As a precaution, there are one or two mild spoilers in here for the later books. There's also a character introduced in the third season of the show in one of the chapters so if you haven't seen it you won't be familiar with her.

The Watcher of Fate:

Minutes, hours, days, years, decades, centuries. They passed, will pass, are passing. In one moment, the Children of the Forest played amongst the trees, in the next, Daenerys Targaryen stepped from the flames with her dragons in hand, and in the next, the Targaryens flew from the Great Doom atop their own massive dragons. Time did not stand still like a lake, nor did it flow like a river. It was everything, and everywhere. A storm with waves crashing in every direction, a lake whose water flew up towards the heavens while seeping down into the earth. So many droplets, so many fates. Fate was the anchor that strung them all together. The entity that made each droplet amongst the sea stand apart from the others. Each was destined for a different fate, and the Lord of Fate watched over them all.

Nabu sat atop his tower, gazing out into the darkness. Darkness surrounded his tower, shrouding it from the realm of men. The great fire atop it stood defiant against the haze like a single ship against a great sea storm. The fire refused to die out, just as Nabu would never leave his post. So many centuries had he sat, watching the fates of so many mortals, across so many worlds, be born, live, and die.

His orb sat before him, perched in the three talons of a golden dragon claw. On the surface, it appeared as a simple glass sphere with purple smoke swirling within. But to Nabu's eyes, it was a window. A window into every fate that has, or will exist. He knew the fates of men, women, even children.

The fate of the honorable Lord Eddard Stark, his loyal wife, their courageous son, a king among men, their beautiful eldest daughter, a pawn in a larger game, their wild youngest daughter, with a fate more inspired than even Aegon Targaryen's himself, the crippled son, with eyes beyond their scope, and even the youngest Stark, whose life would be filled with loneliness and confusion.

Then there were the Lannisters, with the proud Lord Tywin, who would sit upon his throne of wealth and pride until the end of his days. The Kingslayer, a man of reclaimed honor who would also hold fast to it until the end of his days. The lone daughter, a being of prey who deemed herself a hunter…and the Imp, a man whose path would bring him through such wonders and such terrors.

The Targaryens; the ill-fated Aerys, madness forced upon him, his children, the beloved Rhaegar, the arrogant Viserys, and the young Daenerys, a mother of so many before she would stand a true woman. Then there were the unfortunate but beautiful Elia Martell, doomed wife of Rhaegar, their daughter Rhaenys, killed shortly after her mother, and then, the young baby boy, Aegon, whose shadow was longest of all.

All of these fates were for this world, and this Westoros. So many yet lay within Nabu's gaze, but this Westoros, the fate of this one was more important than any others. This was the fate where the Eternal Night was coming, and the Dark One would march on Westoros with its army of the fallen.

Many would challenge the fallen, and many would fall themselves. Like the Tower of Fate, a few mortals would stand amongst the darkness and let their fires spread. Brandon and Arya Stark, Jon Snow, Daenerys Targaryen, Bruce Wayne, among others.

Nabu had witnessed the fate of Bruce Wayne many different times, in many different fashions. In one world, he used his intellect and strengths to conquer Westoros, in another, he was an old man at the age if eight-and-sixty, still fighting in cape and pointed helm. Very few of these fates resulted in joyful, or even pleasant outcomes, but across all fates no matter what course Bruce Wayne took, he took to it with a vigor and intensity that would make any gods the mortals believed in quake. Long ago, Nabu had agreed to never directly interfere with the realm of mortals, but the daunting possibilities of what could transpire in this timeline were too great to leave to the mortals. Fate needed a hand to shed light and widen its path.

"So, it has begun," the voice called out from behind where Nabu sat. The voice always held the same, calm, determined, knowledgeable inflection. Above all else, it always ended with the lightest raise in tone, subtly indicating a question.

"Yes, the trinity has begun to take shape. The Amazonian, Kryptonian, and Mortal seek their fates out in tandem, but on separate paths," Nabu replied as he lifted an arm from the velveted arm of his chair.

The faceless man moved from out of the shadows to stand in the light of Nabu's orb. It was queer, seeing a man without a face. Nabu would normally title all creatures of skin and flesh such as he a mortal, but this man was no mortal.

"Your fate, such a solemn thing it is, Vic Sage," Nabu commented.

The man's gaze lifted from the orb. Nabu couldn't say for certain, as the man's eyes were forever struck from his face. A curse as old as most of the trees that lay north of Westoros' foolish wall. A curse of ancient and dark magic, something that had since been lost to this world of men, but not to Nabu. The man reeked of the curse, but no mere mortal would ever smell it.

His guest scoffed, "All men are born from what they do. The only shame is I cannot remember what it is I have done, and so I stand before you cursed, but clueless."

Nabu said nothing, only stood, and walked to the terrace. He gazed out into the spiraling darkness, crackles of lightning occasionally striking across the dark sky. Vic moved to stand beside him.

"As per our agreement, I have lent aid to the Batman. I thought you were supposed to remain clear of the quarrels of men? Well, I suppose even a god such as yourself can bend the rules to his whim. Who would a God answer to in any case?"

Nabu's voice remained its same unemotional tone. "I am no God, nor am I the highest being in existence, in this world."

Vic's head turned and angled. "There's one above you? One more powerful? Who?"

The watcher remained ever vigilant of his duties. "Cursed to answer questions for the remainder of your infinite life, but receiving no answers in turn. You are the essence of what makes a mortal, mortal, and yet you will never walk amongst them as an equal. You question, you seek answers at the risk of your own life and sanity, just as so many mortals around you do. Eddard Stark in his tireless pursuit of Jon Arryn's murderer, Tyrion Lannister in search of why he was born into such high esteem only to be cursed with his disfigurement, Jon Snow, and what his heritage truly is. All of you seek answers so vigorously, but pay no heed to how the answers may change you. Lord Eddard has learned the error of his grave mistake, only too late for his life to be spared. What would Jon Snow truly do with the knowledge of the truth of his heritage? If he learned his mother was not some tavern whore in the slightest. And what of you, Vic Sage? What would you do with learning the truth of your curse? Why so many years ago you were sentenced to walk this earth forever questioning, without any answers or semblance of an idea of what great sin you had committed to warrant such severe punishment from the Seven?"

"The Seven, heh, if only those mindless fools knew what their gods truly were. Mother, Crone, Father, all of them. The Southerners believe they worship figures of light, to guide them through the darkness of winter and the rage of war, but in truth, they only worship remnants of once great sorcerers," Vic replied, turning from the view of the balcony to return to the tower.

He turned back to Nabu to comment further. "The truly, beautifully ironic aspect of mortals' perception is that they accept the gods, accept the Seven and what they believe they stand for, but turn their back from magic, the very thing that put the Seven on those pillars in the first place."

Nabu returned to his study, and summoned a small sack from a nearby shelf. It floated across the open air and found itself to his hand. The spellcaster gripped it tight, before dropping it in Vic's hand. "For your journey among those fools."

Vic scoffed, "You summon me only to taunt me? Such a fickle being, you are."

"They will assist you, be sure of that Vic Sage."

The faceless stranger nodded, "Are you sure this is wise? First myself, then Lord Wayne's servant, and now her? Enlisting the help of those whom you are only supposed to observe?"

Nabu stood strongly, his cape tied around his shoulders, his eyes shining like small fires in the slits of his helmet. "I do what I must to ensure this world survives the coming storm. Whether that means I must remain here and watch, or act through another and give fate a light push in the proper direction, I stand who and what I am. The watcher in the tower. Now go." The faceless man nodded once more and moved to the open floor of the room. Nabu raised a hand and soon the symbol of fate appeared in a blinding white light. It was a cross, but the top-most part, rather than stand straight, curved into a small loop. The Question stepped into its warm embrace, and was gone from sight when the light dimmed and the symbol faded.

Nabu took up his seat once more as he prepared for his next guest. He summoned another chair across the room and set it down in front of him, all with the swipe of a hand. Another swipe, and a glass was filling itself with red wine from a dusty bottle. Nabu sat, contemplating all that he had done, and all that he must do, to ensure this timeline's survival. If certain mortals, Arya Stark, Tyrion Lannister, Theon Greyjoy, Bruce Wayne, did not prepare themselves for the drastic twists and turns that their fates before them would take, the world would suffer for it. If this world suffered, the plague would surely breach other times, other worlds, and fate itself would be crippled and broken away until nothing remained. Another flash of light came, and saw his guest into the chair opposite him. Unlike the self-titled Question, this guest was old, not as old as Nabu, but surely elder to most left in the world. Her hair was a faded auburn, with slight streaks of gray throughout. Her teeth were old and yellowing, and her small figure shrunk into the chair's velveted embrace. She wore green robes with golden trim, a golden chain wrapped around her forehead to represent her nobility.

The old woman opened her wrinkled mouth and began to speak, "How can I be of service?"

"What I ask of you may be turned down. You are no slave to me, only of fate, and the fate of your world."

A withered old hand rose to cover her mouth as she chuckled. "Who am I to refuse a god?"

"I am no god, Olenna Tyrell of Highgarden. I am merely an observer," Nabu replied. "I grow tired of those from the realm of man referring to myself as a god. Your small, undeveloped minds could not even fathom the true depth of how insignificant most of your lives are in the grand scope of existence. But that does not make me a god. In the world of mortals, I would be closest to the title of Maester; studying, observing, guarding that which must be tended to."

Lady Olenna chuckled once more. "Apologies for upsetting you, Maester Fate. Now what would you have of this old, decrepit woman whose bones are weaker than twigs and whose mind is slowly slipping into the darkness of nothingness."

Nabu stared at her. "You are not as feeble as you would wish any man to believe. Make no mistake Olenna Tyrell, I am no man. I am very much aware of your cunning and devious nature that you hide behind that mask of age. A woman does not earn the title of "Queen of Thorns" without having a certain sting to hide behind the charm of the rose pedals. Now I pray you, shed the mask and return to form so that we may have words, or I will return you to your dull existence and find another."

The frail old woman shed her confused expression, rose in her chair, and took a sip of the floating cup of wine. The cloud of confusion gone from her eyes, only a cunning, penetrating stare remained. Her lips were folded up into a smirk as she swirled the wine around in the glass.

"My name is Olenna Redwyne, Fate, my lord husband passed if you recall. And since I have shed my façade, I ask you do the same. What lies behind that golden mask and glowing, fiery eyes? Do you have a face? A nose? Are you handsome, or ugly? And of course I'll do whatever you ask you fool, these last years have been so dull. Just knowing of your existence has given me such vigor and restoration of excitement in my life. So whatever you have need of, merely say your will and let my mind arrange the proper scheme and see it done. I have but one question."

The fawn is gone and only the wolf thirsting for blood remains. Nabu nodded, "Speak, and see mind's weight lifted and answered."

"I care not for what becomes of myself, but should Margaery fall into harm's way, I would ask you remove her from it," the old woman asked. Nabu nodded, "Very well, I will assist in whatever way I am able. You care not for the remainder of your family?"

Lady Olenna scoffed, "My son is a simple minded fool whose tongue grows wet at the whisper of gold or power. My eldest grandson Wilas has a kind heart, but I fear would not be capable of ruling Highgarden in the manner which is necessary. My other grandson, the Knight of Flowers, well, let us say his sword swallowing would see the Tyrell name dragged through the mud almost as quickly as the Lannisters should the Kingslayer and the Queen be found out. Margaery however, she has the beauty, the poise, the promise, but most of all the mind, and cunning to sway whatever man lies in her path. She is a force to be reckoned with amongst the other foolish nobles of the Seven Kingdoms."

Nabu said nothing, only raised a hand and summoned a book from a shelf at the far corner of the room. When it landed in his hand, he flipped through the pages until he found the one desired. "You speak with such vigor of your granddaughter's ability to rule Westoros with her forked tongue. You are no different than the other mortals, all seeking power or fame or riches if not for yourself, then your house. Should you fail in the task I am about to ask of you, your daughter will be no noble wife or even Queen, of anything, and your house along with every other will be nothing more than a forgotten memory in a land cold and absent of any life. If you are to succeed in aiding me, then you must cast aside such mortal, selfish desires of power and focus solely on ensuring that your kingdom survives another ten thousand years so that your descendants can plot and squabble for power like chickens for seeds until the end of their days."

Lady Olenna remained silent. Surely she was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner. But she made the mistake of likening Nabu to one of the men from her world, who could be so easily swayed by a forked tongue and mask of deception.

After a minute, the old woman nodded. Nabu turned the book to her so she could read the provided page. "Now, I wish to speak to you about your granddaughter, and in your luck, her ascension to Queen."

The Phantom Stranger:

There was white, forever and into eternity. There were no walls, no roofs or floors, it was merely white abyss as far as the eye could see and a thousand times beyond that.

Here he stood, here he waited. Eternity was nothing new to him. The concept was a living reality. Forever free to traverse the world, and forever a prisoner to it. He had forgotten his true name so very long ago, but he had others.

The mortals in their foolish naivety, named him the Father. They prayed to him for courage and strength. They lifted him up as one of their seven gods, if only they knew the truth of the matter. Their Seven were not seven holy figures, they were seven warlocks and witches who long ago dared do what they never should have, and were returned with the curse of immortality. Some of the seven viewed immortality as a gift, but he knew what it truly was. It was an execution. He could do good yes, but he could never walk amongst the mortals as one of them ever again.

His true name was the Phantom Stranger. It was not the name from when he lived, but it was what he took up once the sevens' deed was done. He was a god to the mortals, but in his own mind he was simply a force striving to achieve justice. He would never be able to help a poor girl whose parents had been killed in a war, or save a village from drought and starvation, but he could help in the grand image of existence. He was a figure in the shadows, working behind the veil of mortality to ensure no dark forces grew too powerful, or upset the balance. Where there was good there was evil, and he was there to ensure good would not be eclipsed.

But where there was light, there was also darkness, the Stranger was reminded as a voice spoke from behind him. "At last, you've arrived."

"I have been here, you were the one that was late. As you always are."

The gravelly voice lightly snickered, "Stranger, we are immortal and live in the land between life and death. There are no realizations of time here."

The Phantom Stranger turned, to gaze upon his brother in immortality. He wore dark green robes, with a beaked hood that shielded most of his features in darkness. His skin was a pale gray, his chest bare, with his robes shielding his lower body. The figure wore green gloves, and his torso and naked arms were covered in scars.

"Shall we begin, Spectre?"

The Spectre nodded, "Very well."

The Spectre was a spirit of vengeance. Whenever a soul was angry, burning with hate, he would feed it, breathe life into the flame. As the Stranger strived to bring justice to the realm of mortals, the Spectre only sought for vengeance to be struck upon those he wished it upon. Some mortals may question the difference between the two, but the difference was as vast as sea and earth. The Spectre manipulated, appearing in mortals' dreams, as an apparition or voice in their head. He poisoned the mortals' thoughts until naught but vengeance and blood thirst remained.

The Phantom Stranger turned, and raised a hand directly in front of him. Unlike the Spectre, he wore dark blue robes, with golden trim around the edges. His hood was not beaked, but did cloud his features in shadows. Only his chin, nose, and glowing white eyes could be seen. His body bore no scars, but was still just as damned as the Spectre's.

He began murmuring the incantation. The Spectre soon joined, and in unison they performed the summoning spell. As they were not dead, they could not summon the long dead, but as they were not alive, so too could they not summon those that still drew breath. They could only summon those whose souls were in between the two realms.

The soul faded into existence before them. Its human figure retained, it appeared as it would in the mortal realm. His tunic was dirty and ragged, his hair mottled and unruly, and his face gaunt with the expression of exhaustion. The soul's form turned to face its summoners, before going wide in the eyes and exhaling in shock.

"Where am I?" The soul asked.

It gripped its neck, remembering its final moments in mortal life. Feeling the head still attached to the shoulders, it lowered its hands, and stared at the two mystical figures before it. Noticing his surroundings, the two before him, and the fact that his head was not missing from its place, the man was gripped with fear and confusion.

"Where am I?" The soul of Lord Eddard Stark repeated.

"You are in the void, Eddard Stark. Your soul is between the realm of the living and that of the dead. You have been summoned here for judgement," the Phantom Stranger declared.

"Judgement? Of what?"

"Of your soul," the Spectre answered.

"M-my soul? Why?" Lord Stark exasperated.

"You have been sent from the mortal realm, and now we must choose where your soul will rest. Eternal damnation, or eternal salvation. Your purity is being questioned, for the final events of your life," the Stranger finished.

"But I'm no traitor, I didn't betray the crown. Surely spirits, you can see such facts. I would never betray Robert's trust," the mortal soul confusedly defended.

"I question your purity Eddard Stark. For in your final moments, you lied to the realm. Your lie will cost so many lives, lead to so much dismay and anguish. The kingdom will be torn apart. For if you had but told the truth, soon enough, some would rise up to fight the crown's corruption and succeed," the Spectre taunted.

"What happens in other lines of time does not matter here, Spectre. Here, we only judge this soul. You cannot base your judgment off of the actions of another Eddard Stark. This Eddard acted honorably to save his daughters. The crime is of Joffrey Lannister's, not his."

Lord Stark's eyes darted between the two figures. "Other Eddards? What riddles do you speak in spirits? What will happen to me? You, you said Lannister. So you know of the Queen's deception? Please spirits, help my daughters, save them. Reveal the Queen's plot, save the kingdom!"

The Phantom Stranger shook his head. "We cannot directly intervene in the events of the mortal realm. We cannot assist your daughters, and cannot stop the plans set in motion by Cersei Lannister. Your world must bear with them. Now, Spectre, let down this foolishness. Your case against this soul is fruitless. Lord Eddard Stark is one of the most honorable and noble souls to have lived in the mortal realm for three centuries. It is what led to his death. Now set your ploys aside and let it pass on into eternal rest."

The Spectre scoffed. "Very well, Stranger, he may pass into eternal salvation. His daughter however, is mine."

Lord Eddard's eyes widened as he called out. "My daughter, no spirit, please, damn my soul, let hers alone. My daughters are kind, gentle souls. They have never done any wrong. Please, punish me, torment me, just let my daughters go," he begged.

"Your daughter has not done anything wrong, yet," the Spectre corrected as he raised his hand and departed the soul of Lord Eddard Stark to the afterlife before it could reply.

"That was unnecessary. His soul did not deserve such an end. You only challenged his purity for the sake of torturing him over the fate of his children. You are vengeful, yes, but I've never known you to be incessantly cruel," the Phantom Stranger stated.

The Spectre turned, "It matters not to him. His soul goes to eternal peace. Any qualms or worries washed away. Arya Stark is a very dark, vengeful soul. I will feed off of her for many years to come."

"She will become a force for good. Your corruption will not last forever, Spectre."

The green cloaked god chuckled. "It's funny. You are titled the Phantom Stranger, yet the mortals hold you up as their precious Father. The divine entity of justice. Yet, I am the Spectre, and they regard me as the Stranger, the faceless spirit of darkness. Mortals are a foolish sort are they not?"

"You will not lay your hands upon Arya Stark, Spectre. You will lose," the Phantom Stranger threatened.

The Spectre stared into the Phantom Stranger's glowing white eyes with burning eyes of his own. "Her desire for vengeance and blood will send her to the far corners of the earth, Phantom. I need not worry about your empty threats. It is certain, Arya Stark will become my vessel, and once more I will walk amongst the world of mortals."

I really enjoyed writing a scene past where the books ended Ned's story with giving him a quick flash in the afterlife. Basically this week's uploads just show that there is a far greater power struggle going on behind the scenes of the War of the Five Kings in the book, expect to hear more from it in the future! Next week, Officer Dent returns to King's Landing and the League of Shadows forwards their plan!