Daenerys

Daenerys was afraid.

It has been four days since the Scourge arrived in Pentos. What happened in this time frame... was horrible... just horrible...

The city itself was safe as of now. No one was allowed to exit or enter its walls, only Westerosi merchants could dock in the harbour. Pentos would starve if not for the imports from the Reach.

The food was plentiful. Daenerys had gaped at the size of many vegetables, from cabbages to corn. She thanked the Gods for her tiny stomach, or she would've already become fat.

But what was happening in the countryside...

Daenerys could hear wails of terror during the night all the way to her room, which was at the highest tower of Illyrio's manse.

She couldn't imagine how it was for everybody else.

Not only that, but the fires... Gods, the fires...

Yesterday Daenerys witnessed the burning of the farmlands south of the city, also known as the Granary of Pentos.

It was the Field of Fire come again. The night sky was lit, and the flames almost reached the city. Thanks to the Guild of the Firekeepers, the damage was contained.

Now the Pentoshi were completely dependent on Westerosi imports. The Magisters weren't happy with the status of affairs, but as Illyrio said, as steady as she goes...

Still, the Magister's assurances didn't help Daenerys.

This was the eighth night she couldn't sleep properly, not even with her dragons near.

Now they're big as a hunting hound, but Daenery's bed was large enough for them to fit. Even on the coldest nights, she felt warm...

Suddenly, a noise startled her. She woke up, panic in her eyes.

Have the infected entered Illyrio's manse?

She looked out the window.

A man was there.

Daenerys would've screamed, but no sound came out. The shade entered her room, an arm outstretched.

Daenerys hid under her covers, hugging her dragons.

"Do not fear! I don't want to hurt you."

It was an old man's voice, sweet and melodic. Daenerys stuck her head outside the blankets.

He wore white armour and a white cloak. Kingsguard, Daenerys thought. Robert Baratheon had sent him to take her.

There was only one old Kingsguard. Barristan Selmy.

"Do not worry, the King wishes no harm. I will bring you home, Daenerys."

Home.

Her brother talked many times of home. The greatness of King's Landing, the Red Keep... she could finally escape the Magisters.

She could finally return home.

Not the one with the red door.

Her true home.

"I will come, Ser," Daenerys answered, "But not without my dragons."

Now, all three came out of bed. The knight's eyes widened in wonder.

"Others take me... so it's true..." He said, "Thankfully, we have plenty of space in the cart. Can you control them?"

That was a good question. All of this time, they always did everything as Daenerys wanted. The problem is that she had never ordered anything before. They just... knew her desires.

Still, she nodded, making the knight sigh in relief, "I've already cleared the exits. Next time, don't lock the door, my Lady. You forced an old man to scale a very tall tower." He japed.

They started descending the tower, dragons in tow. "Are they able to fight back?" Barristan asked.

"I believe yes. But I must confess, they had no chance of trying." Daenerys answered.

They finally made it to the courtyard. Daenerys noticed that all of the guards were knocked out or dead. "How did you manage to remain unnoticed?" Daenerys asked, "For what I know, armour is not stealthy."

The knight smiled thinly, "That is what most people think. It depends on the wearer. With enough skill, everything is possible." He pointed to a nearby carriage, "We will take this one. The harbour isn't far, there will be a cog waiting for us."

Daenerys entered the carriage with her dragons. Inside she found a brown cloak, which she wore. It would be no good to be noticed from her silver hair.

They left the manor with no trouble. The entrance wardens weren't on their posts. Probably Barristan had calculated the time of the guard change.

The city was almost deserted. Daenerys remembered how crowded were the streets of Pentos, even at night. But with the scourge at its gates, no one dared to step outside.

Then, the screams began.

They passed near the Southern gate. The poor countryside citizens were desperate to enter the city walls, but the city watch would not open it. 'We can't differentiate the healthy from the infected', Illyrio said, 'Pentos cannot afford to end like Myr... it would be a disaster.'

Daenerys shivered, even Barristan was disturbed. She only wished for the screams to stop...

All these poor people are suffering. What have they done to deserve this fate?

Why do the Gods not alter it? Is this a punishment for mankind's sins?

Are they powerless and desperate as Meraxes?

They finally reached the port. There was no living soul at this time of the night, and all the guards were killed or knocked out. How did Barristan alone manage to accomplish this?

"This is our ship," Barristan said, "It will take three weeks to reach King's Landing, we'll stop by Dragonstone to refill our supplies."

Dragonstone... where she was born...

And Mother died.

Viserys didn't talk much about her. It was a forbidden topic. She remembers the times he shouted at her when Daenerys asked... she never saw her brother so... pained.

And now he was dead too.

Daenerys was alone, with no one to be near her.

Only her dragons were left. Her children...

There's nothing here for her anymore.

Daenerys boarded the ship, leaving Pentos behind.

Balon

Balon stared at the message so intensely that the poor parchment could've caught fire.

A convocation to Riverrun...

This, the children's debacle... so much chaos is engulfing Westeros, and still no chance to strike...

The conflict Balon hoped for is still very far. He couldn't blunder this time, or his head would be on a spike, alongside Asha's and Theon's.

Perhaps not the one of his last son. From his intel, Stark has developed a particular affection for the boy, he would never behead him.

Balon gripped the parchment so hard that it crumbled. Stark had stolen his only remaining son, and turned him into a pitiful Greenlander. He would never know of the Old Way. Stark would never educate him like that.

Suddenly, someone knocked on the door. It was Maester Wendamyr, the new replacement after old Qualen died some moons ago.

"My Lord, Asha has returned," He said, "She has most grievous news..."

Balon did not say anything. He rose from his seat and hurriedly descended the stairs to the lower castle. Were they ambushed? Did Lord Alyn try to harm them?

Balon reached the docks. He quickly recognised Asha's ship, the Black Wind. It was in pristine condition, not ruined at all. Then, what happened?

Balon's blood froze as he didn't recognise any sailor on the ship. "Where's Asha?" He asked one of the men.

There was no need to answer, as his daughter emerged from the berthing alongside Dagmer. She was wounded, but nothing too serious at first glance. Balon exhaled in relief.

"Asha, what happened?" He asked, "Why do you have a different crew? Did the Orkwoods try to harm you?"

"Nay, Father." She said, "It's worse..."

"To my solar. Now."

They climbed the stairs in silence. This only unnerved Balon. Is this some great conspiracy? Is someone trying to replace House Greyjoy?

Dagmer was not insightful either. The Master at Arms of Pyke was of the boisterous sort, his muteness preoccupied Balon. What in the Drowned God's name happened?

The Lord of the Iron Islands sat beside his desk, "So, will you two talk?" He said, "Or did a slaver cut off your tongues?"

Asha grimaced, "Madness, Father. It was madness..."

Madness? You're being more cryptic than a bloody Kingslander!

Balon was getting exasperated, "By the Drowned God, be plainer! Of what madness are you talking about?"

"Creatures, my Lord," Dagmer answered, "We were ambushed by... monsters."

Balon stood up, "Monsters?! What should I expect in the future, perhaps snarks and grumpkins coming to siege Pyke?!"

Balon stared deep into their eyes. He looked for any sign of hesitance, but both were firm. No dishonest man could maintain such direct eye contact.

"Bugger me, you two aren't lying..." Balon concluded in disbelief.

"Father... fuck our revenge. Baratheon can wait, we have new enemies on our doorstep." Asha said.

His daughter then described what happened, with Dagmer adding what he had seen.

Balon remained silent till they finished speaking. Asha would never lie to him, so this HAD to be true...

May the Drowned God save us.

But Balon had to maintain his composure. He bears the blood of the Grey King, it's his duty to assure his people. He was made of iron, and it does not bend.

"A giant carnivorous tree..." Balon mumbled, "Perhaps..."

He strode to the nearby bookshelf, searching for a particular volume. "Here it is."

Balon laid the book on his desk, "This, is the tome that describes an Ironborn legend, the one of the Great Tree of Ygg."

Asha drew the book, and browsed its pages. "This may be it..."

"The tree of Ygg feeds on human blood, according to the old legends. But it can't feed itself, as it is rooted in place. The spindly creatures you described may be its Avatars, a hive mind that lives only to feed Ygg."

"I believe my grandmother once told me of this legend," Dagmer said, "But it feels... incomplete. There's surely more to it."

Balon nodded, "That is what we need to discover. Asha, ask Wendamyr to help you with the search. Dagmer, you must go to Harlaw to speak with the Reader. If there's one who knows something, it's surely him."

"And..." Balon eyed the crumpled parchment, "...We need to warn everyone."

Arya

She crumbled to the ground. Gods, she felt every bone of her body screaming.

Rotislav's training was exhausting. He said that to brandish a glaive like his', she had to tone her body. 'Your arms are too thin. They won't manage to resist its weight,' he said. So he gave Arya many exercises to increase her muscles. She would've preferred facing the flames of the Seven Hells.

Only after this torture would he let her spar. That was the aspect that made Arya endure.

She would need to master the quarterstaff first, as it has a similar grip to the glaive. It was still tiring, but fun.

Rotislav was a good teacher, he explained all critical points in depth. Slowly but surely, Arya was improving.

He had grounded Arya countless times, but her determination never faded. Each bout, her stance improved and lasted a few seconds longer than before.

"Very well. I think it's enough for today, little lady." Rotislav said, "Go take a bath, I believe you need it."

Arya did as his teacher said. She went towards the Godswood, where her friend usually was.

Arya had spent much time with Aratrim lately. He is most of the time in the Godswood, alone or with Jorund. He was delighted to meet the God, since that meant his visions were accurate.

She talked for many hours with the Woodwalker, asking about his home. Aratrim spoke of their forest, vast and thick. They resided under the tree roots, in enormous caves that crossed most of the woods.

Woodwalkers didn't talk normally, as they communicated with their minds. Aratrim is one of the few who knows most of the common languages, those like him are tasked to talk with humans when needed.

He is the youngest of his family, being only one and twenty. His race tended to live centuries, and is not very fertile.

The new generation of Woodwalkers is more numerous than the last, nearly double, so the elder decided to reconnect with the outside world. Aratrim is tasked to communicate with the Children of the Forest, their long-lost cousins.

So, he spends most of the time by the Heart Tree, searching for where the Children have gone. It's not an easy task, as they hide well from prying eyes.

Arya reached the clearing with the pond. She expected the Woodwalker to be there, but there was someone else. A girl that Arya had never seen before in Winterfell. She had hair the same colour of a raven, and deep, yellow eyes. She was beautiful, Arya felt a hint of envy towards her.

She was staring at her reflection by the pond. It was rather eerie.

"Who are you?" Arya said, calling her out.

The girl visibly flinched, and when she redirected her gaze towards Arya, she blabbed, "A-Arya?"

How in the Seven Hells does she know my name?

"I'm sorry, I don't think we've met..." Arya said, "How do you know my name?"

She shrugged, "Well... a sister should remember the names of her siblings."

That only confused Arya further, "What do you mean by sister? I don't know you!"

This has to be the worst excuse she has ever heard. The Godswood of Winterfell is private, only the members of House Stark can enter it. The girl probably wished to see it for the first time, Arya was pretty sure she wasn't a local.

She probably came with the Host. Mayhaps she was the young wife of some noble.

The girl sighed, "I thought you were more perceptive than this..."

Arya was preparing to retort, but what happened next stopped her from continuing.

It was as if the girl's face melted off, slowly changing shape. The ravenous hair became auburn, and her complexion slowly morphed into a person Arya knew.

"Sansa...?"

Her sister smiled, apparently proud of herself, "You may be the better warg, but you can't do this."

"This... is INCREDIBLE!" Arya exclaimed.

Sansa's cheeks reddened, "What? Ehm... yes! I am incredible!"

"How do you do it?" She asked.

Sansa explained every detail of what happened. Arya was mesmerised by her sister's story. "After a dream, you managed to shapeshift... a strange one too."

Sansa nodded, "Yes, I must agree. I can't remember everything I've seen. My surroundings were very fuzzy..."

"And how do you morph? Is it a spell or a chant?"

"It... isn't something very concrete," Sansa answered, "It's more of a mental projection. I must visualise what I want to be and then wish for it. But that isn't simple for two reasons: first, I must study its appearance. If I want to change my face, I must know how all ligaments work, or it will fail."

"That's why you've been reading anatomy treaties lately..." Arya interrupted her.

"Yes, that's the reason," Sansa answered, "The second consideration is to remember my visage clearly. It wouldn't be good if I can't change back."

Arya paled slightly. She could not imagine how terrifying it would be.

"You should tell Father," Arya said, "He probably would want to know it."

Her sister nodded, "Yes, but Mother said he was unwell..."

"I think something happened in the south," Arya theorised, "Something about King Robert, from what I heard from the rumours."

"King Robert? What happened to him?" Sansa asked.

She just shrugged, "I don't know. Perhaps someone died. Let me take a bath, then we'll go meet Father."

After Arya finished, they left the Godswood. The two sisters saw Robb, Theon and Bran entering the gates of Winterfell alongside an unknown man. He was the largest person Arya had ever seen, even taller than Walder, the great-grandson of Old Nan. She imagined what a fight between the two would look like, Walder's prowess is well known in the North. He even participated in many melees.

"Robb, Theon!" Arya waved at them.

Robb smiled at her, "Arya, Sansa, it's good you two are here. We have a guest."

"He is Tormund Giantsbane, a Wildling warrior."

"A Wildling?!" Sansa gasped, "What is he doing here?"

"I am here to speak with the Stark, little girl." He grunted, "I don't wish yer all any harm, as long as I'm treated well."

Sansa paled slightly and nodded. "We were searching for Father. Come with us."

Arya, Sansa, Robb and Tormund entered the solar.

Father was inside.

Everyone froze in place. Lord Stark was not well.

His eyes were red, and had great, black bags under them. His gaze rested on a small parchment on his desk, but at the same time, it felt distant...

His cheeks were gaunt, the result of not eating these last days. Mother had tried convincing him to feed himself, but he just waved her off.

Arya had never seen Father in such conditions, not even when Jon caught the Winter Fever.

He stood up trembling, his legs refusing to sustain him.

He studied Tormund and sighed visibly. "I... can already tell who you are by your looks." He whispered, "Why are you here?"

Tormund eyed him carefully. He was probably shaken by Father's condition. "From what your ward has said to me, you know that cold winds are stirring. We are desperate."

"We've fled from the enemy for entire moon turns. We can't resist much longer. Our women and children are yearning for safety."

Silence ruled in the room for an infinite instant. "You're asking to be allowed south, then." Father's voice was barely a whisper, "The Northern Lords will not like that, especially the Umbers."

Arya remembered the story of Branda Umber, the daughter of Mors Crowfood. She was abducted by a party of Wildlings, never to be seen again. After the tragedy, the northern house has been particularly aggressive towards the savages.

"Then they must understand," Tormund said, "We are a hundred thousand. What would happen if the Walkers killed us all?"

Arya shivered at the thought. A near-infinite army of wights. Even the Reach could compensate for these numbers, not so many.

Robb spoke for the first time, an uneasy feeling radiating from him, "Father... the Watch will surely crumble before such force. We must let them through, or we'll all be dead in mere moon turns."

Father sighed, and slowly walked towards his desk. He took a small parchment from it and handed it to the Wildling, "You will come with us then."

Tormund began reading the parchment, his brows rising in confusion, "Riverrun? Where in the bloody hells is that?"

"South. We will talk to the King, only he can have a say in this."

Sansa's eyes widened, "We are going south!?"

Arya wished to shout at him. You can't travel like this! You're not well!

But the embers died in her throat. Unwell or not, the King's command could not be broken. Arya just hoped Father took care of himself.

Father grimaced, "Aye, even if I don't like it much."

He tiredly sat on his chair, "Many things happened at the other ends of the Seven Kingdoms, King Robert has decided to gather all witnessing lords in the Riverlands."

"This is our chance to warn everyone." His voice seemed caught in his throat, "The King already knows what's beyond the Wall, and has told me of strange happenings south."

A strange glint flashed in her father's eyes, "We can only assume the Others are not the only threat we face."

He looked at Sansa, with sadness on his face, "Also, a great scandal happened in the walls of the Red Keep. King Robert has been cuckolded. His children are not his, but the Kingslayer's."

What...?

King Robert cuckolded? The legendary Demon of the Trident, betrayed by his wife?

With her brother, nonetheless?

"Others damn me, this is the worst of treasons..." Robb muttered.

Father sent a message to Sansa just with his expression. Do you know what this means?

Sansa understood, as her face contorted in grief, "T-That means... prince Joffrey is not... a prince...?"

Father's gaze was sorrowful, "Sansa... I'm sorry."

Sansa was utterly demoralised. Tears started to come down, and she left without speaking a word.

"Gods almighty, did she know the boy?" Tormund asked.

Father shook his head slowly, "Nay, that is the problem." He answered, with utter resignation.

"She's stupid." Arya muttered, despite the scene, "He fawned over someone that she didn't ever meet. She would marry Walder Frey without knowing he is an old coot."

Tormund laughed merrily, "Har! Quite the humour you have!" But his smile died instantly.

Father shot her a glare, yet he said nothing. His gaze still felt distant, despite all.

But she could already deduce what he meant.

Arya pouted. Sansa makes fun of her many times, why shouldn't she too?

Even if lately their fights have gotten sparse...

"Well." Father coughed, "We should leave as soon as possible."

He stood up from his chair, nearly losing his balance. Arya cringed at Father's fragile display, and her heart ached. "Tormund, do you have any means to warn Rayder of your journey?"

"There's no need."

He looked towards the window. A crow was perched there, observing them with a queer conscience.

Almost as if...

"Warg..." Father murmured, "You have a warg in your ranks."

"And a damn good one, too," The Giantsbane said, "Varamyr wears the skin of six animals: three wolves, a snow bear, a shadowcat and an eagle, after he killed a bugger named Orell. He isn't known as Sixskins for no reason."

Gods, and I was struggling to control one direwolf.

Arya envied Varamyr. Why couldn't she control one animal decently? What is his secret?

"Very impressive," Father rubbed his unkept beard, "Better for us, we won't waste time then. Arya, Robb, tell Bran and Jon to pack their wares. We will leave in three da-"

A knock on the door.

"Enter!" Father grumbled with a hint of annoyance.

It was Jory. "My Lord! Your brother Benjen has returned from the Wall!"

That got Father's full attention, "Was his mission a success?" He asked with worry.

"Aye, but the First Ranger said that he found something better."

Robb raised an eyebrow, "And what is better than a wight?"

Jory shrugged, "I know not, my Lord."

Father stood up abruptly and left the solar.

The Warden

As he entered the great hall, murmurs and whispers assailed him.

"Lord Stark..."

"Gods be good..."

"Mother have mercy..."

"Promise me..."

The Warden wished for all to be silent.

Yet, his strength wasn't enough to enforce his will.

All his vigour abandoned him ever since the dreams began. Horrors rising from the depths of the oceans, tree roots strangling the earth, a man with blue lips sowing despair.

He would be stabbed, he would be strangled, he would be drowned.

Beheaded.

Flayed.

Burned.

Mauled.

Poisoned.

Betrayed.

Shadows would mock him, hidden in the dark corners of his room.

He just wished for all to stop.

Yet, the visions continued, and he had no means to rest.

A familiar man with a black cloak stood beside a covered cage. He gazed at the Warden with worry...

He just wanted for all to stop staring at him.

Yet, no one did. He felt pitied.

Mouths moved. Words entered his right ear and left from the other. The Warden stood motionless, he felt like a statue of the crypts.

He felt dead.

The cage was unveiled. Every sound ceased.

The Warden was glad. At least the voices stopped.

Only then he felt the cold encroach him.

Blue eyes stared at him.

The Warden lost himself in a sea of ice.

STARK.

A cold, yet melodic voice called him out.

WINTER HAS COME.

REJOICE. DEATH SHALL NOT BE THE END.

An icy throne appeared before him. A Stark was seated on it.

Corpses with black cloaks were scattered around, innards pouring from them.

The Warden looked at him.

He wanted to gouge his eyes.

No man could not do so.

The Warden scratched his face. Blood poured from his cheeks.

His ears were ringing.

The shrill would not stop.

The Warden could not divert his gaze.

The Stark smiled.

FEAST UPON THE FLOWERING ORGANS, FOR I AM KING.

Starke

Its shadow towered in the fleeting light, horns larger than its head.

Sounds that weren't from that time.

What a staggering sight.

We were fooled.

The answer lies somewhere else.

Starke perished, hammer in hand.