The keepers all bowed to let Aegon pass. The elephant snorted and shifted to attention, its snout flapping and ears wafting. Up close, the beast was a mammoth standing near fifteen foot tall. So large it could lift my king in its trunk, or crush a man with a single foot . "Hethinks I want to ride," Aegon laughed. "Very intelligent beasts. Telak trains them well."

The elephant dropped to his knees, waiting for Aegon to mount a saddle over its back. Aegon didn't, instead he just walked around to it, to scratch the beast behind the ears. The great ear flaps swatted at him. "He's a bull. The bulls are bolder and fiercer on the front lines, but most of the men still trust the females more. Typically, it's the males used for charging, and the females for bowmen. I counted; we have twenty-four cows, and thirty-two bulls." Aegon looked back to the grey beast, the snout sniffing up around Aegon curiously. The

king grinned, but he didn't flinch away. "And this is the very biggest elephant that we keep. Telak swears by him, he's the best we have to offer. His name is Toyne."

The Golden Company names their elephants after distinguished fallen soldiers, Jon remembered slowly. Jon glanced up to the grey beast, thinking back to Myles Toyne, the Blackheart, the man who once mentored him. Aegon gingery walked alongside it, running his hands along its hide. "Come closer, Lord Hand," Aegon insisted. "It's alright, he's well-used to me."

Jon wasn't comfortable near any animal that might kill him by rolling. The bigger it was, the more distance he wanted between them. Still, Jon stepped forward further into the pen, right next to the wall of grey flesh. Telak and the elephant handlers kept a close eye on them, but they didn't object. Ser Rolly Duckfield was standing by the gate, his arms folded.

"You are very interested in elephants, Your Grace."

"I was told it was good to familiarise myself with them. I mean to ride him into battle, actually, from his back where I can stand high and clear for the whole army to see me," Aegon explained. "I think that Toyne will deliver me to the Iron Throne."

"I…" Jon's instinctive reaction was to object, but then he hesitated. On an elephant's back, you'd be an easy target for bowmen, healmost protested. Still, the elephants were also large enough to heavily armour, and strong enough to carry a carriage where a shield wall could be mounted. Aegon was right; it would be a good rallying point for their men, and a well-trained elephant could carry the king more safely than any horse could. "I think that's a good idea, Your Grace."

The Blackheart would want to see his namesake carry the king.

He nodded. "Toyne is Shaela's son, did you know?" Aegon continued, absently. "He also had three sisters, but only one

remains. The other two were lost during the voyage." He paused. "They are intelligent creatures. Talek tells me of how they still mourn their family sometimes, of how Shaela's raises her trunk to cry for her missing girls…"

Jon didn't reply, and there was a stretch of silence. They were alone now, both of them in the elephant's pen with no ears around. Aegon's voice lowered, turning low and solemn. "What happened to Myrcella was undeserved," Aegon said finally. "It doesn't matter if she was Myrcella Hill, Myrcella Baratheon or Myrcella Lannister - she was a little girl and she did not deserve to die like that."

"She was a threat to your crown, Your Grace." Jon's voice turned low too. "She was a bastard born by incest and usurpers."

"She was." Aegon nodded. "And I doubt Tywin Lannister would have thought twice about her death, if our roles were reversed. But I resolved myself to be better than those who came before me. I want to do right by this realm, my lord."

His voice was so earnest, so honest. "You will, Your Grace."

Aegon grimaced. "It still feels so strange to hear you calling me that. I keep on expecting that it'll become normal, but it never is." He paused. "And it feels even queerer for me to call you 'my lord'. When… When we're alone, is it ok if I call you Griff again?"

"It… it is." Jon nearly choked. He wanted to wrap his arm around the boy, but he wouldn't; not while the plague crawled up his wrist. Jon wasn't an emotional person, but Aegon brought out the best in him. He's the son I never had . "Aegon."

He smiled sadly, with that sad melancholic look in his eyes that reminded Jon so much of his father. "I know that there is little sympathy for Myrcella in my camp," Aegon admitted. "I know that they even cheer her death. But I trust Arianne when she says her family didn't do it, and I trust Tyrion when he writes that he didn't orchestrate it. Tyrion spoke well of Myrcella, and of Tommen, he

always has. They were innocent children. Others might try to pardon the deed, but I will push to see the Darkstar punished for what he's done - it was murder, and that must have a price." Aegon sighed. "And neither will I allow any harm to come to Tommen when I take the Red Keep."

That caused Jon's eyes to widen. "Your… Aegon ." Jon grimaced. "If Tommen lives, there will always be those who would declare for him." He pressed his lips together, trying to control his disapproval. "All it takes is one rebellion. Your realm will not be at peace so long as a potential usurper lives."

"I know."

"This realm has suffered many times because of false claims to the throne," Jon warned. "Do not allow a challenger to live, do not allow a challenger to grow. Tommen may be a boy, but he will grow into a man, a man who could seek revenge. Mercy is a fine ideal, but it is not worth the risk."

"There we must disagree." Aegon's eyes flashed. "Mercy is worth it. I told you; I want to be better than those who came before me. It may not be easy, but I want prove that I deserve this realm." He shook his head. "Cersei Lannister made her choices and deserves the axe, but the children do not."

Jon opened his mouth to object, but then closed it again. This is what I taught him, he thought. I raised him to be just and honourable, I taught him of a king's rights and his duty. I taught him what it means to wear the crown, to sit on the throne. I wanted him to be a good king . It was such a strange feeling to see the boy he raised standingso strong, to look upon a man he helped mould. He learnt the lessons I gave him. It felt prideful and terrifying at the same time.

He is not my son, but I will be a father to him .

Aegon was still running his hands down Toyne's side, scratching behind his ears. The great elephant's snout wrapped playfully

around Aegon. "It is the Mother's Day in seven days' time, is it not?" the king asked finally.

"It is," Jon said finally. He didn't know what else to say. "A day of judgement."

"The Mother's Day. And the queen's trial," the young king mused solemnly. "I cannot remember my mother. They say that my mother was raped and murdered, but I…" He shook his head. "I was too young, I cannot place her."

There was no reply. They both just stood quietly, just the two of them and the elephant. "I do dream of her, though," Aegon added, with a glance to Jon. "Occasionally I have dreams… I remember her hair - she had the most lovely silky silver hair." His hand moved to fiddle with his own curls, absentmindedly.

"You are mistaken," Jon said lowly. "Elia Martell had dark hair." "She did?" Aegon frowned. "Well, I suppose they were just dreams." There was nothing but silence, and the elephant's snorting.

"I cannot remember my mother," Aegon said finally. "But I do mean to avenge her."

"Yes. Your mother and your father both. We have all gathered here to right those wrongs." Jon nodded, his eyes hard. "And I will put the realm to order for you, I swear it on Rhaegar's memory."

"I believe it." Aegon finally turned away from Toyne, holding himself straight. "In seven days' time, Cersei Lannister will be judged, and King's Landing may well schism. Mace Tyrell will want to be there for the trial, but I would rather take advantage of the distraction. Let us attack while their attention is divided.

"In seven days," Aegon said firmly. "I want to attack. For fire and blood, for the Mother's judgement."

There were so many doubts. The numbers, the odds against them… but still, then Jon looked into Aegon's eyes and he felt his resolve stiffen. "Yes," he agreed. "I think I could make that work."

Aegon grinned, violet eyes shining mischievously. "Good. Because there's another reason that I come so often to see the elephants," he shuffled backwards, further into the elephant's pen. The great saddlebags of supplies for Toyne were piled at the very back; the war elephant's armour all draped across the ground. "There's something else I wanted to show you."

It stunk of elephant dung. Jon frowned, stepping after him. Inside the pen, there was a corner shielded from view, the whole stable hidden behind the thick wooden fencing. "Your Grace?"

"I was told to keep it a secret until the right time came," Aegon admitted, as he bent down, "and it could not be stolen if nobody knows it is here. I set my Kingsguard and the men-at-arms to guard this pen not just because it houses the royal mount, but I could think of no better hiding place than trusting Toyne to watch over it."

From underneath a pile of drapes and plate mail, Aegon pulled out a long oak box, with a fine polished finish and a heavy iron lock on the clasp. Aegon grunting slightly as he yanked it out, and then he shuffled to pull out a small key hanging on a chain around his neck. Jon just blinked in confusion.

"It arrived three days ago," Aegon explained, clicking the latch open. "Ser Rolly Duckfield went to pick it up himself - very discreetly to not raise attention. Only a few people know of it, and I want to keep it that way for now. I would have told have you at the time, but, well, you were just so busy. There was never a chance for us to speak privately."

Jon stepped closer, frowning. The heavy oak led creaked open, revealing a box lined in felt and silk. "A gift from our friends in Pentos," Aegon admitted, his voice flushed with pride.

The silk unravelled, and a jewelled black sheath, gilded in enamel of dark crimson, gleamed in the dusky air. Aegon grasped it, and drew forth the finest blade that Jon had ever seen. A hand-and-a-half sword, Jon realised, taking in the long hilt, suited for a grip with either hand, or both at once. A bastard sword.

The metal was black, with the faintest traces of red that seemed to glow in the faint light. Its edge was as smooth as rippling shadows, and whispered in the air. There was a cross-guard, fashioned into the shape of two dragons, and, embedded into the pommel, was a ruby larger and brighter than any Jon had ever seen…

When the blade shifted in the light, he saw the carvings of flying dragons etched across the metal; the pattern beautifully intricate, but nigh-invisible unless he squinted. Easier seen in motion, in glimpses, rather than lying still - the etchings seemed to ripple, like the shadow of fire.

It was all flawless Valyrian steel, of such a quality Jon had never seen. A blade fit for an emperor.

"Is that…?"

"Yes, the weapon of my ancestors. My history." Aegon gingerly raised the weapon upwards, clasping his arms around it tightly. "The sword Blackfyre, to be wielded by Targaryen hands once more. With this I shall unite the realm, as Aegon did before me."

The Stranger

"Craster," a hard man grunted to him as they passed on the stairs. The guard wore a Lannister surcoat, but his armour was rusted and mismatched. "You on duty?"

He didn't reply, only glared. Craster wasn't a talkative man. He was a gruff, scarred and pock-faced sellsword that kept his face hidden

under a rusted iron halfhelm. Even among the hardened sellswords and soldiers holding the Red Keep, they gave Craster a wide berth.

The other guard peered back at Craster as he walked towards the Royal Quarters, but he chose not to object. Craster was known for being unstable, and ever since the queen's siege began the Red Keep had devolved into a more… primal place.

Craster kept on walking up the staircase, heavy iron boots stomping against marble, and then onto Myrish carpets stained with mud. There were three other men standing at the top on the landing, leaning on pikes. The men wore Lannister armour, but their shoulders were slouched and they looked bored. Guards who had been standing on duty for hours on end in a deserted keep.

"Craster," one of them called, cautiously. Yellow Cock Tom, Craster knew. After months being trapped inside the Red Keep, they all knew each other's names. "What the fuck are you here for? It should be Wilkin, not you."

"Wilkin is on the wall," Craster said gruffly. "It's me now."

"Says who?" Yellow Cock Tom demanded. "Wilkin was supposed to bring booze up."

"Take it up with the White Lord," Craster snapped. "He told me to guard the little bugger, so here I am. Standing guard."

The White Lord was the name the men gave for Lord Qyburn, the ruling lord of the Red Keep. The very mention caused the men to shuffle. Qyburn was the one who truly held power in the Red Keep now - the right-hand man of the queen. Qyburn was white-robed, softly-spoken with gentle features, but there was a ruthlessness in him that would put tyrants and warlords to shame. Not even the hardest, most brutal killer would ever object to the White Lord's orders.

All of the guards had heard the screams and sounds that came from Qyburn's Black Cells. Most knew only the broad strokes of what was happening beneath the Red Keep, but Craster had more of an inkling than most. The few remaining guards were given a loose leash, but it was well-known that any man who stepped out of line would join the 'studies' happening in the dungeons.

Lord Qyburn was the only reason that half the men hadn't deserted Queen Cersei yet.

Craster had been one of the ones to help move the bodies into the cells. All of the serving girls, the washerwomen, and the handmaids had slowly been funnelled into the Black Cells. Not a one had come out again.

It was already dusk outside, the light fading behind the barred and shuttered windows. On some nights you could hear the mobs and protests from outside the gates, but tonight it was quiet. Yellow Cock Tom moved to light a torch, illuminating the wide staircase in eerie torchlight.

"It's no fun without Wilkin's booze," Yellow Cock Tom moaned. "Fuck night duty - we have stand here till dawn and not a drop of booze." He cast a foul look at Craster. "Wilkin always brings the booze."

Craster didn't reply. He just folded his arms. Another man, Ben Rabbithole, scratched his bushy beard. "We could always borrow it from the other lot," Ben suggested, pointing up the stairs to the next landing. "I hear they got some ale."

There was another set of guards further up the stairs, and more guards still based at the bottom of the stairwell. Three groups of guards, all groups positioned to watch the others. The queen didn't have many men to spare, but she was still feeling paranoid. "Who's on duty up there?" Yellow Cock Tom asked.

"John the Hammer, I think."

"Fuck no, I'm not getting anything off him," Yellow Cock Tom shook his head, and sighed. "We'll go without booze."

They were all settling in for the night, lounging around with spears close to hand. Craster leant against the wall, a safe distance out of the way.

"It's better than being out on the walls, at least," the other guard, Little Pewty, noted. Little Pewty was a scrawny man with mousy eyes, who clutched his halberd a little too tightly. He had been one of the Mountain's Men. "You got thirty men to patrol every single foot of wall? In the cold and dark? I hear the sparrows are trying to clamber over more and more now, and you can bet the Bitch Queen will have the head of any man who lets one of them slip through."

"At least on the walls we can keep moving," Yellow Cock Tom complained, scratching uncomfortably at his groin. Craster knew that Tom got his name after developing an infection on his member, from raping so many serving girls in the Red Keep. He was a short and fat, bloated man with a red face. "Here we're just standing . I can never fucking stand just standing."

The four guards were all resting around the landing of the Royal Quarters, surrounded by Myrish carpet and ancient tapestries. The chamber right there used to belong to Aemon the Dragonknight himself, Craster thought silently. Some of the greatest heroes the realm had ever known had walked over this floor . Little Pewty spaton the floor, a lump of yellow phlegm. "Hells, this is privilege, ain't it?" Ben Rabbithole laughed. "Being here makes us Kingsguard, right? We should all be knighted."

"Bugger that," Tom moaned. "I'd prefer to take Alyn's place in the highborn chambers. Did you know he gets to take one of those Tyrell girls every night? That's proper highborn cunt - he swears her scunny smells like roses."

Pewty's eyes widened, and then he laughed. "No shit? I thought those noble bitches were off-limits. Which Tyrell girl?"

"Maggy or Alla or something. The little queen's cousin, I hear. And the White Lord said it was fine to have a go, so long as you don't leave marks."

Megga Tyrell, he thought, a maiden of fourteen . Megga, Alla and Elinor, the queen's ladies-in-waiting, were all hostages too. But there was no reaction from Craster. A civilized man would be appalled, but there were none here.

He knew that another of the reasons the queen kept the loyalty of her guards was by allowing them their 'liberties' with the hostages. They had turned the Red Keep into a cage, and now the animals ruled. How quickly civilization reverts to barbarity .

Yellow Cock Tom, Ben Rabbithole and Little Pewty were still talking, laughing about the women they raped. Craster just stood stiffly and didn't participate. Craster looked bored, lazy, but he was listening to every word. "Well, if you really want to have a go," Little Pewty said eventually, motioning to the chamber doors. "How do you feel about little boys?"

Tom guffawed. "Bugger off," he laughed. "I'm not that horny."

There was something in Pewty's manner that suggested he had only been half-jesting.

Craster said nothing, and just waited.

Maegor's Holdfast was deserted. Skeletal guard duty, guarding an empty corridor all night. Nobody was around with them; the halls were ghostly quiet. It was the hour of ghosts when Yellow Cock Tom finally shifted. "Fuck," he grunted. "I need a piss. Back soon."

"Hells, the Queen Bitch will have your cock if she hears you abandon your post." Cersei's orders had been quite clear; she wanted a constant force of men watching the approach to the king's chambers at all hours. There were twelve men in total; a set of four on each landing.

"I need a piss," Tom whined, already stomping down the stairs. "Cover for me."

"You and your damn leaky cock," Ben Rabbithole groaned. Still, it was unlikely that anyone would come this time of night.

The queen's men are brutal and they are killers, he thought, but they're not well-disciplined . They were men that Qyburn had assembled, as well as the remnants of the Mountain's Men and the Brave Companions. In a battlefield they'd be formidable, maybe they'd be spectacular when set to razing and pillaging villages, but in a castle they just caused problems. Queen Cersei had overlooked all their flaws because they were 'loyal'.

Craster had done his part too. He had done what he needed to do, to fit in, to prove himself loyal too.

Craster counted the steps as Yellow Cock Tom stomped towards the privy. Little Pewty was pacing, while Ben Rabbithole sighed and turned to Craster. "So," he said, bored. "You're a quiet one, ain't you, Craster?"

Craster didn't reply.

They are poor guards . It took a very special type of man to be an effective guard - the type that could sit patiently for hours yet still respond in a heartbeat. The type that wouldn't falter, or pace, or grow distracted. It was a special sort of man that could stand in a deserted corridor for hours and still react to minor disturbances. Good guards are a rare breed .

King Tommen will be asleep right now, he thought. The only ones allowed into the room was Queen Cersei, Lord Qyburn, or the remaining Kingsguard. Ser Meryn Trant, the last Kingsguard still serving, would be sleeping in the antechamber outside the nine-year-old liege's bedchamber. The Red Keep was so short-manned that they could only dedicate a handful of men to stand outside the Royal Chambers during the skeleton hours.

Rather, Cersei had sealed Tommen's chambers with a very big lock, and also locked every door approaching his chambers. She kept her son locked in cage.

"I heard that you guarded the Maidenvault, Craster," Ben Rabbithole continued despite the man's silence, "Did you see the little queen? I got to ask - Raff the Sweetling was saying that Margaery had the tightest little pussy you've ever seen. Is that true?"

Craster paused. For a while, he wasn't going to reply. Then, he turned, and smiled softly. "You've got no idea," he said.

Ben Rabbithole barked in laughter. Little Pewty burst out into giggles.

Then, in a smooth motion, Craster drew a knife from his belt. In a single, practiced lunge, he covered the distance and slit open Little Pewty's throat. For a big man, he was very light-footed. Craster's fist shoved into Pewty's mouth so he could not scream.

Little Pewty died first. He was younger, more alert, and he held his weapon close. Ben Rabbithole was older and more tired, he didn't react as quickly.

Bodies tumbled together in the dark. Ben opened his mouth to scream, but Craster already drew another knife. He threw it in a single, smooth motion and the blade pierced straight through Ben Rabbithole's throat.

The man gurgled, gasping. Craster was already lunging, jumping to grab him before he hit the floor. Even with heavy boots, Craster's footsteps were strangely light. He lowered Ben Rabbithole to the ground gently, without noise, and held his mouth to stop him screaming or gasping as he choked on his own blood. Calm as still water, he thought, quiet as a shadow .

Two men dead. Yellow Cock Tom was infamous for taking long pisses, but he would still return. I must act fast . Pewty dropped limply to the ground, and Ben's trembling faded away.

He walked up the steps cautiously, and he heard nothing. John the Hammer and his group of guards were already unconscious - a bit of sleeping draught in their ale had took them straight out. It would have been easier if they had shared their ale, he cursed silently. But no matter .

The stranger took a deep breath, as he removed the set of slender lockpicks hidden in his breeches. The door to the Royal Chamber bore a huge iron lock, but it took very little time for him to shimmy the latch. He had broken far more difficult locks than this. He felt the bolt thud open, and he opened the door so slowly it didn't creak. Even despite the iron boots of his disguise, he barely made a sound as he stepped onto the thick Myrish carpets.

The chambers were large, but they felt dusty and stuffy. The windows were sealed and barricaded. Cersei had become so paranoid that she restricted the servants to the quarters - even cleaners and housewives. They had sealed all entry, and kept the little boy Tommen trapped in his room.

As if that could save him . The stranger knew better than anyone; if an assassin really wanted you dead, they would find a way to kill you. There was no lock strong enough, no guards skilled enough, that could stop a well-motivated professional killer.

The stranger felt his heart race, but his hands were steel. He knew what he must do.

There was a bloated figure in shining armour strewn out over the antechamber. Ser Meryn Trant was sleeping in the antechamber of the king's room. The stranger heard the snoring, and stopped to inspect him curiously. Earlier in the morn, he had poisoned Ser Meryn's meal in the kitchens with a very slow-acting sleeping drug, slow enough to get through the food tasters. Ser Meryn was dead to the world asleep.

He considered killing the Kingsguard - it would be easy enough - but then decided against it. It would be more effective if Ser Meryn

survived, and then had to explain to the queen that he had slept through it all. He would leave the guards outside unconscious, but alive as well - the more people who slept through the deed, the more allies Cersei would suspect. Her paranoia would grow all the more.

For a creature so cruel, Cersei was rather predictable. The more horrifying the crime, the more baffling the situation, the more she would blame her little brother.

Madness was like a weed. It was a prickly vine that could infest the gardens of the mind and choke any other thought. Madness thrived in confusion and darkness; in fear and suspicion.

Perhaps that is what I am, the man mused. He had been called a mummer, a magician, a juggler, a spider, a whisperer, but calling himself a gardener seemed the most apropos term. Someone who cultivates the landscape with a soft touch, to make sure the world became how he willed it. He had spent a long time and a great deal of effort cultivating and nurturing Cersei's madness, just as he had done in the past.

He thought back to the first bodies. Lady Taena Merryweather and Lord Orton Merryweather - they were how it all began. Grand Maester Pycelle had just been a bonus. Killing Cersei's lover and blaming it on both the Tyrells and the Imp had been a masterstroke.

Varys had killed more people since then; he had picked his targets with extreme care. For months he had stalked Cersei from the shadows, with actions and plots so subtle that no one even noticed them. Cersei had felt them, though - his constant schemes and unending shadowing were what truly convinced Cersei that there was a conspiracy afoot.

His little birds - children who could get close without suspicion and stab the knife upwards - inflicted a wound that was very easily blamed on a dwarf.

Perhaps they wondered how Varys had managed to escape the Red Keep, after freeing Tyrion all of those months ago. The truth, as it so often did, had been hiding in plain sight all along. 'Lord Varys the Spider' hadn't escaped anywhere - instead he just took another face and another name, blended in with the background. First he had been a serving woman, and then he became Craster, the silent and brutal sellsword.

Right now, he was no one. No one but a stranger working through the door. He heard a cat - a kitten - mewl in the darkness, and the feline shape brushed up against his ankles. There were three black cats in the room, all of them stirring around his feet as the stranger opened the door carefully.

In the huge four-poster bed, a small and frail figure stirred. "Mother?"

King Tommen asked sleepily. "Mother, is that you?"

"No child," the stranger replied sadly. "I am not."

Tommen was awake. Varys saw a pale face in the dark, shuffling in fear. Tommen had grown since Varys had last seen him, but, somehow, he looked so frail and scared in the gloom. There was less baby fat around the nine-year old's face, his white blond hair was darker. How long has the boy been trapped in his chambers? he lamented silently. Why is it always the most innocent ones that must suffer the most?

He had no wish to scare the boy. He took off his helm slowly, and placed it on the floor. He raised his hands upwards, and crouched slightly to make himself seem smaller. It wouldn't matter much - 'Craster's' scars and pockmarks were but a mummer's mask, pigments and paints. His beard and wig were both filthy things, made for stage performers. It all added up to make him look fearsome.

"It's alright," Varys reassured. His accent disappeared and his voice turned soft. "It's alright. These are lovely kittens, Tommen. What are they called?"

"Ser Pounce," the boy whispered, shivering and wide-eyed. "Boots and Lady Whiskers."

"They're beautiful." Varys scooped up Ser Pounce in his arms, feeling the little cat stir. He gently ran his gloved fingers over the cat's slender form, caressing soft black fur. The kitten purred. "What gorgeous cats. They remind me of another kitten I once knew."

The boy seemed to relax slightly. Varys took another step forward. "That's Ser Pounce," Tommen admitted. "He used to chase mice outside, but now mother doesn't let us leave the apartment."

"I'm so sorry, Tommen," Varys said honestly. "You don't deserve this." In this world, the weak are always the victims of the strong, he thought bitterly.

Tommen frowned. "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend, Tommen." He extended his hands. "Here, I want you to hold Ser Pounce. Hold your cat, Tommen."

The boy was shaking. He looked ready to run, but he extended his hands to scoop up Ser Pounce from the stranger's hands. The black kitten was mewling, squirming. Varys so painfully remembered Princess Rhaenys' little kitten, Balerion. That cat had even tried to claw the hands of the man who choked her.

Tommen would have run, but he was trembling too badly. Varys placed a hand on the boy's shoulder to try and comfort him.

"I want my mother," Tommen's voice cracked, quietly. There were tears in his wide eyes.

"I know you do, my child." Vary's other hand slowly curled around the sheathed handle in his belt. This is necessary, Varys knew. It had to happen - one more deed and the war was as good as won. Still, it wasn't easy for him.

He had done many evil acts over the years - evil acts in the name of a righteous cause - but this…

"I want you to something for me," Varys said softly. "I want you to close your eyes. Can you do that for me, Tommen? Just close your eyes.

The boy was trembling. "Close your eyes," Varys insisted. Tommen complied. He was such a meek little boy. "Close your eyes and think of your kittens."

In his arms, Ser Pounce meowed and squirmed as Tommen hugged him so tightly. There was a trickle down the boy's smallclothes. King Tommen Baratheon, First of his Name, stood shivering in the dark room, hugging his cat fearfully as he pissed himself in quiet fear.

"Are you doing that, Tommen? Are you thinking of your kittens? Just think of your cats. Name them for me - Ser Pounce, Boots, and…?"

"… Lady Whiskers…" the boy whispered.

His hand blurred, and a blade suddenly materialised in his grip. The knife flashed. One quick plunge to the heart with a sharp blade. Varys held the boy's shoulders tightly, and the child collapsed with barely a sound. There was no scream, only a weak, strained gasp.

Varys felt the sharp edge slice through a small, fragile ribcage. Blood spluttered, and he hugged the child until the spasms stopped.

He needed to take a strained breath to calm himself. Still like water, he repeated to himself. He was no stranger to murder - he wasn't even a stranger to murdering children. Then why does this one hurt me so much?

He thought of little Aegon Targaryen, brains smashed out on the floor.

It will be more effective if it looks brutal, Varys thought. He stabbed the little boy's corpse several dozen more times - long slices splattering guts and gore. Then Varys grabbed the corpse by the legs and dragged him around the room, to make it look like Tommen had tried to run.

He wanted Cersei to think her little boy saw a violent, grizzly end. Let her think that her child had died screaming and in agony.

He didn't mutilate the child's face, though - he wanted to be sure the corpse was clearly identifiable. Let there be no doubt that King Tommen is dead .

All around him, the kittens meowed and scrambled, pawing the dead body. Ser Pounce sniffed a lump of bloody guts.

I must be getting weak, Varys cursed. This is only one more death. Why does it affect me so much? There were many children in this war - Tommen was but one more causality, and a necessary one at that.

He dipped the knife in the blood, and walked up to the nearby wall. In slow, careful strokes, he started to write the letters, taking care to make sure he mimicked Tyrion Lannister's handwriting.

I WARNED YOU, DEAR SISTER ", Varys wrote on the wall, in big, bold letters painted by the king's blood.

King Tommen's death would win the entire war. With Tommen dead, the Lannisters lost all claim to the Iron Throne. The Lannister-Tyrell alliance was doomed, their armies would collapse. He supposed Stannis was now undoubtedly next in line for succession, but nobody would ever take Stannis for king. Not now - the Baratheon ship had sunk.

The realm would look further back, back to a Targaryen.

When the sleeping draught wore off, when the alarm was raised and when Cersei came upon her son, the queen would be left crazed in madness. Good; he wanted her mad. A queen so mad that she'd make Aerys look sane, and she would make everyone remember the good times under Targaryen regime instead. Varys knew exactly what Qyburn and Cersei were planning from the Black Cells, and he had resolved to let it happen. He would let Lannister and Tyrell destroy each other.

No matter how successful Cersei's retaliation was, it would all be pointless with Tommen dead.

One death, and Aegon's path to the Iron Throne was clear. The Seven Kingdoms would finally get the rightful and honourable liege - a boy raised from birth to take on the duty. A good and rightful king. This is what we have been working towards for decades .

He closed the door behind him. One of the kittens tried to slip out, but Varys caught it. He cradled the little creature in his hand softly as he placed the kitten back into the bloody room. It tried to claw at his wrist.

He passed the sleeping Kingsguard, and locked the door behind him again. He stepped over the unconscious men, and walked back down the stairs. He hid in the shadows as he waited for Yellow Cock Tom to walk back up, with his knife ready to slit that man's throat too. There would be several witnesses who would swear that 'Craster' had been in the Maidenvault all night, should anybody ask.

He thought of Serra's face as he walked away. He remembered his sister's soft smile, and bright violet eyes. Even as the fever tore through her body and her silver hair turned grey, she had such soft features. "Promise me, Viserys," Serra had begged, weeping. "Promise me you'll care for him."

Viserys . His sister had been the last person to ever call him by that name. There had been a hundred different names since then, but never the one his mother had given him. It was a name of a different

life; before their family had been forced into another exile, before the children had been sold into slavery, and before the sorcerer had bought him and mutilated him for his blood.

Still, he had made the promise. Ever since then, he and his friend had spent decades working and toiling to fulfil his promise to Serra, and to right a century old wrong. I will see Aegon Targaryen on the Iron Throne, Varys thought, as it should be .

History would remember Cersei as the Mad Queen that brought down a dynasty, heralding the return of the dragonlords, and his would be the untold tale in the shadows - exactly as it had been in the past. His own role in it all would never be known. Some histories were better left forgotten. I have had a dozen names; I will be the murderer, the spymaster, the whisperer, the spider, and the stranger - all and more, to put that child on the Iron Throne .

And I will spill the guts of a thousand children to make it so .

Chapter 39

Chapter 39

The Warrior

"Father Above, forgive my sins," Lancel muttered, lowering his head before the clay tablet. "Forgive my pride, and forgive my weakness."

The High Septon said that a holy man had to learn to accept his own flaws; that sins were carved into men's bodies at birth, and could only be purged by a lifetime of humility and prayer. Lancel had seen sermons before filled with pomp and glamour, septons wearing silk and crystals that would call upon the blessings of the Seven, and used words like 'glory', 'duty' and 'divine right'. He had seen septons as fat as cows that lived as extravagantly as kings. That type of Faith was being crushed under the High Septon's new regime.

The holy were expected to give charity, the septons were expected to serve the needy. Only through humility and service could they find divinity.

"I bow before your mercy, wisdom and judgement. I am but mortal clay - I have made mistakes, I have been weak - but I offer myself before you, humble and bare, and beg for your hand to shape me, that I may walk the path of righteousness."

The High Septon's sermons were quiet, holy affairs, where every man, woman and child was expected to kneel on the stone floor and bow so deeply that their heads touched the ground. The High Septon would speak softly about weakness and wickedness, and afterwards he would join each man and woman in private prayer. He would listen to their confessions. He would hold their hands.

"Warrior, give me strength to follow the path," Lancel intoned. "I raise my sword in your service, and beg for the fortitude to overcome

wickedness."

He thought back to all the times he wished that he had been stronger; the actions that he should have done, the vows he should have upheld…

Once, Lancel had asked why the gods would create the world so, why they would let such evil into men's hearts. The High Septon had taken Lancel's hands and quietly explained that this world was a trial, a proving ground, to split the saints from the sinners and to see which men could rise up above the hurdles of the flesh. All men have same weaknesses, and it is for the worthy to overcome them, he had said. The Seven offered their light and redemption, but it was for all men to reach for it.

We were all born wicked, the High Septon had said, but it is only through the Light of the Seven can we be redeemed .

The High Septon is a pious man, a man sent by the Father to show us the way, Lancel thought. It was so very telling of the arrogance, blindness and corruption of the nobility, that it had been the smallfolk

the sparrows - who recognised his wisdom and righteousness first. The High Septon was one of the precious few men that Lancel had ever known that was truly trying to forge the world into a better place, one sinner at a time.

"Crone, grant me wisdom," he said softly. "For the path is dark, and I beg your wisdom to light the way."

Lancel thought of his own many, many sins. I bedded the queen, he thought blankly. A memory of horror. The highest perversion. I made love to a married woman, my own cousin… the queen. And I kept it silent. At the time… Father help me, I had even been… proud? But now there is nothing in me but shame . She used me to switch Robert's tankards, so that the king was drunk and insensate when he faced the boar .

Maybe that was murder, maybe it was an accident, but it was still

Lancel's fault. The Father would know the truth of the matter.

Everything that has happened, it's all my fault .

How many treasons had he even committed? He honestly didn't even know anymore. By rights, he should be whipped, hung and condemned for what he had done. Perhaps he still would be, when the Stranger took him. But the High Septon had offered him a chance for redemption, and Lancel had vowed himself to the cause. A lifetime of pious service to make up for his mistakes. Lancel the Repentant .

As he stood up, his back still ached from where they had lashed the wickedness out of him. It was a good pain.

His chambers were bare, humble. A hard wooden cot, and a small carving of the Father by his bedside to pray to every morning and every night.

It was still very early, before dawn. As he did every morning, he stood up and scratched a chalk mark onto the wall. Then, he stopped to count the row of marks, just to be sure he wasn't fooling himself. It's today, he thought. For so long they had all been waiting for it. But here it is - day seventy-seven ; the Mother's Day .

He had donated the gaudy armour of his family to the Faith, to be sold for coin for the needy. Today, Lancel garbed himself in the bare and unadorned armour of the new Faith Militant. Rather than full metal, he wore only a simple steel plate and hard leather breeches and shoulder guards. He pulled a hemp surcoat showing the seven-pointed star over the top, with a longsword on his leather belt, and a rainbow cloak over his shoulders.

Rather than his boots, he chose thick sandals. Lancel preferred to dress himself closer to the Poor Fellows than the Warrior's Sons. Lancel the Repentant .

In times past, the Warrior's Sons had clad themselves in inlaid silver armour, swords with star-shaped crystals, but the High Septon said that such extravagance was unbecoming for pious soldiers. Instead, each Warrior's Son was encouraged to dress more humbly, and sell their fine armour for food, blankets and iron for the smallfolk. Why should one man have a fine engraved silver sword, when two dozen could have cheap iron swords for the same worth?

It was a doctrine that had quickly spread. The smallfolk - the sparrows - in this war-torn land had been neglected for too long, but their High Septon had given them their voice.

The only thing that remained from the old traditions was the hair shirt that Lancel wore - rough, hoarse and uncomfortable, a sign of penitence that itched against his skin.

Three Warrior's Sons stood outside of his door, all similarly garbed with shaved heads. Lancel nodded to his brothers in arms.

As he stepped out of his quarters, the Great Sept of Baelor looked so different from what it had been. It had once been a temple of wealth and lavish corruption. A temple to the gods, supposedly, but designed more for the arrogance of kings. A white marble domed castle, with seven crystal towers, mosaics and tapestries, and domes of glass, gold and crystal. Those were mostly gone now.

The Poor Fellows had stripped the lavish, wasteful expense of the wall, chiselling out mosaics and leaving bare chipped walls in their place. It took dozens of men to remove the marble statues from the doorways, to tear off the crystals. The Myrish carpets pulled from the floors and the stained windows pulled out. Men with knives even cut off the gold furnishing from the parchments in prayer books. The images of the Seven remained untouched, of course, but the High Septon had been especially ruthless towards the monuments of Baelor and all the other tributes to human vanity.

They had found traders from Braavos that had bought most of it for a decent price. The sparrows ransacked the sept for every penny, and

all of the profits went to helping the starving and hungry of the city, or to arm the Poor Fellows taking up swords once again.

It had taken funding to re-establish the Faith Militant, the Swords and Stars of the Faith, and the High Septon had financed it by stripping away the rotting lavish wealth. Like a butterfly emerging for a dead husk.

This sept is a different place, Lancel thought proudly. Its halls were now used to house the hungry and homeless, rather than useless extravagance. Lancel's father had been appalled to see what the High Septon had done, but he didn't understand. Few of the highborn understood.

The concept of helping people was just so baffling to them.

In the marble plaza outside the sept, crowds and camps of sparrows still lingered. That horrible, vain statue of Baelor was covered in the bones of holy men, given tribute so none could forget their sacrifices. There were cloth tents raised, banners of seven-sided stars raised over the plaza. Hundreds, thousands of smallfolk lingered around Visenya's Hill. The High Septon had turned the sept to what it should have always been; a congregation for the holy.

The cobbled roads leading up to the sept had been sealed, however. There were Poor Fellows lining the paths, and they had raised gates and fortifications along the streets to defend Visenya's Hill and the sept. For a time, there had been a fear that the Great Sept might come under attack by wicked men serving the queen. That fear had mostly passed, but the fortifications remained.

"Ser Lancel," a sweet voice called behind him. "His Holiness calls for you."

He smiled softly as he saw Sister Tyene waiting for him. Lancel's time of pious service and hard penance had left his face haggard, but Sister Tyene looked just as fresh and as beautiful as ever. A test of my wicked desires, Lancel mused, but that was an unfair thought.

Tyene was a soft, innocent and meek lady; as lovely as the Maiden in plain wool robes. "Thank you, sister," Lancel said with a bow. "But please, do not call me 'ser'."

"Begging your pardon." Sister Tyene looked surprised. "I thought you were an anointed knight?"

"I am. But I do not deserve to be," Lancel admitted. "I was anointed simply because of my father and my house, not for any act of great valour or worth. The title 'ser' should be reserved be for true and just knights - I do not wish to shame the rank any more than it already is."

She lowered her head, smiling reassuringly. "I understand, brother,"

Tyene replied. "Come, the High Septon awaits you."

Lancel followed. Tyene Sand had arrived from Dorne months ago - the bastard daughter of Oberyn Martell - but she came humbled and wishing to repent for her sins. She joined the High Septon's new breed of Faith with open arms. Lancel had seen of her frequently enough at sermons, but they rarely had chance to interact; Tyene spent most of her time praying with the High Septon and the Most Devout, or giving aid to the smallfolk. A truly pious maiden, the High Septon had proclaimed of her, and welcomed her into the inner circle. The sept had offered thanks for her family's contribution to the Faith.

Outside, in the courtyard, he heard chanting. The crowds were chanting the Prayer of the Seven.

"They have been congregating all morning," Sister Tyene noted, her arms folded in the high sleeves of her robes as they walked. "We will have to clear them soon enough, but the people want to be here for the trial."

"And is it confirmed?" Lancel still felt on-edge. "Is she truly coming?"

"The message two days ago said she would," Sister Tyene replied. "Ser Bonifer will be escorting her from the keep. But if she does not, well, then the Father's patience will run out and the Warrior's duty will begin."

Lancel only nodded. The raven they had received from Ser Bonifer said only that Cersei had surrendered, and that he would ensure that she arrived for her trial. Myrcella's death has sucked the will to defy from her, Lancel thought, and his heart still ached with the thought ofthe little princess' fate.

He glanced back to Tyene. The sister's skin was milky pale rather than the typical Dornish brown, but her surname was still Sand. Tyene had been more appalled than anybody with news of Myrcella's fate in Dorne, so much so she broke down into tears before the High Septon. Tyene is not responsible for her family's actions, Lancel thought to himself. Tyene had come to King'sLanding and into the clergy to escape from her family - and Lancel of all people could sympathise with that.

Ser Gerold Dayne of High Hermitage was most certainly responsible for the heinous crime, but it was a matter of rumour and debate whether Obara Sand, House Martell or Tyrion Lannister had supported him. There had been ravens both confirming and denying it. Dark wings, doubtful words .

Yet today is day seventy-seven . If Cersei did not leave the Red Keep today, she would be tried in absentia, and on day seventy-eight the Warrior's Sons would break down the gates and take her. To do so will put all of the hostage's lives, Queen Margaery and even King Tommen included, in great peril, Lancel thought with a grimace. The only thing that Mace Tyrell, Kevan Lannister and the High Septon agreed upon was that was an option to avoid.

Maybe Sister Tyene saw the nervousness on his face. "Be brave, brother," the sister said sweetly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "The Father's justice will be done, and there is no doubt in my mind that the wicked will be brought to account."

She led him to the High Septon's chambers, at the heart of the sept. At one time, there had been silk and velvet tapestries on the walls, but without them the bare corridor felt more sublime, holier.

They passed a dozen Warrior's Sons standing guard near doors to the conclave where the Most Devout were gathering, and more Poor Fellows beyond that. Lancel glimpsed three bruised and haggard black-haired figures standing in chains - the Kettleblack brothers, being prepared for their testimony too. All three of the 'knights' had dark gazes and red eyes.

He half-expected to join them as another witness, but Sister Tyene led him away from them, towards a huge set of bronze and oak doors at the end of the corridor. The wood was scratched from where they had peeled the silver and gold decorations from it.

Lancel was twitching with nerves. Sister Tyene knocked on the door, and then bowed her head as she opened it for him. She didn't follow.

Inside, Lancel was completely unsurprised to see that the High Septon's quarters were bare. The wiry old man was on his knees, praying before a carved wooden statue of the Father, as Lancel stepped in. He didn't say a word until the High Septon finished the prayer.

Then, Lancel bowed low. "Your Holiness."

"Brother Lancel," the High Septon replied. His voice was hard, gnarly, and he stood stiff like wood. He was not a royal figure; he stood tall with round shoulders, and a mop of a greying beard from his cheeks. "Today is the day. The Most Devout are already assembled and the trial will happen, with or without the queen's presence. You will be called upon to give testimony."

"I am prepared, Your Holiness," Lancel replied. He didn't stand up. "Let the Seven's will be done. I shall speak the truth, the truth of both Cersei's sins and my own." As I should have done from the beginning .

There was a pause. The High Septon stood stiffly. "I know my duty, Your Holiness," Lancel said, grimacing. "Cersei has avoided judgement for too long, and it is my part of my atonement to see her brought to justice. I will do so with my testimony, or with my sword if it need be."

"Lancel, my son." His Holiness' voice turned soft. "There is no penance required from you today. I only wish to see if you are alright."

Lancel would not lie to the High Septon. Small lies could lead to bigger lies. "I am nervous, Your Holiness."

"That is understandable," he soothed, speaking calmly and slowly. "The Warrior gave us all fear for a reason, my son, in the same way he granted us pain. Of all the weaknesses of the flesh, fear is not one to be ashamed of."

Lancel's felt his shoulders relax, but there was still a knot in his stomach. The High Septon took a step forward, and Lancel raised his head. The High Septon's eyes were kind and understanding, in a way that they rarely were in public. Towards the sinners the High Septon was as hard as oak, but towards his followers the man turned gentle as a leaf. He was a man who would take the time to talk to those in need, to reassure them. Kindness is the Seven's greatest blessing, he once said.

The quiet pause felt comforting, tender. The High Septon placed his hand on Lancel's shoulder and pulled him up from his knees.

"When you came to me, you were lost. Tormented," His Holiness said soothingly. "I showed you the path, but you are the one that walked down it. We all confront our sins and we pay the penance. You may be scared, but I believe you will do your duty, my son."

My own father had never been so understanding towards me . "Will there be fighting, Your Holiness?"

"I pray not. But I will not dismiss the possibility, and the queen has proved herself willing to resort to any depravity. If it comes to it - no matter whom raises their blades against us - I have no doubt that loyal and pious men will fight for the Faith."

"My brothers and I stand ready to, Your Holiness." Lancel raised his hand to his breastplate, his fist over the seven-pointed star. "In the name of the Warrior."

"At ease, my son." Dark brown eyes inspected him coolly. "You stand so rigid I fear your shoulders might break. You keep your eyes forward and your gaze low, but you are blinking twice a heartbeat." Lancel twitched. "Take a deep breath, and calm yourself."

Lancel complied, but even standing in His Holiness' presence made him nervous. He forced his fists to unfurl, and his body slouched slightly. "I received word from Kevan Lannister," the High Septon continued, "begging me once again to release you from your vows. Your father worries for you."

His jaw tightened somewhat, but Lancel was trying to keep himself calm. "I have made my choice, Your Holiness."

"You have. And are you aware that you are now the rightful heir to Casterly Rock?"

Lancel didn't react. "Jaime Lannister is missing and thought dead, but a sworn brother regardless." the High Septon continued. "Tyrion Lannister is a convicted murderer sentenced to death." Something in the High Septon's gaze flickered. "Cersei Lannister may be as well, shortly enough. By rights, lordship of House Lannister would revert to your father, and you are Ser Kevan's only heir."

That was a painful thought. Memories flashed through him, and he stayed silent for a passing of breaths. Once, my family was so large, so full of life, but now… Lancel's little brother Willem had beenbutchered by Rickard Karstark at Riverrun, while his other siblings Janei and Martyn had died along with their mother, in the

westerlands at the hands of outlaws. All of them hung from a tree outside of Cornfield.

Janei had only been a babe, one that Lancel had never even had a chance to meet.

His cousins were falling like leaves from a tree in autumn. Between the hangwoman in the riverlands, the white dragon, assassins, the Imp… Once his family had been plentiful, but now the pride wasbeing shredded. We Lannisters are falling like flies .

He focused on the High Septon's eyes. "I took a vow, Your Worship."

"You did." He nodded. "And have you actually spoken to your father, since that vow?"

I have not . His silence was the only answer. The High Septon nodded.

"Ser Kevan fears that I am forcing you to stay here," the High Septon said softly. "That you are my hostage against him."

"That is not-!" Lancel's jaw clenched. "I have made my choice, Your Holiness, and I have nothing more to say to him."

"Ser Kevan loves you. It is a sacred bond between father and son, not so easily forsaken," the High Septon intoned. "I have clashed heads with Ser Kevan many, many times recently, but I cannot fault his concern for you."

You have been more of a father to me than he ever has . "My father…" Lancel hesitated. "My father is what is wrong with this world, Your Holiness." The High Septon raised an eyebrow. "My father is a follower of the faithless; he considers himself noble, even, but he is a man who maintains and enables wicked desires and ambitions. He would have had me forced into a dreary castle, with a wife I care nothing for, into a life where I have no fulfilment… just so

he can help maintain the status of his family. A wicked status of pride and avarice." Lancel shook his head. "I cannot forgive him for that."

He was met by silence, and a contemplative gaze. The heir to Casterly Rock, Lancel thought vaguely. I never wanted to be Lord of Darry, let alone Lord of the Rock . A younger, more foolish Lancelwould have killed for that position, but now it just all seemed… hollow.

"I pray and mourn for my brothers, my sister, my mother…" Lancel said. And my grandfather, both of them, my cousins, my friends… there are so many I have lost . "And I would seek justice against thefiends that murdered them, but, now, my place is here."

"Are you steadfast in that resolution?"

"I am. I do not want to be released from my vows, Your Holiness," Lancel said firmly. "I wish to honour them faithfully." I want to be Lancel the Repentant, the holy warrior. I want to be strong .

The High Septon nodded slowly. "Very well. I will not force anything of you." He paused. "Although, for the love that the Father Above honours us with, I would advise you to speak to Ser Kevan."

"I have said all that I wish to say to him, Your Holiness."

"You truly care so little of your family?"

I care. It's my care that is the problem . "My family is a family of wickedness. I can only strive to separate and redeem myself from them."

The High Septon didn't reply, but there was a relaxing cast to his features, a kind look in his eyes. Like he agreed and approved. There was silence for several heartbeats. Every moment felt so tender, so intimate. The High Septon is the god's voice on earth, Lancel, thought, I am speaking to the closest aspect of the Seven I'll ever reach .

"Then tell me," the High Septon said gravely, "how would you judge Cersei Lannister's actions?"

Lancel hesitated, biting his lip. "I would think of the Mother's mercy, Your Holiness. For all her flaws and her sins, I believe that Cersei deserves compassion."

"Is that so? You had strong feelings towards her, if I recall."

"I did. Once I longed for her, then I was shamed by her, and then I hated her. I hated myself too," Lancel admitted. "But as I walk down a pious path, my hate fades and I start to pity her instead."

"Pity her, really? She murdered the previous High Septon. She had her man try to murder me," the High Septon said, with a slight scoff. "That fiend of a knight tried to suffocate me with a pillow in these quarters. She stands accused of crimes of the highest order; murder, conspiracy, treason, incest, infidelity. Violence against the gods themselves. Do you truly believe her deserving of pity?"

"I do," Lancel said earnestly. "I believe there is no sinner so foul that they do not deserve pity."

The High Septon stood silently and didn't reply. "She is a mother, Your Worship. She is a weak woman consumed by desire, avarice and pride, but she loves her children, and I believe the loss of her son unhinged her. Grief and weakness drove her down a dark path, but I believe that even she could be brought to the Light of the Seven. In your judgement, I ask only that you consider the Mother's mercy, Your Holiness."

The man's gnarled features looked cast from stone. There was no reaction for a while, but then he nodded. "You grow wiser every day, Lancel. The path to true piousness is a long and arduous one, but I can see you walking it." He nodded again. "Thank you for your words, my son, I shall consider them."

"Thank you, Your Holiness." He hesitated. "What of King Tommen, Your Holiness?"

The man raised an eyebrow. "Rumours have been spreading for years," Lancel admitted. "And, well…"

His voice trailed away uncertainly. "It is ill-befitting to concern yourself with baseless rumours," the High Septon chided. "Trust in the Crone's wisdom."

"I do. I try ." Lancel grimaced. "But one of the charges placed against Cersei is that of incest." The charge that I bring . "And then with the rumours concerning her children…"

"Yes," His Holiness sighed. "Of all the charges, that is perhaps the most troubling, and most difficult to judge. We know that she defiled her body shamelessly with men after her husband's death, but did she during the marriage as well? From whose seed were her children born, and how can we make that judgement?" He paused. "Do you have opinion on that, my son?"

Lancel didn't reply. There was a faint and grim, humourless smile across the High Septon's lips. "Yes. I pray for clarity on the matter, but the Seven rarely make such matters obvious. You can be sure many others are asking the same; is King Tommen truly illegitimate?" Another pause. "The evidence to suggest so… it is not insignificant. Stannis Baratheon may be apostate, but the words in his letters cannot be so easily dismissed. Then, Eddard Stark's strange execution." The High Septon grimaced, shaking his head. "On the steps of this very sept. A transgression that never should have passed without punishment."

Lancel didn't know what to feel. He didn't want to believe it true, but Cersei had already proven herself capable of anything… Nobody could deny that Cersei's children looked more like Jaime than Robert. "And if he is illegitimate?" he asked cautiously. Then who is the true king? Will you renounce King Tommen? "… Then this Aegon ?"

"Aegon Targaryen," the High Septon tutted. "Did you know a ship arrived from Pentos loaded with gold, gems and silk as a 'donation' to the Faith in King Aegon's name? I accepted the wealth, sure enough, and then dedicated it to our efforts, but they are fooling themselves if they think coin will affect my judgement."

"I do not trust him, Your Holiness," Lancel warned. Perhaps he was speaking out of turn, but the Father compelled him to speak his mind. "This Aegon is trying to take advantage of us."

"There are many who speak highly of him. This young king is said to be bold and kind."

"A mummer will always strive to appear fair to the eye," Lancel warned. "But it is by the company he keeps that you should look for a judge of his character. He surrounds himself with mercenaries and rebels and worse. The Imp follows him."

The High Septon stood quietly. Over the past months, it seemed like the clergy in the Great Sept was still split on the matter, and yet more and more were starting to cry out for Aegon Targaryen as the rightful ruler. Even many of the Warrior's Sons were starting to speak out in favour of the returned dragon. Lancel had heard Sister Tyene speak fondly of him to the other septas once; when our hour is darkest, the sister had said, and our kings prove themselves false, by the Seven's blessings we are returned with the rightful liege . Therewere many in the sept saying the same.

"Cersei may be mad, but she is right concerning one matter; Tyrion Lannister is not to be trusted," Lancel pressed on. The thought of that grinning, scheming dwarf flashed before his eyes. How he exploited me for his own ends, manipulated me… "The Imp droveCersei to her depravity, and now he seeks to take advantage of it."

"Yes; Tyrion Lannister is a kinslayer and a kingslayer, two crimes that the Seven will not forgive. I have not forgotten, my son." The High Septon shook his head. "No, every time this 'Aegon' and his envoys

beseech me for my blessing, I have replied with silence. I do not intend to change that answer, either."

He paused for a long time, several heart beats passing as the High Septon mused. "You speak honestly, Brother Lancel, and my own feelings on the matter are similar." he said finally. "Cersei Lannister committed grave crimes and for that there must be punishment. However, the weakness of women is well-noted, and I have no wish to be cruel. Whatever crimes his mother committed, the young King Tommen Baratheon is innocent of them - I will not punish the boy for his mother's mistakes." The High Septon nodded. "Very well. The Queen Regent has surrendered, and if King Tommen and Queen Margaery emerge unharmed then the Father can be just."

There is no evidence that Tommen was illegitimate beyond rumour and speculation, Lancel told himself. "You would pardon her?" Lancel asked.

"Pardon? No. There must be a trial, and it must be open and fair, but I shall recommend mercy to the Most Devout."

Mercy . Lancel's heart raced with the word. Stripped of status, certainly, and likely exile too. Perhaps a walk of shame or some other penance. But Cersei will keep her head, keep her life, keep her son .

"Thank you for your consideration, Your Holiness." Lancel bowed his head deeply.

"And thank you for your input. I am only mortal, these matters been troubling me greatly too. And yet I feel the Father's wisdom in your words." He placed his hands on Lancel's shoulders. "Rise, my son. It is nearly noon, and I must pray before the congregation begins."

"What will you have of me, Your Holiness?"

"I would like you in the courtyard, to greet the queen as she steps out." Lancel blinked, looking shocked. The High Septon just nodded.

"She is your family still. Whatever amends you must make to her, whatever you must say, say your piece as you escort her through."

"I…" The thought of facing Cersei again - of looking into her beautiful, cruel green eyes - scared him, but he nodded. "I will, Your Grace."

Lancel the Repentant. That is the title I must work towards. I must be brave, just and pious.

He exited the sept through the Warrior's Door, nodding to the other knights already waiting. There were already septons coming out the Father's Door and septas the Mother's Door, taking position on the upper steps. Lancel hesitated, but he walked down the steps towards the great statue of Baelor.

A small force of Warrior's Sons were already herding the crowds back, and Lancel made to join them. He saw Ser Wylard the Pious, a brown-haired, broad and stocky knight nodding to him.

"Brother Lancel," greeted Ser Wylard.

"Brother Wylard," Lancel returned.

The Warrior's Sons stood in groups of seven, lining the road and the streets. From atop of the steps, the commander of the Warrior's Sons, Ser Theodan the True, standing tall and strong over the courtyard.

In the distance, he could see the shadow of the Red Keep looming at the far end of the city. The air was cool and crisp, but the sun was bright. There was nothing to do but stand in formation, to wait and pray. Please, Cersei, Lancel begged silently.

The crowds started to sing hymns to the Seven as they stirred. The hours felt so tense, so nerve wracking.

"The queen's carriage approaches!" the cry came finally, splitting through the verse of the Warrior.

From the top of the hill, Lancel finally saw the royal wheelhouse rumbling up the Street of Sisters. It was a huge, rumbling carriage clattering over the cobblestones, painted lime green and the lined with gilded leaf. The wheels were iron-rimmed, so loud that Lancel could hear the rumble even over the din of the crowds. The windows were covered in velvet drapes, and doorway marked with the crown of the Iron Throne.

The banners proudly bore both the lion of Lannister and the stag of Baratheon - four flags on the front and back hanging limply in the windless morn. It normally took a dozen horses to pull a wheelhouse that size, but now it was being driven by only eight palfreys. None of the horses looked particularly healthy, either.

He saw the gleaming armour of Ser Bonifer the Good and his knights, riding at the front of the column. Ser Bonifer has returned, Lancel thought with a sigh, and his heart eased at the sight.

There had a been a fear of riots on the streets, so the High Septon allowed Cersei twenty guards as well as the Kingsguard to escort her. To her credit, she had complied. The score of mounted riders all wore Lannister red cloaks, escorting the wheelhouse closely. The escort looked tense, tight, even from a distance. The mounted men carried swords instead of lances. Lancel could only see a single white cloak leading the escort - perhaps Cersei only had a single Kingsguard left - but he couldn't recognise which man it was from a distance. They were all helmed and wearing face-guards.

From Visenya's Hill, Lancel could watch as the procession moved down the Hook, past the Plaza of the Guards, and slowly cobbled towards Sept Road. As they reached the far end of the street, the palfreys neighed and strained to pull the carriage up the incline.

Watching it creep through the city towards them felt painfully slow. "Justice for Queen Margaery!" the cries came. "Cersei the Wicked!"

another shouted. "Queen Whore!"

From the minute the Holy Gate opened, there were Poor Fellows lining the street. The crowds stirred. Streets lined with people - men, women and children. Behind the procession, the Poor Fellows walked in sandals with iron swords, ringing bells and chanting. The sparrows lined the road, and the crowd broke and followed as soon as the carriage cobbled past.

The sound of those iron wheels clattering up the stones slowly sounded agonising, echoing and tense.

Lancel was thankful that crowds let the procession mostly unhindered. He saw some hurling spoiled fruit and stones, or insults, but most seemed more restrained. It was by the Mother's mercy that were no mobs. Lancel didn't wish to see Cersei shamed or tortured any more than necessary.

Many were jeering, but Lancel felt only sorrow. This is a good thing, he thought, taking a deep breath. The queen has relented - as bitter and as forced as it may have been - but she has come to face judgement . She would face penance, but this is the only way shemay ever be redeemed before men and gods.

Judgement before a trial of seven of the Most Devout. The High Septon would not accept a trial by combat, he knew.

"Brother Wylard," Lancel called, keeping his voice low. The other Warrior Son looked to him. "When she reaches the courtyard, could you please have your men keep your distance? I wish to greet the queen alone."

Ser Wylard paused, and then nodded. "As you wish, brother."

"Seven bless you."

The carriage reached the plaza of the Great Sept, where the procession was greeted by Ser Theodan the True. The knights took

over the escort, calling out to Ser Bonifer the Good and exchanging brief words and nods. For a while, the only sound were horses neighing uneasily. Lancel could see the horses of the Lannister men skitting restlessly. Those horses must have been starved and tortured, trapped in the Red Keep for over two months, Lancel thought.

Finally, Ser Theodan nodded. "Clear the way!" his strong and clear voice called. "Clear the way for the queen!"

The crowds rushed forward eagerly. Lancel heard the cry of "whore, whore, whore!" starting to rise, but the Warrior's Sons weren't gentle as they pushed the smallfolk away. The bells started to ring, and more and more started to pour down the marbles stairs of the Great Sept. Lines of septons and septa filled the left and ride of the stairs, robed figures standing solemn. The whole realm will be watching this trial, Lancel thought, and the High Septon wants to make the judgement clear and transparent for all to see .

There were no smiles or nods from the guardsmen as they passed. They all sat tense, grim and dark faces under their helms. Lancel recognised the Kingsguard at the front by his stout body shape - Ser Boros Blount sat stiffly on his horse, while the mare beneath him tottered uneasily. Ser Boros Blount, the last and least of the Kingsguard, Lancel thought foully. A once noble order ruined one by one and dragged into shame - so very representative of the Seven Kingdoms themselves .

"Queen Cersei of House Lannister!" A crier announced. "Accused of murder, conspiracy and infidelity! Coming before the High Septon and the Most Devout, to face judgement in the Light of Seven and by all laws of man! Let it be known that no man, of any standing, may escape divine justice!"

Whore, whore, whore! " a small group of determined men in the crowd were still chanting, despite the Poor Fellows trying to extinguish the cry.

The creaking of that wheelhouse seemed sad as it came to a halt. A lavish coffin. Cersei, I'm sorry .

The driver - a hooded man in a dark cloak - lashed the palfreys four times to get them to stop. The carriage was still. Nobody said a word. Even despite the jeers and chants from the crowd all around him, the air seemed still. Lancel took a deep breath, and stepped forward to the steps.

The door didn't open. She's scared, Lancel thought. Scared to show herself so vulnerable. Underneath it all - beneath all the pride, avarice and the paranoia - Cersei's true weakness was that she had always been so scared to leave herself exposed.

Lancel kept his voice low. He stepped forward, and knocked on the door. His knuckles rasped three times against the wood. "Cersei," he called, not unkindly. "My Queen. His Holiness is waiting for you, you must come out now."

There was no response, but Lancel could hear footsteps inside the wheelhouse. Pacing. None of the guards twitched.

Lancel grimaced, feeling his heart flutter. He couldn't help but think back to the beautiful, confident woman who had once taken him to bed, or the proud and fierce cousin he had once known. Why did it have to come to this?

After twenty long heartbeats, Ser Wylard stepped forward. "Cersei Lannister!" the knight shouted impatiently. "Step forward!"

Do not make this more difficult than it needs to be, Lancel begged.

But still, there was no reply.

Brief moment of hesitation, before glances turned to the commander of the Warrior's Sons. Ser Theodan's hand went to his sword cautiously, looking around at the wheelhouse. The men were standing like statues. "Queen Cersei!" he bellowed. "You are under

arrest by the Faith of the Seven, and to be brought to trial. You must remove yourself from the carriage!"

No response. Lancel could have groaned. Ser Theodan turned to give the order men to break down the door, when suddenly the handle lurched. The door creaked open, and there was a figure swaying in the doorway.

She was wearing a red dress and a golden shawl.

The crowd cheered too early. None of the knights cheered, they just stared.

It was Cersei's dress. Lancel recognised the dress instantly. But it wasn't Cersei.

His mouth was agape. Cersei's dress… One of her finest - red velvet and gold trimming, long sleeves and a sleek collar, with a golden silk shawl and lavish pearl-tipped shoes. Lancel remembered the dress so, so clearly; a dress that Cersei had worn at her prime, in all her glorious beauty, a dress so expensive it was worth a lord's ransom in itself. The dress Cersei wore for Joffrey's wedding .

At first, Lancel thought that he was staring at some beggar woman, taken from the streets and dressed as a queen.

The woman wearing the dress was a hag. She was the ugliest woman Lancel had ever seen. Her skin was sickly pale, with purple veins bulging over her body and face as white as milk. She was scarred - long, bloody wounds all over her face and shoulders like a butchered pig, and discoloured red skin across her neck. Her throat looked crushed, her skin oozing. She was short and thin, but her body was so bloated and limp it seemed the tight corset was straining to keep her upright. She had dark hair, rough like straw and crudely netted in a bundle with rubies sewn into it. There was expensive Myrish perfume oozing off her, but it couldn't cover the foul, torpid odour wafting from her, like rotting flesh.

A corpse dressed in finery.

Slowly, the hag took uneven, jerky steps down the stairs. She was limping, staggering with every step, gasping. Twitching in ways that no person ever should. Her mouth stammered, but no words came out. Her hands were trembling, fingers flailing at empty air.

The Warrior's Sons stared. The silence fell slowly, and nobody seemed to know how to react. He saw the knights gaping, shuffling backwards.

Lancel felt the terror creep up his spine. Slowly, very slowly, he started to recognise her features. Even underneath all the wounds and mutilated skin, Lancel recognised her cheeks, the dainty nose, the curve of her chin…

" Queen Margaery?! "

And just like that, the world broke.

She lunged. The creature that looked like Margaery Tyrell dived at him, bloody fingernails clawing.

She was stumbling, but Lancel was left so shocked he couldn't react as she dragged him to the ground. Her mouth was gasping, trying to speak. Her bloodshot blue eyes were so, so wide - crazed, panicked, terrified.

The world dissolved into nothing but horror.

Lancel heard Ser Theodan scream something. He couldn't make out the words over his frantic heartbeat. He felt the thing's nails scrape against his breastplate, clawing murderously. Her fingernails snapped, leaving a trail of black, gooey ooze across steel.

The impact still knocked Lancel back, but Ser Wylard jumped to restrain her. Queen Margaery thrashed and squirmed against the big

and broad man trying to hold her down. People were screaming, shouting…

Something twinged in the air, like a signal. At once, all of the Lannister guards moved at once. Their horses were screaming as the men thrust themselves forward.

The fools, Lancel thought vaguely. We outnumber them fifty to one .

Still, these men didn't seem to care.

Bodies clashed together around him, the Warrior's Sons were caught off-guard by the sudden ferocity. It was like they went from passive to murderous without even a warning. He heard swords clanging together, men thrashing. Lancel was still on the cobbled ground, staring upwards at the abomination that looked so little like Margaery.

She was a small and lithe figure, and yet it still took four strong knights to hold her down. Lancel gaped, but the Warrior's Sons were being pushed backwards, their voices breaking in panic…

There was a crunch of flesh and bone. Lancel blinked, and then suddenly the Margaery-creature's hands were crushing Ser Wylard's neck. Blood splattered against the red dress, and then she yanked with a strangled hissing sound.

The knight's body went limp, blood gushed, and then his head bounced off the ground. His head, he thought with pure horror. She tore off his head with her bare hands .

It was such insane strength for a small woman. Unnatural strength, the men couldn't even hold her…

All around him, it was all chaos. He glimpsed a white-cloak stained with blood. Ser Boros Blount's sword flashed, hacking forward with a strength and ferocity the man had never had before.

"Surrender!" Ser Theodan's voice bellowed. "Surrender! Restrain them! Restrain them!"

Lancel was skittering backwards on the ground, unable to pull himself away. He tried to shamble to his feet, but his rainbow cloak tangled around his heels. Two knights drew their swords and charged forward, almost jumping over Lancel to charge at Margaery.

The first blade plunged through Margaery's chest, sending a necklace of pearls clattering to the stones. The second blade severed her left arm at the shoulder in a smooth, clean stroke.

There was no blood, there was nothing but black gunk dripping from the wounds. Margaery didn't even seem to feel it. She didn't stagger. Her other arm lashed out, so viciously that it took a knight off his feet.

They didn't fight like men, they didn't fight like humans - they felt like more animals, like monsters of pure bloodlust and anger erupting from wheelhouse, surging through the crowds. Men running, screaming, howling, fighting…

" Hold them! " someone was bellowing. " HOLD THEM! "

Her lips, Lancel thought vaguely. Margaery's lips were black and cracked, smeared in makeup, but he could see her mouth moving up and down. She was trying to speak, trying to say something, but she couldn't. She couldn't breathe, her throat had collapsed, her mouth could only flop…

The same words. Her lips moved in the same pattern, trying to scream the same words.

Men were hacking at her with swords, but they couldn't put her down. A sword through her breastbone, sticking out her back. Another sliced against her shoulder, and then into her stomach. Yet she kept flailing and tearing. She wouldn't die, she wouldn't fall…

A sword plunged through her wrist and hand, and then it jammed against bone. Even with the blade skewered through her arm, Margaery yanked it from the knight's hand. She lashed the sword around, clubbing a knight over the head with the crossguard. His skull caved inwards like a crushed melon, and he twitched on the cobbles.

Lancel saw another knight hack the head off a Lannister guardsman in a smooth strike, and yet the headless man still lunged at the knight with his blade. Not even decapitation could stop them, even severed arms were still wriggling on the cobbles.

Margaery was on the ground, her body hacked to oblivion. One arm was missing, the other hand a black ruin, but she was still moving, still trying to fight. A spear plunged through her leg, but she was still trying to crawl.

She was crawling towards Lancel.

Her eyes were fixed on his, her mouth still gaping. He lay across the ground. He couldn't run, he could barely breathe, but Margaery was crawling on top on him - black ooze dripping from the hundred wounds across her body…

Lancel would have screamed, but his throat jammed. The creature thrashed and squirmed, trying to wrap her ruined hand around his neck. She was trying to strangle him, even without fingers. Trying to squeeze his throat. The knights were trying to pull her off him, but the abomination wrapped her remaining limbs around him, squeezing so hard it hurt.

It was as if murdering him was the only thing she wanted to do, the last thing she needed to accomplish with her existence. As if killing was the only thing she could do.

Lancel could see her lips, he could see the words she was trying to scream. Her voice was a whisper, so low and so wheezy he could barely even make it out…

"… Kill…" Queen Margaery croaked. "… Kill me…"

He was so close that he could see the whites of her crazed eyes, the bloody tears weeping down her cheeks…

And then a Warrior's Son finally managed to slice her neck apart with a desperate slash.

Even as her head dropped and bounced, her body didn't stop thrashing. Lancel's eyes were still on Margaery's mouth, watching with horror as the head rolled over the stones.

"Kill me," the decapitated head mouthed. "Kill me."

Lancel screamed.

All around him, there was a stampede of footsteps. The Warrior's Sons were forcing the creatures backwards, but the bodies spewed over the white stones. They were each unstoppable; they didn't feel pain, they couldn't be wounded, they had no restraint. It took half a dozen men to overpower even one, and the pure panic was like a nightmare.

For every one that they managed to bring to the ground, it took ten Warrior's Sons with it. They were attacking indiscriminately, without remorse, without hesitation.

There were screams, as another creature was finally brought low and a dozen knights hacked it apart with desperate frenzy. Even the hunks of flesh that were sent scattered were still wriggling.

He saw one of them fall without its helmet, and Lancel couldn't even tell if the creature was male or female. It was nothing but a zig-zagging mess of scars and bloated skin.

He saw Ser Bonifer the Good - his shining armour stained red as he cut a bloody path through the scores of men. Through fellow knights.

He is a good man, why is Ser Bonifer betraying his order? They could not be reasoned with, they could not be stopped…

"Bring them down!" Ser Theodan the True bellowed. " Bring them down! "

They were pushing up the steps… so much blood that the world looked red…

Even Ser Theodan himself had drawn his blade, to fight back a bloody grotesque that used to be Ser Boros Blount. The knight of the Kingsguard had half his helm hacked open and a sword embedded through his skull, but he was still swinging his blade in sharp, vicious lunges. The creature looked blind, its movements shambling, but its lunges were still so, so powerful…

Another Warrior's Son blocked Blount's strike, drawing the fallen Kingsguard's attention away from Theodan. Once, twice, they clashed, and then the creature that used to be Boros Blount stepped forward into a powerful overhand. The Warrior's Son screamed. His sword clattered on the stones, his arm hanging limp and broken.

The next strike hacked straight through the chainmail hauberk protecting the Warrior's Son's arm, tearing it off at his shoulder.

Lancel could only stare. It was less a fight, more a butcher's block.

Blount's last strike carved through Warrior's Son's steel breastplate, nearly cleaving the man in two. The blade shattered into shards, but the shambling Kingsguard fought with the broken sword and didn't seem to realise. Grey substance of Ser Boros' brain dribbled down his cheeks, one eye a collapsed gelatinous ruin.

There was nothing Lancel could do but lie on his back - the wriggling, headless body of the queen still on top of him - screaming at the tops of his lungs.

The Poor Fellows were trying to surge forward to help, but there were more who were fleeing senseless. Bodies were churning, stampeding into each other, men being trampled. The whole courtyard erupted into pure, mindless pandemonium.

There was nothing but madness, pure unending…

"The Stranger's Gate!" a voice called, breaking in fear. "They're coming through the Stranger's Gate!"

The Stranger's Gate - the empty and hollow gate to the back of the sept, through which the silent sisters would cart dead bodies for their last rites. Other people were screaming the same thing, but in the chaos… it was impossible to make sense of it all.

People were shouting, the direction of the crowd was starting to shift. Lancel felt the swell of footsteps from the west, men running in panic. Running away from something - there was more fighting towards the edge of the courtyard.

How? How could Cersei do this? How could she recruit such soldiers? How did she get them through the siege on the Red Keep? How could she…?

Then, Lancel saw more bodies; large, shambling shapes that were pushing in through the Stranger's Gate. They bore no banners, they were clad in mismatched armour, but the way they moved, the way they fought…

They were not human. They were monsters wearing human skin, each of them was an abomination of the flesh.

It was a distraction, Lancel realised dumbly. Cersei sent that Margaery-monster and the wheelhouse as a distraction, to draw attention, to scatter the crowds and cause panic. There was another force of… of creatures attacking from the Stranger's gate simultaneously.

Lancel wanted to be brave, and yet in that moment there was nothing he could do but scream. The black ooze of Queen Margaery's blood still lathered his body. There were black shapes, shambling over the walls, swords hacking indiscriminately. No discipline to them, nothing but raw fury and bloodlust.

To his credit, Ser Theodan the True didn't falter. The knight's voice was strong and loud, even despite the black blood coating his silver breastplate. "Form up!" he bellowed. "Form up! Stand fast!"

Many were running, but the other knights were pushing into formation. The Poor Fellows were trying to stop the creatures, but they were being slaughtered. Lancel couldn't even count the numbers, not through the avalanche of stampeding bodies and trampling boots.

Lancel caught a glimpse of one of them; it was a fat and bloated creature, its body dripping black ooze from purplish skin that looked like rotten meat. It had an iron axe in its hand, but there was a large wooden barrel lashed onto its back. Some of them were carrying barrels as large as their bodies - great wooden kegs fastened to them like pack mules.

The Warrior's sons were trying to form up, a wall of shields and swords across the steps of the Great Sept. Ser Theodan's voice managed to cut through the orchestra of screams. "Form up!" the commander bellowed. "Bowmen! Ready! Archers!"

Knights were hoisting up longbows, notching arrows. Lancel saw the creature shamble forward, its back lurched over the weight of the huge barrel on his back.

"Fire!" Ser Theodan screamed. " Fire! "

Arrows arced through the air. Lancel heard the squelching of shafts through the flesh, and then…

Boom . Air flashed green, and a wave of heat roared. The explosion felt like the roar of a great lion, a whoosh of hot wind…

Lancel was on the ground, but he saw the knights all around him scorched in their armour. He felt the pulse of power, the smoke, the heat. He could smell burning flesh, he felt the heat sear against his skin.

He gagged, unable to breathe. In that moment, Lancel was back in the Battle of Blackwater, watching the whole world burn green.

Wildfire, Lancel thought with horror. The creatures are crying casks of wildfire on their backs .

The courtyard was burning. Burning bodies, burning flesh, even burning stones. Wildfire burnt through it all, making the air haze green and black smoke. All discipline collapsed as the green flames flashed.

The creature carrying the barrel had been obliterated into a crisp, but there were more. There were more pushing through the fire, more of them with barrels on their backs.

Lancel couldn't breathe. He was flailing on the ground, in a trench of corpses. All around him, flaming bodies were burning screaming, their skin melting in their armour. He saw other bodies - some of the creatures were burning too, but they didn't stop. Even as the flames scouring their flesh, the monsters were still charging, still hacking through bodies. Burning undead creatures that never halted, never flinched. Not even fire could stop them.

All around him, bodies were burning and smoking. He heard the sound of wailing, he could taste the pang of blood and tears on his tongue. All around him, he saw the seven-pointed stars of the Faith, smeared red and falling to the ground.

There were still more creatures pushing through the Stranger's Gate, more monsters carrying casks of wildfire across their back.

"Stand fast!" Ser Theodan was screaming. Somehow, the knight was still managing to stand even despite the blistering burns across his body and face. "In the name of the Warri-"

Boom .

Another flash, even larger than the first. The shockwave sent Lancel sprawling, sending his ears numb. It came from behind them. Burning debris scattered through the air, burning men howling. The world was screaming. The wheelhouse, Lancel realised. The wheelhouse exploded.

Cersei didn't just fill the wheelhouse with monsters, she must have filled it with wildfire as well. She prepared this moment for maximum confusion, maximum panic.

The whole courtyard was burning. There was nothing but fire - fire so hot that even the marble steps were melting. Nothing but fire and corpses.

Hell. Hell is here. Cersei has released hell itself .

They were still coming, still pushing their way into the Great Sept itself. The Warrior's Sons were burning, the crowds trampling over each other trying to flee.

I am Lancel the Repentant , he thought foggily, through the blur of terror and pain. Lancel the Warrior's Son…

Lancel turned and ran. He ran as fast as his trembling legs could take him, pushing through the smoke and flames. He didn't know where he was running, he just needed to run anywhere that wasn't here. Lancel the cowardly lion .

Behind him, the Great Sept blazed in green flames. The great bell of the Father's Spire was sounding unendingly, like a thing howling in a endless frenzy even as the flames consumed it. Lancel could hear the explosions - the whoosh of air and fire as the barrels of wildfire

burst open. He hear the seven marble towers collapsing as he ran, falling into the fire along with everything that was good and holy in the world.

The smoke hissed over the city like a black dragon coiling and thrashing in the air, spitting burning debris.

The streets were in pure chaos. The crowds were in a turmoil, mobs of sparrows and Poor Fellows surging around him and breaking into hysteria. A breaking tide of flesh, the stronger trampling the weaker to death. An animal frenzy shoving and trampling each other to escape…

Lancel's rainbow cloak had been torn off sometime in the panic, he didn't even know when. His breastplate was smeared in ash and blood, his whole body shuddering. His hands were still gripping his sword, through - his fingers so tight that he couldn't even dislodge them. His arms weren't working, his mind was spinning and all he could do was run and scream.

Visenya's Hill was burning. The immense structure was blazing from a hundred different explosions, green flashes filling the air.

Everything was seething, he heard wordless cries of pain and anger, he heard sounds of a mob clashing against soldiers. He saw a mindless mob colliding against swords and spears - against soldiers wearing Lannister red.

Lancel didn't even know who, how or what. He just ran.

The fires were spreading, the debris bursting from the blaze and spreading over the thatch houses. Green and red flames were spitting and hissing, the whole city starting to light ablaze.

Only vaguely, he was aware of passing the cobbled Street of Sisters, and he turned and he stared up at the looming Red Keep. The castle looked as red as blood in the smoke and ash. He saw the banners of the seven-pointed star, and he ran towards.

There were Poor Fellows on the streets, the force holding siege against the gates. He saw scared faces, heard the muffled voices of men demanding for answers. Panic, confusion everywhere.

"What happened?" a man screamed - a knight on top of a horse. A Warrior's Son, his face contorted in fear. "The Great Sept, the Most Devout - what happened? "

"Monsters!" Lancel shrieked, his voice breaking. "MONSTERS!"

There was more fighting. Lancel could feel the fighting all around him, rippling from Visenya's Hill and throughout the city. It was all heaving, screaming…

The knight was running up to him, demanding answers, but Lancel could barely even speak. He was too busy trembling, head darting back and forth as the world howled.

The screams. Lancel focused on the screams, and they were close. he heard the sound of an agonising wail from the parallel street. The Faith Militant looked horrified listening to the cries. Cries that were being silenced one by one, every shriek coming to an abrupt halt…

"Form up!" the Warrior's Son cried, shouting to the Poor Fellows. "Form up in the name of the Seven!"

The Seven, Lancel thought, wheezing and sputtering hysterically.

Cersei had chosen seven hells instead .

The earth rumbled. There wasn't even a moment to react as the street exploded into splinters. A force more powerful than a bull burst out of the wall of a nearby house with blinding speed, sending broken wood and debris showering over the street.

He didn't see the blow, but he felt it. He felt the collision of solid metal against a man's skull; Lancel felt the squelch as a man was smeared over the cobbles.

Lancel could only stare as the giant loomed, armour so heavy that the cobbles cracked with every step. The figure was huge - nearly nine-foot-tall and armoured in metal heavier than any Lancel had ever seen.

It was a giant clad in white steel, wearing a white cloak dyed red in blood. Lancel caught sight of a faceless helm, and eyes as black as dread.

And there was a steel greatsword in its hands; it swung the blade's mass like a storm, each of the giant's steps like an earthquake. The greatsword was huge - the largest Lancel had ever seen, more like slab of solid steel, an anvil with a sharpened edge. The giant swung the sword more like a warhammer than a sword.

The blade screamed through the air, and a man was cut into two in a single stroke.

It was too much. Too much terror - it overwhelmed him and sent Lancel's head blank. Lancel fell to his knees as if prayer, all the while the Faith Militant collided against nine foot of solid steel and fury.

A Poor Fellow's body crunched beneath an immense boot. That sword swung, and suddenly two screams went silent at once. One man lunged at its back with an iron sword, but the blade just snapped against the giant's armour.

They tried to charge it, they tried to flee. The giant was relentless, immovable, unstoppable…

Lancel couldn't even process anything but the screams. Panicked cries and abrupt silences.

The Warrior's Son, the knight, he was the only man ahorsed atop a great destrier. The knight tried to charge against the giant, lance lunging, his horse rearing up and hooves trampling, but the steel giant didn't even stagger. Massive hands gripped the horse's neck,

and suddenly the giant was slinging the horse and rider around like they were ragdolls.

Lancel could hear the horse's screams, right up until it went silent with a crack. The giant swung the warhorse off the ground, so easily it was like swinging a child's toy. It sent the horse's corpse into a nearby cluster of men, who scattered under its mass.

First two men, then five, then ten. Over two dozen men, all fell before the giant's sword, boots and fists. An entire street of Faith Militant, and the giant cleaved through them all so brutally it seemed casual.

It was a massacre right before his eyes - holy men dying by the dozens.

Lancel was left on his knees, face smeared with blood, staring upwards as the giant loomed. A blank helm stared back at him, totally emotionless. Lancel's body stopped working, he could only tremble and quiver as the giant raised its steel boot upwards…

"Stop!" a voice called, and the steel giant froze, one foot in the air. "Not that one. Take him back whole."

The giant lowered its foot. No hesitation, no pause. Lancel felt his bowels soiling himself in raw fear.

There was a man lingering at the edge of the alleyway, keeping his distance and out of sight, but his eyes sharp as he monitored. He was an old man wearing brilliant white robes, and a gentle smile on his lips as he looked out over the streaks of blood and gore.

"It is time to return," Lord Qyburn, master of whisperers, ordered, hobbling forward across the bloody cobbles in slow, careful steps. " Spectacular job, ser, but carry this one with back you." He turned toLancel, and he could see Qyburn's dark eyes gleaming. No remorse, no pity, nothing but pure fascination and zeal. "I feel like we may have a use for you yet, Ser Lancel."

The hells are empty, Lancel thought hollowly. All the demons are here .

The great gauntleted hand reached for him, and everything went black.

The Smith

Qyburn liked to hum as he worked. Despite his best efforts to lighten up the area, the black cells were still a dark and dreary place. Qyburn had taken some lavish, brightly coloured tapestries of greens and reds from Maegor's Holdfast, in an attempt to brighten it all up. He had picked the happy cheerful, triumphant tapestries - ones celebrating great hunts or victories - and he placed dozens of candles across the walls and floor. Bright light and bright colours surrounded him as he worked.

Perhaps it was just personal preference, but he did remember Maester Ebrose once propositioning that men would suffer anxiety and seasonal disorder from being removed from the sun for long lengths of time. Qyburn had spent a very long time in the dungeons, perhaps unhealthily so, and he theorised that maybe the bright colours could offset the effects.

Lancel Lannister was left shivering, curled up in one of the cells before a great yellow tapestry depicting the sun. The cell door was left open, and yet Ser Robert Strong stood on the other side of it. Lancel didn't even try to run. The boy looked too shaken to even speak.

He had barely said a word, only whimpers, as Ser Robert dropped him into the dungeons.

Qyburn had made himself at home in the dungeons over his time here, even. It had been a daunting task, but slowly Qyburn had turned the sprawling maze of grimy cells into a decent workshop. He had the run of the dungeons of the Red Keep - from the upper floors

filled with common stock, to the sealed black cells on the third level, to the torture chambers on the fourth. It had been difficult to even keep it all maintained, but, well, Qyburn was hardly the type of person to back away from a challenge.

Qyburn was humming as he shuffled around, gathering his tools. The workshop had already been stripped bare, but Qyburn could make do for now. "I hope you can pardon the quarters," Qyburn said apologetically. "I usually have better apparatus than this, but, alas, I've already packed away most of my equipment."

There was no reply. Qyburn cast an inquisitive eye over Lancel's body, tutting quietly as he saw the faint lash marks across the boy's back. Lancel had been stripped bare, his skin shivering in the chill of the dungeons. Young adult male, Qyburn thought to himself. Healthy, early-twenties. Subject is in good shape; a few mild burns, perhaps some head trauma. Signs of severe weight loss.

"Normally I do try to treat my patients with milk of the poppy too, to ease the process," Qyburn continued, talking mostly to himself, "but I'm afraid I must offer my apologies there too - my last stores of the milk depleted some weeks ago."

Strangely, though, that had been a mixed blessing. Qyburn had discovered that the procedure became slightly more effective the more pain the subject suffered, although he had yet to form a solid hypothesis why.

Lancel's eyes were unfocused, his head drooping, mouth groaning nonsensically. A concussion, Qyburn mused. Unfortunate . Still, Qyburn tapped Lancel's shoulder through the bars. "Can you hear me, Ser Lancel?" Qyburn asked. "I have no desire to be cruel, ser. If there are any steps I can take for your convenience, please do indicate. I am well aware that it can all be rather… unsettling."

Behind him, Ser Robert Strong loomed before the cell door. Qyburn liked having the voiceless knight nearby, in case the patients became unruly. Ser Robert might well be the last of my creatures still

walking, Qyburn mused. Months of work, and they are all gone in a single day. So many miracles of science, all sent to the Great Sept to burn or be hacked apart by fanatics. What a depressing thought .

Still, there was no doubt in Qyburn's mind that Ser Robert Strong was also the finest of his works. Ser Robert Strong had been the first

the experimental subject, the one on which Qyburn perfected his craft. None of the others could even match Ser Robert's… vitality .

Ser Gregor Clegane had been an exceptionally strong man. Even in death, that didn't change.

"Well then, Robert, if you wouldn't mind?" Qyburn said with a smile, and giant of a knight lurched into motion. Ser Robert's armour creaked, as he bent down to grab Lancel. The boy tried to squirm, tried to wriggle away, but it was useless. "On to the bench now, Robert," Qyburn ordered. "Place him and hold him steady."

"No!" Lancel wailed, weeping, as the great knight levered him up. "

No! "

"Now, now," Qyburn tutted. "It will be easier if you don't struggle. I understand this must be unpleasant, and I have no wish to make it more so."

"You-" Lancel tried to scream, but his voice was cut off as Ser Robert dropped him onto the wooden board. A great metal hand slammed over Lancel's chest, pinning him down. Qyburn was already bringing the leather straps, to fasten Lancel's wrists and ankles onto the workbench. Lancel tried to squirm, but Qyburn had practice in tying patients down smoothly.

"To me, the most important thing in the world," Qyburn said soothingly, as he tightened the straps, "is explanation. I am a great believer in awareness, in understanding - that is how we shape and comprehend the world around us. I do not wish to rob you of that, Lancel." Qyburn motioned for Ser Robert to step backwards. "I want

you to understand why you are here. I'm not a ruthless murderer - I want you to die with answers."

Lancel's eyes were dazed and his throat gulping. Qyburn cupped his cheek, trying to calm him. "I do hope you hear my words. I want you to listen to me, to make peace with what is happening to you."

Qyburn picked up another strap of leather, and placed it into Lancel's mouth and tightened it around his neck. The man tried to gag, but Qyburn's grip was firm. Previous patients had bitten their own tongue off during the convulsions, and that had been unfortunate.

"I made a promise to your cousin, the queen," Qyburn continued with a sigh, "that I would resurrect her family. I promised that I could bring back those lost to her. That I could change the world for her." Qyburn thinned his lips. "And, oh, it would be spectacular if I had the chance as well. The greatest discovery in modern history - developed right here, and I was perfectly willing to share it with all."

To think of all the good I could have done… we came so close. His voice was wistful, but then he shook his head. "Nevertheless," Qyburn continued, "circumstances being what they are - I feel like that it is prudent for me to make my hasty departure. I shall be leaving both this city and the queen very quickly, I think, and Ser Robert will be escorting me. I do wish Queen Cersei the very best, but right now it seems… hmm, what's the word?… unhealthy to stay by the queen's side much longer."

Queen Cersei would be furious to learn that Ser Robert - 'her' champion - had abandoned her, but no matter. Ser Robert had always belonged to Qyburn, not the queen. "And yet I am very grateful for the queen's patronage," Qyburn said honestly. "I very much doubt that I ever could have achieved my successes without the resources and finances she has provided me. It would be simply uncouth for me to walk away and leave her empty-handed, so I decided to apply my skills one last time, for her benefit." He smiled at Lancel. "I wish to leave Cersei with one last example of my research

an example that she could demonstrate to the great lords of this realm, so she might still convince them of the possibilities ."

Lancel's eyes were bulging, while Qyburn tottered around towards a plate of knives, scalpels and metal tools. "If Queen Cersei does manage to recover, despite her… difficulties, then I will be more than happy to return to her service," Qyburn said, with a smile. "But, otherwise, I intend to be a very long distance away from King's Landing. I hope you will be able to pass that message on for me, Lancel."

After the grey sheep had taken away his chain, he had still been a young man, full of vigour and curiosity, so he had travelled the world, studying and researching all by himself. As he became older, his joints had started to ache, and he became less capable physically on his own. He realised that he needed the protection and funding that others could give him. Qyburn had worked for many tyrants, mad men and fanatics - he did not care about their ambitions or the services they required from him, so long as they funded his work and gave him the freedom that he required. Qyburn happily rode with Vargo Hoat and the Brave Companions, because they had been willing to indulge the requirements of his research, where more squeamish men would not.

But still, whenever one of his employers fell, Qyburn simply moved onto the next. It was only practical, after all.

Qyburn had spent over half his life in Essos; from working as a scholar to magisters in Myr or as a healer in Qohor, he had travelled half the continent in his pilgrimage, his search for knowledge. And yet he had achieved more in the last year alone than in his other sixty. This last year under Cersei, it had been… revitalising .

Perhaps it was fate that he had achieved his life's work back in the city he was born. Two years ago, Qyburn had harboured his own reservations when they received the offer from Dorne, but now he was so, so thankful that Brave Companions had agreed to return to Westeros on behalf of House Martell.

Qyburn himself had zero regrets about what he had done for Cersei, but he could understand that others might feel rather more… angry about it.

Qyburn had been right standing next to the queen, as they stood on the balcony of the Red Keep and watched the Great Sept of Baelor burn. They could hear the city screaming even from Aegon's High Hill. Neither Qyburn nor Cersei had said a word.

As they saw the smoke, Cersei had just nodded, and Qyburn had left with Ser Robert to clear the sparrows outside the gates.

Lancel tried to scream through the gag in his mouth. Qyburn selected his instrument like an artist choosing his brush, slowly picking out a sharpened, fine length of metal.

That was what it is, really, he mused, an art . Qyburn was a man of science - a maester, a scholar - and yet still the actual practice felt more like art. It was an art he had spent decades trying to perfect.

His entire life had been coursed over forty years ago now, back when he had been a naive and ambitious maester studying at the Citadel. He had absorbed everything they had to teach about the healing arts, but the more he learnt, the more aware he became of how very much was still unknown. He had so many questions, that none of them could answer. It had been frustrating - the steps they refused to take, the questions they refused to ask. He must have dissected half the cadavers in the Citadel in pursuit of answers, but it hadn't been enough. The first time he had truly realised what was lacking had been when he opened up a living body, a sickly man - a man on death's door - and Qyburn realised the one organ that no disciple of the anatomy could find.

The soul. No matter how deep Qyburn cut, he had not been able to find the soul.

All of his life had been coursed around that single purpose. He had spent decades, all across Essos and beyond, trying to find a means

of cutting deeper. It had become something of an obsession, truth be told; forty years and hundreds, thousands, of bodies - all just to uncover the key to it all.

I am but a blind man shambling around in the dark, Qyburn mused, trying to sketch out the shape of something far bigger than myself. How could a man understand something he could neither see, feel nor touch?

As a young man, he had been bold and fuelled by passion. As he grew older and greyer, his thoughts started to turn towards his legacy. His life's work. As… undesirable as some of the necessities may have been, history would remember his work as one of the greatest advancements of the modern age. His discovery could save the world.

The tool he held was a long and straight length of iron, about two feet long, specially forged by a skilled blacksmith on the queen's gold. Very light, very delicate, but strong. The edge was not sharp, but the point was. It was a needle, long and fine, engraven with a runnel for the capture of fluids.

At the sight of the metal, Lancel's disorientated eyes focused and bulged. His limbs started to thrash, struggling against the restraints. He was gasping with muffled shouts, trying to scream through the gag in his mouth.

Qyburn paused. "Are you trying to speak, ser?" It didn't really matter, but Qyburn removed the gag. He was simply curious as to what words Lancel had to say in this situation. The man sputtered. "What do you wish to say, ser?"

The poor boy was as white as a ghost, his eyes bulging so hard they could burst. "The Seven save me…" Lancel gasped, trembling. "In the name of the Father Above…"

"The Seven?" Qyburn chuckled. "Oh no, my dear boy." Your soul is not going to the Seven .

Qyburn shoved the gag back in, wrestling with it as the young man squirmed. Then, Qyburn picked up the needle, and gingerly placed it over Qyburn's stomach with surgical care. There was a special spot - to push the upwards the metal through the bowels straight into the liver.

Blood swelled, and Lancel thrashed. The 'Seven', Qyburn thought as he hummed. Honestly!

What a useless, primitive concept. Faith was the antithesis to understanding, to progress. Qyburn had absolutely zero regrets about blowing that temple up.

Qyburn moved with experienced care, every movement slow and purposeful. He went to pick up another needle. "The first stages are uncomfortable," Qyburn admitted. "I must drain your body of its blood, bile, phlegm and fluid."

He was already pressing in another metal spike, this time into the lungs. It took care, made all the more difficult by Lancel's unfortunate spasms. He inserted another needle into Lancel's back, near the vertebrate, and suddenly the convulsions stopped. Lancel's pupils were still twitching, but his body was left paralyzed, unable to move. Pale ooze leaked from the boy's spine.

The secret to success, Qyburn had found, was to keep the patient alive for as long as physically possible. A period of fermentation added to the quality of the final result. With enough precision and care, Qyburn had found that a living body could last weeks despite the harvesting of the humours, the needles in the essential organs.

There is no time to spend weeks with this one, however, Qyburn thought with a sigh. This time, he would have to push the task somewhat. Qyburn selected more needles, more blades.

Qyburn had larger and hollow needles for major arteries, as well as very, very fine needles that would pierce the cranium. All of Lancel's fluids - his life - were dribbling down towards the jars on the floor.

The sight was… well, it felt magical, actually. Somehow, all of those fluids mixed together to keep a body running - the complexity was wondrous. Every man is just a sack of water, really, Qyburn mused, the blood and bile and ooze is the key to it all .

Qyburn brought ceramic jugs to help collect the fluids as they dribbled down, but he stood ready to block the flows should Lancel lose too much. It was all a balancing act; he wanted Lancel to be on the brink of death, but not quite falling over the precipice.

"Your body is paralyzed," Qyburn said, his voice a whisper, "and I know it must hurt, but your mind can still comprehend. Please, try to comprehend."

Lancel's eyes twitched, but his throat could only gasp. There were seventeen metal spikes, stabbed through his body, neck and skull at different angles. The fluids all leaked down the metal needles, and into the ceramic pots. Tubes of pig intestines ensured that waste was minimised.

Qyburn picked out another needle - finer than all the others. "I'm sorry," Qyburn said with a sigh. "I leave this one for last, it is the most unpleasant."

Very carefully, Qyburn brought the metal spike up towards Lancel's face, and slowly placed it into the eyeball. It took a small hammer, a fair amount force, and extreme precision to push the needle upwards, straight into the frontal lobe of the brain. Lancel made gagging noise, blood sputtering down his cheek.

When he extracted enough, the fluids would be mixed together with Qyburn's formula - transmuted and processed using hard metals, sulphur and salt. The blood had to be boiled, the spinal fluid had to be concentrated. Afterwards, it would be pressed back into Lancel's body. After it was given time to settle in his bloodstream, more fluid would be extracted again. Ideally, the subject would be given food and water, kept alive for as long as possible, that the body might continue producing its humours. Regrettably, he could not afford that

luxury in this case. With sufficient care, Qyburn could keep the process happening for a long time - constantly recycling and drawing out more and more of the person's being. Draining them, piece by piece.

The flesh would incubate the substance, it would absorb the properties of the body, ready to be harvested and applied.

Eventually, after enough refinement, it would come together form a black ooze; a miraculous substance Qyburn called the Essence.

That was the secret that Qyburn had discovered years ago - that the soul was in the flesh. A person's soul was attached to their body, the soul was dispersed through the blood, the bones, the muscle tissue and the brain tissue. There was no secret ephemeral force, there was only blood and bone. The secret to harvesting the soul was simply a matter of draining the body in the right way.

Lancel Lannister would have screamed, but he couldn't with a needle in his throat. There was no practical reason for that one, but Qyburn simply preferred the quiet. The boy's face was contorted in pain, unable to move, all the while his skin turned as pale as milk.

Qyburn patted Lancel on the shoulder sympathetically, and then placed a funnel into his mouth, and poured a special mixture down his throat.

There was power in the Essence. A concentrated and impregnated distillate of the humours. Something of the subject's soul - their strength, their characteristics, their pain - would be absorbed into the black gloop. The Essence was life itself, the primal building block. The fuel of being.

"This is the first phase," Qyburn soothed. "I know it hurts, but you just have to hold on. I promise - in the second, you won't feel a thing."

Qyburn left, to go boil himself a pot of tea. Time was limited; Qyburn had his secret escape tunnel already planned, already had set aside a pack filled with currency and reagents, and his research notes and materials. Nevertheless, he could only guess how long it would take the forces in the city to break through the Red Keep. King's Landing had been suffering several dozen riots all at once, last he checked the windows.

Queen Cersei had refused to submit herself to trial, and the Faith Militant refused to yield. The only way the queen could retake control of the situation was if the Faith Militant and the High Septon were removed from the equation.

Cersei still had great influence among the Wisdoms of the Alchemists' Guild, and Lord Hallyne had been all too happy to resume their efforts on the queen's orders. Qyburn himself had inspected the alchemist's formulas and the processes they used to develop their substance, and he found himself pleasantly impressed. At the Citadel, they derided the pyromancers and their practices, and yet what Qyburn saw was far more effective than the maesters knew. Qyburn had actually copied many of their secrets, and he later applied the same techniques to help develop his Essence.

Wildfire was capable of destroying the Great Sept, no doubt, but the difficulty had simply been how to apply it - how to move such large quantities of the substance into position? Qyburn had heard that Aerys had spent months positioning caches of wildfire throughout the city in underground cellars, but Cersei simply didn't have that sort of time or freedom of movement. In any case, all of the caches that Aerys had left behind had already been recovered by the alchemists.

No, the only way to move sufficient quantities of wildfire into the Great Sept was if there were men to carry it. They required many large barrels of the substance to be carried through the several thousand Faith Militant and up Visenya's Hill, to burn the Most Devout and the High Septon. It had to be quick; every enemy of Cersei's would be gathered together for her trial.

Of course, no sellsword in the world would be willing to walk into certain doom with a cask of wildfire on his back, so Cersei had needed another breed of soldier. The queen needed a soldier without fear, without restraint, that could achieve the impossible. Qyburn had supplied. They had both excelled at their tasks.

The Alchemists' Guild had developed the explosive, and it was left to Qyburn to develop the delivery mechanism.

It had surprised Qyburn how similar the alchemist's practices were to his own. Where he worked with flesh, the alchemists worked with oils and pitches, which the alchemists theorised to be a distillate of ancient life. Qyburn had, out of curiosity, started mixing in wildfire along with his Essence, and it had produced fairly tremendous results. His first creations had been fairly frail things, but later he had created ones of remarkable durability. He created soldiers with burning blood.

He had resided in the city for but a single year, and yet the processes involved had become more effective, more powerful over that year, for reasons Qyburn couldn't yet explain. Formulas and 'spells' that the Alchemists' Guild had long dismissed were starting to become effective again, while Qyburn's own art had one breakthrough after another. Everything had only recently become stronger, much more efficient.

Cersei had ordered one hundred of Qyburn's creations, but Qyburn had overachieved.

He had managed to produce two hundred and twenty-six. Over two hundred unkillable, unfeeling and relentless constructs.

The Faith Militant never stood a chance.

Lancel's blood was seeping out his body, his gentle spasms fading. "Are you still conscious, Lancel?" Qyburn asked. "I want you to be aware. I have never been certain how much intelligence can be retained after the transition, but I have high hopes for you. Look

down Lancel, if you can - that is your body and soul, dripping out into these pots. That is your everything.

"I will not lie to you, ser. You are going to die," Qyburn whispered sympathetically. "But it will not be for long. I will perform my process - I shall transmute your substances and your fluids into something eternal, and I will give you your life back. I will place your Essence back into your body, and it will reanimate your flesh."

There wasn't even a twitch. "You will be freshly dead, your body hardly decayed," Qyburn continued. "Ser Robert Strong here was cobbled together from many damaged sources, he's hardly the most… whole person. The other creations were formed in this workshop were also developed to be fragmented - I did not need intelligence for their purpose. They were designed to be crude things.

"But you… you will be nearly whole, I doubt I'll need to supplement your body with any additional pieces at all," Qyburn explained gently. "And so corruption will be minimised. I do hope that you that you will be able to retain your thought, your memories, your personality, even. I hope that, afterwards, you will still have the presence of mind to describe what it felt like."

Qyburn was especially curious on that front; he was an insatiably curious man, but he had always wanted to know - what did it feel like to die?

Qyburn had made studious notes on all his experiments and studies. Occasionally, his creations would retain bits and pieces from their past lives. Some words or phrases, the infrequent twitch or mannerism - it was like they held echoes of the person or persons they once were. Sometimes, his creations would constantly repeat the last words that they said on death, reliving their over and over again.

Ser Robert had mostly certainly inherited the same violence and love of brutality from Ser Gregor, but the lack of intelligence also made

him very compliant.

The simple soldiers were useful enough, but the true goal for Qyburn was defeat death itself. To resurrect a person entirely, their mind intact.

Through the Essence, Qyburn could achieve miracles. Dead flesh could be reanimated, even a tattered, stitched-together corpse could be given life again. He could give life to the dead. The bodies would move, possessed by the souls of those from which the Essence were extracted from.

Thanks to Cersei's patronage, Qyburn had been able to drain dozens - hundreds - of bodies for their Essence. It had been trial by error in many ways, science by research. Qyburn preferred women - pregnant, if possible - for his work. Their partsproduced an especially potent Essence. The serving ladies of the castle had proved useful and manageable, but more had been needed still.

The process had become more efficient over time. At first, it had required the draining of ten bodies for a single reanimation. There was little hope of the retention of the personality or mind in such cases. Ten bodies dead, for one resurrection - it was wasteful. But, still, over time, with practice and greater efficiency, he had narrowed it down to eight, six, three…

He theorised that, in time, as he came closer to reviving a body with only the Essence extracted from itself, he would be able to minimise the fragmentation and preserve the mind. His formulas were constantly being re-evaluated and improved, especially as extracted and applied the insights that the Alchemists' Guild offered him.

In the second stage, after their bodies finally died and every drip of Essence was extracted, their bodies were put to use. Their corpses stitched back together, and their bodies were prepared for reanimation.

In the third stage, when the Essence was returned to them, the dead and maimed flesh would be given life again. Even stitched-together and rotten skin would move again when the black ooze was pumped back through their veins. It was almost instinctive; like the flesh itself knew how to use the Essence. Or perhaps it was the other way around. He had yet to form a hypothesis.

The creatures Qyburn had produced in the dungeons for Cersei were tormented and basic things, each one possessed by the tortured souls of dozens of scattered people. They had been primitive creatures, incapable of rational thought, and very often violent and yet they still proved… simple enough to be instructable. Perhaps it was the one thing that every human shared; the desire to be commanded, to follow orders.

That, and the desire to kill. Every one of his constructs had reverted to primal, animalistic aggression.

But Qyburn was their master, their maker. They followed his will; perhaps his creations imprinted upon Qyburn in the same way new-born babe imprinted on their mother, the instinctive bond between progeny and creator. Or perhaps something of the residue of his own soul coloured his creations, a product of the hands-on process of animation. My creations had always belonged to me, he thought with a flash of pride, not to Cersei .

Qyburn picked up another knife, slowly rehearsing what he had to do to prepare Lancel for the second stage. The heart will have to be removed, soaked in Essence, and then reinserted, he decided. I need surgical cuts to the bowels to squeeze the Essence into the bloodstream, and certain organs must be removed. Much of the spine and gut will be damaged after the draining, they need to be scoured . Qyburn sighed. There had been so many breakthroughs,and yet his process still felt so… crude. These were still the early days of his research, all told.

"There have been others who developed similar practices to mine, you know?" Qyburn said conversationally. "Variations in places, yet

similar ingredients, similar processes. I am not the first to walk down this path. The Alchemists' Guild still possesses a formula for 'eternal life'," he scoffed, "that they thought defunct. I strongly suspect the Bloodstone Emperor applied very similar methodology to mine, and to say nothing of the blood mages in Gogossos. The Ancient Valyrians dabbled from time to time. I've traced many of the older practices to originate from Asshai, but in truth, I suspect that Stygai was the source of it all.

"Different applications, different usages, yes… but at the core…" Qyburn sighed. "They were all men who tried to walk in the same field. To defeat the Stranger."

There was a pause. "I travelled the world in my youth, once. From Oldtown to Qarth, even to the edge of the Basilisk Isles. Just to try to make sense of all those lost histories, the legends and the curses," Qyburn explained. "But it is that not the way of things? A man grasps for greatness, and all others try to pull them down. Revolutionaries discover breakthroughs, yet superstition and fear rules instead. History is written, and then foolish men try to unwrite it.

"Yet I am not a 'magician', Lancel. Those fools that rode with Vargo named me a necromancer , yet I scoffed at the term." Qyburn shook his head. "No, I am a man of the sciences. I strife not only to perform miracles, but to explain them."

There was no reply. Qyburn did not need one. He had grown used to talking and humming and singing to himself, in the darkest levels of the dungeons surrounded by his work.

Ten thousand years ago, Qyburn mused, Westeros was changed forever when the Rhoynish brought the art of metal forging and smithing to the Andals . A new technology that redefined everything. Qyburn aimed for something similar; a new revolution, as he reinvented the art of smithing flesh.

Fleshsmith . That was a term that the blood mages of Gogossos had used, back when they filled Old Valyrian prison colonies with

mutilated half-human creations. Qyburn intended on reinventing the term.

Of all the things they've called these practices… yes, I like 'smith' the best . A workman who extracted and refined natural resources, who reshaped them into something new, something useful . A man who turned the elements into tools, a man who laboured to put the world to right, to purpose. A man who smithed metal could transform rocks into steel, into swords, and yet Qyburn could transform corpses into moving bodies, into soldiers. What is that, if not revolutionary?

The superstitious, the unimaginative and fearful - the grey sheep of the world - they would not squash Qyburn's discovery. Not this time.

Fleshsmith. Yes, I can work with that .

Tis a new world .

There was nothing but quiet in the dark cells, as Lancel's blood and fluids dripped into the pots. Qyburn was already preparing his mixture.

"It will not be long now, Lancel," Qyburn placed his hand on the man's bloody shoulders, to try and soothe him into his passing. "When your heartbeat stops, your next life will begin. You will become just like Ser Robert here - strong and indestructible. You are among the first of a new form of life, redefining the natural order."

Ser Robert twitched at the sound of his name. Even in his paralysed agony, Lancel managed to gasp harder, trying to squirm. His eyes were rolling in their sockets, like crazed things. Ser Robert still loomed at the base of the workbench, totally unmoving.

"Robert here?" Qyburn chuckled. "Do not be frightened of the silent knight, ser. He is… loyal."

Qyburn paused, glancing between Lancel and up at Ser Robert's faceless white helm. " Ah," Qyburn said finally. "You know him, do

you not? I believe you have a history?"

There was no response. Qyburn smiled softly. "Ser Robert," he said in a low whisper. "Please remove your helm."

The knight did so without complaint. Even in the gloom, Qyburn could see the greying necrotic flesh and tinge of green rot against the man's skin. The knight was bald and hairless, and there was a thick and ugly scar across his neck where the head had been attached.

Still, even despite the scars and the damaged skin, even through all flesh that Qyburn had replaced and patched, the shape of features was still recognisable. Green speckled irises glinted in the dark.

Lancel choked. His pupils dilated, eyes twitching - they were the eyes of a man staring straight at his demons.

They were the eyes of a man who suddenly knew he was in hell.

Lancel Lannister couldn't even scream.

Qyburn only chuckled. "Why did you think I named him 'Robert', ser?"

The mutilated head of King Robert Baratheon loomed down at them, the man's face totally emotionless.

The body of Ser Gregor Clegane, afflicted by the magical poison from the Red Viper's spear, had been a fantastic test subject to work upon. The manticore venom had proven to be one of the components needed for his Essence; working with Ser Gregor had been a ground-breaking experience. Nevertheless, Queen Cersei had insisted that the Mountain's head must go to Dorne. Qyburn complied, but he had been left with a headless corpse of a giant that needed a replacement.

Robert Baratheon's head had been chosen as a matter of both practicality and convenience.

Qyburn had used his position to ransack the crypts of Great Sept for components - surprisingly, the tombs fit for kings had fewer guards than most common graveyards. Perhaps no other graverobber had ever dared to attempt those tombs, so they had never felt the need to secure them.

Gregor Clegane had been a man of incredible stature, most other skulls simply wouldn't fit on his neck. Qyburn had needed another large man, and there could be no doubt that the former king had been a very big man too.

King Robert had been dead for some three years, but Qyburn found that the very high quality royal ointments and dressings that the silent sisters dressed the king in had done a remarkable job at preventing decay. There had still been a large degree of degradation, of course, but overall the head had been workable enough to use. He had sealed the crypt back up again, and nobody had even noticed that the king's tomb had been robbed.

Qyburn had constructed Ser Robert to be a warrior. Qyburn had wanted a famed warrior's head on his creation's shoulders. King Robert's skull met all of the requirements.

Plus, there was the symmetry that Qyburn had appreciated. Who could be a better champion for Cersei, than her former husband?

Ser Gregor Clegane's body may have provided the base, but there were at least a dozen different other corpses that contributed body parts or organs to repair the various damage. Robert Baratheon's own eyeballs had been rotted out of his skull, so Qyburn replaced them with the eyes of Tywin Lannister - for no other reason than he thought it was funny.

Still, for all that there had been other contributors, it was still very much Ser Gregor's Essence that remained dominant. It was still the Mountain's soul that powered Qyburn's own personal soldier.

Lancel's spasms were becoming jerkier, more desperate. Qyburn had seen it before; the man was falling over the precipice. Alive one moment, dead the next . "I will see you soon, Ser Lancel," Qyburn promised. "Give my regards to Cersei. And to the Seven, if you happen to see them too."

Afterwards, Qyburn went to pick out a knife to cut open the chest, and a crowbar to break through the ribcage. He handled both the tools with practiced ease.

The Seven, Qyburn thought as he chuckled. The gods are dead. The new era will be an age of man .

Still, he couldn't help but think back to his youth, and the songs that mothers would sing in the orphanage. Qyburn was chuckling under his breath, and he couldn't get the hymns out of the head. Slowly, as he worked and hacked and laboured, he started to sing quietly in the dusty air.

The Father's face is stern and strong, he sits and judges right from wrong. He weighs our lives, the short and long, and loves the little children!

…

The Mother gives the gift of life,

and watches over every wife.

Her gentle smile ends all strife,

and she loves her little children!

…

The Warrior stands before the foe,

protecting us where e'er we go.

With sword and shield and spear and bow, he guards the little children!

…

The Crone is very wise and old,

and sees our fates as they unfold.

She lifts her lamp of shining gold,

to lead the little children!

…

The Smith, he labours day and night, to put the world of men to right.

With hammer, plough, and fire bright, he builds the little children! "

Qyburn chuckled with the last line, but he wiped the scraps of flesh and gore off his hands and continued.

The Maiden dances through the sky, she lives in every lover's sigh.

Her smiles teach the birds to fly, and gives dreams to little children!

…

The Seven Gods who made us all,

are listening if we should call.

So close your eyes, you shall not fall,

they see you, little children! "

His voice was so, so soft, singing in the musky air. He thought of Cersei, of her dead babes, and the city that was roiling and burning above him. The mobs were likely already at the gates, the bodies slamming to tear the doors off their hinges…

So close your eyes, you shall not fall, they see you, little children. "

…

Author Notes:

Well, this chapter marks the one year anniversary of Dragons of Ice and Fire. Plus, I think it's a fairly fitting chapter for Halloween, so there's that. Coming up to the end of the King's Landing arc with the next one.

Thanks to Diablo Snowblind for his help with this one.

Chapter 40

Chapter 40

The Crone

It was a pleasant evening beneath the shade of the kingswood, in a clearing by the elm trees overlooking the sandy dunes of the coast. A faint chill blew out from the Blackwater, but the sun was bright and warm. They sat around a small pavilion at the edge of the woods, the horses and ponies trotting freely on around the green grass between the wheelhouses, while the Tyrell rose wafted in the wind.

It was hardly the most luxurious place to spend so many weeks, but it was quiet and serene. More comfortable than that bloated keep in King's Landing, to Olenna's mind. They sat together around the table, sitting on barrels, eating lemoncakes and sipping juice.

"Where is the cheese?" Olenna demanded to her steward. She couldn't recall the man's name, or didn't care to. "I specifically asked for there to be cheese on the platter."

"Forgive me, my lady, but our stocks-"

"Should have been restocked the last supply run, if I recall."

His face was pained. "My lady, the supplies-"

"I am seventy-two years old, son, but I can distinctly remember telling you to order more cheese," Olenna said sharply. "Now what is your excuse for being deaf?"

The man grimaced. "I shall make inquiries, my lady."

Across the table Margaery giggled, trying to catch the crumbs falling from her mouth as she laughed. "I swear, the way that they say 'my lady'…" Olenna mused with a sigh as the servant shuffled away. "I

would prefer it more if they just addressed me as 'you bitter old cunt' - at least that would be more honest."

"Grandmother!" the girl exclaimed, both laughing and sounding appalled. "It's quite alright."

"It's quite not," Olenna retorted, picking up a crystal goblet filled with wine. "First it was the crackers, now the cheese. I swear, another week here and I will have to forage berries and beetles. Living in the wilderness."

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms raised an embroidered napkin to her mouth, pecking at the platter of pastries. She was so young and delicate; cascading soft brown hair and golden eyes, red lips and bright cheeks. Margaery's smile was the most beautiful, though; when she laughed she lit up the world.

Olenna felt like a withered old prune sitting across from her granddaughter. All of Margaery's companions were young, bright and vibrant, while Olenna was a toothless and wrinkled crone, with a hunched back and pain in her hips that ached terribly. They were the future of the realm, while Olenna was a fossil from the past. Camping in the kingswood had been harsh for a woman of her age; the wind could grow something fierce and her mattress was like a wooden board.

And yet, still, there was no place Olenna would rather be than next to her precious little girl.

"I could always bring you food from the capital," Margaery offered. Behind her, Megga and Elinor Tyrell were giggling as they picked flowers and knitted daisy chains in the grass. Margaery's ladies-in-waiting were pecking from platters of food, and walking barefoot in the grass.

"Oh yes, wouldn't that be glorious?" Olenna said, a smirk passing over wrinkled dry lips. "The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, stealing

food from the kitchens to feed her grandmother hiding in the woods. No, my dear, I think not."

"Please, grandmother, if it's uncomfortable you not need to linger,"

Margaery said gently. "You always truly could return to Highgarden."

She was a sweet girl. Every single time they had these little feasts, Margaery always showed quiet concern for her old grandmother's health. "I am not dead yet, my dear."

"Just do not feel obligated to stay on my behalf."

"And leave you all alone in that viper's nest of a city?" Olenna shook her head. "No, I shall eat the berries and beetles before that happens."

Olenna had been camped by the kingswood for nearly two months now, ever since Tommen's wedding. The official word was that the Queen of Thorns had returned to Highgarden, but rather her and a small retinue had lingered a few leagues away from the city. They kept away from the roads, hidden in the trees on the countryside.

The Queen Regent has us all walking on eggshells, Olenna mused.

Still, needs must. Margaery was a strong young woman, and yet she still needed her grandmother's advice on occasion. Olenna would not let Cersei steal that away from her so easily.

"Are you sure you are quite alright?" Margaery insisted. "I do worry for you, out here by yourself."

Olenna snorted. "My child, I assure you I am alright. Left and Right keep me well secure, and it's hardly as if I'm leagues away from civilisation."

Left and Right were Olenna's two personal guards - big burly twins called Erryk and Arryk, yet Olenna could never differentiate them. She had referred to them interchangeably as Left and Right for years. They were nice enough chaps; both standing over seven foot

tall, broad-shouldered, strong-jawed and with thick moustaches.

They were both very capable, but had a limited sense of humour.

Olenna was just a defenceless old lady, after all. She liked to have men like Left and Right around to keep her company. It was a fairly small camp, but she had fifty guardsmen and half as many stewards surrounding her, with six wheelhouses overloaded with supplies and cages filled with ravens. All of them trusted Tyrell men, very loyal and discreet.

Any fool could have seen that Cersei had been chalking with Olenna's presence, while Olenna had wanted a quick wedding for her granddaughter. It could have been troublesome if Cersei had delayed the wedding indefinitely, but all it took was a few barbed comments and then there was a ceremony happening for no other reason than to rid King's Landing of Olenna Tyrell. Once Tommen and Margaery were husband and wife, king and queen, Olenna had quite happily backed off.

Still, Olenna had too much invested in the capital to truly leave Margaery alone. It was a better solution to stay close, and stay discreet. Margaery and her escort quite regularly took long horse rides out of the city, and she visited her grandmother at least twice a week without anybody but her most trusted companions knowing.

"I swear," Margaery said with a sigh. "I treat Cersei with nothing but kindness, and she still glares at me like she wants to claw my eyes out." She reached for another lemoncake. "I have been naught but polite-"

"Careful with those cakes, dear," Olenna warned. "Do think of your hips."

"Oh hush." Margaery rolled her eyes, and picked up the sweet. "After the week I've had, I think I need these cakes."

"Cersei is a prickly woman. I feel sorry for her sometimes; she was raised to lust for power, but she doesn't know what to do with it when

she has it. Like a housecat trying drag the body of a boar; it's not going anywhere, but it is still for the best not to provoke her." Olenna sighed wearily. "Oh, and Ser Osney Kettleblack is going to try to fuck you."

"He is? How quaint." Margaery laughed. "I'm sure that will go well for him."

"Cersei has started scheming again," Olenna explained. "We knew she would. She wants to shame you, she has ordered her little knight to get into your smallclothes. Ser Osney will want to take your dress off, and then a bunch of great lords might 'happen' to find you two in the act. Cersei means to see you charged with infidelity."

She means to accuse me of infidelity?" Margaery asked in quiet disbelief.

"Yes," Olenna agreed dryly. "And to think I thought Cersei had no sense of humour."

Margaery leant backwards on her seat, folding her arms. "Well, I assure you that Ser Osney will be disappointed."

Olnna shook her head. "Don't disappoint him too quickly."

" Grandmother! "

Humour the poor boy, Margaery," Olenna insisted. "Flirt with him a bit, let him think he has a chance. Remember, he's not very bright, the poor soul. Let us draw out Cersei's scheme for a while, give us a bit of time."

The girl scoffed unhappily, but she didn't protest. "I take it this comes from Lady Taena?"

"Of course." Olenna nodded. Lord Orton Merryweather was loyal to Tyrell over Lannister, but it was Lady Taena that truly had her eyes

on the future. Taena of Myr was ambitious, intelligent and sultry - all traits that Olenna had learnt to appreciate, respect, and fear.

Every move that Cersei made, Taena dutifully passed back to Olenna. While Taena flirted her way into the queen's trust, Olenna could read Cersei like a book.

Olenna knew that Lady Taena was also selling information to Doran Martell in Sunspear, but Olenna allowed that so long as she was informed exactly what was being passed. Like any good prostitute, Lady Taena Merryweather was looking for more customers, more protection. Olenna didn't judge.

Cersei believed that she had weeded out all the catspaws, but that was laughably untrue. On her small council alone, the master of laws Orton Merryweather belonged to House Tyrell, and the Hand of the King Harys Swyft answered to whoever ordered him in a firm enough voice. Even the master of coin - old, sickly Gyles Rosby - harboured his own disloyalties against the crown, while Olenna strongly suspected that the master of ships, Aurane Waters, was Littlefinger's creature.

The only truly concerning one of the bunch was 'Lord' Qyburn - the gods alone knew who Cersei's spymaster answered to. Olenna suspected the Spider, but that may have been just an instinctive response.

Between myself, Littlefinger, and Doran Martell, Olenna mused. I'm not sure if there's anybody in King's Landing who doesn't have their fingers in at least one pot . Still, that was simply the way the game was played.

"Let's allow Cersei's scheme to go forward, we don't want squash it too quickly," Olenna said firmly. "String Ser Osney along for now. You are playing your part beautifully, my dear."

"It is becoming tiring," Margaery admitted with a quiet grimace.

"I know." Margaery was a saint for lasting this long; if Olenna had been the one alone with Cersei, the bitch likely would have been slapped already. "And yet so long as Cersei is on the throne and your father is sitting outside Storm's End, there is not much we can do. Truly, is there any man in all the realm who has more experience sitting outside a castle?"

"My pa is doing his best," Margaery said defensively.

"I know, dear," Olenna waved her hand dismissively. "Yet it is not Mace that I'm worried about. Garlan is strong, Willas has his wits to him, yet I fear it is Loras who is in the most danger. If Cersei cannot target you, she will want to remove your brother from the picture, and a knight of the Kingsguard cannot disobey the Queen Regent's orders." Her nails tapped against the wooden table. "I knew that him taking that white cloak was a bloody fool's thing to do."

Honestly, Olenna thought with a sigh, it feels like half my life has been spent trying to clean up after my family . Her days were spent trying to look after the fools.

Margaery stiffened. "Cersei wouldn't dare hurt Loras."

"Those are dangerous words. Never assume that." She shook her head. "No, we need to be safe. We need to find a way to take Loras out of commission, safely and without suspicion. An injury, perhaps."

"Grandmother, you can't-"

"It doesn't have to be his injury," Olenna said sharply. Some battle wound that could knock Loras out of Cersei's view, perhaps? Therewere those that would be willing to play along with it. She would have to make arrangements. "I just want to make sure that Cersei thinks she has us where she wants us."

Margaery opened her mouth to protest, and then slumped. Clever girl . "I do not understand why Cersei is so against us," Margaerysaid with a sigh. "Is it truly just avarice?"

"Avarice, and a good dollop of paranoia," Olenna said with scoff. "Ever since her brother escaped the Red Keep's dungeons, the whole realm has been watching her spiralling. Her father was the one who always curbed her excesses, and Tywin is dead." I never thought I would actually miss Tywin Lannister . "Did you know that they found golden coins of the old Kingdom of Reach underneath the gaoler's pillow?"

"Truly?" Margaery frowned. "I mean… why?"

"Because I imagine that a signed confession with the Tyrell seal would have been a tad too suspicious," Olenna said humourlessly. "No, somebody wants to frame House Tyrell for her brother's crimes, and Cersei is all too eager to believe it."

Even after all the preparations I took, the deals I made, Olenna thought bitterly, it comes back to Joffrey's murder . Even in the most roundabout way possible, House Tyrell still ended up suffering Cersei's ire for that deed. Framing Tyrion for the strangler in Joffrey's cup had been so very convenient at the time, but it still came back to bite her.

Olenna mused on it for a while, and a thought came to her. "But perhaps we should encourage that idea. Let us spread the rumour that I keep a chest of old Gardener King gold coins in my possession, that I use to short-change tradesmen."

"But you don't." Margaery frowned.

"Of course I don't. I'm not a cunt. And what sort of fool would pay easily traceable, ancient coins for a murder?" Olenna could have laughed, but the situation really wasn't funny. "Yet… nevertheless… Cersei is going to blame us no matter what we do or don't do, so we might as well roll with it. Go on; let her think that this ridiculously incriminating evidence truly does lead back to me."

"Grandmother," Margaery bit her lip in worry. "We should not provoke Cersei. She is already suspicious enough as is."

"My dear, it's impossible not to provoke Cersei. Your very marriage to her son is provocation enough," Olenna replied dryly. "But Cersei insists on playing this game, so very well, let us play."

There was one lemoncake left on the platter. Olenna scratched her chin, listening to the wind rustling the trees, and the sound of the girls' merriment ringing over the clearing. It was a soft, gentle moment. How many decades has it been since I've ran around barefoot in the grass? Olenna mused. Gods, to be young again…

"I know Cersei's type," Olenna continued after a pause. "She is incompetent so long as she's comfortably in power, but she's fire and fury while she's fighting for power." Much like her deceased husband, actually . "We want her to believe that she's winning rightup until the moment she loses."

The War of Five Kings had been bloody and violent, but it looked like the War of Three Queens would be fought in the shadows.

The Faith Militant was growing in power, and King's Landing was transforming into a pit of knives. Olenna knew that Littlefinger was scheming, Prince Doran Martell was shifting, and Varys would be weaving his web from whatever rock he had skittered under. The reports that Olenna had received from the east and north were causing her worry as well.

And yet nothing could be done until the power struggle around the capital was resolved. Cersei would try to shame Margaery; to paint the young queen as a slut and an adulteress, to strip the crown away from her. Cersei was simple-minded in many ways; power and shame was the only way Cersei could think. So long as Olenna knew that, she could make sure that Cersei's own trap would backfire.

Olenna looked at her granddaughter - her beautiful, sweet and intelligent granddaughter. Margaery was kind and good-hearted, strong and sharp. She would make a good queen, a better queen than Cersei ever could be. Even as a little girl, Margaery had learnt

everything Olenna had to teach and more. Margaery had been born to be queen.

The only thing standing in Margaery's way was one spiteful stepmother.

"She needs to think she's in control. So long as Cersei is feeling confident then I'm not too concerned," Olenna said softly.

"Then what is the concern?"

Olenna's lips curled slightly. "What concerns me, my dear, is what Cersei might do when she's about to lose."

They spent the whole day taking under the shade of the elm trees, taking about the news in the capital and discussing rumours and gossip. By the time dusk started to creep over the trees, the air was chilly but Margaery insisted on staying up until the last possible moment. Margaery hugged her grandmother tightly, and promised to return by the end of the week.

She never did.

The news of Stannis Baratheon's return to Dragonstone made it difficult for Queen Margaery to leave the city after that. The alert increased, their movements were restricted. For a long time, Olenna was left stewing in her camp in the kingswood, quietly monitoring the situation in the capital.

Somehow, from that pleasant day under the elm trees, from those quiet words and playful laughter, everything turned sour.

…

My daughter! " Lord Mace Tyrell boomed. Her son was red in the face, trying to puff himself up with every gulp of air. Like so many men, Mace had grown to believe that louder equals stronger. "Where is my daughter, ser?"

Ser Mark Mullendore's face was pale. He was a young man, with chiselled cheeks and a jaw that could have been handsome, if not for his face that was gaunt with fear. "The Red Keep was stormed early morn, my lord," Ser Mark replied, his voice a fearful mumble. "They forced all Reach guardsmen and half the Lannister guardsmen to leave…"

Ser Mark was missing half of his left arm at the elbow - a cripple from an old wound. Still, Ser Mark had been the only man from the Tyrell household to escape the sack of the Red Keep. They had received the news patchily, all word coming from the city had been frantic and strained.

Olenna stood in the corner of the tent, scowling as she rested upon her cane. If looks could kill, Ser Mark Mullendore would be incinerated.

"Leave?" Mace shouted, pacing and stomping. " Leave? You surrendered Queen Margaery?"

"We did not! The men tried to fight, but they… they surrounded us…"

They slaughtered the Tyrell guards and scoured the keep clean, taking hostages of the highborn, Olenna thought numbly. The exact same thing that Cersei had done to Stark, she did again to Tyrell. Olenna was trembling, gnarly fingers tightening around her cane.

Ser Mark's voice was a whimper. The pavilion was dark and muddy, rain was splashing down outside and the whole field had been trampled in slush by thousands of boots and hooves. The camp had only been very hastily established, and the mud was so thick that Olenna's bodyguards had to carry her through the slush. Both Left and Right stood by her side, cautiously trying to keep Olenna away from the rising chaos.

She was the only woman in the tent, her silk dress and shawl splattered with mud. All the men were wearing armour. Her son's

breastplate was squeezed so tightly over his gut that Mace Tyrell looked like a grape ready to burst.

Ser Mark Mullendore was left facing the great lords of the Reach; staring up at the furious faces of Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord Randyll Tarly, Lord Mathis Rowan, Ser Desmond Redwyne, Lord Arthur Ambrose, Lord Jowan Appleton, Lord Lorent Caswell, Ser Roger Bulwer, Lord Alester Crane, and Lord Ivor Vyrwel. Some of the most powerful men in all the Reach were gathered in the room, and they were seething with fury.

"How many were there?" Lord Tyrell bellowed. " How many? "

"I could not count… it was so quick, they stormed…" Ser Mark gulped. "At least five hundred."

There were more still rushing into tent. Ser Bryan Graceford and Ser Jon Fossoway pushed their way through, more voices echoing in the din. "What happened?" Ser Bryan demanded. "Was it the queen?"

"It was," Ser Desmond Redwyne muttered darkly, while others were still demanding answer of Ser Mark Mullendore. Voices were talking over each other, each demanding answers in angry voices. "How many escaped?", the chorus of cries chirped, "Who was it?", "What of my daughter, my sons?"…

"What of Ser Wythers?" Mace shouted, louder than the others. "What of Ser Willam Wythers?"

"Ser Willam fought valiantly, my lord." Ser Mark was quivering, Olenna noticed. "The captain was standing side by side with Ser Loras, trying to hold them off at the Maidenvault. They were fighting, right up until that… that monster of a man… the giant in white armour… it came and it just… just…"

The faces staring down at him looked disgusted, Ser Mark trembling like a craven. "The other guests," Ser Desmond Redwyne

demanded. He had two cousins in the Red Keep, the twin sons of his liege lord. "What of the other guests?"

The man gulped. "They locked the doors, my lord, and trapped the guests in their rooms. By orders of the Queen Regent."

The room was stirring. How many highborn daughters, sons and retainers had been in the Red Keep? Olenna couldn't even countthem all. Nearly everyone in the tent had family in the capital, there were so many sons and daughters working serving as retainers or attendants. Damn you, Cersei .

Mace was beetroot red. "This is an act of war!"

"Ser Kevan is coming to the city with all haste-" Lord Mattis Rowan reported.

"On whose side?" Lord Arthur Ambrose demanded. "House Lannister has betrayed us!"

"This craven," Lord Randyll Tarly said lowly, speaking up for the first time. The Lord of Horn Hill's voice was dark and quiet as he looked down upon Ser Mark. He was clad in full battle armour, his steel dark and worn. "This cripple must be executed. He abandoned his sworn duty, and he ran ."

Ser Mark turned so white it was like his blood froze. "I did not," he said, gasping. "I would never… I ran to warn you, to bring ai-!"

"YOU LEFT YOUR QUEEN!" Mace bellowed, his voice breaking in rage. "YOUR DUTY! MY DAUGHTER! YOU LEFT HER TO DIE!"

Ser Desmond had to place his hand to calm the lord down, while Ser Mark was dragged kicking and wailing and pissing through the mud. Olenna didn't react. She just stood in the corner glowering.

Damn you Cersei. How could she even…?

No, that was a fool's question. How could I not see it coming?

Cersei had been falling towards the cliff's edge ever since the news of Tyrion Lannister's return had arrived. Olenna had known Cersei had been crazed, but she never expected her to be so desperate. Not so quickly .

The deaths of Lady Taena and Orton Merryweather had caught them all off-guard. Olenna had lost her spy in the queen's trust before any of Olenna's plans could come to fruition. There had been no warning, nothing Olenna could prepare for. Cersei had lashed out with all the might she still had.

"Do we have the forces to take the Red Keep?" Mace asked finally, taking deep breaths, looking to Lord Tarly.

"Not yet," Lord Tarly replied in a low and calm voice. "But we will have within a week. Our men are moving up the kingsroad as we speak."

Mace Tyrell and his army had abandoned the siege of Storm's End as soon as the news from King's Landing reached him. The cavalry rode ahead at all haste while the bulk of their forces were still following.

Lord Tarly and his host from Maidenpool had been waiting outside the gates when Mace's army arrived, and he met Lady Olenna by the King's Gate. Olenna had been the closest, the first to the gates, but she hadn't the men to do anything. There had been nothing Olenna could do but wait .

The Tyrell army was amassing in the tourney grounds outside the city. Nobody knew who they'd be fighting against, but the mood was grim.

The city was in a frenzy, there were mobs in the streets. The Faith Militant had seized the roads and declared the city under martial law.

An assassination attempt, against the High Sparrow himself. Cersei, you fool .

"Lord Redwyne is returning as well," Lord Rowan reported. "His fleet was through the Stepstones, but the ravens caught up with him. Our ships are turning around, coming back to the city."

"The ships of Royal Fleet have deserted," said Ser Desmond Redwyne. "I hear that the bastard - Aurane Waters - has stolen the crown's vessels." His voice was foul. "Along with several of our own."

"Aurane Waters could be going to fetch reinforcements, my lord," Lord Ambrose warned. "Cersei must be planning to bring her might against ours."

"We have the forces to crush the lion, my lord." Lord Tarly had a low, hard voice like iron. "This is an act of war. We will destroy House Lannister for this."

"An act of war," Mace repeated, nodding. "An act of war."

"Ser Daven is mustering their forces in the riverlands," Ser Jon Fossoway reminded. "And Ser Kevan is riding back from the west. If they muster, how many men might there be?"

Lord Tarly shook his head. "Impossible to say." He paused. "But the lion is already broken, and Cersei Lannister breached the laws of hospitality. No realm will stand for this."

"We could storm the keep," Lord Lorent Caswell said firmly. "Say the word, and we will break down the gates and force her to answer for it."

"And how will that safeguard the Queen Margaery's life, my lord?" the Queen of Thorns said lowly, speaking up for the first time. Her voice was as low as a whisper. "How will that keep our families safe?"

The room hesitated, nobody meeting her gaze. Why are men so quick to attack, Olenna thought, but so slow to think?

"The city is only being fed from our grain," Lord Ambrose said finally. "It is by our coin, our trade, our men that King's Landing has survived. We need only stop our caravans and this city starves."

Fools . "You have not answered the question," Olenna challenged, hobbling forward. "How does that return our sons and daughters? Focus on that question." Her eyes turned around the room. "We have already fought and bled and paid to earn the favour of the city, we have no need to besiege or starve it now. No, to do so would only serve to make us as unpopular as Cersei is."

They squirmed uncomfortably, but none of them protested her. Lord Tarly was the only who met her eyes, giving a quiet nod. "Lady Olenna is correct," he said simply. "A battle is very risky, it does not seem prudent while the hostages and the sanctity of the crown linger in the balance. Yet the troubling question remains."

The air did become quieter with Lord Tarly's words. Randyll Tarly was a sensible man. Her foolish boy seemed to deflate slightly, Mace's expression pained.

"We own this city," voices muttered from the tent, "if Ser Kevan Lannister tries to stop us we could crush him."

"What of the High Septon?"

"Damn the blasted sparrow, he has no right to meddle in our affairs…"

"Have you been in the city? The smallfolk are marching through the streets in droves. Thousands of peasants with pitchforks, riled up into a fury."

"It cannot be allowed, cannot be allo-"

The voices were talking over each other, each one shouting for attention. Why do all men think louder equals stronger?

The squabble reached fever pitch. Olenna ignored the words, and tried to measure their eyes. The words were noise, but it was the expressions that she needed to know.

This is pointless . "Let me have the room with my son, lords," the Queen of Thorns said sharply.

All eyes turned to her surprise. "This is a war council, my la-" Lord Caswell tried to protest.

"And I am but a frail old woman, I fear my heart cannot take such talk," Lady Olenna interrupted, with a heavy sigh. "Alas, concern for my grandchildren has left me so distraught, I need the comfort of my son. Please, my lords, let me have some time alone with my boy."

There were a few glances, but none could protest. Olenna shot a motherly look at Mace, ordering him to stay put, while the great lords all trekked outside into the rain.

There was silence. Olenna and Mace were left alone, her son's face still red and furious. Olenna knelt on her cane, motioning for Left and Right to guard the tent's door.

"I will not allow Queen Cersei to have her way," Mace protested finally. "This is an act of war!"

"It is indeed," Olenna agreed. "But do you believe that escalation will turn out well for any of us? Do not dare the mad woman to do the unthinkable."

His voice was so pained, so distraught, Olenna wanted to hug him. And yet she couldn't; he was not her son, not right now - he was the Lord of Highgarden. There could be no coddling today. "It's my daughter -"

"And it's my granddaughter," she said sharply. "Do not think that I'm any less furious about this than you are. But cooler heads, my boy."

His great beefy hands clenched, but he nodded. His jaw was so clenched that the sags of fat on his face were trembling.

"Let us be sure that we're fighting the same enemy." Olenna took a deep breath, forcing her voice to stay steady. "Send your soldiers away, we want only the elite of our troops around us now. We want the veterans and the knights only." The cooler heads .

"What?" Mace flustered. "I cannot-"

"The rest of the army is needed in Oldtown, to stop the ironborn," she said sharply. "Do not let Cersei distract us from that. And the act would placate her - try to defuse the situation rather than intensifying it."

His jaw dropped, trying to protest. "And belay that order to Lord Paxter; his need hasn't changed, the Redwyne fleet is required desperately in the Arbor. The ironborn must be stopped." And pray that we're not too late . The situation in King's Landing had alreadyseverely delayed the Redwyne fleet. Their ships had been trapped them between two different crises on opposites sides of the continent - unable to respond properly to either of them. For all Olenna knew, the Crow's Eye might be readying to attack any day now.

"Those ships…" Mace shook his head. "If it turns into a siege on the city, if the Golden Company attacks… we will need that fleet here."

"We might," Olenna admitted. Damn you Cersei . "But Oldtown needs the fleet now . Your son and daughter may be in the Red Keep, but your other bannermen have sons and daughters in the Reach. Do not lose sight of the greater war."

The reports from the Arbor and the Redwyne Straits were worrying. Euron Greyjoy had been burning towns and villages by the dozens, and capturing thralls by the thousands. Matters were volatile, and they had to pull together rather than be tattered apart.

This is what Cersei is counting on, Olenna knew. Taking hostages was a stalling tactic - the Queen Regent intended on playing her enemies against each other.

Mace didn't reply. Olenna was pacing, rocking on her cane as she stepped through the mud. "War is not fought without a purpose. A victory here is pointless if we lose everything else." She shook her head. "No, we must walk carefully; the lords of the Reach will become unruly if we do not rush to protect their homelands from being ravaged, and then we will become unable to achieve anything. Remember the Florents." If we stumble now… "First and foremost, we need to keep our bannermen on our side."

She paused, considering it. "Yet the same applies to House Lannister," Olenna said finally. "Do not engage the Golden Company. Let them put pressure on the westerland lords for us - Tyrion Lannister is not our priority right now."

Tyrion Lannister , Olenna cursed silently. How in seven hells did Tyrion Lannister find the coin to purchase the Golden Company?

By all rights, Tyrion Lannister should be dead, and yet he continued to curse her. " The dwarf will be the ideal scapegoat, my lady", that slimy toad had convinced Olenna, "I will ensure there will be no doubt that Tyrion is the poisoner. The dwarf loses his head, and Sansa Stark becomes free to marry your Willas . "

That was a deal that had turned so bitter. More and more, Olenna was coming to regret the arrangement she made.

Mace bit his lip and shook his head, but he sagged. "Aye. Tyrion Lannister is but a dwarf," he said with a nod. "And this Jon Connington a failure. You are right, they are not the threat; they will fail just as the Golden Company has always failed."

I would not dismiss them so quickly, my boy, Olenna thought quietly. The news of Tyrion Lannister and Jon Connington, returned from the dead and exile, leading the Golden Company… just the very

'circumstances' of it set alarm bells ringing in Olenna's head. Still, now was not the time.

"For now, let us be sure that we're fighting the same enemy. Let us try a softer approach," Olenna insisted. "Firstly, we must come to agreement with Ser Kevan and the High Septon. Cersei wants us at each other's throats, so do not indulge her. The High Septon must be handled with care."

"Agreement?" Mace looked confused. Distraught and out of his depth. "Ser Kevan will support his niece. If he reinforces her…"

"I don't think Ser Kevan will. He most certainly won't if he has to fight us and the Faith Militant." Ser Kevan was a sensible man, she didn't think Ser Kevan had anything to do with this desperate scheme of Cersei's. Ser Kevan was reacting to it as much as everyone else was. Olenna was pacing, back and forth, her cane tapping against mud as she thought. "We must back off from the Red Keep. All of those ultimatums you keep sending to her are not productive." She shook her head. "No, the time for threats is over."

"But… but how does this return my son and daughter to me?" Mace protested. "All the peace in the world isn't going to convince Cersei to release them."

"The fast solution will not turn out well for. We need the slower one. We rob Cersei of her allies. We undercut her support, but we don't give her a reason to do anything drastic." Treat her like a feral cat, and pull the meat away slowly . Olenna paused, deliberating in acalm and slow voice. "She is a mother. She will protect her son. That is the leverage we must exploit."

When she realised that her gambit had failed, that there was no future for Tommen, would Cersei concede? A sensible woman would, but Olenna had her doubts about the Queen Regent.

The thought of Margaery's laughing, glowing face and golden eyes flashed before her. Olenna would not allow her darling

granddaughter to suffer.

The army of the Reach was the strongest of the Seven Kingdoms, but no one realm could rule six. Reavers to the west, wildlings to the north, and mercenaries to the south , Olenna thought with a quietcurse, how long can our armies last when stretched so thin?

No, this required a different solution.

"And we need a fast ship, a few men that we can trust, and a very large pile of gold," Olenna decided finally. "We shall send an envoy to Braavos, to the House of Black and White, and we will pay whatever price they require."

"Wait, ho-"

"Let us hire a Faceless Man to solve this situation for us," Olenna said, lowering her voice somewhat. "Until then, we do whatever we need to do to keep Cersei Lannister distracted and Margaery alive."

No other assassin could be so certain. Olenna needed an assassination without risk of failure, without risk to the hostages.

If the Queen Regent died by some shadow in the night, then her sellswords would surrender and Margaery would be unharmed. The Many-Faced God would charge a steep price for the life of a queen. It would be insanely steep, so steep it might ruin them. Still, Cersei would ruin them, and the Faceless Men might be the only solution tothe problem she posed.

Cersei, the Bastard King, the Crow's Eye… Perhaps the House of Black and White could deal with them all. Perhaps we could get a three for one discount .

…

But it didn't happen. First it was weeks, then months, as the deadline ticked away and her granddaughter remained locked in the castle.

Olenna was left stewing in her tents, writing and rewriting letters, obsessively reading and scheming, but there was naught she could do.

She was an old woman, her back crooked, her hips aching, and her jaw toothless. Olenna could only watch as the city around her deteriorated beyond hope of control.

So much happened. The Bastard King razed the Twins, the High Sparrow made his deadline, and Aegon Targaryen, the 'Young Dragon', declared himself back from the dead. The Golden Company was not heading for Casterly Rock as was first believed; it was coming for the Iron Throne. It was a crisis every day, the ripples spreading outwards.

Stannis Baratheon held the Blackwater like a stubborn weed that refused to shift, while the banners of the Targaryen dragon were growing over the stormlands like a cancer.

The news of the ice dragon set the riverlands and the crownlands to panic. Riots were sparking across the city, and the Tyrell army was left trying to juggle multiple enemies on different fronts.

Her carriage tottered away from yet another unproductive meeting with that blasted High Sparrow, down streets that were filled with refugees and peasants still flooding into the city.

"The end of times!" Olenna heard a preacher screaming from a street corner. "The ice dragon heralds the end of times! Pray to the Seven, for the hells have been unleashed!"

More and more were echoing the same cry. As Stannis blockaded the ships and Aegon Targaryen now held the roseroad, King's Landing was set to starve. Again . Barely over a year after the last siege, and now the city was bracing to suffer a worse one. There would be deaths by the tens of thousands as the cold and the famine clawed in. Winter is coming, those annoying words the Starks loved to repeat.

"We are all facing the end!" the preacher screamed. "Repent! Repent before the end of times!"

Under the regime of the new Faith, the fanatics were ruling the city. Olenna did nothing but stare forward at the blank wall of her carriage, trying to think.

Garlan wrote that they had mustered nearly sixty thousand men in Oldtown, ready to crush Euron Greyjoy's fleet, but Olenna still spent countless sleepless nights trying to prepare for it. Whispers said that Dorne was supporting Aegon, and that left enemies on every front. Even the greatest army in the world could be spread too thin.

And with an ice dragon, Olenna thought, an ice dragon of all things… !

Her son was walking around looking more frayed than she had ever seen him. There had not been a word concerning either Loras nor Margaery. Olenna's precious flowers were both trapped in the dungeons of the Red Keep - with thick walls, armed men and an unstable woman keeping them from freedom.

The last envoy she sent to Braavos had promised to build churches to the Many-Faced God itself in both King's Landing and Oldtown, and yet the Faceless Men still hadn't responded. They refused to accept the contract, leaving Olenna increasingly unnerved.

Somebody is blocking me, she thought with growing suspicion, but she couldn't pinpoint the source of her problems. The war, the siege, the stalemate… it all felt manufactured. Olenna had weaved enough schemes to be able to recognise when she was caught in the middle of a larger one. But how to break free, how to escape when I can't see the hands?

Too many problems were stacking, and Olenna needed to remove them one by one. Time was running out, she needed a solution.

It was dusk, when she met the grim-faced knight in her pavilion. He was a tall and lanky man, with a bald head and a hard jaw. He stood almost as tall as Left and Right, but half the width of their solution.

His sigil bore a black tower against red on his shield. He walked before the Queen of Thorns escorted by her two guardsmen on either side.

"My lady," the knight bowed.

She didn't bother with courtesy. "You are Ser Humfrey Flowers, correct?"

"I am," Ser Humfrey replied.

"Bastard son of Gerold Hightower, half-brother to Lord Leyton Hightower, I hear."

"I am," the Bastard of the Tower replied coolly.

What is the smallfolk saying? Send a knight to slay a knight, and an archer to slay an archer . With a bastard terrorising the realm, perhaps there was only one choice.

"Good." Olenna judged his expression; a hard man, of noble birth but subtle disposition. He knew the game, he had the upbringing, but those without the pomp of status tended to be more effective. Olenna quite liked bastards. Mostly. "And I have a task for you, ser. A duty that you must fulfil. You will answer to me and only me regarding it."

He paused. "And what duty is this?"

No wasted questions. Good man. "You are to go north, to Winterfell." She held up a letter from her desk, one sealed in pink ink. "Lord Bolton requests aid, and we will oblige him. Discreetly."

Ser Humfrey Flowers' lips curled. "The ice dragon."

"What else?"

"From how I hear it," Ser Humfrey said cautiously, "House Bolton is facing certain defeat."

"Perhaps." Likely . "But the Boltons need not win, they only need to delay," Olenna said sharply. "We cannot fight enemies on two fronts, ser, and we cannot let the Bastard King and his wildlings come south easily. If House Bolton can delay the invaders until the start of winter proper, then that may be enough. We need more time. We will offer Roose Bolton whatever aid we can spare towards that end."

His expression did flicker, his face guarded. "I need you to represent our interests up north. You must go to Winterfell, rendezvous with Lord Bolton, and to inform me of his efforts against the Bastard King."

The knight mused on it for several long heartbeats. "And you are choosing me because I am expendable."

"I am." She didn't insult him by denying it. "You are a bastard, nobody will miss your presence. Do not pretend to be insulted by that." His face remained impassive. "But expendable is useful. You are a disciplined soldier of unquestionable loyalty, and you know what you are fighting towards. That is valuable. I would choose you over an army of a hundred, ser."

"I'm flattered," he muttered dryly.

"Don't be. This must be discrete. A soft hand." Her eyes were sharp, meeting his gaze. "Hightower could suffer the same fate as the Twins, if we draw the Bastard King's ire. The Reach must not be implicated in the Bastard King's war. Can I trust on your subtlety, Ser Flowers?"

King Jon Snow had already proven himself a man who would take vengeance. There was a long pause. Ser Humfrey's eyes were grim, but he nodded. "I know my duty, my lady."

"Good man," Olenna said approvingly. "Pick a fast horse to take you north, and there will be cogs from Hightower. You must coordinate on my behalf with Roose Bolton."

"With how many men?"

"As many as you can count on your hand, your choice of them," Olenna replied. "But choose wisely. We can afford to offer coin and influence to House Bolton, not soldiers."

He nodded. The talk continued for a while, and Olenna shared news of Walder Rivers mustering men in the riverlands. The north was a barbaric wasteland, but there were still some strings that Olenna could pull. There was only one goal; to delay and hinder the Bastard King. "And I will send word to the Conclave of the Citadel," Olenna promised. "If any means exists to defeat a dragon, then you will have it."

"I do not care to die against a dragon, my lady," Ser Humfrey warned. "If the north is as grim as I hear, there may be little I can do there."

"Perhaps is naught that can be done. Or perhaps is something we can achieve. You must find out."

It was the dark of night when Ser Humfrey finally left. She would not be able to deal with the Bastard King and his dragon so long as their position was so weak and his so strong. A dragon could demand whatever it wanted of the Seven Kingdoms, Olenna thought, and right now we would not be able to resist . They needed to weakenthe wildling army and regain the strength of the Iron Throne before any fruitful negotiation would be possible.

She could wait no longer for the Faceless Men. Cersei was still the most awkward hindrance that Olenna must deal with. Desperate measures are required . Olenna gave a set of orders to Left andRight, and they set about their tasks.

Within days they were marching back to her with a squirming shape hoisted over Left's shoulders, and three figures trailing behind Right.

They met in a darkened alleyway at the edge of the King's Gate. There was nobody around but drunkards and whores around a nearby tavern over a street away, and the edge of the Tyrell encampment to the west. "Did you find one?" Olenna demanded to Left.

"We did."

The large man dropped a figure the size of a child onto the cobbles, but it was stockier than any boy. The man was a dwarf; a small but heavyset figure with a round head and a jutting forehead, dark blonde hair and dressed in clothes of muddy hemp and hair. Common brown eyes, and missing two of his front teeth. He was trying to scream through the gag in his mouth. Olenna just watched impassively. Desperate measures .

"A group of hunters looking to collect the queen's bounty brought him to King's Landing," Left reported in his low, burly voice, "but we intercepted them. He was a cobbler near Oldstones, he's called-"

"No." Olenna said firmly. "I do not want to know his name." The name would only complicate matters.

Left paused, and then nodded. "As you wish."

The dwarf was terrified, pale-faced and scared out of his wits. "Bring the dwarf here," Olenna ordered, peering closer to inspect. The dwarf looked little like Tyrion Lannister, and yet… "Yes, he will pass," she decided. "Enough similarities are there."

The dwarf tried to scream, but all that came out was a gagged noise.

She nodded to Left, and turned to where Right was waiting. There were three figures behind him; grizzled and hardened men with grey in their beards and dark shadows under their eyes. Olenna inspected

each of them in turn. While Left had been searching out a dwarf, Right had selected the men. The best Flea Bottom has to offer, she thought dryly, and she could have laughed at the motley trio.

"If Cersei wants her brother," Olenna said finally, looking at the men, "then we will give him to her. I will admit what Cersei already knows - that I have been working with Tyrion Lannister from the beginning.

And yet, alas, the Queen Regent is too perceptive for me, my scheme is foiled, and I must surrender myself and the Imp. Do you understand?"

There were quiet nods. "You will escort me into the Red Keep, with this gentleman here," Olenna motioned to the dwarf, "and I have no doubt that Cersei will come herself to gloat and inspect her brother. As soon as she steps within six yards, you are to put three quarrels into her heart." Her eyes were hard. "No matter anything else, you put them through that bitch's heart. Right into her heart ."

"Not quarrels, my lady," Right said, bowing his head. "I figured they wouldn't be able to sneak crossbows through so easily. I expect your men will be searched at the gates."

Olenna nodded, and Right turned between the three men. "But this man here was the fastest knife-thrower in Oldtown." He was an aging man with heavily bagged eyes, a bald head and grey beard. "His name's Lightning Garth; he used to work as blade juggler for a mummer's troupe once, then signed on to Lord Tyrell's army. A bit more grey in his beard now, but he can still sling a dagger faster than an eye can follow."

"Jolly good," Olenna said in approval. 'Lightning' Garth looked more of an old geezer with a bloated gut than the young man the name would suggest, but he would do.

The man next to him was short and scrawny, with eyes like a rat. "Ferret here is from King's Landing. A cutthroat by trade, but he's magic with a dagger," Right explained. The final man was a big, very fat man with huge hands like gnarly scarred hams. "While Jerry is

from the fighting pits - he can wrestle bear his own hands, he doesn't even feel pain anymore. Jerry will charge, and if he gets his hands on her, then Cersei is dead in a heartbeat." Right turned back to her with a solemn nod. "All three of them can keep blades hidden where no man will find them, and as soon as Cersei steps close they will end her."

"You wanted the best killers in the city," Left noted. "These are them."

"My lady," Right said solemnly. "I must ask… are you sure want to do this?"

"I've made my choice, son," Olenna replied curtly. "Get these three armour, get a rose on their chests, dress them like guardsmen. Three guards will do. They'll pass and Cersei won't look twice."

I am an old lady; even Cersei would allow a few men to assist me walking the steps . She faced the three men. Not a hint of uncertainty in any of them, but Olenna had to be sure. There would only be one chance at this.

"Now, I will not lie to you," Olenna said, her voice a croak, "you will not walk away from this. We catch Cersei by surprise, you will killher, but the guards around her will almost certainly kill you afterwards. They will not expect such a suicidal attack. If by some fluke, you do manage to escape - you will be hung for the murder of a queen, no matter how justified it may have been. The law is a bitch like that." Nobody reacted. "However, I can promise that all of your families will be taken care of, and your sons will be fostered alongside knights. They will serve as squires to knights good and true, and perhaps they will hold lands of their own in time. Gold dragons to your loved ones, in return for your own sacrifice. Do you accept?"

"I do, my lady," Lightning Garth said quietly, and the others nodded too.

"Good. I want you have the choice. I want you to know what you are dying for."

And I will die as well, Olenna thought grimly, but there was no alternative. She was needed to walk the guards into the Red Keep. Olenna was old, but her granddaughter was young. Cersei will die, I will die, but Margaery will walk free - a fair trade.

She turned to the bound dwarf, the man still begging and weeping on the floor. She motioned for Left to remove the gag. "I apologise for this, my man," Olenna said with a sigh. "And I'm sorry that I cannot offer you the same choice. Your role in this ruse is non-negotiable." She paused, wrinkly cheeks grimacing. "I know that these are desperate measures, but this war has had many casualties already. Know that lives the of an innocent little girl and a gallant boy are on the line."

"Please don't… I didn't do anything… !" the dwarf wept. "I'm not him, I'm not…"

"I know," Olenna said with a nod. "But think of it like an act. A mummer's role that needs to be filed. You likely don't deserve this, you may be a good man, but I will never know. You are a dwarf, and I need a dwarf."

"Are you sure he will pass?" Left said uncertainly. "If the queen recognises it's not really her brother…"

"It won't work," Right warned. "His hair is wrong, and he's too old."

"It doesn't need to pass, the queen just needs to get close enough to inspect. He's similar enough," Olenna said firmly. "A bit of oil and dirt will obscure the hair, and fear will excuse his wrinkles. The eyes are not the right colour and jaw the wrong shape, but once we cut the nose off he will pass from a distance."

The dwarf flustered. "Wait, you're going to cut off my nose ?"

Olenna sighed, her voice apologetic. "Not just the nose, I'm afraid."

She nodded to Left and Right. Left drew his sword. The dwarf screamed.

Right held the little man down against the stone, hand clamped over the dwarf's mouth, while Left readied his sword to cut off the head. Olenna turned away, stepping back so the blood wouldn't splatter over her dress.

She turned to her three killers. "We're going to kill Cersei, do you understand?" Olenna said with quiet determination. "Whatever you need to do, whatever is required, we're going to kill that bitch."

The dwarf was screaming right up until the end, but Olenna would have happily killed a dozen dwarves to save the lives of her little girl.

…

And yet it was useless. Olenna sent off a tear-stained, pleading confession to the Red Keep, yet there was never a response. Olenna waited and waited for Cersei to reply, but she never did. Olenna sent off letter after letter, she tried to approach the gates, she tried to lure Cersei into her trap, yet no reply came.

All Olenna wanted was an audience with the queen. All she needed was to get her three killers close, but her ravens never returned. She could get no word over the walls. The dwarf's head rotted and sneered at her from the corner of her tent, uselessly, and nobody came to collect it.

Cersei would not have ignored her offer. She would want to gloat - Cersei would want to be spiteful.

Cersei never found out about my offer. There could be no other explanation. Somewhere in between Olenna and the Mad Queen, her words were going missing. Somebody inside doesn't want this stalemate to end .

Olenna had promised Cersei her brother's head, to out herself as the Imp's ally, but she could get no word through the Red Keep's walls. She never received a response.

Someone is playing me .

She thought of Lord Qyburn's sickeningly sweet smile, and a twisting suspicion churned in her gut. The new masters of whisperers handled everything coming to and from the queen.

It felt… it was infuriating. All of Olenna's plans, her schemes - they all died before they could bear fruit. She felt useless, so useless she could tear out her own grey hair.

The day of Cersei's trial approached, and there wasn't even time .

There was never enough time.

Mace was stomping, pacing around the pavilion. They had only just received word that army on the roseroad was moving. The 'Young Dragon' was finally launching his assault against the city. "The Golden Company-" Mace protested.

"-has to be stopped," Olenna snapped. Her patience was gone, her voice was sharp. Her eyes were hard but frazzled, and there was no decorum left in her. "This city is already half-starving, we cannot retake any control at all if the city goes up in arms against us."

Mace bristled. "Our armies will not run from a haggle of peasants!"

"Armies are not the deciding factor, boy." Olenna could have screamed. "We cannot keep the population calmed by force - we need food from the Reach. The Golden Company has bled us too much already, they must be routed."

"You expect me to leave on the eve of the trial?" Mace yelled, outraged. "My place is here; my daughter is here!"

"Your place is with your men. You must be there to lead the battle."

He shook his head, his flabby cheeks wriggling. "No, Mother," Mace said firmly. "I must be here for Cersei's trial - I must be here when they take the Red Keep. Lord Tarly can lead our men against these mercenaries."

No," Olenna snapped. "Do not leave your army in command of Randyll Tarly. This must be your victory, you must be the one to retake control." Grow a spine and lead your men .

He only looked confused. Olenna wished he was small enough so she could still slap him over the ear. Can he not see the stakes that we are playing for?

Randyll Tarly would do a fine job as commander in the battle, Olenna had no doubt. In fact, that was exactly what she was concerned about.

Lord Tyrell's control and influence was being frayed from every edge. The lords under him were restless and agitated, whispers were spreading. They were talking of his incompetence in low murmurs, and fearful uncertainty was turning towards anger. Mace had command of twenty thousand men in the city - all of them were being forced to wait while their homes in the Reach were being pillaged. Nobody was sure what had happened at Oldtown, but the only thing certain was that it had been a disaster.

There hadn't been a word from Garlan leading their army, or from Lord Redwyne leading their fleet. Lords Hightower, Costayne, Beesbury, Shermer, Fossoway… so many lords had rallied to Oldtown, and even the lords in the capital had sent their heirs and second sons. None had returned so much as a whisper. The closest ravens had been from Highgarden, and her eldest grandchild Willas sent letters that had grown more and more desperate.

It is total devastation,' Willas had written, in a shaking hand. 'The city is flooded, the Hightower is collapsed and ironborn haunt the ruins. I have seen tens of thousands of bodies forced up the river. Corpses and debris dam the waters, and the Honeywine itself has

overflown with blood. The refugees have been crazed, and the tales that they tell… I do not know what to do.'

Olenna had never known her grandson to sound so scared.

They had received only a single letter from Oldtown itself - a letter delivered by one of the white ravens of the Citadel, but bearing the Greyjoy seal. 'Your city belongs to me, your army destroyed.' the short letter read. 'Surrender and bow before me, or suffer the same.'

It had been signed, "Euron Greyjoy, God-King of the Seven Kingdoms, the Drowned God Reborn."

Such a ridiculous title might have been funny, but when the letter had been shared with their bannermen, there was no laughter.

Olenna couldn't explain how it happened. Nobody could. So many garbled reports. The hurricane had destroyed Oldtown and the army of the Reach, but the ironborn survived. Even now, there was word of fighting in the flooded streets of the city.

Mace's wife Alerie was a daughter of House Hightower. Olenna herself had been born in the Arbor; she had been there for her nephew Paxter's birth, and had watched him grow into one of the greatest captains Westeros had known. And now Houses Redwyne and Hightower might well be lost.

The Hightower itself was said to be destroyed. Olenna had disbelieved the first raven, but then the fourth and fifth gave the same details, as did the fiftieth. It was one of the only things that the letters agreed on and all the rest was garbled and conflicting; reports of hundreds of thousands dead, their ships wrecked in the winds, and floods across the coast.

Half the tales had been crazed, the stories embellished and exaggerated. Nothing short of a natural disaster could account for the chaos they heard. Slowly, most sensible men were coming to accept that it had been a storm without equal.

And yet some letters spoke of demons, or of a monster larger than an island. Most dismissed such talk as witless exaggeration born from panic, but Olenna had to wonder… the only monster around that she knew of was the Bastard King's dragon. It was said to be even larger than Balerion the Black Dread. But was an ice dragon large enough to destroy an entire city?

Had the wildling king learnt of the aid the Reach provided House Bolton? Had Ser Humfrey been captured, and was this the Bastard's King's bloody reprisal? Or had the kraken and the white dragon come to an alliance?

So many doubts, and yet only thing that could be certain were the corpses washing up by the thousands, from Blackcrown to the Three Towers. All communication was in shambles, she could find no word of Garlan's fate. Her heart wept for him, and the uncertainty of it left her body trembling at night.

The Citadel had the largest rookery in Westeros. For no ravens to have been sent at all… perhaps the maesters in the city had been put to the sword by that barbarian. The Crow's Eye.

More and more, Olenna thought of that preacher in the streets. 'The ice dragon heralds the end of times!' he had screamed. 'Repent!'

There were likely a thousand more like him now, screaming the same. The whole world was going mad.

Olenna took a deep breath, trying to focus. Priorities, she insisted to herself. "You will not be able to contribute in the city, Mace," she said finally. "The High Septon is taking control of the queen's trial. You are needed in the field - to fight the battle on the roseroad. You need to prove your power again." We need a victory. Any victory would do .

"You want me to waste time with this mummer's dragon?" he said, aghast. "I do not care for this 'Aegon' - he is a fraud, the Imp's puppet. But my daughter, my son, are in that castle on the hill." He pointed to the east, through the cloth of the pavilion and towards

where Aegon's High Hill loomed at the other side of the city. " That castle right there!"

"Aegon Targaryen will destroy us before we breach that castle!" Olenna snapped. "He has fifteen thousand men to destroy us, even before the queen can. Let the High Sparrow retake control of civil affairs, Ser Kevan will handle Cersei - you must prove your military might against the invaders. The defence of the realm falls firmly to you ." And gods help us .

Mace only stared at her, his face pale. "I am trying to recover a dire situation, boy," she insisted. "Matters are grim, but we can still pull through this."

And yet Olenna had heard the criers in the streets, the voices that were declaring Aegon Targaryen the rightful king. There were whispers spreading that their situation was divine punishment against the realm for supporting an illegitimate ruler. There were whispers in taverns that named the Baratheon regime false, and that a Targaryen was the only rightful king. Those whispers were like spark to kindling. Words are wind, but this wind is fanning the flames

.

There had even been mummer troupes by the docks that had been performing plays where a dragon rose from the ashes to put the realm to order, and the false tyrants were brought to justice by a young champion of the people. Olenna herself had sat in the crowd of one such performance, and the smallfolk had cheered as the red cloth dragon emerged from the stands. Olenna could feel the dissent stewing in the streets, she could feel it simmering.

Olenna didn't believe in coincidence. Other lords had shrugged with such talk, but Olenna didn't underestimate it. She put a stop to the mummer troupes and she had rounded up the criers. Her men gave them all the same question, and slowly a money trail started to appear.

Somebody had been paying those men to spread certain words.

Left and Right spent a week tracing the coin back to a money lender working by the flea markets, and eventually found a banker that admitted that he had been handing out coin to those who helped spread a certain message. The mummer troupes had been hired, their scripts written for them. An anonymous benefactor from the Free Cities had been paying a great deal of money towards mummers and criers that helped portray Aegon Targaryen as the saviour of the Seven Kingdoms.

It had been confirmation of what Olenna could feel in her bones; somebody is playing us .

This was a war that Mace was not equipped to handle.

There were crises on every front. The news, the siege, the stalemate had sent King's Landing into a frenzy. The Faith was growing restless, and riots were being sparked as the food ran out. People were starving, angry and scared.

Their men could barely even walk the streets safely any more. There had been a string of brutal murders and disappearances in the city; women and prostitutes that disappeared from around Flea Bottom and a gaggle of Reach guardsmen had been held responsible. Mace had tried and executed the men, but the tensions didn't fade. King's Landing was a boiling pot ready to burst, and all that rage was turning towards House Tyrell.

Lannister and Tyrell caused this mess, the whispers said.

If hadn't been so grim, Olenna might have laughed. It was a jape - a bitter, humourless jape. Once, not long ago, the city had heralded House Tyrell as their saviours, but how quickly things changed. Perhaps it is a learning experience, she thought bitterly; the crowd that sings at your wedding and claps at your coronation is the exact same crowd that will jeer at your execution. People just love a show .

There was a long moment of silence, Olenna and Mace looking at each other. Their relationship had never been so strained. "I do not

have the men for a secure victory against the Golden Company," Mace said finally.

"Then have an insecure victory, for gods' sake," Olenna replied curtly. "We will move the men out of the city, perhaps we can encourage Cersei to finally leave her hidey-hole."

"The numbers-"

"The numbers are as good as now as we're going to get." Olenna shook her head. "We will not survive a siege, not like this. We cannot allow Aegon Targaryen to reach the walls of the city. There is no more time, we must play the hand we have."

"Aegon Targaryen," he repeated, looking at her as if she was mad. "Oldtown is a ruin, and you worry about Aegon Targaryen? Forget the mummer's dragon, Lord Tarly tells me repeatedly; our lands are at risk, we must return-"

"If you take your men away to Oldtown, then that the mummer's dragon will have seized the Iron Throne long before you return," Olenna chided. "No, the only thing that will save the Reach now is a united Seven Kingdoms - we need the force of the other realmsbehind us. We need to destroy Aegon Targaryen before that can happen."

Priorities, she insisted to herself. One goal leads to another - remove Cersei, free Margaery, defeat Aegon, and we rally the forces needed to secure the Reach . And yet no matter how she tried to justify it, her heart pained with the thought of her family, her grandsons lost in the Reach.

Mace tried to protest, but his throat seemed to jam. "After the queen's trial," Olenna continued. "After you repel the Golden Company… only then we can gather the full force of the westerlands and the Vale to support us. We can still save Highgarden."

"The Vale," Mace repeated. The knights of the Vale were the strongest straw they still had to cling on to. "We're certain?"

"Yes." Olenna nodded. "The Vale lords are bringing thirty thousand men to support us. Their armies are marching as we speak; they've already passed the Bloody Gate."

"The Bloody Gate ?" he exclaimed, aghast. "That far? When are they to arrive?"

"The snows in the riverlands blocked the High Road," Olenna admitted with a grimace. "Their armies have already been delayed. But they are coming."

The Vale was the only army that could still save them, and they were coming in force. "With the Vale's assistance," she said firmly. "We'll have the men to secure the capital, and our armies will be free to leave. And afterwards Queen Regent Margaery will appoint Petyr Baelish as Warden of the East."

"I… wha…" Mace's voice was stunned. "The coincounter ."

"It's how the game works," Olenna snapped, toothless gums sucking at her lips. Curses for having to turn to that slimy worm again . Matters were so dire that she had to resort to Littlefingeragain. "Petyr Baelish was the one who rallied the Lords Declarant to support us, and for that service he expects a reward. Of all that he could have asked for…" Olenna shook her head. "Warden of the East is a military command, not a hereditary title or a lordship. Baelish will be kicked off that rank as soon as Robert Arryn comes of age in any case, but right now Littlefinger seeks a position to secure himself. Giving him that in return for support is a good bargain."

She had spent weeks trying to hammer out that deal - trying to balance a hundred concerns and clashing interests. It had been like juggling knives or trading with vipers. Olenna had managed to forge an alliance between Kevan Lannister, the High Septon, Petyr Baelish - an alliance that might still save the realm.

The numbers are still in our favour, Olenna told herself. Even despite their losses, despite all the bannermen that had broken ranks, the Tyrell army still stood at over twenty thousand strong. With the Vale joining them, they would be over fifty thousand. With the Faith Militant by their side, there was an army that could match anything.

The Faith was on their side. All of their challengers - the Crow's Eye, the Bastard King, Stannis Baratheon - were heretics to the followers of the Seven. The High Septon would oppose the false religions, and the Seven Kingdoms would fight against the mad men trying to destroy them.

Mace didn't know how to react. For a big man, he looked stunned, lost. "We will save our family, my son," Olenna insisted. "But we must focus on the priorities."

"The priorities," Mace repeated slowly. "The priorities ."

His shoulders were shaking, staring at her with an expression she had never seen. A chuckle broke his throat, but there was no laughter in it. "The priorities!" Her son's voice morphed into a shout. "Of course, we cannot forget the priorities, Mother! Clearly, my son and daughter aren't priority enough!"

Olenna almost groaned. Not now… please, don't… "Watch your tone."

"The priorities!" he snapped, stepping forward. "I could have broken through those damn walls months ago!" Mace boomed. " You were the one that told me to wait."

"I told you how to protect our family," she bristled.

His face was red, booming and shivering with sudden rage. " You said to send Garlan to the Reach! You said to let the Golden Company pass! It was you !" Her jaw clenched, but she didn't reply. "You were the one that made this alliance, you were the one that brought us here!"

She didn't reply, but her shoulders were stiff. He's angry and lost, Olenna told herself. He wants someone he can blame .

You were the one that pushed Cersei to this, you were the one who provoked her!" There were tears in his eyes. "This was all you ! You did this, you ruined me, you spiteful bitch!"

I only ever tried to protect my family . And yet so many of her intentions had withered and died.

Olenna's hands tightened on her cane. Mace stared at her as if he wanted her to scream at him, to argue back, but Olenna gave him nothing but a hard and silent glare.

Mace shook his head slowly. "You ruined me," her son muttered, before turning around and storming out of the tent.

Olenna stood perfectly still for several long moments. She took a deep breath, and then she went about her business. She spent the rest of the day calming her son down, writing letters and making preparations, and ensuring that the Tyrell army would be there to oppose the Golden Company's march.

And then, she retired to her quarters, she closed the door, and she broke down into tears.

…

Ash rained from the sky, and the world stank of burnt flesh and fear.

The city was on fire around her, and all of those thoughts echoed around in her head. Everything was burning, everything had fallen apart, and now there were only the ruins. All of the memories rattled around in her head, reliving it before her eyes. It was all she could think of, those months flashing before her eyes. Where did it all go wrong?

Great clouds of toxic black smoke gushed through the streets, and the smallfolk fled as though the hounds of the seven burning hells tore through the streets. She could see the marble spires of the Great Sept being devoured by green flames, chewing through stone and spitting blazing debris.

Even despite everything, she felt numb.

Her thoughts felt slow and fragmented in the clamour of the bloody moment. She couldn't feel the pain, she couldn't feel the burning in her throat. The smoke twisted and roared around them, spiralling into the air as if an immense black dragon had taken flight over the city. A dragon of black smoke and green flames, sending ash gushing with every flap of inhuman wings.

People were screaming, howling, writhing in frenzied panic. And yet Olenna just felt numb. She could barely feel at all, she couldn't make sense of it. All of those plans, all of those ambitions… the hopes for her family…

The gods are cunts .

The Great Sept of Baelor was burning. The seven-sided stars of the gods were raining to the ground as ash. As she watched, timbers split and stone cracked, and the belltower of the Father's Spire collapsed - setting the world to a ringing clanging chaos.

A strong hand was shaking her shoulders, a voice bellowing into her ear. Olenna could hear the words, but she couldn't make sense of them. She saw a frightened face of Right - Arryk, his name is Arryk - above her, trying to rouse her from her daze. He was a big, strong man, and yet in that moment he looked as terrified as a little boy.

Her whole body was numb and pale, trembling in the guardsman's arms as he fled for his life.

Olenna had been standing in the courtyard, watching from the crowd, as the queen's carriage came through. The image of that

thing - the thing that looked like her granddaughter - stepping out wearing Cersei's dress… the memory of it seared Olenna's eyes. Her beautiful darling granddaughter… her lovely sweet and clever child… dressed up as Cersei and sent in the queen's place…

That wasn't Margaery. It wasn't, it wasn't… it couldn't…

The howling of the flames sounded like Cersei's laughter. The fires were spreading. Visenya's Hill was lit up like a pyre - green flames and black smoke writhing around her.

And those monsters… the burning monsters thrashing and writhing and slashing like beasts from the darkest of the seven hells. Even as they burnt to cinders, they attacked and raged and burst down into the streets - indiscriminately tearing the smallfolk and the Faith Militant and the guardsmen apart.

Erryk and Arryk were the only things that saved her. When the fighting broke out before the sept, her two guardsmen carried Olenna away. In the explosion, Erryk had fallen somewhere to the flames, and Arryk was left so scared that he never knew what to do but run. The man just kept on running, sprinting towards the Gate of the Gods, trying to reach towards the Tyrell compound at the eastern edge of the city.

Everything was so hazy, the world was roiling. Between the smoke and her spinning head. Olenna could feel the ground rumbling, the stampede of panicked and fleeing feet. She could only vaguely make out the shape of Cobbler's Square, hoisted over Arryk's shoulder as he ran.

There were bodies trampling around her. Olenna could feel the swell of the mobs bubbling around her, the riots surging towards the Red Keep.

Across the plaza of the Street of Sisters, she saw the mobs barrelling against the black marble structure of the Guildhall of the Alchemists. She saw crazed men slamming against the doors,

bodies trying to clamber up the stone parapets of the building, and mobs throwing stones through the shuttered windows, prying them open with their bodies. The Great Sept was blazing over the city, and men were shouting and stomping their feet in fury. The mobs were rallying, all their outrage focused against the Alchemists' Guild - tides of bodies trying to push their way through the doors. It was pure chaos; the alchemists trying to bar the door, to barricade against the riot, but they were breaking and black smoke was rising across the rows of thatch houses.

Flea Bottom was on fire. The debris was spitting and flying far, and the wood and straw of Pisswater Bend didn't stand a chance. The green fires were spreading out of control.

Boom . She heard the thud of great wooden arms, like drumbeats in the distance. In the skies, she saw black shapes soaring, shapes flying like birds.

She couldn't… she didn't understand what she was seeing at first. Then the first body smeared itself across the cobbles like a red berry, and she knew. The hostages.

Flailing bodies soared through the smoky sky, flying from the direction of Aegon's High Hill. Wooden limbs atop the Red Keep's blood-red walls snapped out and then curled back, again and again.

The trebuchets of the Red Keep were launching the hostages from the walls.

The queen had kept her word; with the mobs at the gates, Cersei launched her hostages over the walls by trebuchet. Olenna could see the bodies crashing down from the sky, bloody and unrecognisable pulps smearing against burning stone.

The Whores . Olenna wasn't sure where that thought came from, but it struck inside her head. Those trebuchets were called the Three Whores .

It wasn't logical, it wasn't any sort of scheme. This felt like nothing but pure spite. Madness. Cersei had to know that, but she did so anyway. That could only mean she had nothing to lose.

Loras. Loras, my boy… Was he flying through the sky, even now…?

A vision filled flashed before her gaze, of purple drapes and scores of lords and ladies across the throne room. The sound of a dozen singers chiming in the air, all the noises mixing with laughter. Olenna saw her granddaughter, dressed radiantly in purple and green with diamonds in her hair, holding onto the arm of her new husband, the boy king. For a brief moment, they did make the image of a good couple; Margaery was beautiful, Joffrey youthful and handsome.

Olenna remembered feeling that one moment of doubt. Perhaps Margaery could temper Joffrey's violent inclinations. Joffrey was young, perhaps he would calm as he matured. Perhaps assassination wasn't required. And yet, deep in her old bones, Joffrey had only ever reminded Olenna of the worst of the Targaryens - and such a creature could never be allowed to touch her granddaughter. While the rest were distracted by the foolishness with the Imp, Olenna's gaze turned towards the great goblet of wine before the king's chair, and she had the fake amethysts in her hand.

This was it, this was the moment it all went wrong, Olenna thought numbly. Her eyes turned away from the young King Joffrey, towards Queen Cersei's hard, wooden smile. Olenna so clearly remembered Cersei's expression when her child wed. The queen had sat stiffly in her chair; her expression like stone, but the raw hate still seeping from the cracks. She had tried to hide it under the smiles and courtesies, but Olenna could tell; Cersei had despised their family from the very beginning.

I dropped the poison into the wrong glass .

The man carrying her shuddered, tearing Olenna from the memory. The earth quaked, and then…

Whoosh.

Everything went pitch black as cloud of dust and ash swept through the street, and a plume of crackling green and red fire snapped behind her. The Alchemist's Guild . Somewhere in the distance behind her, the hall of the Alchemist's Guild detonated, and the world trembled. The flames burst upwards, the unnatural fire hissing like the crackling of demons. She felt the impact… the windows shattered, the air was sucked from the sky, and the people screamed - tens of thousands of frenzied voices blending into madness.

Burning horses were running mad through the streets, and men screamed in fear and fury. Flaming debris tumbled through the sky, igniting new conflagrations over the city. It was pure chaos, and Olenna just stared numbly.

Even amidst it all, the image of her beautiful little girl stepping out of that carriage couldn't leave her gaze - the bloated corpse of Margaery haunted her vision.

Ash fell from the sky, and her guardsman heaved and grunted and coughed as he ran through the city, following the Street of Gods to the west. All around them, the rioting crowds of smallfolk tore the city apart. She saw a score of crazed, filthy men with knives and hammers fall on a patrol of frightened Lannister guardsmen and tear them apart. There was no law, there was no order, nothing but an animal panic in the tides of human flesh. Women wailed, babes screamed, and riots of smallfolk on every street.

The Gates of the Gods were wide open, and mounted men poured through, riding into the city, trampling and bellowing through the streets. The rose banners of Tyrell flew high, but they were smeared with mud and dirt. All of the knights looked worn and bloody, their faces pale with fear as they stared out over the city. Olenna saw the banners; the wilted green rose, the squashed purple grapes, the fallen tower, the bloody huntsman…

The Tyrell cavalry was galloping back into the burning city, but they came broken and distraught, and defeat was writ across their features.

The battle, Olenna thought vaguely. What happened to the battle?

The knights were stampeding, fumbling, trying to take control of the chaos. The riots raged, the fires burning out of control.

In the ash and the smoke, there was no 'us' and 'them'. There was naught but mindless panic and anger, tensions over-boiled and red cloaks clashing against gold against green against rainbow. The colours were smothered by ash, and there was nothing but black.

They were screaming, all of the men bellowing for order. Olenna tried to focus, but her head was spinning. She was coughing against the smoke. The old woman was a quivering wreck, barely able to breathe as Arryk finally collapsed to the cobbles from exhaustion.

Tyrell knights were riding around her, struggling to control their horses in the black smog. Olenna could only stagger through it, feeling dazed and hollow.

Her senses were blurring, Olenna felt like she was being torn away from her own body. The shock and the smoke, the pain and the grief… Is this what dying feels like? she wondered faintly.

"My daughter!" a voice cried. "Where is my daughter?"

Her son. That was her son's voice. She saw the heavy shape of her son, covering his mouth against the smoke and his gasping face red. He was clad in green armour, the metal plate chiming with every staggering step. So many shapes and so much noise blurred around her, Olenna struggling to make any sense of it at all. She focused on her son's shape, her boy's voice.

Around her, the city convulsed like a giant's death-rattle. The shrieks of the smallfolk, the screams of the innocent, the crackling of the

wildfire falling from the sky, it blended together into the howling screams of mad gods.

She heard their cries, men were screaming. The screams wrapped around her - cries of "Fire!", "Help us!", "Must retreat!", "What do we do?" "My lord, the castle… !", "They're at the gates!", "My lord, my lord!"…

So many men, running around like little children.

Strong hands grasped Olenna's shoulders, meaty fingers clutched the frail woman so tightly it hurt. "Mother!" Mace shouted at her, his eyes wide and frightened. "Mother! Mother! What happened? What happened? "

Olenna couldn't respond. Focus, must focus. I need to…

There was a heart-wrenching crack the collapse of wood and stone as a building shattered in the flames, sending black ash whooshing through the streets. Men screamed and horses bolted, her son yanked her by the wrist and tried to shelter her from the ash.

"Where is my daughter?" Mace cried, his eyes weeping. He was coughing and crying, trying to pull his mother away. "Where is Margaery? Where is Loras?"

"My son," Olenna croaked, her vision blurring. "My boy, my boy…" Focus. Need to focus .

It was all so black and smoky she could hardly see, but she felt his arms around her shoulders, hugging her so tightly. Her boy was trembling, crying into her shoulders the same way he did when he was boy.

And then the blade sliced through the air.

It started with a scream, and then two. There were short and sharp screams around them, and daggers plunging through backs. In the

haze, they were just shadows writhing in smoke. The Tyrell men fell, blades slicing through the roses on their chest.

Olenna saw a bright red two-handed greatsword flashing in a downwards arc, cleaving through steel as if it were paper. There wasn't a chance to stop them, there wasn't even a pause. Shadows stepped out of the smoke, and red roses were dropping.

The red sword. That was the only thing Olenna could focus on in the moment. The red sword dripping blood.

Olenna would have screamed, but her throat jammed. Mace tried to twist, but it was too quick. Swift and efficient.

"Mothe-" her son croaked, right before that red blade stabbed straight through his back and out of his chest.

His legs gave way and he collapsed. Mace was so big, so heavy, he fell to the floor and pushing Olenna down with him as he toppled. They both fell to the cobbled stones together, both gasping for breath as the blood oozed from his body. Olenna's eyes watched her son's red face gulp and gasp, his hands flailing like a baby as the red oozed from his stomach.

The assassins didn't wait. There was no warning, no bargaining, no talk. They simply saw their chance in the chaos, and they took it.

Heavy steel bootsteps walked towards Olenna, but the man paused as the mother cradled her boy. He stood and he waited as she hugged her loaf of a son for the last time. Olenna's head was spinning, all of the moments… the faces of her family flashing before her eyes. Near sixty years of protecting and caring for her family, so much laughter and ambition and hope for the future…

This is how it ends. Mewling and crying and in flames .

She might have laughed. To die on the Mother's Day, in the arms of her son… along with her family…

The man was waiting, standing stiff like a statue above her. The red greatsword was slick with blood, the blade hungry in the smoke and his dull grey armour smeared with greasy ash. Olenna took a deep breath and raised her head, meeting the hard eyes looking down. The expression under the helm was unreadable.

If the man was expecting outrage, or desperate pleas for mercy, or senseless begging, then Olenna refused to indulge him. She focused on cold grey eyes with all the scorn she could muster.

"Well…" Olenna wheezed finally. "Get it over with, then."

The red sword swung down.

The Mad Queen

Darkness, the vague crackle of fire, the trickle of blood in her lap.

The memories… as sweet and as painful as a blade…

"… mother, mother! Aren't they so beautiful?"

It was time for her to break her fast with her son. And yet when she'd walked into the solar, her little king was holding three… kittens. She stared for a moment. Where had he gotten them? She crouched down and smiled, as her son broke his fast on warm black bread, fresh from the ovens and dribbled with honey. "They most certainly are. Where did you get them, my sweet?"

Margaery gave them to me!" Her son was smiling with the wild exuberance of one who didn't yet know that happiness wasn't something everlasting. "She said that I could name them!"

Cersei's smile turned, just a little, but she controlled her expression. Her baby's excitement was almost infectious. She refused to let the Tyrell whore take away from her son's happiness. "What are you going to name them?" she asked.

Hmmmm." Her son seemed to think as hard as she'd ever seen. He rubbed his cheek into the ears of the largest of the three kittens. "I'll name him Ser Pounce. This one will be Boots. This one will be Ser Whiskers."

That's a girl kitten," Cersei said.

Oh!" His eyes widened, and he gave the cat a firm rub between the ears. The kitten mewled contentedly. "I'm so sorry, Lady Whiskers!"

Cersei couldn't help but smile. Just seeing her baby like this… restored her. Made her whole again. Made her remember what she was fighting for.

A king's kitten needs to be cared for. A kitten needs food, safety, and the protection that only a strong ruler can give," Cersei said gravely. "The kittens are your newest subjects. Are you able to protect your subjects?"

The king considered that, licking honey off his fingers. "I will protect them all. I can do that, I'm the king."

But who will protect you, save for me? Her smile wavered. This cruel, cruel world would surely devour him, just like his older brother, if she didn't save him. Already, the Imp was no doubt plotting somewhere. Already, the Tyrells grasped so, and kept grasping for so much more…

She could not be his sword, but she could be his shield. She would protect him from the darkness.

All I do, I do for him.

The vision twisted, the scene turning away into something dark and sour…

She saw herself stepping into the king's chambers, raising up her lantern as she unlocked the door. She was pale and scarred, and the

blood of the dead dragged at the hems of her dress, as she stepped over the threshold.

The barricaded windows left the whole room in a shadowy gloom, and she heard the mewling of cats stirring from inside. Cersei's heart was pounding in her chest as she stepped forward, and then her nostrils twitched at the sharp tang of blood in the darkness.

She raised the lantern, and moved like a ghost into her child's room.

The chamber was a ruin, and black fluid stained the rugs. Chunks of meat and organs were strewn across the Myrish carpet. In the centre of the bedchamber lay a slight blond form, staring ever upwards. Around it, kittens mewled.

Those sweet little kittens were nibbling on her dead son's flesh. Ser Pounce purred as he played with a lump of Tommen's guts.

Cersei didn't scream. Her throat clenched and her heart stopped, but she just stood and stared, the tower crumbling into rubble all around her…

I warned you, dear sister," the bloody words loomed over the sky.

She didn't scream, but her ears still popped from the howling of the world, the roar of fire and immense crackle of the flames…

Cersei saw a twisted old man with scabby skin and overgrown white hair sitting on the throne, and he was laughing as around him the world burst into green. She felt the heat on her skin, she heard the sundering of the earth, the blaze of stone and the hiss of metal bubbling - but the man didn't burn. Even as the whole world was torched around him, the king rose anew. She saw him rising up from the smoke, his shadow growing and twisting into something larger, something fearsome…

Great wings of black stretched over the sky, and an immense body rose, reborn from the earth and the sea of fire.

It all blurred and faded away.

Cersei dreamt that she was sitting upon the Iron Throne, staring out over the cavernous and empty throne room that she had come to know so well. She heard the footsteps walking towards her, emanating from the shadows.

"I never wanted this for you…" a soft voice mourned from the pillars of the great hall. "I never wanted any of it - not this legacy, not for you to follow your father's footsteps."

She stared at the figure in hooded grey. "Who are you?" Her last word echoed up and down the throne room, youyouyouyou… "Are you the Stranger?"

The figure stood before the throne, and glanced over Cersei's bloated form, the weight in her lap, the red sword by her knees, and the creature mumbling besides the throne's foot.

"I am not the Stranger, Cersei." The figure raised a pale soft hand, and pushed the hood back. "Have you forgotten me?"

No, I don't… The words caught in her throat. A woman, with features that could have been anything from fifteen to fifty. A strange agelessness to her features. Cersei stared into eyes that were of molten emerald. She did know this woman, but it had been so long…

"Have you forgotten your father, your brother too?"

"Jaime is dead."

"Is he?" the figure whispered.

"This is a dream," Cersei said.

"Is it?" the figure whispered sadly. "Look at your hair, child."

Cersei's hand clasped a lock, almost unwillingly. Her hair was a dull blonde, almost grey, and as rough as straw. My hair…

In all of her dreams, her hair was as golden as the dawn.

"You were so beautiful, once," the figure said, her words as soft as the grave. Cersei stared uncomprehending at the figure. Desperate. Who are you? But her voice locked in her throat.

"Your father was a hard man," the figure whispered, "and tortured by his dreams. To dream of the things he could not have… always too afraid to let down his walls, to live his own dreams. So he pushed his dreams onto his children…"

There was a pause, a brief, quiet grimace. "And Tywin…" the voice said softly. "Tywin dreamt that his son would be a great knight, that his daughter would be a queen. That his grandchildren would rule, and turn the Seven Kingdoms into one. He dreamt his children would be so strong and brave and beautiful that no one would ever laugh at them."

"I am a queen," she told the figure, "I have a beautiful son."

A tear rolled down the figure's cheek. The woman raised her hood again and turned her back on her. "Goodbye," she whispered. "I'm sorry - I'm so, so sorry."

Cersei reached after her, but already the figure was moving away, her skirt whispering lullabies as it brushed across the floor. Don't leave me, she wanted to call. Not again… but the figure vanishedinto the air as though she'd never been.

Cersei woke. She could feel the blood.

There was always that heartbeat after she woke - that moment of brief delirium before she realised where she was. That moment of blissful unawareness where everything still seemed right with the world.

And then she blinked, and reality dawned. The memories stabbed back into her heart.

"… Father's face is stern and strong…" her cousin mumbled, his scarred and lanky body slumped over the stairs to the Iron Throne. "… sits and judges right from wrong… weighs our lives… right from wrong…"

Lancel Lannister had been repeating those words for so, so long. Cersei didn't know how much time had passed, she had been falling in and out of consciousness. The ruin that had once been her cousin stood at the foot of the throne, dumbly reciting the Song of the Seven

saying the verses over and over again for what felt like an eternity. His voice was a quiet mumble in the background, blurring with the sounds of battle in the distance as he stuttered over the words.

"… right from wrong… the short and long… loves the little children…" The song, the lullaby, the only things he could say.

Cersei stared at him quietly. She had ordered him to stop, but the verses kept spilling from his mouth. He could hardly control his limbs, he couldn't control his mouth. Ser Lancel Lannister was half-naked and dressed in rags coated in dried blood; covered in red scars of stitched skin, with bloated milky flesh and black veins running down through his body. His expression was blank, his bloodshot eyes vacant, and a faint line of drool dribbling from his mouth as he murmured.

It wasn't Lancel anymore, it was just a mindless creature repeating the same words. Nothing but a broken shell, dissected by a surgeon's knife and stitched back together like a rag doll.

"… Mother gives the gift of life…" his voice droned. "… watches over every wife… loves little children…"

His shoulders were slumped, his head drooped and his feet scraping across the ground. Sometimes Lancel would stagger and pace in circles, other times he would just stop and stand still, but he kept on repeating the words. The words of the Seven felt like nails over chalk, torturing Cersei in the gloomy din.

Of all the power she once had, of all the armies that once marched for her… the only thing left under her command was her useless little cousin. He was the very last one that still listened to her.

Qyburn had left, walking away through one of the secret tunnels. Qyburn had been her very last hope, and he just walked away. The only thing her master of whisperers left behind was Lancel. Useless, meaningless Lancel had been left standing in the dungeons, reciting those words. Perhaps that had been Qyburn's jest.

Cersei sat stiffly on the Iron Throne, her eyes peeled on the door, with her little baby boy in her arms. She sat and waited, stroking Tommen's hair, all the while Lancel lurched around the base of the throne.

The image of the cats devouring her son's corpse replayed over and over before her eyes. 'I warned you, dear sister.'

"… sees our fates as they unfold…" Lancel mumbled. " She lifts her lamp of shining gold… lead the little children ."

A crone. She was not a mother any more, she had no children. She was just an ugly, hideous crone waiting for death.

Tommen was still in her arms, so still he might have been sleeping. If not for the jagged knife wounds across his body, and his bloody guts staining her dress, Cersei might have been able to pretend he was asleep. Yet he wasn't. My children are dead .

She knew that he was dead, but she still cradled Tommen and rocked him gently in her arms. He's still my son, my precious baby. All that I have left. How long has it been since I ever hugged him? Maybe if she closed her eyes, she could pretend he might hug her back.

From outside, she heard the distant crackle of flames, and the thud of battering rams beating against the Red Keep's gate.

Tommen was cradled across her lap, while a red longsword rested against the base of the Iron Throne, the sword's pommel lying between Cersei's knees. The blade was Valyrian steel with red and black ripples running down the smooth metal, and the crossguard forged into two golden lions' heads with ruby eyes staring upwards. The sword was all gold and red and black, garnished in her family's wealth. Widow's Wail, Cersei thought hollowly, staring down at her son's blade. A sword that Joffrey had named hours before making a widow wail.

Cersei had taken to sleeping with Widow's Wail beside her, clutching it for protection and carrying it with her at all times. She had always wanted to carry a sword, but not like this. Nobody else could be relied upon, Cersei had nothing but the blade. It was the very last weapon with which to defend herself. Widow's Wail . Joffrey had wielded it for an hour, Tommen never touched it at all.

Father should have gifted the other sword to me, Cersei thought, not to Jaime .

Cersei raised her head, to stare at where her father was looking at her from across the throne room. Tywin Lannister stood strong and proud, his arms folded and a disapproving gaze lingering in his eyes. Her father stood and stared at her with that cold, quiet judgement she knew so well.

It was not my fault, Cersei could have screamed at her father. It was Tyrion. It was always Tyrion .

Her brother was by her side, strong and handsome with golden hair and both hands, clad in golden armour. Jaime - her lover, her warrior

had stood beside her throne for so long, but now he was walking away. Jaime had abandoned her. Cersei could have called out to him, but she knew he wouldn't reply.

Her mother was standing by the columns, a blurred image. Joanna Lannister was faded; her features obscured by a haze and Cersei

couldn't even focus on her. Cersei could have screamed for her mother, but there would be no response.

All of the ghosts were silent.

She saw Margaery Tyrell and Sansa Stark - two sweet and beautiful maidens, giggling behind their hands and glancing back to the queen with silent derision. They were eating lemoncakes along with Melara Hetherspoon, and shunning Cersei from their huddle.

She could see Robert standing by the wings of the hall. Robert stood as he had been in his prime; a tall giant, armoured and muscled like maid's fantasy, clutching his warhammer with both hands. He was standing next to Rhaegar Targaryen - beautiful and proud in black silk and rubies - and they were both looking to Cersei with open scorn.

The great hall was empty, but they were surrounding her. Her family, her past, her sins. They were standing around her, staring and quietly mocking.

The crone . Cersei could see the Crone herself, the source of it all, standing at the very far corner of the hall and looming in the shadows. The other ghosts were blurred, but Cersei could so clearly make the twisted shape of Maggy the Frog.

The squat and warty woman was built like a warthog with crusty yellow eyes, no teeth, and pale green jowls. She was a hideous, ugly figure - the monster from a fairy-tale, her wrinkled face twisted in a quiet sneer and the faintest of smirks across her warty lips.

And that was the jape, a jest that had taken two decades for Cersei to realise. At the end, at the realisation of Maggy's prophecy, Cersei was most hideous one of them all.

"… Maidens dances through the sky… in every lover's sigh… smiles teach the birds to fly…. fly… fly… "

She stared down at her son's wide, dead and empty eyes, and she could see her own bloody reflection in his irises. A monster from the fairy-tales .

She was a hag. Margaery's fingernails had torn open Cersei's cheeks, leaving gashes from her forehead down to her chin. Her face was clawed open, bloody and mutilated. Qyburn had attended to her, he had smeared foul poultices and bandages across her cheeks, but the scars were deep and ugly.

Cersei could not even look into her own reflection; the very image made her flinch.

It was more than just the face. Her whole body was fat and bloated. She could feel the dead baby inside of her, an unborn child killed when Margaery knocked her to the floor. Cersei could feel the pain in her gut, and there was blood dripping down the inside of her legs. Her hair was haggard like straw, her golden locks turning grey with stress and fear.

Her dress was stained red with gore, yet Cersei could not let go of Tommen's bloody body. He still wore the nightclothes he had died in. She clung to her baby's corpse so tightly it hurt, stroking his hair. Gold stained with red.

"… Seven Gods who made all…" Lancel's voice sputtered. "… listening we should call… they see little children… "

The gods were all around her. The ghosts, the sins, the judgement… Cersei could see them surrounding her, as clear as the mockery in their eyes.

She was only waiting on the Stranger. She stared at the doors, and she waited for death. She waited for her little brother.

Tyrion is coming . She knew he was.

The prophecy had come true. Her children were dead, and the younger queen had struck her down. They only thing missing was her murderer, to wrap his hands around Cersei's throat and finally finish it. Any second now, she expected to see Tyrion strutting through the door, his twisted face gloating as he swaggered in to claim her throne and her neck.

Her whole life was draped around her, vulnerable and exposed. So much effort and heartbreak spent trying to hold onto this jagged chunk of metal, and the sliver of gold atop her head.

She despised the blasted chair. Her hands and legs were nicked and bloody, covered in scabs and blistering wounds from where had pricked and cut herself on the iron barbs. For so long she had coveted this seat, and yet the blades slashed and pained her.

Where did it all go wrong? Cersei thought quietly. Why did I fight for this? Maybe I could have surrendered, maybe I could have run. I might have taken Tommen and fled. I might have just left.

She could have left any time. Cersei could have taken Ned Stark's offer; she might have fled to the Free Cities with her children and never looked back. Stark had given her that chance, and at that time Cersei had laughed at how foolish the offer of his was. Now that was the jest - that at the end of it, Ned Stark had been the wisest one of them all.

Widow's Wail . It was a sword that her father had forged from Ned Stark's own sword. A blade that symbolised their victory over the Starks. Widow's Wail.

When Myrcella had died, Cersei had thrashed and raged and screamed. She had wept and wailed and fell to the floor. But then when Tommen died… she just felt nothing. She couldn't remember even shedding a tear. She had already been dead inside. Cersei had known then that it was all fated. Nothing she'd ever done had mattered; the prophecy was real, and all that remained now was the coming of the valonqar.

In the shadows, Maggy the Frog was laughing at her.

She wondered how long Tyrion would make her wait. She wondered what cruel jests he would say before he killed her. " My dear sister, you look stunning! " the Imp's phantom voice mocked in her ears. " Have you done something with your face? The blood and guts is a bold look, I must say. My, how you will revolutionise fashion in the capital! "

Maybe I should just let him. Maybe I should just sit and wait for death.

Tommen's face was contorted in death, the edge of his lips raising upwards like a sneer. They were sneering. Even her father's unsmiling face had sneered at her.

"… Smith labours day and night… Day and night… day and night… builds little children…"

The Imp's words haunted her eyes - the words he had written in her little baby's blood. " I warned you, dear sister," his voice crackled in her ear, over and over again.

I warned you . If Cersei had any tears left, she would have cried. Instead, all that came out was a harsh cackle of laughter. She was laughing so hard each breath was like a sob. I warned you!

They should place those words upon my tomb, she thought, struggling to breathe through the chuckles. ' Here lies Queen Cersei Lannister - I warned you' .

It was always the Imp.

"… stands before the foe… " the thing that was once Lancel muttered. "… us where e'er we go… sword and shield and spear and bow… "

She could hear the sound of screams and shouts, of loud crashes against hard wood. They were through the gates, they were charging against the Holdfast. Her men had tried to barricade the doors, but it wasn't enough. Half of the queen's men had already deserted, and the other half were only fighting because they missed their chance to run.

It could have worked. Maybe, if Tommen were still alive… maybe if Qyburn hadn't deserted her… maybe if she even had a few more of his constructs still serving her. Maybe if the ghosts hadn't been so spiteful. Maybe she could have risen from the ashes.

Maybe'. Are there any words more haunting than 'maybe'? The scheme that she had spent months working towards had succeeded - she had successfully destroyed the Great Sept and burned the High Sparrow alive. The Kettleblacks, the nobility, the septons and septas - all slain. She had judged those who would presume to judge her. And yet it was still useless, because Tyrion had still butchered her babes. She hadn't broken free of the trap quick enough.

"Tyrion," Cersei said quietly to the empty hall. "Are you there, Tyrion? I know you're listening."

But, still, the trebuchets had been primed and loaded, and the men had been given their final orders from the queen. If she lost, Cersei wanted to make sure everyone else lost too. All those hostages, all of those pretty little girls… they would fly rather than walk free.

She could feel the mobs at the gates, she could feel the boots charging down the corridor…

Any moment now. The Imp was going to strangle her, just as he did that whore. Perhaps he'd use her corpse as a bedwarmer, or he'd have her naked torso body mounted on a spike. There were no limits to an Imp's depravity…

She had the sword. She refused to die so easily. She would skewer the little brother before she fell, one last act of spite. Widow's Wail .

"Where are you, Tyrion?" Cersei demanded to the cavernous, gloomy hall. "I know you're here. I know you are!"

There was no reply, nothing but Lancel's incessant mumbling.

Cersei sat on the throne, staring at the door.

She could hear the heavy footsteps of boots, her whole body freezing with the sound. She remembered the tale Jaime had told her once - of Ned Stark being the first into the throne room, the first to find Jaime sitting on the Mad King's throne with the king's blood staining his blade.

Who will be the first this time?

And finally the great oak doors were pushed apart, armoured men storming through the doorway, blades in hand. The wood crashed against the stone walls, and Cersei heard the sound of fighting from the hall, the echoes of blades cracking together, the screams and grunts of the dying. The soldiers shambling through the doors were bloodied and worn, and they glared around the throne room suspiciously.

They wear red. Their swords swept side to side, men staring over the empty hall filled with ghosts. They looked wary and exhausted, wheezing for breath, but pale-faced under their helms and clutching their swords and shields tightly. They wore cloth-of-red tabards over plate and mail, marked with the roaring lion but the fabric stained with mud and dust. Lannister men.

There were fifteen soldiers - all of them bloodied men-at-arms who pushed their way through the heaviest fighting. Cersei's dead heart pounded in surprise. Not the Imp .

The man at the front wore a lion's head helm, one of the teeth of the gaping steel maw cracked from a blade that must have very nearly cut open his skull. Even from across the distance of the Great Hall, Cersei recognised the man instantly.

"Uncle," Cersei called coldly, and she clutched her boy a little closer.

Ser Kevan's eyes widened in horror as he looked upon the scene. The bloodied, pregnant and disfigured hag of a queen, cradling the dead king in her arms. " By the Gods… ! "

The gods had nothing to do with this . The men looked at her with horror, stepping forward like boys approaching a demon. The ghosts faded away around them, the tapping of cautious steel boots filling the cavernous. None of them lowered their steel, a faint mumble of fear rising from the gaggle of soldiers.

"Cersei…" Ser Kevan growled lowly, his eyes turning to Tommen's corpse. "What did you do? What did you do? "

"You refused to act, ser," Cersei replied. There was no emotion. She was dead inside, as dead as the babe in her stomach. "So I acted instead. I destroyed our enemies."

I did what was needed .

Ser Kevan's gaze turned towards the lurching figure of Lancel, and his whole body froze. The men were mumbling, looking around the hall with quiet fear. The ghosts were staring at them.

"It is forbidden to bare steel in the presence of your king," Cersei ordered, still cradling Tommen's head. "Lower your weapons, your liege commands you. Bow before your king ."

"You… you…" Ser Kevan gasped, his throat choking. Lancel was still lurching by the side of the Iron Throne, his feet scraping slowly across the stone. "Lancel?" Ser Kevan shouted finally. "Lancel, is that you?"

Most others of Qyburn's work had ended up scarred and disfigured beyond all recognition, but Lancel looked almost whole. The boy was recognisable even through the twisting scars and black veins. He looked almost fresh. Almost alive, if not for his blank expression.

Lancel didn't reply. He didn't even twitch. "Lancel, my boy!" Ser Kevan begged. " Lancel! "

"… close your eyes, you shall not fall… close your eyes not fall… close eyes shall fall not… " Lancel mumbled. "… they see you… see you… little children… "

Kevan's mouth dropped, his face bone pale. He looked like he might have screamed, but he could not breathe.

"Ser Lancel," Cersei ordered. "Step forward."

Lancel lurched. He took the step instantly, half-staggering as his body twitched. "Stop," Cersei commanded. "Turn. Bow ."

Lancel's waist sagged, and his torso drooped against the stone. No hesitation, not doubt or disobedience. Nothing but perfect compliance to her commands. The perfect soldier. The perfect Lannister.

"Ser Lancel is a loyal subject, uncle," Cersei said lowly. "He obeys me, learn from his example. Now lower your weapons. It is good youare here; your men must secure the Red Keep against the peasant mobs."

"What did you… what did you…?" Kevan gasped. He looked scared to even approach. Lancel was bowed so deeply he was nearly doubled over.

"I did what I had to do," Cersei growled. "They took everything from me, but I will take it back. We must secure the Red Keep. We must find Lord Qyburn again - he has the skills that we need. You are still sworn to Tommen Baratheon, ser." She clutched his body a bit tighter. "And your king still commands you."

Ser Kevan didn't reply. His mouth was wide, his eyes fixed on his son, and his gaze slowly turned towards Cersei, and then to the dead king.

"The proof stands before your very eyes. The proof of what we can accomplish," Cersei said, motioning at Lancel. "The proof that the dead can be returned, that we can bring them back ." Cersei's voice wavered slightly, and she grit her teeth. "I dreamt of it. I dreamt of them all returning to me."

Her dreams… she could see the ghosts singing sometimes, she could hear the songs of screams. She had seen the skies turning black, and the dead returning. Her brother, her father, her children… House Lannister would rise again, she knew it would.

Lord Qyburn had promised it.

"Now your king commands you," Cersei said finally, propping up Tommen's head up to face them. " Do your duty ."

There was a long moment of silence in the cavernous hall. The only noise was Lancel's muttering, and the distant howl of the fires.

"Arrest her." Ser Kevan's voice was queerly quiet, but then it wavered and broke into booming fury. "Arrest her! SEIZE HER! "

The Lannister men raised their swords and stepped forward. Cersei's eyes widened. "No, you can't - the king-" Another step - their eyes were so, so angry. Pale and furious gazes glowered at her from under helms. Can't let them take my son, I won't - " Stop them!

"

I cannot, I will never surrender my son, never surrender him, never, ever, ever…

Lancel jerked into motion and staggered upright, his whole body convulsing. " See you… see you… ! " Lancel mumbled, raising his hands to protect his queen. "… see you…"

The men-at-arms moved backwards, frightened and uncertain cries coming from them. "Lancel!" his father begged. "Lanc-"

Lancel didn't have a sword. He didn't need one. He shambled forward with sudden speed, slamming into a man and swinging his hands like clubs. The thud of bone against metal crunched through the cavernous hall, but Lancel didn't even flinch. Bodies crashed, and bones cracked.

" See you! " Lancel howled. " See you little children! "

Crash . Lancel was surrounded by a dozen armed men, but there was no fear. No pause. He barged into a man so hard that the man toppled to the floor, his limbs flailing and raging. Fifteen against one, yet it was the fifteen that looked scared.

"LANCEL!" Ser Kevan screamed, and yet Lancel just lunged at another man-at-arms. His hands wrapped around the man's neck, and Cersei heard the crack of a spine snapping.

Blades were slashing, screams of panic. Bodies charged forward, blades hacking down like axes. "No!" Kevan bellowed at his men. "Don't hurt him! Don't hurt him! "

"The Father's face is stern and strong!" Lancel cried as he clawed out a man's guts. " He sits! And judges right from wrong! "

Blood splattered, swords slashed. Cersei clutched her little boy to her chest with one arm, and with the other she fumbled for her sword, grasping for the handle. Her hands were trembling, hands jerking so hard that she nicked her own ankle against the black edge. Widow's Wail…

" Little children! " Lancel cried between the spears and swords. "

Little children !"

There was violence before her, and all Cersei could think of was protecting her baby. Her fingers wrapped around the pommel of the sword. I'm not ready to die, she realised suddenly. I'm not. I thought I was, but I'm not .

I must protect my babe.

It was pure shambling chaos; frantic bodies trying to wrestle Lancel's relentless shape to the ground. Lancel's arm snapped against a heavy shield, the bone splintering, but he didn't even care. The men were panicking, forced backwards against Lancel's fury and flailing limbs.

Cersei clutched Tommen tightly in her arms, heaved him upwards with all the strength she had, and she ran.

She skipped down from the Iron Throne, she turned and she sprinted as fast as her bloated and broken body could take her. Widow's Wail was in her hand, but she couldn't grip it firmly, she couldn't swing it properly with her child's weight over her shoulder. She gasped against the writhing agony in her stomach, but she didn't pause. She just ran for her life, her heart racing in panic.

Can't let the Imp take me. Kevan is working for the Imp, why didn't I see it?

The longsword nearly fell out of her fingers as she staggered, but she didn't stop. Widow's Wail was a heavy blade to carry in a single hand, a cumbersome weapon for trembling fingers. She tried to cling onto both her baby and the sword, but they were sliding out of her bloody hands with every jagged step. She could barely even keep a hold of the sword, she couldn't swing it…

"Cersei!" Ser Kevan boomed behind her. " Cersei! "

Her heels tapped against the stone, staggering and nearly falling with every step. Tommen's limp weight was hanging over her shoulders, a dead weight that caused her to sway like a pendulum, but she didn't stop sprinting. She pushed through the door and shambled up the stairs, nearly falling to her knees as she staggered.

Blood dripped across the stones with every step.

Cersei past the burst out onto the balcony of the Red Keep, son and sword in her arms, and she was already sprinting towards the top of the walls. She felt the smoke in the air and she saw King's Landing burning in black and green.

She felt the sound of fighting throughout the city. She felt the earth rumble with sound of mobs. In the fury and outrage, the smallfolk turned out the Lannister soldiers - she could feel the drum of fighting all the way between Aegon's High Hill and the Dragonpit atop Rhaenys'. Mobs of smallfolk were writhing, even as half the city blazed.

There was no escape, no way out of the Red Keep through the angry hordes. She could only hide, find a place for her and her babe to hide. Hide from the Imp .

The White Sword Tower loomed over the bay - a sharp and slim tower of four stories jutting from the walls of the inner keep. The pale white banners of the Kingsguard flapped limply in the wind, but the tower was deserted. It wasn't even a conscious decision, but she was running towards it. She thought of all those times she had snuck into her brother's quarters in the dead of night, those nights she ran to Jaime's arms for comfort…

There were heavy boots behind her. Cersei just ran.

She could see the ghosts all around her, following her, wafting in the smoke. She saw Jaime shaking his head as he turned his back, she saw Tyrion's evil sneer haunting from the shadows, and above them all she saw her father's face glaring downward from the heavens.

The howl of the fires sounded like laughter. Tyrion and Maggy the Frog were laughing together.

and the valonqar shall wrap his hands around your pale little white throat and choke the life from you…

There were bloody tears in her eyes, the red staining her vision and she could barely see.

Cersei shambled through the door towards the spiral stairs. She made it up half a dozen steps before she finally toppled. Tommen's weight dragged her down, and she cracked against the hard marble stones. The pain in her gut caused her to writhe - tears stinging against the bloody cuts on her face as she tried to squirm.

The Valyrian steel clattered against to the stone as she tripped, but her flailing fingers groped for it. Widow's Wail .

She clung to her baby boy's shoulders, trying to lift him off the ground but she couldn't find the strength. She needed to run, needed to flee, but she couldn't leave her son behind. She couldn't let go, she couldn't unhook her hands…

She heard footsteps stepping up the stairs to the White Sword Tower, a man panting for breath. Ser Kevan was following, her uncle staring at her with wide, white eyes as she crawled on the ground.

She wheezed for breath through the sobs, trying to pull her baby up from the floor, trying to shake him back to life. "We can save him!" Cersei cried. "We can bring my boy back! We must bring him back!"

Ser Kevan didn't reply. He just stepped closer. "Don't you understand?" she screamed through the bloody tears. "He's coming to kill me… Tyrion is going to destroy me!"

There was a pause, and then Ser Kevan shook his head. "He already has," her uncle said quietly.

That was the last thing she managed to hear, and then Ser Kevan lunged. Cersei could only gasp as fingers of lobstered steel wrapped around her neck. Her fingers curled, grasping against the hilt of Widow's Wail, but it slid straight out of her grip. She tried to swing it feebly, but Kevan swatted the blade away with an elbow. Her family's sword knocked out of Cersei hands, useless.

The longsword clattered against the stone and fell clunking down the spiral staircase, the steel chiming while Cersei squirmed. The widow wailed.

She couldn't breathe, she couldn't…

No. Cersei refused to die. She could not die, not before she saw the Imp for a final time. She would drag him into the dark with her.

A strangled cry broke her throat, and Cersei pummelled at Kevan. She beat and scratched and tore, but her uncle grimaced and pushed her down, redoubling the force, grunting from behind two hands. Cersei could feel her neck screaming, her vision darkening at the edges, but she refused…

Her fingernails scratched at Kevan's helm, into his face, clawing desperately. Trying to find leverage, trying to draw blood…

Couldn't breathe, couldn't…

Her eyes veered over Kevan's shoulder, and they bulged.

She could see him.

The Imp stood there, grinning saucily with mismatched eyes, standing beside a hole in the wall. He cocked his head, like some grotesque demon. "Now the debt is paid," he cackled. He lunged at her, and her brother's hands clenched over her uncle's, and they squeezed.

Maggy the Frog stood above Cersei, screeching with laughter, as the crone's gnarly, warty hands groped for her neck. "You were warned," Maggy the Frog hissed, as she tightened her grip.

More came. More shadows - they were coming from the hallway, from the windows, from the walls. Her eyes swelled fit to burst.

She could see them. She could see them all.

The Tyrell whore, black-faced and ruined. She laid her fingers atop her uncle's, clenched her fingers about Cersei's throat, and squeezed. Eddard Stark, grim-faced and grey-eyed, with a weeping seam about his neck. Robert, fat and milky-pale, with entrails hanging from his gut. Her father, scowling and judging and decomposing. Her brother, blank and distant, with fingers pink and gold…

So many more. They were all strangling her… all of those hands around her throat…

The High Septon. Taena. Lancel. The Kettleblacks. Melara. The Stokeworths. Sansa Stark. A score of black-haired and blue-eyed children, babes and proud youths all. Cousins and nieces and nephews. Her family, her enemies, her ghosts…

Her struggles weakened. Ser Kevan grunted, and slammed her backwards onto the stone floor.

The smallfolk, the soldiers, those killed in the wars, those burnt in the cities. Hundreds, thousands of them. They were nameless shadows writhing around her - smoky hands gripping at her neck.

The dead had returned, but not her family, not her babes. All those she had killed, all those she had hated, all those she had feared. They had risen from the hells. They had come for her, all of them, together. They all sought her neck, laid their hands atop Kevan's, and they squeezed.

Their eyes met hers, and they hated.

Strangled by a sea of ghosts, couldn't breathe… couldn't…

"Thank you for the crown, dear sister!" The Imp howled above it all. "I shall put it to the finest use."

Cersei's clutching fingers went limp, her lips stammered, and she stared in a wordless, choking horror.

Something cracked, and the world went dark.

The Little Brother

"Raise your shield!" the master-of-arms ordered, shouting above the sound of whacking wooden swords whacking together. "Step forward! Strike! Shield! Strike! Shield !"

Kevan complied, trading blows with Tygett on command. He followed the steps, just as the man commanded. Even as a young and fierce boy of nine, his little brother nearly got the better of him. "Keep your shield high, boy," their mentor warned, as Tygett's blade nearly broke his defence.

Kevan did so, but he blocked twice as often as he attacked. In the benches near the practice yard, Genna whooped and cheered with every clash.

"Kevan!" a hard voice ordered. "To me. I want to talk."

At once, the fight stopped. The voice was firm and sure, and not even the master-at-arms protested it. The tone was so strong that there was absolutely no doubt it would be followed.

He saw Tywin looking to him, his brother's speckled green eyes fixed in an unyielding glare. Even as a young man of six and ten, Tywin had a presence, a power, to him that none could match.

Kevan dropped his sword and he followed. Behind him, Tygett bristled. "How come you never spar in the yards, brother?" the boy demanded.

"Because I deal with sharper edges," Tywin replied smoothly, already walking away. "Go back to your wooden sword."

Kevan couldn't remember Tywin ever training with a sword, barely even picking up a blade. And yet, still, there could no doubt that

Tywin was the best of them.

There was a fire inside his elder brother, Kevan remembered, a will that reshaped the world around him. Tywin seemed to simply wish it, and then he would see it done. Even Father struggled to challenge his eldest son.

"Father is planning on having you sent to Tarbeck Hall, to squire for Lord Walderan," Tywin explained dourly, as they stepped towards the Stone Garden of the Rock. "Walderan offered for you to earn spurs next to Tion."

"He… he did?"

"Aye, and I will not allow it." His voice was grim. "Lord Walderan overreaches himself, he wants a son of Lannister as a hostage, not a squire. No, brother - I will not permit you to be taken to Tarbeck Hall."

It would likely be another argument against Father again, another shouting match until Lord Tytos was red in the face. "I…" Kevan's throat choked, trying to think of an alternative. "What of Lord Roger Reyne? He was looking to take a squire."

Lord Roger was one of the finest warriors of the west. Ser Kevan would have been proud to squire for him, but Tywin's gaze just darkened at the very suggestion.

"The Red Lion?" Tywin's lips thinned, and the shadows of Casterly Rock cast a sharp scowl over his features as they walked into the castle proper. "I think not . House Reyne is too grasping by far, and Ellyn Reyne made a mummer's stage of Casterly Rock. They make japes of us, and laugh behind our backs. She and her house have much to answer for - they will get naught more than what they deserve from Lannister."

Kevan's mouth flapped slightly, but he didn't know how to reply. Tywin spoke with such hostility towards a slight decades past, but who was Kevan to advise his brother on such a matter?

"No, I say that Ser Humfrey Swyft would be better for your knighthood," Tywin continued without pause. "He is young and bold, not an old man. Ser Humfrey will see you trained with steel, while you'd only be serving wine for Lord Walderan. You should earn your spurs quickly, Kevan; this realm is changing and we must be ready for it." Tywin turned to look at him, raising a doubtful eyebrow. "And you are too old to be playing with wooden swords, brother."

"I…" I enjoy sparring with Tygett . "You are right." Kevan nodded. "I will be more mindful."

Tywin nodded. "Come, there is much to discuss," Tywin ordered, turning around and striding away. "I hear news from Tyrosh that the Black Dragon is stirring again. An alliance has said to have formed in the Disputed Lands, and this Maelys the Monstrous," Tywin said with a quiet scoff, "has murdered his cousin Daemon for control of the Golden Company, and chased his sisters into exile. There could be war in less than a year, and House Lannister will be ready for it."

Even as a boy, Tywin had been strong . Tygett had grown to be a fury with a blade, Gerion had been taller and bolder, and yet Tywin was always the strongest. House Lannister had been in decline under Father's rule, but Tywin brought their family to strength after strength.

The scene blurred, the memory fading. His entire life, all that time following. He had fought in over a half a dozen wars in his lifetime, seen dozens of battles, commanded thousands of men, and he had been behind Tywin every step of the way.

Kevan had always been the little brother.

Perhaps if Tywin were still here, none of this would have happened. Tywin had been the great lion, the protector of the pride. Tywin wouldn't have lingered for so long outside the Red Keep's gates, begging with Tyrells, torn in indecision. In cowardice.

Tywin had been the one born to rule, to lead; not him.

Ser Kevan just felt numb. He couldn't even feel his hands as they squeezed around Cersei's throat. His heart was drumming, his body was trembling, and there was just so much rage… he could do nothing but squeeze.

All of that frustration, the anger, the despair… it was like he could squeeze it all into Cersei through his fingers.

He couldn't hear Cersei gag through the pounding of his blood. He couldn't hear a thing. He squeezed until her bloody face turned purple, and he watched her eyes bulge. They felt like somebody else's hands.

Kevan's entire life flashed before his eyes in that moment. He remembered the best times in his life; the first time he saw his wife, the first time he held his son, the moment he felt his daughter's fingers curled upon his. Cornfield wasn't a grand castle like Casterly Rock, it didn't have vaults of gold or great tunnels, but it was warm and homely, surrounded by fields of grain overlooking Red Lake. Kevan would have been happy settling down in his little keep with his family, with his wife and his twin boys, and his sweet little baby girl…

His brother had wanted the world, but Kevan had only ever wanted his family.

Tywin had loved his family too, but it had been a different sort of love. Tywin had idolised Joanna since the first moment he saw her as children. Their cousin had been beautiful and intelligent and radiant, the only woman in the world that could match Tywin's strength of will. Tywin had gone nose to nose with his liege over Joanna, drawing the ire of his king as he courted her. Joanna was the only woman Tywin had ever had to chase, the only woman who could defy him.

Even after that incident with Aerys, Tywin had still loved her beyond all measure.

There had been a series of whores after Joanna's death - most of them Kevan had provided, all under the utmost discretion - but Tywin had never married again, because no other woman could replace the void that Joanna had left behind.

Tywin had always judged Jaime as a younger version of himself, no matter the boy's balking. In a manner alike, Tywin had only ever compared Cersei to Joanna. For so many years, Tywin had educated, empowered, and moulded them both that they might carry on his family's legacy…

Both of the twins fell lacking to their father's expectations.

"She drives me to despair, that girl," Tywin had admitted to Kevan once; in a rare, rare moment that his brother lowered his guard. Tywin looked exhausted, slumping his shoulders in a way he never did except in the most trusted of company. "She challenges me on every front, and it seems half my life is to spent trying to clean up her messes. There are times I wish I could just throttle that child."

They always said that I never had a thought that Tywin did not have first .

His hands finally slackened and Cersei dropped to the ground. Kevan stared in numb, quiet horror, and then stepped over the corpse.

All I ever wanted was that small keep by the cornfields, with my flat-chested and homely wife, and my mewling children, he thought hollowly. All I ever…

Yet his wife was dead, hung outside the cornfields along with his son and his baby girl. His brothers were dead, his cousins and his nephews…

The thought of his eldest son… his pride, his love… the thought of that scarred creature flailing before the Iron Throne…

He walked numbly up the stairs towards the top of the tower, to the chamber of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He shambled into the Round Room and the weirwood shield table, not even glancing at the central podium on which rested the White Book.

His hands were red with queen's blood, red dripping over white. He ambled through the empty rooms as quickly as he could, wheezing with every step. To think that, once, Kevan had dreamt of serving here… dreamt of taking a white cloak of his own…

He stepped out onto the balcony, and looked down over the world. The city was a sea of smoke and fire, roiling in the distance so far beneath him. His eyes flickered, from one horror to the next.

Nothing remained of the Great Sept of Baelor. Flea Bottom, the Muddy Way, Merchant's Circle, the Street of Steel, Cobbler's Square… it was all incinerated. An ocean of viridian fire and a storm of smoke.

The Street of Sisters was consumed by a pit of fire, glowing like something bursting from the seventh hell. All around the former hall of the Alchemist's Guild, there was nothing but an inferno, a hell of flames reaching for the sky.

The city is destroyed. Wildfire rained from above, and even from here he could taste the ash on his tongue. There was no sun, there was no sky. There was only a thick and greasy cloud of ash, looming over the pyre of the world.

In the distance, through the smoke and over the Blackwater, he could see the shadow of the army. Aegon Targaryen was already at the walls. The dragon reborn, and the lions slaughtered before its claws.

His family's legacy began at the Sack of King's Landing. Perhaps it was only fitting it should end the same way.

Everything that Tywin had ever built, everything he had ever worked for… it was all going up in flames. I'm sorry, brother, Kevan thought numbly. I'm sorry!

The thick black smoke blocking out the sun felt like Tywin's shadow above him, looming over them all. Ser Kevan stood atop the tower, staring across the burning cityscape.

We're all going to one of seven hells anyways. Might as well as choose this one .

He closed his eyes, and took a step forward off the balcony of the White Tower. The wind screamed in his ears, and the smoke and fire rushed up to meet him.

I'm sorry, Tywin. I'm so sorry.

Author Notes:

Well, I tried to get this out for Halloween, but I'm a bit late.

Happy Halloween anyway.

Quick note about the timeframe: the story started its divergence at around 20/10 299 AC. We are now on the 1/3 301 AC. There's been a few places where I've fiddled with travel distances and synchronicity, but overall I think I've kept the story fairly in-line. It also means that a large chunk of events around Winterfell and around King's Landing have been running pretty much simultaneous with each other. I'm planning on jumping back to Jon where we left him before the southern interlude, for the last arc of the story.

Overall, I intended on this book taking about 400,000 words (roughly the size of canon books), but it looks like I'm way over and it will be around 800,000. I'm not happy about that, but, in my defence, I can safely say that I have fulfilled the promise I

gave on chapter 1 - this story has most certainly been written faster than the Winds of Winter.

I'm also planning on going backwards in time slightly at the very start of the next book, to resolve events happening in Meereen.

Chapter 41

Chapter 41

The Hand of the King

It was a cool and grim day when the two armies met on the battlefield. The fields were green and the grass slick with dew, and the roseroad was left a muddy squelch by the stomping of boots. The sun was bright but a cold, sharp wind cut through the plains, and the oak and elm trees of the kingswood rippled in the faint wind.

The banners stretched out around Jon, and regiments of men partitioned into strips like a farmer's fields. It was only very early morn, but they were all restless. Jon had forced himself to get some sleep the night before, but all around him he saw red and weary eyes.

It was the preparation, the wait for the battle, that was half as gruelling as the battle itself. The anticipation was like a bowstring shivering under the pressure, the arrow begging for release.

There was already some fighting on the fields and in the treelines - but only skirmishes really. Jon could hear bowstrings snapping in the distance, like the chirping of insects. The enemy's scouts were clashing in the treelines against Black Balaq's scouts; maybe a few dozen men testing the other's bow range. The rose lord is probing us, and us them . Both sides were searching for weaknesses whilethey scouted out the fields and woods, but the bulk of the men just stood and waited on the road. Watching.

Jon Connington was on the rear ranks surrounded by the reserves, as he stood upon a platform to stare out over the field, built from barrels and wooden crates stacked on top of each other. Many of the company's commanders stood with him; Harry Strickland, Lord Clement Piper, Lord Caspor Wylde, Lord Lester Morrigen, Lord

Tristan Darry, Lysono Maar, Ser Ronald Vance, Ser Duncan Strong and Ser Pykewood Peake waiting in various states of unease. Squires and pages served wine and smoked mutton, but there was little talk and more silence.

"Watkyn!" Harry Strickland called to his squire. "Bring some of those pastries we have in the pantry. I feel the need for something sweet." He looked to Lord Clement Piper, standing next to him. "Would you care for a treat, my lord?"

"I think not," Lord Clement replied chilly. Connington glanced at Harry, but he didn't speak.

"I can never stand going into battle on an empty stomach," Harry tutted, as he swallowed a great gulp of wine. "I find that a bit of a feast beforehand helps it go a lot faster."

There was no reply. The squire, Watkyn, tottered up a few seconds later, bringing a platter of pastries. Watkyn moved to offer Jon one, but then he met the lord's gaze and quickly retreated.

"How long is the rose lord going to make us wait?" Ser Pykewood Peake complained, as he paced.

"As long as he chooses to," Lord Connington replied, standing firm and stoic. "I am in no rush."

He remembered Myles Toyne once japed that every battle was like a woman. Jon had bristled with the comment at the time, but there was some truth to it; every battle did have its own taste, its own experience. Some were quick and dirty in backstreets, but others were glorious, passionate affairs that defined a man's life. Jon Connington had seen a dozen wars and as many conflicts, but only five true battles. This was his sixth.

His first, the Battle of the Bells, had been frantic, rushed and hectic - so crazed that it felt like the world was on fire. His men had charged through the Stony Sept to the panicked chiming of the bells, as loud

as his heartbeat. They had kicked down the doors and ravaged every building in the town, and then wrestled and heaved with the rebels in the town square. Jon had been young then; full of youth and arrogance.

And, like any affair, the Battle of the Bells had left Jon shamed and bitter by the end of it. The battle that ruined me .

The Battle of the Roseroad had yet to begin, but it already had a different taste to it. It felt slow, careful, and more forceful. The two armies had spent days preparing, and they came together gradually. Jon was more experienced now; he led from the rear, surveyed the whole of the battlefield with his own eyes, and commanded from afar. Even with the first boom of horns and the stomping feet of men, Jon's passions were cold and muted. His heartbeat barely even twitched.

It was slow and measured. The Reachmen wanted to get to Oldtown, and the Golden Company wanted to reach King's Landing. There was no uncertainty; just two hosts of men blocking the other's way.

They had been creeping towards each other slowly, barely half a mile between them. The army that abandoned their defensive formations to attack first would lose an advantage. So, instead, they both waited. Who will blink first?

"Lord Connington," a squire called, running up the steps and bowing. "Lord Connington!"

The boy was young, with bright silver blond hair that was distinctive in any light. Oshio, Jon recalled as he turned and frowned. "Your armour is ready, Lord Hand," Oshio explained, bowing deeply again.

Jon only nodded. He stepped down from the platform, and went to go get dressed. He forced himself to keep his gait smooth and calm. No rush, he ordered to his body with pure force of will.

He walked straight towards a large pavilion, marked by the red dragon of the king. All around him he heard the drumbeat of hammers; their blacksmiths had been working day and night. Even on the eve of the battle, there were still countless swords to be sharpened and platemail to be battered. Camp followers and washerwomen fletched arrows, and the last-minute whores would be walking bow-legged. The grounds were filled with knights strapping on metal, and squires rushing around frantically.

Lord Connington had been quite prepared to go into battle wearing chainmail and boiled leathers, but King Aegon insisted on having full plate commissioned for his Hand. Jon had conceded that full armour was prudent, he could not object.

There was a crowd as he approached the pavilion, and he saw the four white cloaks standing stiffly outside. Aegon's Kingsguard had grown recently, with two solid additions named; Ser Tristan Ryger and Ser Olyvar Yronwood. Ser Tristan was young, but newly knighted and a close friend to Lord Tully - an ideal companion to appease the riverlords. Ser Olyvar was the grandson of Lord Anders Yronwood, and a large and well-built man with a stocky frame. Both of noble blood, both of good standing - far better than the first two that Aegon chose.

There was a crowd around the pavilion, with Ser Lymond Pease and Ser Torman Peake both petitioning king's attention. The white cloaks kept them all others back, but nobody dared to stop the Hand of the King as Lord Connington stepped through.

As he stepped into the royal pavilion, he saw the king being strapped for war, and Jon's breath froze.

"My Lord Hand," Aegon called, and Jon momentarily faltered.

King Aegon Targaryen looked like the Conqueror reborn. His armour was stunning; a masterpiece from a dozen smiths. King Aegon wore black steel with a golden trim, and his gauntlets, greaves and pauldrons bore jagged barbs stretching outwards; the metal so

smooth the points rippled like fire and making his armour horned and jagged like a dragon's scales.

The black was highlighted by a striking exuberance of gold, and the king wore a red cape and surcoat bearing his family's colours. There were even ridges protruding from the back of the breastplate, steel shaped like stubby wings from his shoulderblades.

"Well," Aegon said softly, a smile spreading over his lips. "What do you think?"

Jon blinked. His gaze flickered towards the helm lying by a stool - a black full helm shaped like a dragon's maw - with great white diamond eyes. He had expected rubies, but instead Aegon's armour was decorated in diamonds and dark sapphires. White and violet against black and gold.

It took five of the king's squires to mount the armour upon him, struggling with the clasps and intricate fastenings. There were more cutlets, gorgets, spaulders, gardbraces and couters than Jon had ever seen - so much gilded steel fitting together seamlessly.

You could buy a castle for that armour's worth . The king looked twice the size with it all strapped on to him. "It is… the steel will be too heavy, Your Grace."

"The metal is very light," Aegon reassured. "Cumbersome, yes, but I'm told that nothing will grant me better protection."

Jon paused. "Is that another gift from our friends in Pentos?" he asked.

"Yes, Myrish workmanship, none finer," Aegon nodded. Those magisters are paying a king's ransom towards our campaign .

Aegon waved his squires away, and stepped forward. The plate armour was so expertly sized that all the metal didn't even rattle. It

looked more ceremonial over practical for what Jon was comfortable with, but on pure extravagance alone…

Aegon grinned, and he looked stunning. Young and handsome and bold. By the Gods, Rhaegar .

"You should get dressed quickly, my lord," Aegon advised. "It seems restless outside."

"More bluster than threat, I think, Your Grace." He was still looking at the armour, trying to imagine Rhaegar wearing it. "It is a common technique; antagonise your foe by constantly threatening the attack. They are sending out scouts, they are moving their horses through their camp, but no charge comes. Nothing but bloodless skirmishes so far, but they hope to torture us with anticipation."

"It is working," Aegon said, quietly grimacing. "I have not slept soundly for near two nights."

"And yet they are hurting too," Jon said firmly. "They have the larger army, so why do they waste time with such games? No, let them taunt - I will not be the one to attack first."

"The queen's trial?" Aegon asked.

"Either today or tomorrow, I believe. I assure you that the rose lord will be distracted."

"Very well," Aegon said, taking a deep breath. "It is… I have never been this close to the Iron Throne in eighteen years. And many in the Golden Company have been waiting their entire lives. This moment, it's just so…"

Jon paused. "Are you prepared, Your Grace?"

"I am."

"We are still at a disadvantage in numbers," Lord Connington warned. "We must counter that with patience and calm."

"And do you fear I might charge against the enemy single-handedly?" Aegon retorted. His hand instinctively moved closer to his hip, hovering over the injury on his thigh. "Worry not, I learn from my mistakes. I shall by sticking firmly to the formation and the battle-plan. I know my place in this battle."

Aegon's gaze turned towards the far side of the tent, where Blackfyre sat upon a satin cushion, still sealed in its pine box. As many guards had been assigned to that blade as there were protecting the king. Aegon had yet to wield Blackfyre in public, but the moment was soon.

"Already the rumours of my sword have started to spread," Aegon explained, a smile on his lips. "I have shown it to my commanders, and the talk is spreading through camp. When I ride out holding my family's blade, the men will cheer and the enemy will falter."

They will indeed . Yet Jon still couldn't relax. "And where will you be riding?" he pressed.

The king chuckled. "You worry worse than an old hen, Lord Hand,"

he teased. "Perhaps we should reconsider your sigil."

He ignored the jest. "Your presence on the battlefield will help rally the troops, but do not lose sight of the risks. We must consider the stakes."

Jon did not trust the gods. It would be the ultimate cruelty for them to come so far, but for the king to die in battle outside the gates of the capital. Jon had nightmares imagining that moment - Aegon's death in some freak accident on the battlefield. Perhaps an arrow to the back of the head. I must stop that from happening .

"Oh, I have," Aegon said, turning solemn. "I know what we are fighting for, believe me. I have rehearsed the route with the Kingsguard, the commanders are all aware; I shall ride in formation from across the archers to the reserves, and then I shall do rounds of our camp with the royal regiment behind me. I shall reinforce the

reserves, and ensure that every man can see my presence. When it comes time to charge, I shall swap my horse for an elephant and ride out with the second rank."

"The fourth rank," Jon argued. "The second rank will be too close to the arrow rain." I do not want you within fifty yards of danger .

The king shook his head, long silver hair wafting. "There we must disagree," Aegon said firmly. "I promised not to seek out danger, but you are fooling yourself, Lord Hand, if you think I will run from it either. I shall be in my proper place in the battle."

"Your Grace-"

No, Lord Hand," Aegon said firmly. "I will not let the men view me as a cowardly king. There are times when I think you would prefer if I was sent off to the fall-back camp along with Arianne and the women."

I would, actually . They had left their previous extremely well-fortified camp several leagues down the roseroad, and any not involved in the battle had retreated there. The Princess of Dorne tried to protest, but Jon had refused to allow Arianne or her companions on the battlefield. If the battle went badly, then the Golden Company would be retreating back to that camp too.

Jon could have argued, but he knew it was useless. The king was as stubborn as his father.

Aegon Targaryen is a good man, strong and decent, he thought. Sometimes, though, it seemed like decency was the bane for any king or commander. A leader couldn't care about what was right or moral - a leader could focus only on what was necessary.

He heard shouts calling for the king. Aegon stood in his glorious armour, and moved to pick up his sword. He held up Blackfyre in both hands as if it were a holy relic. His lips were pursed, his eyes narrowed. "I shall see you on the battlefield, Griff," Aegon whispered,

trembling slightly in quiet apprehension, and then stepped out of the tent.

Jon was left standing alone in the pavilion, and he took a deep breath.

"You are more important than all others," Lord Connington had told Aegon once, after the siege of Storm's End, while the king lay pale and bloody in the infirmary bed. "Anybody else, myself included, is expendable and replaceable. But if you die, then this whole war is lost. The kingdom will be doomed, and your family will end. You risk more than just your own life."

"I cannot expect men to fight for me if I won't fight myself," Aegon had protested, puffing his chest out even while smeared in bloody bandages. "I have a duty to them! The men under me deserve better than a craven of a king!"

"They deserve nothing !" Jon had almost screamed. "Your first duty is to the realm, not to a battle. And for that you must stay alive, my king," His voice had flickered. "Every boy wants to be a hero, but a king must learn sacrifice. Sometimes we must sacrifice the boy too."

Aegon opened his mouth to yell, but Jon cut him off. "Your own mother knew that," Jon insisted, "when she swapped you for the pisswater prince. She took another babe into her bedchamber and left you with someone else, but Elia knew that you needed to survive." The act had been greatest thing that Elia had ever done for Rhaegar .

Aegon's face had twisted, his jaw clenched in agony, but he didn't object. Then the maester had arrived to bleed and cauterise Aegon's messy arrow wound, using leeches and a burning poker.

He will be a grand king, Jon thought solemnly. A king that will triumph over monsters. And I must see him on the path .

Lord Connington's own armour was sitting upon a mannequin at the far side of the pavilion. It was good steel, fit for any lord on the battlefield, but shabby and bare compared to the king's. The metal was painted white and red, with two dancing griffins on the breastplate and a full-helm fashioned with wings protruding from the sides. It looked bright and colourful - in his youth, Jon would have happily ridden in such armour.

It is armour for a younger man, he thought with a suppressed sigh.

Two of Aegon's squires came through the tent. They were both boys of twelve or thirteen; one was Dornish, the other from some riverlord. One from House Fowler, the other from Mooton, Jon recalled vaguely. "His Grace instructed us to help you dress, Lord Hand," the Dornish squire said.

Jon didn't even turn around, still staring at his armour. "Leave," he ordered

"My lord, you will need aid to fasten-"

Leave ."

The squires faltered, but turned and walked away. It was only when he was alone in the pavilion that Jon's posture slackened.

Lord Connington had insisted on dressing himself in isolation - he had claimed it was his mediation before the battle, even. Plate armour was a bitch to fasten with only a single pair of hands, but Jon had managed so far with a great deal of struggle. The truth was that Jon couldn't allow anyone to lay eyes on him without his gloves and his long-sleeved tunic.

As Jon pulled off his left glove, his skin crackled like stone, grey and black. He even couldn't curl his fingers properly. He barely had any dexterity at all in his left hand - and even his right was turning stiff at as well. On his left arm, the dead, necrotic skin had reached all the

way up to his shoulder, and now black veins were spreading over his chest.

Jon had kept the greyscale secret as best had he could, but it became more difficult with every passing day. Jon couldn't hold a quill properly; he had to start dictating all of his letters to a maester to write. He had kept to a certain routine and kept himself aloof, such that nobody would notice that he could hardly grip.

Septa Lemore had been started to get suspicious, Jon knew, as he winced every time he dismounted a horse. Lord Connington had been forced to isolate himself, so none could recognise it like the Imp had.

I might be able to hold a sword in the battle , Jon considered, as he tried to flex his hands. But only if I force my fingers around the hilt . He most certainly wouldn't be able to let go of the sword again. His fingers were as good as locked in position whenever they were moved. My muscles are stiff and dead .

It had been a year since the incident at the Bridge of Dreams now. Jon always knew that the greyscale would catch up to him, but he had prayed for more time than this. Some stonemen had ten years, but it looked like he would only have a few more months.

He cast another look at the armour. One more battle, he told himself.

Just a bit longer .

It was a long and difficult exercise in frustration to force himself into the platemail despite one arm that was like stone. Jon had to squirm against the wall to push the hauberk on, and the gods alone knew how he was going to take it off.

He wore the armour, but he left the winged helmet behind on the stool.

Jon knew that he needed to start thinking about how it would happen. There could be a panic if the soldiers knew that an infected

man was walking around their camp. Jon had taken care to wear thick gloves and keep himself isolated - but the Golden Company were veterans from Essos, and any world-worn man knew the threat that greyscale posed. They had all seen ships overcome by the plague, or the accursed villages of stonemen that haunted the Rhoyne. Greyscale and the grey plague occurred everywhere - from the damp Iron Islands to the jungles of Sothoros - but the waters of the Rhoyne were plagued by it more than most, and Volantis had struggled against its scourge for centuries. Mercenary companies were constantly offered coin by the Triarchs to cleanse the diseased lands with fire, but all but the most desperate sellswords refused such contracts. If the Lord Hand is revealed to be plagued, then the men will start to wonder if the king is as well .

Jon could not let that happen. Perhaps Lord Connington might fall in the battlefield, become a martyr to Aegon's cause - except then his corpse would be collected and the silent sisters would recognise the disease, and the same problem would occur even after death. A better solution might be to just disappear, to walk off into the night and into the ocean - except then Aegon would suffer the eternal uncertainty over his fate.

Just a bit longer, he begged quietly to the gods. I just need a bit longer, and then I'll find a solution .

As he finally stepped out the pavilion, he heard warhorns were blowing. It was past noon, the kingswood was tense, and he could feel the rousing of men.

"Lord Hand!" the Dornish page called, running through the sudden frenzy. "Your-"

"On my way," Jon replied, breaking off into a jog as he rushed to the commander's platform. The whole camp was rippling. The blacksmiths and farriers were finally packing up their trade, and rushing to retreat.

There were men flocking around the commander's platform, but Jon forced his way through. "Is it time?" Jon demanded sharply.

"Black Balaq raised a flare," Lord Tristan Darry replied. "The enemy is readying for a push."

"Is it a feint?"

"I do not believe so," Ser Pykewood said, peering through a Myrish glass as he shook his head. They could hear horns blasting across the field. Then it is time .

"Lord Tristan, Ser Duncan," Lord Connington ordered, "take your positions on the left and right. Ser Ryger, move to support the cavalry. Signal Lorimas Mudd with the vanguard."

The men nodded, and rushed off without another word. Jon took his position on the commander's platform, grimacing slightly as he folded his arms. Next to him, Harry Strickland had his boots off to massage his feet one last time, while his squire fumbled to clear the platform.

The sun was high, and Jon focused on the battlefield as the enemy lines started to shift. They were stepping forward, thousands of men moving into position. It was a slow charge, a careful one.

Twenty-three thousand men stood against them - an ocean of bodies rumbling closer.

Ser Denys Strong, Ser Lymond Pease, Humfrey Stone, and Ser Lorimas Mudd led the van, Jon told himself. Between his commanders, the seasoned officers had a lord's fortune of gold on their arms. The Golden Company had fought more wars than most. They would not break.

Black Balaq commanded their archers and their bulwarks, and Jon had no fears concerning him. Black Balaq was meticulous in his duty, and had trained their bowmen to perfection. Already, the finest

of their archers took their positions - launching arrows from great bows of goldenheart that had twice the range of any Westerosi bow.

The first wave of arrows rained from the sky as flickering shadows in the distance. Scores of bodies would be falling. And yet still, the flood of Reachmen never ceased.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the tides of men started to crash together. Lord Connington heard the bowstrings snap, like the rustling of a thousand leaves. The screams and war cries sounded like whispers on the wind.

They are all chanting different ballads, he realised. From the north, they were crying a Tyroshi marching song. From the south, they were chanting ' Fire and Blood '. The Reachmen were shouting their own song - a sharp and rousing cry between the drumbeat of boots that Jon couldn't recognise.

All of the noises blurred together, into one shapeless din.

Watching the battle from afar seemed so… distant. Subdued.

The first crash of men sent ripples through the camp, but Jon forced himself not to overreact. A battle wasn't decided by the first wave or even the second. Wait, watch, he ordered himself, consider and then react .

"Signal the left flank," Jon said to his frantic squire. "Move Ser Mudd's command forward to assist the van."

His hand felt numb. He couldn't feel his grip; his fingers were stone.

Still, he forced his hands around the hilt, and he didn't let go.

"I see Rowan and Fossoway banners leading a cavalry charge on the north!" Lord Clement Piper called, looking through the spyglass. "Signal our horses to meet them."

"Belay that!" Jon shouted sharply, causing Lord Clement to fluster. "We will not let them draw us into heavy battle. We have our battle lines and we will keep to them."

"My lord, those cavalry could hurt our flanks unless we rout them!"

"Lord Yronwood is prepared to meet horses with spears," Jon said firmly. "We hold the ranks and do not let them scatter us."

He could see the Dornishmen shaping up to the west. Jon referred to Lord Yronwood, but he knew that, frustratingly, it was Obara Sand leading their front ranks of the spearmen. The bastard might be the only woman on the field today.

Even when the horrible woman fails me - and she will - Lord Anders Yronwood and Lord Franklyn Fowler will be more than capable of taking command, Lord Connington reminded himself.

"Unbowed, Unconquered!" the Dornishmen were booming, as their spears raised upwards. "For Elia, for Oberyn, for Dorne! "

On the front lines, the first charge seemed hesitant, careful. There was no great stampede of bodies, instead there were only two sides holding a wall of lances and daring the other to rush into them. The vanguard moved closer together step by step - long spears against long spears - all the while arrows rushed backwards and forwards overhead.

The bodies broke apart quickly, and it was less a great clash and more a frantic shuffle of spears and shield walls.

The conflict pressed against the centre hard initially, but then slowly spread outwards towards the left and right. Perhaps Lord Tarly was expecting the sellswords men to buckle in order to help the resist at the centre, but they didn't. The Golden Company held position and waited for the fighting to reach them.

Lord Connington could see the battle formations writhe, but the lines bent and did not break. It was a dance of a thousand boots to the beat of warhorns.

The Tyrell forces tried to suffocate them, but the Golden Company held their formation. My officers are iron, Jon thought proudly, we will not lose in a contest of experience .

The first press was all on foot, a tightly pitched battle. The Fossoway cavalry harried them from the north, and then Crakehall cavalry circled from the southeast. The Tyrell forces have the numbers, it made sense for them to try to hold and encircle. This is a battle that will be decided from the fringes, not from the centre, LordConnington decided.

Men were shouting to brace, but the enemy's cavalry didn't charge. Instead they hovered just out of bow range - daring the Golden Company to follow - but no reply came. The Golden Company held their ground, and the mounted men didn't dare to charge against such tight spears. Rather, their horses held position and waited for infantry to reinforce them.

From the hill, it looked as though the Tyrell were forming a glove to fit around the Company's elliptical bulwark.

"We should signal a charge," Ser Pykewood Peake insisted. "They've left themselves to dispersed - let us force a charge through their centre."

Lord Connington considered it, counting to ten heartbeats. Never react instantly in battle, Myles Toyne had told him, always count to ten before any decision .

Then, Jon shook his head. "No. A charge could be effective, but it would leave us too exposed afterwards. Signal a slow retreat instead," he ordered. "The centre falls back, the left and right supports them. Let us straighten the ranks."

Ser Pykewood looked aghast. "Fall back? Why sacrifice position-"

"I'm in no rush," Jon replied coolly. "Let us be patient, and let them charge against us."

The orders were passed to the squires, who ran to the drummers and signallers. Fires were set up, and the warhorns echoed over the field to pass the instructions.

The Tyrells outnumber us by over nine thousand men, Jon thought. And yet Lord Tyrell must be eager to see us off - he is desperate to return to both the Reach and to resolve the situation in King's Landing. The longer I delay him here, the more dire he will become .

The Golden Company knew the risks, but they would not give the rose lord the quick battle he needed. Instead, his men fell back, step by step, keeping their lances high and holding the Tyrell van back.

The arrow shafts littered the fields like twigs around them - a field of wooden grass protruding upwards from the soil.

Lord Connington held no concerns on the skill of the Golden Company - they were four thousand six hundred of the most experienced mercenaries in the world, at the very heart of the army. They knew what they fought for, they had been working towards for this campaign for decades. Jon's greatest worries were the other allies; there were five thousand Dornish spearmen, some three thousand men from riverlords and stormlords combined, plus another one thousand five hundred assembled sellswords from both Westeros and the Free Cities were being kept in reserve.

Jon felt confident in the Dornish, somewhat confident in the riverlords, but the sellswords were the greatest worry. They were unproven, unreliable and possibly even disloyal - as lesser sellswords were wont to be. Lord Connington had taken care to structure the ranks accordingly.

The Reachmen kept on their push, but they didn't commit themselves either. Their charges felt hesitant; restrained, testing the response. Black Balaq and his archers did their jobs fantastically - his men with goldenheart great bows firing shafts twice as far any others, while crossbowmen worked with such synchronicity it was beautiful. Their bowmen were wildly superior, and already Lord Connington could see the enemy bleeding for it.

Lord Tarly will be trying to find the cracks in our ranks before he forces the spear, Jon thought. But can we find the cracks in his instead?

All before him, there were a thousand clashes happening at once. The battle was twisting before his eyes - a courante of a thousand boots, horses and swords.

The battle didn't stop. It turned towards a slow battle fought with arrows rather than tides of men, occasionally some slipping forward. Lances and shields held the enemy back, and the bowmen's strings never stopped snapping. Jon could hear the commands of the serjeants, chanting instruction to a drumbeat. "Notch, draw, loose! Notch, draw, loose!"

The commands themselves were completely useless, but they still had to be chanted. The serjeants needed to give the bowmen their pace, to maintain discipline and ward off fear.

Force the Tyrell men back, keeping them hesitating, Jon thought. The Reachmen could charge the Golden Company, but the iron-tight front ranks promised that they would suffer for it.

Even despite their numbers, the Reachmen were not feeling so confident that they could risk committing fully to a push.

The hours passed slowly, every man tense. They huddled into their formations, crouching behind shields and sticking to their ground. The fighting was soft and the casualties were very light - perhaps a

hundred or so - but the battle never ceased. A squire brought Jon a lunch of dried meat, and he broke his fast standing upright.

Approaching sunset, he glimpsed the enemy ranks rippling. Jon recognised what was happening as soon as he saw the banners in the distance fluttering. Black Balaq's horn came a heartbeat later.

"They're preparing a charge!" Lord Connington shouted, victoriously. "Ready the ranks to brace, move the reserves forward!"

The commanders broke apart quickly and abandoned their platform. Lord Connington rushed to mount up a horse, in case the reserves needed to charge. Harry Strickland went to reinforce the rear lines. There was no doubt, no panic; just experienced men going about their task.

So Lord Tarly grows tired of this dance first, Jon thought. His intention was a good one - a solid half a day fighting to wear out their defence, and then a heavy attack to exploit superior numbers. And yet still, a cheer broke through the Golden Company's ranks as the horns blew - a great cry that seemed taunting in the still air.

Come on, the cheers mocked. Come and fight us .

Jon mounted up his destrier, and his three personal guards raised a griffin banner behind him. Dick Cole, Malo Jayn, and Caspor Hill were all ready and waiting to ride next to the Lord Hand, to relay his orders and to keep him from harm.

Men were banging against shields, and a great call roared. "A griffin!" the men bellowed. " A griffin! A griffin! "

Despite himself, Lord Connington felt his lips curl into a smile.

As the lines surged, the war cry of House Connington merged with the boom of a Tyroshi war ballad. It was a loud and rousing chant broken by stomping of feet, but Lord Connington could barely make out the words.

He glimpsed green and red banners as the Tyrell men charged forward as a single, unstoppable tide. Lord Connington almost - almost - could have laughed. You blinked first, he wanted to scream, you could have kept with the slow battle and tried to grind us down, but you prove that you are the most desperate .

Even despite himself, his heart was pounding furiously in the moment. Jon was bellowing orders, shouting the same words over and over again. " Hold the line! " he was bellowing. " Hold the line ."

The charge came in two parts; a pincer movement of mounted men tried to ride around their bulwark at the same time the infantry charged at their centre. Trying to split our attention . Jon saw the red huntsman at the centre, while the Tyrell rose flew over the cavalry. So Lord Tarly himself is leading the infantry push . That told Jon thatthe infantry was the true threat, while the cavalry was just a distraction.

Quite often, inexperienced commanders zealously over-defended against cavalry while dismissing the threat of infantry. A more foolish general might have fallen for the ruse.

Boom . The lines crashed together, and it was hardly possible to make sense of anything.

The warhorns reached a fever pitch. Men were surging forward, locking shields and wrestling. The frenzy was being pushed backwards, until even the first of the reserves looked ready to join the fray.

His personal guards were struggling to keep order around him. One of them - Caspor Hill - took a stray arrow that whizzed straight into his skull. The man collapsed without a word, and there wasn't even time to look twice.

Horses stampeded, while behind him he heard the trumpets as the war elephants prepared to charge. Not yet, Jon cursed. It's too early to commit ourselves fully .

The bulwarks needed to hold until the Reachmen faltered, and only then the counterattack could begin. " Hold the line! " Jon boomed. " Hold the line! "

Fire and Blood! " a cry came, cutting through the orchestra of chaos. " For justice! For the realm! "

A new tone of warhorns droned through with the rattle of drumbeats and hooves. Jon turned, and he saw King Aegon's light blazing.

Even in the fading sun, the young king shone like a beacon as he rode through the field astride a great white destrier. Blackfyre was in his hands, the blade shining spectacularly. The sword was like fire itself, burning through the battlefield.

Everywhere Aegon rode, their ranks bolstered and cheered. "Hold the line!" Aegon cried, sweeping through the ranks. "Hold the lines and push them back!"

This time, Jon really did grin. The men were cheering and stomping, every single one of them crying the same thing.

" Fire and Blood! Fire and Blood! Fire and Blood! "

Jon could see his cavalry sweeping over the battlefield, side to side. The infantry were pushing harder, coming together. Morale was everything in a battle like this.

The force of knights that Aegon led was the reserve horse - they bolstered and rode back and forth across the left and right, very visible from his own side, but it was only rarely that they collided with enemy lines. The emergency force, to respond wherever they were needed the most.

That is how much the king has grown, Jon thought with a stab of pure pride. Although the smallfolk often thought differently, it was not a king's place to lead from the front. True kings contributed best from

the rear; bolstering their forces forward, but keeping themselves safe from harm at all costs.

The push didn't stop, but Jon could feel the tide waning. It was all so frantic and loud - Lord Connington couldn't make sense of anything he saw or heard - but he could feel the flow of the battle around him.

Time and time again, the armies crashed against each other. Aegon swept back and forth, while Lord Connington watched as the arrows rained and rained, while the tides of men waxed and waned backwards and forward. Losing ground and holding it, charging and bracing.

It was a dance of tens of thousands of men scattered across the plains. A gruelling allemande that lasted hours, with footsteps dancing to the beat of war drums and bellowing orders.

He could feel the weariness in the air, the perfume of sweat and fatigue staining the ground. After a full day of fighting it became less a fight and more a dogged, weary brawl - the two forces grinding against each other hour after hour. Patrols and commands had to switch - men taking turns retreating to the reserves to rest and recover while the other ranks stepped forward to take their place.

It transformed into a battle fought by attrition. The Golden Company was falling backwards and losing ground, but the Tyrell army was bleeding more for every step.

And yet Aegon never stopped. He swapped horses three times and made a hundred laps of the battlefield, yet the king was relentless. It was exhausting work, but Aegon refused to break. So long as the king is riding, then the men have heart .

As night fell, the Golden Company's counterattack finally began. Jon felt the change in the air. "Forward!" Jon bellowed, and others took up the cry. "Forward, forward!"

It was a dark night, a new moon black in the starless sky. There were great torches alit, filling the air with flickering smoky flames. The Tyrell forces had pushed too far, their men were left exhausted and weary. Perhaps they had expecting a lull after such a long day of fighting, but the Golden Company replied with force and renewed vigour.

Great horns blew over the field. He heard the trumpeting split the sky as the war elephants finally stepped into the field. They were giant shadows, strong and armoured. The grey beasts were clad in red and gold plate armour draping off their bodies and skulls, their eyes covered by steel plate. Metal elephant swords were fastened to their tusk - thick blades like a farmer's plough through a field of bodies.

The whole army rippled. They all knew the signal - as soon as the elephants stepped forward, it was time for the defence to fall back and the charge to begin.

Fifty-six war elephants entered the field, in such tight rank it was like a solid wall rumbling forward. Two Tyroshi crossbowmen stood atop each beast, protected by armored howdahs, unleashing one deadly salvo after another. The mercenaries moved with such perfect synchronization, switching between pairs to reload and fire as the iron rain fell.

And Jon saw him again. Aegon balanced standing proud and upright atop one of the elephants, with Blackfyre in one hand and a blazing torch in the other.

"For the realm!" Aegon Targaryen cried. " For justice! For fire and blood! "

The army's cheer shook the ground. Jon's head spun. Now is the time . "Push forward!" Lord Connington ordered. "Bring the reservesinto battle! We flank the elephants from the west, force our way through!"

His destrier stirred and neighed amidst all the noise, but Jon forced the horse forward through the stampeding bodies. Both of his gauntleted hands were on his sword, his spurs digging into the horse's side.

He couldn't see anything in the wave of bodies, but he could feel the change in the flow. His men were pushing forward, the Reach soldiers were falling backwards. Even the bravest spearman would falter trying to fight back the wall of elephants.

All it took was a single crack, to shatter a shield.

He felt the moment their men crashed together, and the elephants didn't stop. Company soldiers were pushing through the lances and shields, charging into their lines around giant stomping feet. Jon was mounted while most of his soldiers were afoot, keeping to the back. He never came within fifty feet of an enemy soldier, but he saw the corpses lying on the ground.

The soldiers had to stampeded over the bodies, mutilated every corpse into a bloody pulp under thousands of boots. The grassy fields were turned to red and brown mush.

He heard the Reach's warhorns change tone. The drumbeats became quicker, more desperate, trying to recover. Jon watched as Ser Will Cole and Ser Torman Peake ordered hundreds of men to rush forward with sharpened stakes to recover their battlelines. Swords were used as axes and shields as hammers as the beat the logs into the earth and sharpened them to points.

With a blast of the horn, Black Balaq and his archers set up a new position, while Talek halted the elephants. The great beasts were trembling and snorting, while men hacked all around them. The elephants were movable fortifications - better than towers when it came to securing the battlefield. In the last hour, there had been more casualties than during the entire day.

The battle waxed and waned like the ocean. The Golden Company had fallen backwards during the day, but recovered ground and then some in the night.

All through the battle, Jon never even once swung his sword at the enemy.

The night blurred. Men might have collapsed from fatigue, but others were screaming warsongs to keep them awake. There were no more great pushes; instead there was nothing but frenzied skirmishes in the dark. It was a night of screaming and chaotic movement.

Come the first light of morning, Jon saw the Tyrell host retreat backwards towards the kingsroad. Jon abandoned his mount to lead from the ground and near the front. The stink of weariness filled the air - every face he saw was sweaty, muddy and bloody.

And yet men were grinning too, Jon noticed. Even when they were bloody and fatigued, the Company men grinned.

Their horses had to retire, and the backline moved to the front. Most of their men would need to rest, but more than a few of their veteran commanders would fight for days straight. Now can Lord Tyrell's commanders say the same?

Harry Strickland took command of the battlefield, and he held himself capably. For all Jon disliked the coincounter, Harry did a commendable job of recovering the perimeter, fortifying the field and organising their ranks again.

Lord Connington only met Aegon again towards noon, near the rebuilt spike wall. "Lord Hand!" his king called. The young man's eyes were bloodshot, and his black armour was shivering through nerves. "What of our losses?"

"I'd guess near three thousand, Your Grace, maybe five hundred of those as casualties," Jon replied. Most losses would be from wounds

or from panic, rather than death. "And perhaps four thousand of theirs."

Aegon blinked, caught off-guard. "Then we are eleven thousand against nineteen."

"Do not worry over the numbers, Your Grace. War is not arithmetic," Lord Connington warned. "They cannot afford those sort of losses, and neither can we. Their men will be disheartened, while ours are vigorous. They have fled, and ours are standing strong."

"We did not break," Aegon said, the smile drifting over his face. "We held them off."

"We did. We did not break during the day, and we hurt them in the night," Lord Connington said. "They will hope to beat us by attrition, but I wager they'll lose first."

"Then let us go collect your winnings," Aegon said, still grinning. "Yes." Jon nodded. "Lets."

Later that very morning, the Golden Company set out again. The bulk of their men had to be left behind to rest and recover with the wounded, but Lord Connington and King Aegon took the most well-rested men to give chase to the Reach army. The enemy's host had scattered - Hightower and Redwyne men had been left behind in the kingswood, and Black Balaq led the forces to hold them.

After the big clash, their armies split apart into half a dozen smaller skirmishes. It was not organised, it turned messy and chaotic.

Lord Connington rode to join another battle at the crossroads between the roseroad and the kingswood; against Lannister and Tyrell men trying to hold their fall-back position and muster their men. Dornish soldiers were already in battle by the time they arrived, but then the king's banners rose over the road.

Obara Sand would be leading the vanguard, along with Fowler, Yronwood and Vanth. Jon saw the flimsy few arrows shooting over the trees.

King Aegon rode with a heavy force of seasoned knights galloping through the woods. The red and black dragon flapped in the wind, and the resistance broke around it. The battle ended swiftly, with more frantic surrenders and deserters fleeing through the woods, rather than death.

As he passed, Lord Connington made note of a serjeant, Ser Brendel Byrne, rallying the spearmen, but Aegon was already pushing onto the next skirmish.

The whole morning was a frenzy of activity. A small village sat by the kingsroad, the whole place scattered with boots and discarded tents. The villagers had already fled, but it looked like Lord Tyrell had been using the village inn for his command. There was a futilely small garrison of Ambrose men still holding it, but the soldiers lay down their arms and surrendered as the knights charged through. Their commander - some knight bearing the red ants of House Ambrose - yielded and was forced onto the muddy ground at spearpoint.

"The rose lord is fleeing to the Blackwater!" Ser Pykewood Peake shouted, and a cheer rose from their men. Knights were riding circles, wafting the Targaryen banner around the king. "He runs!"

"Secure the ground!" Jon Connington boomed, cutting off all cheer. "No man rests until the area is secure! The rose lord could turn around just as easily, and I do not want to hear a single cheer or laughter until our position is secure." He glared at Ser Pykewood. "There will be no merriment until our victory is guaranteed, do you understand?"

Some of the men faltered, but beside him King Aegon rode through the activity. "The Lord Hand gave you an order," the king commanded, and his voice was stern too. Clever boy. Never start cheering too early .

Jon had once thought his victory at the Battle of the Bells was guaranteed, only for Ned Stark and Jon Arryn to snatch it from him. He would not make the same mistake twice.

They passed through the three small villages that morning, and they saw wide eyes of smallfolk staring upwards at the mounted men galloping through the woods. "The dragon has returned!" their criers screamed. "The dragon has returned!"

"The King That Holds the Sword!" another yelled. "Targaryen legacy returned - the Conqueror's Heir!"

Aegon was wielding Blackfyre for all to see, and they were chanting his name. He could feel the energy in the air, the power that radiated from the sword. The sword was important - it made Aegon stronger and surer just by holding it. It shone and rippled like a blazing torch of shadow-fire in his hands. The smallfolk would be chanting Aegon's name, Lord Connington knew they would.

Even despite Lord Connington's warnings, their men felt elated. They were so pumped with vigour and victory that they rode long and hard through the kingswood. If it hadn't been for the greyscale, Jon's hands would have been trembling too. His fingers were locked into fists around the horse's reigns, and Jon didn't dare unhook them.

Towards noon, their scouts reported the retreating shape of Mace Tyrell's host over the horizon, but Jon knew that those men must be worn ragged; the Tyrell men had been fleeing all night after a long battle.

Despite his caution, many of their men wanted to ride out quickly to harry the retreating host. Jon had been deliberating it, but then Lorimas Mudd brought news of the Reach's rearguard trying to hold a position on the kingsroad. Two and a half thousand men had been left behind to blockade the road and cover their army's escape, and King Aegon mustered to meet them with strength.

Lord Connington saw the banners of Tyrell, Rowan and Redwyne stabbed into the earth. Now why those houses specifically? Jon wondered vaguely. It was strange to see the lord paramount's own soldiers and strongest allies left behind in such a sacrificial position.

The Golden Company was scattered too, but King Aegon still managed to gather together five hundred knights, thirty elephants and over two thousand men to ride against them. The first day of fighting had been crazed and intense, but the second day was dogged and sprawled.

The fighting on the roads was hectic in the wake of the retreating army. Arrows snapped, soldiers marched, and horses screamed.

Aegon held himself beautifully. Thrice, Lord Connington raised his voice to shout orders, only for the king to beat himself to it. This time, Lord Connington took position at the rear, for King Aegon to lead from the front.

The Hand of the King could only stare as Aegon mounted upon Toyne - to lead a fury of knights against the blockade. Black Balaq was already in position; his goldenheart bowmen and Myrish crossbowmen holding themselves with supreme discipline to support the charge.

Jon watched from the rear as the Reachmen scattered under the fury of their elephants. It was a frantic brawl and a clash of spears and shields, but the Golden Company had the momentum from the very first push. Aegon himself led the front rank against the blockade, but the Reachmen had already scattered.

The Reach's knights led their resistance valiantly, but the courage of men-at-arms broke down before their charge. The battle was short and sweet; and Lord Tarly sacrificed near two thousand men to ensure his escape.

Jon received news that that Harry Strickland, Ser Marq Mandrake, and Lord Anders Yronwood had all won their own victories

throughout the kingswood.

The first day had been more or less equal, but on the second day it was a clear victory for Aegon Targaryen.

"Why does he retreat?" Aegon demanded, jumping off his horse. His brilliantly polished armour was now grimy with mud and blood. "They run for the Blackwater, why did they abandon the road so quickly?"

Jon was about to reply, but a shout beat him to it. "Your Grace!" a knight boomed from across the clearing. "Your Grace, you must see this!"

Lord Connington could have reprimanded the man for such a tone, but then his eyes turned to the horizon. They were clear of the trees of the kingswood, and they could finally see into the distance.

He felt the men ripple, and Aegon's mouth parted open as he stared.

In the distance, over the shadow of the Blackwater, green and black smoke was rising into the sky. It was a pillar of greasy black climbing towards the heavens, blowing away from them over the coast. A solid mass of smoke, more than Jon had ever seen even from such a distance.

King's Landing, Jon realised in shock. King's Landing is burning .

There was a stunned quiet, but then the murmurs started to stir. The king looked to Jon. "What is that?" Aegon muttered in shock. "That smoke…?"

Jon's jaw clenched. "I do not know," he muttered lowly, before raising his voice. "But we have our priorities. We must secure the countryside and bar the rose lord from the kingsroad. Muster our forces, and approach slowly."

Despite his words, Jon felt shaken. The city was in flames, and smoke gushed like the fires of hell.

The smoke over the city kept on pluming for the entire day - greasy black and green, coiled like a dragon in the air. When the wind changed, a foul odour hovered over the lands, an unnatural stench like sulphur and salt that polluted the world for leagues around.

Jon had never known such a strong smell to travel so far. Even come nightfall, their scouts reported seeing blazes from over the walls. The fires blazed for an entire day and night.

King's Landing burns . Even when they should have been celebrating their victory, the sight of that smoke set a dour mood over their camp. A blaze from the seven hells, one of the scouts muttered.

King Aegon wanted to ride forward to the city at all haste, but Lord Connington remained firm. "We hold position," Lord Connington ordered. "And we let the city burn."

The Great Sept was demolished in the flames, one of their outriders reported, and battles raged in the streets. Some said that the queen summoned demons to destroy the Faith. Others said that Stannis Baratheon attacked the city during the trial, and sacrificed the city to his Red God. One man was convinced that it was the Bastard King - that the dragon had brought fire and fury against the city.

Nobody knew for sure, they could only speculate.

Lord Casper Wylde, a man who had fought for Stannis on the Blackwater, was one who recognised the smoke. " Wildfire," the lord said grimly, as he muttered out a prayer. "That's wildfire right there."

Aegon frowned. "Wildfire. The alchemist's substance?" the king asked, and Lord Connington only nodded. "You can recognise it from only the smoke?"

"Oh aye," Lord Wylde muttered. "I seen that smoke in my nightmares, Your Grace."

Lord Connington himself had bad memories of wildfire, from Aerys' reign. The Mad King had been obsessed with the cursed stuff.

The words caused the camp to darken. The alchemists and their cursed wildfire. If Great Sept burns, Jon thought slowly, then the queen is surely dead. Is that why Lord Tyrell retreated so quickly?

It took two days for Aegon's forces to re-muster after the Battle of the Roseroad. Two frantic days as the Golden Company crept cautiously through the countryside and farmland, towards the rush of the Blackwater over the horizon. Nearly every scattered remnant from Lord Tarly's army began to surrender rather than resist after the second day, while Harry Strickland brought up supplies from the rear.

They saw columns of refugees fleeing the city. The smallfolk were fleeing in droves, while the Golden Company marched out of the kingswood.

Jon himself rode to the cliffs of the Blackwater Rush, to look upon the shadow of the city. It all looked black. From a distance, even the stones of the castle upon Aegon's Hill were dark - the red was stained black from soot and ash. Tis the Black Keep now, Jon thought.

There was talk of besieging the city that night, but Jon demanded caution. They could not attack until they knew the situation in the capital, Lord Connington insisted. He would muster his army and move slowly, rather than rash action into the unknown.

The Golden Company was filled with seasoned officers, and yet still… the sight of that smoke had disturbed many sitting around the campfire. The smells seemed to linger in the air, a pungent odour more unnatural than anything he had ever tasted.

But on the third day, they saw seven riders trotting down the kingsroad towards them. Horns blasted, but it wasn't an attack. The riders wore the armour of knights, but, instead of banners, these men flew a white flag. These knights had no lances, Jon noticed.

Their eyes were grim, while Black Balaq met the arrivals on their perimeter and forced them to dismount.

"They say their names are Lord Mattis Rowan, Lord Arthur Ambrose, Ser Desmond Redwyne, Ser Roger Bulwer, Ser Bryan Graceford, Ser Lambert Turnberry and Ser Jon Fossoway, Your Grace," Black Balaq reported, in his low and deep voice.

Harry Strickland frowned. "Those are quite some names."

"What do they want?" Lord Connington demanded, as a gathering of serjeants and knights huddled around them.

Across the clearing, the Company men were binding the men's wrists, just in case. "They were sent as envoys to bring a message," Black Balaq explained. "Lord Tarly wishes to treat."

Jon's eyes narrowed. "Lord Tarly," he repeated. Not the rose lord. "His terms?"

"To meet in person, at first light on the morn." The knight's gaze turned to the king. "Lord Tarly wishes to meet you, Your Grace. He wishes to parley away from his army and ours - only six escorts to both him and you, he says, no more."

Aegon's eyes narrowed. "Is it trap?"

"Those men," Black Balaq motioned to the highborn, "are to stay with us, until the parley is complete."

Jon turned to look. Lord Mattis Rowan had a very sour look upon his face.

"If it is trap, it is a poor one," Lord Connington noted. "He just gave us seven highborn hostages, and announced exactly where he will be. We could bring two dozen men, if we choose, and then we might capture or slay Lord Tarly."

The king frowned. "But we won't."

"We won't," Lord Connington agreed. "Lord Tarly is desperate. His army was beaten, and his city burns. No, I feel this parley could be useful."

There were mutters of agreement around them. "I agree," Aegon said with a nod. "I will meet the Lord of Horn Hill. Where does he wish to meet us?"

Black Balaq repeated the message, and Lord Connington's eyes narrowed.

Is this Lord Tarly's jape? he wondered.

Early the next morn, King Aegon, Lord Connington, Ser Rolly Duckfield, Ser Daemon Sand, Ser Tristan Ryger, Ser Olyvar Yronwood, Lord Tristan Darry and Lord Clement Piper left to meet for the truce. Four of the Kingsguard and three noble lords - as requested, Aegon only brought seven men.

It left Harry Strickland in command, unfortunately, but Lord Connington ordered Black Balaq to take position with fifty of his best archers - just in case Lord Tarly's intentions were duplicitous.

They set off before dawn, and followed the Blackwater north. As morning light rose, Jon recognised the fields overlooking King's Landing.

"This is an insult," Lord Tristan Darry muttered lowly as they rode. "To meet us here…"

"Perhaps," Lord Connington admitted. "But perhaps it was just a matter of convenience. Lord Tarly needed a wide-open space away from the city - one with clear visibility and yet a distinctive enough landmark. It is a good a place as any."

Lord Tristan didn't reply, but his gaze was stiff.

In the distance, Jon recognised the hill of the Redgrass Field - the very site where the Black Dragon had fallen a hundred years ago.

The was where the First Blackfyre Rebellion ended, Jon thought quietly. The site of the Hammer and Anvil, where the Great Bastards had clashed, and where Daemon Blackfyre had fallen to Bloodraven's arrows. This was where Aegor Rivers had picked up his half-brother's sword, and where the Blackfyre crusade had begun.

The air was quiet as they saw the field. It felt solemn, even, riding through the long grass.

Despite its name, Redgrass Field was green now. Ten thousand men died here once, and they said that the field had been stained red with blood a hundred years ago. Maybe that was true, but after a century the field had turned back to green.

There had been pilgrims to this site, once, Jon had heard; pilgrims who paid homage to the Black Dragon. But now, it was nothing but a barren and downtrodden field approaching King's Landing. They were a dozen leagues outside the city, but nobody had ever built upon this field.

Jon knew his history. He stared along the countryside, wondering if on this ground Daemon Blackfyre had clashed with Wyl Waynwood, and then the Knight of Ninestars, or the legendary fight with Ser Gwayne Corbray of the Kingsguard. He wondered where Bittersteel had fought Bloodraven, or where the Breakspear and the Anvil had launched their charge.

Jon saw the red huntsman of Tarly rising over a small group of men waiting for them. Lord Randyll Tarly was waiting upon a hill - perhaps that was the Weeping Ridge, the very same hill that Brynden Rivers and his Raven's Teeth stood upon, as they showered the field in arrows and delivered the fateful blow.

This is a site of history, Lord Connington thought quietly. He had no love for the Black Dragon, but he could not deny the legacy Daemon had left behind.

Despite his words, Tarly met them with only five guards around him.

None of them were mounted.

The field was flat and open, but the riders still approached cautiously. Aegon was kept to the centre of their number, covered from sight and with his dragon helm to cover his silver hair. It was too much an opportunity to pass, but Jon hadn't been able to shake the suspicion that this could be a trap, and the last thing he wanted was to expose his king to any bowman lying in wait.

Still, Lord Connington's fears eased as he saw the lean and balding figure standing at the front of the bridge, grey-bearded and stern face, wearing boiled leather and a breastplate of grey steel. It had been nearly two decades since he had last seen the man, but Lord Randyll Tarly looked exactly the same.

If Lord Tarly himself is here, then it is not a trap . The lord would have sent a double rather than come himself.

His heavy-lined face was ageless, dark circles under his eyes and a jaw like an anvil. The Lord of Horn Hill wasn't a big man - he was lean and short - but the lord held himself like one much taller.

"Lord Tarly," Jon called coolly. This is the man who has led the battle against me for the last week, killing thousands of my men .

Doubtless Lord Tarly was thinking the same thing. "Lord Connington," he greeted with an iron nod. "It has been a long time."

"It has indeed," Jon replied, pulling his horse to a stop and raising a curled hand. All hands were on weapons, but nobody moved. The dark red greatsword, Heartsbane, hung across Lord Tarly's back, but the man didn't reach for it. "Once we fought side by side."

"I don't recall ever fighting side by side," Lord Tarly scoffed. "I recall a foolish young boy at Stony Sept, his army defeated. I crushed Robert Baratheon at Ashford and sent him fleeing, but you failed to capture Robert, and then Ned Stark tore your forces apart. If not for my reinforcements, I doubt you would have lived passed that day, Lord Connington."

A younger man might have protested. Jon just nodded. "Yes," Jon agreed. "I doubt I would have either."

The vanguard from the Reach had most certainly helped the royalists retreat from the battle of Stony Sept in good order, although Lord Tarly himself had never attempted to take credit for that success. Lord Tarly sought victory, not glory - for that alone the Lord of Horn Hill had Jon's respect.

There was a pause. Lord Tarly cocked his head. Jon met his iron gaze and did not flinch. "Yet you are no longer that foolish boy without a clue how to fight a war," the lord conceded. "Time changes everything."

"Truer words have not been spoken. Once you were a Targaryen loyalist, now you fight against their return."

"I'll be the judge of that." Lord Tarly gaze turned, passing over the men. "Let me see your dragon."

Cautious eyes were peeled on the horizon, looking for the bowmen. Then, with a nod, Ser Rolly and Ser Daemon stepped aside. King Aegon pushed his stallion forward, and pulled off his dragon helm. The silver flowed from his crown, his violet eyes hard. "Lord Randyll Tarly," the king said in a strong voice. "I am Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of my Name, the Dragon Returned, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men - the Rightful King of the Iron Throne."

"A big name for a little boy," Lord Tarly said, tutting. "Mind your tone," Jon warned. "You address your king."

"Any boy can name himself a dragon. Why should I believe it?"

Jon opened his mouth to reprimand him, but Aegon cut in. "Enough. I care not for what you believe," Aegon replied firmly. "I am the son of Rhaegar, born from Elia, descendant of the Conqueror himself. You forget your courtesies, Lord of Horn Hill, and battles have been fought over less."

Aegon drew Blackfyre slowly, raising the brilliant black metal from its sheathe. "I wield the blade of the Conqueror, the sword of my forbearers. Look upon it, and do you still think to doubt me?"

The second time that the glory of Blackfyre has graced Redgrass Field, Jon thought. The sight of Blackfyre rippled in the morning sun. For a second, he was sure he saw Lord Tarly twitch. After a pause, the lord lowered his head. "My apologies, Your Grace."

"Spare them, my lord, we both know they are bitter," Aegon said. "You called us here to treat, did you not?"

"And what does your liege lord think of this meeting?" Jon demanded, looking over the men surrounding him. They were all Tarly soldiers, not Tyrell; and men-at-arms rather than lords or knights. "I half-expected to see Mace Tyrell here, or is the rose lord too soft?"

Lord Tarly paused. "The rose lord is too dead, my lord," he replied after a moment. "Mace Tyrell perished in the riots of the city."

Jon's lips pursed. Aegon blinked. "I see," Aegon said finally. "My deepest apologies."

This time, Lord Tarly scoffed. "Spare them . He was your enemy."

"He was," Aegon nodded. "But Lord Tyrell once fought loyally for my grandfather too. He was misguided, but I had hope I could have convinced him of the err of his ways. He was wrong, but he fought

for his family, and for a king he believed to be legitimate - I respect that, at least."

"Misguided." Lord Tarly's lips curled. "Misguided doesn't come close, Your Grace."

Jon looked to him with narrow eyes. "How did Mace Tyrell die?"

"His horse panicked in the fires," Lord Tarly replied, without a hint of emotion. He was iron. "The smallfolk ambushed him, and ripped him apart. The mobs were incited by the burning of the Great Sept, and in its shadow they saw Tyrell as the enemy."

"Oh." Aegon paused. "What of Lord Tyrell's family?"

"His mother, Olenna Tyrell, fell with the lord during the mobs. Queen Margaery died by Cersei hands, her body mutilated and unrecoverable. Loras Tyrell did survive - my men rescued him from the keep before he could be strapped to a trebuchet - but he was left crippled from his captivity. Both his legs broken months ago, Loras will never walk again." Lord Tarly paused, turning between Aegon and Jon. "Mace Tyrell was grieving over the horror inflicted upon his daughter, mayhaps death was a kindness for him."

"You do not sound too upset for Lord Tyrell's fate," the king commented.

"Lord Tyrell," Lord Tarly said sourly. "Lord Tyrell may well have damned the Reach by his own incompetence. He failed to secure the city, he failed to find victory on the battlefield." His head shook. "My lord neglected to heed my advice so many times, and not even my best efforts could save him from his failure."

Ah, Jon thought quietly. Lord Tyrell lost the trust of his bannermen . He would not have lasted long after that. "And the mob tore him apart?" Jon pressed.

Lord Randyll Tarly just nodded. "The mob tore him apart."

There was a moment of silence. All eyes were focused on the king, facing off against the Lord of Horn Hill. Aegon's gaze looked solemn.

"Are you aware that Tommen Baratheon is also dead?" Lord Tarly said finally.

Aegon glanced to Jon. "We heard the rumours," he admitted. "They say that the queen killed him?"

"The how of it is blurry. Perhaps it was Tommen's own mother, or perhaps it was the mobs. I've yet to find a witness to attest to his death. Personally, my suspicion is that some of Cersei's guards tried to abandon her, and they killed Tommen in their desertion," Lord Tarly explained. "Likely, Tommen's death sent Cersei over the edge, and she burnt the city down in grief. We found the boy king dead when we secured the Red Keep, and the queen dead as well."

"Who killed her?" Jon demanded.

"I will tell you when I find out," Lord Tarly said simply. "Her corpse was found in the White Sword Tower, though none recognised it at first. Cersei tried to run - running while carrying her son's corpse - but some assailant chased her down. I have few answers to give, no witnesses have been found. Those moments were… crazed."

"I have no sympathy to give for Cersei Lannister," Aegon said, his tone turning solemn. "But Tommen's loss was unfortunate."

"Really?" Lord Tarly raised his eyebrows. "Let us talk frankly - Tommen sat in the seat you claim."

"He did. And yet he was but a boy, and I do not hurt children," Aegon argued. "The crimes were his parent's doing, not his. I would have seen Tommen Waters deposed, but never murdered."

"So you say," Lord Tarly retorted. "Perhaps I'd be more inclined to believe that, if you weren't allied with the man who murdered his siblings."

"You insult our king in our presence?" Ser Daemon glowered, stepping forward. Jon grimaced, and shunned the man backwards.

"They say it was the Imp that killed Joffrey, and Myrcella, and Tywin," Lord Tarly pressed, looking firmly at Aegon. "How I am to trust a man whose closest ally is a kinslayer?"

Curse the Imp . Aegon bristled. "My lord, Tyrion Lannister confesses to have killed his father in self-defence, but the children? He had no hand in those crimes. It was the queen's madness that murdered her children, all the while Lord Tyrion is and has long been five hundred leagues away." The boy's jaw tightened. "Cersei Lannister would have blamed every crime in the seven hells upon her brother; those accusations are the ravings of a mad woman. And I consider such slanderous lies against a friend insulting, my lord."

It was cleanly spoken. Lord Tarly looked unconvinced, eyes turning between Jon and Aegon. "Let us note, my lord," Lord Connington said quietly. "That all of those were traitors to the realm, and such accusations are baseless."

Jon's gaze spoke volumes. Lord Tarly looked for a moment like he might have pushed the issue, but he held his tongue. The man is a pragmatist. "If His Grace says he was uninvolved," Lord Tarly saidfinally. "Though the court of public opinion may yield a different verdict."

Lord Connington shook his head. "If you planned this parley for naught reason but to trade barbs and veiled insults," he said, "then I see no point in this discussion."

"I planned to meet you," Lord Tarly warned slowly, "because I have ten thousand men standing behind me on the Blackwater."

"As do I, my lord," the king retorted. "Then we appear to be on equal footing."

"Except your men seem to be losing against smaller numbers," Lord Connington cut in. "We do not need to be here - we hold the kingsroad, your forces are bleeding. You could not defeat us in the field and your strength has fallen further. Your allies are lost and this war is as good as ours."

"If you thought so," Lord Tarly said through gritted teeth, "then you would not be here either."

Jon was about to object, but with a slight shake of his head Aegon told him to let the comment drop.

"Do not hope to cow me, my lord," Lord Tarly warned. "Have the respect to talk to me honestly. I do not deny it - your victory on the roseroad was a strong one, but do not pretend to be vastly superior. Your forces are weary too, if I opposed you from the city, rallied my men, then perhaps I could yet turn this campaign around. I could most certainly make you bleed for whatever victory you sought."

Lord Connington was about to object, when Aegon raised his hand. "Aye," the king agreed. "You most certainly could." There was a quiet pause. "But if you believe you could truly do so, my lord, then why did you invite us to treat?"

Lord Tarly paused, and a bit of the aggression in his voice vanished slightly. His tone turned calmer, more resigned. "Because it has become increasingly clear to me that any victory won will be a bitter one. I do not care to fight a battle and sacrifice the war."

"Indeed." A smile crept over Aegon's lips. "So let us assume you do manage to beat us. It will cost you ten thousand of your remaining men."

"At least," Jon added.

"Yes. And they are forces that I cannot afford to sacrifice," Lord Tarly agreed. "This is not the final battle. The ironborn savage Oldtown,

the entire Reach is at risk. My own son and heir was at Oldtown, I have heard no word of him."

There was a flicker in his voice, the first sign of emotion that Jon had seen. A father concerned for his son. "I will need my men to secure my lands," Lord Tarly said finally. "I cannot afford to waste them here - that was something that Mace Tyrell never seemed to grasp."

He is a pragmatist, Jon thought to himself. "I completely agree," Aegon said, nodding. "Men's lives should not be wasted in a pointless conflict. May I ask, my lord, what are you fighting for? Which king do you support now?"

"That… is a difficult question," Lord Tarly replied carefully. "Let's consider my options. By rights, after the death of the Robert's children, the throne belongs to Stannis Baratheon." Aegon looked ready to object. " His parentage is not in doubt, Your Grace."

"Except that does not seem a sensible decision," Jon noted.

"You are right. It does not," Lord Tarly agreed. "Stannis is a traitor, a pirate, an apostate. House Tyrell attempted to reach out to him, and heard nothing but fanatical lunacy. The Faith would never support a follower of the Red God on the throne, and I cannot ignore the power that the Faith Militant still holds. To crown Stannis would be a wholly different manner of doomed cause."

"So then let us assume Stannis has been disqualified for his crimes."

Jon paused. "Succession becomes very murky indeed."

"Yes. Under normal circumstances, it would be a case for a Great Council," Lord Tarly continued. "I would rally the greatest houses of the realm together, and the lords would deliberate the rightful succession. Perhaps it would be one of Robert's many bastards that would be risen up, or perhaps some distant cousin. I imagine the maesters would have a field day tracing back whatever lineage or whatnot."

"Or perhaps it would be some grasping great lord," Jon said pointedly, "that'd try to steal the throne themselves."

Lord Tarly turned to him. "Yes," he accepted. "Perhaps."

Aegon tutted. "And you would ignore the blood of the dragon, standing right before you?"

"I am not doubting your word that you are Rhaegar's son," Lord Tarly replied coolly. "What I question, is whether you can prove it to the lords?"

"Call your Great Council, my lord," Aegon challenged. His hand went to Blackfyre. "I can guarantee you that I will prove it to the realm."

You do not need to prove a thing, Jon almost objected. You can take it by might . Still, he held his tongue. Lord Tarly was looking to Aegon, and Lord Connington wouldn't undercut his king's position.

A humourless smile twitched over Lord Tarly's lips. "And what a sham that would be?" Lord Tarly scoffed. "Any Great Council now would be a mummer's court. Half the great lords are either dead or traitor, and we are facing invasions on every front. Some days, I wonder whether it will be the kraken or the ice dragon to reach King's Landing first?" He shook his head. "No, even if I could assemble a suitable Great Council, how long would such a thing take? The Seven Kingdoms have no time to spare. We need a strong king now."

Ah . Jon only nodded in agreement and Aegon's eyes narrowed, but they both stayed quiet.

"Now then." Randyll Tarly cleared his throat. "Perhaps I could still oppose you. Perhaps I could determine the next in-line; some bastard or cousin of Robert's and raise him as king. Perhaps my armies could rout yours, and perhaps I could yet salvage something from this horrible situation."

"There are many 'perhaps' in those statements," Aegon noted.

"There are, indeed. And it will do little to unite the realm, and this war between us becoming more and more pointless." Lord Tarly's jaw tightened, eyes flickering. "No, I must look to the future."

"More and more, we appear to be in agreement, my lord."

"Then can we agree that the realm needs a king - one that can restore justice and order, make peace and right wrongs. If you could be that king, then I am prepared to bend the knee to you, Aegon Targaryen." Jon could have sagged in relief. Yes! Lord Tarly's eyes were hard. "And let us be clear, Your Grace; if you are not that king, then I will oppose you to my very last."

"I understand perfectly, Lord Tarly," Aegon's voice was cautious, but Jon dared himself to hope. Lord Tarly was not a man to make such statements lightly. "What do you want?"

"I expect my lands put to rights. I want protection for my family, to recover my son," Lord Tarly said firmly. "The Reach must be saved from the ironborn, the Iron Islands must suffer for their sins."

"Yes, I swear to you that they will," Aegon promised. "Piece by piece, I am reuniting this broken kingdom. Dorne supports us. The stormlands have fallen to us. The riverlands call for us. The westerlands concede to us. Swear to me, my lord, ensure the loyalty of the Reach and its houses, then I will name you Lord Paramount of the Mander."

"And House Tyrell?" There was an edge to Lord Tarly's voice.

"House Tyrell have proven themselves undeserving." Aegon nodded. "Highgarden must bend the knee as well."

"And I expect amnesty for all houses that fought against you under House Tyrell," Lord Tarly insisted. "Amnesty for every soldier that fought the roseroad who concedes."

"Of course," Aegon replied. "They followed their lord's order, the fault is not with them."

"Aye." Slowly and non-threateningly, Lord Tarly pulled Heartsbane from its sheathe. His chainmail clanged as he lowered himself to the green grass, clasping his hands about Heartsbane's hilt in something resembling a prayer as it stabbed into the grass. "Then I swear fealty to you, on my honour and my house, King Aegon Targaryen."

Aegon Targaryen stood upon Redgrass Field, and drew Blackfyre slowly. The rising sun was behind him, while he gingerly placed the black blade onto Lord Tarly's shoulders. "Then rise in the name of the rightful king," King Aegon commanded. "Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill, Lord of the Reach."

Jon took a deep breath. Lord Tarly held the city, and the last of the Reach's armies. Lord Connington appreciated Lord Tarly's sort; the pragmatists that understood the greater game, and were willing to sacrifice.

Jon had absolutely no doubt that his oath would last too, for as long Aegon remained the best option for a pragmatic man. Every loyal right hand only stayed so loyal so long as the lord remained strong. Mace Tyrell likely learnt that lesson too late.

His heart was pounding. Jon could not allow himself to relax, but he could feel his shoulders twitching. After so, so long…

The path to the Iron Throne is clear.

The talk lasted for another hour; it was mostly formality, agreeing to the terms. Afterwards, they barely said a word as they rode back to their camp, but Jon could see Aegon's eyes widening. The smile played at his lips. "Griff," the king whispered quietly. "Does this mean…?"

"Do not let your guard down, Your Grace," Lord Connington warned. "Do not grow complacent now. This may yet be a trap."

"Do you believe it is?"

"No," Jon admitted. "I don't think it is at all." But I dare not allow myself to hope .

He turned to stare out over the blackened and charred city. Even as they rode over the hills, Lord Tarly was already giving orders to open the gates and raise the red dragon of Targaryen back over the gates.

As the news that the Reach army had surrendered spread, the cheers rose from the men.

The soldiers were thundering, stomping on the ground with heavy boots. "The Young Dragon!" Ser Rolly Duckfield bellowed in triumph. "The Young Dragon!"

Jon's hands would be shaking, if he could feel them at all. I will see Rhaegar's son on the throne, he thought with a gasped breath. For so long…

The men were breaking open their scant supplies of ale. They were cheering, but Aegon didn't relax, even when they retired to their tent. The young man was pacing, frantically.

"Send the word to gather my procession, I expect every blade and helm to gleaming as we enter the city," Aegon ordered. "And then bring parchment, and my seal. I must write my first royal declarations." A grin broke across his features. "My royal declaration s. Gods…"

"Can we trust Randyll Tarly?" Lord Tristan Darry said, more cautiously. "He surrenders too easily."

"He doesn't have a choice." Lord Connington shook his head. "The only way he stands a chance of recovering the Reach is if there is a strong king on the Iron Throne. Aegon is the only option he has."

The only option standing outside the city with an army .

"I do not trust a man who surrenders from practicality more than loyalty," Ser Tristan Ryger said darkly.

"Better than a man who does not surrender at all."

"And in return he will expect to be Lord of the Reach?" Ser Pykewood Peake asked. His brother, Jon recalled, Lord Laswell Peake, had been vying for that position .

"Lord Tarly is a good option for the title, Your Grace," Jon said with approval. "He is perhaps the greatest soldier in the realm, of unquestioned nobility. House Tyrell has lost its armies and respect, and none will oppose Tarly now. The cripple in Highgarden will either concede or resist, but he cannot win."

"See it done. I shall write out the decree." Aegon blinked, a sudden thought coming to him. "And the city. King's Landing - my city - has burnt. We must move out quickly help the people - we must to bring supplies and aid to the smallfolk!"

Jon hid a smile. "Aye," he agreed. "We must."

King's Landing had been starving for weeks, and the Golden Company had supplies to spare. They had confiscated all of caravans from the roseroad, and then Jon Connington needed to pen a letter to Rosby and Stokeworth for them to release the supplies they had hoarded.

The smallfolk would cheer for the dragon when they brought caravans of grain and bread to the hungry masses. None would remember that the Golden Company were the ones who had been starving them.

So much to do, so much to prepare…

Aegon seemed overwhelmed in the moment, but Lord Connington needed to ground him. The Lord Hand refused to act, though, until each of the surviving Reach lords gave their own public fealty to

Aegon Targaryen. The very next morning, they met on the bridge over the Blackwater as the horses rode out of the city.

Lord Connington recognised the names: Lord Mathis Rowan, Ser Desmond Redwyne, Lord Arthur Ambrose, Lord Jowan Appleton, Lord Martyn Mullendore, Lord Lorent Caswell, Ser Roger Bulwer, Lord Erren Wythers, Lord Alester Crane, Lord Ivor Vyrwel, Ser Bryan Graceford, Ser Matthew Middlebury and Ser Jon Fossoway. Some came stiffly, others bitterly, most resigned - but they all came before his king.

From the surviving western lords, Jon noted Lord Quenten Banefort, Lord Tytos Brax and his son Ser Flement Brax, Lord Roland Crakehall, Ser Forley Prester and young Lord Steffon Swyft.

The Warden of the West, Kevan Lannister, had vanished during the battle, Connington was told, and the Lannister men suffered badly from the Faith's retaliation. They had been blamed by the riots, and the fury of the mobs had been something to behold. None of the Lannister loyalists had the will nor the strength to fight, not after the atrocity of the Mad Queen's reign.

They all gathered in the fields outside the Blackwater, to bend their heads before the king. King Aegon met them all by name, greeted them warmly, and told them to rise.

Jon kept on fearing that this could be some dream - some weird hallucination brought on by his disease. He had spent so long imagining the moment, he could scarcely believe it was true.

But it was. They were calling for him name. Aegon Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms .

This was real - the red dragon was soaring, and the realm was bowing before King's Landing.

The first time Jon approached the River Gate of the city, he saw crowds flocking around the harbour, while wide and fearful eyes

stared up at the knights. Then, the Company unveiled caravans of supplies; grain, bread, mutton and fish, and suddenly the whole crowd started to stir.

"By order of the king," the men said, as they handed out food to the starving masses on the portside.

By the time King Aegon arrived along with Harry Strickland and even more supply caravans, the smallfolk were chanting Aegon's name.

Jon wanted to relish in the moment, to savour the sound, but he couldn't allow himself to falter. There is too much to do, Jon thought firmly. I cannot slacken now .

The king made his will clear, and the Hand set to work. Lord Connington ordered the Company to provide aid for the devastated smallfolk. They felled wood from the kingswood to work together to rebuild the burnt city, the soldiers sacrificed their own tents for the refugees. Several of the Company veterans even donated gold off their own arms to the people. "We must repair trust in the king," Jon had ordered, and the mercenaries set about their tasks with a fervour.

The Golden Company has been fighting for near a century for this moment, Jon thought. He had never seen Homeless Harry Strickland march with such enthusiasm.

We came prepared to lay siege to King's Landing, Jon thought, but now we are here to save it .

"We will fix this," Aegon declared to refugees. "We will repair the damage together."

The crowds had loved him for it. He was earnest and heartfelt, and not even more the cynical lord could question the passion that Aegon brought to the people.

The city itself looked like a charred wreck, but Lords Darry, Piper and Fowler were sent forward to build overflow camps for the refugees on the Blackwater. Even the remaining ships on the harbour had burnt from the ash spitting from the sky.

The kingsroad was heaving as the line of the Targaryen forces moved into the city. Jon glimpsed Septa Lemore riding to meet the king. Aegon stood tall and proud, but Jon noticed how the septa held the young man's hand reassuringly as he faced all the people.

His people, Jon thought. Aegon had been raised for this - raised to care about the kingdom.

The Golden Company would help with the reconstruction simply because they wanted to be rewarded for it, but Aegon was doing this because he truly believed in it. Jon felt like a bitter, crusty old man when staring up at his young and idealistic king.

The king lingered at the docks with the crowds, but Jon took a few of the Company commanders forward to inspect the damage to the city. Seven of Lord Tarly's men acted as an escort, and Haldon Halfmaester rode with them, in case of injuries that needed urgent care.

The gates were lined with Reachmen - the same men that they had just fought against - but they all lowered their heads.

The fires had burnt out, but the stink of ash and death still lingered over King's Landing.

"Magister Illyrio has donated much already," Halfmaester Haldon noted as trotted through the Mud Gates. "If we sent word, I have no doubt that the magister would happily donate more for a cause such as this."

He nodded, but didn't reply out loud. I suspect that the ships are already on their way, Lord Connington thought grimly. This was, after

all, a perfect opportunity for Aegon to earn the trust of the people.

Perhaps the aid ships left Pentos before the fires even began .

As they stepped forward, the city looked black. The first time Jon rode through streets of Fishmonger's Square, he saw charred houses spreading over the horizon. Everything between the collapsed ruin of the Great Sept to the copper Dragonpit was a sea of ruins. The cheaper houses - the ones of thatch and wood around Flea Bottom - had suffered the worst.

Suddenly, all cheer vanished as the rode through the blackened streets. The mood turned grim.

"The Others take the Mad Queen…" Lord Tristan muttered, as he stared upon the charred husks of houses. They saw scattered black bones littering the streets.

Of the Alchemist's Guildhall at the centre of the city, there was naught left but a ruin of scorched black - the fires had been so hot that even the stone had melted.

The Street of Sisters and Flea Bottom had taken the worst of the fires, many thousands burnt, more left homeless. The city's heart had been burnt out, and the smell of ash of death soaked the ruins. Jon had never smelt such a thing before - he knew the rancid odour of battlefields, but he barely even imagined the pungent stink of flesh scalded by unnatural flames.

Both Harry Strickland and Ser Lorimas Mudd looked ready to puke as they rode through the black streets. Haldon Halfmaester was pale.

The last time he had been here, the Street of Sisters had been thriving with life. Now, it felt like a mausoleum of corpses. Not even the crows would feast upon the corpses left in the city.

They had piled bodies every hundred yards across the Muddy Way, and Jon noticed just how many of the bodies wore red cloaks. House

Lannister had suffered badly in the outrage of the mobs.

Most of the corpses from Visenya's Hill were nothing but ash - the wildfire had scorched even the bones of every soul in the Great Sept of Baelor.

Above them, the ruins loomed like a tombstone. Where once it had been bright marble and crystal towers, now it was nothing but scorched, melted rock. The entire hill was black.

"By the Gods," Harry Strickland muttered, staring upwards at the wreck of the Great Sept. "What sort of blaze could melt stone? Have you ever imagined a fire so hot?"

He had not. Jon was not a superstitious man, but even to stand before the ashes of such a fire… it sent shivers down his spine. No fire he had ever imagined could produce such a smell.

The streets were deserted, like a ghost town. Near a good third of the city had been torched into ash.

There was a moment of silence, as the gazed around the Street of Sisters.

"In the Citadel," Haldon Halfmaester said slowly, "I remember that an archmaester - a crazy man with a fondness for the occult - he once theorised that wildfire had supernatural properties." The man paused. "He claimed that the Substance the alchemists produced would burn hotter when fed living bodies."

"What?" Harry looked confused.

"It was as if the wildfire could be fuelled by burning souls more than solid matter, the archmaester claimed. Wildfire hungered for flesh, not wood, and it grew hotter the more lives it took. Very unique properties, he said. We laughed at him at the time, I thought it nonsense. We thought the pyromancers were blithering fools."

Haldon's eyes glanced to the ruins of the Great Sept. "I may have to revise that view."

There was no reply from the men. Thousands of men and women died upon Visenya's Hill, in a great gush of green flames.

He remembered the last great fire of King's Landing; in the Great Spring Sickness, when Lord Bloodraven ordered the pyromancers to burn the corpses piled in the Dragonpit. The flames had suddenly gone out of control, and a quarter of King's Landing was said to have burnt in the aftermath. That blaze must have been barely half as bad as this one.

Jon couldn't help but wonder… Mad King Aerys had been obsessed with wildfire. Even the Tragedy at Summerhall was said to have been linked to alchemist's meddling. Aerys was said to have thought wildfire could save him, and many Targaryens in the past had been fascinated with it.

Jon clearly remembered being in the city on the early days of 282 AC, when King Aerys had ordered the wildfire to burn along the Red Keep's walls to drive off winter. King's Landing had been illuminated by green fire for a moon's turn. The command had come from one of the Mad King's dreams, Rhaegar had told Jon once; Aerys had dreamt that wildfire could burn away the seasons themselves.

I must speak to any surviving pyromancers, Jon decided. He mentioned as much to one of the Tarly serjeants, and the man replied only that very few alchemists had survived.

"We must prepare a procession," Lord Connington ordered. "We will have a parade to escort King Aegon to the Red Keep. Set the men to work - clear all corpses from the Hook to the gates of the Red Keep. Wipe the throne room of blood, as quickly as possible. Make it presentable for Aegon to hold his first court."

"My lord, there is a lot of blood-"

See it done . It may not be much, but we must ensure this is a celebration," Lord Connington commanded. "Give the smallfolk something to cheer for."

The Young Dragon, to rescue them from the tyrant kings and the Mad Queen. The champion of the smallfolk, the true king come again. Like something out of a fairy tale. Jon did not want the sight of corpses damping that.

He cast one looked around the charred stone and cobbles, wondering how long such scars would take to heal. King's Landing has been rebuilt before, Jon told himself.

But he couldn't imagine it ever being so bad as this.

It was hectic day, but they had to move fast. By the time Aegon Targaryen finally entered the city, it was to the sound of cheering crowds, in front of a procession of knights riding down the street.

The Golden Company unfurled the largest, most glorious and colourful banners they had. They could not clear the stink, but the roar of trumpets blanketed out the noise.

Even amidst the destruction, the smallfolk gathered and gaped to see the armoured elephants moving in formation down the streets.

Trumpets every hundred yards, Jon had ordered. Banners of gold and red and black. It was all a blur.

After suffering for so long at the hands of Baratheon, Lannister or Stark, the realm accepted the dragon returned to the sound of jubilation.

The Young Dragon, Jon thought hollowly. He had not heard a crowd cheer so gleefully since Rhaegar.

And Aegon himself looked stunning, a dragon of gold and red, marched down the streets upon a carriage atop on an elephant's

back. He held Blackfyre high and waved to the smallfolk. Great elephants trumpeted either side of him, and the whole realm cheered for the Targaryen reign reborn.

Knights held an immense banner of a red dragon on wooden poles - so large that it took seven riders just to carry it aloft. Their horses zig-zagged behind the king, and the banner swayed down down the streets like a red dragon of cloth wafting in the air.

Jon's heart was beating, as he rode his horse through the streets, standing stiff in the saddle and trotting in the shadow of the king.

The last time he had seen the Mud Gate, he had been exiled from it and frogmarched to a ship on the waterfront. Now, Jon Connington returned through it alongside the king to jubilee crowds chanting his name.

My king. My redemption .

It was a short journey from the Mud Gate, through the Hook and up to the Red Keep, but the journey had never seemed so long. Jon's heart was pounding, trying to take in every moment.

Gold was marching through blackened streets, brightness in dark again…

It was all so much, Jon could barely breathe….

His eyes fogged up with tears, but he blinked and twisted his head away before anyone would notice. It felt like Rhaegar was riding besides him, his prince's arms wrapped around Jon's shoulders.

I did it, Rhaegar, he thought hollowly. I did it .

It had been eighteen long years, but it felt like his heart was finally beating again.

Even despite everything - despite the charred streets and the pungent smell, and the mummer's parade of procession - in that

moment, in that brief moment… it felt like bliss. Fulfilment.

The streets were charred, the gates of the Red Keep broken open, and dark blood stained the stones of the courtyard. They had dragged the corpses away, but the mess of battle still remained. It was not the glorious crowning that Jon had imagined, but it would do. The people were still cheering regardless.

And the Iron Throne. The Iron Throne loomed larger and more glorious than Jon had even imagined. Somehow, in his dreams, the throne had shrunken - but there it was, larger than life.

When Aegon stepped before the Iron Throne, the whole world went quiet. The boy gingerly walked up the steps, running his hand over the iron barbs…

And the boom of cheers from the Great Hall was so loud it was deafening. As loud as Jon's heartbeat.

They had no crown to place upon Aegon's head. That was an oversight, Jon admitted, but there was no High Septon to place it either. Instead, to represent the Seven, Septa Lemore stood by the king's side and escorted him up the iron steps.

The true coronation would be later, once they found a crown, but instead Aegon had the almighty cheers of the people, and he was grinning from ear to ear. The great doors to the throne room were wide open, and the crowd of knights and lords were chanting for their king as he took his seat.

"My people!" Aegon cheered from atop the throne. "My friends, my allies! My heart bleeds at the sight of this city, for how you have suffered at the hands of usurpers. I have no words to express my regrets, my sympathies, so instead I give you only a vow." He took a deep breath. "I will repair this kingdom. I will prove myself worthy of the trust you give me, of the seat I sit upon!"

The crowd boomed, the ground trembling… "My family has suffered," Aegon continued, booming, "there have been monsters and atrocities - believe me, I know. I know what it is to have everything stripped from you, to be left helpless in the face of injustice! But we are here - to fight for what is right and just, to preserve and to…"

Lord Connington had to leave the hall before Aegon's speech finished, for fear he might actually break down in tears. His shoulders were trembling, his vision blurring. I cannot cry, Jon cursed himself, crying is weakness . It took deep breaths to force himself to keep his posture straight and his eyes hard.

Aegon looked so much like Rhaegar.

Young, handsome and chivalrous. No mummer in the world could match the sight that Aegon made upon the throne. He is truly Rhaegar's son, Jon thought with awe.

I am so close. Can you see me, Rhaegar, are you proud?

In that moment, if Jon had just dropped dead, he would have died content.

Aegon was still speaking to the crowds in the throne room, but Jon excused himself. Jon lingered outside of the doors, staring up at the black walls of the Red Keep, when Jon saw a young squire and a procession of Company men running through the hallway towards him.

"My lord," the squire gulped. "Lord Petyr Baelish has arrived in the city."

Jon forced himself to stay steady. He took a deep breath, recovering himself. I cannot die yet, Jon thought firmly. Not yet .

"The king is predisposed," Lord Connington ordered. "I will meet with Lord Baelish."

He nodded. Lord Connington gathered up his personal guards and a small escort of men, just in case. The squire pointed to the north of the keep - to where a gate had once stood, before the mobs broke through the portcullis and battered it down during the riot. The splinters still littered the courtyard, the portcullis was still leaning off its hinges in the archway.

That must be fixed. With the Red Keep in such disrepair, it seemed like any catspaw could just crawl in.

Littlefinger . Jon had never met the man, but he had heard much of the 'Lord Protector' of the Eyrie.

He saw the man himself waiting by the northern gate, escorted by ten men. All of Littlefinger's escort were hardened men in boiled leather and grey chainmail and plate, and none of them had the look of knights. Littlefinger himself looked more a merchant than a high lord - he dressed himself in black velvet with a fine pale blue cloak, with a silver pin showing the falcon of House Arryn securing his garb. His collar was high, his hair combed backwards, with a pointed goatee immaculately trimmed. The man was well-groomed - infuriatingly so. Jon himself was still wearing grimy armour that had gone unwashed since the battle, while Littlefinger kept himself more pristine than a noblewoman.

He is more of a woman than a man, Jon thought. I doubt if Baelish has ever gripped a sword . He dressed himself with silk and perfume rather than steel.

Littlefinger's hands were crossed behind his back, standing straight as he turned to meet Lord Connington. He wears his late wife's colours, Jon noted, but black as well . As sign of mourning, perhaps?

There was no sign of any grief on Littlefinger's face, though. There was nothing but a soft smirk as he looked upon the Hand of the King.

"Ah," the coincounter greeted, stepping through the gateway. "Lord Connington, I presume? Congratulations are in order, it seems, for

such a victory. I heard the cheers from here."

"Lord Petyr Baelish," Jon replied darkly. "What good timing you have."

His smile didn't fade. "I came at all haste."

"I'm sure you did." After the battle was already over, that is . "And should I presume that the knights of Vale rode with you?"

"But of course." Littlefinger smiled. "The Vale lords vehemently mustered for the crown's defence. There are eight thousand mounted men readied at Brindlewood behind me, and another five and twenty following from the Trident."

Jon stiffened somewhat, but he forced his voice level. "What do you presume do with such men?"

"Well… That is the question, isn't it?" The smirk turned waxy. "The Vale lords are sworn to Baratheon regime. Why, the late Lord Arryn was Robert Baratheon's most loyal supporter."

"The Baratheon regime," Jon said warningly, "is over, my late Lord ."

"So I hear. My heart bleeds for the fates of such children."

"Look around the city, Lord Baelish," Jon offered. "Does your heart bleed for the victims of the queen's insanity?"

"But of course," the coincounter said with a nod. "We are the same, you and I. We both want what is best for the realm."

"I very much doubt that." Littlefinger just smirked. Around him, the Company men shifted closer slightly, but Littlefinger's guards remained stoic.

"But it is a new age, is it not? King's Landing burns - why I imagine this city must be so desperate to accept any liege." Littlefinger chuckled softly. "I heard of Tyrell's unfortunate fate, and of Tarly's

arrangement… it seems that line of succession matters little when circumstances are so dire. You have risen your dragon up to the Iron Throne."

Your dragon', Jon noted. His voice turned to a growl. "King Aegon," Jon said lowly, "is the rightful king of the Iron Throne."

"Oh, I would never argue that . But this coronation is all of… what? A few hours old?" His voice was doubtful. "Can you understand why many of the lord of the Vale might feel rather upset over that, Lord Hand? Why such proud lords might feel somewhat cheated by a king with such a dubious claim of parentage?"

So that was his game . "Should I consider that a threat?" "Merely an observation," Littlefinger lied. "I would warn you to watch your tone."

"My deepest apologises, my Lord Hand." Littlefinger lowered his head shamelessly. There was no pride in this one - or a different type of pride, at least. "Tell me, may we talk in private?"

"I feel this is a good a place to talk as any." Around him, the Company men stood ready. They stood in the battered archway of the gate, standing atop the steps and looking out over the blackened city.

"Very well." Littlefinger nodded. "Then shall we talk bluntly? I feel like you are a man who appreciates bluntness. It is quite refreshing, actually." There was no reply from Jon. "I have over thirty thousand fresh and readied men heading to this city, Lord Hand. Your men are weary and the city is unstable. House Tarly may have declared for you, but, well, I suspect that allegiance might shift again if one were to give the Reach lords a better option. Can you see how this conflict has the potential that it might not go so well for you?"

His jaw clenched. "You come here to threaten war to me, in the gates of this castle?" Lord Connington bristled. "I could take your head."

Littlefinger only had ten guards with him. The Company men were ready, hands creeping to spears. Jon need only say the word, and Littlefinger wouldn't leave the city.

Petyr Baelish only laughed, chuckling loud and clear. "You are welcome to my head, Lord Hand. Its loss would be very unfortunate for me, but I very much doubt that any of the Lords Declarant will mourn my poor skull. Perhaps Yohn Royce may even clap when he hears that I'm missing it."

Lord Connington never replied, but his eyes narrowed. "However," Littlefinger continued, "if I do end up lacking a head… then, pray tell, who else will be able to convince the Vale lords to declare for Aegon?"

There was a pause. "I fear you misunderstand my intentions, Lord Hand," Littlefinger explained. "I am not leading an army, I am not in command - the Lords Declarant are. I have no great houses under my command, I have no soldiers. Truth be told, my titles and my regency are more a formality than a status of power. The Lords Declarant will not miss my death, they will continue without me." He smiled. "The only things that I do have, however, is some scant modicum of influence in the Vale, and custodianship of Lord Robert Arryn. Custodianship that I might deliver to His Grace.

"So the question becomes… would you deal with me - a prideless man willing to negotiate and compromise - or would you prefer to deal with five prideful and squabbling great lords of the Vale?"

Lord Connington growled. "You mean to extort us?"

"Heavens no." Littlefinger even managed to look insulted. "I just want to make sure that you're aware how much more useful my head

could be for your king, if it were still attached to my shoulders instead."

Damn the coincounter . Lord Connington glared, but Littlefinger's eyes glinted.

He spent the next half a day discussing terms with Lord Baelish. They sat in a cheap table of a guardhouse near the walls. Jon could not bring the man into the Red Keep, not when so many corpses had yet to be cleared. Instead, they sat in some guardsmen's den, with scattered mugs and mouldy foodstuff littered along the floor. There was only one dried bloodstain upon the wall - a dark blotch nearly invisible on the dark stone.

Littlefinger offered wine to toast their new king, but Lord Connington refused it. It left a foul taste in his mouth, but Littlefinger had enough of a bargaining position to extract good terms.

Lord Baelish was willing to cut a deal; to convince the Lord Declarants to bend the knee, to bring Robert Arryn to Aegon's court, in return for power and influence.

He was already the Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Paramount of the Trident - two completely hollow honours, and yet Littlefinger now wanted the influence to go with the status. He knew exactly what he was asking for; he wanted very specific lands and incomes, certain trading rights from the Vale. The entire conversation galled Jon. And yet Aegon needed the Vale's support.

Littlefinger made sure that the Vale's army deliberately moved slowly, didn't he? Jon thought foully. Lord Baelish waited until the battle was over before picking a side to declare for. No matter who won King's Landing, Littlefinger would have extracted the same concessions from them.

"You made a deal, didn't you?" Jon said finally, his suspicion growing to certainty. Littlefinger had his terms all perfectly prepared.

"I merely want what is best for the realm, Your Grace," Littlefinger said, softly. "I have been in such a difficult position recently; many of my investments have been spoiled, the Lords Declarant have been restless, Robert Arryn has been sickly, and the situation in King's Landing seemed so…" he paused for a few heartbeats, finding the right word, " volatile . I merely wanted to ensure the best option occurred for the realm - and I am so glad that it has."

Liar . "And what did the Vale lords think of you playing both sides?"

"Playing both sides - such an ugly term," Littlefinger said dismissively. "Tyrion Lannister simply reached out to me with an offer." Lord Connington stopped, shoulders stiffening. Of course he did . "And in return for keeping the Lord Lannister informed of theVale's politics, well, I just wanted to ensure there was a friendly face awaiting me in King's Landing." He motioned to Jon with a smile. The Hand of the King glowered.

Tyrion Lannister informed Aegon of the deal, Jon Connington realised, but Aegon didn't tell me . At the Imp's behest, no doubt. Aegon had been repeatedly unconcerned about the Vale's reinforcements heading towards the capital - because the king had known that the Regent of the Vale had his own agenda.

"And what did the Imp offer you in return?" Jon demanded.

Baelish smiled. "Well, it was a trivial matter, really. A personal favour," he admitted, trying to sound dismissive.

"Tell me," Lord Connington ordered. "I insist."

"It regards Lord Lannister's unfortunate marriage to Sansa Stark," Littlefinger explained, with a small shrug. "An unwilling betrothal, to be sure. Tyrion offered to have that marriage annulled, such that Sansa Stark might return from exile. He also promised that the next High Septon - whoever Aegon supports as such - would be more than happy to perform the annulment."

Lord Connington's eyes narrowed. Petyr Baelish just smiled sweetly. "Lady Sansa's mother - Catelyn Tully - was a very close childhood friend of mine," he explained. "I simply want what is best for her daughter."

"And you negotiated to free her from marriage with the dwarf?"

"What can I say?" Littlefinger shrugged. "I care deeply for the girl."

When Jon eventually left, he made no arrangements for Littlefinger's accommodation for the night. There were no rooms for guests prepared, and no stewards with the duty to see to them. Petyr Baelish could sleep on the streets for all Jon cared.

We would have lost, if the knights of Vale had been on the roseroad as well . Even in Jon's triumph, the Imp still found a way to steal his glory. Being forced to deal with the smug coincounter made Jon's shoulders stiff.

The blissful, delirious feeling of this morning evaporated quickly. This is still my victory, Jon told himself, mine . The Imp will be forgotten soon enough .

He returned to Red Keep, and found a serjeant to direct him to the king. Aegon was entertaining Lord Tarly and Princess Arianne. The lords' solar had been ransacked, so Aegon had set up a meeting room in a steward's quarters on the lower floors.

As Jon stepped into the corridor, he saw a short and curvy woman with dark hair and teary eyes, rushing out from one of the doors. Princess Arianne was dressed in flowing silk, jewels around her neck, and a low-cut bosom, but she was crying into her hands. The princess rushed by the guards and strode away from Jon without even meeting his gaze.

Lord Connington paused for a heartbeat, and then straightened his shoulders and stepped into the room.

The mood inside was grim as Jon stepped in. He saw King Aegon, Lord Tarly, Harry Strickland, the Kingsguard and an assortment of Company serjeants standing around the room. One of the serjeants, Ser Brendel Byrne, stood stiffly before his king with his head raised.

"What happened?" Jon asked, although he already knew. His eyes flickered to Ser Brendel Byrne, but then turned his gaze.

"Arianne's cousin," Aegon replied solemnly. "Obara Sand fell in the battle."

"We had to inform the princess," Harry explained. "I fear the loss of kin is always difficult."

"Oh." Jon kept his voice measured. "How did it happen?"

Aegon nodded at Ser Brendel to speak. "It was at the crossroads, my lord, against Rowan holdouts from the main force. It was not much of a battle; perhaps two hundred men against our five hundred

but there were still bodies. Our forces were caught by surprise from bowmen hidden in the trees," Ser Brendel recounted, and then shook his head. "It was battle, it was chaotic. Obara was leading from the front - she died with an arrow through the back of her head."

There was a tut from Ser Lymond Pease in the corner. "All too easily done. Obara must have went too forward, left herself exposed."

"She was brave," Ser Brendel said. "She always led the charge."

"A mistake." Aegon sounded bitter. "A stupid mistake even when we had already won."

"That is war, Your Grace." Lord Tarly's voice was cautious, stepping slightly towards the king's side. "Too often it is but a roll of the dice."

"Arianne was in tears." Aegon took a deep breath. "I had not even realised Obara had fallen, and yet I gave a victory speech… I was

celebrating…"

Jon might have said something cutting, but it would have been out of place in this room. "Obara Sand did her duty, Your Grace," he soothed. "I was not on the best of terms with her, but none could doubt her bravery. Obara died fighting for what she believed, for the good of the realm."

He glanced at the serjeant. "Aye." Ser Brendel nodded. "I saw her fall, she was very brave."

"I will give Arianne time to grieve," Aegon nodded. "It is just so…"

"I am sorry, Your Grace," Ser Brendel said, bowing deeply again. "If there was anything I could have done…"

"No, ser," Aegon sighed. The young king was disturbed, even for that hideous bastard woman. "There is no blame upon you."

"Leave us for now, ser." Jon told the serjeant. "Rest yourself for the night."

Jon escorted Ser Brendel to the door. Neither of them said a word, but Lord Connington patted the serjeant on the back. Ser Brendel didn't reply, but he nodded to the Lord Hand.

I will not grieve the bastard's death , Lord Connington decided. Obara Sand had been, would have been, a liability in Aegon's court.

The room was still quiet as Lord Connington stepped back inside.

Jon noticed Ser Daemon Sand's glare, fixed firmly upon him.

Thankfully, Lord Tarly moved the discussion along.

"We have matters to discuss, Your Grace." Tarly's words were careful - he had not settled in to how to act around his new liege.

"Yes." Aegon nodded, taking a deep breath to focus himself. "Yes, of course. Continue, my lord."

It was already late, and Jon knew it had been a long day. There had been many long days in a row. "Perhaps this would be best on the morn, Your Grace?" Jon suggested.

"The city does not get to sleep, Lord Hand," Aegon replied. "And neither do I. Continue, Lord Tarly."

"Half the city has been burnt to cinders - particularly from the Street of Sisters to the Dragonpit. The west and south edge are somewhat untouched, but fires spread quickly to the north," Lord Tarly explained. "Flea Bottom suffered badly, but that area was no great loss. Still, the Street of Sisters, the Street of Seeds, the Street of Flour, the Street of Steel… so much of the infrastructure is torched. Cobbler's Square itself was nearly lost. There are refugees by the tens of thousands, and the people mourn the deaths of the High Sparrow and the Most Devout." No mourning here .

"What of the Faith Militant?" Jon demanded.

"Devastated, but some several thousand sparrows and Poor Fellows survive. There are fewer of the Warrior's Sons remaining, but the Faith is missing most of its central structure." Tarly explained.

"An army without commanders in no army at all," Ser Rolly commented.

"Indeed," Lord Tarly agreed. "I fear the angry militia leftover is naught but a mob."

"Then we must restore structure," Jon said firmly. "We reinforce order by establishing the Most Devout again." And we will establish our own septons and septas in their place, to elect the High Septon that we choose. We make sure the Faith finds its place again .

The fanatical Faith Militant could have been a threat to Aegon's reign as well - and Jon actually felt grateful towards the Mad Queen for dealing with it for them.

Aegon nodded. "I spoke to many of the surviving Faith - they are angry, and rightfully so. They demand justice, and I will give it. What of the Mad Queen's allies and conspirators?"

"She had few allies, at least few that I know of," Lord Tarly replied harshly. "The pyromancers supported her, and most others were mercenaries. All Lannister loyalists surrendered quickly, and the Alchemist's Guild was destroyed by the mobs. I have placed a bounty of ten gold dragons upon every surviving alchemist and loyalist to the Mad Queen - anybody involved with her will face a swift end, I promise it."

"Good. I will not forgive such an atrocity," Aegon declared. "From this moment onwards, the Order of Alchemists and all their practices are outlawed in Westeros. Have any surviving tomes or resources of the order thrown into the sea." Haldon Halfmaester jotted a note of it - there was a long list of royal proclamations that were forming.

"And what of this spymaster?" Jon pressed. "What of this Lord Qyburn?"

"He survives," Lord Tarly admitted. "He was said to have fled the city with the giant iron monstrosity of his."

" Ser Gregor Clegane ." Aegon's voice was venomous, furious.

Lord Tarly nodded, and there were murmurs in the room. "Yes. I know not how much has been embellished, but they say that the giant knight slaughtered over a hundred men singlehandedly."

The Mountain . They had all believed him dead by the Red Viper's blade, and yet apparently the Mad Queen had harboured him in secret. Jon didn't know whose skull they had in Sunspear, and 'Robert Strong's' face was said to have been covered, but no other man could be so large, or so murderous.

The thought of a man like the Mountain roaming the countryside was somewhat terrifying.

Aegon's face was as angry as Jon had ever seen it. The Mountain, the man who killed and raped Aegon's mother and sister . "Place a hundred gold on them both," Aegon ordered. "And have hunting parties chase them down. They will be brought to justice."

"Yes, Your Grace."

The king was pacing the solar, and he kept on pressing Lord Tarly on every detail regarding the siege, the queen's trial, and the fire. Several times, the Lord of Horn Hill was forced to admit he was unsure - that so much had been clouded by doubt and panic. They weren't sure about anything, least of all how Cersei had accomplished what she did.

Nobody wanted to say it, but the word 'necromancy' hovered over the conversation.

"The black cells were a butcher's block, Your Grace," Lord Tarly said grimly. "I would not recommend walking down there, it is a charnel-pit. Hardly a soul who entered them survived, we can only guess what that fiend did beneath this castle."

The king paced. "What of the survivors from the keep?" Aegon demanded, eventually.

"Your Grace," Jon warned. "It is late… it has been a trying day."

"I wish to see the survivors now, my lord."

Lord Tarly complied. He sent orders to escort the king to the guest chambers in the keep. The corridors were pillaged; tapestries stolen off the walls, even Myrish carpet torn upwards - many of the queen's sellswords had tried to loot the Red Keep before fleeing.

The only two survivors from the black cells - Ser Lancel Lannister and Ser Loras Tyrell - were both kept in the haunted bedchambers that once housed highborn ladies.

Ser Loras was a wreck. He was unconscious and pale, lying atop a coverless bed with no pillows. The young man was ghostly white and frighteningly frail - his bones were knobbly bumps over under his skin, stretched taut over starved flesh. His hair might have been a different colour, but now it was grey. He was unwashed and stank of dust and dried blood.

Once, this man was said to have been a strong and valiant knight, a Kingsguard. In the last two months, it looked like Loras Tyrell had aged ten years.

Even when he lay down, they could see his legs were twisted and deformed. Broken bones that never healed properly. The king was silent as he hovered over his bed.

"From what we can tell, he fought against Gregor Clegane, Your Grace," Lord Tarly explained. "And then the Mountain threw him against a wall. Loras' legs snapped like twigs, and they were never given treatment during his imprisonment. Ser Loras was set to be thrown from a trebuchet too, but the queen's men either changed their minds or never had the chance."

Lord Tarly shook his head grimly. "Ser Loras is sickly and may not live much longer, but he was somewhat conscious earlier. Shall I try to rouse him for your questions, Your Grace?"

Aegon pursed his lips, and then shook his head. They left the broken knight on his bed alone.

The other one, Ser Lancel Lannister, also yielded nothing. Jon honestly wasn't sure if they could even name Ser Lancel a 'survivor'.

"Do not get close," one of the men standing guard warned, as they unbarred the door. The guards were all holding swords or axes. "And do not try to reason with it, Your Grace. There is nothing in it but bloodlust."

They heard Ser Lancel thrashing, the chains rattling furiously. They said that the chains had been rattling like that for days on end, never quieting. Aegon flinched as the door creaked open. Nobody said a word.

If not for the chains, Ser Lancel would have lunged at Aegon on the first sight. The irons rattled.

Lannister men had managed to restrain him first, but then the red cloaks fell to the mobs, and afterwards the Tarly men had recaptured Lancel. There were more chains that Jon had ever seen on a prisoner before - but Lancel Lannister still writhed. He was a frail figure covered in scars and wounds, but there was no blood. The soldiers had hacked off both his arms at the elbows, and yet still, he thrashed.

An armless, insane creature. The stumps hadn't been cauterised, Jon realised slowly, but they didn't bleed.

"The Others take…" Aegon gasped in horror. "What is he?"

"I haven't the foggiest," Lord Tarly said darkly. "It is Lancel Lannister, we found men enough to identify him."

"Is it…" The king paused. "Is he human?"

"That… that is a loaded question, Your Grace. I know he has been stabbed through the chest, but he does not die. We haven't given him water or food either, and yet nevertheless he's been fighting with all his might for hours on end. He does not tire, does not sleep. One of my men tried to inspect him more closely, and Ser Lancel tore that man's face off. With his teeth."

Jon's eyes stared with horror. Just what did the queen do? What horror is this?

"You… you restrained him?" Aegon asked quietly.

"With great difficulty." Lord Tarly nodded. "He is the last of the queen's monsters, the only one to be taken - mostly - whole. I mean to have a maester examine him, to discover just what it is we're dealing with."

"Yes," Jon agreed. "Find out what this is, and how to kill it."

It was hideous. Whatever witchcraft this Qyburn had unleashed, Jon meant to find all knowledge of it and burn it out of existence.

Lancel Lannister was trying to mumble something, Jon noted, but it looked like the man's jaw was broken and he couldn't speak. Something in Lancel's eyes looked like he was trying to scream.

They were silent as they walked away. "Increase the bounty to a thousand dragons for Lord Qyburn," Aegon said finally. "He will be brought to justice for the atrocities he unleashed."

"Very well, Your Grace."

The king looked pale and numb from the very sight. Even Jon felt shaken.

"It is very late, Your Grace," Jon insisted. "We must retire."

Finally, Aegon relented. The royal apartments were said to be too… messy, but there was still a pristine room for the king in the east wing of the castle.

Jon and Aegon walked together, footsteps echoing on stone. The Kingsguard escorted their liege diligently, but kept their distance as Aegon walked with Jon.

"I never…" Aegon muttered, keeping his voice low. For the first all day, his posture threatened to crack. "I never imagined such horrors."

"That is Cersei's doing," Jon insisted. "Not yours."

"And yet I must deal with them." The king took a deep breath. "You were right, Griff. This is my duty. I must be king, I must fight against the monsters."

Jon's lips pursed. "Then we must see your coronation as soon as possible. The people need something to cheer for."

"Yes. Very well."

"Within the week."

Aegon blinked. "So soon?"

"Aye. There can be no delay." Your authority is still too fragile . "The realm must know you as king."

"You… yes, you are right." Aegon glanced at to Jon, taking a deep breath and straightening. "And I heard that Lord Baelish has arrived in the city?"

"He has."

"I apologise for not telling you of the arrangement, Lord Hand," Aegon admitted. "Tyrion warned me to treat Lord Baelish cautiously, I did not wish to rely on anything he promised. The arrangement we made together was one best played close to my chest."

That left a foul taste in Jon's mouth. The Imp and the king, making secret plans together. "And I take it that Lord Petyr Baelish shall be named Warden of the East?"

"He will." The king nodded. "If he can get the Vale lords to bow, it will be a title well-placed. Lord Baelish shall lose the title anyways, when Robert Arryn comes of age."

Reluctantly, Jon conceded. From the deal they made, Littlefinger agreed that Robert Arryn was to be warded in King's Landing, by the king's side. They would expect the Lord of the Vale in the capital

within the week, before any of the Lords Declarant could object.

Once Aegon had Lord Arryn, the Vale would be forced to heel.

"Although I do mean to remove Lord Paramount of the Trident from Baelish's name - that is a title that should return to House Tully, after Edmure swears fealty," Aegon continued. "While Lord Tyrion Lannister shall be my Warden of the West." Jon's jaw tensed somewhat. "And Lord Randyll Tarly shall be Warden of the South."

He could not protest those either. "And Warden of the North?" Jon asked.

"I would consider keeping Lord Bolton on as Warden of the North, if he succeeds in vanquishing the Bastard King," Aegon sighed. "But that's a fool's hope. I've heard no news from the north, I can only presume that it has fallen to the wildling invaders."

"It likely has," Jon admitted, before adding, "But it is winter now, and the north shall suffer in winter more than we will."

The mood turned even more sombre. They were approaching the king's quarters, the Kingsguard leading the way. "Tomorrow will be a busy day, Your Grace," Jon warned.

Aegon only barked a humourless chuckle of laughter. "It always is."

They said farewell. Jon retired for the night himself, but he slept little.

For too much of the night he sat on his bed, staring at his hands.

Aegon was to hold his first open court on the morn, to receive vows of fealty from whatever lords had yet to give them. Some lords would give fealty again, just to ensure their vows were witnessed in public. Already the petitioners were flocking - it was all frantic and chaotic, but it was the start of a new regime.

Jon looked down from the balcony, and the courtyard of the Red Keep was heaving. They filled the grounds like sheep overflowing into a pen, neighing and crying for attention.

There would be far more rewards and congratulations - the Golden Company was filled with exiled lords or bastard sons that expected to see their titles restored or lands granted to them. Bastards to be legitimised, inheritances to be claimed. Rosby, Stokeworth, Lothston, Peake, Strickland, Mudd, Strong, Darry, Massey…

An entire dynasty to re-establish. A thousand knighthoods to award, and a hundred lands and titles to reassign.

And the gallows . There would be no shortage of traitors to hang, Jon had no doubt.

Lord Connington met Aegon again in the king's solar behind the throne room. His squires were running wild trying to keep up with a thousand demands, while the king was being dressed in velvet with gold trim. Septa Lemore stood over him, and the king fidgeted as she straightened his collar.

"How goes it out there?" the septa asked.

"Thriving," Lord Connington muttered dryly. "The people want sight of the king, and we must give it to them."

Aegon grimaced as the septa twiddled with his shirt. "They want more than just to see me. They want order again." He sighed. "And they will want titles and lands from me. So many expect due reward."

"And a few will try to take undue reward," Lord Connington warned. "They will petition you, and you must appear firm, but take care not to make hasty decisions. Do not make any proclamations without consideration. There are many who might take to think advantage of a young king."

"I know," Aegon said finally, finally pulling free of the septa. His collar was high and tight. "Arianne warned me the same thing herself - she said that I appear an outsider, that I was vulnerable."

Jon grimaced. Arianne was actually the one Jon had been warning him of. The Halfmaester stepped through the doorway. "Your Grace," Haldon called, "we have ravens from houses-"

Later, Halfmaester," Jon ordered, dismissing the man as he kept his eyes on Aegon. There would be a scant few moments to talk privately. "Regarding Arianne," Lord Connington warned, lowering his voice. "Lords Yronwood and Fowler are at the front of the procession. The Dornish mean to pressure you, Your Grace, and Arianne still has intentions of marrying you."

"I am aware," Aegon admitted, while the septa tightened his waistband. "And do not worry, my lord, I know the need hasn't changed. When my aunt arrives from Meereen, I shall greet Daenerys warmly from the Iron Throne and offer both my hand and the kingdom on a silver platter. I will give her a dutiful husband and a kingdom, and she will give me children and dragons."

There was quiet pause. "But until Daenerys arrives, I must remain unbetrothed." Aegon shook his head. "My duty must be to preserve the Targaryen dynasty, not to the Dornish."

Jon blinked, caught off-guard by the strength in his voice. "Yes," he said approvingly. "That is exactly right."

"Your Grace," a squire called. "The Kingsguard shall be ready to escort you out in shortly."

"Thank you, Martyn," Aegon called, and then turned back to Jon. "Actually, my lord," the king mused, "I was debating on arranging a match between Lord Tyrion and Princess Arianne. A union between Dorne and the westerlands, to heal rifts and strength the realm."

Jon blinked in surprise. "Arianne and the Imp ?" he said, aghast. "Your Grace, you cannot…"

"Why not?" Aegon paused. The Halfmaester tried to call them again, but they dismissed him. "Tyrion and Arianne are of an age, both of

noble birth and unquestionable status. A reward for two of my strongest allies - a very strong alliance between Dorne and the west just when we need it the most."

For a second, Jon's mouth hung open as he tried to speak. "Aegon, you cannot give a Lannister rights to Dorne…"

Before the king could reply, there were other shouts calling for them. Aegon grimaced. "Go see to them, my lord," he ordered. "I must see to court, but we will talk later."

Yes, we will, Jon thought aghast. Tyrion Lannister betrothal to Arianne Martell? It'd be…

Haldon Halfmaester was waiting outside with a large stack of parchments. The Halfmaester looked tired and frayed. "They came during the night," he explained. "The rookery is… in disrepair, my lord."

Jon's jaw clenched, flickering through the pile dismissively. He did not have time right now for any letters from Rosby, Acorn Hall, Crow's Nest, Maidenpool, Bitterbridge, Saltpans…

He stopped. There was a parchment marked with the red lion, a letter from Casterly Rock. That letter, Jon tore open hungrily.

The letter was short and succinct. It wasn't written in the Imp's hand.

The cat is in the bag,' the letter read, 'the bag is in the ocean'.

It was written in Ser Franklyn Flowers' big, unwieldy handwriting.

Jon burst into a grin. Jon reread it three times, the better to savour the letter. His smile was so bright and gleeful that the Halfmaester looked unnerved. "My… my lord?" he asked confused.

"Good news, Haldon," Lord Connington replied, recovering his posture. He quickly scrunched up the letter and pocketed it before anyone else could read it. "Just some good news."

Tyrion Lannister is dead .

'The cat' was code that Ser Franklyn and Jon had agreed upon, to refer to the Imp. When the time came, Ser Franklyn had been set to kill the cat.

The Imp is dead! It felt like a weight off Jon's shoulders, finally he could breathe.

There was little doubt it would have been over quickly. Ser Franklyn Flowers - the Bad Apple of Cider Hall - was the biggest, meanest sellsword that Jon had ever known. The Company men would follow Ser Franklyn, not the Imp. I hope the Imp screamed when Franklyn turned on him.

Why not announce it? Lord Connington wondered, before realising himself. No, there's no point . The Imp's sellswords were locked up in Casterly Rock - news in or out was very restricted. Until the siege dropped, nobody would even know that the Imp was dead.

It was a better option for Ser Franklyn to do the deed, and then pretend otherwise. For now, it benefitted Aegon if the realm believed Tyrion Lannister was alive in Casterly Rock. When the siege was dropped and the Rock opened, then Tyrion Lannister would be revealed to have died in very uncertain circumstances - a perfect inglorious end to the creature.

The dwarf deserved to be drowned.

Jon was feeling so elated he might have skipped. Another of Aegon's enemies, removed from the king's path.

The king was sitting upon the throne as the petitioners were prepared. Jon approached him carefully, and whispered in his ear.

"I have had time to reconsider the betrothal, Your Grace," Jon said with a faint smile. "And I think it a splendid idea. Lannister and Martell together will be a strong match, Your Grace."

Tis exactly what the grasping Dornish deserve, to put Arianne in her place. Betrothed to a dead drowned dwarf .

Aegon grinned, looking down at Lord Connington with surprise. "I'm glad you think so, my lord," Aegon said. "The war may not be over, but we must secure our allies. And, considering it, there is one well-deserved reward that we have not yet discussed."

They were opening the doors to the hall, guards taking position. "Whose, Your Grace?"

"Your own," Aegon said, grinning. "One of my first decrees that I can be certain of; I mean to return to Griffin's Roost their rightful lands and titles, and I shall name you as the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands."

Jon froze. "My lord, you should not…"

"It is well-deserved," Aegon said firmly. "And House Baratheon is as good as extinct, but who can question House Connington's heritage or right? This is your king's command, my lord; take Storm's End as your own, my lord, I will need you to bring order to the stormlords."

"There is no scion of my house, my lord," Lord Connington protested quietly. Nothing but a branch of traitorous second cousins, nearly all now held captive at his reclaimed seat.

"Yet you are still young," Aegon insisted. "I promise to arrange a suitable betrothal; but I can think of no better man for the task. My grandfather took most of your lands, but I mean to see them restored. Is Griffin's Roost not adjacent to Storm's End? You may claim both castles, you deserve no less."

Jon didn't reply. His eyes flickered towards his gloved hands. "Very well, Your Grace," he said, somewhat reluctantly. It would be a moot point.

They opened the doors for the petitioners in the king's court, but Lords Baelish and Tarly were at the very front of the queue. Both of them came before Aegon with their heads held high, to bend the knee before the new dynasty.

Littlefinger was first. He was grinning from ear to ear as Aegon appointed him Warden of the East before the whole court.

Afterwards, Littlefinger motioned for a man of his to stand forward, carrying a small chest before the throne. "A gift for you, Your Grace," Lord Baelish's voice was smooth. "A gift in honour of your accomplishments, and the justice you've achieved for your family."

The chest opened slowly, and six dull red stones shone inside the box sitting upon velvet lining. They were large rocks, some of them cracked with age. Not rocks, Jon realised slowly, gems .

"Six rubies, Your Grace," Littlefinger said pridefully. "Recovered from your own father's armour, and washed down the Trident. It is my honour to return Rhaegar's rubies to you."

The whole court stirred. Aegon was left momentarily speechless, looking genuinely flattered. He thanked Littlefinger sincerely, shaking the man's hand and then handing the rubies to Lord Connington.

"Six rubies, for the six realms that declare for you," said Littlefinger, grinning. "The seventh will be had soon enough, I'm sure."

Jon couldn't protest, but he didn't like the smirk on Baelish's lips. He glanced down at the stones, and they were most certainly as large as the ones Rhaegar had worn. Still, where once the rubies had been bright crimson, the time and grime had turned the gems more black than red.

Lord Tarly came next, to repeat his own fealty before the Iron Throne. Perhaps not to be outdone, Lord Tarly brought a gift of his own - a long and slender red sword, with a rippling crimson blade and two lions with ruby eyes carved into the crossguard.

"A Valyrian steel sword, Your Grace," Lord Tarly announced. "Once belonging to the falseborn Joffrey, but presented to you so that its legacy might be redeemed."

Aegon stepped down from the throne, to accept the blade graciously. "Widow's Wail, the sword was named," Lord Tarly added. "It was forged by Tywin and gifted to Joffrey, but never wielded by either."

It was a fine and rich blade, Jon admitted. Widow's Wail rippled gloriously - gold and rubies shimmering in the light. The Tarly men must have recovered the sword when the castle fell, Jon thought. Widow's Wail .

"Many thanks, my lord - tis a grand gift," Aegon said, before pausing. "And yet it would be presumptuous of me to hold two Valyrian swords," he mused, glancing down to Blackfyre on his hip. There were a few chuckles in the court. "No, this is still a Lannister family sword, and it is not for me to redeem it. I feel that this sword is a just reward to pass on to Lord Tyrion Lannister, to congratulate him on his contribution to our victory."

Lord Tarly bowed. "As you say, Your Grace."

I doubt that the dwarf has any need for a blade under the sea, Jon thought, but he held his tongue. He could not deny the impact it had upon Aegon's image; it made the king look benevolent and fair to donate such a treasure to another for good service done. It would encourage loyalty in a way that not easily matched. Look upon the king - for he is kind, chivalrous and charitable .

There were more petitions, more vows and more gifts - but none as notable as the first two. Still, the mood in the court felt increasingly content and optimistic. It was like Jon could feel the realm knitting together with every easy smile and heartfelt laugh from Aegon.

This is what I wanted, Jon thought. All my life, this is what I wanted . The realm would rally behind him, and his king would be in good stead.

Jon had only the briefest of moments between petitioners to talk to his king. "My small council needs to be named," Aegon said to Jon. Ser Roger Hogg, young Lady Ermesande Hayford and her retinue had just left the hall, after giving fealty and a tribute of fine wolf pelts to the king. "And I have three positions on the Kingsguard to fill, let alone Lord Commander."

The Hand hesitated. "Lord Tarly would be a good choice for master of laws," Lord Connington said. "And Lysono Maar could fill in the duties of master of whisperers."

"I agree," Aegon nodded. "And Lord Baelish has petitioned me to name him master of ships, I do not see how I can deny him." The king's hand was still cradling the chest of his father's rubies. Six rubies to buy a seat at the table .

Jon's jaw tightened. Damn the man . And yet it was hard to deny Littlefinger the position; with the royal fleet stolen and Redwyne fleet crushed, the Vale now had one of the largest fleets left to them. Littlefinger was rich and had a strong hand in trade - he would be capable as master of ships, Jon had no doubt. But the coincounter deliberately circumvented me and went straight to the king to gain it . Is there no end to his gall?

"Very well," Lord Connington conceded, after a long moment's pause. Littlefinger was another one who would have to be taken care of. "Lord Baelish can be master of ships."

"And Haldon Halfmaester can serve as Grand Maester," Aegon mused. Lord Connington open his mouth to object. "At least temporarily, my lord," Aegon soothed, and Lord Connington relented. As far as he knew, all the Citadel's archmaesters were dead or captured. "But what of master of coin?" Aegon asked. "I know that Lord Tyrion seeks the position again, but the Golden Company also promised it to our magister friend in Pentos? Both have served me exceptionally, it is hard to disappoint either."

"Neither of those men are ideal," Jon said foully. The Imp is a depraved fiend, he thought, and a dead fiend at that - while Magister Illyrio is a fat, opportunistic cheesemonger, and a foreigner to boot . "I would prefer Harry Strickland as master of coin, Your Grace, but you cannot-"

His voice was cut off, as Ser Willis Wode entered the throne room to give fealty. There were a hundred different matters to attend to - lands to be redistributed, pardons to be granted and positions to be named - it was hard to even keep track of them all.

Come afternoon, the court was finally closed without even a tenth of the petitioners seen. The king stepped out onto the steps and vowed to see them all within the week, but for now he had to retire. The king was pestered even as they walked up the steps to the rookery, voices calling constantly for Aegon's judgment or notice, and then they stepped into the maester's quarters where dozens of scribes were combing and sorting through letters and parchments scattered throughout the chambers. Cages of squawking ravens were being brought up the steps from their camps, and the stewards and servants were still working to establish their stations in the Red Keep.

The rookery was in disrepair. The tower had been pillaged by the mobs, and the Red Keep's own ravens had died in the siege. There were raven corpses still rotting in cages. Haldon Halfmaester was there, trying to sort through all the mess and activity.

The first of Aegon's decrees were already being sketched out, while the rest of the stewards, squires and scribes were trying to re-establish order.

Jon had to raise his voice to dismiss the petitioners from the room, while Septa Lemore brought Aegon a plate of roasted potatoes, meaty gravy with parsnips and salted beef. The septa handled the meal herself; until they established which servants were trustworthy, all of the king's meals had to be prepared personally by someone in his inner circle.

"I have perhaps an hour before I must meet with my council," Aegon said a sigh, picking up the plate. "And I mean to break my fast while I can. Is there news, Haldon, and can you talk while I eat?"

They'd caught the Halfmaester at a less than ideal time, but he nodded, the sweat of exertion beading at his brow.

"There's more news than I care to guess at, and less than I care to believe, Your Grace. We've gathered what remains of Cersei and Qyburn's correspondence and placed them there." The Halfmaester nodded to a corner of the rookery filled with crates. "I will have the scribes peruse them, but the letters have taken much damage."

"Do it as soon as possible, Haldon," Aegon addressed his once-tutor. "I want to know who that fiend was working with, and where he went."

"And how he did what he did," Jon added. "Learn whatever you can of the arts that Qyburn employed."

Haldon nodded, and then explained the news. The news.

Illyrio had set sail from Pentos, and would arrive within days. Allies from Lys were expected within weeks. The Iron Bank had representative in the city, calling for the king's attention. Surviving maesters scattered across the realm were calling a gathering of their numbers; they were demanding to know what remained of their Conclave.

Lysono Maar entered the room with his own reports, filling in details where he could. Frustratingly, there was so much uncertainty around both Oldtown and Winterfell.

Instead, there were tales of refugees from the north, fleeing the winter and the wildlings, all along the kingsroad from the ruins of the Twins down to Darry. Dark rumours spread of the brotherhood without banners. Jon Lothston wrote of a pack of wolves a thousand strong haunting the lands around Harrenhal, preying on man and

beast alike. Tales of some mad crone under a hill at High Heart proclaiming the end of the world, while a cloud of crows fit to darken the sky was said to have gathered at the Isle of Faces. More words flying on dark wings than Jon knew of, or cared to believe.

Aegon read what he could, and listened to the rest while chewing on salted beef. They had so many scrawled reports and writings from a realm distraught with war.

From there it got vaguer. There were letters from lands distant. There were rumours of a fleet emerging from Slaver's Bay, and some eruption or explosion in the Smoking Sea. An outbreak of the Sailor's Bane had been reported in the Stepstones. A Ghiscari attempt to resettle Gogossos had been ended by some unknown Sothoryi horror. Volantis was said to have dispatched its fleet to Meereen, with the city itself on the brink of civil war. A trader from the Saffron Straits had reported a cloud akin to a thousand shadows in the black lands north of Ulos. The very furthest letter they received said that the Golden Empire of Yi Ti had declared a state of emergency, and the Azure Emperor had sealed his borders against some sort of plague. There were so many mutterings of smallfolk and fearmongers.

Haldon was halfway through reading out a letter reporting of two Ibbenese whalers that had vanished in the Narrow Sea in queer conditions, when Strickland's squire rushed through the door to alert them that the council room was ready.

The king gulped down the last of his meal, and rushed down the stairs with his Hand of the King. The Wardens of the South and the East were already waiting in the informal council. Harry Strickland joined them, reporting on coin and supplies as they walked. Armies needed mustering, alliances needed to be brokered…

"What of the Reach, Your Grace?" Lord Tarly insisted, as they stepped inside. "This pageantry is all well and good, but what of my son in Oldtown, and the kraken to the west?"

"I'd be more concerned with the actual dragon to the north," Littlefinger retorted, folding his arms. "Of the two threats, the Bastard King poses the direst one."

"The Bastard King has been reserved mostly to the north and his own concerns," Lord Tarly argued. "But the Crow's Eye threatens the entire realm. The Bastard King seems to care little for anything outside his crusade, while the Crow's Eye terrorises our lands with impunity. No, the ironborn cannot be ignored."

"I would say they are both threats that we cannot ignore," Harry Strickland noted.

Aegon stepped between them surely, his knuckles tapping on wood. "These are all threats that we will deal with, one by one, my lords," Aegon insisted. "Lord Tarly, you will have every aid to put the Reach in order. Your army must prepare to march south. You shall join with the forces of the Golden Company at Bitterbridge, then move onwards to Highgarden. I shall send Lord Peake to treat with Highgarden to see that the way is prepared, but Ser Loras will remain in King's Landing under care."

Under care, Jon considered, and as a hostage, should Willas Tyrell attempt to resist . The two last sons of Mace Tyrell were both crippled.

"What is to be done concerning the Tyrells, Your Grace?" Harry Strickland asked.

"When Willas Tyrell bends the knee, I will happily take him as an ally," Aegon said surely. "And the longer it takes Lord Willas to do so, the more House Tyrell will forfeit in land and rank."

Jon noticed that Lord Tarly's jaw tensed somewhat. "And I shall write to Doran Martell, to have Dorne muster their forces from Starfall. There will be no priority wasted, my lord," Aegon promised. Lord Tarly only nodded, keeping his expression guarded.

"The Golden Company will march west, towards Casterly Rock," Aegon continued, nodding to Harry Strickland. "I trust the good captain-general to recover the west, and to relieve the siege at Lord Tyrion's seat."

"That campaign is half-won already," said the captain-general, chuckling. "I expect Lord Tyrion to welcome me with a feast." Not unless you happen to fish the Imp from the ocean, Jon thoughtquietly, but it'll be a rotten feast . Jon might have chuckled himself, but he kept the spiteful jape hidden from his face.

"Aye. And when Lord Tyrion and captain-general rally the western forces," Aegon said, looking back to Lord Tarly, "the armies of the west, the stormlands, the Reach and Dorne shall converge to stop the ironborn from all sides. There will be justice for the carnage the Crow's Eye has wrought."

He speaks surely now, Jon noted. The Hand of the King had nothing to contribute. The Lord of Horn only nodded.

"I notice that you did not mention yourself in that plan, Your Grace," Lord Baelish said, keeping his hands folded behind his back.

"It is my duty to sit on the throne, and to salve wounds of the realm," Aegon replied firmly, "I must rebuild the capital, recover the riverlands and crownlands, and help the Faith heal from the atrocities it has suffered. The riverlands is a land fractured, but under Lord Tully they will come together again." The king nodded, and then straightened his shoulders. "And I shall lead the resistance against the Bastard King myself."

"Perhaps I may be of assistance in that effort," Lord Baelish spoke quietly. All eyes turned to him. "I have close ties to House Stark - I was a strong friend to Lord Eddard, and a close confidant to his wife. I have been keeping closely informed of the situation in the north, the Vale has close ties. I might assist in reaching out to this Jon Snow."

"Of course." Aegon nodded. "And the knights of Vale will be critical in defeating the wildlings and retaking the north."

"I would advise… negotiation," There was something of an emphasis in the way Littlefinger said that word, "as a first resort, Your Grace. Perhaps a political solution may yet yield fruit." He looked around the room. "Perhaps even brokering an alliance."

Lord Tarly shook his head. "So long as the Bastard King sits upon a dragon," he said, with a hint of foulness, "then there can be no political solution."

"I must disagree," Littlefinger insisted. "And negotiation seems like a prudent first step to attempt. I am willing to go to Winterfell as an envoy myself."

Jon's instinctive reaction was to object, but then he paused. If matters with the Bastard King devolve, he reasoned, then the Eyrie should be the very first disintegrated in dragonfire . "I agree," LordConnington said surely. "Lord Baelish should take point on that matter."

Aegon paused, looking between Tarly and Baelish. The king nodded. "Very well then," Aegon said. "I shall trust in the expertise of my wardens."

Lord Tarly didn't look so convinced, a frown creasing his features. "Negotiation is hesitation. It will only serve to project weakness on our part, and it will grant the Bastard King more time to secure his invasion."

"I have to argue that point, my lord." The coincounter seemed to smirk. "The north is in the grip of winter, and wracked by storms. Jon Snow commands tens of thousands of wildlings, all with empty bellies which I expect will remain empty." There was a glimmer in Baelish's eyes. "White Harbour has been left sacked in a recent pirate raid; they have no trade, few resources left to them. It may be that for but a few food shipments, the white dragon can be kept tame

until spring. More than enough time to secure peace by othermeans, should he prove intractable."

Other means. Jon noted that, stony-faced. Baelish cannot be trusted.

Aegon frowned, then nodded. "Do it. Treat with the Bastard King, ensure that we do not face an invasion from the north. I will leave it in your hands." He turned to the captain-general. "We have our tasks, then. Lord Strickland, the Golden Company will recover Edmure Tully and rally the armies from Riverrun to Lannisport." The king turned to the Lord of Horn Hill. "Lord Tarly, you shall have the command of the campaign in the Reach, to throw the Crow's Eye back into the sea."

"What then?" he asked. "The Iron Islands must the pay for their crimes."

Aegon hesitated, then nodded. "There will be no negotiation with Euron Greyjoy, he has made his madness quite clear. We will storm the Iron Islands, and put the butcher and all his allies to the sword."

Lord Connington had nothing to comment. Lord Tarly is a capable man, Jon told himself . And Baelish is a viper, but even he has his uses . Aegon had passed the halfway mark - the majority of theSeven Kingdoms were his. Capable men would flock around him.

Perhaps the king doesn't need me anymore .

Jon tried to flex his right hand, but he couldn't. What use was a Hand of the King that couldn't move his hands?

Lord Connington stayed fairly quiet during the meeting, as Harry Strickland and Lord Tarly discussed logistics and troops with their king. The discussion went outwards - affairs in the Reach, the north, in the stormlands and riverlands, and then the crownlands…

The conversations continued onwards, even as the shadows lengthened and the sun darkened from yellow to red. At a certain

point, Lysono Maar entered the chamber to give his own insights. There was talk of negotiating with the Iron Bank, of hiring sellswords and sellsails, and of purchasing supplies from Free Cities to feed the city come the dark of winter.

The talk slowly turned towards Stannis Baratheon on Dragonstone. The man was a pirate in the Narrow Sea, and sitting on the mouth of the Blackwater.

"Stannis Baratheon is not to be neglected," Lord Tarly warned. "He has been crippled several times, but he has remained defiant regardless."

"I have heard of Stannis," Harry Strickland noted. "Defeated on the Blackwater, defeated in the north, and now turned raider."

"And he has been targeting the Faith of the Seven in particular," Lysono added. "Stannis has clashed with both Tyrell and Lannister, yet the Red God he brings has been growing… violently. The man has been enforcing his power over the houses sworn to Dragonstone

Celtigar, Bar Emmon, Massey and Velaryon have all suffered from him."

"He has proven himself difficult," Lord Tarly confessed. "Stannis does not lack for stubbornness."

"How many men does he have?" Aegon asked.

"Not many men, but he has no shortage of good fortune," Tarly explained dryly. "And fanaticism. Not the Redwyne fleet nor the royal fleet was able to shift him - in every naval battle, Stannis has the wind in his sails while the enemy fights a headwind. Demon's luck, they say, and the fires on Dragonstone have been burning non-stop."

Aegon shook his head. "We cannot allow such a knife at the throat of the capital…"

The Golden Company had been allowing it for months, while Stannis has been useful to them. They had happily taken advantage of Stannis so long as he was hurting Lannisters too. Now, Stannis was a nuisance to them as well.

"We will need ships to siege Dragonstone," Harry warned. "And we are lacking such warships. An assault could be costly."

Aegon grimaced. There was talk of building ships, or hiring sellsails, but he could feel the uncertainty in the room. "Stannis is a now more than ever a threat," Lord Tarly warned. "To anybody who sticks to the Baratheon regime, Stannis is now undoubtedly the rightful king. He may yet find support from any who would still oppose a Targaryen."

Harry flustered at that statement, but the Lord of Horn Hill spoke the truth. He was right, Lord Connington considered, perhaps some stubborn stormlord may yet declare for King Stannis…

Lord Connington stood silently, as slowly a plan took shape. I must see Aegon in good stead .

"Perhaps a softer approach is required," Lord Connington said suddenly. "Perhaps we might negotiate with Stannis Baratheon instead."

The room froze, all eyes turning to him. "I don't think that would be useful, my lord," said Harry, frowning. "Stannis has made his intentions quite clear."

"I insist," the Lord Hand said firmly, looking at Aegon. "Your Grace, let me go to Stannis Baratheon myself, as an envoy in your stead. I will go under a banner of truce, and negotiate an armistice with Stannis."

There were a few objections, but Lord Connington remained firm.

Harry Strickland looked confused, and Lord Tarly's gaze narrowed.

Aegon's eyes widened. "My lord… !"

"Stannis is a fanatic, Lord Hand," Harry warned. "He is not like to respect a truce - he'd be more inclined to burn you alive."

Yes, he would . "I must insist, Your Grace." Jon said firmly, looking at Aegon. "Let me do this. Let me be your Hand."

Aegon hesitated. His lips pursed, but the young man trusted Jon more than any other. "Very well, my lord," the king said finally. "You shall go to Dragonstone as my envoy."

Lord Connington just nodded. I am so, so proud of you, he thought silently.

The meeting ended fairly quickly afterwards, and Jon said little else.

The capital had been taken, and now the realm had to be secured. East, west, north, south - they would be dispersing to every direction, and he had his own role to play. He strained his fingers slightly, and grimaced. His hands were turning to stone.

His shoulders were stiff, but he was resigned. It had to happen sooner or later . Still, Jon might be able to benefit King Aegon evenin death.

He would be able to give Rhaegar's son this final service.

As they exited the solar, they went their separate ways. Aegon had another hundred kingly duties to attend to, and Jon had a few final preparations to make. Lord Tarly waited for Lord Connington in the corridor. The lord's eyes were narrowed, suspicious.

"What are you intending, Lord Hand?" Lord Tarly demanded of him, looking to Jon cautiously. "What do you hope to achieve negotiating with Stannis Baratheon?"

"Achieve? Nothing." Jon's gaze flickered down to his right glove. "I merely intend to approach Stannis, and to shake his hand."

The Battle of the Roseroad

Date: 301 AC

Conflict: War of the Five Monsters

Place: the kingswood, the crownlands

Combatants:

Aegon's Forces:

~14,000 men:

4,600 Golden Company,

5,000 Dornishmen,

1,500 assorted Westerosi and Free City sellswords,

3,000 riverlands and stormlands.

House Stokeworth,

House Rosby,

House Massey. Riverlands:

House Darry,

House Piper,

House Ryger,

House Vance,

House Mooton. Dorne

House Martell,

House Yronwood,

House Fowler,

House Blackmont,

House Allyrion

House Vaith,

House Dayne,

House Jordayne,

House Qorgyle,

House Santagar,

House Toland,

House Uller. Stormlands

House Connington,

House Wylde,

House Estermont,

House Morrigen,

House Cole,

House Penrose.

Lannister-Tyrell Loyalists:

~23,000 men:

17,000 Reachmen,

4,000 westermen,

2,000 crownlanders. Reach:

House Tyrell,

House Tarly,

House Redwyne,

House Hightower,

House Rowan,

House Caswell,

House Ambrose,

House Ashford,

House Fossoway,

House Merryweather,

House Crane,

House Bulwer,

House Vywel,

House Graceford,

House Mullendore,

House Wythers,

House Appleton. Westerlands:

House Lannister,

House Crakehall,

House Prester,

House Marbrand,

House Banefort,

House Brax,

House Swyft. Crownlands:

House Ryker,

House Wendwater,

House Staunton,

House Chelsted,

House Brune,

● House Hayford.

Commanders:

King Aegon Targaryen,

His Kingsguard; Ser Rolly Duckfield, Ser Daemon Sand, Ser Tristan Ryger, Ser Olyvar Yronwood

Jon Connington, Hand of the King, commander.

Harry Strickland, captain-general,

Black Balaq, commander of the archers,

Lysono Maar, company spymaster,

Talek Vhaeros, master of elephantry,

Lord Tristan Darry, formerly Rivers,

Ser Marq Mandrake, serjeant,

Ser Pykewood Peake,

Ser Torman Peake,

Ser Brendel Byrne, serjeant,

Dick Cole, serjeant,

Will Cole, serjeant,

Caspor Hill, serjeant,

Malo Jayn, serjeant,

Lorimas Mudd, serjeant,

Ser Lymond Pease, serjeant,

Ser Denys Strong, serjeant,

Duncan Strong, serjeant,

Humfrey Stone, serjeant. Allied Commanders: Riverlands:

Lord Clement Piper,

Ser Tristan Ryger,

Ser Ronald Vance,

Obara Sand,

Lord Anders Yronwood,

Lord Franklyn Fowler, Stormlands:

Lord Casper Wylde,

Lord Lester Morrigen.

…

Of Mace Tyrell's forces:

Lord Mace Tyrell,

Lord Randyll Tarly,

Lord Mathis Rowan,

Ser Desmond Redwyne,

Lord Arthur Ambrose,

Lord Jowan Appleton,

Lord Martyn Mullendore,

Lord Lorent Caswell,

Ser Roger Bulwer,

Lord Erren Wythers,

Lord Alester Crane,

Lord Ivor Vyrwel,

Ser Bryan Graceford,

Ser Jon Fossoway,

Ser Matthew Middlebury. Of Kevan Lannister's forces:

Lord Quenten Banefort,

Lord Tytos Brax,

Ser Flement Blax,

Lord Roland Crakehall,

Ser Forley Prestor,

Lord Steffon Swyft.

Causalities:

1,500 men under Aegon Targaryen,

3,000 men under Mace Tyrell.

Aftermath:

Fighting lasts two days, but the battle is interrupted by the Great Fire of King's Landing,

Strong Targaryen victory,

Many close Tyrell allies are defeated during a hasty retreat,

Mace Tyrell perishes after the retreat, and Randyll Tarly takes command,

Death of Tommen Baratheon and destruction in the capital forces the loyalists to concede,

King Aegon Targaryen takes the city and Iron Throne without further conflict.

The Attack on the Faith,

i.e. The Trial of the Mad Queen, the Day of Demons, the Great Fire of King's Landing

Date: 301 AC

Conflict: War of the Five Monsters

Place: King's Landing, the crownlands

Combatants:

Queen's Forces

Garrison of ~80 men holding the Red Keep:

Queen loyalists,

Remnants of the Mountain's Men, the Brave Companions,

Mercenaries,

224 necromantic creations,

Ser Robert Strong,

The Alchemists Guild and pyromancers.

The Faith

~1,500 Warrior's Sons,

8,000 - 12,000 Poor Fellows,

A large number of supporters within the civilian population itself.

City's Defence

The City Watch:

4,400 gold cloaks, many semi-skilled, Kevan Lannister's forces:

~1,000 Lannister loyalists,

Tyrell garrison:

● ~1,000 Reachmen,

Commanders:

Queen Cersei Lannister,

Lord Qyburn,

Ser Robert Strong,

…

The High Septon,

The Most Devout,

Ser Theodan the True,

…

Lord Kevan Lannister,

Humfrey Waters, Commander of the City Watch,

Olenna Tyrell.

Causalities:

Queen Cersei Lannister,

Olenna Tyrell, Kevan Lannister, the High Septon, all of the Most Devout, and all of the witnesses in the queen's trial,

Majority of the Warrior's Sons upon Visenya's Hill,

Near all the Lannister men,

The Alchemist's Guild,

Uncountable number of civilians within the city.

The 'Battle':

The death of Tommen Baratheon drives the Queen Dowager to insanity. Lord Qyburn and Lord Hallyne the pyromancer support the plot,

The desecrated body of Queen Margaery Tyrell is sent forward as a distraction, while Lord Qyburn's undead creations storm the Great Sept with casks of wildfire,

The queen's ambush burns and devastates the Great Sept on Visenya's Hill,

The necromantic creatures terrify the defenders, sparking mass hysteria,

Fires spread throughout the city, extreme riots are triggered,

The crazed mobs target Lannister and Tyrell men under the immediate presumption that the crown had declared war against the Faith,

The Alchemist's Guild is stormed by the mobs and the casks of stored wildfire ignite, devastating the Street of Sisters,

The Red Keep is stormed by both Kevan Lannister and the mobs. The commanders lose control of the situation,

The queen's garrison slaughters hostages before they fall,

Ser Robert Strong singlehandedly routs the Faith's blockades, captures Lancel Lannister,

Mace Tyrell and his forces return from the Battle of Roseroad, to be ambushed in the panic.

Aftermath:

A third of King's Landing is destroyed,

Refugees line the edge of the Blackwater in droves,

Queen Cersei and King Tommen are both discovered dead,

Kevan Lannister's body discovered after several days, Mace Tyrell and his mother are found dead in the streets,

Lord Qyburn and Ser Robert Strong escape through hidden tunnels, to destinations unknown,

Alchemy and pyromancy is decried and outlawed, and a standing bounty placed upon all of the Mad Queen's supporters,

Lancel Lannister is captured, as the last of Qyburn's creations,

Lord Randyll Tarly surrenders to Aegon Targaryen in order to restore the city,

The Golden Company brings aid and King Aegon is hailed as their saviour,

Magister Illyrio of Pentos wholeheartedly supports such efforts. The relief ships arrive very quickly.

Author Notes:

Well, this chapter was my longest yet. I feel fairly disgusted with myself for writing something so long.

Just to clarify; Jon has been pretty much uninvolved with the war around King's Landing simply because he wasn't present. The whole realm knows about the ice dragon, there was a whole lot of panic about it, but then Jon simply chose not to get involved with anything south of the Neck. He had his priorities in the north.

Let's say that, after the Twins, if Jon and his dragon had stayed south and started a campaign in the riverlands - he likely would have drummed up some support, Sonagon would force and

frighten others into bowing, and then Jon might have ended up in the running for the Iron Throne. When Cersei went into her explosive spiral, it might have been Jon with an army and a dragon outside of King's Landing to pick up the pieces. Military-wise, Jon and his dragon could have done it easily - it would be all the political problems likely to threaten him.

Instead, Jon wasn't there, and so Aegon was the one with the army and the opportunity to take the Iron Throne (exactly how Varys and Illyrio planned for him). Aegon has been specially designed to be the young and likeable king by Varys and Illyrio - Aegon has a devoted PR team that's been working wonders. It has literally been Varys' and Illyrio's whole plan from the beginning - to raze hell and discord in the kingdom (originally intended by means of a Dothraki horde, but that part failed), to then push the Baratheon regime to collapse, and then to introduce Aegon as the better alternative.

Meanwhile, Jon decided to focus all his attention on securing the north, at the same time as Euron has been (literally) raising waves in the Reach and Aegon has been marching up the kingsroad. For Jon's part, that was probably a good decision - if he had really been so distracted with a simultaneous campaign in the riverlands, then the Boltons would have had even more of an opportunity to backstab him. Not to mention, there would have then been even more set against Jon, with sabotage coming from the likes of Varys, llyrio and all the vipers around the capital.

Right now, they are the three big players in Westeros; Euron, Aegon, and Jon - sitting at Oldtown, King's Landing and Winterfell respectively. Three kings, and one queen on her way.

Also, there will be a hiatus over Christmas. I'm looking to get one or two chapters out before then, but then I'll be stopping for a while.

Chapter 42

Chapter 42

The Onion

"You're free to go," the white-haired, dour-faced castellan said, stepping into Davos' narrow chambers. "Pack up your belongings and exit by the dusk."

"I do not have any belongings, my lord," Davos replied. He had lived as a 'guest' at New Castle for so long; he didn't even own the clothes on his back. The salt-crusted furs that he had arrived in had likely been burnt by the washerwomen.

"Then I'd expect you to exit sooner," the man said curtly. "Just be ready to leave."

Davos blinked. "Leave," he repeated. He kept his voice low. "Leave to where?"

"Wherever you choose. Your rights of hospitality have expired, and once you leave these gates you are no concern of ours."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," he agreed, before walking off. The castellan likely had better things to do.

Davos sat on the edge of his bed, staring after the castellan's back. He never moved. Ser Wylan Whitwick was a sharp-spoken man with a sagging gut, one who seemed to enjoy enforcing his order on everyone around him. Davos knew his type well; the sort who would boss others around just so they could hear the sound of their own voice. The servants never liked him; they sniggered behind his back. Ser Wylan was the son of some petty lord in the city, who had been raised to knighthood for some favour his father provided.

Davos had tried to learn about the state of affairs in White Harbour, he had talked to the serving folk to find out all he could. He had heard that House Whitwick was a family of candle-makers in the city, who had bought a lordship after illuminating the New Castle in high-quality tallow candles. Ser Wylan became castellan of the New Castle itself more for his supreme organisational skills, rather than any act of great valour or bravery.

Perhaps that is where I went wrong, Davos mused. I might have become an onion farmer rather than a smuggler. Perhaps I'd have become the onion lord through that means .

His eyes glanced down to the stumps of his fingers - pale white skin over gaunt hands. More and more, he was missing his bag of fingerbones, likely long-buried on some sandy strand or another of the Blackwater Bay.

Even down in his cells, he'd been able to hear the commotion from above. The New Castle had been in an uproar ever since the battle, the servants frantic, rushing to a dozen tasks all at once every day.

The fighting hadn't reached inside the castle itself, but every man and woman of the castle had still heard the clashing outside the gates. The riots as the green cloaks, the smallfolk, and the wildlings turned on one another.

The battle had been over a week ago now, yet some embers took a while to cool. Even now, he could hear the echoes of shouts, coming from the higher levels of the New Castle.

A servant came by his door shortly later, looking at him with confusion. "Whitwick said that you were leaving," the young serving woman stared at him.

"It appears so." Davos grimaced. "Tell me, Sera, what's happening in the castle? I hear the commotion."

"The ram is butting heads with the merman, milord," the serving woman frowned. "I hear Lord Malcolm Woolfield of Ramsgate is up in arms over the sentencing of his sister Leona. They say that Woolfield betrayed the dragon for the flayed man, that they're all traitors. The lord is to bring the house to court, I hear the wildlings are set to raze Ramsgate to the ground."

"I… I see." House Woolfield, Davos recalled, had mustered men very quickly, to support White Harbour as soon as the news of the attack reached them . There were many Ramsgate men in New Castlepresently. Davos had thought Ramsgate a close ally to the Manderlys. It was a turbulent time for northern politics, it seemed.

Sera looked nervous. "The Candle Knight said that I was to change your linens, milord."

Davos shook his head. "I'm not leaving, Sera."

"Whitwick-"

"I will talk to Ser Whitwick," he replied. The girl grimaced and walked away, while Davos stayed perfectly still as he quietly considered his options.

There were very few of them.

Ser Wylan returned about an hour later, walking briskly to Davos' room. Davos was still sitting upright on his bed. "Are you ready? I shall find you an escort to the gates."

"I want to speak to the lord," Davos demanded.

Ser Wylan sneered. "The lord," he said haughtily, "has more important matters occupying his time."

Lord Manderly was grieving, the whispers said. The lord of White Harbour was said to be locked in his chambers, weeping and pigging out on pies, left distraught over the death of his son. His son and heir

had fallen in battle, the rumours said, his own daughter-in-law a conspirator against their family.

"What of King Snow?" Davos asked. "Where is the king?"

"None of your business. Now stand up, Onion Lord."

Once, Davos had even plotted on how he might escape. He had rehearsed possibilities; how he might sneak away, or stowaway on a ship. He had longed to leave. Still, to leave like this… "I have no coin on my person," Davos said carefully. "I have no rations, no horse, no shelter - I am in a foreign land, and I am like to starve by the roadside if you expel me like this."

Ser Wylan scoffed. That ugly cast to his expression; the curl of his lips spoke volumes. Why is that my problem? his gaze asked.

"Stand up from your bed," Ser Wylan ordered, "or I shall have the guards remove you."

Davos' lips pursed. Davos had honestly lost count of how long it had been since Hardhome. First, he had been captive at Eastwatch, then White Harbour. "I have been here for months. Why are you removing me now?"

"Why would we keep you?" Ser Wylan replied, his voice foul. "You arrived as the king's hostage, but there is no use to you. There is no one to pay your ransom, no one who cares to retrieve you."

"I have a family," Davos replied. Three sons and a wife, the last time I checked . "My wife keeps lands on Cape Wrath. I am the Lord ofthe Rainwood."

Ser Wylan scoffed. "And I could be the King of the Seven Kingdoms by the same token. Having a madman name me such does not make it so." Ser Wylan shook his head. "We would place your ransom at a cart full of onions, but your family couldn't even afford the trip to deliver them."

Davos grimaced. "I am the Hand of the King."

"Aye, and your king refuses to even return our ravens, and we have no more birds to send. Stannis has no power, not anymore, and to keep you is pointless. No, 'Lord Hand', whatever value we thought you might have, you have none - and the Lord Manderly is no longer inclined to wait for your 'king' to respond. Frankly, we need to free up your room, more than we need whatever copper your wife might offer. You are not worth the meals we feed you."

His voice was so scathing that Davos might have recoiled. Still, he kept his gaze level. "I see." Perhaps a more glib lord might have been able to convince House Manderly of his own worth by now, but Davos had too blunt a tongue. "I would like to speak to Lord Manderly again."

"I think not. Stand."

There would be no ship to take him, Davos knew. Lord Manderly meant to discard him, like a piece of garbage. Or a rotten onion. To expel me out into the wilderness now, in winter, is certain death ."Does the king know that you are doing this?"

"The king has more important matters to attend to," Ser Wylan replied curtly. "Now will you leave or will you have to be thrown out?"

Davos bit his lip. Wouldn't that just be typical? he thought. I might be the first hostage in history to refuse his release . "I will need saltedfish and water," Davos decided finally. "I'm not much of a huntsman. Surely the good Lord Manderly would allow me supplies for the road, as a parting gift?"

Ser Wylan rolled his eyes, like he was unwilling to part with any scrap of tuna. "We gave you too much already. A less merciful lord would let you leave by the gallows, ser." Still, Ser Wylan nodded, and allowed Davos a knapsack of rations from the castle's kitchens.

Davos stood up and followed the castellan down the corridor, brushing past a pair of women bumbling under a huge pile of bloody clothes. Nearly a year of captivity, Davos thought, but at least I get a set of laundered clothes and a free knapsack at the end of it . If he could convince Ser Wylan to part with a blanket as well, Davos would consider that a victory.

Ser Wylan barked orders at a serving woman - Wylda - to prepare a small bag of supplies. Ser Wylan didn't know the woman's name. At this point, Davos was more familiar with the serving staff than the castellan was.

"What of the others I came with?" Davos asked, as they walked. "What of Ser Justin Massey, of Stonedance?"

"The one-armed boy?" the castellan frowned, nose wrinkling. Ser Justin had lost his arm, from an infection from the wound he had taken beyond the Wall. "He is due on the gallows on morn."

Davos stopped. "What?"

Ser Wylan glared at him to keep walking. "House Massey did reply to us," the castellan explained. "And the Lord of Stonedance - Lord Gormon - informed us of the boy's crimes. They would not pay a ransom, instead they paid to see justice fulfilled."

Lord Gormon? Davos paused, and then frowned. "Gormon Waters," Davos said, aghast. "Ser Justin's bastard cousin. He is no lord, ser, he would have you kill the rightful heir to his house! He steals Ser Justin's seat!"

"Aye? Then he's a legitimised bastard now." Ser Wylan shrugged. "And we hear differently. Ser Justin was accomplice to Stannis' crimes - he supported kinslaying, treason, and murder. They say 'Ser' Justin burnt innocent men alive himself."

"He lies! Check with any other-"

"We did," Ser Wylan replied. "And they say the same. His family would prefer retribution over return - ever since Stannis Baratheon himself turned on Stonedance; he raided Massey's Hook and put its inhabitants to the sword. There is no love for any supporter of Stannis, not among the remaining members of House Massey."

Davos' face was pale. Justin Massey had been a young man with pink cheeks, blue eyes and a mop of pale white-blond hair. He had been bold, always smiling, and glib tongued. They need to free up rooms, Ser Wylan had said. "Be advised, ser," Ser Wylan continued,"that the same crimes could be attributed to you too. Be grateful that you are not gracing the gallows as well."

Davos' jaw tightened. He didn't know how to reply, so instead he just nodded.

Wylda returned with a few cooked and salted salmon slices, wrapped in leaves, a canteen of water, and half a loaf of bread. Ser Wylan gave a few sharp orders, and a man-at-arms stepped forward to escort Davos down the Castle Stair. Davos did not ask for a blanket.

"Farewell, Onion Lord," the castellan mocked behind him. "Get out and don't return."

Has there ever been a more shameful dismissal? Davos thought with a quiet grimace. They didn't even care enough to spit on him.

As they walked outside, there was snow in the air, and frost coated the white steps underneath. The whole castle was writhing with guards and men-at-arms, and a layer of white frost coated everything. Davos saw the lumps of stone and charred outhouses - the damage from the attack was still sorely visible.

This was only the second time he had ever seen the grounds of the New Castle. Throughout his captivity, he had been confined to the keep. His legs pained from lack of exercise, his whole body felt so rough that even a brisk walk caused him to ache. His hand moved to

his torso, hovering over the scar he had received from a blade of ice, at the ill-fated Battle of Hardhome.

He saw a scuffle happening between green cloaks carrying tridents and two knights bearing the white wool sacks of Woolfield. The guard pushed Davos' away, and towards the gates.

Davos' gaze turned to the horizon - towards the pale cliffs of White Harbour. They were capped with cornices of snow, and icicles like swords hang heavily from them. He did not know these lands, he had never walked through them. He didn't even know which direction to start. He'd be more confident on a ship, but there were no traders in this port. There was nothing but warships on the harbour.

Davos took a deep breath, trying to think of a solution. His breath puffed coldly into the air. There was only one he could think of, but it was a bitter one. "I could man a ship's sails," he said finally, looking to the guard escorting him. "Or as an oarsman. Surely one of your captains need experienced hands? Could you take me to the harbour?" Davos could work on a northern ship - even just to get as far as Sisterton.

The guard only shook his head. "The castellan says no," he replied simply. "Orders are that you leave the city and don't come back."

"Where I am supposed to go?"

"Wherever you choose. You're free."

Free to die . Perhaps the hangman was too expensive, but expelling him be eaten by wolves would cost little. Davos wanted to head south to his family, but his wife was a thousand leagues away. With a boat, Davos would risk the journey - but on foot?

The man was holding his trident tightly. If Davos tried to run, the three metal prongs would cut him down.

"I have no livelihood in these lands," Davos said numbly. "You force me out of those gates and I'm like to freeze to death out there."

Davos had seen the northern snows. He was under no illusions - he would die by himself. Hardier men than him would freeze in this weather.

The guard shook his head again. "I have orders."

Of course you do . The men who would wrap the noose around Ser Justin's neck would have orders as well.

As they approached the postern gate down the Castle Stair, the guard seemed to take pity on Davos. "Every season, you get refugees that leave the fields and travel south come winter. There are wayhouses open for any man," the guard explained. "Head west, keep to the cliffs and follow the path to Acorn's Field. Follow the cut across the trail towards the woods - you'll see a holdfast at Argos' Crossing by the stream less than a day from the city. House Oakham always has its doors open for any traveller, they'll be others there as well. The lord will give you food and hearth for the night, maybe in return for some chores."

Davos blinked, but nodded gratefully. Any advice was welcome - even just the thought of walking through a land such as the north made him nervous. "And after that? What if I were to head south?"

"There's the Mud Path that runs down the coasts of Neck, across the cliffs over the marshland," the guard explained as they walked. "Plenty refugees leave the north altogether for the snows - there are winter huts every league down that way. The swamp-dwellers, Houses Cray and Fenn man the roads, but they let travellers pass, so long as you don't make trouble. Follow the stream once you pass Toothen Tower, and it'll take you towards the kingsroad, but I wager that they'll be plenty other refugees making the same trip."

The guardsmen signalled for the men on the walls to raise the portcullis. Davos heard groaning of the winch. "This winter," the

guardsmen continued. "I hear that all the refugees are taking shelter in the ruins of the Twins. They say that there are three thousand vagrants massing at the Broken Crossing."

Refugees. From what Davos had seen, there would be no shortage of men and women fleeing the north. It was a far cry from a lordly journey, but a refugee column was still safer than travelling alone. Davos would take whatever he could get. Maybe it could get him back to his wife. "Thank you, friend."

"Don't," the man-at-arms replied curtly. "I would just rather not have to kill you if you try to return. Consider yourself banned from the north; leave and don't come back."

They stepped through the gate and across the archway, and Davos stared out over the city. Even over a week after the battle, so many were still homeless, and they slept huddled together in the ruins of Fishfoot Yard. The harbour looked white and clean from the snows now, but Davos knew that beneath it half the buildings by the wharves were still charred black from where the fires had blazed.

The shipyards and the Inner Harbour had been near-demolished. The flotsam from the broken ships had been washed up against the beaches, and men had even dragged the broken husks of ships out of the water, to build shelter from the wrecked wood. The whole city felt raw, tender. It reminded Davos of a beach full of crabs, scuttling and scavenging between wreckage to find shelter.

They had not enough dry wood to burn the bodies, and perhaps nobody cared to dig a charnel pit deep enough. Instead, all of the corpses were carted together by the wharves, weighed down with stones and old fishing nets, and thrown overboard to the seas. Davos remembered seeing similar practices in the aftermath of the siege of Storm's End when they were piling up the bodies. "Looks dirty now," an old fisherman had explained at the time, "but pretty soon, all those bodies in the water are going to be attracting fish aplenty. You'll get the waters teeming with everything from pike to sharks, coming to take a bite. There's no better bait for big game. A

good fisherman waits for a bit, gets his harpoon ready, and we'll eat yet because of the dead."

It was impressive, perhaps, how there were always some who managed to take advantage of even the most morbid situations.

Davos was still staring out over the ocean, when he saw one of the sharks swaggering up to him, flanked by a swarthy-skinned retinue. Davos' shoulders tensed, as Salladhor Saan opened his arms wide and grinned toothily. "Old friend!" the pirate called. "It is good to see you again, Davos. I hoped I might meet you."

He did not reply. Salladhor Saan . Davos had heard he was in the city, but…

The Pirate Prince of the Narrow Sea was not wearing silk or gossamer, but Salladhor's attire had still improved considerably than the last time they had seen each other at Eastwatch. Salladhor was wearing a thick sealskin cloak and a hard leather shirt, but his cloak was pinned with silver and he had oyster earrings hanging from his lobes. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that sagged off his head, ornamented with what looked like shark's teeth cresting the hat. He wore it with such swagger, such confidence.

Salladhor was still smiling. He walked with three men escorting him - large, tanned men with a foreign look to them, and heavy muscles like sailors. Davos pinned them as pirates without any introductions needed.

"My good man," Salladhor said to the guard, grinning and lowering his hat. "Allow me a chance to catch up to my old friend here?"

The man-at-arms hesitated. "Ser Wylan told me to walk him out the gates."

Idly, Salladhor flicked something sliver through the air. The guard caught it. "As you say, m'lord." The man-at-arms bowed, and then turned to walk away.

Davos was left standing next to Salladhor, while the three pirates surrounded him. He had seen the coin. Silver, he noted. I'm not even worth gold .

"Davos! Old friend!" Salladhor said happily, stepping forward to hug him. "It is so good to see you again."

Davos' voice was rather less enthusiastic. "Salladhor," he greeted carefully. "Good tidings, my friend."

The last time they had seen each other, it had been at Eastwatch - while they both wore rags. There had been barely restrained fury in the pirate's gaze. Salladhor had wanted to kill him, for convincing him to join Stannis.

Somehow, smiling and cheerful Salladhor felt even more terrifying than glaring, furious Salladhor.

"Good indeed!" Salladhor laughed, wrapping his arm around Davos' back. For an aging man, Salladhor was still fit and spry. "I never realised how cheerful the white snows could be before, but this northern weather is really growing on me. Come, let us walk together."

It was not a question. Salladhor led the way down the steps. "Where are we heading?"

"To the docks," the pirate replied. "I hoped to show you my new ships."

His ships . Salladhor had left Eastwatch at the king's leave, on a single salvaged cog coursed for Braavos. Salladhor had returned to rescue White Harbour. He had named himself the city's saviour, and perhaps duly; by the tell of it, the pirate's intervention had most certainly been critical during the battle.

They said that the invaders might have breached the New Castle itself, if not for the pirate taking a bite out of their backs. Davos

hadn't witnessed the battle himself - he had been locked in his cell, but during the battle the jail's corridors had overflowed with all the guests and infirm lords seeking shelter.

There was a swagger in Salladhor's step. Davos was tense, half-expecting a dagger between his ribs at any moment. "That guard," Davos said cautiously, "he named you a lord."

"That I am," Salladhor said with good cheer. "I am Salladhor of House Saan, the first of my house. A northerly house, a house of noble footing, sworn to Manderly - I have the piece of paper and all. My liege lord was too distracted to sign it, but his cousin signed it for me. A nice paper, very crisp."

"I… I see." After a pause, Davos risked, "Lord of what, exactly?"

"Lord of the Bite, Protector of White Harbour - and admiral, in His Grace's service." Salladhor's grin could have scared fish. "As for my actual holdings, well, that is still to be negotiated upon - but I feel like I could raise a modest keep on the beach somewhere. Perhaps an isle off the coast."

Once you were lord of the Narrow Sea, under Stannis . "A northern house. You are not a northman."

Salladhor laughed, loud and clear. "Why, I have adopted their ways, old friend! I feel a surge of patriotism towards my new king. Loyalty, even charity!" Salladhor shook his head. "No, I have invested myself into this land, there shall be no greater ally than I! I feel like making a coat of arms of my own is in order - a banner of my own to fly above my ships." He bit his lip, musing as he walked. "Perhaps my sigil should be a silver fork on black, for my grandmother? Perhaps a marble spire, in honour of my birth city of Lys? Or perhaps a broken heart on blue, for the losses I have suffered? Or maybe even a headless stag in the water, for the vengeance I will take against the king that tried to ruin me?"

There was laughter in his voice, but his eyes were sharp. "Or a shark," Davos suggested lowly. "You could take a shark for your sigil."

"A shark… !" Salladhor mused, and then chuckled. "Yes, I do like that, actually! A blue shark on black! You do get some monstrous beasts in the waters of the Bite, after all."

Yes, Davos agreed quietly. You do .

There was no dragon on the bay today. The Seal Rock was empty, and nobody in the city had seen the dragon for over a week.

They were approaching the stone harbours of the piers, where guards were patrolling to keep the smallfolk back. There were still lumps of rubble littering the streets, and broken chunks of buildings where the stonethrowers had demolished the wharves. The Manderly guards lowered their heads to Salladhor as he walked past. The pirate walked surely, and all the men knew him.

For all Davos knew, Salladhor was leading him to his ship to drown him in the icy water.

"And how did you earn such recognition?" Davos asked after a pause, not breaking step.

"For leal service, of course! For brave action in battle, for initiative, and for the donation of twelve vessels to His Grace's navy. I captured twelve cogs and dromonds from the enemy during the battle, all of which I was happy to surrender, in return for deserved reward." Salladhor caught his glance. "I was docked in Lys, you see, when I caught word of a fleet of ships that were heading north. They were recruiting mercenaries and allies - all for some seahorse bastard who considered himself a Targaryen, who thought that he could capture a dragon. And I thought to myself - Salladhor, you old dog, this might be an opportunity! No risk, no reward, yes? A chance to prove my intentions to the king."

Davos considered his words carefully. "You already have family and lands of your own - in Lys," Davos noted. "Why would you care about a lordship in the north?"

"Why?" He even seemed confused. "Because the north seems a land of opportunity, my friend. My family has agreed, they are quite interested in new alliances and enterprises in this cold land. I even have a pack of bastard nephews and a thick chest of Saan silver to watch over now, can you believe it?" Salladhor laughed. "I like to get in early behind the winning horse. Or dragon, as it may be. It is an honour, to lead the Dragon King's navy." He tipped his huge,flamboyant hat to Davos, with a long, satisfied smile. "There is great profit to be had here, I think."

And a chance for revenge, Davos thought. Salladhor was as cold-blooded as they came. The pirate thought that a conflict between King Snow and Stannis was inevitable - and Salladhor wanted the chance to hurt Stannis.

When King Snow led an invasion on the south, there was no doubt that Salladhor truly would be his most merciless admiral.

There was a certain type of person, Davos considered, that, no matter the circumstances, will always find a way to rise to the top. Some men would float rather than drown in an ocean of bodies .

"I have Valyrian blood myself, you know," Salladhor continued conversationally. "My grandfather - magnificent man - was a prince in his own right. 'The Last Valyrian', he named himself, when he fought alongside Maelys Blackfyre on the Stepstones. Samarro Saan was one of the Band of Nine, the man who crushed the Tyroshi fleets and captured the city walls. I consider it a privilege to serve myself beneath the rightful king, the last dragonlord, King Snow."

"King Snow has no such blood," Davos muttered. He is no rightful king .

"Oh, he makes no comment himself as such, I grant you." Salladhor cocked his head. "But it is, well, fairly obvious. I know a rumour going around that the king was born from an exiled Targaryen princess that Ned Stark rescued during the war. A rather less romantic tale is that there was a fling with a daughter of Velaryon at Harrenhal, or some Dayne lady who jumped from a tower. Now, myself, I have never really heard of House Dayne sharing ancestry to the dragonlords, and yet I'm told that they did have a drop or two of Valyrian blood. Most curious. Others insist that the Lord Stark birthed King Snow on a fisherwoman from the Sisters, a woman who must have been a dragonseed, but my personal favourite is a theory that I heard in Lys - that Ned Stark harboured a lost Blackfyre princess." Davos glanced at him. Salladhor shrugged. "It explains why his lord father kept the mother so tight a secret, and the timelines do fit. Although I must admit a personal bias - to me, House Blackfyre has always been the most deserved claimant to the throne."

Yes, Davos thought. The Saan family has a history of supporting pretenders .

On the water, Davos saw a small vessel returning to port with a dead whale in tow, and blinked when he saw a seal sitting inside the open-hulled boat. The furs that the whalers were wearing were heavy and roughly cut. Wildlings? Do wildlings keep pet seals?

They stepped on to the docks, walking across the Lord's Port towards the waterfront. Two huge vessels sat at the very front of the wharves - they were immense three-decked dromonds, as large as any Davos had ever seen. The biggest had at least four hundred oars, so huge that hardly even fit on the pier. Paintwork chipped and hacked, it looked like it had taken some damage, but it was still a grand vessel.

Salladhor had captured it from the invaders, but how did any sellsail get a ship like that?

Davos could still see the chipping out engraving on the hull, but the letters that had been scratched away were still readable. Davos needed to squint, silently mouthing out the words. ' Sweet Cersei ', the markings had read, before the name had been crudely scratched through.

The flagships of the royal fleet.

On deck, there were men climbing the rigging and furling the ropes, preparing to set sail. They were flying a flag showing a white dragon from its masts.

"Oh, but I blabber on about royal lines and bloodlines… although it reminds me of a question that I must ask you. What is your view on the matter?" Davos stood quietly. "Tell me honestly, Onion Lord,"

Salladhor continued. "You can see my own loyalties clear, but who are you still loyal to?"

They stopped walking, standing on the wooden pier. Salladhor's guards shadowed Davos closely. Davos hesitated, heartbeats passing uneasily. "No lying, now," Salladhor chided. "You're a poor liar, Davos, and I will react very poorly to the attempt. Tell me honestly ; in your heart, who do you still serve?"

He took a deep breath. I am still Hand of the King. I still have my duty .

"Stannis Baratheon," Davos replied. "I serve the rightful king, Stannis Baratheon."

There was a brief pause, and then Salladhor laughter, loud and clear. "Of course you do! Even after all this time, even after so long in a prison cell… You know fine well that I could gut you right now, but you still claim for the man!"

The guards picked up on Salladhor's cue, and then the other pirates started chuckling too. "You are one in a million, Davos Seaworth - I might push you off this pier right now, except then I would feel as if

I'm losing something precious. The world would be a darker place for it, I think."

Davos didn't know how to reply to that. Salladhor motioned to his men. "Come, bring him to my cabin. Let us share wine, old friend - it could be the last time we do."

"What do you want from me, Salladhor?" Davos demanded. "And should I take it that it was a coincidence that you were waiting outside the gates when I left?"

"Oh, I may have bribed the good castellan a few gold pieces, to release you early," Salladhor admitted. "But yes, I have an offer for you, Onion Lord. We have a history together, do we not?"

The memory of Hardhome flashed before his eyes; shipwrecked and bleeding on the black ice, as Salladhor gutted a Baratheon guardsman with a bloody knife, vowing revenge against Stannis, vowing to rape Stannis' daughter and queen…

Perhaps Salladhor was remembering the same moment. "I do regret the words we shared at Eastwatch, old friend," the pirate said, as they walked swiftly up the gangway. The slight rocking of the dromond in the waves caused Davos' stiff legs to stumble, but Salladhor moved gracefully. "That was a… dark time for me, but I did not want to leave matters between us on that note. Every day, I grow older and greyer, and it seems that I have fewer and fewer old friends left."

He led the way into the captain's cabin. Davos followed quietly, unsure of what to say. The cabin of dromond was wide and lavish - filled with silver baubles and thick black and red drapes. The wooden planks were still fresh, new from the shipyards, but books and torn parchments littered the floor. There was the image of a roaring dragon painted red on the wall, smeared in what looked like blood.

"Forgive the decorum," Salladhor said foully, moving behind the oak desk. "I have yet to redecorate from the previous captain. He grew

somewhat obsessed with dragons. No elegance.

"And speaking of the previous 'Lord of Waters'," Salladhor continued, with a slight scoff, "I have spent the last week offering deals to the mercenaries that joined under his fleet - I tracked down the men left stranded across the coasts and the Sisters. They were all mercenaries who came here for war, men who took me for an ally, and who I stabbed in the back - but I offered them all the same deal. Join me, in my fleet, I said, and I will convince the northmen and the wildlings not to eat you alive. They all have a reason to hate my guts, for sure, and yet they accepted eagerly. It is almost funny, is it not? They came here to attack this city, and for a few words and a drop of silver, now they are the ones helping to rebuild this city. They have the most to prove as well, so they work the hardest."

"Men are rats," Davos muttered, remembering what Salladhor once said.

"Men are rats," Salladhor agreed. "But what do old loyalties matter, when there is work to be done? Times change, my friend."

A tall and dour-faced man knocked on the door, and a sailor stepped in wearing sweat and salt stained leathers. "I have your wine, Admiral," the man said, holding a large bottle.

"Thank you, Humfrey," Salladhor nodded. He brought out two crystal goblets, offering one to Davos. "When we were on deck, Onion Lord, did you perchance notice the domed building, with the charred roof, to the north of the city?"

"I did." Davos cautiously took the glass of wine.

"That was the Sept of Snows, once a church to the Seven - the largest in the north," Salladhor explained. "But then the mercenaries set it alight, and now it is the Sept of Snow . The wildlings own that building, they've anointed it to the Ice Dragon."

Davos blinked, and his eyes widened. "Wait… what?"

"In the aftermath of the attack, the wildlings overpowered the city guard. House Manderly tried to force the wildlings out, but then this Mother Mole and her spearwives returned that order. They took control of half the city - seizing the Wolf's Den, the Old Mint, and the Sept of Snows for their own numbers. Since then, tempers have cooled somewhat, but the wildlings still refuse to leave and the merman dares not force them. Mother Mole has torn down the statues of the Seven, and replaced them with a totem raised to the ice dragon, the god of winter."

"Lord Manderly allowed such?" His voice was appalled. "That - that is heresy!"

As soon the words blurted out of his mouth, he realised why Salladhor looked so smug. "You think so? Even though your own king did the same at Dragonstone? When the Red Woman burnt your precious Seven?" he said, half-mockingly. "That very same fanaticism is running rampant in this city." The old pirate's smile widened. "You should spend some time among the smallfolk, ask what the wildlings did with their prisoners. Or, should you feel adventurous, you may visit any of those white trees these northmen like to worship. Such simple justice has an elegance of its own, I feel."

Davos grimaced. The pirate chuckled, and took a large gulp of wine. "If there is one thing that I have learnt, Onion Lord," Salladhor chuckled, "it's that people are exactly the same. Fire and ice, snow and ash - what's the difference?"

Davos didn't believe that. There was a difference, there had to be. "But now nobody dares to poke the wildlings any further," Salladhor continued, "and so it is the wildlings that take the lion's share of the rations. It is the cityfolk who have had their houses burnt, and so it is now they who must turn to the wildlings for aid. Every night, Mother Mole holds a sermon to thousands in the Sept of Snow, and for a few bundles of fish the crowd grows bigger every time."

Salladhor's smile widened. "More and more of the city is converting, Onion Lord. Even those who used to pray to the Seven now turn to the dragon for salvation."

His voice was mocking, like it was a victory over Davos. He didn't quite know why, but it made Davos uneasy to think of the wildling's faith spreading like that. The smuggler's fists tightened. "You lie."

"I do nothing of the sort, old friend." Salladhor took another drink of wine. "What can I say? When the nights turn dark, people need faith, I suppose. Perhaps I, myself, should go with the tide and take a white stone on my chest."

Salladhor was no believer. The pirate was to the faithful what a barracuda was to a shoal of herring.

"Where are you going with this, Salladhor?"

"I just want to show you how things change, my friend. We are both old men now - the pirate and the smuggler; criminals, lowborn and vagabonds, the fiends to the 'civilised' world." He chuckled. "My knees grow stiff and my joint aches, my hair is more grey than blond - but even I know that I must adapt. That is how I survive.

"Can you adapt too, Onion Lord?" he asked. "I spent much time thinking of it, and I realised - you have more a reason to hate Stannis and his Red Woman than anyone. He stole your sons from you, he abandoned you in the cold water. Do we not have a common goal together?"

No, we very much do not . Davos held his tongue, but his feelings were written on his face. "I have heard word from the stormlands, old friend," Salladhor said softly. "Do you remember that small wooden hut on the Cape Wrath where you left your wife and young boys? The carpenter's daughter that you married, and your two youngest sons?"

Davos very much did. His wife Marya. Steffon and Stannis Seaworth, two children of nine and six that he had not seen in over two years. Salladhor shook his head. "King Stannis abandoned the stormlands, and he made no move to protect any of the lands he had granted," the pirate explained. "The holdings of House Seaworth have been seized by this 'Aegon Targaryen' and his sellswords, and your king most certainly made no move to protect them. The lands of Cape Wrath were the very first to fall in the Golden Company's landing."

Davos' heart pounded, unable to speak. He had feared, and yet… "If you went south, you would find your home held by some petty mercenary granted lands by the Young Dragon. Perhaps your wife is sitting beggared in a village somewhere, or perhaps she is dead in a gibbet." Salladhor's voice was even sad, sympathetic. "But there is no home for you there, Onion Lord, not anymore."

He lies, Davos thought. He lies, he lies, he must . And yet those thoughts had been haunting him for months, and it was confirmation of everything he feared likely. Davos knew that the Golden Company truly had landed across his own lands, and he knew that Stannis had been restricted to Dragonstone. Marya would have been defenceless. Any loyalist of Stannis would not have been treated kindly by the pretender dragon.

Davos couldn't breathe, he froze. He tried to picture his wife's face, tried to imagine her - but it had been so long. Davos had hardly had a chance to know his youngest son, Stannis.

I named my youngest son for my king. Surely King Stannis would have protected his supporter's families?

And then Davos remembered the letters White Harbour had received, concerning Claw Island, Massey's Hook, and Driftmark…

Salladhor reached across the table, to pat Davos' hand. "So, in honour of our friendship and past we have shared, I offer you a deal," Salladhor continued. "You would find only ruin in the south, but

there is an opportunity right here. Serve me as one of my captains, Davos."

The smuggler was left speechless for a moment. His whole body tensed. Salladhor gave him a soft smile. "The past is a tragic thing, my friend. But any good seaman must look to the future. None know the oceans better than you," Salladhor explained. "Any navy would be lucky to have you, and I will convince the merman lord of that. I would take you, Ser Davos, into my own house myself - provided that you bend the knee before King Snow, and you pledge your undying loyalty before his crown."

Pledge my loyalty . Even despite a year's worth of captivity, his loyalty was the one thing that Davos had refused to concede.

"I have already made that vow once," Davos said hollowly. "And I am not dead." Not quite yet .

"You have, and you are not. But I hope you are not so old that you cannot change," Salladhor replied, leaning back in his chair. "Consider your options. Serve the King Snow the same as you served Stannis, and he will reward you for it. You too could make House Seaworth a noble house on the northern coast - take some pretty wildling wife for your new bride. Take several, even, I hear the wildlings are more flexible about such things." Salladhor raised his glass with a laugh. "And when the ice dragon flies south and a new regime begins, we shall begin again with it.

"Come, Onion Lord. Why not walk a new path with me?"

There was long, long stretch of silence. Davos stared down at his missing fingers, and then at the bloody dragon painted on the wall. I made a vow .

Davos gulped. "I'm a creature of habit," he replied. "Old friend."

A heartbeat of silence. The pirate lowered his glass. "That you are,"

Salladhor conceded. "That you are."

Neither of them spoke. Salladhor drained the last of his glass. "What a pity," he mused. "Such loyalty is valuable, I would reward it well if it was in my service. You might reach greatness, Davos, if only you could walk away from the one you have latched to. You say that my sigil should be a shark? Well, yours should be a clam."

The good cheer in his voice was evaporating, and his tone turned sharp and cold. "I can see it in your eyes," the pirate said sharply, "you still intend to return to your king, don't you?"

I do. Stannis needs me, on Dragonstone . The thought of his king all alone, with only that Red Witch whispering in his ear…

Melisandre would lead Stannis into doom. Davos knew that she would.

Davos grimaced. "Please… Salladhor… in honour of the friendship we once shared," Davos begged. "Let me travel south. I need only a small ship."

"You would rejoin your king?" Salladhor snapped. "You want me to help you return you to the man I have vowed to ruin?"

"I do." Davos slipped off the chair, and down onto his knees. He had no pride. He knew what was at stake. He would beg and plead for one last charity from the old pirate. "We were friends for so many years, just give me a chance. I'd only need a small dinghy - just something that I might sail south on."

"In honour of our friendship, you say?" Salladhor mused on it for several heartbeats, and then shook his head. "In honour of our friendship, Davos, I think I will grant you a raft and a paddle instead. And then I shall follow behind you on my dromond, while watching you row."

The Sand Snake

They met on the sandy wastes underneath the starry sky - which felt quite appropriate, actually. The sands of Dorne shone eerily under the gloomy light of the stars, beneath the mountains pointing towards the sea star leading the way. She walked through the dunes stretching out to the coast, and the ground was littered with ferns and brambly weeds clinging to rough stones and sand. There was a sharp breeze cutting in from the ocean and whistling over the rocks, but Nymeria pulled her shawl close to her chest as she walked.

Planky Town was far to the south, and the mountains of Ghost Hill to the north, but there was nothing around but dead wastelands for leagues around.

Nymeria would have brought guards, but the man she was meeting was feeling skittish. He had demanded to meet alone, unarmed, and there likely wouldn't be another chance. She kept her two daggers close to her chest, hidden beneath her robes, but she hoped she wouldn't need the blades. She stepped out over the expanse and sighed at the spectacular view.

Nym was prepared to wait all night, but it wasn't long waiting until she saw the lone figure riding down from the hilly outcrop.

Ser Gerold Dayne looked haggard. The last time she had seen him, it had been at a feast at Nightsong; Ser Gerold had been dressed in rich velvet and gossamer, and he had tried to slip his hand down Nymeria's dress.

Now, the Darkstar was wearing sweat-stained boiled leather, and Nym was the one who had just fucked him.

"Ser Gerold," Nym called, with a soft smile. "It's good to see you well."

In the faint silver light of the moon, his purple eyes were dark, narrowed and angry. The veins were throbbing on his forehead, his jaw tense. Underneath his hood, he had shaved his head. Once, the Darkstar had a mane of long, silver locks fit to equal any crown,

reaching to his shoulders. Now, Ser Gerold had shaved his scalp bald, the better to travel unrecognised. He looked less a prince and more a vagabond.

"You dare?" the Darkstar growled, not dismounting his horse. "That is how you greet me? You lied to me, whore!"

Nym tutted. "I had hope we could discuss this civilly, ser."

Civilly? " he snapped. "I've been hunted from one end of Dorne to the next. From Starfall to Tor they've hunted me across the red dunes. Dorne screams for my head!"

"You did kill a girl, ser," she reminded, gently.

"On your orders!" Ser Gerold snapped. "For the good of our land!"

"Nevertheless," she sighed. "You were the one to swing the sword."

Nym had heard that he had done rather more than that, actually. Obara had been present at Starfall too, but Nym's sister had only stood and watched while the Darkstar did the deed. He dragged Princess Myrcella out of her chambers and through the castle's hallway by her hair. The girl was said to have screamed and thrashed, tearing her fingernails against the stones as she was pulled along the floor by her beautiful, bloody gold curls. Prince Trystane had tried to rescue her, but Darkstar kicked the boy to the ground. He dragged the princess into the courtyard, and then beheaded her for all the world to see.

The princess' retinue had tried to object, but Darkstar killed them all. The battle at Starfall had been quick and bloody. Overly bloody, for Nym's tastes.

The Darkstar served his purpose, she thought, but did he really have to be so dramatic over it?

Ser Gerold had expected Dorne to cheer. Sunspear had replied with condemnation instead.

"I was supposed to lead a revolution!" the man growled. "You promised me - you and your sisters. You said that I would swing the sword, and Dorne would cheer for me! We were meant to lead a rebellion together!"

"The plan needed to adapt."

"The plan." Ser Gerold spat, a thick glob landing at Nym's sandals. "You promised that I would lead a crusade, whore. Instead you left me with the blame!"

"The plan," Nym insisted, "hit some snags."

Nym had been quite prepared to kill Myrcella Lannister, and to rally a rebellion around the deed. The Lannister murderess in the capital would be outraged, Dorne would go to war, and Prince's Pass and the Boneway would be standing ready to repel all invaders. They had wanted a rebellion, and having the Prince of Dorne order the death of the lion princess would be a good way to start one.

Originally, Nym intended for House Martell to claim responsibility for Myrcella's death, and Cersei would have been convinced that 'Tyrion Lannister' persuaded them to rebel.

But, alas, circumstances made mockery of all their planning. They had not accounted for Aegon Targaryen, and, as it happened, the young king was rather more squeamish than they had anticipated. Aegon had been clear; someone needed to be convicted for the young princess' death, and Nymeria could not risk Arianne's standing with the king. Ser Gerold had simply been a convenient pawn to lay the blame on.

As far as the official narrative was concerned, it was the Darkstar who killed Princess Myrcella, acting alone. The unofficial narrative was that the Darkstar had been working for the Imp. The Sand

Snakes and Dorne as a whole had rid their hands of any involvement and left Ser Gerold, quite literally, holding the sword.

Admittedly, perhaps he's feeling rather upset with that, Nym conceded.

"They were hunting me!" the Darkstar boomed. "My family has disowned me, Starfall has condemned me! Sunspear has put a bounty upon my head - I had to flee on foot with riders from Godsgrace were chasing me down." His jaw clenched, his hand moving to the sword at his side. "I knew those men - Ser Harmen Drinkwater and Ser Marren Briar. I trained with them, rode with them, matched them in tourneys.

"And then I had to slew them, and steal their horses. They were good men, soldiers of Dorne, and I killed them."

Nym didn't reply. She had heard about that. Lord Allyrion had been furious over the deaths. Ten riders had been sent to bring the Darkstar to justice, but only eight had returned.

He took a deep breath. Something in his eyes seemed crazed. "What I did, I did the deed for the good of this land." His voice was venomous. "You needed someone to swing the sword, so I stepped forward. I took that girl's head for you."

"You did what needed to be done," Nym agreed.

"And you abandoned me for it," he spat again. "Nobody else was brave enough to do it, but I was. I did . And your sister left me in the red sands to die."

"It was a sensitive matter," Nym soothed. "Dorne rejoices, and yet appearances must be preserved. Princess Arianne's standing with Aegon could not be threatened."

Arianne ." The horse shifted beneath him. "Twice now, I have betrayed Arianne for you ."

Yes, Nym thought with a nod. You have been very useful .

During Arianne's aborted rebellion, it had been Darkstar that revealed the princess's intentions to the Sand Snakes, and the Sand Snakes who pressed Darkstar into sharing it with Doran too. The idea had been simple; Arianne attempted her coup, Doran would stop it, but - in the fray - a sword would have sliced open Myrcella's skull regardless. It would have been a mess, and both Doran and Arianne would have been implicated in the murder of a royal princess and a knight of the Kingsguard.

If only Darkstar's sword that day had been a few inches deeper, Nym lamented. It all could have gone much smoother.

Still, the Sand Snakes had informed Doran of Arianne's intentions, and afterwards Nym, Obara and Tyene had been restored in the prince's good graces. Doran invited them all into his solar and revealed his own plan. Fire and blood, he had promised.

And here we are. There has been fire and blood aplenty, I suppose .

"I am sorry, ser," Nym said sadly. "But the official story must stand, to pardon you would jeopardize that. Not all heroes can stand in the sun; I hoped you would understand."

His face was murderous. She saw flicker of rage pass through his features.

That was all Gerold had wanted, Nym knew. The Darkstar wanted to wield Dawn, he wanted to be the next Sword of the Morning. He wanted to hold the most brilliant blade in the world, to be the hero who married the princess. That was the hook that had led Nym manipulate him.

But Ser Gerold was from the branch family of House Dayne; he would never have been permitted the sword Dawn, even if he was worthy enough. Instead, Nym had flirted with him, seduced him; 'if you are the one who leads us to independence again,' she purred

into his ear, 'the champion to avenge Dorne… then they will grant you the sword'.

"I understand fine," Gerold growled. His hand went to the hilt of his blade. "You lied. I should take your head for this betrayal, whore."

She shook his head. "Why, Gerold… I'm the last friend you have left," she lied. "Who else will support you now?"

He hesitated, but his eyes lost none of their fire. "We have all sacrificed to be here, ser. We have lost so much, we have all taken risks." The image of the Great Sept exploding into flames… "But my sisters and I will still support you," Nym continued. "We just must do so more subtly. There must be… a pretence."

She paused, cautiously stepping closer. "Tell me, ser," she asked, "would you be willing to take the black?"

From atop his horse. The Darkstar's eyes were aghast. "What?"

"Consider it," Nym insisted. "Surrender yourself, and there will be a sham of a trial. None will admit it, but Dorne is sympathetic to your deed. If you confess to the murder, then I guarantee that the prince will allow you to take the black."

"Confess?" Darkstar snapped. "It was not a crime, that Lannister whelp deserved to die!"

"Nevertheless," she sighed. "You could go to the Wall, but it wouldn't be for long. There's much happening in the north, and Dorne could use an agent up there. I hear that there are many opportunities on the Wall; opportunities that a man of your skills might exploit."

Darkstar looked appalled at the very suggestion. "And the Bastard King," she continued. She had the offer rehearsed, a sales pitch. One last use that the Darkstar could provide her. "I hear that Jon Snow is kin to you; he is the son of Ashara Dayne. You could approach him, with blood and history to share with him - while you'd

be an exile who killed a Lannister . You might earn the Bastard King's trust. You might bond with Jon Snow, get close to him."

There was still no reply. "And then you might put a dagger in his back," Nym said softly. "If you kill the Bastard King, then I guarantee Aegon and Doran will grant you a full pardon. You'd be returned from the north with honours. Just imagine it - Ser Gerold Dayne, the Darkstar, the Sword of the Night, the Dragonslayer ."

Nym had very high hopes that Gerold might be taken with the idea. It would have been the perfect way to tie up loose ends, a perfect opportunity. Nym had even been willing to sleep with him again, to ensure the lovestruck man-child would be compliant and entranced with the opportunity.

But there was no awe on his face this time; the anger and suspicion on Ser Gerold's face didn't fade. "Once bitten, you snake of a whore." He shook his head. "No, I am done dancing on your strings."

Nym could have sighed. What a shame . "And Jon Snow is no kin of mine," Ser Gerold continued. "He is not Ashara's babe. That is just a ridiculous rumour - I have no idea why the late Lord Dayne even allowed such talk to spread."

Nym paused, frowning. "Truly? He's not?" she mused. "The common consensus is that Stark got Ashara with child at Harrenhal, and hid the child to hide his dishonour."

The Darkstar scoffed. "His brother, Brandon, did," the knight said. "But that babe was stillborn, and female. My father was captain of the guard at the time, and I was a page at Starfall - I saw Ashara's dead baby with my own eyes. Jon Snow is no Dayne ; Stark already had his bastard with him when he arrived at Starfall, along with a wetnurse and Ser Arthur's bloody sword."

Is that right? How queer, the rest of the realm seemed to believe that Jon Snow was Ashara's lost son, born from dishonour. Then again,

there had been a few differing reports. Nym shrugged. "Very well. But there are still opportunities in the north for you."

"Never," the Darkstar growled. "I will pave my own path from now on, and all of Dorne shall rue my fury! You should not have lied to me, whore."

Nym could have rolled her eyes. "And how do you expect to do that with one tired horse, and every knight in the realm chasing you?"

He hesitated. "The realm is at peace Darkstar, or soon will be," Nym continued. "There is no need for more blood. You simply need to step aside now."

"I will never surrender," he snapped. "Unbowed, unconquered - I am Dorne ."

"Then you jeopardise everything you've already sacrificed for," Nym retorted. "I thought you loved your country."

That caused his eyes to flicker. "Instead, let us take a moment to consider your options," Nym argued. "You could keep running and fighting this quest of yours, for… whatever reason again?" She frowned. "Or, why not just leave? Sail across the sea, for a very comfortable retirement in Lys."

" Retire," he snarled.

"Or join a mercenary company, if you wish for excitement. Form a mercenary company, if it pleases you. Find glory, or riches, or love. There's a whole world out there." She raised her hands. "Are you sure you want to keep biting away at this corner of it? What's the point?"

His face was hard, but Nym caught the flicker in his gaze. "You served Dorne well, Gerold," she continued. "And this ending is unfortunate, but I don't wish for anymore bad blood between us. Too

many good Dornishmen have bled already - and how many more Dornish sons will you have to kill if you stay?"

"Then retract the bounty on me!" he snapped. "Grant me a pardon!"

"I cannot do that," she shook her head sadly. "Doran is firm, he overruled me. I'm sorry, but there is naught I can do."

There was no sound but the wind hissing over the sands. The Darkstar howled - a sharp, scream of fury - and then drew his sword. His horse shifted as he raised the blade, threatening to bring the sword down upon her.

Nym's eyes were soft, and she meekly raised her hands. "Kill me if you wish," she whispered. "But it will bring you no joy."

He screamed, a wordless cry of fury. She stood calm. He won't do it, Nym knew. She could play Darkstar like a lute. He was nothing more than an overdramatic man-child obsessed with living up to the Sword of the Morning. She knew all his strings.

" Fix this, Nymeria!" he bellowed.

"I cannot." Nym shook her head. "I have but one deal to offer you; there is a ship waiting in Planky Town, the captain is very discreet. He will take you anywhere in the world. There is a chest of gold waiting for you, and none will follow. You need only disappear, Darkstar. Vanish into the night's sky."

His eyes flickered. "My family, my legacy… !"

"Please," Nym begged. "Hasn't enough Dornish blood been spilled?"

It took a while, but eventually she managed to talk Darkstar down. Ser Gerold's shoulders slumped, but he accepted. Lys was beautiful this time a year, Nym told him. She also said that he need only lay low until the tempers cooled, but that he would be nearby for

whenever Dorne needed him. She implied that this exile might only be temporary, that he might yet return.

Reluctantly, Darkstar agreed. He rode away and agreed to be in Planky Town by the morn.

Nym watched him leave for a time, before turning and walked away, her sandals brushing over the sand.

She met Captain Ryden half a mile away, waiting for her with two sand steeds. Nym took her time strolling back. "How did it go?" Ryden asked her.

"He refused to take the black," Nym said, sighing. A pity, but not unexpected. "So we go to the next plan."

"Ah," Ryden said, and then nodded. "The ship to Lys?"

"Yes. He'll be in Planky Town on the morn," Nym confirmed. "Are you prepared?"

The man straightened, one fist slamming against his breastplate while the other one went to his sword. "I am, my lady. I will not allow the murderer to walk free."

Father always told me to be prepared . She walked closer to her guard, swinging her hips with every step. "Be careful, Ryden," she said softly, her voice thick with concern. "The Darkstar killed the last Captain of the Guard, do not underestimate him. Areo Hotah had been as formidable as any, but Darkstar killed him."

"He will not take me by surprise, my lady."

"Just be wary. Ser Gerold may not be the brightest, but none can deny his skill with a blade. Instead, keep your distance, wait for him to board the ship - use a bow, and a poisoned arrow."

Ryden was young, but bold and handsome. He had served Nym so well these last few months. "I understand. For Dorne." He stepped

closer to her, his hands moving to her waist. "And for luck?"

Nymeria giggled. "Why, of course."

They kissed passionately under the night sky. Captain Ryden wrapped his hands around her, and she stroked the sun and spear on his breastplate.

They bid farewell, and promised to meet up shortly. They would elope and leave Dorne together, on the ship to Lys and, from there, the east. Ryden went to Planky Town, while Nym rode back to the Water Gardens.

Only a little bit more blood, Nym thought to herself. A few more bodies to drop in the Sea of Dorne, and a few loose ends to be tied .

There would be no sympathy for Gerold Dayne - after all, the fiend had beheaded a little girl.

The gates were quiet as she rode back into the Water Gardens. Spearmen hoisted the portcullis open on her approach. There was only a skeletal guard duty still operating; all others had already left.

There was little activity in the terraces. The pools had never felt so dead. A bad case of the pox, or so the realm believed, had driven the locals away. A few young girls were sickly, and the prince had sealed the Water Gardens to quarantine the sickness.

The lie had served its purpose, and care had been taken to preserve their isolation.

The palm trees swayed in the cold breeze, and howl of wind rippled through the blood orange trees as she stepped through the terraces, beneath the fluted pillar gallery.

The waxing moon shone in the sky, a faint sliver like a bloody dagger reflecting from the pools. She heard the whisper of torches in the

moonlight, but otherwise the Water Gardens was as still as the grave.

Most had already evacuated, there were but a few final touches to be made.

Nym's men would be burning letters, but otherwise leaving everything intact. She felt fairly proud of what she had accomplished here, actually. There had been no bodies, no bloodshed - all of Doran's loyalists had simply spent a bit of time locked in their quarters.

My nuncle insists on call this a 'coup' , Nym mused. But no coup in history has ever been so polite . And now it is over .

She stepped up the limestone steps towards the apartments, and a man was standing upright outside the prince's chambers. "My lady." The guard bowed.

He was young man with sandy hair and dimples on his cheeks, and Nym always rocked her hips and smiled when she spoke to him. A sultry smile was better than gold when it came to ensuring the loyalty of young men.

"At ease, Liam," Nym soothed. "Is the prince awake?"

"He has been restless," the guard, Liam, replied, "and reading. The prince requested more books from the library, my lady."

"Oh really? Which books?"

"Septon Barth's Genealogy of Dragons, my lady," Liam said. "And Archmaester Gyldayn's History of the Seven-Pointed Star ."

Hm. Light reading, for my nuncle, Nym mused. Her uncle always had kept an impressive library. "You are dismissed," she ordered. "Go gather your belongings, Liam, we leave on the morn."

"Should I call for another man for the door, my lady?"

"What's the point?" Nym chuckled humourlessly as she stepped into the chambers. "He cannot walk anywhere."

A bedridden old man. Has there ever been an easier 'prisoner' to keep?

The candles were burning low inside the room, a strained flicker of shadows filling the silent room. His chambers were filled with warm drapes and thick rugs.

"Good evening, nuncle," Nym called. "May I come in?"

There was no reply but silence. Nym entered regardless, and her smile faded.

Doran was awake and lying atop his bed, the exact same place he been for weeks.

Nym had never seen her nuncle so haggard. There had been no servants to dress him in silk or wash him; instead Doran wore the same crusty robe, pale yellow like piss. The room stunk of old sweat and sealed windows, while Doran had gone unshaved and was growing a bush of ragged hair. He was propped up by cushions, with piles of books and old tomes littered around him.

Doran's gout had flared up, and was causing him agony. The guards had needed to carry him to the latrine twice a day, but there had still been times he had soiled the bed.

There was a moment of silence as Nym walked in. The Prince of Dorne never looked up from his page.

Nym had tried to make it comfortable for him, she truly had. Any comfort we can give, give to him, she had ordered. They had given him every book he requested, but they had still needed to restrict his information and contact with the outside world.

Neither of them spoke. The sight of him so dishevelled sent shivers down her spine. He was an old man, locked in his room. A cruelty that shouldn't have been necessary. Perhaps I should have visited more often, she conceded.

She walked gingerly towards his bedside, glancing over the sprawled pages and scattered pillows. She didn't know what to say. "Good evening, nuncle," she greeted. "Are you well?"

There was no reply. One thing that did catch her eye, though, was a wooden figurine in his fingers. It was small, smooth and worn dark wood, fiddling in his grasp as he stared blankly at the pages.

"Is that a raven?" Nym asked finally, hoping to make smalltalk.

For a while, she thought he would not respond. "A crow," Doran replied quietly. "A crow. It was my sister's."

"Oh."

The little wooden doll could fit in the palm of his hand. "My mother herself carved this for Elia," Doran muttered, filling the uneasy silence with a quiet voice. "When she was a girl, Elia used to have these night terrors of a giant crow, she used to wake during the night, scared and confused. She told me of the same nightmare over and over again; of a giant bird dropping her from a tower, and crowing at her to fly…

"Many nights, mother was away, so Elia would run shaken into my room for comfort. When Mother returned, she carved Elia a totem of a crow for her bedside, so that she might look upon it and never be scared…"

His voice trembled. Her heart bled for her uncle, it truly did. He was an old man, with nothing but his memories, his books, and the ghosts of his past. "When Elia left for King's Landing, she left this behind… said that was she done with the bad dreams…" Doran

muttered, still not even looking up. "And for ten years I buried this crow behind my cabinet. I could not bring myself to look upon it…"

He took a deep breath, wrinkled hands grasping around it. A toy carved for a little girl's fingers.

The moment was so painfully silent. Nym didn't know how to reply. "I wish I could have met Elia," she said finally. "She sounds lovely."

"Do you?" he said bitterly, fiddling with his crow. "You don't know the first thing about her. And perhaps neither did I. Elia was a kind soul, an innocent. She would smile when nobody else understood. My mother spent half her life at court, and Elia wanted to follow in her footsteps. She grew up on tales from the capital, she longed to go to King's Landing herself… My mother encouraged her; she wanted her sons and daughter to travel…"

His voice trailed off, barely a whisper in the dark. His face looked pained. "Your mother," Nym said carefully. "You barely talk about her."

"They are bitter memories," Doran replied quietly. "I think about her often, I think about what she would have done. Mother arranged the match between Rhaegar and Elia, but died before she could hold her granddaughter. She loved to travel, she loved to explore… she was near twenty years the elder, but she served as Queen Rhaella's lady-in-waiting, along with Joanna Lannister. The three of them were the closest of friends."

And how things change . Perhaps if the mothers had still been around, Robert's Rebellion might never have happened. "You obsess over the past too much, nuncle," Nym said. "These memories are tormenting you."

"What do I have left?" Doran retorted. "All I have are these books, and my memories."

Nym did not reply. She bit her lip, struggling to think how to soothe him. She did not like to see the man so distraught - he had been like a grandfather to her.

The silence reigned for a few heartbeats, the candles whispering in the darkness. "There were always rumours that the queen and her companions used to dabble in the occult," Doran continued in a mumble. Nym's eyes widened in surprise. "Some said they read alchemist tomes together, that they experimented with magic, even. Rhaella and Joanna were both willful, curious minds bound by duty, and Mother… well, the gossip-mongers liked to whisper that Mother was the one who taught them; that the Princess of Dorne stayed in court at the queen's insistence, despite the king's protests, to spread dark arts she learnt in Essos."

"Truly?" Nym said with a scoff. Her father had taught Nym bits and pieces, but Oberyn had a low opinion of the magic preserved by the alchemists. She had heard that the Targaryens oft liked to dabble in alchemy, but she had not known about the others. The Queen, the Princess of Dorne, and the Lady Lannister were quite a trio of names to be so close to each other.

"Aye." Doran nodded, still staring at the wooden crow. "I even asked once if she knew any magic, but Mother only laughed. But the three of them were like sisters - they wanted their sons and daughters to marry - Jaime and Cersei were offered to Elia and Oberyn first, before Rhaegar to Elia. Rhaella had to spend years pressuring Aerys into accepting the betrothal with Elia, but Joanna and Mother were both eager to see their sons and daughters joined." Doran looked at her. "Tywin refused, but if only Joanna had lived… Do you ever think about how your own father might have ended up married to the woman you despise such?"

"I do not," Nym's voice was chilly. "But thank the heavens that lunacy was stopped. House Lannister deserves all it has wrought."

"Quite," Doran muttered darkly. "You should reflect on the past more, Nymeria."

"And you should think on the future, my prince."

There was a humourless chuckle of laughter, like a sob. "You have no…" He took a deep breath, regathering himself. "Then did you know that Joanna Lannister served as King Aerys paramour while she was the queen's lady-in-waiting?"

That caused Nym to blink. "What?"

"It was a rabid rumour at court," the prince explained. "The whole realm knew that Tywin and Aerys clashed over Joanna, and even in the years before her marriage… It was the height of scandal, but few people ever knew. The queen most certainly did, but I hear Tywin willfully blinded himself to it. Joanna was an ambitious woman; she enjoyed playing Tywin and Aerys off each other, and making both men seek her." Doran shook his head. "Tywin and Aerys were the best of friends at one point - Tywin was even the one who knighted Aerys during the war of the Ninepenny Kings - but then their competition over Joanna…"

Slowly, the smirk grew over Nym's lips. That was how the feud between them began, she realised. "And then Tywin won," shenoted, "and the king was forever slighted."

She knew that Aerys had been insistent that Rhaegar would never marry Tywin's daughter. The king had been insistent that Tywin would never have another victory over him, and the relationship between king and Hand would have devolved from there.

"It was never much of a victory," Doran explained. "Aerys was already married. But Aerys' and Rhaella's marriage was an unhappy one, forced onto them by their father Jaehaerys. Tywin tried to squash such talk, but still the rumours flew - they whispered that Aerys was the one who took Joanna's maidenhood."

She chuckled. "I like that thought," Nym admitted. "The great and proud - Tywin Lannister, cuckolded and shamed. That's half as good as dying on a privy."

Doran didn't seem to share her amusement. "Perhaps. And Joanna certainly made an influential position for herself, even after being dismissed from Rhaella's service. But Aerys never lost his attraction to her, Tywin grew ever colder, more prideful, and then the game that Joanna began to play… it became dangerous, very quickly. Ruinous, even. The two most powerful men in the realm started butting heads over her, each trying to claim her as their own." He paused, and whispered. "It set the stage for more than you can know. Had Joanna not died when she did, we may have had a wholly different manner of rebellion." He cocked his head. "Do you still think it is so funny, Nymeria?"

Her smirk didn't fade, but her expression turned somewhat stiffer. "Why are you telling me this, nuncle?"

"Because my mother… your grandmother… she was the one who helped keep Joanna's indiscretions a secret," Doran said softly. "The Princess of Dorne protected Joanna when no one else would. All your life, you have been raised knowing Lannister and Martell as mortal enemies, but I… I still remember a time when things were different."

Nym bristled slightly. "Does that excuse Elia's murder?" she object. "Or her babes? Does that make it all better?"

"No," Doran admitted, his shoulders slumping into the pillows. "Nothing does."

In the bedchambers, the candles whispered. A few of the books scattered to the floor as Doran slunk further into his bed.

"We are avenging her," Nym said finally, as the silence stretched painfully long. "We are avenging Elia."

"Are you?" Doran's voice was a quiet scoff.

The heartbeats were slow and stiff. The candles flickered.

"Yes. We have won, nuncle. Cersei Lannister died ruined and grieving, her family finished. A new king sits upon the Iron Throne, and Arianne by his side."

"I heard." He said nothing more than that.

So the maester already informed him . It had been a tense time. The losses were painful, and the Great Fire of King's Landing was said to have wreaked devastation, but Aegon was victorious.

Doran should thank me, even .

I did this for my family, Nym thought sadly. Doran hadn't been strong enough, so Nymeria took over. She had made all of the plans, and she kept so much of the news away from him, for fear of causing her nuncle more distress.

And yet I always knew this day would come . She took a deep breath.

"So it is over, nuncle," Nym said finally. "You are free to go." There was no reply.

"All of my men are leaving," Nym continued, "and your guards will be given their posts back. Maester Caleotte will be here in the morning to escort you again. There will be no more locked doors. You are in command of the Water Gardens again."

Still, he stayed quiet - but Nym saw his hands clench. "You are, of course, free to imprison anyone you choose," she said. "But all of the 'conspirators' will simply be gone." Doran had no names, he had seen few faces. Besides Nym, her nuncle wouldn't even know who had been responsible for his incarceration. "I, myself, feel like a trip across the Narrow Sea is in order." Volantis seems like a good destination . It has been a long time since I saw the city of my birth ."You are the Prince of Dorne again."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." Nym nodded. "I told you that I would never harm you, nuncle."

The silence reigned. Doran's grim eyes finally turned to look at her, his gaze meeting hers. "You mean to pretend like none of this even happened."

"That was the intention," she confessed.

His wrinkled face tightened. "And you think you can commit treason so easily?"

Nym scoffed, leaning back on her chair. "Treason!" she tutted. "Very well, if that's how you name it. And I admit it; I have kept you prisoner in your own home for the last two months, while I sent out commands in your stead."

There was a cold, dead fury glowing in her a nuncle's eyes.

But," Nym continued, stressing the word, "nobody else has even realised. Things have been going quite smoothly without you, actually."

That caused him to flicker slightly. She saw the twitch even despite how Doran tried to keep himself composed.

"As far as the realm is concerned, your health took a turn for the worst, and you have been sickly," Nym explained. "All visitors have been turned away, and all letters have been forged. There's been a few close calls, I confess - I think Lady Rykker is growing suspicious, and Lord Allyrion was insulted - but between my men and friends in the Old Palace we've kept the realm turning.

"And it worked too. It was… successful, even." The words came with a bitter scoff. "Arianne joined with Aegon, Dorne declared support, and the Young Dragon now sits upon the Iron Throne - and Dorne

was his strongest ally." Nym forced a smile. "Congratulations, the regime you wanted to topple is toppled."

Again, it was met by only silence. Doran was staring at her, his pale eyes on hers.

"Now, I did have… contingency plans in case things went sour," Nym confessed. "But it seems none are needed. We won, so I shall be going."

She stopped, and waited for a reply. Doran spoke slowly. "I do not believe that you are a fool, Nymeria," he said finally. "But do you think I'm so soft that I'll forgive you for this, niece?" He shook his head, and his case was dark. "You deserve to hang, for what you've done."

"I expect you to think of your position, nuncle." I expect you to stop and deliberate, like you always do . "Half of Dorne already believesyou are weak, and the lords beneath you are vipers, my prince. Can you imagine the loss of influence if news got out that you were held hostage in your own home for months, by a bastard woman?" Nym tutted, and shook her head. "They would laugh at you, rather than weep for you. You'd lose all respect, all trust in the strength you wield."

Their prince had been detained, but nobody noticed nor cared. "If you ever admit how I took control of your own house so easily, your rule would be as good as over."

Doran's face was guarded, his eyes so hard that no emotion creeped through. "And I expect you to think of your daughter, Arianne, in the king's court," Nym continued. "Would you really sacrifice the position your daughter is in, all for your own petty pride?"

He turned, stiffening at her name. "Arianne?"

"I am working for Arianne, nuncle. We came to an agreement together. She needed you to act, and we could not trust you to make

the right decision. I love my cousin dearly; while your hesitation put everything at risk. So Arianne told my sisters and I to act, and we did." That was a lie. "I did this for my family." That was not.

It was a falsehood - Arianne had no knowledge of their plans - but it was not one that Doran could easily confirm. His daughter was five hundred leagues away, and Doran would not trust such sensitive words to raven wings. Even if Doran did hear the truth from Arianne, the doubt would constantly nag at him.

Still, Doran seemed more shaken by that than anything. His posture cracked. "You lie…" he gasped. "She would not…"

"She would not what?" Nym challenged, with a bark of laughter. "Betray you? Start a war?"

The memory of Arianne's last coup flickered between them. Doran was shaking.

"You were a liability, nuncle," Nym said sharply. "You and your waiting ." Her jaw tightened. "My father tried to force you to act.Oberyn walked into that trial by combat to draw a confession, to try to force you to act. You own hesitance killed Oberyn, but even your own brother's death wasn't enough!"

She took a deep breath, to calm herself. "I hope you enjoy the Water Gardens until the end of your days, I truly do," Nym said finally. "You said once that the Water Gardens were your favorite place in this world. I do not expect you to forgive, I just want you to understand." You belong here, rather than in the Old Palace .

To be honest, Nym would have had more respect if Doran really did burst into anger or rage against her. Instead, there was only a slow nod. Show some passion, nuncle, Nym begged, or is it all dead?

"What of my son?" Doran asked eventually, and Nym tensed. How did he hear, who told- "Did Trystane witness the murder of hisbetrothed?"

Oh. He was speaking of Trystane . "Trystane is still at Starfall, nuncle. I'm told that Trystane did not see the execution, but he was in vicinity of it. He is upset, but he cannot be a child forever."

"No." The single word lingered in the air for several heartbeats. "The girl's murder is just something he'll have to live with. He was close to Myrcella, Nym."

"Then he must learn the truth," Nym said firmly. "She was the enemy, and her death was as necessary as Cersei's."

His jaw clenched. Angry but resigned. "We have achieved everything that you wanted, nuncle," Nym insisted. "The Lannisters are ruined, their reign collapsed. Arianne will yet be queen, Dorne is secure."

Doran just stared blankly at the wall. Why is the death of Myrcella so hard for him to accept? It was necessary.

"I had hoped you'd have more respect for the care I've taken, nuncle," Nym pressed. "I assure you; no Dornish blood had been spilt by us." That was a lie, but only a small one. There had been a very few mishaps that had needed taking care of.

"Only the blood of children instead," Doran said foully.

"For vengeance," Nym insisted.

"And is this vengeance?" Doran demanded. "Are you satisfied now?"

Nym paused. "Almost," she admitted. "Only a few more bodies to make sure."

Doran spat onto the rug, frowning at her. "Who else is left?"

"The queen's conspirators." Nym said carefully. "Her supporters, the last allies." And a few loose ends, she thought, thinking of the Imp. "But, most of all… Gregor Clegane."

With that, her nuncle stiffened. "Ser Gregor Clegane is dead. We have his skull."

"I thought so too," she admitted. "But we were fooled. I know not whose skull graces the mantelpiece of the Old Palace, and I don't how he survived my father's poison, but the giant knight was sighted at King's Landing. Cersei harboured him, and he lives, nuncle. Hundreds saw him fighting through the streets of the city."

Her voice turned dark. "And Ser Gregor is the first on the list of who I must still kill," she continued. "Along with the man who preserved him; Lord Qyburn the spymaster. He must burn too."

There was anger in her voice. It was rare for Nym to show any real emotion, but the rage crept through.

"Why?" Doran asked, keeping his voice low and his eyes guarded. Her hands trembled. Nym hadn't wanted to tell him, but…

"Because Obara and Tyene are both dead, nuncle," she admitted. "And I must have vengeance for them too."

The news had archived only recently, but it hadn't quite sunk in yet. Nym expected to cry and wail with the deaths of her sisters, but she had yet to shed a tear.

They both died in King's Landing. Arianne had written to her with news of Obara's fate in battle. Tyene had been at the Great Sept, one of many. Nym had been hoping that Tyene might have survived, but Tyene had never missed sending regular reports south. Silence could only mean death. Both of Nym's sisters died in their quest for justice.

There was moment of silence after her admittance. Then Doran burst out into laughter.

Nym looked with horror. Doran was laughing ; loud, choked chuckles…

"You dare?" Nym screamed.

Of course you need revenge!" Doran choked. "You must avenge your sisters! Against Qyburn and all his allies, yes? Brutal destruction for them all?"

She had never heard her nuncle's voice break like that. Her hands clenched so sharply it hurt. "Yes." Her voice was a snarl. "I must kill their murderers."

"But why stop there?" he challenged, through great sobs of chuckles. "Surely there are more you can blame?

"And perhaps you will fall in your own vengeance, but Elia or Sarella will be there to pick up the spear for you!" His voice nearly broke, the books falling of his lap with his shudders. "Perhaps in another eighteen years, when Trystane is prince of Dorne, even young Loreza shall be sitting before him and declaring vengeance.

"Be sure to have children of your own, Nymeria. Perhaps you could stretch this crusade out to last a whole century."

Nym stared in horror. Sarella… "My sisters are dead. This is no jape, nuncle."

"Oh, but it is." He shook his head, taking a deep breath. "Ellaria spoke the truth; she was the only sane one of us…" Doran was shaking, his voice barely a whisper. "Do you know who is truly responsible for your sisters' deaths?" Doran challenged. "He is lying right before you."

Her face twisted. "What are talking about, nuncle?"

"It was me," Doran muttered. "I killed Obara and Tyene."

Nym scoffed. "You did not light the fire-"

"Didn't I?" Doran muttered. "I sent Tyene to the Great Sept. I sent Obara through the Red Mountains."

"They chose to go."

"For my revenge. You never even met Elia, Nym, you never knew her - neither did your sisters. It was my crusade that you adopted."

"You insult us, nuncle," Nym growled. "Tis our family, and our choice. My sisters and I chose this."

"No, I did." His voice quaked. "I am more responsible than Qyburn Rogare is. Look at me."

"You are not…" Her voice trailed away. Nym blinked. What did he just say?

There was a silent heartbeat. Nym met his gaze. "… How do you know that man's name, nuncle?" Nym asked lowly.

Not even I was aware of his family name. I never knew he had one; none of the letters contained it . What did Doran know?

"Because Qyburn worked for me," Doran replied.

My nuncle was delirious, he couldn't truly be saying…

Nym's instinctive reaction was to reach for her daggers. " What? "

She met his gaze, and his eyes were wide and dead. The candles flickered and whispered in the silence.

"Tell me, nuncle." Nym managed. "Tell me everything."

Doran took a deep breath, trying to stop his body shivering. "Everything," Doran repeated. "Everything."

The word lingered in the still air.

"Did you know that once… seventeen years ago… I once harboured Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen in Dorne?" Doran said finally. "Once, after the rebellion, I was deliberating declaring for them. Oberyn went to Braavos to meet the exiles. We made a betrothal with Willem Darry, we negotiated a deal with the Sealord… it came so close… Jon Arryn himself even came to Dorne to talk us down. He brought Lewyn's bones to us, to try to talk us down.

"Oberyn had wanted an immediate rebellion," Doran muttered. "We had a plan in place - to rally the Free Cities in support of the exiled Targaryen, just as Maelys did with the Ninepenny kings. We had alliances with Tyrosh, Braavos, Pentos, even Myr… Oberyn urged me to declare for them, but, in the end, it was something that Jon Arryn said convinced me to wait. 'Viserys is just a boy' he said, 'no boy can be a conqueror'. I told Oberyn the same; that Viserys must grow to a man before he can lead a war.

"For a long, long time, I waited for that end. Oberyn made the preparations for war, but I pretended to be weak and submissive. I harboured the two Targaryen children myself in secrecy, on an isle on the Broken Arm, for many years. They were smuggled from Braavos and sheltered in Dorne with none knowing."

You did what? Nym thought with surprise, but she didn't dare to interrupt.

"They thought I was weak, but I called it patient. Waiting for my king to come of age." He breathed brittly. "Later, I intended for Viserys to move through the Free Cities, to rally support. I meant for Arianne to go to Tyrosh, to meet with her betrothed. I meant for a war." Doran's voice was pained, like a confession. "If not for that Pentoshi cheesemonger outbidding my efforts, things might have been so, so different."

Nym blinked. She had not known that. Another failed plan, from two decades spent planning. Her heart was beating, but she just sat and stared with sharp eyes.

"The plan changed over the years. Gods, how many different scenarios did we go through? Oberyn became impatient, but I wanted perfection… Support from the Free Cities was stolen away from me, and eventually I decided that there was only one thing that could overthrow a crown, the one force that not even the Conqueror dared to challenge; the Faith."

"Where are you going with this, Doran?" Nym pressed, keeping her voice low.

"I know of the one you call Qyburn," Doran admitted. "He came recommended to me from the advice of the Archon of Tyrosh. The Brave Companions distinguished themselves fighting in the Disputed Lands, and I decided that I needed similar skills in Westeros.

"The Brave Companions came to Westeros on my orders, Nymeria. They were one of many that did." Maybe he saw the surprise flash over her face. "They collected coin from Tywin Lannister, and then from Roose Bolton, but also from me. I simply paid a bit more gold to give additional orders on top.

"And I spoke many times with Qyburn. I knew of his reputation, I knew of his penchant for necromancy, but he was a capable man. I had use of him. He helped coordinate so many of my efforts." He turned to her. "Did you think I was idle for eighteen years?"

Nym's hands tightened. "And towards what end?"

"Towards countless torched septs and murdered holy men," Doran whispered. "Towards destruction across the riverlands and beyond, the butchery of septs and smallfolk. I paid mercenaries to do it. Very few ever where their orders were coming from, there was to be nothing to link back to me - I needed intermediaries like Qyburn to arrange matters. I needed to provoke an outrage without compare, and the War of Five Kings was the perfect opportunity. I financed the mercenaries, I financed the sparrows who rose to oppose them. I set the fire, and fanned the flames."

Nym's eyes widened in shock. "That was you?"

"What did you think my plan was, all these years?" Doran challenged. "I wanted the Faith to declare the Baratheon rule illegitimate. I wanted Tywin Lannister to die trying to hold on to his crown against an uprising. I wanted the Faith to devour him. And once the Baratheon rule was condemned, the rightful crown would revert back to a Targaryen. Back to Viserys - who would be married to Arianne. I only needed to destabilise the realm and wait.

"And I never spoke word of it to my children…" Doran whispered. "Because I was ashamed of the steps that I took. Ashamed of how many needed to die for my war."

"How many?" she asked.

Doran only shook his head. "More than I ever cared to count," he said hollowly.

He planned it . Suddenly, so many details came into focus, so much made sense.

Doran had sent Tyene to the capital, and she had been welcomed by the Faith with open arms - because House Martell had already been a benefactor of the sparrows.

It had only been as the New Faith grew that Doran realised that he needed a Targaryen in Westeros at all haste. At the same time as the sparrows flocked to King's Landing, Quentyn had left for Daenerys. He planned it.

Her head spun. Nym took a breath to gather herself. "Qyburn," she said firmly. "Tell me of Qyburn."

"I was the man behind Qyburn. I thought business with him was concluded when the Brave Companions did their task, but he wrote to me from Harrenhal and offered a new deal. A new arrangement. He told me that he had found a position after treating Jaime's wound,

that he could earn a place in the queen's trust. That it was a new opportunity for us both.

"I did not know what he was planning, I did not expect the offer - but I was pleased when it came. I severed ties with all the other mercenaries once their tasks were done, but… Qyburn. He was different. I thought he was good fortune.

"So I gave him use of my contacts, I fed him intelligence to give to Cersei - it was because of me that Qyburn earned his position as master of whisperers."

He was your spy on the Red Keep," Nym realised breathlessly. For so long, Doran had alluded to having friends in the capital, men who passed information concerning the queen. Her nuncle had refused to share any names, but it was information that could only come from someone close to the queen.

Doran nodded. "Yes." There was pause. "Qyburn was the one who warned me of Cersei's plot to assassinate Trystane."

Nym didn't reply. She remembered that; Cersei planned to kill Trystane, and to blame it on the Imp. The gods had a dark sense of humour.

Heartbeats passed in silence. "Qyburn gave me much from the queen's private circle," Doran said. "And I gave him information that made him useful. My contacts became his contacts. It was a mutual relationship. I thought that I was exploiting him."

There was no reply. Lord Qyburn had caused the greatest disaster King's Landing had ever seen. Tens of thousands had died upon Visenya's Hill.

And it benefitted us spectacularly .

"And it worked." Doran sounded numb. "It worked. This is what our revenge tastes like."

Slowly, painfully, Doran started to chuckle again. He was laughing, gasping with deep, strained breaths.

"All those bodies, all this time…" Doran laughs. "And it was me . Do you wish your revenge against me?"

Nym only stared with shock. The silence reigned in the gloomy room.

He started the Faith uprising. If not for the High Sparrow's crusade, Aegon would never had won.

If not for Qyburn and his atrocities, House Martell would never have had its revenge.

And my sisters would never have died .

Nym's fingers roamed across the hilt of the dagger under her cloak.

Her throat jammed, she didn't even know how to reply.

"Go on," Doran challenged. "Take your revenge. That is you want, isn't it?"

There was another long silence. Nym's eyes narrowed. Very well then .

"There was news from Meereen as well, my prince," Nym said suddenly. Her voice was cold. "Quentyn is dead. He died in Queen Daenerys' court."

Another failed plan.

There was no shock in Doran's eyes, not really. The prince had been preparing for Quentyn's death for months.

And yet still, the confirmation felt like a dagger to the heart. "No…" he muttered. "No…"

Her eyes turned cold. There was nothing more to say. Sometimes the truth was the greatest cruelty in the world.

She stood up to walk away. Behind her, Doran was shaking; his posture collapsing. There had been no news from Meereen for months, but then Sunspear received a message from a trader from Lys relaying word. They had received news of a Dornish prince who arrived in the queen's court, and died trying to steal dragons.

I wanted to avoid telling him, Nym thought. I wanted to spare his feelings .

"My… my boy…" Doran gasped. "My boy. How… how did he…?"

"Quentyn died painfully, and unfulfilled. He died trying to make you proud. Another failed plan of yours."

The prince of Doran had never looked so old, so frail…

She walked away slowly to the doors, keeping her shoulders stiff.

"There will be no more locked doors, no more men banning you. You in charge again." As she exited, she left the door open wide, just to make him suffer. "Enjoy your pools, nuncle."

Even she walked out onto the terraces, she heard Doran crying bring her. "It was my fault…" he sobbed. "I sent Quentyn to die…"

"Have a pleasant evening, nuncle." Nym's voice was cold. "Sweet dreams."

She left him in the flickering candles, surrounded by the ghosts of all his memories and all his family.

Nym spend the night in her own chambers, pacing restlessly. Once, she stabbed her blades against the stone wall, hissing and spitting, just to try and relieve some of the frustration bubbling in her chest.

When she finally went to sleep, the memories of Tyene and Obara haunted her dreams.

Early the next morning, she was shaken awake by the sound of alarms. Footsteps were running outside, men banging on her door. Nym slept with the daggers under her pillow, her whole body clenching as she shot awake, seizing them by reflex.

"What happens?" Nym demanded, rushing out the door. "What happens?"

Two guardsmen breading the sun and spear of Martell were standing outside, their faces pale under the helm. "It's the prince, my lady," a man, Liam, reported. "He's vanished."

Nym bristled, blinking. "What? Who took him, intruders-"

The man shook his head. "None. We think he walked away."

Walked away? Nym almost gasped. How could he…?

Doran was crippled with gout. Every step her nuncle took was agonizing to him. How could he escape?

She looked around their faces, and they were all nervous. "His quarters are empty," the guard said with a gulp.

Nym clutched her daggers tightly, and stepped quickly onto the terraces. "Search the grounds!" she snapped. "Find him!"

How could Doran escape? she thought, feeling the panic seep through. Even if the prince could stagger out his room - he was an old, crippled man. Where could he go? The gates had been sealed, the walls patrolled, and the Water Gardens isolated.

The door to the prince's chambers was open, exactly how Nym had left it. There was no way, Nym cursed. How could he possibly run…?

Men were shouting, panicking. There was confused frenzy, men bellowing as the morning sun rose over the archways.

Nym felt her heartbeat started to rise, and then she saw the scrap of pale yellow cloth, torn and snagged on the terrace balcony.

She felt her heart stop as she turned to stare down at the waters beneath the blood orange trees.

They found Doran, Prince of Dorne, lying face first in the shallow pools of the Water Gardens, his body floating among the lilies.

The Squire

They said that the Battle of Rosby wasn't much of a battle, but it felt like one to Olyvar. It felt like the end of the world. He felt the screaming of his blood, the horse's hooves thundering beneath him, the steel shivering in his hands…

He saw the whites of his enemies' eyes, he saw the red pluming from bodies around him, and the arrows whizzing from the sky. The shafts seeming to fall in slow motion before frantic eyes, moving so sluggishly he could watch the tail feathers rippling in the wind. Olyvar had been in bigger battles before, true enough, but the battle beneath the gates of Rosby felt… more personal, more frenzied, more intimate.

Nothing but a few hundred men, stomping and rolling around in the mud.

In his previous battles, there had been thousands standing beside him; there had been walls of battle-hardened swords and spears and floods of armoured warhorses and lances. The Battle of Rosby was different; Olyvar had never charged against so many with so few. He had never led the charge.

After all that blood, that adrenaline, that fury…

It felt unreal to be standing in the mud, mere hours later, watching the village kids scavenging arrow shafts and broken blades up from the ground. All of the bodies had already been carted away.

It was dusk over Rosby, a village barely more than a waystop in the road with a small limestone keep crouching over the crossroads. Less than half a day ago, there had been battle here. There had been so many boots that the ground turned into a muddy slush.

Olyvar remembered the mud. Already his memories were blurring from the pure frenzy of it all, but he remembered the mud. That was what stuck out in his mind through the blur; the squelching of wet and trodden earth beneath him. The mud and blood .

"Come on," the Bloody Lord Stokeworth said, tapping him on the back. "Let's get you a drink."

Olyvar only nodded. There was a scratch over his forehead where an arrow had whizzed past his skull. Olyvar honestly couldn't remember it happening. The whole castle felt… numb. Shaken.

He let the Bloody Lord Stokeworth pull him up from the mud, wrapping his arm around Olyvar's shoulders. The tall, grim-faced man stank of sweat and blood. "Cheer up, kid," Ser Bronn of the Blackwater laughed. "Take my advice; forget about the bodies, start thinking of the payday."

How could the man be so cheerful, so merry? Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, the Lord Protector of Stokeworth, earned his nickname. He was called the 'Bloody Lord', presumably because of all the men who had cursed 'that bloody Lord Stokeworth!'. Most men would have chafed under a nickname like that, but Ser Bronn embraced it.

"Wish I had a whore," Ser Bronn said wistfully, as they stepped through the gates. Olyvar could still see the marks and splinters where the battering ram had collided. "Need a whore to celebrate. Still, the only whore around these parts that I know is Old Mildred down by the river, and I ain't that horny."

Olyvar didn't reply. They passed bloody stone corridors, mud trekked through the hallway, and the sounds of injured men screaming. Rosby Keep didn't have an infirmary, so instead they used the main dining hall. They didn't have a maester anymore either, but there was a barber who knew how to dress a wound and an old woodsman who knew his poultices. Twenty-two men had taken arrows during the battle, and four were on death's door.

"Besides, I reckon Mildred will have a queue tonight, judging from how many of the boys were heading in her direction," Ser Bronn mused, despite Olyvar's silence. "With silver, though, maybe we'd get some farmer's daughter to open up her legs. Should definitely get you a whore." Olyvar glared. "You need a woman after your first battle."

Olyvar would have bristled, if he had the energy. "It wasn't my first battle."

"Really?" Lord Stokeworth looked surprised. "It seemed like it was."

Olyvar's jaw clenched. "I killed five men, ser," he objected. "More men fell to my blade than to anybody else's." Olyvar had been all fury during the fight, charging harder than he had ever done before. That red helm shaking, swords sparking, horses screaming…

"Heh, don't get me wrong, you did well, kid," Ser Bronn said with a nod. "You definitely fought better than most. But I could see you trembling like a first-timer as you were doing it."

There was no reply, but Lord Stokeworth didn't seem to need one. They trekked into the lord's solar - Gyles ' old solar - and the Bloody Lord Stokeworth was already shuffling through the old oak cabinets looking for a drink.

"I reckon it's the first-timers who fight the hardest, actually," Bronn continued regardless. "The newbies are the ones trying to prove themselves, the ones so drunk on fear that they'll charge with everything they've got. Trust me, by the fourth or fifth battle they're

going to be far more cautious, far more likely to hang around the fringes rather than join the push."

Ser Bronn found a decanter of Dornish red wine, half-hidden under the desk. Olyvar never knew that Gyles drank. Even months after Lord Rosby's death, this was still more Gyles' castle than Olyvar's.

"Enough of this," Olyvar growled. "We need to discuss strategy, we need to get ready to move out."

"Kid, those men out there are exhausted, they ain't going anywhere," Ser Bronn scoffed. "They got a bit of blood on their swords, they're going to want to whore and rest."

"There's a battle happening at King's Landing right now, we need to-"

Right now," Ser Bronn insisted, slamming two glasses down onto the table, "we need to drink."

Olyvar stared. There was crackle of a fire in the background, but otherwise the room was quiet. Just him and the Bloody Lord Stokeworth, and a decanter of Dornish red.

"You saw the smoke," Olyvar said finally. "There was a lot of smoke coming from the capital."

There had all seen the black and green tower of smoke rising from the capital, staining the sky like an oilstain. Even in the middle of the battle, the men had stopped to gape. King's Landing was leagues away, yet even across all that distance Olyvar had never seen so much smoke in his life. The night was dark now and the wind had shifted, but Olyvar couldn't shake the sight of that pillar of smoke.

"I saw it," Bronn said, his eyes narrowing. "And I recognised it too - that was wildfire . My guess is that Cersei is up to her old tricks again, same as she did on the Blackwater. Bloody alchemists keep on making more of the stuff. You're right; likely Aegon is at the city gates right now. Cersei probably started launching barrels of wildfire

from the walls, but my guess is the soldiers lost control of the stuff and the fires spread into the city. I bloody warned Tyrion that was like to happen; you can't trust most men to stay calm and level-headed in a battlefield, you certainly can't trust them to handle the alchemist's green piss." Ser Bronn soon his head, tutting. "But maybe Aegon has breached the walls, or maybe they've been routed. Fucked if I can tell.

"Yet if we head off ourselves, now, we're not going to help. We'd just get in the way, cause a bit more confusion. Quite possible that our own allies would mistake us for enemy reinforcements, or maybe we'd just upset whatever battle plan is happening." Bronn shook his own head. "No, rushing off like fools ain't going to help anybody. I'm going to sit tight in Rosby, and I'm going to wait for word. I'm going to be sure I'm doing the right thing before I do the stupid thing."

Olyvar opened his mouth to object, and then closed it.

"Seriously, kid, your hands are trembling," Bronn insisted. "No use to anyone like that. Drink until the tremors stop."

Olyvar almost didn't reply. He bit his lip. His hands were still trembling. After a long moment, his shoulders sagged in resignation. "How can you be so calm?" Olyvar asked lowly.

Ser Bronn dropped into the opposite chair. "Done this before, kid."

Kid . Olyvar was twenty years old, but he looked younger. It seemed like he had always been the kid. Olyvar had squired for a king three years his younger, but Robb Stark had still seemed the eldest. I am still the kid, Olyvar thought numbly.

Part of it was his plump cheeks and clean-shaven chin, another part due to his inexperience with arms. Olyvar's father, Lord Walder Frey, had been extremely old even when Olyvar had been born, and his mother had died in childbirth with his sister. For most of his childhood, Olyvar had been warded and raised by his mother's cousin, Lord Gyles Rosby. There were just too many Freys around

the Twins, he thought sourly, my family constantly looking for places to shove the extras .

Gyles had been more a father to Olyvar than anyone at the Twins; Gyles had been so kind and understanding, never pressuring him or expecting anything of him, but the Lord of Rosby had also been very sickly for decades. Gyles had been better with a quill than a sword, and there had never been anybody to train Olyvar at the martial arts. Olyvar had been a man grown and he hadn't ever picked up a sword proper. His brothers, half-brothers and nephews were all knights or squires, they would mock him relentlessly.

Benfrey and Willamen had been the banes of Olyvar's life. Ever since the incident with the stableboy, his older brothers had been far too busy mocking him to spar with him, or to teach him.

And Olyvar Frey had been so, so happy when his father negotiated for him to squire for the Lord of Winterfell, and then the King in the North. Lord Walder Frey had wanted his problem son to finally have a knighthood, and arranged for Robb Stark to give him one. ' No other knight would take you', Willamen had sneered, ' I hear Robb Stark isn't even a proper knight' .

No, Robb Stark hadn't been a knight. Robb had been a king .

Robb never mocked me . Despite how Lord Frey twisted his arm, Robb Stark never treated Olyvar with anything other than kindness. Robb had been young and bold and handsome, with dimples in his chin and beautiful curly red-brown hair…

Olyvar had been more loyal than anyone, he had chanted Robb's name first and loudest, whenever he'd had the chance. Never had Olyvar felt more driven, more whole, than he had when he was by Robb's side, fighting Robb's war. All Olyvar ever wanted to do was keep on polishing Robb's armour, to stay close to his king.

And here I am, Olyvar thought, staring at the Dornish red, fighting my own rebellion against the crown. How did it go from there to here?

Olyvar would have followed Robb anywhere. I should have followed Robb that final time .

"For all we know," Olyvar said slowly, "Aegon Targaryen might be dead already. He might have lost." And then my fight is doomed .

"Might have done," Bloody Lord Stokeworth admitted, taking a large gulp from his glass. "In which case, we're buggered."

Olyvar glared at him darkly. "Maybe they need reinforcements. They could need help, even a few more men might turn the tide." Even a single squire might have saved the king…

"If Aegon and his ten thousand plus men have already been beaten," Ser Bronn scoffed. "I don't think that the two hundred and twenty-seven men out there are going to make much difference."

"Two hundred and twenty-six," Olyvar said reluctantly. "Big Tom from Ram's Bend died from his gut wound."

"Two hundred and twenty-six," Bronn repeated dryly. "Well, no offence against Big Tom, but I don't think his contribution would have made the difference."

Olyvar just grimaced. Earlier today, he had been fighting for his life. Now he was left feeling helpless and unsure. The phantom adrenaline through his veins was still causing his hands to shake, fingers clutching at an imaginary sword.

"Take my advice, kid," Lord Stokeworth insisted. "Settle down, get drunk, stop yourself from shaking. We ain't going to hear anything about what's happening at the capital, not today. Maybe not tomorrow either. We'll find out either when the runners come through here, or until someone thinks to pen a letter." He held the glass up, a dark smile spreading across his scarred face. "We'll talk war in the morning, when the blood has cooled down a little bit."

Reluctantly, Olyvar took the glass. How, by all that is holy, did I ever end up in rebellion alongside a man like him?

Olyvar thought back to their first ever meeting, when Ser Bronn of the Blackwater had stomped into Rosby, escorted by grizzled sellswords. "So," Ser Bronn had cried, swaggering through the castle's hall. "You're the ward of Rosby? I hear you don't like Lannisters."

Bronn had been the one to bring Olyvar the offer from the Imp; the offer of revenge for the Red Wedding and his liege against the throne that orchestrated it. Stokeworth offered to stand side by side with Rosby, under the banner of the Young Dragon returned. Bronn promised rebellion to the crown, and a big bag of gold when Aegon took the throne. The Imp had provided names of everybody who had been involved in the Red Wedding, and promised Olyvar that none of them would avoid justice under King Aegon.

Olyvar had been motivated by a single thought; what would Robb Stark do? Olyvar had wanted to be brave like Robb, wanted to doright by his king's memory.

Olyvar took a deep gulp of Dornish red.

Bronn downed the glass quickly, and then jumped to his feet. "Shit, I nearly forgot," he sighed, walking to the door. "Hold on, be back soon."

Olyvar stared. Bronn shuffled out the door, but he was back quickly.

The sound of mewling and wailing caused Olyvar to jump.

Ser Bronn returned carrying a restless babe, bundled in his arms and pressing up against mud and blood-stained chainmail. It was a fat, pudgy baby of one or two years old, with bright pink skin and a wispy crop of light blond hair on its nearly bald head. It was snivelling, wiggling in the Bloody Lord's grasp.

"You brought your baby here ?" Olyvar demanded incredulously. "To a battle? "

"Well, I could hardly leave him with his mother, now could I?" Bronn scoffed. "The dumb cow keeps on forgetting to feed him. Say hello to little Tyrion Tanner."

Tyrion Tanner was a plump and squirming babe, very fat for a baby. Olyvar had heard of him ; the babe born from half a hundred men, Olyvar thought, and his mother's rape behind a tanner's shop . "Tyrion," Olyvar said slowly, "Tanner."

"Lollys wanted to call him Tywin," Ser Bronn said, as if that explained everything.

The Bloody Stokeworth sat down across the table, with a baby bouncing on his knee and a bottle of Dornish red in his hand. "Come on, kid," Ser Bronn insisted. "This is a celebration, and I want to finish this bottle. Dornish red shouldn't go to waste."

Little Tyrion Tanner didn't stop mewling, stubby fingers groping for attention. Bronn just swatted the babe over the head, playfully, as he refilled the glasses.

"To the new king," Ser Bronn toasted. "May this one last at least a year, this time."

Olyvar didn't reply. House Stokeworth and House Rosby, joined together in defiance against the rest of the crownlands.

Olyvar liked to think his contribution had been significant, but he had no idea. He had little sense of the greater war, he was in charge of nothing but his little corner of rebellion. He had spent most of the war trying to overcome petty squabbles, trying to convince men to follow him, and trying to keep control of Rosby against the many who, perhaps rightfully, tried to evict him.

Trying to train the enlisted smallfolk how to wield their spears and shield had been an exercise in futility by itself.

Olyvar had only had two dozen or so men-at-arms willing to follow him, and then they raised a militia of local boys. A militia that was good at holding pitchforks and polearms and trying to look fearsome, but less reliable at using them. Olyvar's greatest contribution to the war effort was the toll and barricade on the Rosby Road, where his men had been confiscating caravans for whatever pretence the serjeants could come up with.

They had demanded imaginary paperwork as an excuse for stopping goods going to the city, and many, many disgruntled merchants and peddlers had to be forced away.

No supplies or reinforcements had been allowed to King's Landing through the Rosby Road. We help keep pressure on them , Ser Bronn had explained, we want to make sure the capital is simmering

It had been a quiet rebellion, so slow that it took a while before anyone even realised they were rebelling.

Lord Stokeworth had more soldiers than Olyvar did. Ser Bronn of the Blackwater had been gathering his militia for much longer, and he recruited and commanded them with far more skill and experience. All the while Olyvar had been fortifying and defending the road, the Bloody Lord Stokeworth had been leading raids and ambushes across the countryside all the way up to Duskendale.

Olyvar went through the numbers in his head. He was good at counting, Gyles had taught him stock-keeping more than fighting. Over three months of rebellion, ninety-seven caravans seized, a hundred and fourteen members of the Rosby militia and two hundred and eighty-two soldiers of House Stokeworth. Of those combined; eighty-seven had deserted them over time, forty-two had suffered wounds to various degrees, and eight were dead.

He would have to recount those numbers again, after the most recent battle.

Big Tom, Wyl, Andrew, Jon from Ass' Stop and Jon from West Hook, Turnip, Pate and Watt… Olyvar could name absolutely everybody who had died in his little war. I tried to do my part, Olyvar thought. I wanted to help avenge a wrong .

I wanted to do what Robb would have done .

Olyvar had tried to give his personal condolences to the loved ones of everybody who died, but then he realised how torturously useless and meaningless his apologies were. Apologies changed nothing.

There would likely be more deaths yet from injuries in the coming weeks, and how many more would die in the months and years as their livelihoods and professions were left destroyed?

He didn't know how many men there had been on the enemy's side, but he suspected similar numbers. Perhaps a few more desertions, a few more deaths. Olyvar had discovered that men were far more likely to desert in battle rather than die. Battles were decided more by the morale of their soldiers rather than their lives.

It's easier when they're all just numbers .

Olyvar took a deep gulp of Dornish red, drinking it down so quickly he nearly choked. Tyrion Tanner was chewing on the wooden desk, while Bronn was already refilling the glasses.

The Dornish red was thick and rich, causing Olyvar's head to spin…

It was hard. Even when dealing with tens to hundreds of men, it was difficult. Robb Stark had to deal with thousands to tens of thousands of men, and Olyvar had never appreciated truly just how difficult that must have been.

"That's right, kid." Ser Bronn even sounded sympathetic. "Drink until you stop the tremors. Now you know why soldiers need lots of ale."

The commanders need it even more, Olyvar thought. "How many battles have you seen, my lord?"

"Not a clue." The Bloody Lord Stokeworth shrugged. "Can't remember. They all blur together after the first dozen or so."

Olyvar took another drink. I fought at the Battle in the Whispering Wood, my first, he told himself, and the Battle of the Camps. I fought at Oxcross, and then the Battle of Ashemark, and then the Storming of the Crag . "I fought through nearly all of the Young Wolf'scampaign," he said slowly. "This was my sixth battle."

"Good for you." Ser Bronn seemed amused. "But there's a difference between fighting in a battle and fighting a battle, kid."

The image of muddy earth, of bodies wrestling, of pushing and shoving, stabbing and screaming… The red helm, and the roar of horses…

There had been a few notable skirmishes in the Rosby-Stokeworth rebellion. The Bloody Lord Stokeworth clashed with House Ryker men from Duskendale heading south; technically House Stokeworth lost that battle, but the Duskendale men had been forced to retreat too as their supplies burnt. There had been another force of House Tarly and House Mooton reinforcements heading south from Maidenpool, but they had been too large to stop so Lord Stokeworth let them pass.

One time, a troop of gold cloaks and some Crakehall men had come from the capital to Rosby to demand they release the caravans, but Olyvar and the militia had seen them off. There had also been bandits razing farmhouses to the east for which Olyvar had mustered men to chase away. Those bandits had worn red hearts on their chests, and a family of six had burnt to death in their cottage before the Rosby men found them. Olyvar later found out that those men were sworn to the Broken King, Stannis Baratheon. Two fisherman's daughters were kidnapped and taken back to Dragonstone, while another six burnt.

Today had been the biggest battle, by far. Nobody had expected it, not when word had arrived that Mace Tyrell was finally marching on

the Golden Company. There had been no warning, there had just been hundreds of men appearing on the road one dreary morning. Lannister, Tyrell men and City Watch - red, green and gold cloaks.

They had come not to negotiate, not to squabble, but just to storm Rosby Keep. No talk, no warning.

Memories of that moment were repeating over and over again. They were outside, slamming against the gates. Men screaming, panicking, and Olyvar's voice bellowing. "Ready the horses!" he had screamed. "We charge out against them!"

He tried to be brave, but every man in the keep thought they were going to die.

If not for the Bloody Lord Stokeworth coming to Rosby's aid, then Olyvar would have lost. If not for the sight of reinforcements, the Rosby men would have thrown down their blades and abandoned the fight. Instead, it had been the gold cloaks who had ran as their courage broke.

Olyvar remembered mud underfoot, and the red-helmed knight charging against him. He remembered the lance in his hand, his arm lunging, pushing his palfrey to meet the destrier. The knight with the red helm had fought bravely, lunging and parrying, but Olyvar had been raw emotion and desperation…

King Robb may not have knighted me, he thought, but he taught me how to fight .

"That knight in the red helm," Olyvar said finally. "The man I killed. He was leading them, wasn't he?"

"Well, he had the fanciest armour, and the best warhorse." Ser Bronn nodded. "So aye, I'd say he was in command. Nice job with that one, by the way. It looked like quite a fight."

"I don't even know his name," Olyvar muttered. The knight had been strong, fierce, and a fury with his rapier. "Who was he?"

"Not a clue." The Bloody Lord Stokeworth looked at his expression, and then sighed. "Hold on, kid, I'll go find out for you."

He pushed up from one his chair, and stomped out the door, leaving Olyvar sitting to stew in silence. Tyrion Tanner was on the floor, squirming and trying to find something to chew. The baby nearly reached Olyvar's boot, but he pulled his legs away.

Not long later, Ser Bronn returned and scooped the babe back up. "Spoke to one of my guys," he explained, "and he said they were being led by one Red Ronnet, the Knight of Griffin's Roost. Ser Ronnet Connington."

Olyvar stared in horror. " Connington?! "

"Aye," Ser Bronn said with a grin, dropping back into his chair. "The cousin to the Hand of the True King. Or second cousin or whatever. He used to be the head of his house, before Jon Connington came back from the dead. Good job."

"I killed his kin!"

"No, you killed the claimant to his seat," Ser Bronn said, stressing the words. "Plus, you killed him, which means Lord Jon isn't going to be labelled as a kinslayer. That's important, and this is a victory for you."

Olyvar didn't know how to reply to that. Ser Bronn was already pouring another glass.

"Red Ronnet stayed loyal to the Iron Throne despite his cousin's return," Bronn mused. "But I reckon that Mace Tyrell still didn't trust Ronnet in their army just because it was his family they were fighting against. While the rest went south to face a dragon, they must have sent Ronnet north to take Rosby. You take Red Ronnet's armour and

warhorse, you take the Lord Hand's gratitude… hells, I've seen men made for life for much less."

"Only if the Golden Company wins."

"Only if," he agreed, as he bounced the babe up and down absentmindedly. "But I've gambled on worse odds."

"They say that King Aegon has fifteen thousand men," Olyvar's voice was low, his head starting to buzz. He took another drink. "And that Mace Tyrell has thirty."

"Damn, what is with you and trying to count everything?" Ser Bronn chuckled. "There ain't nothing more useless than counting. War ain't maths, soldiers aren't numbers."

I'm well aware . The image of the red blade and muddy ground… "And what happens if they do lose?" Olyvar said slowly. "What will you do if the worst happens?"

Ser Bronn mused over it, and took a gulp of Dornish red. "Depends," he said finally. "But I'll do whatever it takes to survive." He poured another two glasses. "If I need to, I'll throw myself on the floor and weep like a little babe before the queen or anybody else. I'll beg and I'll sob and I'll say that they held my wife and child hostage, that I never had a choice." He smiled faintly, bopping Tyrion Tanner on the head. Olyvar couldn't imagine the Bloody Lord ever crying. "Or maybe I'll go out and I'll take the head of every traitor I can find. I'll go for Stannis, I'll go for the Imp, I'll kill as many as physically possible and I'll drop all their heads before the queen as an apology. She'll probably appreciate that more than tears."

Olyvar hesitated. "Will my head be one that you drop?"

"Don't obsess over it," Bronn said dryly. "Worst comes to it, I'm ransacking Stokeworth for all its worth, and I'm getting on the first ship out of here. You'll find me and little Tyrion in the Summer Islands somewhere, with a pretty girl by my side and a tan."

Olyvar didn't have anywhere to run. His entire life had been between Rosby and the Twins. "What of your lady wife?" Lady Lollys Stokeworth, the dimwit woman raped a hundred times behind a Tanner's shop .

"Meh." Bronn shrugged. "Tyrion's easy to carry, but there's no point bringing her ."

"You… you like the baby," Olyvar said uncertainty.

"I do actually," Ser Bronn said, sounding surprised himself, still bouncing the child on his knee. "I like the little bastard, the bugger."

Olyvar remembered one of the guards betting coin that the Lord Stokeworth would 'drop' the babe of his horse somewhere. 'What sort of man would let a bastard of his wife's rape grow up under his roof?' the guard had said, ' from what I hear, the Lord Stokeworth ain't the sort to let a child like that live for long. That babe is going to take a fall on its head soon enough, mark my words' . Apparently,that man lost his bet.

Across the table, Bronn took another gulp. "Your hands are still shaking. Take another drink. It helps, trust me."

Olyvar did. "I must be going soft," Ser Bronn mused. There was still blood smeared across his grey armour. "I suppose this is what being a proper nob does to you, it makes you soft." A smile cracked over his dark features. "And I like you, kid - soft load of heartbroken mud that you are. You're decent on a horse, and honest enough that I don't have to worry about you stabbing me in the back. Take my advice; don't think of the bad, think of what might happen if we win. I told you; we could be in a real good place here. Proper lordships and all."

Both of us stole our houses, Olyvar thought, feeling a bit woozy. Neither of us have any right to our seats . The Bloody Lord Stokeworth had killed the former lord, his brother-in-law, in a joust.

Meanwhile, Olyvar wasn't even a member of House Rosby, he had no right to the castle, but he had still been raised here. Gyles Rosby had never taken a wife either - he had never had an interest in fathering a child - but it was well-known that the former lord had wanted Olyvar to be his heir. With Lord Stokeworth's help, Olyvar had seized control of Rosby Keep and its lands.

"We both allied with Aegon real early," Bronn continued. "The king will have to reward that well. I'm looking to move up from Stokeworth myself, but you could easily be made the rightful lord of Rosby. Or more, if you push it. You're young and loyal, Aegon will do well keeping you sweet." Bronn nodded, yet his tone turned serious. "But just take my advice, kid; take a new name. Make a new house. If word spreads that a Frey is sitting comfortably, then the brotherhood without banners is going to be knocking on Rosby's door any day now."

Olyvar's hands tightened. "Not every Frey deserves to die." He thought of his brothers, his sisters, his family that tried to protest the Red Wedding…

"Deserve got nothing to do with it," Bronn said, shaking his head. "It's real unhealthy to be a Frey in these parts right now. The hangwoman has seen to that."

"Almost as unhealthy as it is to be a Lannister," the words splurted out of Olyvar's mouth.

"Aye. Almost," Bronn chuckled, his eyes glancing to Little Tyrion.

Ever since the Red Wedding, the hangwoman and the brotherhood without banners had inflicted brutal redemption upon House Frey, one by one. And then the Bastard King had inflicted retribution on them all at once.

Olyvar felt drunk, his head woozy. "I never stopped thinking about that night," he admitted, his voice pained. "The Red Wedding. I was there . My half-brothers locked me in the tower during my sister's -

Roslin's - wedding. Walder Rivers threatened to kill me unless Roslin went along with it, I was a hostage to force Roslin into the plan." There was no reply. "And I spent that night screaming and banging on the door, and I…"

A single night that defined everything after. The night that had damned the Freys.

His voice trailed off. Ser Bronn didn't push him. Roslin, his sister - his pregnant little sister… Olyvar hadn't even been able to save her.

"A week after it was over, Black Walder gave me a horse," Olyvar said finally, "and told me not to come back. I rode for Rosby and disavowed my family. Gyles took me in."

For a few months after, he'd recuperated in silence at Rosby. And then the Bastard King had entirely obliterated the Twins, innocents and guilty alike. The Bastard King clearly wasn't one to be dissuaded by hostages. If there was any moral to that story, Olyvar couldn't see it.

He took another drink. His head was starting to buzz. Nothing but two men and a baby sitting in a poorly lit room, getting drunk on Dornish red.

"Why are you doing this?" Olyvar asked after a while, slamming his glass down on the table. "Fighting. Why did you start this rebellion, what for?"

Bronn shrugged. He seemed drunk too. "A castle, vaults of gold, a pretty wife… the usual."

"You've got a castle."

"Aye, a small one though. I got silver too, but not much gold." He glanced at little Tyrion Tanner. "And I got a wife, I suppose, but she's hardly pretty. I want more."

My lord father wanted more too . Olyvar had never wanted anything except to be at Robb Stark's side. "You want another wife?"

"Well, I was promised double," Bronn chuckled, "but probably best to get rid of the wife I've got first. I think that after I'm named lord of my new castle, I'm going to see how much of a bribe it takes to annul a marriage. I've never fucked Lollys, could never stomach it, and I hear that's all it takes for annulment. Maybe I'll get a Summer Islands woman with long legs as my second wife, but I'll be lord of my own rights." He moved the glass to his lips, and then paused. "And I suppose that'd leave Lollys up for grabs, if you're interested. You could have both Rosby and Stokeworth."

Olyvar didn't dignify that last bit with a response. " But why? " he demanded, voice cracking. "It'll never be enough. Why do you need more, and why did so many have to die for it? Is it really just for power, is that all you care about?" Is that all my father cared about…?

The Bloody Lord Stokeworth smiled hollowly. He paused, absentmindedly letting Tyrion sip from his glass.

"I was born in Gulltown, you know that?" Bronn explained after a while. "Well, outside of Gulltown, really. I'm told that my mother was pregnant when they put the noose around her neck. Never knew what she did - but it was probably whoring, thieving, the usual. Anyways, they dropped her from the gallows, and then I dropped out of her."

Olyvar gaped. "Are you… is that a jest?"

"Not a clue," Bronn admitted. "That was the story I got told, but I never did find out whether or not the bugger telling it was messing with me or not. Could be horseshit for all I know. Still, they called me 'the Unlucky' in the orphanage until I was twelve, right up until I beat another boy to death with a broom handle because I was starving and the boy stole my turnip." Bronn chuckled. "You think dying for a lordship is bad? Imagine dying for a turnip .

"But after that, I ran, and I stowawayed on a ship coursed for Oldtown. Never got there, though; the crew found me and threw me overboard. That was the day I learned how to swim."

Olyvar stared speechless. Tyrion started to cry again, and the Bloody Lord rocked him absentmindedly. "Anyways… the point is that I had nothing," Ser Bronn explained. "I had less than nothing; I owed everything I got. So I picked up a dead man's sword, I started traveling, and I just wanted something . I want to be one of the guys that folk owe things to, for once."

"And… and that's it?" Olyvar demanded, slurring his words slightly. "No other reason, you just want to have lots of stuff?"

"Pretty much," Ser Bronn nodded. "It's that 'want' that's kept me alive. I'm not that good of a swordsman, not really, but I can still kill much better men just because I want it.

"You see, that's the bit about war that nobody understands. It doesn't matter about numbers, doesn't even matter about skill - it's all about want ." He barked out a dry chuckle. "Does that make any sense, oram I just drunk?"

A bit of both, Olyvar thought, staring at his glass. The bottle was nearly empty.

"Your turn, kid," Ser Bronn said, draining the last of the wine into two more glasses. "Why did you declare for our glorious King Aegon?"

"You know why," Olyvar muttered.

"I know you're pissed at Lannisters, don't like your old family either," Bronn said. "But seems to me, if you really want to stay loyal to your Young Wolf, then why not go north and join the mess his half-brother is making up there?"

Olyvar shook his head. "Jon Snow is no king of mine." The thought of Roslin, pregnant and dead in the ruins of the Twins, haunted his

vision. "Robb Stark would have cursed what his bastard brother has done."

Olyvar had seen the Bastard King's letter. At this point, most of the highborn in the realm had, like as not. The kingdoms had been set to panic after the Scouring of the Twins, and the letters from White Harbour that had come not long after had been copied and passed between every maester in the realms.

Some had declared vengeance against the dragon, others had retreated and cowered in fear. Some had even cheered for the obliteration of the Twins, but more had panicked with thought of who might be next. Olyvar heard that Lord Jonos Bracken had evacuated Stone Hedge entirely for a time, certain that the dragon would target House Bracken next. Olyvar lost count of the number of lords convinced that it was doom upon them all.

White Harbour had declared rebellion in alliance with the Bastard King and his dragon, and the rumours had sprouted like mushrooms in the rain. Even high lords spoke of the north in hushed whispers, they said that there were dragons, giants and monsters, wargs and witches in the Bastard King's army - wildlings that practiced cannibalism and blood sacrifices before heart trees, or savages that would cut off their own faces, or make necklaces of human eyes.

As the months passed, the fears eased somewhat, but it all felt so fragile. The realm was left tense, watching the north in apprehension for the ice dragon passing the Neck again.

It had all left him numb. Olyvar had loved his family almost as much as he had hated them. To burn the guilty with the innocent, to burn hostages…

The thought of Roslin, his own sister…

His fingers fiddled with the glass. Bronn was looking at him intently. A different world, a different choice, and maybe I would have ended up fighting this man, Olyvar thought. Maybe Robb might have

attacked King's Landing, and Ser Bronn would have fought against us for the Lannisters .

"And it's all my fault," Olyvar admitted. "Everything that happened. My fault."

Bronn stayed quiet. Olyvar took a deep breath. "I alone could have stopped the Red Wedding." The Dornish red was making Olyvar's head spin. "I was there when Black Walder first suggested the idea to my lord father. I was in the room, I was there. I tried to protest it, but they dismissed me to my chambers. That was my chance." His voice nearly cracked. "If I had ran away that night, I could have stolen a horse and rode to Robb to warn him. I could have prevented it right there, but I…" He grimaced. "But I thought that I could dissuade them. I didn't think they would actually do it, but… but… after that night, they started locking me in my room. They realised I wasn't going to along with the plan, they didn't give me another chance to stop it. I was there, I was kicking and screaming and useless all through the night…"

That memory… even after all this time, it still hurt. I was locked in my room, all the while my king was being murdered .

Bronn sat quietly. Olyvar's voice was breaking, but he couldn't stop talking. "I had my chance," Olyvar gulped. "I could have saved him. I never should have left him. I was his squire, I… the Frey alliance fell apart, Steffon was demanding that we leave, but I could have…"

I could have stayed, Olyvar thought, I could have fought. But instead

I let them take me away because I was angry . Robb had married

Jeyne Westerling, and Olyvar had been furious.

Everyone had expected Robb to choose Roslin. Olyvar had been unhappy with that thought too, but then he had grown to accept his king marrying his sister. Olyvar and Robb could have been brothers, it meant Olyvar would have stayed by Robb's side.

But then when he married Jeyne…

Robb was delirious on milk of the poppy, Olyvar told himself. Robb hadn't been in his right mind. He had been recovering from an arrow wound, and grieving from the news of his brothers. Jeyne Westerling took advantage of him, and Olyvar could never forgive her for that. It had been Jeyne Westerling's fault, not Robb's.

No, it was my fault. If only I warned Robb of my family's plot , Olyvar thought. If only I had stayed by his side. If I only I had taken that arrow for him at the Crags, if only I had been his squire…

He was my king and I would have walked through the hells for him.

But, somehow, I couldn't disobey my family for him .

There was a moment of silence, as the drunken memories overwhelmed him. Olyvar had to blink through the haze. "It was my fault," Olyvar said finally. "I had my chance and I did nothing. So I joined with Aegon because I didn't want to lose another chance. I didn't want to do nothing."

Bronn sat in silence, dark eyes lingering on him. "Take a deep drink, kid," he said, his voice strangely soft. "If it still hurts tomorrow, drink again then too."

Olyvar did. The Bloody Lord emptied the last of the decanter into Olyvar's glass.

The wine was thick and rich, overwhelming his senses and making his thoughts blur. In the quiet, whispering room, he could feel himself slipping away… His mind wandered. He remembered. The memories, as sweet and sharp as a blade… the moment where it all went wrong…

Jon… Jon…"

Olyvar could only stare, caught in endless self-recriminations, while the faint light dappled through the narrow windows of the stone keep. His king was moaning, insensate in his bed, wracked by nightmares. They had cleared out the entire infirmary for the king, but Robb's

personal guard stood stiffly and quietly around the room. The only noise was their king's pained murmurs.

Behind him, the door opened quietly, and two women walked in. One older, the other younger, but both were carrying metal plates of water, poultices and fresh bandages.

He has been muttering senseless for half a day," Ser Wendel Manderly warned, his arms folded and his beefy face creased with concern. "He's half-delirious."

Lady Sybell Spicer nodded. "The wound won't kill him," the aging Lady of the Crag replied. Olyvar didn't even turn to look at her. "But his fever runs hot. Milk of the poppy for the pain, plenty of water, and a calming salve his humours. Be certain that he drinks every night." She laid out tankards of milk and water on the bedside, along with something pungent he couldn't recognize. She saw Olyvar's gaze rest on it. "It's a purgative," she explained. "A family speciality - my grandmother was something of a healer herself."

From across the bed, the Smalljon Umber peered down at the concoction, his gaze suspicious. This recently after the battle, tensions were still high. The sworn guard of the king were all staring at Lady Sybell and her daughter.

She just met his gaze, and scoffed. "Do you think I'm a fool, ser?" Lady Sybell replied, rolling her eyes. She snatched up the tankards, and took a small sip from each of them herself. She pointed to her purgative. "It is calendula, chasteberry, ginger and garlic, no more. It'll calm his stomach and help ease the fever. Have your maester confirm there is no poison, or use a food-taster if you wish - but I would not put my family's life at risk. I want your king to recover swiftly more than anybody, so that you all might move on."

The Smalljon muttered that he would test the concoction, but most seemed happy enough. House Westerling was resigned; the Crags had put up a decent fight, but now the small castle was occupied by Robb's own soldiers. Lady Sybell was a sharp, severe woman with a

matronly air to her, brushing past the armed men in the infirmary. "Jeyne," the lady ordered. "You see to his wound, replace the bandages."

Yes, Mother," she replied meekly, stepping towards the bed. Olyvar stepped forward too, to help twist Robb onto his side. Robb was so pale, a cold sweat sticking to his skin.

The arrow had pierced through Robb's gauntlets, straight through his forearm. It had seemed a minor wound at the time - Robb had screamed in pain, but he had been able to keep fighting with his other arm, like some hero of legend. Robb had made it all the way to the main hall of the Crags - standing strong and firm to accept the castellan's surrender even despite the arrow in his arm.

It was only after an entire day when the blood loss made Robb woozy, he collapsed and the infection took hold.

We should have treated it earlier, Olyvar cursed. They should never have let the fever grow so bad - they all knew the stress that Robb was under. His gut wrenched at the sight of his king like this. No, Ishould never have let Robb get hurt .

His king was still mumbling in his sleep, eyelids twitching in some dream. "Jon…" Robb was muttering. "I don't… I can't…."

They were silent, as Jeyne Westerling wrapped fresh wool around his forearm, tightening it with straps of leather. Olyvar's hands were on Robb's shoulder, holding him steady as gently as he dared.

Who is Jon?" Jeyne asked quietly.

Jon. Jon Snow. That's his bastard brother," Olyvar eventually said. His only brother, now . Word from Winterfell had arrived scant days ago. The news of Bran and Rickon had hurt Robb as much as the arrow.

Ah." Jeyne was quiet for a bit. Robb mumbled something insensately. "Is Jon with the army?"

No, he's serving at the Wall," Olyvar shook his head. "Robb doesn't speak of him very often, but…"

His voice trailed off. She only nodded understandingly. Jeyne was a shy and slim girl, her eyes constantly darting towards to the ground when she spoke. She wore a leather apron over her dress, dressed more like a serving girl than a highborn lady. She was meek and pretty, though; with chestnut curls, a heart-shaped face, and doe brown eyes. Not especially beautiful, but she had wide hips and good curves.

Olyvar remembered thinking well of her, at the time. Jeyne helped to care for Robb whenever he could not. Sometimes they would even take shifts by his bedside. Often Grey Wind would stay with Robb too, but other times the wolf needed to roam. One time, when Olyvar fell asleep in the chair next to the bed, he woke up with his head propped by a pillow.

All Olyvar had wanted was for Robb to recover, so he could it make it all better.

Run…" his king muttered in his sleep. "Must… come…"

Jeyne finished re-bandaging the wound, gingerly resting the king's arm across his chest. The old bandages were foul, red and black - the arrow wound had been weeping again.

What the ironborn did to his brothers…" Jeyne whispered, soft and hesitant. "I am so… I shall light a candle to the Father for them."

Olyvar nodded. "Aye," he whispered. The north prayed to the Old Gods, not to the Seven. Olyvar wondered if that was better or worse.

He supposed that the campaign would soon be returning to Winterfell. Olyvar felt scared of what that might mean. Robb needed

to return to his own lands, but how would the riverlords react to their new king abandoning them? The north was defended by the Neck, but the riverlands were exposed on all sides.

They might curse Robb if he leaves now. And my father, Olyvar thought with dread. How will Lord Frey react if King Robb chose to abandon the war and go home? The riverlands had risked much when they hailed Robb as their king.

Olyvar felt helpless. He felt useless. So useless. His king was in pain…

The cold… Gods, the cold…" Robb was mumbling. "… Sword… Sword in the darkness… the watcher…"

Jeyne leaned in, and laid a wet towel over Robb's forehead, stroking it down flat. "Mother's medicine works well," she said. "His fever should break soon."

Aye," Olyvar nodded, but his jaw was still stiff.

She glanced at him. "You care for him, don't you?" Jeyne said gently, and Olyvar almost flinched. "You've stood vigil by his side constantly. You are good to treat your king so."

I'm his squire," Olyvar said simply, hiding his grimace. "It's my duty."

She smiled, her hand gently touching Olyvar's shoulder. "He must be a good man to deserve such loyalty."

He is," Olyvar agreed. "The best."

Jeyne tended to his linens. Olyvar dropped into the chair by the bedside. The moments ticked by slowly, but Robb's mummers never ceased. His king was shivering, slightly, and then jolted in his bed. His king was awake. "My Grace!" Olyvar straightened to attention instantly. "What do you-?"

Jon…" Robb muttered, eyes unfocused. "Blue eyes… they're after them… Jon…"

No. His king was still… not asleep, but not awake either. The mutters were growing. Why were Robb's thoughts circling around a brother a thousand leagues away? Jeyne looked down at him, her lips pursed.

What are you seeing, Your Grace?" she asked gently, holding Robb's hand to calm him. Olyvar blinked.

In the distance, Olyvar could hear Grey Wind howling in the courtyard of the Crags below. Robb was delirious from the milk of the poppy, but he was still moving and talking, squirming in his bed. "I see… ice. I see wings. I see wings, and ice… endless ice… and Gods…" Robb braced his arms against the bed, as he tried to stand. "I… I can't be - I can't stay here." Robb coughed, trembled, and fell back into the bed. "My family, need to help my family." His strength gave out, and he sagged back into the bed, panting. "The north… my family needs me…"

He's delirious , Olyvar thought with a grimace. Jeyne rested her hand on his cheek, whispering sweet nothings in his ear and trying to calm him. Olyvar remembered wishing that he had been brave enough to cradle Robb like that.

Dragons…" Robb murmured in his sleep. "Dragons, gods… the dragons… !"

Every eye in the room was on the king, but nobody said a word. They felt uncomfortable, like they were eavesdropping on their king's private dreams. Olyvar helped Ser Wendel Manderly and Robin Flint as they gingerly poured the concoction down Robb's parched throat. True to Lady Spicer's word, the purgative seemed to soothe him, and he fell into a more content lull.

It was nearing dusk, the shadows through the windows growing long. They all stood guard around their king, but Olyvar could feel the weariness filling the room.

Eventually, after a long quiet, Jeyne stood up, and bowed to the men. "It is late, good sers," Jeyne said. She smiled softly at Olyvar, and her hand gently rested on his shoulder. "You should retire for the night as well."

King Robb - " Olyvar tried to protest, but the Smalljon Umber nodded as he yawned.

You are no good to him running ragged," Jeyne protested, shaking her head. "I will see to it that His Grace is cared for."

…

Olyvar blinked repeatedly, jerking to consciousness again. He shook himself out of his memory, trying to focus through the fog in his head. He knew that dream, he had relived it frequently. How much suffering might have been prevented, if only I kept Jeyne Westerling away from my king?

He was back in the solar at Rosby - leant over the desk in the gloomy stone room. The only sound were the sweet whispers of candles, and the faint gargles of the baby beneath the table.

Bronn took a long gulp, and then stared forlornly at the empty glass. Little Tyrion was mewling again, groping for attention. "Well shit." Ser Bronn sighed. "I knew I should I have packed more wine myself. My own bloody fault for taking milk for this bugger instead."

Olyvar only nodded, still trying to focus through the whispers and memories hissing around him.

The baby seemed to perk up, a wail splitting from his little mouth and his face turning red. "He's a greedy little sod," Ser Bronn explained, pulling his chair back. "But I suppose I better go. It'll be a headache all night if I don't put this bastard to sleep."

"Why…?" Olyvar blurted, and then stopped himself. The Lord Stokeworth turned, a frown over his dark face. Olyvar grimaced.

"Why… why do you care for him? I mean, you…"

"What, I don't seem like the sort to carry a baby around with me?" His mouth twisted, and then his lips burst into a smirk. "Hells, you're right. I was quite prepared to leave him in a farmer's field a year ago. But, well, the bastard has grown on me."

Olyvar didn't know how to respond to that. The Bloody Lord Stokeworth was a tall, grim and dark man with eyes like a killer and scars across his cheeks, and Olyvar still blinked to see such a man pampering a pink and mewling baby.

"Mind, if I wanted the bastard dead, I could have just left him with his mother," Bronn commented as he stood up. "The cow doesn't feed him, she cries even more than he does. It was his grandmother that forced Lollys to have him, but Lollys would have smothered him with a pillow if she had her way."

"Lollys…" Olyvar muttered. He was too drunk, he couldn't stop himself… "Raped by half a hundred men behind a tanner's shop?"

Bronn pursed his lips, like biting back a smirk, but he just nodded. "You're awfully interested in my boy?"

"No, it's just…" Olyvar floundered, head spinning. "… It's just that my father had two dozen children and half a hundred grandchildren… and yet Walder Frey never gave any of them half the attention you give him…" Why is the thought of a caring father so alien to me? "He's not even your blood."

Ser Bronn paused, scratching his whiskers. "Have you ever had a bastard?" he asked finally. "Ever thought about one of the buggers yourself?"

Olyvar shook his head. "Never liked the process."

"Probably for the best - they ain't worth the hassle." Bronn chuckled dryly. "I've had enough whores that maybe I've got some bastards

running around, but I've never met them. Babies are queer things. Little Tyrion here is the first I've ever had to deal with."

"Tyrion," Olyvar repeated. "Tyrion Tanner. The Queen Regent must have hated you for naming him that."

"It did get me in a bit of trouble," Bronn conceded, but his smile widened. "And maybe I poked the lioness. But I just couldn't resist, it was too…"

His voice trailed off. Bronn grimaced, and Olyvar frowned. "Too what?"

"Too funny," Bronn admitted. "That was the jest, you see, it's… well, Lollys wanted to name the bugger Tywin ."

Olyvar stared uncomprehendingly. The Bloody Lord Stokeworth seemed torn, for one drunken moment. "Alright, bugger it," Bronn said finally, dropping back down on his chair again. "Can you keep a secret, kid?"

Olyvar only blinked. "Suppose it's not really a secret, anyways,"

Bronn continued. " Useless, really, but if you want a laugh…"

"You're talking about the baby?" Olyvar said, confused.

"Aye. Born from rape during the riots of King's Landing," Bronn said, the smile still playing at his lips. "Except it wasn't half a hundred men, that bit was bullshit."

Wait, what? That was the tale parroted around constantly - in taverns men spoke of Lollys' rape. Many even laughed and chuckled over it. The dimwitted girl, and the bastard by a mob of smallfolk. Olyvar blinked, trying to understand. He met Bronn's gaze. "Wait, then… it was just one man?"

"Aye, that's what she says," Bronn nodded, pinching Tyrion's chubby cheek. "And I named this baby after his father's uncle."

The room went silent. The fires crackled in the backdrop, and Olyvar only stared. He was too drunk to understand, too slow to grasp it. Ser Bronn burst out in a bark of laughter.

"It was the riots of King's Landing, you see," Ser Bronn explained. "Hell of a time. Stannis was approaching the city with half the armies in the realm, but city turned in a battle before he even got there. The queen and the Hand were tormenting each other, the city was starving, and the whole place was a boiling pot of shit, simmering fit to burst. You had loaves of bread being sold for a gold dragon, and manhoods being fed to goats. Then the day of riot, well, the princess was shipped off to Dorne, the queen was fuming, and some bright fool started slinging manure at the king on the way back. That was the moment it all went to shit, actually - moment it all went wrong. When the cracks started to show. We probably wouldn't be here right now, if it weren't for that fool throwing manure, and the prick of a king setting his dog onto the crowds."

Olyvar didn't understand, but he listened raptly. "You had some Lannister cousin vanishing without a trace in the riots, and the High Septon ripped apart by the mob. We all thought that the Stark girl was dead too, and Tyrion… well… the Hand of the King pulled young King Joffrey down to his knee and slapped the bloody shit out of him. Beaten by a dwarf right in front of the whole court - gods, Joffrey turned red.

"Lollys was there too, she vanished in the mob. Her mother was screaming bloody fury, but everyone else was more distracted with Sansa Stark." Bronn shook his head. "Hells, I was there - and I didn't even think to wonder about whereabouts Joffrey sulked off to afterwards."

Olyvar's mouth slowly dropped open.

"The way I understand it," Bronn explained slowly. "Lollys managed to slip away all by herself - but with her clothes ripped she looked like just another lowborn woman. Lollys ran to the Red Keep, but it was Joffrey that found her first. Little shit was on his way down to the

gates with that crossbow of his, wanted to try it out on some smallfolk. Just happens to see Lollys and comes up with a more interesting idea, catches her before anyone else. Him and two Kingsguard - I figure it was Boros Blount and Mandon Moore. Bunch of thugs."

"Are you…?" Olyvar's head was spinning, just trying to understand. "… Why?"

"Buggered if I know." Bronn shrugged. "But Joffrey was a prick. He enjoyed stripping and beating women when he was angry, and he was really angry. Tyrion had already taken his last plaything away from him; Joffrey must have wanted to lash out, and Lollys was the weakest target around. There were even talk going around that Lady Stokeworth was trying to set up Tyrion to Lollys - so maybe Joffrey thought that it would be revenge against his uncle's future wife."

Olyvar's back straightened upright, eyes widening. Was this a joke, some jape he didn't understand…?

"' A lion taking a lamb ' is what Lollys repeated to me," Ser Bronn said softly. "Apparently, that was Joffrey kept saying, the cunt, while the Kingsguard pinned Lollys down and stripped her clothes off. Afterwards, Lollys was so distraught every single time she had to step into that keep again, but everybody just thought the girl was a dimwit." A chuckle rose from Bronn's throat. "Fuck, I heard that she was so terrified to even leave her room after that, but I never wondered why. No one realised what was really traumatising her."

Across the table, Olyvar sat speechless. Little Tyrion was still crying, squirming in Bronn's grip.

There was long moment of silent. Bronn stared down at his cup.

"Really wish we had more wine," he lamented.

There were shivers down his spine. "How…?" Olyvar exclaimed finally, stammering. "I never heard… who knew about it, did they…?"

"Very few knew. I don't think the queen ever found out; neither Lollys nor Joffrey were like to tell her. The two Kingsguard dropped Lollys off barenaked behind the tanner shop afterwards, and then she was picked up by the gold cloaks. She was too stupid and shaken to speak." Bronn shook his head. "Tyrion definitely never found out - it wouldn't gone down well if he had. Joffrey had only done it to spite his uncle.

"It was Lady Tanda, Lollys' mother, that kept it all hush-hush," Bronn explained. "At first, she tried to deny any rape altogether, tried to claim that Lollys was just unwell - all the while Lollys was weeping hysterically in her chambers. Lollys was forbidden from drinking moon tea, though, because this was a royal bastard."

Lollys would have smothered the baby, Olyvar remembered Bronn saying. Lollys was raped, and then forced to curtsy before her raper. She watched while Joffrey was heralded as being young, bold and noble - a king.

Lollys wanted to name the babe Tywin.

"But Littlefinger, Petyr Baelish," Bronn continued, leaning backwards and raising the wriggling child up, " he definitely knew. Lady Tanda ran to him for help, and Littlefinger was the one to convince House Stokeworth to keep quiet. I think he was where that 'half a hundred men' tale came from too, the bugger. Littlefinger insisted that nobody could know, but the gods alone know what he was playing at. I don't have a clue what he was planning."

Bronn smirked faintly, looking at the babe. "Hells, I only found out after I married Lollys, and after her mother's death. I would have dropped the baby off in a field somewhere, if not for that little nugget spilling out."

"Is this…" Olyvar paused, shivering. Is this real? "Is there are any proof?"

None," Bronn chuckled. "Just the word of a dimwit cow of a woman. That's what makes it funny."

"She could have lied," Olyvar said disbelievingly. "She might have made it up, or was mistaken, or…"

"Could be," Bronn nodded.

"How old was Joffrey, even? The king could have only been around thirteen."

"Old enough. He was the same age his uncle was, the first time Tyrion married a whore," Bronn laughed. "Lannisters grow up fast, I suppose. I told you it was funny."

'Funny' was not the word Olyvar would use. The ward of Rosby looked shocked, his mouth stammering drunkenly. "And I guess that answers your other question too," Bronn said after a while, "about why I decided to keep little Tyrion around. At first, I thought he might be useful - a little bargaining chip just in case I did have to suck up to Cersei." He sighed wistfully. "And, I mean, it's a bit disappointing, you reckon? The Bitch Queen never even had the chance to meet her grandson."

Olyvar gaze turned slowly towards Little Tyrion Tanner, bouncing on his adopted father's knee. Olyvar stared intently at the baby's features; pale wispy blond hair, the chubby cheeks, and the dark blue eyes…

"But, like I said, he's grown on me, the bastard," Ser Bronn said fondly, pinching the babe's cheeks. "My own little prince."

The baby started to wail again, demanding food. "Prince Tyrion Tanner."

Author Notes

Well, there's a bit of a history behind this chapter.

The Davos POV was originally intended to go in chapter 41 next to Jon Con, so I could show the two Hands of the King next to each other. Of course, the last Jon Con chapter already became way too big, so Davos got cut from it.

The Nym POV was originally planned to include in book 2, but I had it written early and moved it forward.

The Olyvar POV was one that I planned and wrote a long time in advance, when I intended it more as a bubble episode; not much plot development, just a POV closer to the ground with limited characters and a different perspective, so I could focus more on the impact and aftermath of all these wars. If you've seen the season 3 Breaking Bad episode, "Fly", then that's more what I was going for with Olyvar's POV.

All of three POVs have been grouped together to focus on aftermaths, actually. A much slower chapter rather than the crazy ones that we've had recently.

Mind, I did want to this to be Winterfell chapter with Sansa, Jon and Bran POVs instead - but that hasn't been finished yet. It's taken a bit longer than I had hoped to get it done, and I'm not sure if I'll have a chance to finish the Winterfell chapter before Christmas now.

Basically, the chapter that I wanted to upload isn't done yet, so I pulled this together just so I would have something to give. Scream at me for that, if you wish.

Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Sansa

It was very early morn, and Sansa heard the commotion spreading through the castle. The snowstorms were still stirring outside and the walls were vibrating from the winds buffeting against the keep, but she still felt the heavy footsteps and the cries of alarm.

My brother . What a strange thought. Is it truly him? Sansa had faintly expected that she'd be always able to recognise her family on first glance, but she couldn't - Bran was a stranger to her, a ghost from her past. Sansa could only stare at his face, trying to link it to the boy who haunted her memories.

It had been over three years since she last seen him. She remembered a plump little boy, lying unconscious in a bed on the edge of death. Now, he was less a little boy; his face was gaunter, his auburn hair was greyer.

And he was so, so pale; she had never seen a child so frail. He looked little like a prince or a lordling, he was more a frail rag doll that had been left in exposed in the elements.

"Severe exposure. He is starved, with many cuts and bruises," the maester was rambling. "I must urge caution in feeding him, for the shock that it might do to his organs. And his ankle is broken and unhealed - the flesh is swollen, and I fear his tumours may be congealed. His legs are non-responsive, but I hear that is an old injury?"

Yes, he is a cripple . Bran. My brother .

The maester was talking nervously in the background, but Sansa's eyes were peeled on Summer and Bran on the four-poster bed. The

men all gave Summer a wide berth, but the wolf was reserved. Jon had been hugging Bran as he carried him in, but Sansa couldn't let herself embrace her brother. She couldn't feel such emotions. She needed to stay detached, stay focused.

"I want to talk to the girl," she demanded suddenly. "Meera Reed. Where is she?"

Bran lay unconscious, Meera was the only one who could give them answers. One of Jon's men - Toregg the Tall, they called him - stood stiffly by the adjoining door with his arms folded. "The king is speaking with the lass. Said not to be disturbed."

"I'm his sister," Sansa bristled.

"Said not to be disturbed," the wildling repeated bluntly, arms still folded.

He would not let her pass, and Sansa did not know enough leverage to force him. Is Jon deliberately keeping me away, or is it an oversight?

Outside, the hallway was roiling, and Sansa heard a score of lords each trying to press their own questions, shouting over the another. She heard the footsteps and hissed whispers from all the way down the stone staircase. There were dozens of men, most of them either petty or minor lords that Sansa couldn't even name.

From inside the other room, she heard the Greatjon's boom even through the walls. The shouts were hectic. "How did he get here?" his voice boomed. "What happened at Last Hearth?"

Sansa had seen the girl as they brought her in; Meera had looked little like a highborn lady either; she was short and skinny for her age, with mud brown hair and a flat face. She would have passed more for a common girl - perhaps a huntsman's daughter. She had been frail and trembling too.

Is this a trap? Sansa kept thinking. Was it some sort of scheme, trying to put an imposter in Winterfell? Was this Meera feeding them false information, trying to make herself seem distressed and helpless? Sansa couldn't see how, but just the timing of it… she couldn't shake the suspicion that it was all a ruse.

Outside, voices were calling for witnesses from the assorted lords, for any who might testify to Meera's and Bran's identities. Her head was spinning. Sansa knew that rumours and whispers had named the wildlings responsible for Last Hearth. The testimony otherwise was valuable. If Meera confirmed that the Bastard's Boys who sacked Last Hearth and Winterfell, not wildlings and ironborn, then those were two crimes that might do wonders to dissuade any who still harboured Bolton sympathies. If Bran could attest the same thing, then…

As soon as Sansa stepped outside of Bran's chambers, there was a gaggle of lords and highborn waiting for her with uneasy expressions. A dozen of eyes peeled on her, the murmurs growing. Perhaps they thought she had more answers than they did, but Sansa could not admit to being out of the loop.

"Is it true?" a lord demanded, a broad-chested man with a shaggy beard. He spoke with a very thick accent like one of the northern mountain clans.

"That depends on what you've heard, my lord," Sansa replied, keeping her voice cool.

"Forgive us, my lady," Lord Gregor Forrester said carefully. He was a big man and tall man himself, but his voice was much more hesitant. "But there has been talk - we need answers. Is it truly Bran Stark?"

She bit her lip fractionally. "Yes," Sansa said. "It is. My brother lives."

The group stirred. Sansa recognised Lord Gregor Forrester of Ironrath, she also knew Ser Ian Poole, the heir to Laketon, and she suspected another to be Lord Rickon Holt of Westwood, but there

were others around her she could not place. Minor lords, all, she thought, but notable enough .

"The boy was on death's door," an old man said. "They say he will not live much longer."

"Are you sure it is truly him?" another pressed, talk loudly over the others. He was a short and stocky figure under furs. "I heard it was a ruse, a Bolton decoy."

"The maester says he will live, and it is my brother," Sansa confirmed, looking between them. "And I can recognise him surely." Sansa forced a smile, but her heart was beating too fast to really feel it. Her brother. The thought didn't feel real. "By the grace of the Old Gods, Bran Stark has returned to us."

"He has a direwolf, I saw it!" Ser Ian Poole proclaimed. "Only Stark children have such a beast. Summer, its name was."

Sansa recognised Ian Poole more clearly than the others - he was Jeyne Poole's cousin, and had been a frequent enough face around Winterfell in Sansa's youth. He had the same dark hair and brown eyes as his cousin, but he had grown and earned a knighthood in the time Sansa had been away. Jeyne disappeared in the capital, she thought, likely dead in an unmarked grave along with the rest of Father's household, right next to my childhood . Not everyone cameback from the dead.

"His direwolf is indeed proof," Sansa said, nodding.

"Praise the Old Gods," a voice muttered, but Sansa did not catch who.

"You do not have a wolf," an aging lord noted suspiciously, his mouth nearly toothless. "And neither does King Snow."

"My direwolf is dead, my lords," Sansa replied smoothly. "Yet the king's wolf is very much alive - Jon's wolf simply not present at the

moment." Where is Ghost? she wondered. She hadn't thought to ask.

"Robb Stark took his direwolf everywhere," the broad-chested lord noted.

"Jon is not Robb."

"He is not." Those words lingered in the air.

Sansa's smile turned wooden. "Forgive me, I've been away some time," she said carefully. "Lord…?"

Mollen," the broad-chested lord said, his voice a rough drawl. "Lord Norvel Mollen of Brandon's Crossing."

An Umber bannerman, but otherwise Sansa knew little. I know that some of House Mollen were betrayers in the Battle of the Snows, she recalled. Half a dozen Mollen men had lost their heads recently, but the lord of the house had remained unconvicted.

"It is my pleasure, my lord," Sansa said sweetly, giving a poised and practiced curtsy. Politeness is armour.

"Our apologies," Lord Gregor Forrester said, lowering his head too and stepping back fractionally. "We forget our manners. I am Lord Gregor of House Forrester, with Lords Rickon Holt, Anders Overton," he motioned to the aging man, "Alger Bole," the short and stocky man, "and Ser Ian Poole."

"It is an honour." Take care to remember them - Sansa couldn't afford to be a foreigner here. Her eyes turned to the seventh man; a long-faced, middle-aged figure who stood on the fringe of the group and said no words. He was dressed as a lord, but he had not been introduced. "And may I have a name?" she asked to the final man.

There was a hesitation, but the man forced a smile. "Lord Edric Ryder of Rillswater, if it pleases you."

She heard a quiet scoff. It sounded like Lord Holt scoffed 'for now' under his breath. Lord Edric Ryder stood like a black sheep among the group, his face guarded and his shoulders stiff.

Ah, but House Ryder is sworn to House Ryswell, who fought alongside the Boltons, Sansa realised. Lord Edric Ryder must have fought against them, but he bent the knee when Winterfell was taken. One of relatively few who did, from what Sansa heard.

She looked between their expressions, and there was no celebration. These men were feeling too nervous and uncertain to cheer for the prince's return. Nobody could cheer, not when so many questions and doubts hung over their heads.

"Pray, how may I help you, my lords?"

Lord Forrester stepped forward, glancing around the others. "We have… concerns, my la-" He paused. "Forgive me, but should I address you as 'my lady' or 'my princess'?"

Nobody spoke for a long heartbeat. There was a barb to the question, the implications… Was House Stark still King in the North, or was it Snow? Nobody was certain, everything was doubtful.

That is to be decided . And quickly, but Sansa couldn't give a wrong answer now. She needed to deflect the question rather than answer it. "Surely there is no need for such formalities among friends, is there?" she said sweetly.

"I'm afraid there is," Lord Forrester said gravelly, and eyes glanced around at one another. "Allow me to be blunt, because I fear many others will be asking the same. Who is the King in the North, my lady?"

"In his declaration," Lord Anders Overton noted lowly. "Jon Snow declared for House Stark - for the rescue of Arya."

"He did," Sansa replied, locking eyes with the man. "And what happened to my sister was a tragedy."

"It was indeed," Lord Holt quickly said.

"And realm cheers for the victory over the Boltons," Ser Ian Poole added, "and for the return of yourself and your brother to Winterfell." Gazes flickered towards Lord Ryder, who said nothing.

"But the question," insisted Lord Mollen, "remains. What does King Snow intend now?"

"I do not presume to know the king's intentions, my lords."

"And that is the problem, my lady," Lord Forrester replied. "Because neither do we."

There was a pause.

"I serve Stark, as my family has done for millennia," said Lord Rickon Holt in a low voice. "If the boy is alive, then heshould be the King in the North."

Sansa's smile was waxy, but her voice didn't waver. "Forgive me, but, if I recall, Jon Snow is the rightful king, as legitimised by King Robb." She had heard of that letter in White Harbour, but the subject was murky.

"That was a letter of arguable credibility, based on the presumption that his brothers were dead," Lord Mollen insisted. "And a proclamation I hear that he did not accept."

"A Snow is not a Stark," Lord Overton argued. "By all rights of succession, Brandon Stark should be king before Jon Snow."

Lord Bole opened his voice to object, but the talk was turning too heated. "Please my lords," Sansa soothed. "It is too early days to make such statements."

"Excuse us, my lady," Lord Forrester said firmly, shooting the others a sharp glance. "I fear patience is frayed and we are all tense. And yet…" He grimaced. "Please could we speak in private for a moment, my lady?"

Sansa paused, and then nodded. "As you wish, my lord." She and Lord Forrester stepped aside towards a corner by the stone staircase, to talk privately. The others were left stewing on the centre of the landing, muttering and glancing back towards her.

For a big man, Lord Forrester's voice and tone was surprisingly gentle. "Thank you, my lady. I hoped you could put doubts at ease."

"Whatever I can do," she tilted her head. "Your companions seem unsettled."

"Winterfell is unsettled," Lord Forrester replied. "Every house in the north is unsettled - we have been ever since the dragon started to fly over our lands. And the Battles of the Snows… well, the storm has yet to calm, the bodies still lie thick on the ground, and every living man is left stewing and doubtful." He paused, and shook his head. "If Brandon Stark is truly returned…"

Sansa nodded, keeping her eyes soft. "You worry for your lands and kingdom. But I fear this talk could sow discord when we need to harvest unity, my lord."

"There are… issues that need to be addressed," Lord Forrester admitted. "Bran Stark's appearance - and your own - has only brought to the surface what was already simmering."

"Indeed." Sansa met his gaze, choosing her words carefully. "I love my younger brother dearly, but he is a cripple and a young boy. Jon is a proven battle commander and a warrior."

"That is true. And you would hear few objections if Jon were to take the crown himself."

There was an edge to that phrase, Sansa considered. A quiet warning, perhaps. The unspoken objections were always the most dangerous. "And do you feel such dissent?"

"I… the north is a land divided, my lady." There was a quiet grimace. He nodded his head to the group of lords standing on the landing. "Lord Mollen over there lost family at Last Hearth, but many of his kin blamed the wildlings not Boltons. He did not know who was responsible, there was only fear and doubt." She did not speak. There was quiet for a few heartbeats before Lord Forrester nodded at the other lords. "And Lord Holt was so terrified of the dragon that he agreed to take a wildling bride from Snow, but he did not do so happily. Lord Overton did not even support Robb Stark as king, and then he thought his liege lord mad when Manderly made an alliance with the King-Beyond-the-Wall. Many wanted vengeance for the Red Wedding, but there were also many who were torn between fear of the invaders. Many who wanted to rebel, but many who did not ally easily behind a figure such as Jon Snow."

"A figure such as Jon Snow," Sansa repeated. "Could you explain that comment, my lord?"

For a second, his face looked pained. "The king… he is not the easiest figure to approach, my lady," Lord Forrester admitted. "Nobody knew him, nobody expected him. He came south of the Wall leading an invasion and a dragon . He brought with him armies of savages, a pagan religion of fanatics, his very name is a harbinger of ghost stories from beyond the Wall made real. He is a bastard, an oathbreaker, a sorcerer . He controls animals, he has unearthly powers - the tales they tell of him… !" The lord shook his head. "What sort of man could trust in such a figure? I will not excuse the crimes of House Bolton, but to many the Boltons were the devil we knew versus the devil we did not. The Boltons were a familiar evil, and the 'Bastard King' a terrifying unfamiliar one."

House Forrester, Sansa thought slowly, is a prominent sworn house to House Glover . Men from Forrester had served as scouts and outriders during the Battle of the Snows.

"I… I see," she said carefully. "Do you harbour grievances against King Snow, my lord?"

He hesitated. "I will not do you the disservice of falsehoods, my lady. My lands have been plagued by wildlings since time immemorial. When Jon Snow came south of the Wall leading an army of them, there was not a lord in the realm who didn't feel dread."

"Jon Snow has fought for the north, not against it," Sansa argued. "And the wildlings have kept to his peace."

"So he claims," Lord Forrester agreed, nodding. "But we still need to know for sure."

She measured his gaze. He had a blunt face and honest features. For a tall and powerful man, there was a flicker of fear and uncertainty in his expression. The uncertainty was the most dangerous. "And do you feel that that there could be dissent should my brother and half-brother clash over the crown?" Sansa asked after a heartbeat.

"I feel that this is indicative of the question that the realm has been asking from the beginning," Lord Forrester said. "For what does Jon Snow fight - his own power, or the north?"

Sansa had no reply to give. She just nodded. "Thank you for your words, my lord."

There were others who tried to approach her, asking the same questions, raising similar concerns. Sansa could only give them hollow platitudes, all the while trying to read their mood. She had to excuse herself, and she walked woodenly to find her half-brother.

Her head spinning with the possibilities. Jon could remove Bran from the legitimacy easy enough. Perhaps a few would try to raise a fuss, but it didn't really matter - the wildlings controlled Winterfell, not the northern lords. A cripple and a child would get little support regardless, but the question was whether or not Jon would…

What if Rickon was still alive too? There were rumours… would Jon Snow depose both his half-brothers? Sansa couldn't say for certain.

As for as the laws of north went, the matter was so tangled that every man could come to their own conclusion. It was arguable whether or not Robb had even been a true king - Robb had never even stepped foot in the north with his crown, he had never sat on the throne of Winterfell, had never been crowned a King of Winter. It was arguable whether Robb's decree was valid, or if he had the right to legitimise, or even whether Stark was a house of lords or of kings.

The law is useless, Sansa thought slowly. The law will be rewritten to suit whatever Jon Snow decides . All that mattered was power and perception. What the realm would accept, and what they must be forced to accept.

But are Jon and I on the same side?

A guard pointed her towards the lord's solar, and she entered hesitantly. Sansa straightened her dress and brushed her hair back behind the door, but there was no time to be properly dressed in finery. She straightened her shoulders, rehearsed her lines silently, and knocked thrice on the door. "Enter," a voice called.

Sansa stepped through, and curtsied deeply. King Snow was sitting behind an oak desk - her father's desk - while he drummed his fingers against something resting on his lap. "Your Grace," Sansa greeted. "My heart skips to see my brother again, thank you so much for bringing-"

"Spare it." King Snow's voice was short and sharp. He looked tired, worn; his eyes red and his shoulders slumped. "You came with purpose."

It was not a question. Sansa straightened up, and bit her lip. They were not friends, Sansa considered. They were close, perhaps, but even all through their childhood they had never been friendly . She

met his gaze, and she decided that they were both far too emotionally-exhausted for the pretence.

"Winterfell is asking about Bran," she said simply. "Wondering what happens now."

There was no reply. King Snow's grey eyes were focused on her, his expression guarded.

"I can see two ways how this can go," Sansa said, after a good few heartbeats of silence. "Option one, you crown yourself King in the North, and you make a new house. House Snow, if you desire. You set yourself king of this new kingdom of yours, and Bran Stark is the rightful Stark and Lord of Winterfell." She paused. "You must leave a rank and inheritance for Stark, to appease the northern lords."

Jon scratched his whiskers, a fuzz of white hair growing from his cheeks. "And what of this second option?" he asked in quiet voice.

"That you legitimise yourself as King Stark, you take Winterfell and Robb's crown." Sansa's voice was low. "And then you'd suffer whispers that you are an usurper for the rest of your reign."

He will take the kingship himself, Sansa thought. She knew he would. There was nothing standing in his way, and few to object when he did. There was a thin smile on his lips.

King Snow raised the item in his lap carefully. He was holding a silver and white crown in his hands, showing it to her.

It was a slender and smoothly crafted coronet, carved from white wood lined with silver inlaid, the tips of the prongs shaped into growling wolf heads. Or perhaps they were supposed to be dragon maws - the carved wood was so fine and smooth it was hard to make out details.

Sansa blinked. "Ah," she said, nodding.

He shook his head. "No. There is a third option," King Snow said softly. "This is for Bran. He should be king, not me."

She held herself from reacting, but she nearly flinched with surprise. "I've already made the decision," he continued. "I have already had my chance to accept Robb's will, but I denied it then and I do again. Bran would be better to unify the north than I would be. The northmen will accept him more than they would me."

"I… I…" For a heartbeat, Sansa was left speechless. "And the wildlings?"

"The free folk follow me, and I will follow Bran," Jon said. "The law is clear - the trueborn son comes before the bastard. He is the King in the North, and I the King-Beyond-the-Wall; so I will swear fealty and secede my 'crown' to his. You are right; it'd be the most efficient way of unifying the factions."

But you'd still be the most significant commander in King Bran's realm . As Regent? Hand of the King? Sansa's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "And you just happened to have a crown prepared for this?"

"The crown is from White Harbour," he explained, as he slid the coronet over the desk. "Lord Manderly had it forged for me, but I never wore it."

She stepped closer, peering down at the crown. "Why did you never wear it?"

He smiled softly. "It never seemed prudent," he admitted. "I thought about it, but the crown is meaningless to the free folk and it would have been divisive to the northmen. If I had worn it, then the northern lords might have bristled at the sight, and… well, it just didn't seem wise. Why create one more issue to dispute?" He paused. "Lord Manderly and I argued that point in length, but we decided… we resolved to wait until Winterfell was taken to decide the matter."

Her gaze flickered. "So you've decided?"

"I've decided." King Snow… Jon… was staring down at the crown too. "It may be too large for Bran now, but he will grow into it."

Just like that? Sansa thought with confusion. You'd surrender so much power just like that? The throne of Winterfell is there for the taking. You've sat on it already, the crown is on your lap . "Robb's will-"

"-was written under false assumptions." Jon shook his head. "I… I indulged the idea, but I said from the beginning that I am not King in the North. No - this is Bran's inheritance, not mine, and I would crown him king."

Jon

He saw an expanse of ice, a frozen hellscape that stretched to the ends of the earth. There was nothing around him but darkness and jagged ice.

The world was frozen. Jon stood upon a frozen lake, staring across at the abyss. In the starless night sky, he heard the flapping of great wings somewhere in the black. There was movement in the dark, but he couldn't make it out.

Jon looked at his hands. On his left hand, he had five fingers again, and no pale cauterised stump of a little finger. This is a dream . Just a dream .

A ghostly blue light surrounded him, but Jon could not see the source of it. He could see nothing but shadows, until he caught the pinpricks of light - the reflection from eyes staring back at him.

Jon took a step forward, walking across the crackling ice. The shadows parted around him.

He could see them. First they were shapeless, then they took form. He saw the face looking back at him; a hard grey gaze like stone, and a smooth face like carved from bark. Qhorin Halfhand stood silently before him, regarding him with calm, expectant eyes. Jon walked past him, and neither of them said a word.

Standing behind Qhorin, Lord Mormont had his arms folded and his lips pursed; his gaze was more judging. The old Lord Commander disappeared into mist as soon as Jon stepped close.

There were other shades, all surrounding him. Jon saw the figures wearing black cloaks; Dalbridge, Ebben, Stonesnake, Pyp, Bowen Marsh, Sweet Donnel Hill, Jeren, Hake, Rast, Donal Noye…

He saw Maester Aemon, walking blindly in the dark. Ser Alliser Thorne stood with a sneer on his lips, and blood seeping down from the cut across his neck.

He knew why they were here. He knew it in his bones. Jon kept walking, and the field of dead men walked around him.

There were more figures than just sworn brothers; he saw Alvin Whaletooth, Harma Dogshead, Hunting Seal and all those at Hardhome. Half of them wore white stones, pleading for Jon to protect them.

He saw Furs, standing with a smirk across his cold lips - besides Hatch, Ewan Bole, Black Maris, Rolf, Urwen, Stiga, Gregg and all the Dragonguard who had died on the ice.

He saw Wylis Manderly, Hugo Wull, Alysane Mormont, Jeremy Locke…

Brandon Norrey, Robett Glover, Ethan Whitehill, Mandon Slate, Hoster Moss, Torghen Flint…

There were more. He saw Harlow - Ramsay Snow - doubled over as he laughed in hysterics, his face twisted in rage and fury, but no

sound from his throat. Jon saw Lord Bolton standing tall, a doubtful expression in his pale eyes. He saw a hundred knights with crimson hearts on their chest, and swords that were all burnt out. He saw the blue-eyed king - Stannis Baratheon - clutching his bloody stump of a hand and staring with scorn. Jon saw the young, nameless squire who had looked so much like Bran, still clutching that dagger and staring upwards with fearful eyes.

Most of the shadows were nameless. Most were faceless too. There were more men surrounding him that he couldn't even keep track of, more faces looking at him than he could ever recognise. More names than I could ever know .

Friends, enemies and bystanders, all standing together, looking at him.

Some of them Jon had killed with his own hands, some had died around him, but they had all died because of him.

He saw Ygritte, broken and smeared at the bottom of the abyss he had pushed her down. She was still trying to climb up despite her broken body.

He saw Val, bleeding out in the snow beneath him and clutching her chest. Jon knew that it was wrong - he knew that Val wasn't dead yet

but she was still here. He stared at her but there was nothing he could say or do to make it right.

He saw the scorched ruins of the tower, and the charred and unrecognisable, faceless little girl that had died inside of it.

He saw women and children in the ruins of Mole's Town. He saw families dead in the forests and the snows. He saw all of those wearing white stones on their chests, praying for salvation. He saw piles of corpses from all the battles - the Battle of Hardhome, the Battle of Weeping Water, the Battle of the Snows, from all the wars he had waged.

Jon saw a mountain of frozen bodies, piled in the ruins of the Twins.

Thousands, tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands… More names than he could ever learn.

By the gods, Jon thought, staring around the dreamscape. Did I really kill so many?

Somewhere behind him, Roose Bolton was laughing silently.

The scene blurred, the ice cracking beneath him and the darkness…

Jon didn't gasp as he woke up. There was a cold sweat across his brow, but he didn't tremble. The first time he had those dreams he had been shaking, but now Jon just blinked, took a deep breath, and pulled himself off his bed.

He did not know the time, but it felt like the hour of the ghost. Jon did what he did every time the nightmares came; he pulled on his cloak, he picked up his walking stick, and he limped out of the door and kept on walking. The only sound in the gloomy corridors was the deathly whispering of the fading candles, and the tap of his stick against stone with every step.

He walked aimlessly, but Jon found himself moving towards the West Tower. The roof of the entire wing had collapsed, and snow scattered across black and charred timbers. They had barricaded off the wreckage, but Jon could feel the wind hissing through the burnt-out walls of the keep.

Winterfell barely looked the same. Jon walked over the scorched floor, gazing around the castle and hardly even recognising it. The fires had been so hot that even the stones had warped. Winterfell had been one of the most magnificent castles in the realm; old, majestic, and as strong as they came. Jon could think of very few castles - Casterly Rock, Storm's End, the Eyrie, possibly the Red Keep - that could match the scale of Winterfell.

Now, the castle was twisted, stained by fire, snow and blood. The corpses had been dragged away, but Jon could still see the dried bloodstains across the corridors down to the Great Hall. They had cleared the keep of bodies, but there were still dead men littering the rest of the grounds in Winterfell. The North had known more than its fair share of bloody battles, but by Jon's reckoning the Battle of the Snows would go down as one of the bloodiest.

Thousands of men had died in the ambush. Thousands more had died in the fields, caught by storms. More still died breaking the gate. The Boltons had stained the ground with blood for every inch that they fell.

All of those deaths, Jon thought restlessly. Perhaps in my dreams I'll eventually count them all .

He wondered how many bodies that truly was. If we piled them, how high would the tower rise? If we continued, would we be able to make a brand new Wall out of corpses?

Sometimes it felt like every death was a little bit of a stain on the soul.

Come dawn, Jon found himself standing in the frozen inner courtyard of the Great Keep, great icicles dangling from the arches around him. The walls sheltered him from the wind, but Jon could still hear the distant howl of the snows.

"King Snow," a voice called from behind. Jon turned, to see a short, scrawny man limping through over the steps.

Not for much longer, Jon mused. "Rattleshirt," he replied.

The wildling looked at him with guarded eyes, staring out from beneath the giant skull helm. " Lord Rattleshirt now, I think," Rattleshirt said with a scoff. "Lord of House Bone, perhaps. What do you reckon - you see me in a keep drinking mulled wine in furs coats like you southerners?"

All wildlings that followed Jon would receive citizenship in the north. Jon finally had the great lords of the realm to accept it; the gates would stay open for all refugees and none would stop them from coming south. There would be lordships and titles to the most notable of the free folk leaders. Many would scowl and spit - but that was the price for peace.

Some northern houses still opposed him - most notably House Ryswell and House Dustin. Lord Ryswell had died in the snows and Lady Dustin was a prisoner, but Barrowtown and the Rills still stood defiant. Yet they wouldn't stand for long, and the Bolton loyalists had been crushed at Winterfell. There would be no more great hosts of men to defy him.

Jon turned at the soon-to-be Lord of House Bone, keeping his posture guarded. The thought of the two Norrey girls lingered at the forefront on his mind.

Lord Bone's shirt barely even rattled anymore. His armour of bones were coated in metal - Rattleshirt had found a metalsmith to coat his bone suit in molten bronze. The metal giant's skull helm glinted slightly in the faint sunlight through the clouds. His armour was now lined with wool and cotton to stop the rattling, and furs that made Rattleshirt look more lordly and heavyset than he ever had before.

"I'm thinking of taking the name Lord Vaast Bone," the wildling continued, rambling as he paced. "Vaast - after my father. I know, I'm the sentimental sort. Maybe some little castle by the coast would suit me well. I heard that the Weeper has his eye on claiming Karhold, I don't see why I can't get a similar castle. Why not that Dreadfort for me? Surely there's got to be a bunch of castles empty with all this lot dead."

Jon paused. There was something of an edge in the man's voice.

"What do you want, Rattleshirt?" Jon asked after a heartbeat.

The man's gaze met Jon, the shadows of the giant skull glaring at him. "More wondering what you want, myself," Rattleshirt said. "I see

no reason why you shouldn't get a castle too, Snow. The biggest castle, even."

Jon did not reply. "I gave you my vow, and I've upheld it. I've followed your law, I've respected your peace - but you tell me right now, Snow," Rattleshirt said, his voice turning dark. "I swore that I'd kill you when you broke your promise to the free folk."

"And I haven't."

"Not yet. But if you give away my fealty - give away your kingship - to a crippled fucking boy then I'd call a betrayal."

"Careful now." Jon's hand curled tighter around his walking staff. "That's my brother you're talking about."

"Your crippled brother," Rattleshirt snorted. "Crippled half -brother. You can't seriously expect us to bow to a broken kid like that, can you?"

You've never bowed to me once. "You chose to give your fealty to me. I get to choose who I give my fealty to. Brandon Stark is the rightful king."

"Not of us!" he growled. "Not of the free folk! Fuck Snow, why would you even want to bow? You're the power here. You have the army, you have the dragon. Nobody would go against you. If you bow to someone as weak as that, then just think of how weak that makes you look."

Jon's hands clenched. "That kid doesn't deserve a throne - you do," Rattleshirt snapped. "So take your bloody castle, Snow. This is your castle."

He could have snapped, could have recoiled, but Jon kept his voice and gaze cool. "You expect me to steal my brother's inheritance?"

"Steal? I call it claim. I doubt you'd even need to fight over it. Just say the words - 'I am King in the North' and you really think he's going to object to you? That anyone is going to object to you?"

He shook his head. Jon turned, already starting to walk away. "I'd have no right."

"Fuck right. How about deserve?" Rattleshirt called behind him. "Don't we deserve to have a strong king instead of a crippled boy? Nobody will thank you for bowing, Snow."

"If you want your castle, then you'll bow," Jon said simply as he walked. "That is the price for peace."

"Whose price?" Rattleshirt demanded.

"Mine." He paused, and then turned around. "Oh, and Rattleshirt?" The wildling glared. Jon kept his voice slow and calm. "If I ever hear you speaking such of my brother again, I will kill you."

And I would enjoy killing you too. Perhaps the world will be better off when I do.

The wildling didn't reply as Jon walked away. He didn't care about what Rattleshirt thought, but how many of the other free folk would be thinking the same thing?

No, it has to be Bran, Jon decided. Crowning Bran would appease the northern lords, while Jon would still keep power with the free folk. The northmen could not object to Bran, and most of the free folk wouldn't care either way. Jon had to think of the long-run, of the future of the realm. There must be a Stark in Winterfell .

Power came with its own costs. Lord Bolton had taught him that.

His brother had been back in Winterfell for barely a day, and yet Jon was already planning the coronation. The news could unite the realm, and there could be no delay.

Jon took a deep breath and flexed his neck, feeling the flecks of snow drifting down on his hair. Morning light was faint through the stormy clouds. The sun was rising, and it was time. They'd be waiting for him in the Winter Suite.

Jon's leg felt stiff as he headed up the granite steps towards the Great Keep. He saw servants bow towards him deeply, fear and awe in their gazes. Even just walking up the stairs attracted so much attention that Jon's hand stayed on Dark Sister.

He stepped into the hallway, and then up the spiral staircase. He knew these corridors. He knew them well, but it had been so long since he was last here. He spent his childhood growing up in the keep, playing with Robb and other children. He could pick out Arya's old room, Robb's, Sansa's. His father's. Mine . The bastard's room had been the smallest, on the far side of the wing.

The Winter Suite was at the other end of the Lord's Household, the highest wing of the Great Keep. The wing held two dozen rooms, four noble guest rooms, the king's room, the lord's chambers, and the lord's solar. King Robert had stayed in these rooms, Jon remembered, in the king's room almost as large as Lord Stark's quarters. The lord's solar stood adjoined to the lord's chamber, a great study of oak and stone dominated by a huge circular table.

His father would meet Winterfell's guests in his solar, Jon remembered, but the Winter Suite was reserved for only the most noble of gatherings. It was a high-ceiling, large granite chamber, with doors leading out onto the west balcony overlooking the courtyard. It was filled by a heavy stone table built like a slab, with seats that could sit three dozen men. The doors were solid oak reinforced with steel, but the chamber itself was rarely used as it had no fireplace or heated pipes through the walls.

The Winter Suite, where the Kings of Winter had held their councils.

Jon had heard that Theon the Hungry Wolf commissioned the Winter Suite during the Hundred Year War. Chimneys, hearths and piping

were vulnerabilities, and King Theon had wanted a war chamber which no spy could ever infiltrate. It was a room of solid granite, built like a siege bunker in the middle of the Great Keep. A secure chamber, but with no heating. Theon's paranoia meant it was the coldest room in the castle.

Now, for the first time in three hundred years, there would be a Court of Winter under the name of the King in the North.

The guards lined the corridor, bowing to him. Jon had been in the Winter Suite before, but he never been allowed in during his father's formal meetings.

He heard the voices, he heard the mutters as the doors opened. Every man in the Winter Suite wore furs tightly, standing stiffly over the slab of a stone table. They had gathered every notable northern lord and lady in Winterfell; some who had arrived with Jon, others who had bent the knee when the castle fell.

Lord Greatjon Umber towered at the far side of the table, his arms folded stiffly. Surrounding the table, there was Lord Gregor Forrester, Ser Mardrick Manderly, Lord Cregan Karstark, Lord Rickon Holt, Lord Anders Overton, Lord Alger Bole, Ser Ian Poole, Ser Garth Woolfield, Eric Burley, Bennard Waterman, and a dozen other petty lords that Jon couldn't even name. There were even those who had fought alongside House Bolton; like Lord Edric Ryder, Lord Harwood Stout, Kyle Cordon, Barthogan Rose, Lord Errold Stonehull and others that Jon couldn't recall being introduced to.

Ten days ago, perhaps they might have met on the battlefield. Now, they were standing uneasily in the chamber before him. The air was stiff.

It was so cold that a fine layer of mist hovered with every breath. Galbart Glover isn't present, Jon noted quietly. Despite Jon's explicitorders, the Master of Deepwood Motte had still excused himself from the assembly. Lady Leona Manderly wasn't present either, but her

eldest daughter - Wynafryd - was standing meekly towards the edge of the room next to her cousin, Ser Mardrick.

There were quiet mutters that silenced as Jon stepped in. The guardsmen stamped their spears three times to announce him, and the chamber went stiff. "Jon Snow!" a man boomed. "King Beyond the Wall!"

He almost missed her, but Jon caught sight of Sansa, huddled in a white fur cloak at the end of the table. Her red hair shone like fire in the room of grey and white, her face stiff and poised. Sansa was the youngest one in the room; the fairest, the most beautiful. Even while most others wore boiled leather and chainmail, she was clad in furs.

The sight of her caused Jon to freeze fractionally. His sister looked at him quietly, giving a curt nod. Jon's eyes were wary, looking between all the faces surrounding him.

Lady Maege Mormont stood beside the doorway, still wearing her ringmail. Lady Mormont and the reinforcements from Bear Island and the northwest had arrived just last night, and had barely had time to settle yet. The Lady of Bear Island nodded to Jon as he stepped through, and scanned the room.

"Lady Mormont," Jon greeted, turning away from the rest of the room. "Thank you for being here. I'm glad you could make it."

"Of course." She nodded, stiffly. "I am sorry to have missed the battle, Your Grace."

The battle where your daughter died . "We will discuss that later, my lady."

The stone table could sit three dozen, but there were still too many in the room to each take a chair. They've left my father's seat vacant - the big, pronged oak seat at the back, Jon noticed. The seat for a king . Jon didn't take it, instead he stepped behind the one nearestthe door.

"Lord Umber." Jon nodded to the lords, one by one. "Ser Mardrick. Lord Forrester. Lord Bole. Ser Ian. Lord Karstark."

"King Snow," Lord Umber replied, grizzled eyes narrowing. Was it just him, or was there a question in there?

"My noble lords," Jon said, turning to the gathering "I am glad we could finally have this assembly. You all know me by reputation if naught else, I'm sure. Many of you I have fought besides, some of you I have fought against." His gaze turned towards Lord Stout, Lord Ryder and Lord Rose, before flickering away. "But you have all bent the knee to the peace I offered you, and so you are all here."

"Lady Barbrey Dustin is not present, Your Grace," Lord Harwood Stout noted, his voice foul. He was a haggard and one-armed man, with grim eyes. All of the former Bolton-loyalists had dark expressions, huddled together quietly.

"Lady Dustin," Jon replied, "has not bent the knee. And so she has no place being here."

There was no reply but silence. Lady Dustin would stay in her cell until she conceded, or until Jon named a new lord of House Dustin. Every highborn captive had been forced to surrender the Bolton cause and pledge loyalty before they were released, and even then under heavy supervision. There were only a few diehard loyalists like Lady Dustin that had so far refused to surrender.

"What is to happen with us who followed House Bolton?" Barthogan Rose asked grimly. The Master of the Red Knife was a Bolton bannerman, a tall and grim man with a fresh scar across his cheek. He looked more like a grizzled sellsword than noble lord. "And our lands and holdings. Has a judgement been made?"

"That depends." Jon cocked his head. "Are you guilty of any crimes, ser?"

No reply came. Barthogan Rose kept his eyes guarded, and Lord Edric Ryder shuffled backwards slightly. Jon just scoffed under his breath. "Your ranks and holdings will be judged on a case by case basis. I expect each of you to make some concession - as retribution for your poor choice of loyalty," Jon said stiffly. "But until a decision can be made, you will keep the peace - and your cooperation will be noted. I have accepted your surrender, but any further defiance from you now will not be well-received, my lords."

Jon looked between the gaggle of men standing in the corner. "Do you understand?" Jon pressed. "I require confirmation."

There were nods, and mutters of "Yes, Your Grace" from the men.

Jon just nodded.

Truth be told, Jon bore little hatred towards most of the Bolton's supporters. They would all lose lands and ranks, but they would keep their heads if they pledged their loyalty now. He had, however, sentenced all traitors in his own camp mercilessly, and he had set a standing judgement of execution towards any man who had participated in the Red Wedding - but the others had committed no crimes.

Most of the men who followed House Bolton had stuck to their liege lords and their vows; most of them did not participate or conspire towards the Red Wedding, but in its aftermath they had followed the Warden of the North - whose son was married to the heir apparent and rightful liege lady, Arya Stark. As damnable as their lord paramount had been, Jon could not fault them for loyalty.

Unless they participated in the Red Wedding, he added silently. In that case, I very much can damn them .

His eyes lingered on Barthogan Rose; Jon would have to find enough witnesses to identify who exactly had been at the Red Wedding, and who gave the orders. Some present would have been oblivious, but others were not.

Heartbeats passed in uneasy silence. The memories of the battle were still fresh, and enemies on the battlefield were now standing in the same room. "We are all busy and it is cold," Jon said finally, breaking the silence. "I mean this court to take stock, but I will not keep you long."

"What is the meaning of this, Your Grace?" Lord Cregan Karstark said loudly, with a slight sneer on the honorific. Lord Karstark stood to the front of the table, his arms resting on the stone. "And will your savages be joining us?"

Jon didn't react, but his eyes narrowed. "The free folk will not be. This assembly is for only the northern lords for now, to share matters of state." He looked around the room, measuring reactions. "We are, after all," he continued, "an independent Kingdom of the North again."

There were no reactions, but they all stiffened somewhat. Jon turned towards Sansa, looking at her for confirmation. "As - you have no doubt heard - Bran Stark has been returned to Winterfell. My brother, the son of Eddard Stark, is alive," he said. No mutters, only nods. "There have been rumours that he is on death's door. I mean to dispel such talk; Bran Stark is healthy, and safe, within this very keep."

Lord Mollen raised his voice cautiously. "Yet he is a cripple."

"My brother is strong," Sansa spoke up. "Legs or no, Bran is strong to survive the ordeal he has been through."

"Aye, I do not doubt that," Ser Mardrick Manderly commented. "And will Prince Bran be joining us?"

"I'm afraid not," Sansa replied, nodding to Jon. "Prince Bran is weakened, he needs his bedrest."

He saw everyone in the room glance towards him, looking at him half-warily and half-expectantly. Jon paused.

I could do it, Jon thought, one last time. I could declare myself king. King Snow. Or even King Stark. I doubt Bran would object if I chose to legitimise myself. He would probably even support me .

No, Jon thought after a second thought. It just didn't feel right. I am a Snow, not a Stark . There was no joy down that other route.

A half-smile flickering across his lips. "You are mistaken, Princess Sansa. King Brandon will not be present," Jon said finally. "But Bran shall be crowned as King in the North before the week's end. Let the realm raise the direwolf banner again."

At that, the room did stir. There were a few mutters of surprise that rose around the table. Jon saw Lord Karstark's face twist unpleasantly, while Lord Umber seemed to hesitate.

"And what of you?" Lord Forrester asked quietly; a tall man standing next to Sansa.

"I was King-Beyond-the-Wall, never King in the North," Jon reminded. King-Beyond-the-Wall for all of a year, he thought silently. "And I will relinquish that title to King Brandon as well. I will renounce my claim to kingship in favour of his."

There was a moment of silence in the room. "… I see." Lady Maege hesitated. "What does that leave you, then?"

"I do not know. Perhaps I will take a new holding, a new house. Something Beyond-the-Wall - Lord of Hardhome, perhaps." A position I could use to bring order, to unite the realm even if it's not under me.

"Such as Lord Paramount Beyond-the-Wall?" Lady Maege pressed. Jon nodded. "If King Brandon wishes it."

Some of their gazes looked confused, flickering between him and the others. Voiceless mutters raised around the chamber, but Jon didn't

react to them. He stood stiff. Let the whole realm know that I am no usurper .

The Greatjon grunted. Jon thought he saw the man's expression relax slightly. "You are not what I expected, Snow," the Greatjon said after a pause. "Or should I call you Lord Snow, now?"

Lord Snow. Once Ser Thorne mocked me with that name . "Nothing is official until the king proclaims it. I shall give my fealty to Bran at his coronation," Jon said, before allowing himself a smile. "Although I suppose I will need to think of a new name for my house."

"Indeed." Was it him, or did the air in the solar seem to soften more comfortably? There was something of a grudging approval in the Greatjon's eyes.

"Hear, hear!" Ser Mardrick called, slamming his hands together. "Brandon Stark, King in the North!"

There were mumbles. Sansa picked up the cry, her voice clear and firm. "King in the North!"

Besides her, Lord Forrester repeated the cry, and then Lady Wynafryd, then Eric Burley and Ser Ian. Others were still mumbling, or stood quiet.

A few lords, like Lord Stout, looked guarded and suspicious. "The king is only eleven years old," the one-armed lord said stiffly. "He will need a regent. And do you intend to suggest yourself, Lord Snow?"

Is that accusation in his voice? Does he think me duplicitous, that I intend to seize power through the regency ? Stubborn fool. Still, Jon hesitated. He couldn't give an outright denial, when in fact he might make a very good choice for regent.

"If I felt I could serve the realm by acting as regent," Jon said carefully, "then I would take on the duty. But that decision is for king's

choice to make or the high lords of the north to approve. I would never force myself into the role."

Lord Stout stayed guarded, but he seemed to accept the answer. The Greatjon nodded approvingly, while Lord Karstark looked quietly fuming.

"This realm must be put to order at all haste," Jon continued. "We are standing in what King Robb fought for, we have what the realm lost for three hundred years; an independent Kingdom of the North. I mean to ensure the safety and prosperity of this land, and I will do whatever is required to see the King in North, the Stark on the Winter Throne."

"As your puppet king?" Lord Cregan muttered under his breath, not quite a sneer. His voice was low, but the room was quiet and the words clearly audible.

A few lords bristled. "While the king is indisposed, I mean to appoint a council of great lords to speak for him," Jon replied stiffly, refusing to even look at the man. "We shall fill a council to sit in this very chamber."

"And who will decide them?" Lord Karstark pressed, and the room shifted. " Your Grace? "

"Careful with your tongue, Cregan," the Greatjon warned.

"I shall make the nominations, my lord." Do not rise to his barbs, do not let any emotion show . Lord Bolton had been calm even as hedied. "As shall the high lords of the realm. And it shall be for the king to approve them."

"An intermediary council," Sansa spoke up suddenly. "As Brandon's sister and next of kin, it is well within my right to approve such. King Snow and I are in full agreement in this matter."

"As am I," Lady Maege said firmly. "And as are Lords Umber, Manderly and Glover."

For a moment, it looked like Lord Cregan was about to say something scathing, but he held his tongue. The men standing around Lord Cregan kept their distance, leaving him isolated in the corner of the room. Lord Karstark was speaking too boldly, even the men who might agree with him looked nervous.

"And… if that is agreed… there is another matter that I must have of you, my lords," Jon said, moving away Karstark. He slowly pulled out a curl of parchment from his furs, unfurling it on the table. "This room represents perhaps the greatest gathering of aristocracy in the north. I vowed to bring the Boltons to justice and deliver House Stark to its rightful place, and I have. And now I mean to fulfil another of the promises that I declared."

The parchment was crisp and pale yellow, with slightly blotted squiggles across the page. The few scribes with their host had worked very quickly to sketch something up with all haste; it was hardly a thorough document, but it would do.

"This parchment," Jon explained, "is a decree to allow all refugees north of the Wall citizenship into our lands. They will each receive amnesty for all crimes committed before they crossed the Wall, to be accepted under the trust of King Brandon Stark. An unconditional pardon, for every free folk who accepts the king's trust." A few bristled. "I wish for every lord and lady currently present to put their seal and signature to parchment, to show your own acceptance and sign it into law."

There were no reactions, but a few stiffened. "From now on," Jon continued, "there is no excuse. No more will the free folk be driven from our lands, and no more will they thieve and pillage."

"Aye," Ser Mardrick Manderly said. "My liege lord has contacted as many highborn as possible. They agreed, some more willingly than others."

The Greatjon grunted. "I lost two daughters to wildlings, and here I am agreeing to let them settle on my land," he said in fuming growl.

"If it is the price for peace, I will sacrifice land myself." Lady Mormont glared at Lord Umber. "Provided, of course, that they are held to the same laws as the rest of us."

"They will be." Jon nodded. It would be a tough sell, but the only way it could work. "There will be no more raiding. No more stealing women. The free folk will bend, and we will appoint lords from them that will enforce the law."

Jon met the Greatjon's eyes. His mouth tightened, but he nodded stiffly. The Umber lands were the furthest north of them all - in all likelihood the Umbers would suffer the most from the free folk settlements.

Others hesitated, but he still saw the reluctance in their eyes. "Surely such a decree requires a king's approval?" Lord Ryder said cautiously.

"It does, it has been written in the name of Brandon Stark, King in the North. I shall present this petition to the king - with the seals of the northern lords attached," Jon said coolly. "But the king is indisposed, and I mean for this to be immediate law. I wish for every lord here to understand, so that none can claim ignorance; there will be no conflicts on your lands."

"You speak of our responsibilities," Lord Cregan simmered. "But what of the wildlings? What of when they steal wives and daughters, are we are not allowed to act?"

I could expel him from the room for such a tone . Still, Jon wouldn't allow Cregan to disrupt them such - to force him out would only make Jon appear the tyrant. "Rest assured, I shall be having a similar conversation with the free folk leaders too," Jon replied. His gaze was level, unflinching. "But I mean for the law to be clear; any crime that a free folk commits must be dealt with as it would be for

any citizen of the north. Trial and prosecution, that is your duty as lords.

"This parchment - this is but a formality, a written record to show that you accept such. And to outline the consequences of what will happen if you breach this accord." His eyes searched the room. "I do hope there is no uncertainty here."

The room hesitated. "And this paper," Cregan dared, grinding his teeth. "You are forcing us to put our names to it? We have no choice in the matter?"

"You always have a choice, my lord. Walk out of here if you wish." Jon's voice made that option clear. "But what you must ask yourself - 'is this a choice that I want to make?'"

Defy me, Jon vowed silently, and the pile of bodies will have to get a little bit larger . This was the easy way, but other way would be far more unpleasant.

How many men would be willing to die for their principles? How many lords would refuse to put aside their grudge against the wildlings?

And how free folk would insist on their grudge against the kneelers? Jon had no illusions, both sides were as bad as each other.

But there would be peace, even if Jon had to kill every single lord in the room to achieve it.

Gazes flickered to Lord Karstark, but nobody said a word. Finally, Sansa stepped forward, and she was the first to put her name to the parchment - Lady Sansa of House Stark, along with a blob of wax squeezed by a wooden stamp of the direwolf's head.

Next, it was Lady Maege and then the Greatjon. All protests fizzled and died as those two lords stepped forward. Lord Karstark looked

like he had been force-fed a lemon, but he grit his jaw and signed the parchment.

"Thank you for your cooperation, my lords," Jon said finally. "I will not detain you. Lady Stark, Lord Umber, Lady Mormont and Ser Manderly - a moment of your time?"

The other lords started to file away, but those five lingered. Lady Wynafryd looked between Sansa and Ser Mardrick, but then reluctantly moved out of the room. Lord Umber had his arms folded, peering down at the parchment spotted by signatures. "Just like that," the Greatjon muttered, in a voice that was quiet for him. " Amnesty . We sign a piece of paper, and you think a thousand yearold grudge will disappear just like that?"

"I think it's a start," Jon retorted.

"Aye. And we have been discussing it," Lady Mormont said. "I suggest that we extend our kingdom Beyond-the-Wall, to formally recognise those lands as our own."

"I agree." Ser Mardrick nodded. "Come spring, we can see about resettling the wildlings in their former lands - with defined territories, and protection and fealty paid to Winterfell. Our kingdom might double in size."

Come spring, Jon thought dryly. And how long will that be?

And yet still, the optimism from him was impressive. Perhaps the thought of possibly rich, untouched northern lands might sweeten the alliance. There could even be benefactors willing to invest towards such a thing, if Jon sold it right.

"Yes," Jon agreed. "Beyond-the-Wall is a rich, vast and untapped land. It would take time to settle them again, but it will be worthwhile." There was a pause. "However, we cannot do so in winter, and we certainly cannot do so while the threat of the Others looms."

"The Others," Sansa repeated, her eyes flickering.

That caused the room to glance. No one said it out loud, but Jon caught the whiff of hesitation. Do they still not believe me about the Others? It was frustrating, but expected; so few northmen hadwitnessed the Others, and Malvern was keeping a very low profile.

Ser Mardrick looked ready to question or object to the assertion, but Lady Mormont interrupted. "The Wall must be defended. That is certain," she said, raising her voice. "We can see about sending soldiers from the north to the Wall, to reinforce the men of the Night's Watch and the free folk. For now, we must simply hold the Wall, while we prepare for the campaign."

"And what campaign is that?" said the Greatjon. "If what the wildlings claim is true, then we have enemies on all sides. We are in rebellion to the Iron Throne, they will come to take back the north. We have ironborn ravaging the coast. We are to expect bloody white walkers to attack from the north as well?"

Forget the rest, Jon might have cursed, the Others are the true threat . Sansa met his gaze, measuring his expression. "Lord Umber is right," she added. "The north is still in turmoil. We are in no state to begin any campaign in the north amidst so many other problems."

"Winter has barely begun," Lady Mormont agreed. "Yet strife has already left our granaries and treasury depleted when they should be full. Even without the Others, the winter itself threatens to destroy us."

Jon grimaced. Their situation was precarious enough as it was. "The Wall is the only thing defending us, but the Others are already testing its boundary." Jon sighed. "But you are correct, my lords; we must put the north to rights before we can do anything."

How long does it take for a kingdom like the north to recover? he cursed. How long do we have?

Sonagon was still sickly, and until he was recovered Jon could not rely on the dragon. Perhaps Jon never could.

"We must address multiple problems on the multiple fronts," Sansa muttered.

"My liege lord must deal with the Woolfields and the traitors in White Harbour," Ser Mardrick said, "but I will arrange for men take and hold Moat Cailin from the Bolton garrison."

"Lord Reed and Greywater Watch will assist in that, no doubt. The crannogmen have proved their worth." Lady Mormont nodded. "Lord Umber, can you rally the men to support the Wall?"

"Aye," the Greatjon grumbled. "I don't know where I'll rally them from, but I'll get them."

"The last message from Lord Steward Sam Tarly said that the Wall is being supported by free folk fighters," said Jon. "Mance Rayder is in command from Castle Black - but I'm told that over half the castles are now garrisoned and the sworn brothers stand at three thousand strong. More, with the allied free folk clans and the forces under Sigorn of Thenn." Jon's voice was still grim. "But I will rest happier the more men that we have to the north, as soon as possible."

He looked around the room, eyes hard. "I want ships from Bear Island on the Frozen Coast, and I want every northern lord ready at all haste. We must mandate conscription, my lords." Ser Mardrick's eyes widened. "For men and women both. Every person in the north must be readied to fight throughout a long winter."

There were a few feeble protests but Jon allowed no arguments. He had already made his decision.

After that, conversation turned towards logistics. When they were to set out, their food stores, how long until they could hold the coronation. Everything was urgent, there could be no delay…

The conversation was long, and tiring. It was evening when they retired. Too much was in flux, too much had to be nailed down. There was a certain type of insidious panic that seeped in when everything seemed urgent.

Without a strong command, any action could be plagued by indecision, he thought. Jon could not do it all by himself, he needed the ranks beneath him, and he needed the order. Perhaps Lord Manderly would be a good regent - he had proven himself loyal. The Greatjon would be a stronger military leader, but Lord Manderly had more of a head for politics.

"We have our duties," Jon remembered saying. "See them done."

There were bows and shuffling talks towards as Jon's tone turned final. While the others stepped out of the Winter Suite, Lady Sansa lingered by Jon side, tilting her head.

There was a moment of silence. The cold chambers felt so empty without the bodies and muttering.

"Do you care for drink, Your Grace?" Sansa offered finally. "Or is it my lord?"

"Technically it's still 'Your Grace', I suppose," Jon said with a sigh, "until I bend the knee and swear to Bran, and afterwards then I will be 'my lord'."

"I shall have a servant fetch a decanter, and some glasses," Sansa said, walking towards the door. "You look stiff."

"Dealing with these lords makes me appreciate the wilderness more, my lady," Jon replied, finally dropping down onto a chair. His leg was aching.

"Indeed." Sansa's lips twitched. They were warmer in each other's company, less stiff than they had been the night before.

As Sansa returned, Jon looked at her curiously. "Well then," he said awkwardly. "Do you think the northern lords will be a problem?"

"Perhaps. I find that anyone can be problematic, if they put their mind to it," she replied. Jon made note of the deflection. "Galbart Glover was absent. Where is he?"

"Mourning his brother's death, I believe." Robett Glover had died stiffly, holding his head up high as Dark Sister came down.

"Ah."

There was a stiff, forced silence.

"Lord Cregan Karstark is a problem," Sansa said finally. "He was deliberately disrespecting your rule in front of the other lords."

"I am aware," Jon admitted. "But he has no power. House Karstark is on a leash."

"Then he was testing the leash; trying to see how far he could question you." Sansa shook her head. "Appearances are everything, Jon. Perhaps you were right not to force the point then and there - that could have made you look insecure. But you cannot do nothing, either."

Yes, Jon agreed, isn't that the dilemma which every ruler faces - to find some balance between grasping and brittle, or between merciless and hard? "Do you remember how Father used to handle disrespectful bannermen?" Jon asked. "Can you recall when Father's power was challenged?"

"I…" Sansa hesitated, and then frowned. "I cannot."

"Neither can I," he admitted. "I cannot recall that it ever happened. It must have, surely, but I can't remember Lord Stark ever even raising his voice."

"He always seemed quiet," Sansa agreed.

"Yes. He was always honourable, kind and well-liked. He must have been pushed at some point - surely some bannermen found something to object to in his decisions? - but I can only assume that Father handled it quietly; that he took care of such unruliness in private."

"He used to take his children aside, one by one," said Sansa, and she nodded. We have such different memories of our childhoods, Jon noted. "Very well, then."

The servants brought wine, in a small sealed barrel. Jon noticed how every serving woman was escorted by a wildling guard with a white stone on his chest. The serving woman bowed hesitantly to both him and Sansa.

"Karstark was right about one thing, mind," his sister continued. "What do you intend to be? Regent? Hand of the King?"

"I…" I have not even come close to figuring that out . "It doesn't matter, so long as I'm in a position to secure the north. The free folk don't care for ranks."

"The northmen do," Sansa insisted. "The titles exist for a reason. And any king needs a court."

He frowned. "You mean a small council?"

"The Kings in the North called theirs the Court of Winter. It gathered in this very room." Sansa hesitated, bending down to fumble with a satchel that rested beneath the table. "And if we are truly returning to the old kingdom again…"

She lifted out of her satchel a book, a dusty tome. It was a chunky book filled with yellowing parchments bound by leather. The ink was old and faded, every page well-thumbed. "The Ranks and Government of the Northern Court," Jon read the title, squinting to make it the faded words.

"Yes. I've already made a list." There was a bookmark in the tome - a slip of folded parchment filled with scrawled, jotted notes written in Sansa's smooth hand. "And I suggest we go through it."

It was a long list of notes and tightly curled writing - with certain points highlighted in intricate care. Jon raised an eyebrow. "You did all of this?"

"You are not the only one," Sansa said dryly, "who does not have time for sleep."

He looked over the notes, with scribbled names and dates. It detailed the composition of the ranks in the Winter King's court, and how they had evolved over the eons. Jon had to squint to make out the words. A thousand years of northern parliament, summarised in a sharp list.

The very first positions listed were the ancient ranks of thanes and jarls - from the old culture of the First Men, but the Court of Winter had evolved over time. The North may not have been conquered in the Andal Invasion, but the Andal culture had still seeped across over the eons. The jarls and thanes had slowly been replaced by lords and masters.

Jon inspected the list closely, his lips moving silently as he scrolled down the words. "There are more positions here than the seven of a small council," he noted.

"The small council was a Targaryen invention," Sansa explained. "They restricted their court into only seven members; the Targaryens liked to consolidate power heavily between only very few trusted members. The Kings of Winter kept their own court and government and, historically, the Starks have been more decentralised."

Jon nodded, still looking over the list. "So then a position like the Hand of the King?"

"It would vary between king to king," she explained. "But there were typically two roles that fill in the same function to a King in the North." She pointed on the page. "The King's Claw, and the King's Mercy."

"The King's Claw," Jon mused. The emblem illustrated on the parchment was that of wolf's claw, hanging as a chain around a man neck. "Dragons have claws too."

"They do. The King's Claw was designated to represent the king on the battlefield, and the King's Mercy represents him in civil matters," she explained. "The Mercy stood for the king during judgements, while the Claw led his armies at war. Two different ranks, and occasionally there could multiple of each - whereas the Targaryens kept only a single position."

"And these other titles…" Jon frowned with slight confusion, looking through the blotted notes. "Minister of War, Minister of Seas, Minister of Justice, Minister of Tithes, Minister of Commerce, Minister of Harvests… I have never heard such titles."

"They're historical; they have never been used since the days of the Old King, when Jaehaerys the Councillor successfully forced the Winter Court to disband," Sansa explained. "It was part of the common law that Jaehaerys introduced. Ever since, the Targaryen regime has not allowed their sovereign kingdoms to keep local government, and the governing positions that they did introduce were bastardised versions of those used by the previous Seven Kingdoms." She paused, her eyes widening at the choice of words. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"You don't have to avoid the word 'bastard' with me, Sansa," Jon said gently, before returning to the parchment. "So on here… to name a Minister of War and Minister of Seas…" They were made with the respective jotted notes 'to ensure the king's forces stand ready, armed and strong at all times' and 'to ensure that the king's royal navy is maintained and strong'. Jon deliberated for a few

heartbeats. "The Greatjon would be a good choice for Minister of War, and Lord Wyman for Minister of Seas."

"They would," Sansa paused. "And should I assume that you intend to take the rank King's Claw?"

"And I take it you intend to be the King's Mercy?" Jon retorted. Sansa blinked, opening her mouth to object. "Come on, Sansa, you had those two choices circled up front for a reason."

There was a quiet grimace. "Well, I was going to make the suggestion with rather more tact than that…" she chided softly. "But yes, it would be good for the eldest child of Lord Stark to take a position of prominence. Even if it is only ceremonial."

Jon could have snorted. He had no doubt that Sansa wouldn't allow the rank to be ceremonial. "Alright very well. To be approved by the king, I take it?" he said dryly, and Sansa narrowed her eyes but nodded. "Then what of regency? Bran is underage, he will need a regent. You are the eldest living member of his house, Sansa."

Sansa shook her head. "I am only fifteen myself. Technically I am below age as well. And regardless, I am merely a young girl who knows little of the ways of politics, of unproven status - they still call me Lady Lannister ," she replied with a gentle scoff. "What of yourself, Jon - you are Bran's eldest family member?"

"And the Bastard King, wildling and deserter," he retorted, shaking his head as well. "To take regency myself would be seen as presumptuous - and it would leave Bran exposed to all the Cregan Karstarks of the north that would name Bran a puppet king."

Sansa didn't protest it. "Then that means regency must go to a great lord of the realm. A unifying figure."

No one that anybody could object to, you mean? Still, Jon nodded. "Then that would be Lord Umber or Lord Manderly," he said, "they are the two strongest and oldest lords of the realm."

"No," she said firmly. "It would be unhealthy to raise either one of them so far above the other."

"Sansa!"

"Don't act like you weren't thinking it, Jon," she replied stiffly, but there was a flicker of smile on her face. There was a pause. "What of Howland Reed?"

"The Lord of Greywater Watch…" The suggestion caught Jon off-guard. "Father spoke highly of him…"

"He did," Sansa agreed. "Lord Reed is experienced, and has served your war well from how I hear it. Lord Reed has singlehandedly defended the Neck against all foes, leading the resistance for House Stark. Surely he would take the duty of regent?" Jon didn't look convinced. "Howland Reed is a loyalist, Jon, but he's also something of an outsider. Someone who might bring balance."

Jon shook his head. "I have never even met the man, Sansa." The Lord of Greywater Watch was famously reclusive; Jon heard that very few convoys through the Neck were even allowed to know Greywater Watch's location.

"Nor me. But we could invite him to Winterfell to change that, surely?" she pressed. "Bran likely would not be alive if not for his daughter, we owe him a debt. Lord Reed must come to Winterfell."

Jon grimaced, but he could not dispute the point. "I make no promises, not until I meet him," Jon said. "But I will consider it."

"Very well, yet the other nominations must come quickly." Sansa pulled out a new sheet of parchment, and an inkpot. "There are royal declarations to pen, Jon."

Jon didn't twitch, but perhaps she saw the hesitation flicker in his eyes. He reached for one of the wine glasses. "Shall we call a maester?" she asked.

"I feel we can fumble our way through without one." Jon replied, taking a deep gulp of wine.

They went through the points one by one, and a list of lords, lands and ranks. There were about two dozen houses that had been allied with the coalition, two dozen that were against them, and another four dozen or so were left somewhere in between, to various degrees.

Jon had already picked out the worst of the traitors - Norrey, Slate and Woolfield - and he intended to make an example of them. Sansa quietly scratched those houses of her list.

They sat huddled together over the scraps of parchments. Somehow, it felt like the quiet talk with his sister was more productive than every great assembly of lords he had ever sat through.

One of King Bran's very first proclamations would have to be to pardon Jon for deserting the Night's Watch, Sansa insisted. And then Bran must accept Jon's fealty, grant citizenship, and to grant lands and status to all the deserving free folk leaders. There were around fifty thousand free folk that needed to settle, and maybe four dozen leaders to be given status.

Sansa made notes as he listed them; House Giantsbane, House Rayder, House Thenn, House Sixskins, House Sealskinner, House Bone… She paused fractionally as Jon said House Weeper, but didn't object. The Weeper would recover from the infirmary bed and Jon intended to keep the Weeper by his side.

My brother has only just woken up . Jon wouldn't dump all of this on him, not now.

"Most of the titles will be ceremonial for now," Sansa explained. "But there are lands enough we can give as rewards. Lands belonging to Bolton will have to be completely reassigned, they should be the first granted to your free folk."

"To keep them separate from the northmen?" Jon asked, and Sansa nodded. "So we grant the free folk lordships from the Bolton former bannermen."

"Perhaps naming them as masterly houses, rather than lordships, even," Sansa suggested. "Many free folk have little experience in governing - naming a Master of the Dreadfort, for example, not a lord, would be less objectionable."

Jon considered it. Masterly houses were similar to the southern practice of landed knights, but the difference between a master and a lord was not so great in the north. Houses like Glover or Tallhart were as powerful as any lordly house, but there was a slight difference in rank.

"A lord owns land in his own right," Jon mused, "but technically a master is only a custodian who manages the land for Winterfell."

"Yes," she agreed. "Both muster men and dispense justice, but a master has no right to local law and taxation. Historically, masters would have a seat on the Winter Court, while lords only stood in the interior."

She already had half the governing bodies sketched out, Jon noted. Sansa had given it much thought. He looked through the list, slowly understanding her reasoning. "You mean to consolidate power to Winterfell."

She nodded. "As the Conciliator did during his reign, and I saw similar moves made in the Vale. Piece by piece, force them to answer Winterfell."

He pursed his lips. "I cannot have a political dispute tying us down, Sansa. This country must prepare for war."

"Yes, but politics and war must go hand in hand."

Jon mused over it. "I agree with filling the council in Winterfell," he said finally. "But we cannot rob commanders from our armies either. We need trusted commanders in the field."

They pondered over it. There was a flicker through the parchment, and quiet jotting of notes. Sansa read quickly; she barely even moved her lips. "What of reintroducing the wardens, then?" Sansa suggested after a moment. "The Winter Court acts as central government, the wardens after the unifying commander in their area."

"Wardens? Like Warden of the North?"

"The Iron Throne reduced the wardens to only four - of the East, West, North and South - but it was based on an existing practice." She flickered through the book. "The King in the North named more than that…"

She turned towards a thumbed page, a crude map of the north designated into territories. There was a list of names; Warden of the Southern Marches, Warden of the Eastern Hills, Warden of the Bite, Warden of the Western Coast, Warden of the Northern Mountains, Warden of the Wolfswood, Warden of the Stone Isle…

"The unifying commander in their field," Jon mused. "Men we can appoint to protect their own territory."

"And wardens are appointed at the discretion of the king, from any rank," Sansa explained. "A warden is as great as any lord, but they can be named as required."

Jon saw the reasoning; remove petty squabbles by reinforcing a hard chain of command. "We could remove the power from potentially troublesome local lords. Force them to Winterfell's command by appointing wardens instead."

"Exactly. Then what of martial law, if we could appoint an emergency command…?"

The talk continued. There was an order forming from the mess of chaos, a structure that Jon could agree with. Sansa wanted noble and influential council, but Jon wanted to see a strong command of generals.

It was all about power. They had to ensure that the power was in the right positions and moved in the right direction.

The servants came with another decanter of wine, and the pile of parchments increased from two into dozens. There was a mess of papers spilled out over the stone table, some even scattering onto the cold floor.

Jon looked at the list, reading through the tiles; Minister of War, Minister of Justice, Minister of Seas, Minister of Commerce, Minister of Harvests, Minister of Tithes. Then there was Master of the Interior, Lord Treasurer, Lord Marshal, Lord of the Guards…

"There is another position," Sansa said finally, as she looked through the book. "What of Warden of Winter? Read this…"

He bent over the page, and he saw a sketch of two men standing before the dais of the throne of Winterfell. They were bowing to a king in an iron throne; one man holding a branch of oak and the other a branch of holly. 'Warden of Winter and Spring', the heading below read. 'Wardens named on a seasonal basis. Where other wardens are assigned to territories, these wardens are appointed to fight the elements. Warden of Spring to rebuild in springtime, to ensure food and grain throughout the kingdom, and to keep the kingdom strong. Warden of Winter to protect refugees during wintertime, and to ensure safety and shelter from the cold, to drive away all threats.'

"Warden of the Winter." Jon frowned. "Named on a seasonal basis. Why?"

"It makes sense." Sansa nodded. "For the north, fear of winter has defined our culture more than anything. The Winterfell might have

been a city in its own right, but the north could never sustain such a population," she explained. "And Warden of Winter would largely be a ceremonial title, but then during the darkest nights of winter there is none more important."

She was staring at him pointedly. It is all pretence, Jon thought. All of those ranks and titles - nothing more than to empty ways to flatter yourself .

"What does it matter what I call myself?" Jon retorted. "Lord… King's Claw… Warden of Winter… I will do the exact same job regardless."

"The titles have a power of their own. This is the history of our kingdom; men will respect that."

"It has been archaic for hundreds of years, Sansa."

"But it helps justify your role, Jon. It will make the realm more comfortable with the position you give yourself," Sansa insisted. "Sell it in a different light; we are not losing to a wildling invasion, we are returning to our own realm. Our culture. It's important."

Jon hesitated. The list of positions that she was filling was becoming long. "The realm fears that wildling and the dragon will destroy us, so show them the opposite," Sansa mused. "Rebuild the north instead."

She made jotted notes as they talked. There was a structure to be built, an entire system to be evaluated and established.

White Harbour would mint their own currency, silver coins that would pay for their kingdom. They would send an envoy to the Iron Bank to beseech a loan, reinitialise trade with Braavos. They needed admirals and captains for their fledgling navy. Sansa wanted to reach out to Lord Borrell of Sweetsister, and to establish tithes to raise coin that could hire sellswords.

There were other decrees that Jon insisted on. He wanted to designate reservations in the north for the giant clans to roam, and a

king's law to forbid the hunting of the old races. "There are so few of them left," Jon argued, "we must to offer protection to giants, mammoths and the children of the forest."

Jon also wanted decrees to extend the king's protection and tutelage to any with the potential of skinchanging. They would invite all wargs to Winterfell, and strictly outlaw the prosecution of any with abilities.

That made Sansa bite her lip somewhat, but she did not protest as she made the note.

By the time they were finished, there were two dozen or so fledgling laws and proclamations scattered over the cold stone table. Jon could only assume that a scribe would rewrite them into a more official format later.

"Are we done?" he asked with a sigh.

"I… I think so. For now." She took a deep breath. "I must return to Bran. Yourself?"

Jon sighed, and shook his head as he stood up. "I must see to Sonagon."

"Ah."

I have no time to sit by Bran's bed . Still, Jon needed to protect his brother. He could not relax, not yet.

Jon had not been able to sit by either Bran's or Val's bedside. Not because of lack of love, just lack of time.

He staggered slightly pushing the heavy chair backwards. The cold in the Winter Suite had left Jon's leg stiff. He fumbled slightly reaching for his staff, and Sansa glanced at him.

"Hold on, let me…"

"I've got it," he replied sharply, clutching his staff. The oak clattered against the granite floor. "It's quite alright."

Sansa hesitated, but she stayed back. Her gaze glanced down to his walking stick. "That reminds me," she said finally. "Hold on, I'll be right back."

She left the chamber swiftly. He heard her pacing down the corridor briskly, but then she returned shortly after. When she stepped back in to the Winter Suite, Sansa was carrying a long and slim white cane.

"A gift," Sansa offered. "I had a man cut it from the branches of the heart tree."

Jon took the cane. It was smooth carved white wood, about four foot in length. At first, he thought it white oak, but then he recognised the distinctive texture of the wood. "Weirwood?"

"Call it a symbol of your status," she explained, with knowing eyes. "None could fault you for a carrying a sceptre - a mark of the office."

His eyes glance down to his leg. Ah, a mark of the office . A sceptre, rather than a walking stick. Appearances are everything .

He took the cane gratefully. Jon smiled softly. "I'm really glad you're home, Sansa."

She smiled too. There was a pause, an uncertain hesitation, but then she reached in closer for an embrace. They hugged for the very first time that Jon could remember.

Sansa left to go see Bran, but Jon had another task. He had dragon to tend to.

Still, he glanced down at the list they had made, and there was a large question mark left hovering over House Karstark. He thought of his brother, and he made the decision quickly.

Jon steadied himself, and left the Winter Suite. He walked down the stairwell and out into the courtyard of the Great Keep. Snow was

falling, and the steps were made treacherous by a fine layer of black ice. He walked slowly, his weirwood cane tapping with every step.

The courtyard was heaving with bodies. They cleared the snow every hour, but the drifts of white were still piling up.

Jon heard the distant thunder of giants gathered around the godswood to the north. The giants were camped around the dragon, with the Cult of the Ice Dragon patrolling the godswood. To his mild surprise, the giant matriarchs had proved extremely capable herbalists, providing mixtures and poultices that seemed to help even a dragon's stomach.

Jon glanced around, and then headed east towards the castle's outbuildings.

He found Lord Cregan Karstark by the stables, as the lord prepared his bay horse. There were two of Karstark's sons and more free folk watching him at every turn. "My lord," Jon called to Karstark. "I hoped that we could clear the air between us."

The lord looked startled by Jon's presence, flinching with the sight of him. Jon only smiled, stepping in towards the stables. "At ease, my lord. I only wish to talk."

Cregan's face twisted, his eyes glancing down to the cane Jon walked with. Jon approached slowly, pausing to pick up a saddle for the lord's horse. "Do you mind, my lord?"

"What do you want, Your Grace?" Cregan said stiffly.

"I wish to offer you the chance to make peace with each other, to reach common ground." Jon paused, extending the saddle for Cregan to take.

The guards stood at the entrance, but there was nobody else around by the horse's stall. "Common ground," Karstark repeated. "I have been nothing but loyal to you."

"Well, you've never disobeyed," Jon conceded. "But that is not quite loyalty. I've been thinking much on the traitors that stood within my army. For instance, Brandon Norrey and his clan. And it occurs to me that the Norrey did have valid reason to be resentful, but he never shared such with anyone. If only the Norrey had aired his grievances, I might have resolved them, and how much loss could have been prevented?" Jon shook his head sadly. "We are alone, my lord, we might speak privately. Let me hear your grievances."

There was a long silence. Lord Karstark kept his face guarded, but Jon could see the rage in his eyes. "You may speak without consequence, my lord. I only wish to talk."

My grievances?" Cregan choked. "My father died outside these very walls."

"Yes," Jon sighed. "I lost my father too."

"It is not the same. Arnolf Karstark will go down as traitor's death, but he did naught but was best for his family." His face twisted. "I've yet to even recover his body. My family is ruined thanks to you, and I lost two sons at the Battle of Last River. I lost them to wildlings - wildlingswho held me and my family hostage for months, wildlings that sit in my keep. Wildlings that tortured me and my kin."

"Yes." Jon nodded. He idly reached out to stroke Karstark's horse. "And can you see any resolution to our problems?"

"That depends. Can you bring the dead back to life? Can you restore Lord Rickard's head?"

"I cannot," Jon said simply.

"Then there is naught to say." Karstark's eyes narrowed. "I am your loyal subject, Your Grace . I have committed no treason against you, I've upheld the oath I gave you."

The oath the Weeper forced out of you . "Yes," Jon admitted. "You have."

"Then you have nothing to reprimand me for." His jaw tensed. "I apologise if my tongue was too blunt during the assembly."

Has there ever been a more hollow apology? "You are right," Jon said with a sigh. "But do you know what I think? I think you were just trying to disagree with me in the assembly. I think you know that you cannot defy me, but you make things as awkward for me as possible. You won't defy, but you can still sow dissent in subtler ways. You can still wait for an opportunity.

"And I feel like you are determined to oppose me, my lord. You are 'loyal', I cannot fault you there - but I think you've resolved yourself to simply make my life difficult."

Lord Karstark bristled, glaring. "I have done naught wrong." He growled, backing down cautiously. "I have broken no oaths, and I will do not anything to risk my family. Or my wife."

"Very well, my lord," Jon said with a sigh. "I am sorry that we came to such ends."

Cregan stiffly lowered his head. "Are we done, Your Grace?" Cregan growled. "I have my duties - there is a charnel trench waiting for me outside. Perhaps I'll yet find my father's body there."

Jon just nodded. "As you will. Do not let me detain you." He cast one final look at the lord and his horse, and then walked away.

As he left back towards the keep, Jon heard Lord Karstark mount up his horse and ride away out into the snows. Jon did not turn, and he waited until Cregan was at the centre of the courtyard, trotting towards the walls.

Then Jon closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and reached out. He extended his mind straight into Cregan Karstark's horse.

The bay mare twitched. Jon pressed in sharply, and then the mare recoiled. He felt the pain, like a dagger through the flesh. The horse screamed. He heard the shouting, he felt Karstark thrash with the reins, and then…

Even on the other side of the yard, Jon heard the scream as Karstark fell to the stones. He felt the painful oomph from the horse's hooves clattering.

Footsteps were running. Jon opened his eyes and kept on walking, without even breaking stride.

On the other side of the castle, Cregan Karstark fell from his horse and died.

There would be over three dozen witnesses to say that Cregan Karstark's horse slid on the ice, and the lord broke his neck. Jon very visibly hadn't even been present, there was nothing to implicit him in such a death. It was an accident, nothing more. Alys Karstark was now left a young widow, and ruling lady of her house, and another dissenter had been removed from Bran's court.

I should have done that months ago, Jon mused. Perhaps there were others who needed a fall off their horses. He thought of Rattleshirt, and he wondered how much use the Lord of Bones still had.

Perhaps Cregan Karstark would be another figure to haunt Jon's dreams but, at this point, he just didn't care.

Bran

It seemed as though he had been falling for years.

Fly, a voice whispered in the darkness, but Bran did not open his wings. Instead, he let himself fall, soaring down towards the earth. He thought of a little boy made of clay, baked until he was hard and

brittle, dressed up in a lordling's clothes and then pushed out into cold storms. Bran could have abandoned that little clay boy, he could have flown away, but he didn't want to. He did not want to leave the broken boy behind.

The ground was so far below him he could barely make it out through the grey mists that whirled around him, but he knew how fast he was falling and he knew what was waiting for him down there. Even in dreams, you could not fall forever. He would wake up the instant before he hit the ground, he knew. You always woke up in the instant before you hit the ground.

The world was twisting, roiling all round him in a vague darkness. Fragmented thoughts and visions, flitting past the edges of his sight. Unconscious, and yet not wholly unaware. A sensation he'd nearly forgotten, that of warmth. Scattered mumbles, a susurrus of half-formed mutters; a few familiar, most not. And then there was a caw, and the hazy sensation of falling.

He was tumbling through the void between the stars, falling into an ocean of light that wreathed a roiling nothingness of pure black, drawing in the light forever. He was drowning in a circle of stars, staring out over a horizon of white roots weaving through a blood red sky.

The only difference between flight and falling is where you want to land , Bran thought with a breathless gasp. He opened his eyes wide and let himself drop.

Bran gasped, found himself standing in a grey waste, the corpse-light of a guttered dawn dimly washing over the world. Snow like ash, greasy and foul was falling from the sky. He saw five walls of pure black stone a thousand feet high, guarding the way north from the shores of a sea that flowed like blood. Banners of blue and sapphire wafted limply in the wind, falling and burning.

Bran found his eyes pulled to the east, and through the filthy snow, across the reach of the world, he found blue eyes staring back at

him. Too many to count, too many to comprehend. He saw a creature like a mountain, a glacier…

And somewhere beneath it all, he sensed something pounding like a drum, the black heartbeat of the world. He sensed a lidless eye larger than the sky open beneath the land, stare into him, a power beyond mortality roiling and tensing, setting to flense his soul from his bones.

A harsh sound cut through the air, and the world went dark.

He was standing at the bottom of the ocean, standing at the bottom of a scar in between continents. He saw the earth silently hiss and crack and seethe as the world's hot orange blood poured forth. He sensed power wafting forth from that burning blood, more power than any man could ever wield. It was coming forth in torrents, like the breaking of an ancient dam releasing an endless flood.

He saw a black mountain shrug itself free from the sand, shaking off the ghost of sleep as it rose into the vast ocean above. Bran looked up and saw a hundred more; a hundred twisting black shadows with eyes. They were swimming, exulting in the power, soaking it in.

A burning red eye the size of a rowing boat focused on him with sudden ferocity. It started to swim a little closer, reaching out with tentacles as long as rivers, inquisitive and grasping.

Bran didn't flinch. He didn't look away. Another cawing noise rang out, and the world faded to an alien scene. He just stared mutely, as the visions swam past him one after the other.

He saw a red city resting at the foot of a mountain that reached for the sky. The statues of a thousand dead gods loomed over the plains as a great battle raged between swarthy riders with bells in their hair and the legions of the dead. He saw the horselords break, he saw the city fall. He saw silent figures with blue eyes walking over the grassy plains.

He saw a titan guarding the way to a city of fog and lagoons, falling as a man in black armour laughed, and laughed…

He saw cities of harpies and tigers and elephants and slaves, all burning and screaming together.

He saw legions of men with skin scorched into stone, rising up from the waters.

He saw a lifeless city of red sands, of shattered walls and collapsed pyramids. A city of ashes, left frozen and barren.

He saw a stone man standing stiffly as the world broke apart into flames and darkness, and great black clouds of ash spewed over the waters.

He saw a burning eye in the middle of a smoking sea, all the while the shadows danced.

He saw flames and frost circling around each other, destroying everything in their wake. It was dance; a dance of the elements, of the seasons…

A dance of destruction.

Heartbeats became eternities and eternities became instants, and then he was rising upwards again. Great wings of black consumed him - the three-eyed crow was there, lifting him up into the skies.

He saw glaciers as high as mountains cover all the land, paving the world in a blanket of ice. Bran looked north, to the curtain of light at the end of the world, and then beyond that curtain. There was nothing below him now but snow and cold and death, a frozen wasteland where jagged blue-white spires of ice waited to embrace him. They flew up at him like spears.

Don't you see? " the three-eyed crow boomed, air whooshing beneath giant wings. "See why you need to fly!"

"Yes," Bran agreed. "I see." But it is only a dream. It cannot hurt m e. "Then choose . Fly or die."

He saw the rising spikes rising up to meet him. There were bodies skewered over the frozen spikes, impaled on the edges - the bones of a thousand other dreams. He remembered this; it was the first ever vision the three-eyed crow had ever shown him.

This time, Bran knew why they were here. The three-eyed crow had done this before. The crow had dropped other dreamers onto the spikes, to test whether or not they would soar. How many other dreamers had the three-eyed crow dropped to their deaths? How many had there been before me?

Bran didn't let himself fall. He had a choice. This time, he just pulled himself away.

The world blurred, and the wings of shadow disappeared around him.

It was like a veil had been dropped, like Bran could sense a little more of the nature of the three-eyed crow. As though it no longer kept up the effort to maintain the pretence of mortality. He saw the world around the bird roil like a black mirror.

He saw a thousand eyes floating in the space around the bird, each a window into some far off, incomprehensible scene. He saw a pale lord with a birthmark like a bloodstain, kissing a girl with silvery hair and blue and green eyes even as she laughed at him. He saw them studying over moth-bitten tomes, and he saw the girl slit a peasant's throat and dab the blood over her skin. The pale lord gaped in horror at first, until slowly, his eyes began to glitter with curiosity. He saw the pale lord, decades older, wearing furs of black. The man waited in silent regard at the foot of a glacier, watching, still and silent as a child of the forest emerged from a tunnel, beckoning him forth.

Bran saw a black-haired boy with blue eyes in a bed of salt and rock, writhing as a bird whispered to him and told him how to fly.

He saw a mutated, merciless being of bark and blood with a thousand and one bloody eyes staring back at him. There was no mortality left in it, no compassion, no mercy. Bran didn't want to go with such a creature.

"Pity," the three-eyed crow whispered hoarsely, and then suddenly everything swept away. Only a dream .

All of the visions, all of the mists, shuddered and swirled around him and ripped away like a veil. Everything faded, and Bran felt the real world again. He felt light, and sound, and movement, warmth and cold.

Bran tried to call for help, and the sound of a wolf's bark filled the air.

He was on four legs, and covered in fur. His nose twitched the unfamiliar air, and then he saw the body of a little boy before him. He was looking upon a little child, left unconscious and wrapped up in thick blankets.

Oh, Bran realised. His memories returned sluggishly. He remembered what it had been like to feel the cold spreading over his skin, and everything turning stiff and dead. Bran remembered his body freezing over.

He saw the world through a wolf's eyes. All the sights were blurred and faded, but the world was alight from all the sounds and scents burning around him. It was hard to truly comprehend anything from an animal's perspective; everything was defined more by instinct than sense.

The direwolf was anxious, twitching. Guarding the foot of a great bed, glaring at the unfamiliar faces. At one point the direwolf even had to growl to keep the strangers away as too many of them gathered in a tense huddle.

And yet, in another way, everything was so, so familiar. This was home, and he could still feel all of the memories coated through the chambers.

Bran saw his own body, lying in his bed. This is my bed, Bran thought numbly, my bed .

He remembered the last time he had laid in this bed, in this room, looking down at his own body from the outside. It had been after the fall, as he lay on death's door. That had been a lifetime ago - when he first saw the three-eyed crow in his dreams. Fly, the crow had croaked to him, you must fly .

Bran didn't want to fly anymore. He wanted to be home.

The direwolf mewled, and twitched. It hadn't been a conscious decision, but when his own vision had gone black amidst the snows, Bran had instinctively retreated into Summer's skin. Now, life was returning to his own body, and he had to return. You must wake up, Bran. You must wake up .

Bran slowly extended himself, reaching out back to his own body. His heart started to race as he felt his own skin creep back to him. He felt his consciousness oozing back towards his body, filling up his skin like honey dripping into a container.

The little boy's eyes flickered, and his body started to rouse itself.

His body was trembling; even despite the warmth Bran felt numb.

Everything was so sluggish, so hard to think…

His eyes twitched open slowly, and he saw a face framed by red hair sitting over. She was sitting by his bedside, curled over her lap. She was stitching, stitching for him.

Mother, Bran thought. Mother?

Mother hadn't been present the last time he had woken up. Bran had looked for her, but his Mother had already left before he awoke from

his coma. She went south to chase after Father, and Bran never saw either of them again. He wanted to see his mother again.

His head pounded, his blurred vision spinning. He tried to call out to her, but all that came were the slurred words.

"… 'Othur…?"

At once, she twitched. It looked like she had been falling asleep by his bedside, but at the sound of his voice, Mother jumped. "Bran!" she called. "By the Gods, Bran… !"

It wasn't Mother. Her voice was different, her face younger and her hair darker. Bran had to blink, trying to recognise the young woman draped over his bed. It was another ghost.

Sansa. Is that Sansa…?

Bran would have called out, but his throat croaked. His arms trembled, trying to grip something. "Don't move, Bran…" she soothed, placing a warm hand over his cold head. "I'll fetch you some water, but you must drink it slowly. Stay still, Bran, stay still…"

He felt Summer resting on his bed, curled up protectively like a great grey guardian.

Even when he was lying down, the world wobbled. It wasn't a dream, Bran realised. This is Winterfell, this is home .

His stomach lurched so violently he could have puked. His throat was rough like leather, everything was spinning. He couldn't feel his arms, or his legs. My legs, Bran thought with a blink. I haven't felt my legs in three years . And yet, somehow, he still tried to move themevery time he woke up.

This is Winterfell . How? What of the Boltons, and the wildlings, and what about…?

Meera. Where is Meera?

Bran felt almost delirious, but he could feel Summer lying next to him

the great wolf's snout nuzzling at Bran's fingertips, his wet nose against Bran's palm. Summer wouldn't let anything happen to Meera. Summer thought that they were safe.

He felt soft hands wrap around his shoulders. Sansa looked older than he remembered - like a woman grown. He remembered a young girl with red hair bobbed over her head and wide eyes, but the woman over him was lean with hair worn downwards - dressed curtly and looking as mature as any lady. She hugged him so tightly, gripping his shoulders and Bran could barely breathe.

He tried to squirm, to ask a hundred questions all at once, but all that came out was a strained gurgle. "It's alright, Bran…" Sansa whispered. Her eyes glistened with tears, her voice nearly breaking. "It's alright."

There was nothing Bran could do but lie on his bed, staring up the stone ceiling and feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

"How…?" Bran croaked finally. "… Where…?"

"It's Jon, Bran," Sansa whispered, slowly raising a goblet of water to his lips. "Jon took our home back."

Jon. Jon is here too?

He had never expected to see his family again. Somewhere, after all those months wandering the wilderness, or all the time trapped in that dungeon by the Bastard's Boys, Bran had lost all hope that he would ever see his family. He had lost all hope that he might ever wake up in Winterfell again.

To be here, to be in this room again, with his sister… his sister!… hugging him and crying into his shoulder…

It was all too much. Bran blacked out again.

When he woke up again, his sister was still by his side. She had a pile of parchment on her lap, and a book propped open on the tableside by an inkpot - it looked like she was writing something, her quill blotting over the page.

Bran took deep breaths, trying to focus. Sansa held his hand, and promised to fetch him so toasted bread and jam. Small meals, she kept on insisting. Bran was so hungry that his stomach didn't even have the strength to growl.

There were other figures - other men that stepped through the doorway. They were all foreign figures wearing worn boiled leather and worn chainmail, with gruff expressions. Bran didn't recognise any of them, but he focused on the one person he did feel. He focused on his sister.

Through his third eye, Winterfell felt heaving all around him. There were hundreds - thousands - of pinpricks of consciousness, all of them bustling with activity as dusk fell.

Slowly, awkwardly, Bran managed to croak out questions, and then were answers. The Boltons are defeated, Sansa told him. There had been a battle, a very recent battle, but the Boltons lost. The Starks were in exile no longer, they had justice for Robb's death. Jon managed to recover Winterfell for them - his half-brother made an alliance with free folk beyond the Wall, he formed a coalition with northern lords and defeated House Bolton. They were safe, Sansa insisted. Meera was safe, she was just fatigued as well.

"What of Arya?" Bran heard himself ask. "Where is Arya?" Sansa didn't reply, she just turned quiet. Oh .

As nightfall stretched, there were more visitors. They came cautiously, and as the door flapped open and close Bran glimpsed armed guards standing very stiffly outside his chambers. There were sounds like men were being searched for hidden weapons before they were allowed to enter; everything sharper than a matchstick

was confiscated before any were allowed to even stand outside his room.

Then, Bran heard a dozen footsteps marching up through the corridor. Bran felt a man with a large retinue walking towards his doorway.

He heard the distinctive, uneven beat of a lurched gait - of a wooden staff tapping against the stones. Sansa stood up, she stood to attention, even. Bran blinked, and he was staring straight at the door as a stranger with white hair stepped through the doorway.

Bran's body shivered, a tremor ran down his neck. Bran stared at the man through his third eye, and the man stared back. He is a skinchanger too .

The whole room turned hush. The man was dressed like some warrior king - a man with bone white hair and thick black furs wrapped over chainmail. None others were allowed swords, but he had a black blade hanging from a scabbard on his waist. His expression was gaunt, his jaw stiff and his eyes hard. Bran stared, and then looked between the hard and ragged men that he walked with. Wildlings from beyond the Wall, Bran thought, King Snow .

It was only when the white-haired man's gaze softened that the recognition clicked. His eyes were grey.

"Jon?" Bran gasped in the silent room.

Sansa looked different, but Jon… he looked like a different person. White hair. They both looked at each other. It was like neither of them even knew how to act.

"Bran," his half-brother replied, in a whisper. There was a long, pregnant pause, and then Jon turned to his retinue. "Do not crowd him," King Snow ordered in a hard voice, and the men stepped backwards. "Give my brother his space; none are to see him until either I or my sister allows it. Keep all others back."

There were mumbles. "Aye, King Snow," Bran heard one wildling mutter, bowing his head.

Jon forced them to clear the landing, and then stepped into Bran's chambers and shut the door. It was only when the door slammed shut that Jon's posture finally slackened, his shoulders slumping. "Bran…" Jon whispered. He didn't seem to know what else to say than that, but he crossed the distance and hugged the boy tightly.

Bran was left speechless, struggling to understand. King Snow, they called him. The King-Beyond-the-Wall .

"I wanted to see you when you woke up," his brother whispered. "I tried… I tried to see you before I left…"

Bran didn't reply. "I'm sorry that you had to go through everything by yourself," Jon admitted. "I'm sorry that I wasn't there."

Four years, Bran realised. It was closer to four years than three now.

We waited four years to see each other again .

There were tears swelling in his eyes. Bran took a deep breath, head spinning. He opened his mouth to speak, and he just choked.

Slowly, Sansa reached out to hold Bran's hand reassuringly. Jon stepped forward, bending down to hug his brother. He knelt by Bran's bedside, and Bran was shivering as his arms reached around him. Jon's hand moved to his scalp - to russ up Bran's hair, just like he used to do when they were small.

It felt different; Bran's hair was overgrown now - his hair was ragged and unkempt, reaching down to his shoulders. Jon's fingers were stiffer, and when he raised his hand Bran suddenly realised that he was missing his little finger to a pale stump.

Bran was crying. He didn't know when the tears began, but even the casual movement like touching his hair caused him to breakdown in tears. "Meera," Bran said, gulping, "can I see Meera again?"

"Of course you can," Jon replied, and he stepped up to pass on the order. The men outside jumped to fulfil Jon's commands.

Meera arrived not long later, escorted by two wildling men. Meera looked pale, dishevelled and skinny without her thick, mouldy cloak. She had swapped her crusty worn leathers - leathers she had been wearing for months - for a hair tunic and hide breeches; they were clothes more fit for a young stableboy, and she wore them awkwardly. Her shoulders were tense, her eyes guarded, but her mouth opened when she saw Bran.

Meera was cautious, she looked between Sansa and Jon hesitantly as she stepped in the room, but quickly walked to Bran's side. She held his hand too, and Summer whimpered as he sniffed at Meera.

"Thank you for keeping my brother safe, Lady Reed," Sansa said, lowering her head. "Winterfell owes you a debt."

Meera didn't reply right away. Her eyes flickered towards the wildling king. Meera asked Jon about Jojen, asked whether anyone had found her brother, and Jon replied that he had not, but he promised to make inquiries. Meera's eyes looked at Bran as if there was something else she wanted to say, but she held her tongue.

It was very late, the hour of the bat or later. Bran could hardly speak, and the room was just so… Bran couldn't even describe it. His heart was beating so fast.

The room was warm, stuffily so. After being in the cold got so long, Bran half-forgotten what warmth felt like.

Sansa finally suggested that they should retire, and Jon offered Meera the room next to Bran's. Rickon's old room. Bran never wanted to let go of Meera's hand.

Everything was spinning. Bran needed to sleep, needed to collapse, but for a moment he was scared that if he closed his eyes, he might wake up from this weird, surreal dream.

As soon as his eyelids flickered shut, the world dissolved. Bran fell into unconsciousness without even remembering snoozing off.

The world shifted, and lurched.

Bran gasped, suddenly finding standing upright himself on his two feet. Standing upright on two good legs. His legs.

He was in the ruins of a great castle - a castle larger than any he had ever seen, in the middle of a great stone courtyard, rimmed by walls of white and rose flowstone crusted in hoarfrost. The towers were great pillars rising up to the sky, and he could see the runestones of the First Men etched onto the stone. Bran stared at the ghostly, frozen ruins of the abandoned structure, sensing a hidden power beneath.

"This is not where you should be, Bran."

This is another dream . Bran didn't even need to turn around, to know that the three-eyed crow was perched behind him. Why is the crow doing this, why is he so desperate to pull me away?

"I don't even know where this is," Bran replied.

Some ancient castle, frozen over and decayed? He was in the green somewhere, beyond time and memory.

"Not here," the three-eyed crow cawed, its voice disapproving. "Where your actual body is at. You do not belong there."

I do . "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

"Not you," the three-eyed crow replied. "You have a different fate, Brandon Stark."

His fists clenched into balls. There was so much Bran wanted to shout, wanted to scream. Why did you lead me away? Why did you to lie to me? Why did you let me get trapped? Why am I so important

to you? Instead, the only thing that he said, "I'm home now. I'm with my brother and my sister."

The crow cawed, and the cry echoed over the frozen ruins. "You should have come to me. There was a place waiting for you. I could have shown you a power more than anything you can possibly dream of."

"I only ever dreamt of going home." Bran shook his head. "All I wanted was to be with them. You wanted to hide me away."

The crow tilted its beak. "They are beyond help, Bran."

Why ?"Bran had to force himself not to scream it. "You're powerful, so powerful, you saved me from the Other. You could have saved my father, you could have saved Robb. You could have helped Jon. The Starks protect the north. Isn't that what you want? Who is going to stop them, if not us?"

The crow was silent for a time. "I have oft wondered at the folly of man," it said quietly, yet the yard seemed to churn, unseen roots writhing like snakes beneath the soil. "I have struggled to understand why they each seem to believe that their story is the world's most important - it is a matter of perspective. The perspective to see that your family's wars are of less importance than you can possibly imagine. I would have saved you from it all, given you the wings with which you could fly away .

"From the moment of your birth, Bran," the crow cawed harshly, "From the moment of your birth, you were marked with the potential to become more. To fly on the currents of the storm of time, to see all that ever has been or will ever be. To become more. I did not want you to waste that potential in such petty squabbles."

"Petty squabbles?" Bran said, aghast. "It's my family, my home!"

"A bird only needs the sky for his home. And what sort of bird," the crow flapped its wings agitatedly, "doesn't dream of flying?"

Bran's lips curled. "You lied to me!" Bran snapped. "You hid the truth from me, you tried to keep me in the dark."

"I told you everything you needed to know, Bran. I showed the path you must walk, and I never wanted you to be side-tracked." For a brief moment, the crow's voice blurred. The harsh crowing dissolved

and it turned into Eddard Stark's voice. "The cold winds rise. I told you that you were a winged wolf, bound to the earth by chains."

Bran tensed. The air was shifting - a phantom mist hovering around him. The mist was writhing, forming ghostly shades standing like statues encircling him. Bran saw Mother, Father, Robb, Jon, Sansa, Arya, Rickon… all the figures from his childhood; Ser Rodrik, Old Nan, Hodor, Hullen, Jory, Theon…

All the ghosts of Winterfell, dozens of them, were surrounding Bran. The crow's voice became louder, booming. "Those that you cling to… your friends, your family. Your history, your home, your attachments. They are the chains, Bran," the greenseer's voice boomed. "They are the tethers that bind you to this earth, that leave you the winged wolf unable to leave the ground. You must cut them off."

All of their faces were stiff and solemn. Bran stared at his mother and father, at their faces he had nearly forgotten. "Cut them off," Bran replied. "Like you did?"

"Yes," the greenseer agreed. "Like I did. Power requires sacrifice."

That was why you did it, Bran thought quietly. The crow didn't care, he was just trying to isolate me. He wanted to sever me from my family, from my friends, one by one .

"You could fly, Bran." The three-eyed crow was growing larger - shadows shifting around its feathers as it expanded to as large as a vulture. "You might soar, if not for the chains that you bind yourself with."

Bran paused, and bit his lip. After a heartbeat, he shook his head. "Then I am happy being chained."

"Broken legs and all?" the crow challenged.

"Broken legs and all," Bran agreed. He could still feel Meera's touch on his hand, her phantom grip around his fingers.

"Are you steadfast in that resolution?" it cawed. Bran nodded, and the crow shook its beak. "Then you are useless to me," it croaked. "A pity, I had such high hopes."

The crow was growing large still - wrapping the shadows around its body. It was as large as a dragon now. A great dragon of dark wings and shadows. Bran felt the gusts of wind sweeping through the yards, so powerful he could barely even stand. The crow was monstrously large, sweeping away the castle with every flap of immense wings.

And then the crow seemed to breath, ruffling its wings as roots writhed and power poured. The flowstone towers stabilised, and the visions disappeared. The crow opened its beak, staring into Bran even as he gasped and trembled.

"The old powers are rising," the crow cawed, eyes glittering darkly. "And with their return tremble the foundations of the world. The realms of man will not survive. Let alone your family." The crow's voice seemed to lower, no longer sounding from its beak, but echoing from everywhere, a thrum coming from all the land, like the commandment of a forgotten god. "All that I do, I do to ensure that man survives, no matter the dark pit or remote isle or high range to which we must flee until that rising tide wanes.

"When the chains break and die - and they will," the three-eyed crow's deafening, deep voice intoned. "When you feel them snap… perhaps you may yet call out to me again."

Wings flapped, and the stone brushed away.

Bran's dreams went black.

The next morning, when his eyes flickered open again, he was still in his room. Bran took a deep breath, unable to shake the phantom shiver of unease that clung to his skin. It was a dream, he thought, only a dream .

Sansa was still by his bedside. She had slept on that chair all night. He only saw her briefly, though, because she had to leave shortly after he woke. They held each other's hands, and she kissed him on the forehead, but she then grimaced and apologised. She had to go, Sansa explained, there was some assembly or meeting happening, something that Sansa had to be present for. Bran didn't want her to leave, he tried to grip her fingers, but she still pulled away from her hand.

Sansa left him, but Meera returned to sit vigil by his bed. Meera seemed to relax more; just her, him and Summer in the room together. There was colour in Meera's cheeks again, Bran noticed, she seemed stronger.

"Is this…?" Bran muttered, voice trailing off.

"It is." Meera nodded. "The Boltons lost."

"My brother beat them," Bran said dumbly. "They're gone. My family won."

Meera shook his head. "No. The wildlings won."

"It's the same thing."

"No, it's not," Meera warned. He saw the same expression she had worn last night. "It has been a long time since you've seen your brother, and I've never met him. I don't know him, and I don't trust him. Maybe you shouldn't either."

"He's my brother…"

"They're wildlings Bran." she warned darkly, and Bran realised why she was so unnerved. Wildlings - the same as we killed in the Nightfort . "Be careful. I don't like the look of the company that King Snow keeps."

Bran didn't reply. He remembered the Nightfort painfully clearly. He knew why Meera couldn't relax. It felt like they were all on edge, trying to pick up the pieces.

Jojen, Bran thought. Hodor. Rickon. Osha. He never knew what happened to any of them.

They stood awkwardly in his chambers, feeling so out of place. Meera was pacing, her hands twitching for her missing spear. Summer nuzzled against Bran; the great wolf's snout resting against his side, trying to keep him calm.

It was evening by the time Sansa returned. She walked briskly, carrying a bundle of parchments under her arms. "What's going on?" Meera demanded to his sister. "What's happening?"

Sansa hesitated, biting her lip. "You should come with me," she said after a pause. "There's something that you must see. Both of you."

"My legs…" There was no Hodor to carry him.

"I shall find a platter, and men to carry it," Sansa promised. "Hold on, I won't be long."

A platter. Bran was too used to being carried on someone's back.

In the end, they used one of the chairs from the dining hall to seat him, and two crisscrossing lengths of a timber braced underneath it for men to carry him. Bran wasn't that heavy, but it still took four men to lift him and his seat upwards.

It was awkward and jerky, and the men cursed quietly under their breaths as they tried to balance him. Bran didn't understand why

they wouldn't just lift him piggyback, but Sansa wouldn't hear it.

She wrapped him tightly up in a wolfhide cloak, and promised that it would be a short trip. Bran had to focus to keep Summer calm, as the men struggled and heaved to carry him down the narrow spiral staircase.

Winterfell looked so different, and by the time they reached the main hallway there was a crowd of people gathered to watch him. The stone corridor was filled with an ocean of shaggy, unkempt faces. Wildlings .

Sansa walked closely to his left, while Meera clung on to his right, with Summer prowling in front. It turned into a procession of bodies coming out of the doors, so many staring at him that Bran's breath froze.

"It's alright," Sansa whispered. "It's alright."

He saw all the men carrying weapons. There were four men carrying his seat, and another thirty plus clutching axes as they pushed the crowd back. They were rough with their movements, snapping orders in harsh voices.

It was all so loud, so hectic, so frantic… Bran remembered stories that Old Nan told him - stories of cannibals that would carry their guests through parades, on their way to the cooking pot.

It was snowing outside, with tents and bonfires littering the courtyard. Bran wrapped himself up tightly against the cold, while heavy boots stomped through the muddy slush.

He saw the godswood up ahead, and then he felt the ground tremble. Summer barked and snarled at the sight of enormous bodies, looming by the gates. Meera gasped, and Bran might have screamed.

They were massive beasts of fur and muscle, standing upright with knuckles that traipsed across the ground. They were so large they could lift a man in a single hand.

Giants . Bran's head went blank staring in pure horror…

One of the giants roared - a booming cry revealing a toothy mouth that might swallow him whole. Summer was snarling, and the great wolf had never looked so small.

Sansa was still holding his hand. "It's alright," she soothed.

There were giants in Winterfell, camped around the godswood. Is this what Sansa wanted to show me?

With a shout of words he did not recognise, the immense humanoids parted before his escort. Bran was left shaken, trying to understand…

The platter was carried through the iron gates and into the trees. Bran glimpsed the white hair of Jon, clearing the way, and dozens of wildlings lining the path. They all wore white stones on their chests.

He saw the godswood he once knew, the trees half-buried under a flurry of snow. They had to push their way through the snow, and Bran was left trying to match the broken trees and tattered branches with the forest he remembered. He heard the crackling of ice against the hot springs, and the rumble of all the men milling around them.

Everything was white, buried in snow. Summer howled, an uncertain sound ringing in the frozen air. Bran heard the whoosh of the geysers, like a great breath from the earth.

He felt Meera gasp, and her hands grip his so tightly it hurt, but Bran couldn't see anything. He stared ahead, uncomprehendingly.

Then, the earth shuddered.

At first, Bran mistook it for the landscape; like a giant rocky outcrop as large as a small mountain strewn through the woods. It was only when the rocks shivered that he saw its form. It was buried in snow and obscured by the trees, but then Bran made out the size of it.

It was moving, panting in deep, rhythmic breaths, shivering slightly in the snowfall.

The pure scale made Bran's head go blank. It was a wall, a mountain, of flesh. He saw white and pale red, curled around the frosty weirwood.

Slowly, Bran managed to make out details. He saw scales etched like steel, huge horns, and a snout as large as a building. It was resting with its head half-submerged in the warm pools, its jaws parted slightly and cool mist hissing between giant teeth. It bathed with its mouth open, water from the pools gurgling between its teeth.

Bubbles foamed around its scales, while ice flowered across its curled, hulking body.

Bran could only stare. Summer was still howling and yelping, the direwolf panicked. Bran's could feel it in the air, he could feel the air charged by the very presence of that monster.

It was like the monster felt him too. It shifted and stirred as Bran approached, the trees and earth cracking. Jon had to rush forward to calm it down, to keep it still. Jon's hands moved to its jaw, whispering gently.

A dragon, Bran realised with horror. A dragon!

Sansa held Bran's hand a bit tighter. "I wanted to show you…" she whispered. "This is how Jon united the wildlings. This is how he retook Winterfell."

A dragon. Bran had barely ever imagined something so big .

There was a silence in the ruins of the godswood. A thousand questions flickered through his head, but Bran couldn't even speak. He could only stare upwards and gape.

A hundred eyes were on him, an entire procession focused on him. Bran blinked, and slowly shifted in his seat. He felt the ripple pass through the crowd, and one by one he saw men moving.

He watched as the men started to lower themselves to their knees.

Finally, the first question formed on Bran's lips. "Why… why are they bowing?" he gasped.

"Because you are Robb's heir," Sansa whispered. "You're the King in the North, Bran."

His head went blank.

…

After that, presumably they took him back to the castle. He faintly remembered people speaking to him, but Bran couldn't recall what anyone said.

They called him 'Your Grace'. The words seemed so weird.

Sansa was fussing over him, straightening his collar, calling for water and kindling for the fire, but Bran just felt numb.

There were stuttered questions and uncertain answers, but Bran could barely even concentrate. His head was spinning, fixated on the presence, the feeling, that the dragon had radiated. It had felt like pure power.

"Your coronation, Bran," Sansa was saying. "You should be crowned quickly."

Coronation. It was such a strange word. Bran heard everyone saying it, but it was like he didn't quite know what it meant.

It was nightfall by the time he saw Jon again. Even when Bran left, Jon had still been tending to the dragon. Come dusk, Bran was exhausted, and his room felt so tense and quiet as Jon knocked on the door.

"Bran," his half-brother called. "May I… can we talk?"

Bran only nodded. There were still a dozen men standing guard outside, while Jon limped into the room. His brother lurched with every step, balancing on a white weirwood cane.

The only sound in the room was the cackle of the fires, and the soft snoring from Summer curled up at the foot of his bed.

"Your leg," Bran muttered, not sure what to say.

"It's recovering," Jon replied. "It's an old wound that was nearly gone, but then I took a blade in the recent battle." His hand traced across his upper thigh. "Yet it will heal too. It just needs time."

Bran's eyes glanced to his own legs. "Not all wounds do."

"Not all," Jon agreed. "But we still learn to live with them."

Gods, Jon looked so different with white hair. His face was different too; cheeks gaunter, eyes older. It was so hard to match this gaunt and white-haired man with the raven-haired boy Bran once knew.

King Jon Snow - King-Beyond-The-Wall, the Bastard King, and the dragonlord of winter.

Bran didn't even know what to say, and silence reigned in the room for several long heartbeats.

"They say that I'm going to be king," the boy said finally.

"You are."

"They will call me King Bran the Broken."

"Why not Brandon the Immortal?" Jon countered. "You've survived so much, Bran; you've come back from the dead more times than I have. You will survive a crown too."

There was no reply but silence. Bran had been through a lot, but why did the thought of a crown scare him as much as anything had?

"You are the eldest living trueborn son of Eddard Stark, brother and heir to King Robb Stark," Jon said softly, moving to sit by the bed. "Robb declared himself King in the North, and that passes to you."

"Robb was never in the north as king."

"Robb wasn't. But you are."

I am next in line to a newly resurrected, unstable throne . Half of the lords hadn't even agreed to northern independence, and the other half had died for it.

Bran knew all that, but still the thought of someone placing that crown on his head made him shiver. I don't want to be king. No one ever prepared me to be king. Robb chose to be king, not me.

But what could he do? Deny the kingship? Go back to being lords of Winterfell instead of King in the North. He could do that. I am going to be king, he thought, I could do whatever I want .

But that would mean bending to the Iron Throne, he knew. It would be surrendering to the people who murdered his father, his brother, his mother. Half the lords of the north would revolt if he tried to do that. Again.

Jon was sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for a reply. Bran sat on silence, stewing over it.

I might be the first King in the North crowned to Winterfell in over three hundred years, he realised. The first king to sit on the throne of Winterfell again .

He would have to stay sitting too, because he could never stand.

"I don't want to do this," Bran said, fingers twitching.

Jon looked down at him, his pale eyes softening somewhat.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do," Jon said, but he was lying. "We can discuss this later if you want."

"I don't want to do it at all," Bran said.

Jon hesitated. "That's your right too," he said. "But please think carefully about such."

"I am. What if I pass the crown to you?"

"Bran…"

"You should be king, not me. You retook Winterfell, not me. You have the army, you have the dragon, I'm…" I'm broken . "I can do that too, right? I could name you my heir, and forfeit the crown to you."

Jon twitched. "You could." His fingers fidgeted at with his hand, somewhat uncomfortable. "But please don't. I'm not a Stark. You could bring the realm together, but I would drive it apart. I shouldn't be king."

"You called yourself king."

"Not of Winterfell."

"Robb named you his heir."

"Only when he thought you were dead."

"Nobody wants me to be king."

"Who told you that?"

"Nobody," Bran replied. "But I can still tell. Everyone wants you to be it." They want Jon the Conqueror. The first Dragon King of Winter. Not Bran the Broken.

"Everyone." There was a hollow smile on Jon's lips. "Everyone but me, Bran. I don't want to be king, I never did."

The room turned silent again. Bran didn't know how to reply. Jon said the words like an admission. "I took my crown because there was no other choice. I never enjoyed it, I never wanted it, perhaps I was never even suited for it," Jon explained softly. "But there's a choice now, and I…"

His voice trailed off into the quiet. Jon grimaced, reaching out to cradle Bran's hand. "… I know it's scary, Bran. Believe me, I know. But you'll grow into that crown, and you'll be a much better king than I ever could."

His hands were so rough. Bran looked down, and saw Jon's cauterized stump of a missing little finger.

"So what are you going to do?" Bran asked, keeping his voice low.

"I'm going to protect the north," Jon replied. "I think that's what I'm meant to do."

Bran sat quietly for a long time, simmering in the gloom. He spent a long time thinking on it, remembered all that time he has spent trapped…

"I could just force you to be king," Bran said finally. "I could hand the crown over to you and order you to take it."

"And I could just hand it back."

Bran blinked. "You could do that?"

"Course I could. I'd be king." A smile split Jon's dark features. "And a king can do anything. I'd then order you to take the crown."

"Well, I could order you to take it right back."

"It'd be the most confusing coronation in history, I suppose," Jon chuckled. "Seeing who could pass the crown between us the longest. The guests would get very upset."

Despite himself, Bran laughed too. Jon looked ten years younger when he grinned, more his real age. When was the last time I laughed?

Jon's arms moved downwards, to wrap around Bran's shoulders. "You'll be a good king, Bran. A great king," Jon said softly. "I promise it. You're wiser and stronger than I was at your age."

"I…" he muttered after a pause. "… I won't even be able to stand to be crowned…"

"You don't need to stand. You'll be seated. In father's chair. Someone

perhaps the Greatjon - will place the crown on your head, and all the lords will come and bow before you. That's all."

"And they'll have to carry me." Lift me like a child in front of everyone .

"You'll be seated before the ceremony begins," Jon explained. "You'll stay seated, and they'll come into the hall."

"To pretend that I'm not cripple."

"Just to make it easier. You'll have Summer by your side, and Sansa and I will be there too."

The thought of the direwolf being next to him did make him feel better. Summer would keep Bran strong. Bran didn't know when the coronation would be happening, but they were talking as if it was soon.

Bran nodded. "What of Meera?"

"She will be there too, of course." Jon paused. "Meera Reed saved your life, didn't she?"

Bran nodded. "Then I will reward her well for her service," Jon promised. "Her and her family. I shall have scouts search down her brother, whatever happened to him, and I think Lord Reed himself will be coming to Winterfell."

"Father said that Howland Reed saved his life from Arthur Dayne,"

Bran recalled, and then nodded firmly. "Yes. I want to meet him."

Jon chuckled. "Why the interest in the Reeds?"

Bran's mouth tightened. He didn't even realise the decision he made before the words came out of his mouth… "I want to ask Meera to marry me."

Jon bit his lip, but he didn't seem surprised. "You're sure? You're very young. She is six years older than you."

Bran nodded, trying to be as firm as possible.

"Meera Reed is the daughter of a very old and loyal house. I doubt anyone has reason to object." Jon mused, before looking at him seriously. "… But, let us wait, before making the betrothal. I'll brooch the possibility with Lord Reed, but there's no reason for an immediate marriage. Wait for at least four years."

Bran squirmed. He loved Meera. Her smile, her brown eyes. Some days it was all he could think about. Meera had carried him, stood by his side, even when there had been no one else.

"Why?" Bran said stubbornly. "I love her, why wait?"

"Because you're very young." Bran opened his mouth to object, but Jon continued. "And it will be a few years before you're able to consummate a marriage in any case. And because Meera is the only

girl that you know - how do you know it's really love, or is it just fondness towards your female friend?"

Bran hesitated, but then fell silent. "You're king now," Jon said. "You're going to have plenty of marriage proposals."

"Nobody is going to want to marry a cripple."

"Hardly. And it's their fault if they don't. I know that Lady Maege was talking about bringing her daughter Lyanna to Winterfell - she's about your age. And Lord Wyman has a young daughter too." He seemed to hesitate. "But you're too young to be wondering about marriage. It's not something you should do lightly, and, for a king, personal feelings are so rarely involved. We all have to do what is best for the kingdom."

Bran stewed on that for a while. "Do you have someone you love?"

At that, Jon seemed caught off-guard. Bran saw a flicker in his gaze, something he could not recognise. "Yes," Jon replied, somewhat stiffly. "I think I do."

There was sadness in his voice. Bran remembered the three-eyed crow's warning, he remembered the crow's promise that the chains would snap. The vision of ice and darkness flickered before Bran's eyes. He remembered all those months trapped in the dungeon at Thistle Hall.

This is what I chose. I chose her .

"Yes," Bran said finally. "I will be king. I want to protect my home, and I want do it for Meera."

"As you say, Your Grace."

Your Grace. They will all call me that now . "And you're a prince," Bran said after a moment's thought. "You're my brother, you should be Prince Jon Snow, the next in line to the throne."

Jon's face flickered. "Bran, I'm a bastard, not-"

"Nope." Bran shook his head. "You're a prince, and you can't argue with me because I'm king."

Jon sighed, but there was a smile lingering on his lips. "Very well Bran," he relented. "Prince Jon Snow."

They pulled in for another hug, and Bran sloped into Jon's arms. He smells like father, Bran realised. For that moment, Bran never wanted to let go.

"But Rickon must be next in line before me," Jon said after a pause. "We'll bring Rickon back."

"Rickon is alive? With Osha?"

"He's on Skagos," Jon explained. "Lord Manderly found a boy who tracked them. I've sent men to recover Rickon, but there's fighting against the Skagosi and they have been delayed by the storms."

The very thought of seeing his brother again… Bran wanted his family back. "You could fly to Skagos," Bran said. "On your dragon."

"I could. As soon as Sonagon recovers." Jon nodded. "But Ghost will find Rickon first, and the men are sailing around Skane as we speak. They will find him, and I will go to collect him."

He knows exactly where his direwolf is. Jon is like me . Bran took a long, deep breath, struggling to even speak for one moment. There was so much he wanted to say, or ask, but the one thing that came to his lips…

"Promise me that we won't have to run again," Bran said finally, twitching with nerves. "I just don't want to have to run anymore."

Jon leant over and kissed him softly on the forehead. Just like father used to do when he was very had been very little. Bran had grown out of being kissed like that years ago, but suddenly he didn't mind.

"Yes," Jon whispered. "I'll keep our family safe. I promise."

It was pitch black outside and Bran could hear the howl of the wind, but they sat and cradled next to each other. They talked softly, with the sound of the crackling fire hissing in the backdrop.

Bran wanted to close his eyes and pretend that the last three years were a long, bad dream. He wanted to forget all those nights he had been hungry in the cold, all those nights trapped in the dungeon. He didn't want this moment to end.

It was only the sound of stomping boots up the staircase that broke the moment in his room.

"King Snow!" an urgent voice called. "King Snow!"

The sound caused Bran to flinch. Jon's voice turned sharp. "I said that I wasn't to be disturbed, Toregg."

The man looked flustered, as he stepped through the door. "It's from the scouts, Your Grace."

Jon was already on his feet. "Attack?"

"No, it's a… a disturbance on the perimeter."

Bran pulled himself upright, trying to see out the door. He saw men rushing up the staircase; they wore soaked wet furs, out of breath like they had been running up the stairs. There was a frantic bustle, shouts rising from the guards in the corridor.

Jon was already marching out, leaving the door ajar. Bran caught snatchs of the cries from the men.

"The corpses, your Grace, we found-"

"Missing-"

Jon's voice turned sharp, cutting through the noise. "I gave you strict orders to dispose of all bodies; your task was to see it done quickly!"

They reached the top of the stairs, the voice were more audible. "The snows are over six foot deep out there, Snow," a wildling protested; a great, heavyset man with a white beard. "And the corpses buried at the bottom of the snow drifts, and scattered across a lake! We couldn't even find half of them."

"And how were we supposed to burn so many?" another man complained. "The trees are frozen solid."

Jon glared. "I told you to burn them or hack them - that was your priority. Destroy the bodies."

"We did our job. We made progress; like you said, hack the bodies apart," the wildling retorted. "But there were a lot of bodies and it was bloody hard work. We couldn't get through them quickly, not in this bloody weather."

The bodies? Bran thought with confusion. The men looked on edge, uneasy. The battle was said to have been ten days ago, and the snows hadn't ceased. The battlefield was strewn all across the lake two leagues away, all the way up to Winterfell's gates, Sansa had told him.

"It was our patrols that found them missing," the scout explained,

voice quivering. "We had charnel trenches that we were filling up,

and then they just vanished. Along with every man on guard duty."

The bodies vanished? The men looked nervous, and Bran caught the glances between them. He saw Jon suddenly turn stiff, his hands clenching.

"We had fifteen thousand or so corpses to burn," the other wildling said. "We were doing hundreds a day, but we never got through a quarter of them."

He took a deep breath. "How many?" Jon demanded. "How many corpses are missing?"

They looked hesitant, glancing at each other. "All of them, Your Grace. They're all gone."

Author Notes:

Well, hope everyone had a nice Christmas. I'm planning to upload these next few chapters weekly.

Also, I've seen a few reviews that have spectacularly missed the point, so just to make it clear; the reason that Jon has faced all of these problems is because of all the wildlings beneath him. More broadly, it's because of the circumstances of this war.

Let's suppose that all the way back in chapter 10 or something, what if Jon decided not to approach the free folk, and he chose not to unite all of the clans around the dragon. Rather, he could have headed straight for the Wall. In that situation, maybe Jon found his own way to get back south of the Wall with Sonagon - and after that Jon would have received a much less suspicious welcome from the north. Jon might have set about the exact same actions - fighting against the Boltons, declaring for House Stark, bringing the dragon into the war - and in that case he wouldn't have been treated the same way.

Even with a dragon, the politics of war is important - and politics is all image. Jon might have been viewed as a lost son fighting for justice, people might have cheered for the dragon instead of cowered, he could have built a nobler reputation, and then it wouldn't have been so easy for the Boltons to work their smear campaign.

But instead, he came south with the free folk behind him, and Jon became viewed as the Bastard King. That is not a good reputation.

To the realm, Jon wasn't fighting for northern interests, he was leading an invasion against them. He wasn't a saviour, he was a huge threat. The north responded in the exact same way that they have always done to King-Beyond-the-Walls and wildling invasions; fear, then anger, followed by a determined campaign to break the invaders.

To be honest, that's not even an unreasonable response. The free folk are full of people like the Weeper or the Lord of Bones that have ensured they deserve their reputation. They come south and their first instincts, the instincts of their culture, is to start pillaging. Jon may have been trying to change the wildling traditions of raping and raiding, but he hasn't completely succeeded. It's not possible to completely succeed, there's too much cultural inertia behind it. Asking wildlings to stop raiding is like asking British people to abandon their cups of tea, or Americans to give up their guns - even in the face of literal doomsday, they didn't want to do it.

The northmen were very much justified in wanting all of these savage killers off their lands, and Jon soaked up all of that bad reputation himself.

But, thanks to the presence of the dragon, many of those disgruntled and angry northmen cowered to Jon - but loyalty through fear is not the same as loyalty.

People were too scared to oppose him, yet instead you had a large portion of 'allies' who started half-assing their contributions to Jon's campaign, and another wave that set about trying to discreetly sabotage him. Allies were only alongside the wildlings because they didn't feel they had a choice, the saboteurs had a field day. The Battle of the Snows was the culmination of all of those efforts.

Roose Bolton saw the weakness in Jon's army that Jon never noticed, and he shoved a dagger in. Just like he did in canon regarding the Castle Black assassination that was brewing, Jon

became too distracted with what was ahead of him that he didn't look behind.

So then, was Jon wrong in allying with the free folk the way that he did? Did he waste his time with the wildlings? Well, perhaps. It has certainly made a lot of trouble for him - but on the other hand, if Jon hadn't have brought the wildlings south, then the Other's army would have become that much larger. The Wall would be less secure, and there would have been a whole other set of problems for him to face.

That's part of the point that I wanted to emphasize - there's no 'ideal' solution. The situation was far too complex and too messy for there to be a perfect way through it.

Take the Scouring of the Twins, for example. That was a very good military move by Jon, it has had huge benefits. After Jon destroyed the Twins, he scared off every other realm from intervening directly in the north's war. All of those people that would have otherwise moved to stop the dragon suddenly backed off and tried to keep their distance. The Boltons lost their strongest ally, the south tried to cut ties. It was only because Jon destroyed Twins that he managed to form the north collation, and make the alliance with White Harbour.

But the disadvantages to it were the moral repercussions. Tactically, destroying the Twins was a good move, but Jon is not a sociopath; he can't watch a whole bunch of people dying and not feel guilt. Jon saw a lot of collateral at the Twins, and that seriously disturbed him - and afterwards he started taking steps to avoid doing such again. If it had been Tywin Lannister in the same situation, then there wouldn't have been the freakout afterwards; Tywin would have destroyed the Twins and a whole bunch of other castles and not felt a thing.

Unfortunately, there's a reason why all of the Tywin Lannisters and Roose Boltons of the world tend to be successful; men

without restraint have a distinct advantage over men that do (at least in the short term).

That's the lesson that Roose Bolton taught Jon. Whether or not it's a good lesson is very debatable.

There's no 'good' choice there, no flawless leader whose actions lead to the best result every single time. You can compare and contrast to Aegon in this story, who has done pretty well for himself - but that's only because Aegon has made absolutely zero actual decisions of his own. Aegon has relied very much on all of the people around him dealing with stuff for him, while Aegon's hands and conscience remain clean

even despite all of the heinous acts that have unknowningly been done in his name, all those murders and atrocities which were very much required to get Aegon to where he is.

And, at the other side of the spectrum, there's Euron, who has no conscience whatsoever. Jon's smoothest and easiest victory would have been if Jon had followed suit and copied Euron's approach to war. That has been explicitly laid out in the story.

There's no perfect action; there are only different consequences and how to deal with them.

Also, very, very special thanks to reader Achrmy, who commissioned an amazing piece of fanart for this story, a fantastic image featuring Sonagon. Kudos as well to artist Ed Mattinian, and I urge all readers to check it out. There's been a few reviews asking for descriptions of Sonagon and specifications of the size of the dragon, and I think this piece of art really nails it. Much appreciated.

I'm using the picture now as a thumbnail for the story on FFnet, but if you want to see the full thing go look at Dragons of Ice and Fire on AO3, or check out the TvTropes page. It's been uploaded to both sites.

Chapter 44

Chapter 44

Ramsay

The butcher's blade hacked down through her furs, straight through the bitch's shoulder and down into her chest. He felt the squelch of flesh and skin splitting jar his grip. Like skinning the fur off a dog . 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 in her chest, and bloody grin flashed over his face. It would be too quick, Ramsay thought suddenly, hands jolting to a halt. Cutting out her heart would be too quick.

Ramsay wanted her to die slowly. He wanted to watch the metal edge slicing into her chest, he wanted to hear the blood hissing, wanted to see the red pluming over white. The wildling bitch was wide-eyed and fearful, her body squirming beneath his, his sword piercing downwards…

There was that beautiful moment when she was falling, and she realised she was going to die. He wanted that moment to last forever. Ramsay loved that moment; he loved savouring the look in their eyes.

And then her knuckles tightened around her blade. Even before Ramsay could retract his lunge, the wildling's sword slashed upwards, straight into Ramsay's stomach.

The world went dead.

There was no pain, not at first. There was nothing but faint confusion, a blunt shock. It didn't feel like a knife, it felt more like a

hard punch to his gut. Huh, Ramsay thought dumbly. They've never done that before .

His eyes looked downwards, and he saw his own intestines pouring out of his stomach. He saw the short blade skewering straight through him.

"Oh."

That was when he felt the pain. He tried to thrash, but all his blood and guts were splashing out of him. Ramsay could only spasm, his limbs thrashing…

Ramsay fell backwards in the snow, feeling all warmth fizzle away. Faintly, in the distance, someone was yelling. He felt the pain, he felt his body howling and spasming and dying.

It's not fair! Ramsay could have screamed. It's not fair - I was so close. I was so close to seeing her die! He really, really wanted to see her eyes as she died.

His vision went black. No, I can't die like this. The Bastard King… I was so close…

It was so hard to think. His thoughts were blurry, turning numb and fading away. He couldn't concentrate, he couldn't…

All feeling bled out of him, his life draining away along with his guts. Ramsay felt himself hitting the ice. Ramsay felt himself bleeding out of his own body, and into the abyss.

It was all dark, and empty.

…

And he kept on falling. Falling all the way, breaking through the earth. There was no light, no sound, only the numbest of feelings - a tingling on a phantom limb.

He tumbled into the nothingness, and then he landed. Landed in dark water. Everything went cold and black. So cold he couldn't even feel it. All light vanished and there was nothing. He felt the splash as he broke through the veil.

He was naked. No, not only naked, he was nothing .

He had no arms or legs, he had no body to squirm with. He couldn't fight, he couldn't resist. He felt like nothing but a blob, a lump of nothingness oozing away in the current.

He had no limbs, no skin, no eyes. He felt exposed, turned inside out. Like a flayed man drowning in ice cold water.

Oh, Ramsay thought dumbly. I'm dead .

It was so… so… unfortunate . He hadn't expected the wildling bitch to stab upwards like that. Ramsay wanted to scream, wanted to rage, but everything felt stiff. Cold. So hard to feel anything. Is this what death is like?

He had heard that in the south they preached of seven hells, but Ramsay had never given the afterlife much thought. Ramsay had never really believed that death was possible, not for him. It didn't make any sense; how could he just die ?

He was in a river. It felt like a river, at least - but with no eyes and no skin it was hard to tell. He felt submerged. He could feel the current around him, he could feel the sensation of movement of dragging him away. It felt like he was bobbing along on a slow and steady stream, drifting away into nothingness.

There were other presences around him. Ramsay could sense them, even without eyes or ears. He couldn't explain it, but he knew they were there. All of them were dead people - friends and foes alike - slipping away down the river.

He felt the shiver in the water each time another person splashed down. Up above, they were still dying, so many dead men tumbling downwards in a great gush of death.

He tried to thrash, but he could do nothing. If he had a body, his heart would have been racing and his limbs thrashing, he would have been screaming and cursing. But Ramsay had nothing, he was nothing.

Nothing but blind and hollow beings, floating away. A river of dead souls, oozing at a snail's pace. It was a slow current, painfully slow. Perhaps the river was jammed by the blockage of all those dead people.

This is how I die? Ramsay thought, with the phantom sensation of panic. Just… disappear into the current?

Ramsay had stared down a dragon without fear. He had laughed as he stood against an army. Ramsay didn't feel fear, fear was for other people - but that thought… the thought of just disappearing was the first truly terrifying thing that he ever encountered.

I was so close, so close…

He wanted to cling on, he wanted to rage and thrash…

I can't die. I can't…

That moment of helplessness… it felt like he was back in the cottage, watching his mother pick up a knife. Ramsay was reliving those memories, those moments of utter helplessness. He had been helpless once, and he vowed never to be helpless again. Never to be trapped, never to be weak…

Fight. Need to fight. Need to scream. Need to claw my way back, need to claw out their throats.

Can't die yet. I've got so many left to kill.

He couldn't fight it. It was too big to fight. He was nothing but an ant caught in a flood.

Then, he felt the current shudder. He felt cold. He felt a tingle down his phantom spine. He felt the cold pluming over the river, sharp thorns of ice spreading outwards. The river of death was being frozen, dammed by the ice.

It was freezing. The river was being frozen, and all the souls around him were left hovering in icy stasis.

He could feel the souls all around him, coming to a halt as the icy tendrils took hold. The cold seized him, dragging him backwards…

…

His whole being trembled, frosty daggers piercing phantom skin, like it was pulling him inside out. There was an agony that pierced down to his very core.

The image of a bright, blue sun seared against his soul. He shuddered, and the fire was so cold it burned.

…

Light. He saw light again. Ramsay might have gagged, but he couldn't feel his throat.

Everything was dazed, blurred. The wind howled around him, he could hear ice crackling. He saw the faint blaze of torches, clouded through the slurry of snow. He heard hissing wind, and there was sounds, movement. Sounds of lumbering shapes, of bodies breaking through the ice.

Ramsay's numb body jerked into motion, his limbs scrambling to pull himself from the bottom of a deep drift of snow. He saw the moon above, like a bulbous, bloody dagger hovering in the sky.

His body was convulsing, he couldn't control it. He couldn't even feel it. The pain was agonising, an inhuman pain like nothing he had ever imagined.

Ramsay shuddered, and then suddenly he saw the light.

There were two pinpricks of light, gleaming in the dark. Two blue eyes were staring down at him. Ramsay felt the cold reach his soul.

The world changed. Everything turned blue. His vision shot into focus, all the colours blending into a bluish tint. There was no more pain, no more panic.

Ramsay's body lurched upwards, clawing itself out the snow, but Ramsay could hardly feel it. Everything felt… muted. Everything that was once so bright and so sharp now felt numb.

He could see in the night, as clearly as if it were the bright of day. Everything was glowing blue, shining so bright it was stunning. The whole world looked surreal, frozen and picturesque in the snows.

Above him, the sky was on fire - blue shimmering lights flashing before the stars. The northern lights flowed and glimmered in the night's sky above him. Ramsay would have gaped, but he couldn't move his jaw.

All around him, he saw the bodies climbing out of the snow.

Ramsay's stomach was wide open, his guts spilling out, but he couldn't feel pain. Curls of frozen intestines were left dangling from his stomach. His body was frozen so solid that his joints creaked every time his limbs moved. It should have hurt, but Ramsay couldn't feel it. He felt like a passenger in his own skin. He couldn't move, he couldn't even twitch, he couldn't scream.

The snow was so thick that he had to scramble to get on top of it. His limbs felt stiff and cumbersome, his arms and legs starting as if they a mind of their own.

He couldn't feel anything; there was nothing in the world but cold and eerie invisible blue light.

What happened to me? Ramsay thought with numb horror. I was dying, I felt it. But then… it was like something scooped me out of the abyss and forced me into my skin.

Hoarfrost clung to his skin, he could see ice creeping over his eyes. My body is dead, but I'm still here . He didn't know how, he didn'tunderstand why.

He saw them. He saw the other body moving upwards, their skin slick with frost. There were dozens of them, hundreds, thousands, staggering up from the snow, one by one. Some had missing limbs, even missing heads, but they still moved. It was the dead of night, but the frozen lake was squirming.

And Ramsay could see their souls; he could see the souls of the dead, trapped in their frozen prisons of flesh.

He stared forward numbly, and two of them he recognised. He saw Watt and Lems - two of his own Bastard's Boys, staggering up from the ice. They were dead, one from the wildling king's blade, the other from the dragon. Ramsay tried to call out to them, but he couldn't. They both staggered past him, their eyes unfocused.

It was like all of the others were blind, but Ramsay could still see. He didn't know how, but he wasn't looking through his normal eyes. Ramsay couldn't explain it, but it was like he could see more than just the physical, like he was looking out of another eye.

He didn't understand anything; he felt weak, useless.

The thought of the Bastard King flashed before his eyes. He remembered his mother, his father, his brother… everybody who made him…

I need to move. Need to move. Need to hunt. Hounds and sheep.

Remember what you are. Remember the rage.

He could feel the fire, the emotion, burning against the cold. He could feel the flames trying to ignite even in the dead, cold husk of his body. He was trapped in his skin, feeling his memories rage all around him. It was torture; like burning to death in ice.

If Ramsay had a mouth, he would have screamed.

Move. I need to move. This is my body, mine, I need to….

Ramsay focused with every fibre of his being, every ounce of rage he could muster… and he felt his own dead fingers twitch.

The raw exhaustion required almost sent him to his knees. It took everything he had to fight the cold, just to move his dead muscles. Just to make his fingers twitch of his own volition.

'You are aware,' a voice said suddenly, cutting down to his soul. 'How strange.'

The voice wasn't speaking the Common Tongue, but Ramsay could still understand it. Ramsay shuddered.

He saw it. Ramsay's necked twisted up robotically, his body bowing unwillingly. He stood before a god. A being of pure, brilliant blue light.

It stood like a statue, perhaps some sculpture made by a master carver. Its skin was as slick as ice, but it was shining - it was radiating energy, so much power than the air seemed to crackle around it. When it moved, the world twisted, it's every motion unnaturally graceful. It was glorious and terrifying, cruel and beautiful. A god of ice.

And there was something of mild amusement on its shining face. Beneath all the ice, Ramsay saw a figure like a young boy with bright

white hair staring back at him. He could have been a young man, but he was frozen in body of ice. Immortalised.

The Other cocked its head, and Ramsay's body lurched upwards to face it. It prowled, pacing around him. It walked across the snow without leaving a footprint, but there was a slight lurch in its step.

It's doing something , Ramsay realised with a flush of rage. It's controlling my body .

You can see, can't you? ' the Other mused. ' All of these, ' with a lazy motion, it flickered at all of the other shambling bodies, ' they are all as good as blind, but you've still got some vision. You can see me. '

It stepped closer, inspecting him like one would a curious insect. Its voice was so soft, almost sing-song. ' And you are angry. Angry, is that the right word? ' the Other noted curiously, cocking its head tothe other side. ' That's rare, but it happens occasionally. For some, the emotions don't quite die, they try to hang on to them. '

Ramsay couldn't move his mouth, couldn't respond.

'Tell me,' it sounded genuinely puzzled, ' why do you refuse to let go of that hate? '

Because it's all I am . The hate is all I have .

Ah. ' The Other nodded. ' But isn't that miserable? That's what confuses me, you see - wouldn't you be more content without it all? '

Ramsay stared in horror. His jaw was frozen shut, but the Other still responded. It can read my head. It's in my head . His whole body might have recoiled, but the Other was controlling him, inside and out. No, no, no! Ramsay wanted to scream. They're my thoughts, my body, my hate! You don't get to touch them!

I see. ' The Other paused, and then seemed to shrug. ' It makes no difference, regardless. Believe whatever you wish. The fire will die, sooner or later. Come now, thrall, your new life awaits. '

Ramsay's body lurched. His legs jolted into motion, every step jerking. The Other moved so gracefully, but Ramsay's body was jerking.

You are now immortal, free from pain and time. In return, we expect only your skin, ' The Other stepped forward, turning to stare around frozen lake. ' A small price to pay for eternity - this is a gift. '

The only gift I want is a dagger. You can't do this, you can't control me like this…

The air was alive. He saw the bright blue light shimmering in the sky

waves of energy pulsating through the night. The storm was howling, but Ramsay couldn't feel it. The only thing he could feel was the energy vibrating from the Other, a power that seemed to chime in the air.

Like singing. It felt like the cold was singing, a song for the snows.

Come now, ' it ordered, and the corpses started to trundle forward through the snow. ' Our task awaits. My brothers are calling for me. '

Visions flashed before Ramsay's eyes. Commands, orders pushed straight into his head. Ramsay saw a vision of the Wall, and of the cold simmering on the other side of it. Why? What? How?

The dead were already moving, but the Other lingered. The dead men were heading north. The Other only paced idly across the lake, looking around as more and more rose from the snow. Its every movement was graceful and smooth, like a cat.

The air was so cold that pine trees cracked open. The winds were howling, the snows so fierce they could cleave skin. It was weather

that no living man could survive in. And yet, still, Ramsay barely even noticed. He felt nothing.

You, ' the Other said, looking towards Ramsay again. He felt icy fingers pushing through his mind. ' You know the route. Tell me of it. '

I don't… I don't want to help you, I don't want to do this…

The Other only tutted, and invisible hands reached into Ramsay's skull.

Images flashed. He visualised forests, roads, the goat tracks. All of the paths that Ramsay used to roam, all of the hunting trails. The Other was looking through his memories, stealing it. It's stealing my memories, Ramsay realised in horror. Stealing my body. No… you can't… stop…

The Other didn't even seem to notice his struggles.

At an unspoken command, the wights changed direction slightly. Ramsay had hunted through the wolfswood and the northern mountains all his life. Ramsay knew the wilderness better than most, he knew all the secret roads. The Other was using that information to command his soldiers via unspoken orders.

The Other need only will it, and the dead obeyed. They couldn't do anything but.

And all the while it pushed deeper into Ramsay's head.

The memory of the dragon flashed before his eyes. The great white monster were memories of awe and envy in Ramsay's head, but the Other seemed to scoff. ' The beast is but a relic, ' the Other said, ' it is a fragment of fire tempered by the ice. The 'dragon' is no threat, merely an inconvenience .'

No, the dragon can hurt you , Ramsay thought. It might torch your army from the air. The dead cannot stop it in the skies .

The Other seemed to agree. With an unspoken command, the wights started to scatter into smaller groups - taking shelter in the snowstorm and the trees. They were staying dispersed and spread out, so the dragon wouldn't be so effective. ' Like I said, an inconvenience. Show me more. '

More images flashed. Everything that Ramsay had learnt of the dragon's hunting patterns, its behaviour, its flight. The memories of the greyscale poison Ramsay had used floated before the Other's cold gaze. The Other seemed interested.

And then Ramsay remembered Jon Snow. The Bastard King. Those were memories of pure hatred and jealousy. I wanted to own him, Ramsay thought, I wanted to destroy him. I nearly did.

I know of that one, ' the Other noted, lingering on the memory of the Bastard. ' He slew one of my brothers with a cursed blade. But it matters not, we are more than our bodies. ' Its voice was patronising.

And Death is naught but an illusion. '

Tactics, numbers, routes. Everything that Ramsay knew of Snow's army, its strengths and its weaknesses. The garrison at Castle Black, their fortifications, their watchtowers. Ramsay had spent so long inspecting them himself, plotting his own campaign. The Other seemed to have use for that intelligence too.

You're heading north, Ramsay realised. You are heading for the Wall .

We are. The 'Wall' has stood for too long - it is another inconvenience. It must fall. '

The Other took it all from Ramsay's head. Ramsay didn't want to help it, but there was no choice. He couldn't fight back, he had nothing to fight. It was like the Other was a part of him now. It's in my skin, Ramsay realised. It's possessing my dead flesh .

All of the old legends that Ramsay was once told came back to him. The white walkers. The Long Night. The cold winds rising, and the Last Hero.

After a few long moments, the Other stepped backwards and nodded. ' Thank you, you have been most useful, ' the Other said. ' Still, I wonder, can you answer a question of my own… '

Ramsay's body just stared, unable to twitch. The Other cocked its head again. ' Why do you fight? Even now, I feel you trying to resist, and I just don't understand… ' Even beneath its inhuman gaze, thefrozen young boy looked confused. ' Why struggle? I have been so wondering about that myself, unable to make sense of it. Just… why? '

You want to destroy us. We fight for what we are. Hounds and sheep.

Destroy? ' It even seemed appalled by the suggestion. ' Never. Ice is preservation, fire is destruction. We do not wish to destroy. '

You're going to kill us. Turn us into slaves. That is destroy.

No. It is not. Kill. Kill . Why would we bother 'killing' you?' Its aura shimmered and crackled, and Ramsay slowly realised that was laughter. That was how it laughed. ' You are brief, you would kill yourselves. We do not care - what does the winter care for the candle? '

Ramsay could see its intentions, clear as day. It was focusing on Castle Black, and the Shadow Tower, and there were thousands of dead men under its command. It was going to march north and kill everyone on the Wall. It wanted to open the gates, to let them all through. How many Others are there?

He saw blurred shadows, visions of an army. This Other was the vanguard, the forward unit, the one that managed to slip south before all the rest. It had pushed its way through the Wall, in an

attempt to clear the path for its brothers. It has done the same that I did . The Other had lingered behind enemy lines, as it waited for an opportunity. It saw a chance and it took it.

A tremble past down his phantom spine. For so long, Ramsay had believed himself to be the ultimate predator, the most dangerous of them all. Ramsay had wanted to be the hound, not the meat.

The Other stepped forward, looking at him quizzically. ' If we wished to 'kill' you, ' it explained, ' we would have done so eons ago. Instead, we even built a wall so you might live and die all by yourselves. '

There was nothing but confusion. Ramsay froze, trying to understand. Built a… Built a wall? You built the Wall .

Of course. ' Its voice was confused, as it looked through his memories once more. Images of the Wall flashed before his dead eyes. ' Did you really think that mortals built something like that yourselves? '

That didn't make sense. Bran the Builder raised the Wall, or so the legends said. Why would you build something and then step behind it?

You mortals became… irritable to us. ' It shrugged. ' So we built a wall to keep you out. '

Keep us out? Keep us out? All around him, the dead were still walking and the storm howled, but Ramsay was frozen in the spot. The Other kept him still, trying to fulfil its own idle curiosity.

I was mortal once, ' it said conversationally. ' All my brothers were too. I regard that time as the most unfortunate of my existence, I am glad that my briefness is over. I am content with the form they gave me, and I do wish to spread it. But we are moulded from human flesh, there can be no… what do you call us? There is a name you apply? ' Icy fingers pressed downwards. ' Ah, there can be no 'white

walker' without human. We have no reason to want to end all mortals - why would we destroy what we're created from? '

It was human once? As if to demonstrate, the white walker pushed a memory before Ramsay's eyes. The scene was vivid and yet blurred. He saw a vision of a little babe, left out in a snowy forest. The baby was sacrificed, and then shadows emerged from the dark trees to collect it. A ceremony, a payment, a tithe. Then why… why destroy the Wall now?

Its time has passed. ' The Other shook its head. ' We were quite comfortable with the agreement we came to, but our king is insistent. There can be no pact this time. '

I don't understand.

I told you,' it chided, ' Ice is preservation, immortality, and fire is destruction. The fires are rising again, and soon this whole world may be set ablaze. You broke the balance, and so we must set forth to counter it. We must bring order again. '

Fires. Ramsay felt visions… no, more like feelings. He felt the Other showing him something; he felt blistering heart and scalding cold. A heart of fire and a heart of cold, resting and simmering at opposite ends of the world.

' If not for us, this earth might be set aflame,' the Other said softly. ' Our king has set us forth to preserve all before it turns to ash. We are here to save the world. '

Ramsay could only stare blankly.

The Other looked down upon at him sympathetically. ' Do not worry if you do not understand, thrall. Your understanding is not required. For now, I require only your flesh. It is time to move. '

With a dismissive shake of its head, the Other turned and glided away. Ramsay felt the commands pierce into his skin, his legs

pushed into motion.

Ramsay tried to object. He tried to fight. But his body lurched, his limbs moving without his control. He could not scream, could not curse, could not howl. He could do nothing but stare outwards through blue, frozen eyes. His body was dead, his flesh milky pale.

He started to march through the snows; another dead man in an army of thousands.

A prisoner in his own skin, while his own body shambled like a puppet on strings.

Melisandre

The sunrise was beautiful from the towers of High Tide. It was a glorious sight, to see the great flames burning over the horizon. The narrow sea itself glowed red like blood. The winds hissed with the waves, the smell of salt thick in the air, and sky shone such vibrant, passionate crimson. It was a moment of power, that brief time in the morn where the whole world could witness the glory of R'hllor.

Her red dress rippled, her hair flew free behind her, and the Red Woman shone like a torch in the morning.

Melony, Lot Seven, a faint voice echoed to her. Her hand twitched, moving to touch the ruby on her neck. The ruby was already overfilled, but even now it was soaking up a bit more power from the sunrise. It was burning so hot it might have scorched her flesh, but the pain helped to focus her. Even now, even as she stood in the light, she could feel those dark memories of her time beneath the shadow. "Never again," she whispered to the wind.

All around her, the isle of Driftmark was alive and frantic in the morn.

The steps of the castle were rough and warped, stained black from dragonfire over a hundred years ago. Once, High Tide had been the

crowning jewel of House Velaryon, the castle raised by the Sea Snake himself, a monument to house all of the treasures that Corlys Velaryon recovered from the far east. Then, much like House Velaryon itself, a once proud structure had been destroyed and fell into ruin.

During the Dance of the Dragons, House Velaryon supported the blacks, and the greens had torched High Tide from dragonback. The towers had melted, the keep was set ablaze, and the treasures ransacked or destroyed - and the Driftwood Throne itself burnt into ash. Still, at the war's end, enough of the castle survived to be habitable, and other parts were repaired piece by piece, but the wealth was well and truly lost. High Tide was left mutilated and scarred, and House Velaryon never had the coin again to restore it. The Velaryons had instead retreated back to their old and damp ancient castle of Driftmark, and they carved a replica throne to try and replace the seat that was lost.

All around her, the ancient ruins were being looted and pillaged for all they were worth once more.

This will be the end of House Velaryon, Melisandre thought with a sigh. It was a pity that she had to finish what the dragons started, a century and a half ago.

So far as she knew, the only scion of House Velaryon remaining was a single bastard turned pirate, last seen haunting the inlets of Lorath.

Beneath her, the castle of High Tide was screaming. Melisandre took a deep breath, glancing downwards at the scuffle breaking out on the grounds.

"Don't do this!" a young boy wept, his silver hair patchy with blood. The men were not gentle as they dragged him away, his fingers clawing at the sand. "You can't do this… you can't… I serve Stannis… my father died for Stannis!"

Monterys Velaryon was a young boy of eight, and the last scion of his house. He was a slender child with wide eyes and fair cheeks, and the distinctive silver hair of his ancestors. Melisandre's eyes narrowed as she watched Ser Narbert Grandison and Malegorn of Redpool drag the boy away. She might have cursed. Gentle. I ordered them to be gentle .

Young Lord Monterys was still screaming, while Ser Narbert grabbed him by heels and dragged. "My father fought for Stannis," Monterys wept. "… he died for Stannis !"

"Aye," Ser Malegorn agreed. "Lord Monford was a good and true man. And then you betrayed his memory."

With that, the knight's boot slammed into the child's stomach. Melisandre winced quietly, pacing faster down the steps. " You bent the knee to the usurpers!" the knight growled, kicking the boy again. "Your father gave his life on the Blackwater, and then you surrendered to wicked-"

"Ser Malegorn!" Melisandre snapped, as she swept across the courtyard. "Restrain yourself, ser."

Monterys was gagging, unable to speak. The knight looked abashed. "My lady… !"

"I gave you a task, did I not?" Melisandre barked, feeling a spark of anger flare. "Such brutality is not what I commanded."

Ser Malegorn lowered his head, dropping to a knee. On the floor, Monterys Velaryon was wheezing, coughing blood. "Forgive me, my lady," the knight said, pale-faced. "But… the boy's weakness, his dishonour… it makes me sick."

"He is but a boy. He does not see the path."

Others were being dragged out of ruins as well. Melisandre saw serving women, boys and grey-haired men struggling against the

king's men. Some tried to resist, but the knights were ruthless. Imprison all that you can, their king had ordered, and put any who defy to the sword .

House Velaryon had tried to resist their duty. After the Blackwater, young Lord Monterys and his shrew of a mother had bent the knee to King's Landing. Even when Stannis returned to Dragonstone, they did not embrace their former lord and true king. Stannis had given them a chance to return to his trust, but they chose treachery and cowardice instead.

The king's men had torched Driftmark Castle. As the battle around King's Landing distracted the crown, the Redwyne fleet and their blockade retreated, and Stannis' navy was left free to start the offensive once more.

Driftmark Castle had been the first to fall - their depleted guard did not stand a chance against Stannis' hardened forces. The king ordered that the castle would be given to the flame, set alight as funeral pyre for all those traitors. It had been a beautiful sight.

As Driftmark fell, the young lord tried to flee and hide in the ruins of High Tide, but Melisandre had tracked him through the fires. Ser Rolland Storm had led the king's men, but Red Woman herself came herself to ensure there could be no failure.

She knew there would be no danger to her person. There were no fighting men left here, just women, children and old men trying to hide.

Lord Monterys was weeping, crying into the sand and muttering deliriously. Ser Narbert moved to pulled him up, but Melisandre motioned him back. The Red Woman knelt into the sands next to him, one hand on the boy's shoulders and moving her other hand to her ruby. Calm yourself, child, she willed, and she felt the small flicker of power from her ruby. Not a lot, just the lightest of touch. It bled away a bit of the excess heat from the ruby.

The child's sobs choked. His eyes widened, his body stiffened. No noise came from him, Monterys did naught but stare and gape.

Melisandre reached across, and cradled his face. "You have a purpose, my child," she whispered. "A glorious purpose. Go towards that light, do not resist."

There was no reply. The knights pulled him to his feet - gently - and then clamped him in chains. The boy did not even squirm. Melony, Lot Seven .

Melisandre might have taken a deep breath, but she kept herself stoic. Sometimes, she thought, even such distasteful practices must be employed .

Heavy boots stomped around her. They had brought chains for a hundred prisoners, and every knight carried a set of manacles on their waist. Many were screaming and wailing as they tried to resist, and there wasn't a fire in the world with enough power for Melisandre to calm them all.

A knight wearing a pure red cloak stepped towards her, scared cheeks showing underneath a grey helm. Ser Rolland Storm, the Bastard of Nightsong, bowed his head to her. "High Tide is subdued, my lady."

"Good," Melisandre said with a nod. "Put them all in chains, ensure that no harm to come for them."

"All of them, my lady?" Ser Rolland hesitated. "We were only after the lord."

"Valyrian blood must be strong on this island, ser. There are likely distant relations, cousins and bastard sons among them - we need any with the right ancestry," she countered. "Take them all toDragonstone, and we will sort out which are useful ones there."

His scarred face darkened. Many of the other knights were devoted without, but Rolland Storm was more suspicious. He was a loyal soldier to his king, but he had been left at Dragonstone during the campaign north. Ser Rolland had not witnessed the ice dragon. "You said that only one was required to wake the stone dragons," he noted. "One sacrifice, one boy with king's blood. Originally, Edric Storm was only one who was to burn."

"I did," Melisandre replied coolly, as she brushed her hair backwards and stepped forward, "but the king requires a large dragon, ser. There can be no chance of failure this time, so the sacrifice must be substantial." She cocked her head, measuring his expression. "It is like any trade - the more you pay, the higher quality the result."

"And yet one thousand people?" he demanded.

"Yes. One thousand persons of king's blood, sacrificed together," Melisandre explained with a light smile, as she turned and walked away. "It is called the Great Rite, ser; a ceremony to raise the Red God and his chosen."

Ser Rolland didn't reply, dark eyes staring at her back. The knight had tried to cling onto his seven false idols, but he had recently converted to the True Faith. His loyalty to the Red God was still tenuous, and many of those who lacked conviction still doubted the Great Rite. But it is happening nonetheless, Melisandre told herself, I saw it in my fires .

The very thought put a tremor down her spine with excitement. It will be glorious.

Stannis Baratheon knew now what he must do to forge Lightbringer. He would awaken a weapon of fire through blood. One thousand men and women, all of them with the blood of kings, to be sacrificed to the Dragonmont together.

With one sacrifice I can perform miracles, Melisandre had told her king, but with a thousand I might reshape the world .

Melisandre knew it was the right path. Ever since the king had set his course, her powers had increased dramatically. The Red God rewarded her, granted her the gifts needed to see it done. The Great Rite had come to her in a dream, and she knew now what must be done to ensure the Battle of the Dawn.

One thousand men and women was a steep price, but it was nothing compared to the fate of the world.

Every man under Stannis had sacrificed to see it done. Every night since returning from the north, Melisandre had held a bonfire in the courtyard of Dragonstone, where she showed them all the glory of R'hllor. She showed them the path to divinity, and they gave her devotion.

The Great Rite was the culmination of the goal that they had been working towards for a long time.

One thousand places. They had filled their numbers up quickly, but there was still a long way to go. Many of the houses sworn to Dragonstone - Houses Celtigar, Bar Emmon, Massey and now Velaryon - all had Valyrian ancestry and so their blood was viable. Stannis had set out to reinforce his power over the narrow sea, to rebuild his force and fleet, and to fill Dragonstone's dungeons with sacrifices.

Stannis had even sent seven men to Lys, to search out Edric Storm and the men that Lord Seaworth had squirreled him away with.

Many are not the purest bloodlines, Mel admitted. Not the finest sources of king's blood - some of them only linked way back to the days of a thousand kings in Westeros. For the numbers required, they had to look towards the more tenuous claims to royalty, even searching out smallfolk of dubious ancestry. Still, there were a thousand sacrifices needed, and they were getting closer to that number with every raid, every conversion, every hunting party scouring the land.

The cells of Dragonstone were already overfilled.

Melisandre lingered at High Tide to watch the sunrise a bit longer.

The Great Rite will be glorious .

Ser Rolland was left in charge of escorting the prisoners back, but Melisandre rode away with her personal guard, riding over the cliffs of Driftmark across the sandy coast shaggy with ferns and thistles. A cold breeze blew from the west, bringing with it the tang of salt and sulphur. She saw the large galleons docked on the coastline, and the crowned fiery heart on their sails rippling in the wind.

Five ships were waiting for her, their hulls open as the loaded up cargo gathered from towns on Driftmark. So many from the island were being forced onto the ships in lines - their pale blonde hairs glinted in the sunlight, like the links of freshly forged chains snaking into the ship's holds.

Melisandre saw Lord Axell Florent, the Hand of the King, standing on the beach. The lord was clad in fox fur and heavy russet over his chain mail, sweating in the sunlight. Lord Axell bowed deeply to Melisandre's approach, his nose nearly touching the sands.

"Your Eminence," Lord Axell greeted. "Eternal glory to R'hllor."

"May His light bless you," Melisandre nodded. "You came with purpose?"

"I am instructed to escort you back to Dragonstone, Your Eminence."

Ah . She looked around the ships curiously. "Something has happened."

"His Grace wishes your council," Lord Axell explained, before grimacing. "Forgive me, but the king, well, he is… perturbed."

Stannis wanted to see her, and he was not happy. Melisandre hadn't known about it, but she just gave a knowing nod as if was all

expected. A prophet was not allowed to be surprised. She allowed Lord Axell to take her arm as he escorted her up the gangway.

The other ships lingered on the beach, but Lord Florent's flagship, the Bountiful Harvest, pulled up its sails, lowered its oars, and set off as soon as she stepped onboard. She watched the sandy beaches and sharp cliffs of Driftmark disappear as the boat rocked with the wind.

Most of their ships were formerly of the Redwyne fleet, Melisandre knew, but they had been captured by Stannis. There had been many frequent skirmishes in the mouth of the Blackwater and the coasts of Dragonstone recently. Stannis had fought half a dozen battles at Dragonstone in as many months.

In their fifth battle at sea, Melisandre had used fire to cloud the Redwyne officer's minds, to make them unable to respond properly. Their enemy's command floundered, their discipline broke, and it allowed for Stannis' weaker forces to capture their galleons with ease.

So much of Stannis' strength had been rebuilt through Melisandre's renewed powers. With her aid, they had captured ships, made more and more and conversions. Not even the Redwyne fleet or the Tyrell army had been able to stand against the Red God's gifts, and in return Stannis gifted more and more to the Red God.

A fair trade. That was all R'hllor asked.

The galleon creaked and groaned in the waves, men scuttling over the rigging and a slow, uncertain drumbeat from the rowers below. The ship lurched, and Lord Axell grimaced.

"Forgive the journey, Your Eminence," the lord said finally. "Our navigator has been having difficulty… well, the weather throughout the bay has been unstable. Even the tides have been off."

Melisandre didn't reply. She stood at the rear of the ship, and her eyes turned to stare towards the west. Usually there would be gulls gliding over these coasts, but all the birds had fled. Melisandre was too far to see the blackened ruins of the city, but dark clouds lingered over the distant horizon. On good days, you could see the blackened walls of the Red Keep.

Occasionally, there were rains of ash sweeping the Blackwater, or localised storms through the bay. Ever since the night of fires in King's Landing, there had been queer weather for leagues around.

Melisandre's power was stronger now. After the great fire, she had grown even further. Sometimes, it was so powerful it was suffocating.

She remembered that night with such vivid detail; they had all watched the glow of the fires of the horizon, but Melisandre had felt it. She had felt the roar of the flames, the howl of fires unleashed. It had been like glorious beast coming to life, laughing and trembling with joy and hunger. Fires more glorious than anything she had ever imagined.

Thousands of men and women burnt in holy flames . Even from so far away, Melisandre had felt the power searing upwards.

That had been the night when the last of the believers of the Seven on Dragonstone had conceded, and everyone who remained had converted to the Red God. One more time that Melisandre's powers and prophecies had been proven true.

We prayed for divine aid, and R'hllor smited the unbelievers with cleansing fire. How could anybody question His will after that?

Even now, she could feel it on her skin, her body shivering. Even near a fortnight later, that energy lingered; it had left the entire bay charged with power. Mel's ruby was hot to the touch even when idle, but she barely felt the heat anymore.

It covered her skin like a shadow, a layer of invisible ash across her body. Whenever she closed her eyes, she could feel it, touch it, even hear it crackling around towards her…

"We are here, Your Eminence," Lord Axell reported suddenly, and the spires of Dragonstone loomed above her. Melisandre blinked, wiping her skin, trying to focus. How long did I faze out?

She didn't let her perturbance show, but the ruby at her throat hummed gently.

I am growing in strength, she told herself. It felt like it had during her apprentice years, and she had yet to fully embrace and control it. Sometimes the power felt overwhelming.

It was dusk as she rode up to the grim and great gates of Dragonstone, the twisted black stone shaped like a dragon's maw. Stakewalls and trenches of old siege lines littered the approach, but the spiked black stone was as impenetrable as ever. A thousand gargoyles glared and sneered at her, while her horse trotted to the gates.

Men from the watchtowers let loose a smoky flare, and she heard the rumble as soldiers started to winch the portcullis and the gates open. The dragon's throat was growling.

The setting sun felt almost as holy as the rising sun, Melisandre considered. The sunset glowed red behind her, making the black stone of the castle gleam like blood. The carved eyes of dragons glared down at her, their maws open in an unyielding growl. Their eyes were hungry, starving.

"All hail Her Eminence!" Lord Florent boomed. "The Prophet of Light, Lady to our King, High Priestess of the Dawn!"

She held her head high, and rode into the great dragon's maw. The darkness under the archway loomed.

The shadows bristled before her, a faint susurrus of whispers on the wind. Melisandre pulled up her cloak, and swept forward through the spiked portcullis. The castle was a powerful place, she could feel its energy. It left her skin tingling, tremors running down her spine.

Melony, Lot Seven, the shadows whispered. Melony…

… Please magister, she's just a girl… Don't hurt her, don't hurt…

Melony… Don't cry Melony… You're not allowed to cry…

Melisandre tensed. Sometimes, the shadows were quiet and other times they were restless. They could be generous, kind, teasing, mocking or cruel. Sometimes they even liked to remind her from where she came.

They are just shadows. They serve the light . The shadows were the Lord of Light's imprint, his will upon the earth.

The courtyard was filled with bodies. The men all halted their duties to bow before the red woman, and she shone like a torch before the great castle of grey and black. Each one bore the red heart on their chests.

Ser Richard Horpe was waiting at the front; a hard-faced man bearing a black moth on his red shield. He was clad in black and red armour, with a pure red cloak draping from his shoulders down across the stones. "Your Eminence," Ser Richard bowed. "May I escort you?"

"You may, Lord Commander." Melisandre took his arm, with a sweet smile. She could still feel the whisper of the shadows behind her, but she ignored them. Not now.

The knight nodded, tensing. Melisandre could feel the whirling emotions within him when she touched his skin, but he kept his face stoic.

"Tell me, ser," Melisandre asked. "You spend much time with His Grace. How is he recovering?"

"The king is… restless, Your Eminence," the knight replied carefully. "Learning to fight with your off-hand is no easy feat; I have spent much time sparring with him. His Grace wishes to hone himself for battle once more."

"Yet he is devoted?"

"Sleepless, Your Eminence."

Good . Sleep was for the dead. "And what of his daughter?" She lowered her voice somewhat. "How does the princess fare?"

At that, Ser Richard hesitated. "Princess Shireen is confined to the Sea Dragon Tower," he replied. "None but that fool of hers are allowed near. I feel that the king has become overly protective of the young princess."

Now that is not so good . For a few heartbeats, the only sound was the chime of boots on the stone steps. "But he is certain, ser?" Melisandre insisted. "You have seen no doubt within His Grace?"

"None, Your Eminence. King Stannis longs for another battle, to see justice done." The knight's hand moved over the burning heart on his chest. "As do I. I failed my king once, but I will never fail him again. When His Grace goes to battle again, I shall be his shield."

She believed him. Many of Ser Richard's friends had fallen in battle against the Bastard King, but Ser Richard himself never had the chance to cross swords with the man on the ice. They said that the Champion of Night's swordsmanship had been flawless, and Ser Richard had pushed himself hard to match.

Lord Commander Richard Horpe was a strong and lean figure with a chiseled jaw and a hooked nose. Once, he might have been a member of the Kingsguard, but the fat king had passed him over to

please his traitorous lion queen. Instead, it had been Queen Selyse that named Ser Richard as the first of the Godsguard.

Loyal and devoted soldiers of R'hllor, the Queen Selyse had insisted to the king. Where all others have lost their path, the Godsgaurd will light the way. They could be your sworn soldiers, Your Grace; faithful warriors sworn to protect the True Faith, and their Champion of the Dawn. The white cloaks have been tainted, their order disgraced, so we must form a new one. Let the Godsguard wear red cloaks instead.

Stannis had taken slowly to the idea, but Melisandre encouraged it. The Godsguard were named as the protectors of both the Lord of Light and the King.

They had chosen Stannis' Godsguard from only the most devout of their knights. There were ten places on the Godsguard to fill - ten was a holy number to Red God, as opposed to the seven of false idols. Ser Richard had fought vehemently for the honour of being the first. Ser Richard had even killed one opponent, Ser Morgarth Follard, in the mock trials that they hosted in the castle; while besting Ser Lambert, Ser Perkin, Ser Malegorn, Ser Narbert and Ser Corliss, and then fighting Ser Rolland Storm to a standstill in the finals.

Ser Richard was a man of longing , Melisandre thought. He longed for glory, he longed for blood, and he longed for another chance to fight the Bastard King. The battle at Hardhome had set off a fire within him, a fire that she had been sure to cultivate.

They walked towards the sharp black spire of the Stone Drum, and into the great black cavern of stone. The tower rumbled slightly in the wind, she could feel the black stone vibrating, and wind whistled through all the twisted statues and archaic corridors. He led her by the arm towards a great spiral staircase shaped into a twisted wyrm, an immense serpent coiled through the keep.

The walls were so thick that they might have been underground. She felt candles flicker around her as she passed, and she felt the hiss of

the flames. The fires were hungry today, demanding; the invisible shadows were trying to call her attention.

There was a crackle of flames behind them, and Ser Richard flinched.

"Are you scared, ser?" Melisandre asked curiously, and the knight's jaw clenched. "Do you ever feel scared at the thought of the wars to come?"

"The night is dark and full of terrors, Your Eminence," Richard replied dutifully. "But none can daunt me as I carry the fire of R'hllor. I will not freeze."

She smiled softly.

They arrived at the Chamber of Painted Table, on the top floor of the tower. It was a great round room filled with four tall windows overlooking north, south, east and west, and bare black walls. The ceiling was high and spired, with gargoyles lingering in the edges of the archways. From the chamber, they could see the bonfires across Dragonstone; alight like glorious stars in a black sky.

Queen Selyse was waiting for her at the top of the staircase. The queen nodded to Ser Richard, and then bowed deeply before Melisandre. Selyse wore rubies in her hair, and a great ermine cloak shaped like a heart around her shoulders.

"Your Eminence," the queen gushed. "May His light shine upon you."

"Your Grace. May His will clear the path."

The painted table filled the centre of the room, sitting before the raised throne at the centre of Dragonstone. The map of Westeros was filthy; smeared and painted to mark the different factions. Stannis had wanted to visualise their progress. They had spread salt and grit to mark Euron Greyjoy's territory, rust and metal cuttings to mark Aegon Targaryen's conquest, and then sheep's blood across

the Bastard's King campaign. The north was smeared red from the Neck upwards; the Reach, Oldtown and western coast was doused in salt; and across King's Landing and the east there was a trail of metal scrap.

Westeros had been conquered by three kings, all the while Stannis was trapped on an island off the edge of the map.

Melisandre walked before the throne, lowering her head. The chamber turned quiet. The king had taken to staring at the painted table constantly, to remind himself of the kingdom that he had lost. Stannis didn't sleep, he hardly ate; his face was so gaunt that it looked like skin draped across a skull.

And yet he hadn't been idle. Stannis had spent every waking moment exercising, training or plotting. He had taken to sparring with his Godsguard, or marching his troops in regular drills through the castle. No weakness, no slack.

Stannis looked like a harder man, darker features like carved from iron. A Valyrian steel axe hung on his hip, and he had taken a curved steel hook on the stump of his right wrist. The smith had offered to forge him a fake hand, but Stannis refused. I will not pretend, Stannis had commanded. Give me a hook, not a hand .

The Valyrian axe was Harridan's Claw, the ancestral weapon of House Celtigar that had been looted from Claw Island. It was a hooked blade of Valyrian steel, extravagantly forged like a crab's hook with a wide pommel.

It was the weapon that had supposedly slayed the giant sea crab Harridan that had terrorised the narrow sea in the Age of Heroes. The founder of House Celtigar, Celt the Wanderer, was said to have been a Valyrian exile swallowed whole by the monster, who used the axe to hack through the giant crab's shell from the inside. The tale went that Celt was raised as a king for his feat; he built his castle upon the crab's corpse, a land that later became Claw Island. In

other tales, Harridan had been a foul-tempered dragon, or a giant fish, but they all agreed that Harridan's Claw had been its bane.

Stannis might have sold Harridan's Claw away as he had the other treasures of Claw Island, but Melisandre encouraged that he take it from himself. A king needs a weapon, she had said. Ser Richard had agreed; an axe is a good weapon to learn to use in your off-hand, the knight had argued, it requires only simple movements, and yet strong enough to break a man's defence . A good weapon for a one-handed man, and Valyrian steel had no equal.

So far, the only enemy that Stannis had used it on had been one Desmond Redwyne, the captain of a captured galley who had been executed on deck during the third battle of Dragonstone.

Melisandre looked discreetly through the room. The chambers were still and empty. The king sat tense, and quiet, shoulders slumped in his throne. "What happens, Your Grace?" she asked finally.

"You once foretold that fate comes in threes, Your Eminence,"

Queen Selyse intoned. "We have received three letters."

There were a bundle of parchments lying on Stannis' lap. In his gauntleted hand, the king was re-reading a gilded pale parchment with a red seal. "Ah," Melisandre said cautiously. "The mummer's dragon?"

The king held up a golden letter, his hand clenching into a fist. "The fake king sends an envoy," Stannis growled. "Expects me to bow."

"Lord Jon Connington," Selyse explained softly. "The Hand of the False King. He is to arrive on Dragonstone to negotiate, and he expects hospitality."

"I knew the man in my youth. Jon Connington. Arrogant fool, more of a deviant than Renly ever was." Stannis looked fuming, his voice dark and dangerous. "Negotiate! He comes under a traitor's flag, and he expects hospitality?"

"I'd be more inclined to give him a stake, and a bonfire, Your Grace,"

Richard Horpe said darkly. "A traitor deserves no hospitality."

"He is a stormlord, a man sworn to Baratheon." Stannis shook his head. "It is an insult."

Now that was curious. Melisandre recalled seeing a stone griffin in her flames, but the vision was foggy. Why would the Hand of the King come himself, why did Aegon send someone so prominent? Surely any negotiation would be a mummer's court - or did Aegon Targaryen truly wish to forge an accord? "Perhaps this Jon Connington could be converted, Your Grace?" Melisandre suggested softly. "If he comes, perhaps it is opportunity, a chance to show him the light. We are all blind until we see the light."

"They are all traitors." Stannis shook his head, scraping his hook into the armrest of black stone throne. "And they grow more treacherous every day. While the abominations sat on the throne, well - that was dubious. I could understand that; a good man might have followed Joffrey and his ilk, under the delusion that the boy was rightful. Perhaps those men had been misguided and not mutinous. But now the Lannisters are dead, my brother's fake sons are dead, and none have an excuse. How can they still delude themselves?" His eyes flashed, and his hook slammed into stone. Metal rang. "They chose a mummer's dragon over me?"

"Dishonourable men would choose any option but the righteous one." Melisandre shook her head. "They follow false idols, Your Grace."

"They claim he is Aegon Targaryen ." That news had left Stannis as infuriated as anything. "What is next; will a vagrant walk barefoot off the street, and be hailed as Baelor the Blessed? There is no proof, no evidence to his claim - but he is still raised as king!"

The hook was grinding against the dark granite armrest.

"Fear and greed, Your Grace," she said sadly. "The boy's sponsors have paid enough gold for men not to object, the name he takes is only pretence enough. Meanwhile, you speak the truth, and they fear you for it."

"Then every man of his realm is dishonourable," Stannis said darkly. "By every right, that throne is mine - but once again it is stolen from me by this mummer's game."

Stannis crunched the letter up, throwing it the painted table. It bounced off the Fingers and landed in the peaks of the Vale somewhere.

"It will all be irrelevant in the end," Selyse soothed. "The Lord of Light-"

"The Lord of Light." Stannis' eyes narrowed, focusing on her. Queen Selyse shifted slightly. "The Lord of Light continues to disappoint. I burnt the leeches, and named them. I cleared the path - I gave the sacrifices and still you ask more."

"Have I not fulfilled my promises?" Melisandre challenged. "Has any of the events I have foretold not came to pass?"

It had been their first act when they arrived back on Dragonstone once more; they burnt leeches again. The last time they had performed such, it had been during the height of the War of Five Kings, and Stannis had named Joffrey Baratheon, Balon Greyjoy and Robb Stark to the fire. Stannis had commanded that she perform the same ceremony again, and Melisandre had obliged.

They had burnt the leeches filled with king's blood. Stannis had wanted to clear out all the pretenders from his path to the Iron Throne, and their supporters as well. This time, they burnt six leeches; Tommen Baratheon, Myrcella Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Margaery Tyrell, Mace Tyrell had all been named to the fires.

Melisandre had promised their deaths, and true enough it had happened. The Red God's will provided.

"Yet it's not enough." His vision darkened. "Will I have to name half the realm to the fire? Do I have enough blood in me?"

Melisandre shook her head sadly. "It cannot be overused," she admitted. "This war must be won by you, not by leeches."

Stannis had wanted all of them to die, thinking that the realm would be forced to name Stannis as king when all pretenders were dead. Of course, at the time, they hadn't known of Aegon Targaryen.

After the night of the fires, Stannis had been overjoyed to high of Cersei's and her son's deaths. He had believed that they would have no choice but to turn to him. That elation turned into fury with word of Aegon Targaryen's coronation instead.

In truth, the leeches had caused very little. Melisandre had simply foretold their deaths beforehand, and then allowed the king to burn the leeches so that it seemed like the Red God was directly responsible. It was a deception, but only a minor one; the Lord of Light had still been responsible, even if it wasn't direct.

Stannis fell quiet, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the painted table. The great map of Westeros was smeared in every colour but his. Queen Selyse and Ser Richard stayed quiet, lingering at the edge of the dais. The Red Woman stepped forward, cautiously stepping up towards the throne.

"You need only forge your sword. The leeches, the power I offer - they are assistance, nothing more," Melisandre insisted, "Lightbringer will be the saviour."

"The Great Rite." His voice was hollow. "There is no other choice." "It will be glorious," Selyse harped.

She saw the doubt in his eyes. Even now, Stannis hadn't fully accepted the option. It was a necessity, she knew, but even after seeing the Champion of Night he still hesitated. She had seen that it would come to pass in her flames, but that flicker of lingering uncertainty caused Melisandre worry. The champion must be convicted.

"Your Grace, the Champion of Night - the Bastard King - he is likely sacrificing men by the thousands," Ser Richard said darkly. "I can only imagine how many he has already slain for his master. You cannot win a battle if you do not swing the sword."

Stannis gaze turned to glare at him stiffly. "Yet you say I am supposed to be the saviour, and you expect me to burn a thousand innocents?" Stannis shook his head. "No, what of my duty?"

Those are the Onion Lord's words, Melisandre cursed. Lord Seaworth may have vanished, but his influence still lingered. "It is not supposed to be easy, Your Grace," Melisandre insisted. "We all must sacrifice towards it - that is the purpose."

Queen Selyse nodded in agreement, carefully walking towards Stannis' other side. It was a position once held by the Onion Lord. "Every soldier in this keep shares the same fears," Selyse said, but she was parroting what Melisandre had said to her. "Some will have to sacrifice blood relations, sons or daughters or cousins and others may even walk themselves willingly. We are all expected to perform the distasteful deeds necessary to obtain sacrifices." The Red Woman's eyes inspected the queen, searching for doubt. She saw none. "Every believer in this castle must to contribute something, and it will all go into the Great Rite. The hardships we face now only makes the fires stronger."

Stannis took a deep breath. He looked between the three of them - his knight, his sorceress and his queen - and they were all convicted. Stannis' court was filled with holy men. Melisandre stepped forward, bowing and going to her knees before his throne. She lowered her head at his feet, her red dress spilling over the stones.

"Have I led you wrong, my king?" Melisandre whispered. "Have I not fulfilled everything I promised?"

You would not be here without me. The powers I wield have served your interests many, many times. In return, they all must serve the Lord of Light.

"You have." Stannis' gaze darkened. "And yet your promises remain frustratingly vague, Witch."

"Your Grace…"

"And there has been too much you have not told me," Stannis argued. "For all your claims of divine wisdom and light, too often you leave me in the dark."

"I am but a servant." Melisandre shook her head. "Only the Lord of Light knows all."

"Then serve me by explaining your god's will in this ." Stannis through down another letter before her - a red letter. The words were High Valyrian, written on crimson parchment.

Melisandre flickered. The Red Temple of Volantis, she recalled, used such a parchment . Melisandre would have picked it up, but she didnot want to admit that she couldn't read Valyrian. She could speak it, but nobody had ever taught her to read it.

Thankfully, Selyse stepped forward. "That is the second letter, it is from Volantis," the queen explained, "and it is as troubling as the first. It came by courier from Pentos; it was forwarded by a magister and intended for the fake Aegon's eyes. Our blockade intercepted the vessel instead."

"I see." Melisandre nodded, eyes flickering between the queen and the king.

"Daenerys Targaryen has invaded Volantis," Selyse said grimly, "and has set half the city ablaze."

The statement was met by silence. Daenerys Targaryen…? What, how ? Melisandre had to struggle to hide the uncertainty from herface . Never appear surprised .

Still, she had to know… "Why Volantis?" she asked finally. Stannis scoffed gruffly. "Your fires did not tell you that?"

"Not clearly, Your Grace," Melisandre admitted. "Events further away are harder to focus upon. Why invade Volantis?"

"Ships," Stannis replied. "Daenerys Targaryen is coming to Westeros, she needs a fleet. Volantis has ships."

Oh . Melisandre remembered the frequent visions she had seen - the visions of snow and ash. She had not been able to interpret such sights.

"She requires many ships, I hear," Stannis continued. "It is said she has legions of slave soldiers that she freed, the slaves that worship her. She brings Dothraki, Lhazareen, Volantene and Ghiscari and many more. Volantis sided against her in the war of Slaver's Bay, and so Daenerys' first port of call was to break them. She razed their city, freed their slaves, and took their armada for her own."

For a heartbeat, Melisandre's composure might have cracked. She so clearly remembered her own time in Volantis, before she fled further west. It was a cursed city. "And now," Stannis growled, his tone growing darker. "She is coming for her homeland with countless ships and legions of barbarian supporters," the king's voice flickered, "and three dragons."

Melisandre didn't speak, she couldn't. There had been rumours, many rumours, but the fires had been so frustratingly vague…

It is the distance, Melisandre cursed. The art of far-scrying had been one that had eluded her during her own informal apprenticeship. Some seers could see to the other end of the world, but Melisandre's magics had always been more localised. Her strength. Her weakness.

"It has been confirmed," Ser Richard said sourly, "Three dragons. Young dragons, i hear - they were said to have hatched only three years ago."

"Every pretender has dragons, it seems," Stannis said, growing angrier with her silence. "Everyone but me. Read the letter. They say that her landing will be Nymeria's thousand ships come again. They say that she is Aegon the Conqueror reborn. How am I supposed to survive against such opposition?"

"Lightbringer must be forged."

"Lightbringer," Stannis repeated, rolling the word over his tongue like an ill-tasting morsel. The last Lightbringer you gave me shattered in my hand." His face twitched, his fingers curling. "You promised me stone dragons. First it was one sacrifice required, and now a thousand?" The stone hook was trembling, rattling against the black stone. "Explain this to me, Red Woman."

The queen tried to intervene. "Your Grace, surely-" Selyse tried, but Stannis just waved his wife away.

"Quiet," he snapped, and then turned back to Melisandre. "This is for her. There is more. The Red Temple of Volantis - Red Priests of your own order - have declared for Daenerys Targaryen. They declare her Azor Ahai."

Melisandre winced.

"Read the letter," Stannis commanded. "The High Priest Benerro was the one who penned it. They raise banners in Daenerys Targaryen's name, they declare her their saviour."

She remembered Benerro. They met once, back when Melisandre approached the Temple of the Lord of Light in Volantis on her way west. She had never met a more terrifying spellbinder; his flames had scorched her skin, he had nearly killed her. The Fiery Hand that served Benerro had tried to hunt her down, and Melisandre had been forced to flee the city.

She had chosen Dragonstone, the furthest place she could find free from the reach of the rest of her order.

"Tell me again of the wisdom the Lord of Light gives his servants. Why do these servants come to a different conclusion than you?"

"Even the Red Priests can err," Melisandre replied quietly. "And the temple of Volantis lost its way long ago. Benerro is deranged and delusional. They are mistaken."

Stannis eyes narrowed. He leant back in his seat, and then stood up slowly. His footsteps down the dais were slow, measured.

"You said that I was the Champion of Dawn and him, the Champion of Night. Mortal enemies, you named us," Stannis said lowly. His gaze turned over the painted table, leaning across the Blackwater Bay. "But what does that make Daenerys Targaryen, then? Is she his ally? Is she mine? What am I to make with this, how does this fit into your prophecy?"

"I know not," Melisandre was forced to admit. "I know only my purpose, I know what the fires have told me."

"Then have the damn fires speaking louder!" he snapped. "First wildlings and an ice dragon, and now legions of slaves and three dragons. I am caught in the middle with nothing!" His hook slammed against the table, taking a notch out of the cliffs of Durran's Point.

Selyse hesitated. "Your Grace, the night is dark and full of-" she started, but she was silenced by Stannis' glare.

Melisandre kept her voice measured and soothing. "You are the rightful king, Your Grace. You are the champion. You saw it in the fires yourself, with your own eyes. You know it to be true."

"All that I know," Stannis replied stiffly, "is that there are apparently two people in this world with dragons under their command - and I am not one of them."

There was a long quiet.

"Have I ever told you," the king muttered eventually, "how much I despise your bloody prophecies?"

Selyse's face paled. "My king, that's blasphemy-"

"Enough, woman!" Stannis barked, and the queen flustered. He recomposed himself, taking a deep breath, and turning to stare at the map of Westeros. "Good odds say that Daenerys Targaryen will be stopping at Dragonstone first," the king said finally. "Or she will be passing through nearby. Aegon Targaryen will be rallying against me now. While the war in King's Landing waged, while my enemies were distracted, I stood a chance…" Stannis shook his head. "But I do not have the ships, do not have numbers, do not have the support."

It was met by silence. Melisandre heard the pained quiver in his voice, the iron trembling. "Nobody said that path would be easy," she said, walking behind him and placing her hand on his shoulder. He felt tense.

"Spare me such drivel," Stannis said curtly. "Give me counsel of use."

"They are distractions, Your Grace. The Champion of Night is still the greatest threat. The Bastard King. Jon Snow."

Jon Snow. The very name made Stannis' scowl deepen, his eyes twitch. The king's shoulders were so tense he was trembling. Silence reigned in the chamber, a long, uncertain quiet.

"Jon Snow… Jon Snow… Is it fate, perhaps, that I must fight against Ned Stark's legacy?" he muttered. "A bastard born from the tourney at Harrenhal, a cursed place and a cursed event if there ever was one."

Selyse nodded, her lips curling in distaste. "All bastards are born from wickedness and betrayal," she agreed. "And Jon Snow was sinful at birth. Even his own mother, Ashara Dayne, jumped from a door rather than carry him."

Stannis paused, and then shook his head. "No," the king said grimly. "The more I hear of Jon Snow's birth, the more convinced I become that he was birthed from the rape of Lyanna Stark, by Rhaegar Targaryen. He is a dragonseed."

Melisandre didn't react, but she saw Ser Richard's eyes widen in shock. Queen Selyse flinched. " What? " the queen cawed. "How could that, how… how…?"

"Your Grace, are you…?" Ser Richard began, but then trailed off. Are you serious? he was going to ask, but Stannis was always serious.

The king turned to look at them through the corner of his eye, still leaning over the table. "I was there, when Ned Stark returned to King's Landing from Dorne bringing news of Lyanna's death. He had the babe with him at the time, but he tried to keep it out of sight. Robert and Ned reconciled after the Stark girl's death, and Stark admitted that he birthed the bastard on some camp follower - Wylla, I think her name was - but even then the rumours swirled that he was actually Ashara's babe. I recall thinking that the newborn Jon Snow appeared the wrong age - he seemed too young to have been conceived at Harrenhal, and too old to be born during the war as Ned Stark claimed. But it was a… a busy period, I thought little of it at the time." The room was left speechless. "Now? I am sure that Jon Snow was born from Stark's sister instead, and that his uncle lied to protect the baby."

Stannis looked at Melisandre. "It was the visions that you told me of last week that made me realise," he explained. "Do you recall?"

She did. Stannis had asked her for more information on the Bastard King, and she consulted the fires. "The woman in the bloody bed," Melisandre said quietly, "surrounded by blue roses?"

"Aye. The brown-haired woman. You thought that she could be his mistress, but she was his mother." Stannis' eyes were hard. "Lyanna Stark. Rhaegar once gave her a crown of blue roses."

Was that so? The visions had been foggy, yes, but it was troubling that Melisandre could have misinterpreted one to such an extent.

Queen Selyse stammered. She tried to speak, but her mouth flapped open. Stannis pulled himself up, and nodded solemnly. "So aye, Jon Snow was born from wickedness - a wickedness even more foul than any. He is a bastard born from rape, the grandchild of the Mad King, and the son of zealot. Born by his mother's death and his uncle's folly. It is little wonder that Ned Stark tried to get rid of him by banishing him to the black." Stannis shook his head. "If only the man had gone one step more and drowned the babe in the sea."

The history and bloodlines of this country were all foreign to Melisandre, but even she had heard of Rhaegar Targaryen. The dragon that stole a wolf, and ignited a war. Westerosi spoke about Rhaegar Targaryen in hushed tones.

It makes sense, she realised. A child of king's blood from the most exceptional line had travelled beyond the Wall - the Great Other must have found Jon Snow, and recruited him to be its champion. Jon Snow's blood could have awoke the dragon he rides.

"And so Daenerys Targaryen is his aunt," Melisandre said quietly.

Stannis nodded. "If blood runs true - and I can only assume it must - then she will come to support her nephew. Is she my enemy too?"

"She is." Melisandre nodded. Ash and snow, she remembered. Did the Great Other have a second champion? She would not be surprised if it did.

The king paused, pacing. Selyse still looked speechless, struggling to gather herself. "Show her the third letter," Stannis commanded. "Read it."

Richard Horpe picked up another parchment from the throne. This parchment was white, with a grey seal. Melisandre hardly even needed to look at it to know what it contained. "The Champion of Night," she said. "He is on the rise."

"It is from White Harbour," Ser Richard read. "It announces that Winterfell has fallen."

"We must gather more pig's blood," Stannis said grimly, nodding to the table. "Paint the whole north in blood. Half the realm has already fallen to him."

"Your Grace, the Battle of Ice and Fire approaches," Melisandre warned. "You will face him again soon enough."

"And the north declares for him!" Stannis scoffed. "He is evil incarnate, and yet he still has more support than I?"

"Malignance so often portrays itself as benign," she replied smoothly. "And evil is talented at acting an ally. They will rue it in the end."

"He must be the priority," Richard Horpe agreed. "Even more so if the Dragon Queen comes to him too. This battle is more than just mortal men, that has been proven."

"The Red God's will shall be-!" Selyse harped, and Stannis lost his patience.

"Leave us!" Stannis snapped at the queen. "Clear the room. Ser Richard, wait below."

Selyse flinched like she had been slapped. The queen hesitated, but Melisandre gave a soft nod. Selyse curtsied, spun on her heels, and strode away. Ser Richard walked with her, and Stannis glared at them both as they left.

They were left alone in the chamber of the painted table. Melisandre bowed. Stannis' left hand twitched to the axe, running his fingers along the engraving. Harridan's Axe. The axe that killed a sea monster.

Melisandre remembered what happened the last time they had been alone in this chamber together. "How may I serve, Your Grace?"

"Hmph." Stannis turned and stared at the dirty map. There was a long moment of quiet contemplation. "The fake dragon on the throne… a kraken in the west… and a mad queen to the east." Stannis tapped his fingers against the edge of Cape Wrath. "I cannot survive against such opposition. I need to remove enemies again."

"The Great Rite remains the only solution," she insisted.

Stannis pursed his lips, and hesitated. For a brief heartbeat, doubt roamed across his features. "I will not be able to gather a thousand sacrifices, if this is the opposition I must face," he declared finally.

Melisandre noted the slight avoidance. "No, I require more immediate aid from your Red God."

"As you wish." Curses . "But the leeches are not-"

"Forget the leeches, other means." His eyes were dark. "Perhaps there is only one way to deal with false kings. I need a soldier to take care of it."

Melisandre paused, but she did not react. She kept her features stoic, even as Stannis glared. "You can provide one?" he demanded. "Like you did before?"

"…" Melisandre steadied herself. "I can."

Like I did before . A tremor went down Mel's spine, but she hid it from her face. Stannis stared firmly. "I was too weak after the Blackwater," Stannis said firmly. "But my strength has recovered. Of all the aids you given me, the one you provided with Renly remains the greatest. I need such again."

I can . But the very thought… "Who?"

"Jon Snow. The Bastard King. You say he is my greatest threat? Then let us deal with him."

"You cannot kill him." Melisandre shook his head, her long hair wafting. "It has been fated that you must face him again, so therefore any assassination attempt is already doomed for failure. It would be a waste of power."

"Damnable prophecies," the king cursed, his face twisting. Stannis frowned, musing over it for several heartbeats. "Then what of the allies he surrounds himself with?" the king said finally. "Is there any prophecy concerning them ?"

That caught her off-guard slightly. "There… there is not?"

"Good. If we cannot kill the Bastard King, we can weaken him, yes?" he challenged, and Melisandre could not object. "If we could kill his supporters, his allies - that would slow him down. Give me time." Stannis pointed to the white letter, and the list of names that were written beneath it. "Umber, Manderly, Mormont, Glover, Reed - all those houses that have been deceived by him, the lords of such must die."

That… that was a steep request. "All of them, Your Grace?"

"Yes. It should be no trouble for one of your creations, yes?" Stannis demanded. His eyes were still suspicious, keeping himself guarded. "If the lords die, that would dissuade any others from joining with him. It could cripple the alliance he has made. Can you do this?"

Melisandre bit her lip. Her king was already growing sceptical of her. If I refuse, the Great Rite itself may be in peril . If Stannis' conviction failed, the entire world could be doomed.

And yet what he was asking… "I think I can."

"Then I am ready." Stannis straightened, his hand moving to his belt. "My chambers…"

Melisandre shook her head. "No, save your strength, Your Grace." Melisandre curtsied again, lowering her head and hiding her eyes. "I… I have other means."

A flicker of confusion past his face, but Stannis just nodded. "Very well," the king said with a nod. "Just see it done, High Priestess ."

There was no lust in her king's eyes. The last master had that had used her this way had done so as much for pleasure as he had for magic - that had been the whole reason the master kept her in his household, to exploit her body, her gifts. Stannis was far more focused on the practicalities.

Queen Selyse knew, of course. The queen had been quite encouraging between the mating. There is no greater honour, Melisandre had said, than giving our bodies to the Lord of Light .

Melisandre took a dozen steps down the staircase, and took a deep breath. She had to pause on the stairs to recover herself, to focus. She hadn't wanted to do this again, the strain it took…

All around her the torches flickered and hissed, as soft as a dream of half-forgotten places. They were hungry tonight. Melisandre could feel them, she could feel them hovering around her.

Melony, Lot Seven…

There had been two sons Melisandre had birthed for Stannis. One for Renly, one for Conrose Penrose. The first had been essential, but

its success had left Melisandre overconfident. The second had been a mistake, however; it had strained her severely and left her weak. Melisandre had been forced to make excuses, reasons why she didn't dare it again…

Opening up you own body to such a force was a perilous thing. The risks were… immense.

But I am stronger now, Melisandre thought. I can risk it again, surely?

All throughout the castle, the Stone Drum rumbled in the wind. She could hear Stannis above her, pacing around the painted table. There was much relying on her gifts, Melisandre didn't have the luxury of choice.

It is dark night; there is power in the air, magic in the stones, she thought. Such crafts were almost as easy in Dragonstone as they had been in Asshai. It is an ideal time, a night of power…

The torches flickered, and Melisandre gasped. She felt the tingle on her skin. She felt the invisible hands fluttering over her, stroking up her thigh.

Melony, Lot Seven, a phantom voice whispered. They wanted to remind her, a quiet barb in the words. Wanted to remind her where she came from, and what she owed.

It had been the very first bargain she made. Back when she had been Melony, so, so long ago. She had needed an escape, a means to slay the cruel masters that owned her. A way to escape. She had been trapped in the darkness, and the fires had offered a bargain. They offered her power in return for her womb.

Melisandre stood still as a statue for long time, preparing herself.

She touched her ruby. I will do it . One more time.

The ruby sparked slightly. The shadows hissed and fluttered, circling around her in excitement. They were invisible to all others, but Melisandre knew - she could feel - that they were there.

She stepped stiffly down the spiral staircase, and she could feel all the voices around her…

You promised….

We gave you strength…

Power…

You promised… !

The shadows must have their due. The fires needed to be fed.

Melisandre steeled herself, trying to block out the whispers. She tried to ignore the tingling across her skin. The candles flickered, every shadow stirring of the gloomy corridor. Every stone gargoyle and dragon leered at her. The ruby on her throat was throbbing and burning, and sometimes it clenched as tightly as the slave collar she used to wear.

One son, she thought quietly. One more servant, to fulfil the Lord of Light's will .

A man in red was waiting at the lower level of the steps. The Lord Commander of the Godsguard stood stiffly, oblivious to all the invisible shadows that were writhing around him. Ser Richard Horpe was young, strong and devoted. He will suffice .

"Ser Richard," Melisandre called. "I require your assistance."

The knight seemed confused, and Melisandre stepped closer. "My lady…?"

Unbeckoned, she wrapped her arm around his, standing closely beside him. She cocked her head, and Ser Richard blinked.

She raised her hand, and slender fingers caressed across the heart on his chest. "Your god needs your assistance."

Richard nodded dumbly. "Aye. Aye."

"Escort me to my chambers, ser."

"Aye," he said again. The ruby around her neck started to hum, singing in unhearable chimes.

The shadows were restless, impatient. She could feel them around her, hovering over her shoulder as she and Ser Richard walked through the gloomy corridor. They followed her so closely, whispering on her skin. You promised….

The deal… you made a promise…

Melony, Lot Seven…

We gave you power… now give us life.

Melisandre's chambers were next door to the royal quarters. Once, Visenya Targaryen had slept in the very same room she now kept. Melisandre slept closer to the king than the queen did. Ser Richard hesitated at the sight of her bedchamber, the great dragon's heard engraving looming on the stone door. "Your Eminence," the knight choked. "I know not-"

"Hush, ser." She placed a finger on his lips. "You do not need to know a thing."

The shadows were already curling around Ser Richard. She could see shady tendrils wrapping around him.

They entered the chambers. Melisandre stepped forward, and carefully started to unfasten her dress. The knight stared, entranced.

She had a fine body, she knew she had. Her buttocks were firm and round, her breasts full and plump, her legs smooth and long and her

hips wide and soft. Her beauty glowed like fire, and Ser Richard stared and gaped. Like a moth to a flame.

Her silk gown shrugged off her shoulders. Melisandre didn't turn around, but she wrapped her hair backwards. For the briefest of moments, her skin looked scarred, haggard and worn like leather, but then she blinked and her flesh was pale, soft and unblemished. Melony, a cruel shadow hissed, Lot Seven.

Melisandre hesitated, but she did not try to resist. The light was the master and the shadows the servants, but even the servants needed their due. That was the deal she made.

"Quench the torches, ser," she ordered.

"E… Excuse me, Your Eminence?"

"Quench the torches." She raised a hand, pointing to the brazier. Each candle holder was shaped like a dragon's skull, their eyes glinting. "This must be done in the darkness."

"As it pleases you, Your Eminence." Ser Richard used his gauntleted hand to squash the flames. There was a hiss, and the candles fizzed out one by one.

Suddenly, darkness reigned. Melisandre grit her jaw, as she felt so many hands roaming, groping and pinching her skin. They were fierce, painful, dominating…

In her more youthful days, Melony would have screamed.

Ser Richard was there too. She heard his fumbling fingers unclamp his breeches, shrugging his shoulders. He stepped forward and tried to kiss her, but Melisandre raised her hand to block his lips. She could not see anything, but she felt his warm breath. She did not care enough about him to kiss him.

"Your Eminence…" he gasped, as her hands gripped downwards to his manhood. Her fingers were hard and uncaring, wrapping tightly and pulling. She wanted to see this done quickly.

She was completely naked, he was half-armoured. Hands grabbed her breasts, and fingers squirmed beneath her thighs. Melisandre didn't grimace, didn't moan, but her fingers tightened and her breaths turned hoarse.

The shadows were all around her, tendrils writhing in the black. What once was a whisper turned into an immense, voiceless roar. A howl in the dark, a power that caused the bed to tremble.

Ser Richard gagged, his body spasming…

The darkness was squeezing him, invisible hands clenching around him, wringing him dry like a damp cloth.

It has to be in the dark . "Let us light a flame together," Melisandre breathed, gripping the knight by the waist and dragging him backwards into the bed. The tendrils were writhing. Her hands were like hooked claws, his skin tender flesh. Darkness fell with them.

The shadows danced.

Jon

The panic spread slowly, oozing through the castle like a gelatinous blob, filing the corridors with loud uncertain shouts. At first there was disbelief, confusion, and then doubt, but slowly it settled towards fear. Fifteen thousand corpses, gone.

The horns were blowing, calling men to arms, but it was the silences that were most worrying. They were all on edge listening for the blasts of scouts returning, but none came. They had sent out outriders and received no responses. The perimeter parties and guards in the field had all fallen quiet.

In previous battles, the threat had been immediate and the chaos instant. This felt different; it was a slower, more looming danger. It took time before they started to realise.

Jon broke into a loping gait, half-sprinting down the stone corridors as fast as his weirwood cane would take him.

All around him, Jon could feel the snow and winds buffeting against the castle, and rumble of footsteps pounding within. The walls were quivering, so furiously that even the torches on their brackets were shivering.

The fires hissed and flickered, shadows dancing around the rumbling bodies of the great hall.

They were ringing the bells of Winterfell, the great clapper chiming three times. Jon moved quickly towards the great hall of Winterfell, and he heard the ruckus spreading within.

"Find me those bloody horses!" a lord boomed. "Where are our mounted men?"

"The walls, we need to reinforce-"

"What of Cerwyn?" that was Ser Mardrick's voice. "We have men at Cerwyn!"

"How many?" another voice called. "How many are there?"

Jon's guards pushed a path for him through the hall, he saw the shadows heaving in the gloomy room. It would be morning soon, but the world was still dark through the thick clouds churning in the sky. The very tension on the air made it hard to breathe, like it was all suffocating. Jon felt the tremble down his spine, he felt his skin curl.

It's the fear . Very few of these men had fought the dead before. Some of the free folk reacted better, but the others were left struggling to keep up.

"To arms!" Jon boomed, racing through to the centre. "Gather all men to arms, and have criers through the camp. We need torches and fire. Call your banners! "

"Where is my daughter?" Jon heard a woman voice, high-pitch enough to cut through the other noise. He saw a blonde-haired woman, Leona Manderly, standing in the chaos and looking lost. "Wylla? Wynafryd?"

"The enemy?" a voice - Lord Mollen - demanded. "Is it the Boltons?"

"It's not the bloody Boltons!" Tormund snapped, his face red from shouting so hard. "There's a fucking white walker out there!"

Even now, Jon heard the squeaks and gasps of scared protests. They didn't understand, they hadn't seen. "White walkers?" Galbart Glover exclaimed, his voice strangely high-pitched, as he looked around from the corner of the room. "Why are all these people saying white walkers ?"

"Enough!" Jon roared, loping up to stand from a top of the dais, next to the throne of Winterfell. " Listen to me ." The hall quieted slightly, and guardsman banged spears against the stone. "There is a white walker outside our gates, and it has just resurrected thousands of corpses. We need fire and obsidian - fire for the wights, obsidian for the white walker."

The hall exploded into protests and questions. Jon struggled to stay calm, even as looked like scuffles were breaking out. Hundreds of men were crowded into the hall, all demanding answers. "Where are they?" a voice called. "Where-"

"What of the snows?" Lord Forrester shouted. "The snows -"

"The dead don't feel pain!" Jon shouted, calling for order. "They don't feel cold, they never get lost. They follow orders instantly. We must assume that every dead body on the lake has been raised, we must ready ourselves to fight."

"What of the villages?" that was thick voice - Edric Burley, from the northern mountains. "Our lands are undefended!"

"We killed these bastards once," the Greatjon growled, pushing his way forward. "Now we have to kill them again?"

"Quiet down, you sods!" Tormund shouted, but it did little. The great hall was roiling with fear.

Curses. "We have reserves of obsidian arrows and spears - find them," Jon hissed at his guards. A cart of assorted obsidian had been with them from Eastwatch, to White Harbour, to Winterfell - part of a very limited supply. Dragonglass was in very high demand. "Toregg, I place you on arming our best. We do not have many arrows - they must be spread around and used with care."

A few had already pre-empted him, they were already moving. He saw Toregg the Tall raise a spear with a jagged tip of dragonglass as example, and Tormund had an obsidian dagger on his belt. At the rear of the hall, Rattleshirt was lurking with another dragonglass spear in his hands.

All eyes were on Jon as he stepped over the sea of faces. His eyes lingered on Leona Manderly in the crowd, while men were pushing backwards and forwards. His hand lingered on Dark Sister, feeling his hairs stick on end.

These men had never fought the dead before. Wights were a different sort of enemy; even the most experienced soldier could be caught off-guard by them. Ours need to learn fast .

"The white walkers surround themselves with their soldiers - walking dead, the wights!" Jon shouted over all the noise. "If we want to kill it, we must push through the wights. We must surround it, do not allow it another chance to escape. This only ends when we kill the Other itself."

So many voices were shouting all around him. The Greatjon was booming, Lady Maege calling for his attention, while Galbart Glover hesitated at the far side of the hall, looking stunned. The lords were flocking around the dais, and all the while the hall rippled.

The hunting parties had been tracking Malvern to the north, Jon cursed. Malvern had been out of sight for so long. When did he come this far south?

Towards the wings of the hall, Jon glimpsed brown hair and green eyes peering at him. Meera Reed had crept down the stairs after him, eavesdropping on the commotion. Sansa was with Bran, and many of the non-fighters had already fled to the dungeons and crypts for fear an assault could be coming, but Meera had a spear in her hands. Jon never knew where she got the spear from.

"This can't be happening." Ser Mardrick Manderly exclaimed, pale-faced. "White walkers? White walkers?"

"Snow, are you sure-" the Greatjon growled.

Listen," Lady Maege hissed at him, a thick gauntleted hand gripping Jon's shoulder. "I do not hear the horns from our walls. If they were going to attack, wouldn't they have done it by now?"

His eyes were dark. Jon shook his head. "They're not attacking us ."

Winterfell had strong walls and it was full of seasoned soldiers. The castle wouldn't break easily, and Jon's army was fortifying it. The Others were intelligent and calculating; to attack Winterfell would be wasteful. No, there was a far more strategic target for them.

Jon knew it even before the scouts came back. Several dozen men had left, but only five had made it back. The snows were too thick, the winds too strong, and the army of the dead ghosted around them. The five scouts were huddled before the throne, trembling with every step and nearly falling to their knees as they dropped. "We saw them," a white-faced scout reported, shivering to the bone. "We

saw them in the trees, they were… I don't what they were. They were heading north."

"They are heading for Castle Black," Jon said, gritting his jaw. "Call the banners, urgently. We must give chase."

At once, the hall exploded into objections. Outside, the snows were roaring, and inside the fires were hissing.

" Give chase? " Ser Mardrick said, aghast.

"The weather…" Lady Maege protested, her voice cut off by half a dozen others. "The snows!"

"The dead may be able to march through the cold, but the living can't," the Greatjon warned, lowering his voice. "We'll lose half our men to the weather alone if we set off through these snows."

He is right . A march would be a disaster, Jon knew that it would.

The snows were at least five foot deep out there. It would grow deeper, the further north they went. Horses would be useless, entire armies could be buried. Only the hardiest man could move in that sort of weather, but every step was perilous. It drained your strength, bit by bit. When the flurries hit, even a dozen yards outside the gates and you'd be lost and blind, while the winds could cleave flesh off as surely as a blade.

Up in the hills, Jon recalled, they say that autumn kisses you, but winter fucks you hard . If we leave this castle now, exposed to the elements, we'll surely be fucked .

But what choice is there?

"How many are there?" Jon demanded, looking to Tormund. "How many corpses have walked away?"

He saw the grimace around the group. "Up to ten thousand, maybe less." Tormund shook his head. "A lot. I don't know."

After the Battle of the Snows, the garrison at Winterfell stood at eight thousand. More people were dead than not.

"The Night's Watch won't be able to withstand such numbers," Jon warned. "These are dead creatures - they don't feel pain, they don't feel restraint. Whatever weaknesses they once had, now they have none. They are the perfect soldiers."

"If there are ten thousand of them, how can we…?" Lord Forrester protested.

"How strong are they?" the Greatjon demanded. "These dead men, what are they like? Are they stronger, weaker, dumber, what?"

"A wight is strong enough to tear a man's head clean off," Tormund warned. "Stronger than they once were, and surprisingly fast too. Their only weakness is in their joints - they're clumsy when they move. And they've no regard for their own skin, it makes them sacrificial."

"And fire," Rattleshirt added. "They burn with only a spark."

The Greatjon scoffed. "How the bloody blazes is any flame going to survive out there?"

"The snows will hinder them too, surely?" Ser Mardrick suggested. "What of raids and ambushes - we might whittle them down, take advantage of our terrain."

"You don't understand!" Jon almost screamed. "Every time you fight them, they could gain numbers. Every corpse, every man that dies - that's another body for them . Their army is slow, but it is unstoppable.

"But they won't be targeting just the armies." Jon's gaze turned, picking out the northern mountain clansmen, the Umber lords, and the wildling chieftains. "They follow none of our laws, they have none of our sentiments. They'll go for the villages first - for the old, the

women, the children. They'll target the settlements and the refugees and their numbers will keep growing!" He saw wide eyes staring at him. "A few of them are manageable, but a horde?"

The memory of the Frostfangs haunted his eyes.

The northern lords looked unnerved. Barthogan Rose's face twisted, and Eric Burley gulped.

"Your Grace…" Leona Manderly muttered, looking across the hall.

Lady Maege and the Greatjon shared glances.

Jon took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Focus . "There are refugees flooding the Gift. There are villages and holdfasts scattered from here to Castle Black - they are the ones in the most danger. We must move and stop it quickly."

Jon could feel it on his skin. He could feel the presence of the Other permeating the air, and eerie and unnatural energy that said the world on edge. Was Malvern still close? It felt like it was.

The white walkers were like a rolling snowball. So long as it was kept restricted, it was manageable - but once it gained in momentum, it avalanched. We never managed to hunt Malvern, Jon cursed, and this is his revenge.

With Sonagon it wouldn't have been so much a problem, but now the dragon disabled…

"Dragonglass!" Toregg was shouting. "Get your dragonglass - two arrows and a spear to every commander, pass it between your best men."

"The roads are blocked, our horses won't make it…" the Greatjon warned. "We might not even be able to catch up."

So many thoughts swam through his head. Jon felt a tingle down the back of his neck, and he turned to see a great wolf lingering at the

edge of the halls. The crowd murmured and stepped back at the sight of Summer, and Jon stared straight into bright golden eyes. The direwolf held a knowing gaze, and its hackles were raised.

"It is the living, versus the dead," Jon said finally. "We have stop them quickly, or the dead will win in the long run. We have to slay Malvern before his army grows any bigger."

"Aye," the Lord of Bones spoke up suddenly, standing across the hall. "But armies ain't going to work out there, we need a raid. We need to push through the fodder and go straight for the Other itself. We need only the best and the strongest."

"He's right," Tormund admitted. "We got mammoths that can push through any weather, and we got arrows enough for a few dozen damn good archers. Men might be trapped out there, but the giants could push through. We finally know where Malvern is heading, we finally got a chance to stop him."

"And if it doesn't work," Maege warned, "we'll lose whatever chance we have."

Murmurs filled the air. Jon nodded at Rattleshirt. "See it done," he ordered. "Ready the warbands and the giant clans."

"If you truly need fire to kill these things," the Greatjon muttered, "then they've got one hell of an advantage in this weather."

Jon didn't reply, but his eyes turned to the shuttered windows. The keep was shivering right now. An open flame wouldn't survive long in the snows, and yet they needed an army of torches to fight wights.

Rattleshirt and a few others left the hall quickly, but then the doors blew open as another wildling scouting party barged through. A cold wind shrieked into the hall, every torch rippled, every shadow dancing and rippling. "We got numbers!" a man declared. "Two thousand figures on the bucket trail, another thousand on the

kingsroad, and more in the woods. They're spread real good, but all moving north."

Tormund gripped his maul a bit tighter, spitting curse words in the Old Tongue. "They're heading to the Wall, it's going to-!"

With all the torches and gloom, for a second it looked like a the Greatjon had two shadows looming from him. "The bloody Wall needs to survive on its own," the Greatjon snapped. "We can't help them, we can't even-"

Jon's head was spinning, trying to decide. The only options he saw were bloody ones, but whose blood…?

"What of the dragon?" a voice growled. Jon recognised a man with a smiling scar across his cheeks - Barthagon Rose. "The dragon - why can't the dragon-?"

"Your fucking master poisoned the damn dragon, you cunts!" a rough voice snapped, and bodies rumbled while shadows stirred.

It was hard to concentrate. Jon's instincts were screaming, it felt like… it felt like the power the white walkers had exuded, the aura that put every living man on edge.

Summer started howling and barking, great yelps of panic from the direwolf. The hall was in an uproar. "Enough!" Jon snapped. "Gather our forces, we move out-"

Jon saw the black shape moving, but his eyes past over it. In the moment, it looked nothing more like a trick of the light. A flickering shape in a crowded hall so brief he could barely focus on it.

The torches hissed and sputtered.

And suddenly a black arm materialised from behind the throne. It seemed to pull itself from the shadows and into the foreground, and

suddenly took form. A shadow without a body. " Order! " Ser Mardrick was protesting, oblivious, "Order, I sa-!"

Before anyone could even react, the shadow flourished a blade.

And a sharp wispy edge skewered through Ser Mardrick Manderly's chest.

Jon saw the knight's platemail cleave open, he heard the hiss of blood. It was naught but a rippling shadow, its body as fluid as black ooze. Ser Mardrick only managed to make a brief gurgling noise, as the near-invisible edge cut through him.

The knight crumbled to the floor and the shadow… it was standing there, in the centre of the crowd.

It was a man, a naked figure standing tall. A man's shadow given form. The hall froze in shock, and then exploded.

He heard a woman's shrill voice scream.

The shock, the surprise, the stab of fear… it all raced past him in an instant. Jon didn't understand, he didn't know what was happening, but his body was moving and every instinct he had was screaming. Jon hands went for Dark Sister, but others already had weapons drawn. Even before Ser Mardrick fell to the stones, the Greatjon tried to tackle it, but the shadow blurred.

It moved so fast Jon couldn't even keep track. One heartbeat it was standing still, and then next it hands lunged. Lunged straight for Galbart Glover.

The Master of Deepwood Motte had his mouth hung open, unable to react in time.

Jon heard the splatter of blood, and the hiss of smoke.

"Run!" Jon screamed, the first voice breaking the frantic hush. The shadow didn't even need its blade - its fingers just plunged into

Galbart's chest, like scooping out his heart.

Galbart was collapsing to the stones, and footsteps raced.

Two men dead in a matter of moments. Jon tried to lunge, but Toregg grabbed his shoulder, yanking him back. Soldiers lunged, blades struck out. The shadow flourished its own sword and lashed.

The sword was a wispy thing, so faint it could have been a water dancer's edge. Every time it swiped, Jon heard the hissing of smoke through the air. The sword cut left and right, cleaving through solid plate like a hot knife through butter, and another two bodies fell.

Tormund Giantsbane dived at it, swinging his maul with a single hand, trying to push it down. The maul hissed through the shadow's chest and met no resistance. Its body was wispy like smoke, reforming around the attack. Its hand struck out, but Tormund toppled downwards and ghosty fingers lashed against his shoulder.

And then the Greatjon attacked from behind. The lord never had time to draw his sword, he didn't need one. Instead, great arms struck forward, as if scooping up the shapeless attacker in a massive bearhug.

The shadow twisted. Suddenly, it was solid again - and black hands grabbed a hold of the Greatjon's arms. There was a brief clash, but the huge lord was held in place, so easily. It was strong. Inhumanly strong, powerful enough to halt the Greatjon with a single hand.

It paused, seeming to enjoy the moment. Jon couldn't see a face, but he could imagine a little smirk passing through it. The body posture, its stance… the shadow was mocking. Black hands tightened, and the Greatjon screamed in pain.

A man as large as the Greatjon shouldn't have made a sound like that.

Jon gave it no chance to turn around. He darted forward and swung Dark Sister. The sword swiped straight through, hitting nothing but air.

Its hand lashed out, a dismissive backhanded swipe - more powerful than any had the right to be. Jon felt the impact on his shoulder, knocking him off his feet. Jon clattered down the steps, his staff sliding across the stones.

He felt heat. Even just from its very touch, the hand… the black hand itself was burning.

He saw it as it turned. It was a man. A figure with a hooked nose and a sharp chin. The face was unfamiliar, but all the details were obscured through the wispy smoke. With every movement, its body twisted and reformed like smoke.

It raised his blade and hacked at the bodies around it. Jon flinched, feeling the sword sweep towards him, but a hand gripped Jon's collar and yanked him backwards. Jon scattered over the stones, toppling down the dais, while a figure with a scar across his cheek charged at the shape. The men held a shield instead of a sword, trying to bash it, but then with a single strike the wooden shield snapped in half.

Bodies were running, clashing, stirring. Men were trying to flee, others were trying to help. Men were screaming, dogs barking. It was chaos, all the while it hissed with every move it made.

Toregg intervened from behind, stabbing an obsidian spear through its chest. The shadow never even seemed to notice. Instead, its hand hooked down, and Toregg's blood splattered.

The Greatjon tried to recover, tried to lash out. His face was twisted, screaming in rage. The shadow blurred around his body, and then suddenly it was holding a blade again. The edge skewered straight through the great lord's stomach.

The Greatjon gasped - a queerly weak noise from such a large man. From its body language, the shadow could have scoffed as it kicked the Greatjon to the ground.

Jon was left lying on the floor, staring upwards with shock. It was strong, fast, and weapons didn't hurt it. Its grip burnt. The shadow was standing next to the throne of Winterfell, every stone splattered in blood.

In few dozen heartbeats, eleven men were already dead.

Footsteps were running. Jon heard a direwolf howling. The shadow turned fractionally, to stare down at Jon, and it paused. Jon was left defenceless, but it didn't target him.

Instead, it turned and went straight for Maege Mormont. The lady swung her mace upwards to meet it. Jon heard the hiss.

The shadow blade cut straight through the iron mace, and then onwards through the Maege's neck. A lump of metal and a decapitated head fell to the ground at the same time. The metal was glowing red where the edge had cut through it. Maege Mormont died with a look of absolute shock on her face.

It turned, looking for the next victim. He saw a blonde-haired woman on her knees, trying to shake a fallen knight with a gouged-out chest, and the shadow turned too. Leona Manderly gulped, with tears smearing down her face.

"In the name of the Seven," she whispered. "By the Mother, I-"

The shadow slashed lazily. Lady Leona's head cut open into smoke and gore.

Footsteps were pounding; men racing from the hall, blockading the entrance. Everything spinning. Jon heard growling - Summer was standing off against the shadow, distracting it, but the direwolf

seemed afraid to even go near. Run, Jon begged, gasping too hard to speak. Run .

Hands gripped his shoulders, someone was trying to drag him away. It was the girl, Meera Reed - she had her arms on him, trying to pull him up to his feet. "Move," Meera hissed in his ear. "Move!"

The shadow figure paused, looking idly around the bloody scene. Searching for more targets. After a long moment, its gaze settled on Jon.

He had Dark Sister in his hands. Jon was on his knees, but there was no time to stand up. The shadow blurred, he heard the hissing of a burning blade.

Summer lunged it at from behind, but the shadow knocked the direwolf down with a single hand. There was a pained yelp, and Meera shot forward her spear, but the shadow swept around her. The girl was knocked to the floor, and Jon lunged with Dark Sister…

The Valyrian steel hit nothing but smoke. Jon's leg gave out, and he clattered downwards. Already, the shadow was reforming, raising its sword high in an executioner's slash. It never made a noise, but its face - on its wispy face, it looked like the man was roaring with silent laughter.

The blade came down.

Jon heard the hiss.

He gasped, but no cut came. Suddenly the room was filled with black smoke. He heard crackling flames, smoke howling, and shadowfire screaming. The shadow was above him, face contorted, body shivering. A white spike protruded from its chest, cleaving through its body…

It exploded. A cloud of black plumed everywhere, smearing the bodies and the stones. There was nothing solid left of it, only black

dust. A foul taste hit Jon's mouth. Ash, he realised dumbly. It's ash .

Meera was standing in its wake, her face coated black and her eyes wide. In her hands, she was gripping half a white wooden cane, splintered at the edge. The weirwood cane, Jon realised. My cane . The wood had snapped in half when Jon fell down the steps, but the edge broke into a point. Meera recovered faster than he had. She must have snatched up the broken cane to stab it with.

There was a shock silence. All around him, everything was black and red.

He heard sounds. People were screaming. Wounded men were croaking, bodies were gurgling with blood. Tormund was staggering, while the Greatjon was on his back, gurgling as he grasped at the wound through his stomach. Jon saw dead bodies littering the throne of Winterfell.

Everybody he had been talking to; alive one moment, and dead the next. Snuffed out like a candle.

Fires were hissing, the wind shrieking…

"What was that?" Meera screamed, her hands trembling. The weirwood clattered from her hands, and the edge was left charred and smoking. " What was that? "

Jon stared at the weirwood on the ground, and then down at the smear of ash over the granite stones. It was a shadow. It was an assassin. It was…

"It was fire," Jon gasped finally. "And it could only be killed by weirwood."

Chapter 45

Chapter 45

The God-King

The Starry Sept was a grand, ancient structure. It was forged of black marble walls and high arches, gleaming with painted glass windows on seven-sided spires and a great dome housing the gilded effigies of the Seven. It was an ancient building, a millennium older than the Great Sept of Baelor, and its mosaics showed images of the heroes that had been ancient since long before the Targaryens stepped foot on Westeros. The Great Sept had been made to honour the dragons, but this sept remembered the 'heroes' like Hugor of the Hill, Argos Sevenstar, the Falcon Knight, Qarlon the Great, Ser Gerold Grafton, and the Hammer of the Hills. The men who had first brought their seven-sided god onto foreign shores.

They said that the Starry Sept was the finest temple in the realm, perhaps only second to Great Sept of Baelor or the Temple of Highgarden. Now, the Great Sept was a cremated crater, and Euron intended that Highgarden would soon become a mausoleum of the damned.

To his surprise, Euron discovered that he actually quite liked the Starry Sept - once he had removed all of the septons, of course. The Heavenly Dome was indeed a structure fit for a god, thousands of years old and securely built, extravagant in its wealth. He had taken the Starry Sept as his palace, and any god needed a temple.

Euron stood barefoot and bare-chested on the marble floor, staring up to the mosaic of the night's sky painted onto the dome, as a smile played about his lips. Euron wore only a set of leather breeches, naked from the waist upwards except for his eyepatch. His hair was still slick with salt, and the smell of dampness lingered around him.

"Do you not think it is amazing, brother?" Euron mused as he walked. "How quickly everything changes?"

Across the pews, Aeron Greyjoy, High Priest of the Drowned King, moved to his knees. His brother's eyes were on the floor constantly; Aeron never dared to meet Euron's gaze. His voice was deep, solemn, and afraid. "As you say, Your Worship," Aeron intoned.

"Hm. Take Qarlon the Great over there." Euron pointed to the painted marble engraving of faded colours, showing a muscular man on his knees, raising a seven-pointed star to a hilly sky. "In his day, he was called Qarlon the Butcher, Qarlon the Fool, Qarlon the Dragonfeed. He was a would-be conqueror that brought his empire to ruin after challenging the dragons. And yet, now, two thousand years later - Qarlon the Great is honoured as the last defender of the Faith on Andalos." Euron shook his head, still smiling. "The septons proclaimed that he was great, so there he is - Qarlon the Great. Their seven gods wanted their hero, and history was rewritten at their will."

"False gods, all, Your Worship," Aeron said stiffly. "They were deluded by false idols."

Euron pitied Aeron sometimes; his brother was such an… unimaginative man. It was a curse that so many in his family had shared.

On his brother's forehead, the brand of the kraken was still raw. It had been a crude metal brand - a lump of circular steel and prongs twisted into tentacles, heated over the flames until the kraken glowed red like blood. Euron had offered his disbelievers forgiveness, but only if they branded themselves with his mark.

Aeron had been the very first to press the burning metal against his own skin.

His brother was a tall and gaunt man, still struggling to recover from his captivity onboard the Silence . Aeron's bones protruded from his

skin, like veiny parchment stretched over a skeleton, and his legs were so frail he needed two walking sticks to move. Without his beard and with his head shaved bald, Aeron looked like a different man. He looked two decades older than he actually was. The mutilated, scorched skin on his forehead was prone to weeping, often oozing blood and pus down his features.

Yet Aeron wore now silk and gossamer rather than rags - long white robes that that were too loose for his body, garments that flowed across the marble like tentacles. The old priests of the Drowned God had roamed the beaches and lived like hermits, but Euron insisted that wealth should be taken by the holy. The Damphair had seen the err of his ways; he had witnessed Euron's godliness, and Euron had rewarded him. He is to be the prophet to my god, Euron mused, and it feels good to have a brother again .

One by one, the Drowned Men had all converted to the new religion that Euron offered. The Cult of the Kraken, some named it. The Acolytes of the Drowned God Reborn.

Every night now, faithful and the converts ate like lords - but the unfaithful of the city were left to hunger. Converting the hearts of an entire city became surprisingly quick once he controlled the stomachs.

Euron grinned, swaggering forward to place his hand across Aeron's shoulders. Despite everything, his brother still flinched slightly with his touch.

"History is malleable, brother," Euron chuckled. "Do not linger in it. We shall destroy the past, and seize control of the future."

Across the dome, both brothers watched as the workers stepped forward with large hammers to demolish the priceless marble engraving of the Qarlon the Great. Men who had once prayed in this temple were now destroying it with hammers and chisels. All around him, the Starry Sept was being transformed.

The sounds of stone chipping and clanking filled the great dome. They were rebuilding the Starry Sept in Euron's image. They had roped workers from across Oldtown, pressed them into the sept - his followers had captured masons and stoneworkers by the dozen. Euron had ordered that all signs of the Seven should be struck from these walls, but he saw no reason why what remained couldn't be reappropriated to his new image.

Seven-sided stars had become seven-sided tentacles. The statue of the Warrior, of course, had been reshaped and carved to Euron's own likeness. The statue of the Maiden had been reshaped to look like Daenerys Targaryen, the woman who would become his queen. Now, the statues of Euron and Daenerys stood at the front of pillars, both of them wearing metal crowns fastened with mortar onto marble. The other statues had required a bit more of creativity.

The Father became Balon Greyjoy - the brother who had set him on the path - and the Smith became Victarion Greyjoy - the brother who would bring his bride to him - but they were both put at the far back behind Euron's statue. He was debating getting rid of those two altogether, actually. The Mother was recarved into a topless, weeping wanton with no mouth - to glorify Euron's ship, the Silence . The masons had done a grand job in shaping the hooded figure of the Stranger into that of a faceless man bearing tentacles wrapped around its body, and a bulbous eye on his chest.

The difficulty had been with the Crone, however. Euron had been torn as to what he should honour with it, but eventually he had decided when he noticed how easily the Crone's hooked nose could become a beak. He ordered the masons to carve the hunched back woman into a bird. Make it into a statue of a crow, he had commanded. Even now the workmen were still chipping away, refashioning the woman's face into a stubby beak. Euron was the Crow's Eye, after all.

A few of the masons had resisted, and others had tried to incite rebellion. Once, a group of workers had started plotting assassination, and sharpening chisels to be used as daggers. The

glass candles quickly saw such things brewing, and their punishments had provided the proper incentive for the rest.

Those who wept too much had their eyes pulled out, for what use did a man that wouldn't see god's work done have for eyes? Still, Euron wouldn't refuse any the chance to see the glory of the new faith rising in this hall; hanged men had been be left to stare from the rafters above, and disembodied eyes left in rows atop tables to gaze unblinkingly upon the holy.

Euron's gaze lingered on the statues. Even sacred objects - especially sacred objects - could be transformed. In anotherthousand years, perhaps nobody would even remember the Seven. Euron would see it so.

The city of Oldtown wasn't so old anymore. That city was dead. It had been devastated, aye, but now it was rising again, harder and stronger. The old reign fell with the tower, and Euron's command was growing. The whole city had witnessed his power.

He had decided to follow the example of the dragon conqueror, and to rename the site of his arrival. Euron had commanded that the city of Oldtown would now be called God's Arising.

"What do you think, brother?" Euron demanded, nodding at the statue that used to the be the Warrior, but now had a kraken carved onto its chest. "Does it fit my likeliness, or should I have the stonemason executed?" Euron cocked his head, staring at his brother curiously. "As a holy man," there was a quiet sneer on the words, "surely you must have an opinion on my temple?"

Aeron hesitated, biting his lip but trying not to squirm. "I have seen the Drowned God's will," the High Priest intoned. "I do naught but serve."

Only months ago, he was trying to incite a rebellion against me, Euron considered. Now, he leads my sermons. By the gods, faithful men are such fascinating creatures. "The last priests that walked

these walls," Euron teased, "they thought they knew their god's will too."

Every septon that had been in the sept had been executed when it fell. Euron had beheaded the septons and built a monument in the courtyard of their skulls, and then he had stripped the septas and gave them to his men as whores. "They were blind to the true divinity lying beneath them."

"Aren't we all?" Euron chuckled. "Blind men scuffling around in the dark, as a man I knew once phrased it. The light itself is meaningless, but what matters is the will to see more."

Aeron stood straighter, old bones creaking. Euron turned around, and cupped his brother's gaunt cheeks with both hands. "What of you, brother?" Euron demanded. "Will you be my prophet, or are you but another blind man that doesn't deserve to keep his eyes?"

"I will serve," Aeron whispered.

Euron's grin widened. "Then will you see with me?"

The Drowned Man gulped and then nodded. Euron laughed, as he motioned at a nearby slave to pour them two cups of shade of the evening. Wonderfully, the Citadel had possessed its own stocks imported from Qarth, enough to sate him for months. Him and his chosen few.

Aeron had been force to see divinity on that night, and now he didn't try to resist. His brother wouldn't admit it, but the shade gave him an insight, a clarity into the divine workings of the world that ordinary mortals could scarce comprehend. They both gulped the blue wine down together.

"Glory to Sh'Caegloth," Aeron intoned, his eyes widening and his body sagging as the shade of the evening took hold.

Sh'Caegloth. Euron had chosen to name the kraken after a Stygian word - it meant 'The Awakened'. The first of the Old Ones to emerge from a millennia-long sleep.

As the shade of the evening flooded his body, Euron could feel it. Even now, he could feel the power of the ancient kraken looming in the waters. Ever since the ceremony at Oldtown, there had been storms circling the bay and high tides across the coast - the weather itself distorted with the ancient's presence.

He could feel it. He could feel it stirring; a massive, inhuman power, bubbling with rage like a simmering volcano…

Aeron nearly sagged with the pressure, the blue wine staining his lips. Euron just laughed, stumbling over the marble floors like a drunkard. All around him, the sept was filled with ghosts. Ghosts of drowned men, a hundred thousand eyes twisted in terror.

Mere weeks ago the waves had swept through the city. The bridges had all collapsed, leaving those on the inlet isles stranded while all others ran for cover. The Starry Sept was one of the few buildings sturdy enough to hold against the floods. The smallfolk had taken shelter within the sept, and they had been huddling like sheep when Euron's reavers broke through the doors.

The entire city was still trembling, trying to come terms with its new fate. The city of God's Arising was only just being born and, like all births, it was a messy, bloody thing. Destruction always preceded creation.

Euron sat on the crystal throne of the Starry Sept, grinning from eye to eye as he stared into the domed heavens. This city is but the first, he told himself. Only the first to fall .

Across the horizon, he felt Sh'Caegloth stir. Controlling the kraken had proven more difficult than anticipated, but he was getting there. The ancient beast was well and truly bound, and slowly, piece by

piece, it was falling to Euron's will. The ancient magicks of Krakenbinder were powerful, irresistible.

The proof of my divinity .

The God-King's good mood lasted right up until he saw a slave escorted through the hall of his temple. It was a squirrelly man formerly a steward of the Citadel, but now he had kraken brands across his neck and arms. He walked with a limp before Euron, his hooked nose black and oozing. The slave was trembling, and Euron could see failure written across his face.

"Your Worship," the slave muttered. "I bring news from the commander of the guard."

"Speak," Euron ordered.

"The…" The slave had to gulp. "The lord is unsuccessful, Your Worship." The slave gritted his teeth, body spasming with raw fear. "Lord Goodbrother returns from Citadel's vaults empty-handed. He and his men are yet making their way through the city."

There was no immediate reaction. Euron paused, turning to look at the rubble that once was the statue of Qarlon the Great. "Did you know that in older times," Euron said slowly, "the Andal warlords would execute any messenger that brought them bad news? It was a means of deterrence, you see - they wished to discourage any from sending bad news."

"Your Worship…" The slave might have pissed himself in terror.

Euron pointed to the brazier hanging from the walls, and the flames flickering away. "Brand yourself once more," Euron ordered, "and pray that my rage dissipates once you do."

The slave did as well. He staggered over to the brazier, trembling, but squeezed the burning metal against his skin once more without obvious hesitation, screaming as flesh bubbled and boiled. At this

point, Euron had ensured that every man and woman feared him more than they feared death itself. He had made his wrath known. Once you hold their fear and their lives, Euron mused, their hearts and minds follow .

There were other supplicants that came to see him. Ironborn reavers came to claim rewards or settle disputes, and lords and merchants came to beg for food or favours. To the former he gave nearly whatever they wished, but to the latter he gave nothing - not until they branded themselves with the sigil of the kraken. After an hour, the sept reeked of char. It smelled like victory.

Yet none of it could expunge the foul taste of Lord Goodbrother's failure.

By the time the lord himself arrived up the seventy-seven steps into the temple, Euron went to fetch his sword. The God-King was still bare-chested, laying Red Rain across his legs, softly stroking the blade while Lord Gorold Goodbrother walked in with his head hung, his shoulder slumped. Euron's face twisted with the sight. Failure, is there anything more revolting?

"Your Worship," Lord Goodbrother said, lowering himself to the stones.

"Where is my book, Lord Goodbrother?" the God-King of Westeros demanded, pacing over the marble floor. "Have you disappointed me once more?"

Lord Gorold twitched nervously, bowing his head to the marble steps. "Forgive me, Your Worship…"

"Forgive you?" Euron turned around, glaring down from atop the steps. "So then it is your fault?"

"No, I… I tried…" His head sagged, sweat dripping down his brow. "I failed you, Your Worship. I worked to the best of my ability, but it was not enough."

Clearly not . "Ah." Euron nodded, stepping down the steps slowly. "Then the problem is simply incompetence, not insolence?"

Lord Goodbrother's face was pale. He bowed his head further, but he didn't dare protest. Euron allowed his lips to curl into a blue smile. At the base of the steps, Aeron lowered his head. "Lord Goodbrother is a loyal subject, Your Worship."

"I'm sure," Euron mocked. "Loyal."

Loyal only because I hold his entire fate in the palm of my hand . With a single thought from Euron, Hammerhorn might be literally wiped off the map, and everyone knew it. Sh'Caegloth had ensured him 'loyalty', at least.

"Tell me what happened, Lord Goodbrother," Euron commanded.

The lord gulped. "We tracked the vaults as you commanded. The dungeons under the Citadel - where the old scrolls are located. We interrogated the archmaesters for the tome's location, forced them to surrender their keys," Lord Gorold explained. "Except the door was barricaded from the inside, Your Worship. They tried to set fire to the chambers as we were breaking through."

" Who tried?" Euron demanded.

"I do not know," Lord Gorold admitted. "Whoever they were, they killed themselves in the blaze. Their corpses are unrecognisable."

Euron paused. Perhaps one of the inner members of the Conclave had committed suicide, and attempted to burn the evidence with them? It was possible, and Euron had been wondering how many of the old guard of maesters still existed. Most maesters didn't know the history of their own order, but relics of the past still lingered. The knights of the mind, he mused.

One of Euron's first acts after taking the city had been to drown near all of them in the saltwater; from the archmaesters down to the

chainless acolytes. Every man of the Citadel they could gather had been executed, save for a useful captured few.

"But we believed it likely that the lower levels remained untouched from the fire," Lord Goodbrother continued. "The walls were stone and the fire did not spread down to the private vaults. But the lock was left warped, its mechanism jammed, and the stairs collapsed.

We had to excavate the route downwards, it took near a fortnight to break through. And the stone, the black stone didn't cleave easily…"

Yes, it wouldn't, Euron agreed. The lowest vaults of the Citadel were made out of fused black stone, the same sort that the foundations of the Hightower were built from. It was unnaturally hard stone, a remnant of an era long past. "And that is where you failed," Euron said sadly, shaking his head. "You assured me there wasn't a problem."

"I didn't believe there…" Lord Gorold hesitated. "I didn't think there was. But the vaults were empty when we got there, Your Worship. Somebody had already taken the book from the pedestal."

Now isn't that a problem? Euron's smiling eye lingered on the lord, but all the while his other eye was glaring. His fingers slowly played with Red Rain, his hands running over the razor-sharp edge. The lord was staring at Euron's feet, pale pink toes spread over the marble.

Perhaps I should kill him, Euron considered, judging the lord quietly. How useful will his death be?

"We found other books," Lord Goodbrother pleaded. "The rest of the archives, old manuscripts, they were intact…"

"I do not care for other books," Euron snapped. "I gave you command to bring that one to me - Blood and Fire is the only tome that interests me."

"Forgive me, Your Worship." Once, Gorold Goodbrother had been a strong lord, but now he was cowering in Euron's presence. "Forgive me… The book was already gone…"

"Who stole it?" Aeron asked, with an unsteady step forward. "The maesters?"

"They plead ignorance," Lord Goodbrother confessed. "We ask questions sharply, they say they knew nothing of those vaults. Even the surviving archmaesters claim they were archaic."

Unfortunately, that was likely true. Euron was quiet, contemplating silently. "What of your glass candles?" Aeron asked uncertainly, looking between Euron and the lord. Slowly, the High Priest limped up the steps. "Your Worship, could your powers track it…?"

"The glass candles see naught but darkness," Euron said with annoyance. "It seems that our thief has blocked the candle's vision."

That was yet another source of irritation, made all the more frustrating that he had sacrificed the man who used to scry for him. Euron himself wasn't so skilled with the glass candles. He had tried to pinpoint the book, but it was lost in shadows.

"Blocked?" Aeron asked, blinking. "Is that… Is that possible?"

"There is a technique to it. It is an uncommon skill, but not a particularly difficult one," Euron replied with a shrug. "To hide from light, you need only cloak yourself in darkness."

Still, there were only a limited number of people who knew of the art of cloaking from scryers, Euron considered. Unfortunately, all of the people on that list could be troubling in one way or another.

Lord Gorold and Aeron glanced to one another, their gazes filled with uncertainty. Euron paced, staring between the marble statues as he thought. "The gates are sealed, the walls patrolled. We secure the surrounding area," Euron decided. "So perhaps the thief is still in the

city. Search the town. Find that book, Lord Goodbrother. I named you Lord of God's Arising, are you not?"

"You did. But our forces…" The lord gulped. "Forgive me, but the militia - I have doubts over their loyalty. We have not rebuilt our numbers, too many of our men are untested."

Another frustration, something else that Euron had sacrificed. His position in the city was made all the more tenuous ever since he had been forced to kill near eight thousand of his own men. The ironborn had tried to bolster their numbers from converts in the city, but it wasn't the same. Not yet .

"I do not care for excuses," Euron ordered. "Find me that book."

"I… I shall strive to do so, Your Worship." Lord Goodbrother kept his eyes low.

Euron's smiling eye narrowed. " Strive," he repeated. "Perhaps the issue here is motivation, rather the capability?"

"Your Worship, I -"

"You have twelve daughters, do you not?"

Lord Goodbrother blinked, off-guard. "Eleven, Your Worship," he said dumbly. "Ysilla died in the storm."

"Eleven. Pity." The eldest was a mother herself, he recalled, the youngest barely a girl. Euron cocked his head, stepping forward to embrace the lord. His arms wrapped around the man's shoulders, but Lord Gorold did not react.

"Every day that you disappoint me," Euron whispered finally, "I will rape one of your daughters."

Lord Goodbrother's face paled.

"Starting from the eldest, working down. I will have one of them every night until that book is mine," Euron promised. "I will leave the girls alive, but each of them will take my seed and raise my bastard. For every night that you fail me, you will raise a living, breathing reminder of that time you disappointed, Lord Goodbrother. Do you understand?"

The old lord couldn't speak, but he managed a scared nod. "And then, on the twelfth night, I will begin to rape your sons. Your proud boys, I will leave them broken and ruined." Euron's gaze turned slightly towards Aeron, who kept his head on the floor. "You have three sons - triplets, I believe? They will take me to night fourteen."

Just the look in Lord Goodbrother's eyes, that dread… it was glorious. He knew exactly what would happened if Euron was challenged. He knew the devastation that the God-King could summon.

"And so on the fifteenth night?" Euron mused. "On that night, I will have to rape you ." Euron chuckled, patting the man on the back. "It will not be a pleasant experience for you, my lord. Do you understand?" There was no reply. His eyes narrowed. "I require a response, Lord Goodbrother."

His voice was weak. "I understand," he whispered.

"Then you have a fortnight, to fix your mistake. The earlier the better, for your family's sake." Euron turned to walk away. "I want that book, Lord Goodbrother."

It was the same threat that Euron had given to the survivors from House Hightower, and the other great houses of the city. Everyone who had been in the Hightower itself had perished, including Lord Leyton, but many of the highborn - women and children especially - had taken refuge in the city itself before the battle.

One time, Ser Baelor Hightower had thought to challenge him, attempting to incite a rebellion as the eldest surviving heir to

Hightower. But then Euron had taken his sister, the Mad Maid Malora, in the middle of the Starry Sept itself. While her family watched. Euron had promised that it would happen again and again for as long as Ser Baelor tried to resist.

He was told that she was now showing the first signs of pregnancy.

Euron watched as Lord Gorold walked away, shoulders sloped and hands shivering. The lord might try to run, but Euron would see his intentions as soon as he made that decision. The threat of the glass candles was one of Euron's greatest weapons; as far as his 'allies' were concerned, Euron was considered omniscient. The illusion was important.

Which makes it all the more troubling that someone capable of blocking the sight is in the city, Euron considered.

"Walk with me, Aeron," he ordered. "Come."

His brother picked up his canes and hobbled after him. Euron walked straight towards the balcony, staring out over the moonless night sky, and the bonfires burning in the city below.

At dark night, in the gloom, it looked almost… peaceful. Like a black ocean at rest. There were torches and camps in the middle of the plazas, and stone strewn over the streets. Smallfolk and soldiers were left scavenging through wreckage, and buildings flooded streets. The canals had been flooded and damned by all the debris, the cobbled streets were left wrecked, and scores of cityfolk homeless.

Even now, they were still finding masses of bloated, unrecognisable corpses washing up on the coasts.

Closer to the waterfront, barely any building larger than a hut still stood. The harbour had collapsed, the centuries-old wharves had been scoured away by a single lash of a gargantuan tentacle. Any ships that could potentially be repaired had been dragged to shore,

and wreckage was being salvaged into crude hulls. Even now, men were scurrying over makeshift piers. Soon, Euron would have something of a fleet again - a poor fleet, but it would serve.

The city of God's Arising was being born anew.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Euron whispered quietly. "Remove the safety and the wealth, remove the civilisation, and you see something else. Something raw." Something pure .

Aeron didn't reply, his eyes were fixed at Euron's feet. In the ruins of the city, merchants who had once lived like kings were scouring beaches for scraps of rotten food.

To the south, he could see the ugly ruin of the Hightower still staining the horizon. A great skeletal structure that stretched across the water, a stony corpse lying horizontal. The debris was so thick that it had jammed in the bay. Euron's men had taken to using the ruins of the Hightower as a makeshift bridge from the Battle Isle to the mainland. The Tower Bridge, they called it.

On the Battle Isle itself, all that remained of the tower was a jagged stump of stone. Half the cliffs of the isle had collapsed with the tower, and what remained at was stubby chunk of rock jutting upwards. The foundations of the Hightower were surprisingly still largely intact - a labyrinthine black stone structure that the ironborn were rebuilding as a fortress, and a prison.

After the Drowning of Oldtown, they had captured so many survivors. Highborn soldiers, sons and daughters, wives and fathers - hundreds, perhaps thousands, were being held in the Hightower's primordial foundations.

The threat remained; obey my rule, Euron had offered, otherwise the kraken will return .

First he had started with the highborn, and then the city watch itself had been forced to serve Euron's interests. After that, many of the

cityfolk had been conscripted or enslaved. He held enough hostages and enough fear to ensure compliance.

"Lord Goodbrother spoke truly, Your Worship," Aeron said after long quiet. "Your Worship, our forces are depleted, our men stretched thin."

"Then we must recover them. Look down at the plaza, what do you see?" Euron pointed to the bonfires, the refugee camps. " There are our men. And women, and children. They will be our army."

"They are greenlanders. They are our enemies, we destroyed their home, stole their riches." Aeron frowned. "They cower, Your Worship, but they will not comply. They will never follow you, not willingly."

Oh, you poor simple-minded fool, Aeron. Have you no imagination? Euron turned and sneered. "Then is that not your purpose, High Priest? To show them godliness . This a city of lost sheep, give them faith again. Convert them, as you yourself converted."

His brother looked nervous. "My sermons are growing, there have been believers…" Aeron grimaced. "But there is dissent as well. They are waiting for a sign of weakness, for a chance to spark a rebellion."

"Let them wait."

"Your Worship…" He sounded pained, his tongue stuttering. "And what of the dragon's forces assembling at Highgarden? We hold Three Towers by a thread, Blackcrown is burned… and Brightwater Keep is manned by only a token force. We haven't the men."

A dragon. Euron only laughed, which made Aeron all the more worried. "We do not have the ships, we do not have a fleet anymore. The garrisons left behind on the Arbor have surely fallen." The High Priest gulped. "Forgive me, Your Worship, but even the Iron Islands

lacks the king's presence, Pyke surely notices your absence. We have no grip on the land we hold… !"

"I don't care about land." Euron's voice turned sharp. "And ships could not interest me less. Are you still so narrow-minded, Aeron? Has the shade of the evening done nothing for you?"

Aeron faltered, scared. Euron turned, pointing again at the glimmer of the bonfires in the below the temple. "What I want… they only thing that I need… is out there. The people ."

"Those people are starved and terrified." His voice was weak.

"Good," Euron laughed. "I want their hearts and minds. I want their love, I want their hate, I want their devotion. I am their God first, their king second."

He had always known this would be the difficult stage. The Battle of Oldtown had been so worthwhile, but it had also left Euron's own fleet crippled. Where once he had a fleet of legions, now there were only a handful of ships remaining to him. It would take time to rebuild his forces and to enforce his new rule over the area.

The kraken helped, but it had to be used sparingly. Euron had allowed Sh'Caegloth to stew and simmer unseen in the depths, while he quietly tested and practiced his control. The danger was familiarity. Men became accustomed to what they could see. The more they witnessed divinity, the more they were capable of preparing for it. Uncertainty and fear were two of his greatest weapons; two advantages that could be lost by overuse.

And so Euron had kept his kraken out of sight, and he had blocked all contact out of the city. All the witnesses were left crazed by panic, and it became harder for anyone outside to verify the truth. Euron wanted there to be doubt - scepticism was a god's best friend. It gave him impact. It gave him time.

So much to do, Euron thought with a sigh, as he watched the flickering lights. So little time .

It was working, piece by piece. His ironborn ruled the city, near every maester and septon had been given to the ocean, and the Cult of the Kraken was steadily growing. After every disaster, fanatics were born.

More and more men of Oldtown were carving the sigil of the kraken onto their foreheads.

Euron stared out over the city, and wondered how long it would take.

My queen, he thought quietly. Wait for me. I am coming .

A cold chill blew in from the bay, and finally Euron chose to go inside. Aeron was stammering, his body sagging with every step as he tried to keep pace. Euron walked confidently, listening to the rattle of chisels around him.

He walked straight past the stonemasons, and the men all stopped and bowed. Euron stared over the mutilated effigies of the Seven, where the workers were carving the Stranger's cloak into a kraken's tentacles and reshaping the Crone's face into a beak. Euron stared at their progress, and then frowned. "What is that?" he demanded.

The mason stammered at his presence. "A crow, Your Worship. Tis a crow."

"I told you to give it three eyes," Euron scoffed. "An eye on the forehead too. It should have three eyes."

The men nodded, and promised that they would. The misshapen crow stared back at him blankly. I'll put that statue in the corner, Euron decided. He deserves to watch .

There was the sound of a cane as his brother caught up. Aeron was already wheezing, out of breath. Euron reached a decision.

"Put your sermons to use, Aeron," Euron ordered. "Rile up the militia and the believers, let them know to search for this missing book themselves."

"Your Worship, that might cause…" His voice trailed off. What were you going to say? Riots? Panic?

"Good. Let us use the resources we have, let's find a use for their fear. Let the city know that the book is important to me ."

His brother stiffened, and then nodded. "As you say, Your Worship."

Euron turned, and strolled away. Aeron looked pained for a long time, but finally his brother had to ask.

"Forgive me, Your Worship," Aeron called with a gulp. "But why is the Targaryen book is so important? There are many books. Surely this one is not worth the difficulty…?"

"This book is special." Euron turned, raising an eyebrow and shaking his head. "It is… call it something of an instruction manual."

"Is there not a duplicate?" Aeron asked. "The maesters… surely they would have made copies?"

"Not of this one." He scoffed. "This is a blood-soaked tome that the maesters have kept for over two hundred years, only a single copy was allowed to exist in the deepest vaults."

His brother hesitated, but the confusion was still thick in his eyes. "And this… this was why you invaded Oldtown?" the Drowned Priest said dumbfounded. "For a book ?"

"Well, it wasn't the only reason," Euron admitted. "But yes, it was one of the motivations."

Aeron still looked confused. Poor man . "The book is titled Blood and Fire ." Euron said slowly. "More oft, though, the tome is known as the'Death of Dragons'."

It was a field of study that many, many people would be interested in nowadays, and this tome was perhaps the most notable work on the matter. Euron laughed, and turned around. "Yeah, I'm going to need that book quickly."

He left Aeron standing on the marble mosaics, blinking and looking lost.

Euron spent the rest of the evening staring out over the city from his quarters, hypnotised by the sleeping fires of the city. When he went to bed, there were two weeping highborn maidens, both barely past womanhood, waiting for him manacled to his bedpost. When he eventually fell asleep, he dreamt of a great smoking abyss beneath the ocean, and tentacles writhing in the dark.

He was awakened early by the faintest rays of dawn, and by the singing of the candles. Euron grinned.

It is now. My friend arrives . Euron took a deep gulp of shade of the evening.

Euron threw a cloak over his shoulders, leaving it unfastened, as he stepped down towards the temple hall. He walked straight outside through the oak and silver doors, blinking against the morn's sunlight.

The world was beating, ribbons of power like veins bleeding into the sky from the charnel-pits. The Starry Square was filled with supplicants come for their morning bread, and he saw the world in shades of blue and red.

At the sight of their God-King, the crowds writhed. Some of the people were cheering, others screaming.

From Euron's personal guard, Mall the Monstrous looked shocked to see him out in the open. All of Euron's Grotesques were out in force, securing the temple grounds. And yet among them, he saw ghosts. Men with cloven shoulders, men with shorn ghostly arms, and Mall

standing with shards of spectral bone jutting from his ear. They were standing atop the steps, oblivious to their own brutally mutilated corpses. Euron grinned, standing amidst the ghosts only he could see.

"Your Worship," the great, deformed man asked. Mall was a fearsome man clad in mismatched armour. "What happens, why are you-"

His voice was cut off by a cry of alarm from the Holy Gate. Euron only laughed, the shade burning in his blood. The dead are walking, Euron thought, grinning from the ear to ear as the crowds below roiled.

Bells were ringing from gatehouse. At first it was confusion, and then panic. Euron heard the thud of metal, followed by a painful squelch. There were the twangs of bowstrings, but they didn't seem effectual. Suddenly, the cries were cut off by a solid crush, of something big and heavy against wood. Euron heard the gates splintering under tremendous force.

"Under attack!" an ironborn cried. "Under attack from the plaza!"

Even in the sleepy hour, the noise and clamour started to spread. "What's happening?" Aeron demanded, hobbling from the temple. "What is happening? How many?"

"Stay back, Your Worship!" Mall the Monstrous boomed, clutching his warhammer as he tried to push Euron to safety. Euron just shooed him away, too busy laughing.

"How many?" Aeron demanded, as another crack of a battering ram against wood filled the air.

"One!" the cry came, as guards surged. "There's one, it's… it's… oh God…"

Thud. The sound of a steel boot crashing through solid wood. He heard the chiming of arrows bouncing uselessly off thick metal plate.

It sounded like a battle spreading up the Steps of the Gods. A very one-sided battle. "One?" Aeron gasped.

"No," Euron chuckled, folding his arms. "There's actually two."

He saw an ugly grey steel helm rising up the stairs. A faceless titan wearing a tattered grey cloak, a stained and torn rag that might have once been white. Guards surged forward, soldiers raising weapons. They shouted for the figure to halt, but received naught but silence. Euron could have stopped them, but he didn't. He wanted to watch.

A giant blade swept outwards, cleaving straight through a pike, and then iron chainmail and through flesh beneath. Two ironborn fell, flesh and gore smearing over the seventy-seven steps. The figure didn't even break stride. Euron's men tried to fight it - one of them stabbed a spear into the creature's back, but it didn't pierce the steel. Euron only chuckled as the golem crushed the man's skull with a single hand.

"Stay back, Your Worship!" Mall the Monstrous roared, his warhammer swinging, uneven legs loping. "Stay bac-"

Clang. The warhammer chimed against the creature's head. The steel armour was beyond thick, it was like a walking castle of iron. There was a shallow dent in its skull, but the golem didn't even stagger. Its fist lashed out, and suddenly Mall the Monstrous had never looked so small. Bone crunched, the warhammer fell.

A man like that could put Victarion to shame, Euron mused, as he started to walk down the stairs, brushing past bodies and ghosts.

"Your Worship!" Aeron screamed behind. "Your Worship!"

"Stay back!" one of his guards shouted. "Protect His Worship."