Thank you to everyone who has read, alerted and favourited this story. Especially those who have taken time to review, thank you.
And yes, I'm using Baelish's teleportation device to get Jon and co to the wall in super fast time.
Chapter Fifty-Four: Dark Waters.
Chains rattled softly as the Faith Militant formed a wide circle around their leader. They clung to the shadows of the Throne Room, but Margaery could see them from the tail of her eye. Even so, she kept her attention firmly on the High Sparrow standing just two feet away from her. To look at them, to acknowledge them in any way, would only serve to show fear in the face of their silent intimidation. Something the Queen Regent refused to do. It was the Kingsguard that worried her now. At the sight of barefooted, cudgel bearing thugs of the gods, they shifted uneasily, shooting dark looks toward her as if waiting for her command to strike.
It seemed to her that someone was funding these people. The cudgels weren't cheap and even roughspun sacking fashioned into tunics weren't free. In this city, nothing was free. Not even piety. As to whom was providing the gold dragons, her guess was wealthy lions still skulking in the corridors of her very own palace. This regime was knew, it was only natural for the old order to test it; a test she rose to accept with an easy smile on her face.
"Sers," she said, turning to face her kingsguard. There was a crunch of metal plated armour as the men stood to attention, reaching for the hilts of their swords. Watching the High Sparrow's smile flicker, she knew that he too expected the fight to begin now. "Sers, I would be grateful if you would await me in the outer-gallery. It seems our guests already have us well protected."
The Faith Militant weren't expecting that and now they were caught off-guard and still suspecting some trick from her. The High Sparrow's shoulders sagged as he watched the Kingsguard shuffling towards the door. Alone with them now, they could attack her and no one would be able to step in until it was too late. But that was what she wanted: to call their bluff.
"We have come to talk," the High Sparrow ceded. "There are no need for armed men when two people exchange only words."
"Quite," the Queen agreed.
Although no command had been given, the Faith Militant took the hint and dispersed. They left via the front doors, rather than follow the Kingsguard. At least they were sensible enough to realise swords could still do a lot of damage against cudgels alone.
"Your men just made a very wise choice," Tyrion pointed out. He had been silent so far, refusing to rise to the bait the Faith Militant had thrown him with their insults. Or was it that they were not brave enough to insult him to his face, in front of the Queen herself.
"Then let's talk," she said, once the last Militant had left the Throne Room. "I will not lie to you. I disapprove of your methods and I will not tolerate threats and intimidation. Not against me, my son, my husband or any of my people – whether they be friend or foe. But I will not deny the need for your men and septas on the streets."
After a resounding condemnation, the acceptance of them at the end was a lifeline she hoped the Sparrow would take. The look in his pale eyes seemed to lighten, a promising start.
"So you despise us, yet agree that we're needed," he summarised. "You see my servants and soldiers of the gods as nothing more than a necessary evil. A bitter pill, your grace, I must say."
"That is not quite what I said," she clarified. "There is nothing in the Seven Pointed Star about the need for mutilated men wrapped in chains beating the word of the gods into unsuspecting people with big cudgels. At least, not in the Seven Pointed Star that I read. However, there is a need for charity and benevolence to those less fortunate than ourselves."
"Those men are for the protection of the people," the Sparrow argued. "Something that was altogether lacking in the last regime and now cast asunder in this regime by the long night-"
"Cudgels will not bring the dawn, your holiness," Tyrion cut in, impatiently.
"Only prayer and meditation can do that, I know," the Sparrow replied, quickly.
Margaery was confused. "You need cudgels for prayer and meditation?"
"Oh, enough of this," Tyrion had lost his patience and waved a dismissive hand. "You cannot defend the indefensible so order your men to lay down their weapons. There is no need for their 'protection' now that the city watch is back in full force."
"Furthermore," Margaery added. "I am not proposing your men stand idle. I am asking you to ask them to swap their cudgels for soup ladles and bring aid to the people of this city. Where the Seven Pointed Star is silent on the issue of threats and intimidation, I think you'll find it has a thing or two to say about charity and feeding the poor."
The High Sparrow was not to foolish to show his real feelings to them. All the time, his face was a mask, Unreadable and fixed.
"But helping the poor is what we do, your grace," he replied, magnanimously, as if that was what he'd been doing all along.
"Insulting my councillors, myself and my family is not helping the poor," she curtly pointed out. "Giving the people a convenient scapegoat may make them feel better, but it's all just words. Work with me now to bring them food, shelter and relief, and I will forget the treasons of the Militants and let you and your men go in peace. Just work with us. I will not arm you; I will give you no money nor fuel your agenda by making martyrs of your treasonous men. But I will give you what you need to really to right by the gods you claim to so ardently worship."
Before the Sparrow could get a word in, Tyrion spoke up again. "And don't tell us you have no agenda. If you had no agenda you'd still be cobbling shoes in your father's old workshop. But, here you are, in the chambers of power you claim to loathe, hammering out a deal with a woman your men wanted to overthrow."
At mention of his past, the Sparrow seemed taken aback. "You know-"
"Of course we know," Margaery butted in. "We're not so foolish as to wallow in ignorance. Now, recognise my offer for what it is. A compromise. The faith and the monarchy are the twin pillars of this society, so lets show it and work together."
"The monarch is not of the Faith," the Sparrow pointed out. "He worships the Old Gods of the North, who have brought this darkness upon us."
"Even if that is true, is it any reason to reject my offer?" Margaery asked, squaring the man up properly. "Now that the King is gone, every person here is of the seven. So lets pull together and get through this, while my husband is in the north fighting the same darkness you seek to dispel with just words."
Silence fell between the three of them, during which Margaery and Tyrion willed the man to swallow his righteous pride. Even if it was no permanent solution to the problem of the Militants, it at least got them working on their side. Something the Sparrow seemed to realise. He nodded, barely perceptibly. But he agreed all the same.
All along the Kingsroad, more messages came flying in from around the country. The earth quakes had finally ceased, but the damage had been felt from coast to coast. The walls of Storm's End had partially collapsed, the slums of King's Landing washed away and the infamous tower of High Tower had partly toppled, killing Margaery's old uncle in the process. Jon felt his mood darken with every report that came in.
By the time they reached Karhold, something even more sinister came to them. The first reports of wights rising south of where the wall once stood. The news brought Jon out in gooseflesh as he relayed the Karstark's news.
"The men were known to have died while returning from the wars in the south, your grace," the messenger explained, holding out Lord Rickard's letter to him. "They rose again two weeks passed, then killed four villagers as they attempted to flee. Hours after the villagers were killed, they too rose again and began attacking the living."
While the disturbing events were explained, Robb and Dany gathered around too. Even their horses whickered uneasily as they took it all in.
"So, we were right," Dany murmured. "The fall of the wall has taken away our protection from the Others."
Robb was in no mood to reflect. "Return to Karhold and instruct Lord Rickard to keep fires burning at all times. Anyone else who dies is to be burned immediately. Anyone who comes back is to be burned on sight – it's the only thing that kills them … again."
"Disseminate that across the whole realm," Jon urged. "With the wall gone, wights could rise anywhere and everyone will need to know how to fight them."
His thoughts immediately flew to Margaery in King's Landing. Would she remember what he said? Would she be able to protect their son? … would she survive an attack of dead men? He had been so busy during his journey from King's Landing, then the wall fell and occupied his every waking moment. It wasn't until the long and arduous journey to Castle Black that he had time to think on all he had left behind. Aemon was five months old now. Was he crawling; was he cutting his first teeth? Was Margaery missing him as much as he missed her? Someone had painted r him a likeness of Margaery, that had slotted into the locket alongside his real mother and father. Lady Roslyn had made a print of Aemon's hands and feet, to remind him of how tiny his son was. He kissed it for luck, the tucked it safely in the pocket of his cloak.
Robb noticed him. "When all this is over, you'll have to bring him north."
Between now and then, the war for the dawn sat like a great block in the road. He couldn't see past it; he wouldn't dare to assume he would make it out alive.
"I hope so," he replied, hedging his bets. "I hope we all meet again when this is all over."
By the time they reached Mole's Town, not far from where Castle Black once stood, more reports of wights had come in. They were being seen farther south every time. It wouldn't be long before Winterfell was affected, then south again to the places untouched by such things in millennia. It was only a matter of time before the Others themselves put in an appearance.
When they reached Mole's Town, the Knights of the Vale had just left. Knights and fighting men from the Reach, Storm's End, the Riverlands and beyond had just arrived and more were coming up behind them. The small town was overwhelmed, but the local people still had time to stop and talk, telling Jon what their own version of events leading up to the fall of the wall. It wasn't until late in the night that he got to the opportunity to speak with either Robb or Dany again.
He sat by a camp fire, north of Mole's Town, watching the flames when she approached and sat beside him. Never in her life had she been so far north, and was swathed in furs with a furry hat on her head, covering her silver-gold hair. Only when her dragons were close did she warm up again, but now even they were off hunting. For goats or wights, Jon didn't dare hope.
"You mentioned a Maester Marwyn," she said. "The one who gave you the glass candle."
"Yes," he replied. He was beginning to suspect it was useless after all. He felt like a footsoldier who had had a heavy brick hidden in his backpack by his friends for a laugh. "He's an odd one, right enough."
"Ever since you told me about him, he's been troubling me," she answered. "I'd heard the name somewhere before, but couldn't recall where. Now I remember. It was Mirri Maz Durr – the witch who killed Drogo and who I burned to birth my dragons."
Jon turned from the flames to look at her. "Are you sure?"
She nodded. "Certain. She said a Maester Marwyn had taught her the secrets of the human body. I even asked Ser Jorah if it could be true and he said 'aye.'"
It was an odd sort of a coincidence, he thought. But nothing more. "Did she know anything about glass candles?"
"No, but Quaithe did," she replied. "She was a shadow binder from Asshai, just like this woman you're meeting at the wall. I met her in Qarth and she told me then that 'glass candles are burning.' I didn't know what she meant until I saw yours."
"But mine isn't burning," he pointed out, dejectedly.
"But it was before," she reminded him. "And Quaithe used one to send me messages. She came to me while I was on board a ship, in the middle of the sea, and talked to me. I thought I was going mad, like my father."
Jon raised a dry smile. "I wish these people with all the tricks would stop being so bloody vague. Why do they always talk in riddles and prophecies?"
The fate of the nation was in their trembling hands. The least they could do was get to the point, or so he thought. When Dany met his gaze and laughed, he knew she was thinking the same thing.
Getting through the Neck was the worst. The trees and marshlands seemed to smother the light of the stars and moon, making the darkness impenetrable. The ground was either frozen solid or marshy and treacherous beneath the hoofs of their mounts, making the path even more dangerous. More than one horse had been lamed and left to die in the three weeks it took to traverse that region. All the time, Catelyn found herself what Petyr Baelish was up to.
The whole way from Winterfell, he had shadowed her wherever she went. He struck up conversation about anything and everything, avoiding any topic that might lead to difficult questions. At least until they set up camp just before reaching the Riverlands' northern border. Her marquee tent was spacious, with room for both herself and Rickon, and it was where she liked to spend her evenings.
"Did you read my letter?" Petyr asked her that evening.
Catelyn was bewildered. "I didn't know you had written to me."
"I did," he replied. "On your wedding night."
Cat sighed mightily. "Gods, Petyr, that was nearly twenty years ago."
She remembered it now. The letter came the day before she married Ned and she never did read it. It was fed to the flames, the seal unbroken. Almost two decades later, he looked at now like he did the last time he was escorted through the gates of her father's castle. Wounded and small. Had he really been waiting for a reply? Moreover, why was he raising the matter now?
"But can't you see?" he asked, inching closer to her. "I've kept my promise."
Flummoxed, she got up and walked away just to avoid having to look into his face. "I can see that-"
"No you can't," he cut her off. "I know when you're lying, Cat. I know you didn't even read it. But, for what it's worth, I did keep my promise."
She got as far as she could from him without actually leaving the marquee. He could spook her all he liked, she wasn't about to let him chase her away. "What promise, Petyr?"
"That I would come back for you. No matter who tried to get between us, that I would never give up on you and that I would prove myself to you," he answered.
Catelyn did not turn around, but she heard his footsteps closing in on her from behind. When she did turn to face him, he was inches away from her and blocking her escape route. She quelled her panic and reminded herself it was only Petyr. Petyr wouldn't harm her. Not after all they had been through together.
"Petyr, you're worthy of anyone," she assured him, hoping empty compliments would be enough. "There was never any need to prove yourself to anyone, but you and I could never have been together no matter what."
There would always be barriers between them. Rank and nobility, politics and propriety. It was why she had thought Lysa could have been so good for him and he for her: neither of them cared about that stuff. But she did. Catelyn, as the eldest daughter, had had duty drilled into her from the moment she first drew breath. Then the biggest barrier of them all had fallen: love. Cat had loved Eddard with all her heart and she loved him still. When Ned was taken from her, the only thing that stopped her dying of a broken heart was the outbreak of war. Her son needed her; her daughters needed her more. Now it was almost over, she dreaded contemplating long and empty days without him by her side.
"Petyr," she said, softly. "I know you're grieving; I know what widowhood is like and how Lysa's death must have affected you. I miss her too, but her son needs us now."
Petyr shook his head, a dull look in his blue-grey eyes now. "You didn't know Lysa like I did. Not at the end."
Catelyn had to admit that she did not. "She was still my sister, though."
"She poisoned her husband, did she tell you that?" he retorted.
Catelyn felt like she had been smacked around the face. "What nonsense is this?"
"I tell it true," he said, earnestly. "I didn't find out myself until it was too late. Until after Jon Arryn was dead. Why do you think she fled King's Landing in such a hurry? I told her she had to go, while I concocted some story about Cersei Lannister doing it-"
"No!" Cat cut over him. "I will listen to no more of this. Lysa fled the capital after she found out King Robert wanted to foster her son with Tywin Lannister. That's the truth of it."
She shoved past him as hard as she could, almost knocking him into a brazier. This time, she did not stop at the front flap of the tent, but pushed it aside and burst out into the cold night air. Ser Rodrik Cassel noticed her and came running over, concern etched on his face. But she was in no mood to talk and walked away. Threading through the tents of their travel companions, she made for an expanse of water and sat at its edge. It was frozen solid now, with snow covering the Riverlands as well. Winter really had come. Only a nearby brazier offered a slither of warmth.
She was not alone for long, however.
"My lady."
Petyr followed her with a fur cloak in his arms. Realising she would freeze to death without it, she accepted it and dismissed him right away. She was not surprised when he ignored her.
"Why would Lysa kill her own husband?" she asked, calming herself. She had no reason to react to Petyr's lies.
"To be with me," he answered.
Catelyn heaved a dry laugh. "Oh really, you're that irresistible are you?"
He sagged beneath the stinging rebuke, his face pale in the light of the nearby fiery brazier. "When I saw you at Bitterbridge, just after you made the Tyrell alliance, I told you I could bring you the Vale. How do you think I knew that?"
Cat swallowed, finding her throat dry and constricted. "Lysa was always fond of you. Maybe I did not realise just how much. But you exploited her, Petyr. She did not deserve that. And how do I know you didn't put her up to murdering Jon Arryn – even if it is true."
Petyr shrugged. "What would I have to gain from war?"
"And your betrayal of Ned?" she asked, ignoring her answer. Because she saw it now: he was responsible for all of this. For everything.
He did not know she knew about the goldcloak betrayal. It was a trap he walked straight into.
"I brought your husband the Goldcloaks, my lady. I secured them for him but he refused. That damned Stark stubbornness, I'm afraid-"
"Liar!" she screamed over him, fury flashing in her bright blue eyes. "You told Ned you had the Goldcloaks for him, but in the end they worked for you. You bought them for yourself. Sandor Clegane saw it all and he told Sansa, and Sansa told me so don't try and silver tongue your way out of this one."
"They have it wrong!" he protested, grabbing her by the arms. "Everything I ever did, I everything I ever achieved in this life, I did it all for you. Can't you see that?"
But she was too far gone to listen to his lovesick ramblings. Wrenching her arms free from his grip, she tried to push him into the frozen lake. The sound of footsteps approaching dimly reached her, but she didn't care who saw her now.
"Your efforts appear to be wasted, Petyr, because you'll never have me. Not after all the hell you caused my family," she retorted, venom dripping from her tone.
Petyr recovered himself quickly. "That night we slept together was so special to me," he panted. "I know it was for you, too."
Thrown another metaphorical punch, Cat was stunned into a brief silence. "What?"
The look of desperation in his eyes was unmistakable. "After Brandon cut me, you came to my bed and we took each other's maidenhead. Don't tell me you don't remember, Cat. We both felt it, that connection."
The moonlight caught the tears glittering on his cheeks. Never before had she seen him cry. But sympathy was hard to find amid this horsehit he was spouting now.
"I never saw you, Petyr," she replied, suddenly calm again. "I never visited you at all, certainly not for that."
Her admission stole the words from him. First tears and then speechlessness. Both were uncomfortably new to him. The pain looked physical as he doubled over, slowly folding in on himself. As he absorbed the shock, she remembered her father's dying words. Tansy. The stripling of a boy who was unsuitable. She had thought it the ramblings of a dying man. But it all made sense now.
"She was pregnant," Cat added, comprehension dawning on her. "It was Lysa you slept with, not me. And you got her with child."
Petyr looked like she had kicked him in the gut.
"You could have had her at any time, so why didn't you?" she asked, voice breaking with emotion now. "You could have …. at any time, ended her suffering… So why didn't you?"
"Because there was only ever one I wanted; one that I needed," he replied, falteringly. "There was only ever you, Cat. Only you."
Catelyn felt her own tears hot on her cheeks now. "You killed her, didn't you? You killed Ned and you killed Lysa, to clear a path to me?"
How was she even worth it? Why did he go to these lengths? It was too big for her to comprehend. As the silence thickened between them, the footsteps drew closer and a dry twig snapped under foot. Whoever that was approaching them, Cat hoped they heard everything so they could carry Petyr's treachery all over the realm.
Slowly, Petyr composed himself and began to straighten up.
"Lysa," he murmured, expression hardening into a scowl.
Cat sighed and shook her head, sadly. "It's too late for guilt now, Petyr. She's gone."
Once all this was over, she would speak with Jon and arrange Petyr's execution herself, however much it pained her. And it did still pain her. However badly he behaved, however much chaos he caused, Petyr felt like a little brother to her – such the sap she felt. Now he was shaking his head and pointing over her shoulder.
"No, Lysa," he repeated, wide-eyed with terror.
Mystified, Cat turned slowly to where the walking corpse approached along the shoreline and terror tore her breath away. The entrails hung from the open wound in her belly, half her head was caved in where she had been thrown through the Moon Door. Only the bright red hair remained to Lysa now. Dazed and drugged looking, she lurched towards them in the direction of Riverrun. She's trying to go home, Cat realised, painfully.
Then Lysa stopped, her over-bright blue eyes recognising them both. She remembers us, Cat thought, in mounting panic.
They arrived at the spot where Castle Black once stood, finding numerous other troops had already arrived. Mostly from the Vale, but others from all over. They made way for Jon as their King, allowing him and his companions access to the main camp. It was there they set up their head quarters to plan their assault on the far North and the creatures that had now taken over.
However, not long after arriving, Jon peeled away from the other lords and found his aunt tending Drogon just north of what remained the wall. Turning from the creature, she greeted him with a kiss on the cheek.
"Before the war begins, I have a gift for you," he told her, handing her a sword belt.
Daenerys smiled as she took it from him. "Thank you, your grace," she replied.
It took a second for her to realise what it really was, though. Then the breath caught in her throat and she gasped, unsheathing Dark Sister and holding the blade to the light. Although Jon had grown attached to the sword, he had Blackfyre now. That was the sword that rightly belonged to him.
"I can't," she protested, trying to hand it back. "It's too much."
"You can," he insisted. "Blackfyre is mine, and when the time comes it will be Aemon's, then Aemon's son. Dark Sister is another Targaryen ancestral sword and she needs to stay in the direct Targaryen line. She is yours and then your son's."
Dany smiled, with tears filling her eyes as she fixed the sword belt in place. Jon knew she was no fighter. But she wasn't exactly useless, either. Whatever happened, he knew she would give Dark Sister a good home. But, on the morrow, their assault would begin and both their swords would have to earn their rest. If rest ever truly came.
Unthinking, Catelyn grabbed the brazier and threw it at her sister's wight. The metal frame burned her hands, filling the frigid air with the stench of burning human flesh. But that was nothing compared to the pain that seared through her palms and fingers. It reminded her of the dagger that had cut through those same digits, all those years ago.
Mercifully, the flames took hold and Lysa was writhing in the sudden heat of the flames. Baelish, however, was rooted to the spot.
"Petyr, move!" she screamed, lunging toward him to knock him out of the way. "Come on!"
She tried to drag him, but too late he realised she was trying to help. He could not seem to pull himself together. Then Lysa, engulfed in flames, closed in on him with a speed that made Catelyn's heart thump in panic. Grabbing the back of Petyr's coat, they both yelled and cursed into the frozen night as they turned and ran from the thing attacking them.
That was no Lysa, though. That was not her sister, her sweet and silly sister. Catelyn did not know what it was, but now was not the time to dwell on it. Her hands were burned and she was panicking beyond measure, when Lysa's burning hands gripped her by the hair and yanked her head backwards. The smell of burning flesh was soon mixed with burning hair, acrid and rancid at the same time. Finally, Petyr came too and launched himself toward the undead Lysa, pushing her off and rolling across the dark ground together, hitting the frozen lake with a sickening crack.
Dazed and still on fire, Cat tried to get up but tripped over Petyr's leg as it jutted over the bank, bringing her crashing down on top of them both. Her added weight made the crack in the ice yawn into a great, black chasm that sucked them deep into the black waters beneath.
"Help!" she managed to scream.
But the sound was lost in the hiss off freezing waters snuffing out the flames engulfing all three of them now. The burning fires replaced by the agonising burn of the freezing cold. Cat could not breathe as she was dragged beneath the surface of the lake. When she tried once more to call out for help, her words emerged as bubbles rushing past her face and popping unheard at the surface. Her lungs burned, pressure building as the tide dragged her deeper and deeper, until the moon was a tine speck of silver rapidly diminishing.
Cat, Petyr and Lysa sank and sank deeper, entangled in each others limbs; all their bodies wrapped around the other. Silent and drowning. She closed her eyes, safe in the knowledge that when she opened them again Ned would be there. Eddard, she thought, is that your face I see in the distance? His name was on her whitening lips as the water filled her insides and her lungs began to rupture. Death engulfed her like night stealing in on a mid-summer's day. Only Eddard...
Thank you again for reading. Reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.
That awkward moment when your ex crashes in on you and your new date. Condolences to all Cat fans reading this. But letting her go felt like the right thing to do.
Well, now that wights can pop up anywhere, at any time, who else would you like to see return for one last parting shot? How about Ramsay? Or Joffrey even? Tywin might be fun.