Dragons of Ice and Fire

by Diablo Snowblind

There are things hidden in the far north, secrets buried under ice. Jon Snow faces the white walkers early, and stumbles upon a power that could change the world. It forges a new path for him and everyone around him - and a new journey south, a journey as a dragon. The world begins to change - with steel and snow, fire and blood…

30. The two lost Starks

The Two Lost Starks

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The Wayward Daughter

Lightning split the northern sky, etching the silhouette of that dread black tower, the Night Lamp, against the storm. Six heartbeats later came the thunder, echoing over the sea like a distant drum.

The Night Lamp was both castle and lighthouse of House Borrell, the lords and stormkeepers of the isle of Sweetsister, largest of the Three Sisters. The guards marched Sansa and Jorah across a bridge built atop high arches of black basalt, speckled on the sides by clusters of barnacles, and then under an rusting iron portcullis stained white by the droppings of seagulls. Beyond lay a deep salt moat and a drawbridge supported by a pair of massive chains. Waters of dark green scum and white with foam surged below, sending up plumes of filthy spray to smash against the foundations of the castle.

After that outer perimeter came a second gatehouse, larger than the first, its stones bearded with green algae. Sansa walked across a muddy inner yard, the guard holding her arm tightly. She looked up for a moment at a black lighthouse so tall that it seemed to kiss the storm, and from which not even a speck of light shone. A cold rain stung her eyes, and she had to look down. The guards pulled her up the stairs towards the entrance of the cavernous stone keep of House Borrel, Breakwater Castle, which occupied the lower reaches of the massive lighthouse.

Sansa walked with them, face buried in her old wool cloak, but Jorah fought and thrashed against the men with every step. There were heavy iron manacles around Jorah's arms, but it still took half a dozen men to force the knight to walk.

He didn't look much like a knight now - Jorah had abandoned his armour, vambraces and greaves for a cheap tunic and weather-beaten cloak to pass as a fisherfolk. He had sold his engraved steel breastplate for a small fishing dinghy to take them to the across the Bite. Still, despite their difficulties, they might have gotten further than Sweetsister - but then the storm had hit. It still hadn't ceased, either.

The yards of Breakwater Castle howled in the stormy wind. The roar of the waves against the rocks below made Sansa shiver, the echo of the crashes over these old stones were thunderous, cyclic and endless, like the beating of some great black heart.

Sansa felt nothing but fear in her heart. She was frightened of this place, of these people. She would have told Jorah not to fight them, to preserve his strength, but the man escorting her didn't give her a chance. The moment they reached the stairs, they beat Jorah with the butts of their spears until he finally ceased his struggles. It still took four men to drag the bear knight up the stone stairs.

The guard escorting her was the captain of the guard of Sisterton, a fleshy and portly man, face hidden under the shadows of a steel half-helm. When she looked, she saw that his hand had webbing between his fingers. She refused to let herself show panic, but she couldn't stop her heart from trembling.

For a moment, Sansa stood there at the threshold of light and dark. And then she entered the Breakwater Castle.

Inside, just past the entrance, there was a threadbare Myrish carpet, and a gloomy stone hall with mould clinging to the ceiling. As she was escorted into the main hall, Sansa saw a great white spider-crab on a grey-green field hanging over the hearth. They found the lord alone in the gloom of his hall, making a late supper of beer and bread and sister's stew. Twenty iron sconces were mounted along his thick stone walls, but only four held torches and none were lit. Two fat tallow candles gave a meagre, flickering light to the hall.

She could hear the rain lashing at the walls, and a steady dripping from where the roof had sprung a leak. Several leaks, actually - they had tried to stop the water with buckets and clothes, but then it seemed like they had resigned themselves when the buckets overfilled. The heavy boots of the guards splashed through the puddles on the stone floor.

"M'lord," said the captain. "It was as you said. A large man and a girl he calls his daughter, at the Belly o' the Whale, trying to buy passage north off the island. We knocked on the door and demanded they come with us. He refused. He was armed with a greatsword. He didn't come easily."

"Indeed," the lord said darkly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You fight well for a man missing two fingers, ser."

Jorah Mormont only growled, trying to protest. Sansa felt her breath freeze. She knew the lord by mention only; Lord Godric Borrell of Sweetsister, Shield of Sisterton, Master of Breakwater Castle and Keeper of the Night Lamp. How much does he know?

He was an ugly man, big and fleshy, with massive shoulders, a heavy paunch under his jaw, and no neck to speak of. Coarse white hair grew from his cheeks and chin, with a bald scalp and a lumpy red-veined nose. The Lord of Sweetsister dressed more like a hard-worn sailor or smuggler rather than a lord. He has a webbing between the three middle fingers of his hand, Sansa noticed. So it's true; the lords of the Three Sisters truly do have webbed hands. These queer Sistermen's features were the memory of their descent from mermen, she remembered Randa saying that in the Vale.

Lightning flashed outside, making the arrow loops blaze blue and white for half a heartbeat. One, two, three, Sansa counted, before the thunder came. Behind her, she heard the noise of the guards struggling to drag Jorah further into the hall.

"Have you ever heard such a storm?" the lord said without preamble, his voice carrying over the stones of Breakwater Castle's great hall. "The Andals may have torched our temples when they came from over the sea, but true Sistermen still remember our gods. Once we worshipped the Lady of the Waves and the Lord of the Sky, and we would tell stories of how, when the gods lay together, they would give birth to storms. From the sounds of it, right now the two gods are fucking eachother's brains out in hate," he gave a satisfied sigh. "Tonight will be a profitable night for me, I think."

Then he chuckled dryly. "Alas, I fear the Night Lamp will not be visible in weather such as this," the lord continued, with an ugly smirk. "Already the wreckage of an Ibennese whaler has graced my shores - I expect at least one of the White Harbour's new fleet will do the same. Merchants and cogs through the Bite will be stranded on my rocks. If there is one thing the Sistermen know and all others seem to have forgotten, it's that the ocean has teeth. Men are not the masters of the sea. I could tell you tales of the things that reside in the depths, or the storms that could shake the earth." He stood up, waddling forward to inspect them. Sansa met his gaze. "But here you are. Another gift from the storm. I think you will be more valuable to Sweetsister than a thousand shipwrecks."

There was nothing sweet about Sweetsister. The isle was cold and drab and wet. Sisterton was a vile town, a sty, small and mean, rank with the odours of pigs and rotting fish. Its streets were mud and planks, its houses daub-and-wattle hovels roofed by straw, and by the Gallows Gate, Sansa had passed hanged men, lawbreakers dangling from the branches, with their entrails dangling out for the crows.

She hadn't wanted to enter the town at all, but Jorah had said that the Three Sisters were a favourite haunt of smugglers and pirates, a good place to find voyage north across the Bite without drawing any attention.

Jorah had been proven wrong.

Ser Jorah was gasping on the floor, his face bloody. He had grown out a large beard lined with grey, looking haggard and older than ever. His bandaged hand was bleeding again from the fight. "You have no right," he panted. "To detain us like this."

"No right?" Lord Godric Borrell seemed amused. "I think I am well within my rights to apprehend criminals, Ser Jorah Mormont."

"You are mistaken," he snarled. Sansa only pursed her lips, glancing around the room quietly. "I am no ser. My name is Qhorin. This is my daughter Beth. We are but two travellers, heading north—"

Sansa hid her grimace. Ser Jorah is a poor liar. "Liar," Lord Borrell scoffed. As if I would believe that a brute like you could produce a lovely daughter such as this." He turned to Sansa with a polite nod, but she said nothing. She knew little of Lord Borrell, and she would not put herself at a disadvantage with rash lies. "You are Ser Jorah Mormont, former Lord of Bear Island, once a slaver, now a murderer and kidnapper, it seems."

"You are mistaken—"

"Oh very well, if that's how you want to play it." His voice turned annoyed. He still kept looking at Sansa, frowning. "Captain Gerrick, take off his breeches."

"What?" Jorah shouted, shocked. "What are you - no! No, damn you!"

"And then his tunic," Lord Borrell insisted, folding his arms. "Strip him naked."

Sansa's heart was in her mouth. Ser Jorah thrashed ferociously, but there were too many men. The man holding her arm kept Sansa back, while the others swarmed against the knight. There were muffled grunts and curses. Sansa heard fabric being torn. She heard the thud of Ser Jorah's forehead breaking a man's nose.

He will only be beaten more by resisting, Sansa thought quietly. He should learn when to concede. The guards had to drag the knight up, tearing off his clothes. Jorah body was hairy and scarred, trying to cover himself. She saw strong, muscled shoulders, but also a flabby gut that was growing with age. The big man's face was flushed with anger. He screamed bloody murder right up until a man slammed a spear under his chin.

Sansa had never seen the big knight look so small. She still didn't speak.

"Fiend!" Jorah gasped. "You bloody—"

"Oh, don't flatter yourself," Lord Borrell said with a grunt. "You have a scar on your thigh, ser."

Jorah glowered. Sansa glimpsed a large, old wound across his waist, looking like a cut from a sword, decades ago. "My father once told me to never to discard anything that may be of use, and once more he is proven correct," Lord Borrell continued. "Did you know that I still have a letter from eight years ago, when you fled the kingdom to escape Stark justice? Ned Stark sent out ravens to White Harbour and the Three Sisters, to watch for an exiled lord fleeing on a ship across the Narrow Sea. Ravens that arrived too late, as it was. Most of the descriptions he gave are out of date, but the letter mentioned that scar across your thigh as a means to recognise you. I suppose Stark would know about that battle wound, considering he was there when it was inflicted, at the Siege of Pyke." There was pause as he stepped forward. "Now, I was fairly confident about who you were, but that scar proves it without doubt. You are Ser Jorah Mormont, and do not insult me by lying about it again."

The lord turned towards Sansa. She gulped, but her gaze stayed steady. "And so that makes you Alayne Stone, natural daughter of our Lord Protector," he said, a slight mocking edge to the title. "Your father has missed you dearly."

He is not my father. There was a frown on Lord Borrell's face as he waited for her to talk. She did not. She just kept staring at him, searching his eyes. He doesn't know who I truly am, I think.

"The girl is drenched to the bone," Lord Borrell said after a pause. "Gella! Bring the girl a blanket. And a pot of sister's stew. Warm yourself by the fire, lass. Never let it be said that House Borrell was inhospitable."

Inhospitable. Sansa could have laughed. The Three Sisters were sworn to the Arryns of the Vale, but the Eyrie's grasp on the islands were tenuous at best. She knew the Lord of the Three Sisters, Triston Sunderland - him and his sons had attended the Tourney of the Winged Knights - but House Borrell had had little involvement in politics in the Vale. The Keeper of the Night Lamp was infamous for the lantern going dark, and his men scoured the shores for wrecks like crabs. Smugglers, scavengers and pirates. This is an island of fiends.

But the world is full of fiends, Sansa thought. Fiends and evil men. And yet all of the evil men are on different sides, are they not?

It sounded like Ser Jorah was trying to growl something, but he couldn't with the spear under his throat. The guards held the knight to the ground. The captain standing by Sansa stepped forward. "She had this on her, Godric," he said in grumbling voice, as he handed up the dagger. "Found it hidden in her dress."

The sleek black dagger gleamed in the gloom. Even after everything, Sansa had kept that dagger on her, hidden in her tunic. She had never forgotten how it felt to jam that blade through Shadrich's back. Sansa stiffened as Lord Borrell took the blade.

"Hmm," the lord grunted, suspiciously. "A dagger," his eyes widened, then narrowed as he peered more closely. No, a dagger of Valyrian steel. Now isn't that curious?" he focused on Jorah. "What sort of kidnapper allows their captive to carry a weapon, let alone such a fine one, ser?"

"I kidnapped no one," Jorah said, his voice low and rumbling.

"So you say. And yet you disappeared along with Littlefinger's daughter. What did you expect the lords of the Vale to think, but for kidnapping? The first raven I received blamed the crime on a Shadrik something or other, yet the second raven named you as accomplice too. Littlefinger names you responsible for her disappearance, as well as the murder of Ser Harrold Hardyng. Now there's a crime that has the Vale up in arms." He looked between them. "My lady, do you have anything to say in your knight's defence?"

Sansa paused. The room was tense. "Ser Jorah did not kidnap me, my lord." Her voice was soft, innocent. She averted her eyes like a scared, helpless maiden. "He did not murder Harry the Heir either."

"Indeed?" Lord Borrel muttered, giving her a long stare. A few of the men in the hall hesitated. Lord Borrell bit his lip, before coming to a decision. "Gella!" He called to a portly woman stammering into the hall. "Fetch a second bowl of stew. Let Ser Jorah eat at the table as well." The lord motioned at the guards. "Place him on a chair. But keep him naked. Naked men are less inclined to brave and stupid acts, I find."

Jorah growled wordlessly. "My lord…" Sansa pleaded.

Lord Borrell sighed, and rolled his eyes. "Fine. For the sake of the ladies present, he gets a cloak to cover his decency. But cause any trouble, ser, and my good nature evaporates quickly. I am told you killed two men before they managed to restrain you in the tavern, and a third one might die still from his injuries. The only reason why I am not delivering you to a cold wet hell for such, is because right now my curiosity exceeds my anger."

She could see the bruises across Ser Jorah's body. His hand was covered in poorly-bandaged linens, stained with dried, black blood, after Ser Shadrich severed two of his fingers. She had warned Ser Jorah the wound was likely to fester if not properly treated, but then had never been time. Lord Borrell stared at Ser Jorah too, keeping his distance across the table. "You are strong man, ser," he said finally. "To escape the Vale like so, on foot as well. You have left a realm in an uproar behind you. Almost admirable, if only for the sheer bedlam you left behind."

The bowl placed before her was fragrant with aromatics, filled with a creamy broth in which chunks of some yellow, stringy meat bobbed and floated, along with bread still hot from the oven. Sansa didn't touch it. The woman who placed the bowl had webbed hands too, Sansa noted, but she did stare. "Eat, my lady," Lord Borrell insisted. "Gella makes the finest sister's stew on these islands. Eat. It is good."

Crab stew served with leeks, carrots and turnips in butter and cream. She had seen the giant spider crabs scuttling in the waters by the isle's shores. The meal turned her stomach at first, but as it turned out, it was good stew. He gives us guest right, at least. The lord of Sweetsister had a black repute, but even robber lords and wreckers were bound by the laws of hospitality. Few would succumb to the depravity of Freys.

Lord Borrell eyed Ser Jorah closely. "You should eat as well, ser," he said. "Because I am sick of you wrestling against my men. Take your bread and salt and quit it with the defiance. From the moment you eat, my men will not force you and neither will you attack them. Yet the chains stay on, ser."

Jorah did, but he didn't stop glowering. The guards didn't go far from the table, either. There were strange spices in the stew, but Sansa had no time to focus on them. Her attention was on Lord Borrell, sitting in his leaky hall.

"Is there any news of Lord Baelish?" Sansa asked hesitantly.

"Oh yes. He may not be Lord Protector for much longer. The Lords Declarant only ever tolerated him because Robert Arryn was sickly, and they thought the young Hardyng lord would become Lord of the Eyrie soon enough," Lord Borrell replied. "But Harry the Heir's death has left the Vale's succession in crisis. Nobody is certain of who has the next strongest claim, and it seems every great lord is vying for the seat now. You have much to answer for there."

"I did not kill Harry the Heir," Ser Jorah wheezed.

"And yet he is dead and you disappeared with his betrothed." His eyes turned to Sansa, waiting for her to speak. She did not. "Now then, clearly she is no captive so answer me here; why did you run, and why did you take her?"

Jorah grit his teeth, eyes narrowing. "Ser Shadrich of Shady Glen kidnapped Alayne and murdered Ser Harrold. I rescued her," he said. "And yet her father is abusive. She asked me not to return her to Baelish, and so I did not."

"And you were the noble knight to come a lady's aid? The bear and the maiden fair, is that what this is?" Lord Borrell shook his head. "No, I do not believe it. I know your type, ser, and you are not so noble as you would pretend. And why would a man like Littlefinger offer twenty thousand gold dragons for his bastard daughter?"

Jorah didn't reply. His jaw clenched stubbornly. "If you will not answer, you have no place at my table," Lord Borrell ordered. "Wait out your guest right in my dungeons. Escort him there."

Jorah's stew toppled over the table as he stood defiantly. The guards in the room all stepped forward, spears raised. "No, wait!" Sansa shouted.

"Give me the truth, girl," Lord Borrell warned.

"Alayne, don't—" Jorah shouted. He doesn't want them to know. He thinks Lord Borrell a fiend who will ransom me if he knows the value of the hostage he holds. Jorah is probably right, but greed I can work with.

"I am not Alayne Stone, my lord," she said softly. "I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

The room turned silent. There was no noise but the pitter-patter of rain on the leaky roof. She saw Lord Borrell's face freeze. Then, a long grin spread over his bloated face.

"Oh," he said, and then frowned. "Oh! Oh, now so many puzzles make more sense." He burst out in brash bark of laughter. "Littlefinger. Of course. And here I was wondering why a bastard daughter would ever be betrothed to the heir of the Vale, no matter the father. Oh, now things come into focus. No wonder he offered twenty thousand dragons for you."

The large man jumped to his feet, pacing happily. The men stood back. Jorah glowered at the lord. "Ah, but of course, Littlefinger proves his reputation," he mused. "First he was appointed Lord Paramount of the Trident, and then he took power in the Vale. Next, he intended to seize the north too, with the eldest daughter of House Stark. He means to take over half the realm, piece by piece! All while pretending to be a loyalist to the throne!" The man laughed. "And Lady Stark. Or is it Lady Lannister now? I wonder how the queen would react, to learn that the wife of the most infamous man in the realm was being harboured in the Vale by one of her family's supposedly loyal lords?"

"You must not tell," ordered Ser Jorah, but he sounded nervous.

"I must not? You are no position to make demands." Lord Borrell laughed again, shaking his head. "But thank you for enlightening me, my lady, I shall be laughing over this for days. I must admit, you do not have your father's look to you. I do remember seeing your mother, only briefly, and, yes, you share her resemblance. I should have realised."

"And now I am in your hall, my lord," Sansa said. "What are you to do with me?"

She could see greed in his eyes. "Hmm, now there's the question. The Iron Throne will be very appreciative to receive you, I have no doubt. Perhaps your husband will be too, and I do hear the Imp commands legions of men with gold." He smiled sickly. "Sunderland would demand that I hand you over if he knew. He'd sell you for a pot of gold. The poor man is always looking for gold to keep his sons in plate and mail, and riding destriers."

Sansa remembered Lord Triston Sunderland's sons; they hadn't been very skilled knights, but they were brave and earnest. Still, she knew from the look in his eye that Lord Borrell would never surrender his prize for another to sell. He paused, and then shook his head. "No, I think Lord Baelish is still the highest bidder," the lord announced. "Although perhaps twenty thousand is too modest a figure for the Lady of Winterfell. Perhaps I could raise a new castle from the gold your caretaker will pay me. You will be returned to the Vale, 'Alayne'."

Jorah's face paled. "Please, my lord," he begged. "You cannot."

"I cannot? You do not return wish to return to Eyrie, my lady?"

"There are few things I would despise more, my lord." She kept herself calm. I could try crying, or begging, but he is not one to be moved by a maiden's plea, Sansa thought.

"I would not be so certain. Tis the best option for all, it seems," he mused. "Queen Cersei would most certainly have your head for her son's poisoning, but regardless the lioness is unlikely to last much longer, and she has little means to pay in any case. Perhaps the Tyrells and their little queen would want you, but it still does not seem sensible for me. The Reach may be rich, but it is far away and I would be best served to seek favour with the Vale."

Jorah looked ready to object. Sansa spoke first. "Favour with whom, my lord? The Lord Protector? You said it yourself that Littlefinger may not be in power much longer."

He grunted. "True. And gods know that I have little love for the men of the Fingers. Sistermen have clashed with the Fingerlords for ages. I could tell you tales." A pause. "But gold is gold and Littlefinger has it."

"Gold means little if you tie yourself to a sinking ship, my lord," Sansa argued. "And why would Littlefinger pay for what he could take instead?"

His face twisted. "Do you think I fear that upjumped coincounter?"

"You should, my lord. Petyr Baelish is ambitious, cunning and remorseless. Do you think he will leave you with knowledge that may threaten him? Littlefinger is not a good person; he would not allow anything to interfere in his plans." Her gaze turned dark. "He will give you the same treatment he always gives; he will pay you for your service, and then he will have you killed for your silence."

Lord Borrell scratched his stubble. "And what did the man do to you to give you such a foul opinion of him?"

"He tried to have me raped, my lord."

That caused the table to fall silent. Sansa kept her voice totally level, emotionless. How would Cersei talk, if she were here? "In retrospect," Sansa continued, "I wonder if that was his intention from the beginning. He betrothed me to a union that he knew would turn sour. He knew the sort of man that Harrold Hardyng was, he knew how Harry treated the last two mothers of his bastards, he knew that any marriage to him would end in ruin. He even encouraged the ruin. So Littlefinger sold me, to climb another rung on his ladder of thrones," she said, smiling softly.

"I've found myself wondering, in recent days… it would have been a miserable marriage, a life of hurt and pain. Did Littlefinger think that maybe he could damage me, and that in my pain I would cling to him more tightly for support? Perhaps he meant to position himself to be my solace, my protector, to make me dependent upon him. To take advantage of all that he, himself, had done to me by proxy?" Sansa shook her head. "Well, it's a plan that worked very well for Littlefinger with my aunt, did it not?" Sansa paused, then added, almost as an aside. "He killed her, by the way. Littlefinger murdered Lysa Arryn, simply because she was in the way, too unstable to be controlled. All because she tried to kill me."

There was no reply, but there was a susurrus from the men in the hall, a sharpening of the many attentions on her. Sansa absently stirred her stew. "Harrold was to go off to war and get himself killed, I think. Littlefinger could arrange that. And maybe I would be left afterwards with a child in my stomach, and Littlefinger's arms around me for 'comfort'." She shook her head. "I know what the man wants. He wanted my mother. He wants me. By marrying me to Harry the Heir, he aimed to obtain everything he ever desired; he thought he would have me weak and wounded and malleable, and in doing so he would secure his own position in the Vale through whatever child I carried. That is what he does. That is how he manipulates people."

That is what he has done before. She thought of Lysa Arryn, weeping and raging, loving and hateful, terrified and proud, a lady of the highest station made putty to Littlefinger's schemes. Littlefinger thought he could manipulate me in the same way, with fake kindness, gentle words and schemes layered on schemes. A part of Sansa felt a certain sympathy towards her aunt now, one she would have never imagined before. But mostly, she felt horror, horror and anger.

'You told me to put the tears in Jon's wine, and I did', Sansa remembered her aunt speaking of her deceased husband. Jon. Jon Arryn, the former Hand of the King. The Tears of Lys, she remembered Lysa Arryn screaming before she was pushed out into eternity, but Sansa hadn't truly realised the meaning at the time. It was only during the trek with Jorah, after the words Ser Shadrich had said, it was only then that Sansa started to wonder. Littlefinger arranged the death of Jon Arryn, he started this entire war, all part of his plan, and it worked. He has done nothing but climb, and climb, and climb ever since.

I wonder, did Petyr Baelish also have my father killed just so he could get to me? Sansa doubted it was the sole reason, but it would have been a motivation - Littlefinger didn't make just one scheme, he made several running in parallel. She was done with it. Done being the little bird.

There was a long pause. Sansa shook her head. "So no, my lord. I will not return to Petyr Baelish. I understand your position, but understand mine; I will never let that man get his slimy hands on me again." She didn't break from Lord Borrell's gaze. "I will defy him out of pure spite. If you try to ship me back to Littlefinger, I will scream and I will fight to my last. If I become desperate enough, I will shout lies and I will claim that you abused me, or took advantage of me, or anything that I can say that might help me. And if I am truly left with no choice, I will claw out my own eyes or bite off my own tongue before I let Littlefinger touch me. You will be the lord that delivers my corpse to Littlefinger, before you deliver me alive." No emotion in her voice. Lord Borrell shifted. "But you're right. I am completely in your power right now. If you insist on selling me to Littlefinger, then there is nothing I can do to stop you, and it will not go well for me. But I can promise that it won't go well for you either, Lord Borrell."

Beefy eyes bulged at her. "My lady…"

She took a sip of her stew. "Also, give my compliments to Gella please," she added. "This stew is truly delicious."

The Lord of Sweetsister's face twisted. "I think I have been very kind to you, my lady," he warned. "I risked my men to rescue you from your kidnapper, I feast you in my hall." Around her lightning struck. The blue-white light flashed in the wet, gloomy hall. "Do you really want to turn this unpleasant?"

"Not at all. I understand your position. I am under your roof and you want to be paid for me. I understand that, I do," Sansa said with a nod. "But find someone other than Littlefinger. Think of a different buyer."

There was something like astonishment in Ser Jorah's face. Lord Borrell bristled. "Someone else? Are you thinking of your Imp of a husband, my lady? Or that mummer's monkey he calls a dragon?"

No, I wasn't. But out loud she said, "Aegon Targaryen will want the daughter of the north as much anyone, my lord."

"This 'Aegon' will not last long enough to see you," the lord grumbled. "Did you know that the knights of the Vale have rallied for the crown's defence? Fifty thousand Vale soldiers are marching south to King's Landing. The Golden Company does not have a chance."

"Even while the Queen goes mad?" Sansa asked.

"Even while," Lord Borrell nodded. "Despite everything, the boy king still has the wealth of Casterly Rock, the power of the Reach, and the might of Vale behind him." His voice turned bitter. "Littlefinger persuaded the Vale lords to muster and they have. Their armies will crush the rebellion around King's Landing, and doubtless Littlefinger will be well-rewarded once more for his service. He is no fool, this enemy of yours."

"And you're still far from eager to sell me to the Iron Throne," Sansa noted. "That is because you know the Iron Throne is more unstable than it has ever been."

He didn't reply straightaway. I have him, Sansa thought, I can manipulate him. "The whole realm is unstable," the lord said after a long pause. He sounded quieter, introspective. "The War of Five Kings is over, but something else is emerging from the ashes, an even greater storm is breaking the Seven Kingdoms apart."

Jorah raised his voice. He was shivering in his cloak in the cold hall. "There is another option," the knight said suddenly. He took a deep breath, hesitating. "Queen Daenerys Targaryen. The last good and just ruler. You must raise your banners for her, my lord."

Both Sansa and Lord Borrell stared at Ser Jorah in shock. What is he…?

Then, Lord Borrell laughed. "The fucking dragon queen of Meereen?" he guffawed, in clear confusion. "How could you think she's even a contender?"

"Daenerys Targaryen?" Sansa said, frowning.

"The daughter of the Mad King. She takes after her father too, from what I hear, but the tales say she has dragons," the lord explained. "I first heard of her from sailors from Qarth, and then from Meereen, and then from everywhere east. Breaker of chains, mother of dragons. But you know what I also hear from those men? They say that this Aegon, who claims to be her nephew, begged her for aid and she rebutted him. Your Daenerys has abandoned Westeros to forge a new kingdom in Slaver's Bay, Mormont."

"I know not of Aegon Targaryen," Jorah grumbled. "But I know Daenerys. She is good and she is rightful, and she will be coming to take the Seven Kingdoms. If you were to support her—"

"How long till then? A year? A decade?" Lord Borrell shook his head. "If Queen Daenerys was interested in the Seven Kingdoms, she would be here by now."

"She has three dragons. She is Aegon the Conqueror come again," Jorah insisted, stubbornly. "The only rightful ruler, you must declare for her. Sansa Stark of Winterfell could bring the north to Daenerys's name—"

"A name that is half a world away, ser," the lord said. Sansa could only stare at Ser Jorah in shock. Is that what he is fighting for? Even after weeks of travelling together he had never told her. Is that why he really saved me?

"Daenerys is the rightful—"

"Rightful," Lord Borrell snapped, slamming his hand on the table. "What is bloody rightful? Some dead man's arse in a chair? Who cares what cock gave birth to her? The only thing that is right to me is my island, my family, my castle! My rock that I sit on." He spat. "Goddammit, talking to you makes me remember why I hate the whole bloody lot of your games. The days were better when the Sistermen ruled the Three Sisters."

Jorah faltered slightly from his outburst. Sansa averted her gaze, while the lord scratched at the table with webbed hands. "… You're right, my lady," the lord said finally, taking a deep breath to calm. "The options that would buy you are all terrible. All of the mainland kings are horrible. Now maybe I should just drown the both of you in my waters and be done with this headache."

His tone didn't sound like he was japing. Jorah grimaced. "You could just let us walk free."

"I could, but I don't like you, Ser Jorah." Lord Borrell muttered, narrowing his eyes. "I treat with smugglers, pirates and lawbreakers, aye, but never slavers. Never. It would please me more to see you drowned to the Lady of the Waves, as they did in the days of old. Your septons forbade that practice, but the Sisters do not forget their gods."

Please be quiet, Ser Jorah, you're not helping here . Sansa took a deep breath. "There is another option, my lord," she said quietly. "Sell me to White Harbour. They are near, they have silver, and my brother Jon Snow will pay for me."

Lord Borrell gawked at her. They had heard of the tales as they fled the Fingers. The smallfolk of every inn, every village was talking about it. A dragon in the north. Sansa didn't know how true they were, but…

"The Bastard King," Lord Borrell muttered. "The bastard with the dragon. Every bastard has a dragon nowadays, it seems."

"It's not true." Ser Jorah shook his head. He had never believed the tales of the dragon as they passed through the villages on the Fingers. Jorah dismissed them outright in every tavern. "The rumours are false. They must be."

"It's true." Lord Borrell nodded, and Jorah's face paled. "I've seen the beast myself, flying over the Bite. The beast plucks entire whales out of the water. Your Jon Snow has found a monster, and leads hordes of savages," said Lord Borrell. "They say he is a warg, a sorcerer and worse. And you would to go to him, my lady?"

The smallfolk in every village they had passed by had all talked about Jon Snow as if he were a demon from the coldest hell. The Seven Kingdoms were mad with whispers about the ice dragon.

"He is my brother," she replied. Although I barely even talked to him. My mother shunned him and so did I. "I have not seen him in years, and I do not know the truth to the rumours. But I choose him. I want my family."

And Petyr was frightened of him. If Jon has become Littlefinger's enemy, then I want to be by his side.

"You should not. Bastards are cursed fiends. Bad blood, my lady," Lord Borrell said. "The Sunderlands dragged us into two Blackfyre rebellions and Sweetsister suffered for them. This Jon Snow is just another bastard stealing a crown, and I do not care to be another one damned for it. Bastards and pretenders."

"I would think you would be more eager to gain favour," Sansa noted. Jorah turned quiet, uncertain. "He has an army. He has a dragon."

"His cause is still doomed."

"Not from how it appears."

"Then you do not have my perspective," the lord rumbled. "I have seen wildling raids before, they sometimes hit fishing villages even this far south. Worse than the blackest pirate. Families and lords are fleeing the north in droves, how can you build a kingdom from that? I hear the tales, I have seen the fear. There will be no peace in the north. Whatever 'kingdom' your bastard brother builds, even if he does win, will surely collapse. You cannot build order out of wildlings." He shook his head. "Maybe Jon Snow considers himself a conqueror, but he is bringing only ice and fear."

He swigged down the last of his beer, and slammed the mug onto the table. "I will not ally myself with such a man," the lord said. "You cannot expect me to aid your bastard's rebellion over my own lord."

I must go to White Harbour. It was the only option that could be good for her, where she could be more than someone else's hostage. What words will sway the Lord of Sweetsister? She could promise gold that she could not guarantee, or lands, honours and titles that maybe her brother could grant. She could threaten retribution, or she could beg and weep for pity. She wasn't so sure that any of that would work. What does he want?

Sansa said, slowly, "I notice you speak very poorly of House Sunderland, my lord. You do not care for the Lord of the Three Sisters?"

The man shifted. "What of it? Triston Sunderland is an old penny-grabbing geezer."

"He also descends from Andals and the Vale," Sansa noted. "They are mainland lords at heart. They are not true Sistermen, are they? They do not share your heritage, or your history. They do not have that the mark on your hands, they do not have the blood of the Sisters. And yet they are the Lords of the Three Sisters - they sit in Sisterton. The town right outside of Breakwater, a town that you have historical claim to, and yet you still must give fealty to them? What percentage much of your plunder, fish and livelihood do they tax?"

There was no reply, and the hall grew truly quiet. In every kingdom, there were areas that were only nominally sworn to the Lord Paramount. The north had Skagos, the Iron Islands had Lonely Light, Dorne had the Stepstones, and the Vale had the Three Sisters. Their loyalty to the mainland is barely a thread. I can use that.

"I spent time at the Eyrie," Sansa continued. "In their politics, in their minds, the Three Sisters receives no consideration. In all my time in the Eyrie, I hardly ever heard these isles mentioned. Now House Sunderland competes and tries desperately to earn favour and status for themselves, but I know that even they will fail. The Three Sisters are forgotten in the Vale's halls. And where that does leave you true sistermen? To them, you're a relic of the past, their septons forbid your faith, their rule hurts your trade. You said it yourself that the Three Sisters have suffered greatly in southron wars and rebellions."

"The Kings of Winter and the Kings of the Mountain and the Vale once spent a thousand years fighting over the Three Sisters," Lord Borrell said bitterly. "The War Across the Water, it was called; or the 'Worthless War', as others named it."

"It was not worthless to you, I'm sure."

"No. The maesters say it was two thousand years ago that these islands were conquered by the northmen - an invasion called the Rape of the Three Sisters - but we Sistermen have long memories."

"Do you remember a time when the Borrells were pirate kings?" Sansa asked. The only sound was the howling of the rain and wind. She could feel Jorah's eyes on her, but she kept her gaze on her Lord Borrell. "It could be again."

"And you expect me to take your side?" he said incredulously. "I have no love for the Starks of Winterfell."

"You said it yourself that there are bad options all around. I don't think you care for the Vale either," Sansa insisted. "My brother is fighting for independence in the north. Why wouldn't he support another ally seeking independence?"

Sansa paused for five heartbeats silently. He did not reply. "Support my brother, and he could support you," she continued. "You depend on trade with White Harbour, they are a strong partner to you. If there were a dragon behind you, House Sunderland couldn't resist. My brother will be very grateful if you were to return me to him. House Borrell could be raised up as the rulers of the Three Sisters, and what could the Vale do about it? Nothing."

Lord Borrel's eyes narrowed. "The Sisters only bent the knee to the Eyrie originally," the lord said slowly, "in exchange for driving the northmen out."

"And it seems the world is circular." Sansa gave a sweet, innocent smile. "Why not think, my lord, on the benefits that you could reap with standing behind a dragon? The same benefits that the Tullys, the Greyjoys, and all the others once reaped for being the first to declare for Aegon during the Conquest. You have a dragon right next door."

I think I have him. This is an argument that may work. It didn't escape her notice that Lord Borrell was very invested in the old history and culture of his people - that past was important to him. And there is a tension between his and House Sunderland that could be exploited. She caught the flicker in his gaze.

She didn't push it. She just sat back and waited for his response.

"Tell me, my lady," Lord Borrell said finally. "Why do you want to be by your brother's side so badly?"

"Because he is my father's son," she replied honestly. "Because Jon took after my father."

"Your father," Lord Borrell repeated. "Ned Stark. Did you know that your father once sat in this very hall?"

That caught her off-guard. "I… I did not. He was here?"

"At the dawn of Robert's Rebellion. The Mad King sent to the Eyrie for Stark's head, but Jon Arryn sent him back only defiance. Gulltown stayed loyal to the throne, though. To get back home and call his banners, Ned Stark had to cross the mountains to the Fingers and find a fisherman to carry him across the Bite. A storm caught them on the way. The fisherman drowned, but his daughter got Stark to the Sisters before the boat went down. He left her with a bag of silver and a bastard in her belly. Jon Snow, she named him, after Jon Arryn." Sansa's mouth hung open. "That is where your bastard comes from."

"I did not know that," she said, gobsmacked. "Jon's mother?"

"The mother is dead; she died at childbirth, I hear, and the new Lord of Winterfell took the babe back with him as he sailed back home," he replied. "But before then, when you father was shipwrecked on our shores, my father sat where I sit now and Ned Stark was walked into our hall. Our maester urged us to send Stark's head to Aerys, to prove our loyalty. It would have meant a rich reward. The Mad King was open-handed with them as pleased him. By then we knew that Jon Arryn had taken Gulltown, though. Robert was the first man to gain the wall, and slew Marq Grafton with his own hand. 'This Baratheon is fearless,' I said, then. 'He fights the way a king should fight.' I argued with my father, that he allow Ned Stark leave Sweetsister freely." She could see a glimmer in his eyes. The lord hesitated, his voice softening slightly.

"… But the difference between then and now, my lady, is that your brother faces a very different fight. And perhaps I could gain a great advantage by siding with this Bastard King, except for the fact that I do not believe that your brother has the support needed to prevail in his fight."

"He has the gained the support of White Harbour, has he not?"

"So it seems. He has the fat, cowardly lord with him." Lord Borrell shook his head. "No, the Bastard King has succeeded in only splitting the north into thirds; one third that supports him, one third that will oppose him to the last, and another third that has supported him because they're too scared to do otherwise. I hear that he is preparing to march on Winterfell, and when he does, I think he will win. But he will still lose, do you know why?"

She didn't reply. "Because winter is coming, Lady Stark," Lord Borrell continued. "They say it will be the longest and hardest winter in living memory. Because the north is war-torn and ravaged, it doesn't even have enough food to support itself. Come the heavy snows, the people will starve and Jon Snow's little kingdom isn't going to be able to feed itself. Not without support from the south, and you can be sure that there will be none coming from there. As soon as the circumstances turn dire, his wildlings will pillage, and his people will revolt. His weak 'rule' will collapse under his grip and tear down the north with it. He will win the battle, but the war and the winter will destroy him - that is inevitable."

Sansa kept her gaze unblinking, focused. There could be no weakness in her eyes. "Winter is the only thing that is certain, my lord," Sansa replied. "Everything else is still to be fought for."

She didn't know why, but the comment cause Lord Borrell to pause for longer than she would expect. She saw his face twitch. His hands stirred the sister's stew. "You look very much like your mother, my lady," the lord said finally. "But there is something of your father in you too."

---

The Lost Prince

He flew through the eye of the storm. The world was screaming, a convergence of souls. The ground split beneath him, bodies pouring into a great black abyss. Bran was left staring downwards at the huge tide of corpses, all the while he fell upwards into the green and red skies. Giant white roots snaked around him, great veins spreading everywhere. He could see shadows and ice dancing across the world.

Beyond the green, he remembered. That was what the crow called this place. The home of the faces in the weirwoods, a place beyond past, present or future.

The scenery blurred. The world was red with blood. Pools of red burning. He glimpsed a great tower piercing the dark sky over a churning ocean of blood. He saw a stone man dissolving into a sea of shadows bursting from the earth. He saw dragons, burning a city while a million slaves fell to their knees, weeping in worship. He saw a great river frozen solid, bodies trying to escape the ice—

"You cannot do this, Bran," the voice was in his ear. He felt claws around his waist. Huge wings flapping around him. The three-eyed crow was on him, a giant winged monster snatching him out of the air. "If you keep on losing your skin, you may not be able to pull yourself back."

Every time Bran fell into this place, the three-eyed crow was there to catch him. He could feel the greenseer dragging him back to the ground. Back to his anchor, his body, his time.

"This is not the place to lose yourself," the crow cawed. All around him, he saw a raging storm, ice and fire clashing. The crow had to physically pull him away. "Now is not the time to dream, Bran."

The world lurched. Bran dropped.

He fell into his own body. He felt pain. He tasted blood in his mouth. Bran gasped and shuddered, coughing into a dirty stone floor.

The little boy trembled, trying to lift his gaze upwards. A pair of unseeing grey eyes stared back at him from the darkness.

Bran would have screamed, but his throat jammed.

Hother Umber was lying across from him, dead, limp and pale. Hother's long white beard was stained red, his limbs flailed across the floor. The Whoresbane died clutching his chest in a pool of dried blood, his heavily lined face was scowling even in death.

They killed him, he thought in horror. The axe cut open half his stomach, and then they left him to die slowly. They let Hother Umber to bleed to death in the cell with them, and then they just left his body to rot.

Bran's first thought was of his father. He wanted to scream for his father to save him.

"Bran," a quiet voice soothed, but she sounded scared too. "Don't move, Bran, they hit you over the head pretty hard."

Meera. He could see Meera in the gloom. She looked like she would have come to him, but there were manacles on her legs. She looked so skinny, frail. They were in a stone, black room. Two children and one corpse, all in chains.

His heart was racing so fast it might burst. The stone floor was cold and dirty. Bran tried to squirm, flailing helplessly. "Meera. Meera! What happened, where are we, those men…?"

"They got us, Bran. They got us."

His head ached. He remembered blurry visions and sounds from the battle.

He remembered the frenzied bodies in the darkness, men screaming. He remembered Hother Umber bellowing at them to run. He remembered Mors Umber bellowing some war cry, and Summer howling viciously. Hodor had been trembling, weeping. He remembered faceless figures storming the castle, and fires raging.

The Whoresbane tried to get us out of Last Hearth, he recalled. When the ambush hit them, Hother Umber tried to flee with Bran and the others into the woods while the Crowfood held the attackers off. There were children in that castle.

A shiver went down Bran's spine as he remembered hearing the dogs barking, and those seven figures chasing after them from the darkness. One of them had pale blue eyes, and a mad smile.

Ramsay Snow. Bran barely recognised him from when he first came to Winterfell in chains. 'Reek', he had called himself once. The man had been covered head to toe in blood, clutching a blade like a cleaver, laughing maniacally. The hunters taunted them as they tried to run through the dark forests, hounds barking. Ravens flocking all around him, the direwolf howling…

Bran remembered Summer surrounded by packs of feral dogs. The Umber guards tried to fight, but the Bastard's Boys had arrows and horses and torches, while they were all on foot. Hother hadn't backed down for an instant, bellowing for him to run while lunging at Ramsay Snow with a spear and a murderous cry.

Run. That word haunted Bran's head. They had all been screaming at a crippled boy to run.

Hother tried to stop him, and the Bastard of Bolton cut half the Whorebane's stomach open while his men charged at the children. Bran couldn't stop it, it was over too fast. Hodor stumbled in the darkness, tripping over a root. Another man had lunged at Meera with a spear. Bran hadn't even hesitated; he jumped into the man's skin, and crushed his presence beneath him. And then everything had gone black.

The man Bran possessed had spasmed and then died quickly, bleeding from his eyes. Bran lost his grip on the world and dropped into the world beyond the green. I killed that man with my mind, and then I blacked out. How long was I out?

His whole body was trembling. His head ached, he could hardly breathe. "What happened?" Bran gasped. "Where's Jojen? Where's Hodor, or Mors, or—"

"I don't know," Meera said with a gulp. He had never seen her look so frail or pale. "I lost sight of them during the battle."

"Meera, where are we?"

"I don't know." She was whispering. Why is she whispering? "Bran, they took us. It was the Bastard of Bolton."

Bran's head was still spinning. There was blood oozing down his forehead. He was in a keep, must be. A stone castle or holdfast. A prison. Above him, he heard voices. Heavy footsteps. Laughter.

The battle. The memories kept on rushing back to him. Bran remembered the battle from a hundred different skins. He had taken the skins of dogs and birds, but it hadn't been enough to stop the men. He remembered clawing the eyes out of dozen different men, but not even Summer could stop them—

Summer. Where's Summer? A jolt of panic shot through him.

He reached out to his direwolf in the same way he would grope for his own limb. Summer was part of him. Bran flinched as he felt pain. Scorching and blinding pain.

The direwolf was injured. Bran could feel Summer curled up, whining and hiding in a den under the roots of a gnarly tree. It was snowing, but the air smelled of death. His silver-grey fur was covered in blood, his jaws scratched and bruised. There was an arrow embedded into Summer's hind leg that he couldn't remove. Bran had never felt the great wolf so weak, so wounded.

There were corpses littered across the snow. Summer had tried to chase me, Bran realised, but not even a direwolf could match armoured men wielding lances and arrows.

Captives. Prisoners. Somewhere in the distance, the wolf howled and Bran couldn't even hear it.

"Where are we?" Bran asked again.

"I don't know. They blindfolded us and galloped us here. A long day's ride," Meera whispered. Her chains rattled. "A small keep or holdfast. There's at least two, maybe three hundred men."

"Jojen," he choked. The room felt like it was shaking. "Hodor. What happened to Last Hearth? All of those men, the children—"

"I don't know. I don't, Bran, we've got to focus, we've got to—"

Her voice was quivering. It was all too much. Bran felt his vision blur and blacken again.

When he woke up, he was cold. And hungry. So weak he was shivering. The cell stank of dried blood. He could see flies buzzing around Hother Umber's corpse. He felt so afraid, staring into the dead man's eyes that he struggled to breathe.

Meera was squirming and fidgeting and scratching, trying to escape her iron manacles, but the restraints were heavy iron; her struggles seemed useless. There were chains around Bran's ankles too, but he couldn't even feel them. On him, the manacles were pointless; his legs were useless, numb hunks of flesh.

Their cell in the prison was a dry and cold box, heavy with dust, but the oaken door looked old and rotten. They hadn't even bothered locking it. The door was loose and the bolt unset, yet that didn't matter because they were both chained to the wall.

Above him, he could hear what sounded like a celebration. A big one, if he could hear it through the prison's thick stone. He heard stomping feet and laughter and roaring echoing through the stone. He also heard screaming, true screaming. That noise scared him more than all the rest.

Meera hissed some words at Bran, but he could barely hear them. The room felt like a coffin. Hother Umber didn't stop staring at him, dead-eyed.

The walls were getting tighter, more constricting. He needed to escape. So he did.

Bran forced all the concentration he had and he reached outwards. The world blurred. He felt the presence of a rat who jerked and gasped as Bran squeezed his way into the rat's skin. And then Bran skittered through dusty corridors, staring at the world from behind half-blind rat's eyes.

He heard heavy boots stamping through a dusty keep. Bran didn't recognise this place, but whatever this keep was, wherever it was, it was heaving with the movement of men. A small stone keep in the woods, with a wooden wall, and his horses in the grounds. It was no great castle, just a minor one, barely a holdfast – just a basement of cells and a single ground floor, a cramped stone hall filled with barking dogs and drinking and cheering men.

Then, Bran heard jeering and shouting, squeals and quiet sobs from the middle of the hall. A few women in the center, crying, surrounded by a ring of onlookers - men. The rat skittered beneath the tables, its little heart pounding. Bran felt his whole body tremble in horror.

There were women on top of the main dining table. Six women, all of them stripped naked. Their bodies were beaten, covered in blue and yellow bruises and blood. Some of the girls were begging for help, but the men just laughed as they took turns with them.

The rat could only watch from the floor in horror as the Bastard's Boys unfastened their breeches and climbed atop the table, one, two, six at a time. He heard the grunts and squeals, even from the rat's hidey-hole in the corner of the keep's hall. They're raping them, Bran realised in utter horror. A hundred men, and they were raping the women in plain sight of every man in the keep, right in the middle of the hall while all they laughed, jeered or drank. They sacked Last Hearth, and this is how they celebrate. Like it's an ordinary party for them.

He heard the girls begging, weeping for mercy. The sound haunted his soul. The ones who begged were only raped harder. Bran found himself almost grateful for the rat's poor vision, because it was a sight that scarred his eyes.

'Worse than Boltons', Bran had once said, referring to the dead. I was wrong. Not even monsters could be worse than this.

He even recognised those women. Two of them were serving girls from Last Hearth. One of the older women had been a wife of a petty lord, he suspected. The youngest was barely older than Meera. As Bran watched, one of the men slit the throat of a woman who wouldn't stop crying. Then, her corpse was given to another man to be raped again. All the while, they didn't stop jeering, drinking or taking turns.

Bran couldn't watch anymore. He fell back to his own skin. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. He felt sick, bile rising up his throat from what he had just seen. He couldn't stop trembling. He could still hear the jeering from above, and now he knew what they were jeering at.

These are the Bastard's Boys, he realised. The worst killers and murderers in the north. The monsters in human skin that had sacked Hornwood, sacked Winterfell, and then sacked Last Hearth.

I heard what happened to Lady Hornwood. The memory of Ramsay Snow's laughter haunted his mind.

He could see Meera's wide eyes. "We must escape, Bran," she hissed. She did not stop scraping against her manacles and the mortar with her bare fingers. Her ankles were scraped from where she struggled against the iron bracelets.

Every hour felt torturous. It was like he was counting every heartbeat. He struggled to breathe, struggled to think.

"They'll come for us," Meera kept on saying. "They will, they'll come for us… We will escape and they'll come for us."

Nobody came for Lady Hornwood. She had to eat her own fingers. Bran stared at his hands.

I am not trapped. I'm a skinchanger, the winged wolf. I've killed men with my powers and I can do it again. That thought was the only one that gave him strength.

It was nightfall when he heard men coming down the steps towards him. Five figures. He recognised the man at the front instantly. It is him, Ramsay Snow. Twice now he has razed a castle and slaughtered innocents to get to me.

Ramsay was an ugly young man, wearing a black leather jerkin over a pink velvet doublet slashed with dark red satin, along with black boots, belt, and scabbard. He was big boned and slope shouldered, with a fleshiness that would probably turn to fat later in life. Ramsay's skin was pink and blotchy, his nose broad, his hair long and dark and dry. Although his mouth was small, Ramsay's lips were wide and meaty, wormy looking, and he smiled a wet-lipped smile.

"Brandon Stark," the Bastard of the Dreadfort laughed. "Oh, how we meet again. I believe we haven't been introduced properly: I am Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell, Lord of Hornwood. You will address me as Lord Bolton."

Bran didn't reply. He was too busy trembling with fear and rage. "I must admit, for a boy with no legs, you sure can run," Ramsay chuckled. "I had been sure that, after Theon and the miller's boys, you would end up dead in a forest somewhere. But instead you made it to Last Hearth. Where you conspired to steal my title. For shame, Brandon. For shame."

There were sniggers. Meera was coiled, pressed up against the wall as far as her chains would allow, like she was readying herself for an attack. I could attack. I am the winged wolf. I could kill him. I could take his skin and kill him, Bran thought, eyes flickering between Ramsay and his men.

…But I can only kill one of them. Will the others kill me and Meera as soon as he falls?

"The little prince," a man besides him snorted.

"Not anymore," Ramsay's voice sound cheerful. "I am the Lord of Winterfell now, Brandon. We are goodbrothers, are we not? Your sister Arya is so sweet."

Arya. Arya.

Maybe he was waiting for response. Bran was curled up on the floor and quivering too badly to give him one. Ramsay Snow stepped forward, with that eerie smile and pale eyes.

"Those people at Last Hearth? They died because of you, Brandon Stark. Just like the miller's children did. Those at Winterfell? The Umbers? Jojen Reed, your dumb stable boy, your little wolf? They're all dead and it's all your fault."

"No," Meera growled. Tears in her eyes. "You lie. You lie. Jojen can't be…"

Ramsay just laughed, but his attention was all on Bran.

"What was even the point of all your running, Brandon? With every step you took away from Winterfell, people died. Hundreds of people. What was it all for? You just eneded up here in the end, anyways."

I could kill him. I could kill him… "I want you to remember that, Bran. I want you to remember just how many people die because of you."

Bran's eyes flickered towards Meera. Ramsay's grin widened. A predator sensing weakness.

"So I'm going to leave this old man's body in here with you, Brandon, just you know exactly what your defiance costs," Ramsay continued, with an idle kick at Hother Umber. "Oh, today is going to be a good day, I think."

"What do we do with him?" A man with yellow teeth grinned. "Another hunt?"

"Hunting a cripple? Now where's the sport in that?" Ramsay chuckled, pacing. "No, Brandon Stark, you are valuable to me. King's Landing wants you to hold over my father's head. My father wants you to hold over my head. You might be my replacement, should I step out of line. After all, you have a better claim to Winterfell than me, don't you? A little crippled puppet to replace a 'rabid' dog." His lips pulled back to reveal teeth, but whatever Ramsay's jagged expression was, it could never be called a smile. "No, I will not let that happen. I will not let my lord father get his claws on you either. I won't kill you, Brandon, I would never kill you. But maybe I'll cut off your face so nobody will ever recognise who you are?"

The men were laughing. They were towering figures, all big and armed, and Bran was just a curled shape on the ground. "But until then," Ramsay mused, sucking his lips. "I need you alive and looking like a Stark. You're my game piece now, Brandon. You are the perfect bait. Bait enough to catch a dragon, I think."

What is he talking about? Ramsay was looking at him almost hungrily. Finally, Bran trembled and raised his voice. "Are… are you taking me to Winterfell?"

"So he speaks. Joy," Ramsay laughed. "But no, not just yet. Nobody knows where you are, and I mean to keep it that way. Let my lord father fret a little bit - nobody will be speaking of you. Isn't that right, Alyn? Luton? Skinner?"

The thugs nodded. "Oh aye."

"Aye," another agreed. "Keep your tongue or lose it, like you always say, m'lord."

"Oh yes." Ramsay kneeled down in front of Bran, his face barely metres away. Bran averted his eyes. "I know what you're thinking, Bran. You're thinking that you have me at a disadvantage because, well, I can't hurt you for fear of killing or mutilating you. You think that I need you whole, and, hmm, you're right actually. I do." There was that grin again, worming over his cheeks. "But that's why she is here with you. So here's the deal Bran; if you disobey, I take it out on her. If you object, if you cause trouble, then your little frog girl suffers for it."

"You fiend… !" Meera snapped. Ramsay only laughed, while one of his thugs kicked Meera in the stomach. Bran screamed.

"They'll rape her, Bran," Ramsay laughed. He sounded cheerful. "Every one of my boys will happen have a go, even some of their dogs. Have you seen what it looks like after a girl's been raped by a hundred men half a dozen times each? I doubt you'll even be able to recognise her by the end of it. I could take you upstairs to show you a few examples of what it does to a girl, if you want?"

He's a monster. They're all monsters. Bran was struggling to breathe.

"So be good, Bran," Ramsay said, still chuckling. "I'll be back soon enough, and I'm sure we'll have more time to get to know each other. Now is there anything you want to say to me? I want to hear you address me as Lord Ramsay Bolton of Winterfell." There was a pause. "Say it," Ramsay insisted.

"You're a bastard," Bran muttered, voice quickering, still staring downwards. "That's all you are, just a bastard."

The cold blue eyes flickered, and then a cruel smile spread over Ramsay's face. There was no immediate reaction, he just stood up. Then, Ramsay raised his foot and brought his boot down upon Bran's ankle. Slowly.

Meera shouted. There was a crack of bone as Bran's foot crunched. The boy stared, but he didn't even flinch. He couldn't feel a single thing from his legs. It was like they belonged to someone else.

For a second, Ramsay seemed confused. "Hmm, how strange," the bastard mused. "It's not as satisfying if they don't feel it."

With that, Ramsay turned and walked away. Bran looked at his crumpled foot, his broken ankle. It would have been a life-changing wound on a normal person, but for Bran—

I still can't feel anything.

Ramsay and his Bastard's Boys were walking away. Bran's heart didn't stop racing. The other men left the room, sniggering. What would happen if I took his body now? I am a winged wolf. I could kill him, all I need to do is reach out and fly…

He didn't even care about the consequences any more. Barely even thinking about it, Bran extended his mind. He opened his third eye and he focused on Ramsay Snow, he focused his power and he extended himself out of his skin…

Bran gasped, flinching hard. His head burned. He felt rage. Hate, so much hate. He recoiled back into his skin as if his very spirit had been slashed.

The footsteps stopped halfway up the stairs. He heard Ramsay break step slightly, momentarily dazed, but Bran was left gasping for air. "Lord Ramsay," a faint voice called. "You alright?"

In the cell, Meera hissed. "Bran!" Chains rattled as she tried to reach him. "Bran! What happened?"

"It's him," Bran choked, staring wide eyed at where Ramsay left. "There was so much hate."

I've never even imagined anyone with that much pure hate in them. As if hate was the only thing Ramsay Snow could feel.

Meera didn't seem to know how to reply. Ramsay must have shrugged off whatever it was that caused him to stumble slightly, and Bran heard the door to the dungeons close. He's gone, Bran thought. I lost my chance to take his skin. I'm not even sure if I want to.

Bran was shivering in the cold and the fear. Men can only be brave when they are scared. I must be brave.

"You can skinchange," Meera whispered, when she was sure no one was around. "Take Summer's skin. Go get help."

"How?" Bran murmured. It felt wrong to even raise his voice. As if Hother Umber was only sleeping next to them. "And from who?"

She didn't reply. Meera looked scared, more scared than he had ever seen her.

She's the trapped one now, Bran thought. She's trapped in this cell, but I can fly through the animals and birds. My powers are the only advantage we have.

They went another day without being fed. Meera's fingers and ankles were bloody from struggling against her manacles.

The next morning, Bran heard orders being given, and felt men preparing supplies for a march. The ears of rats and birds couldn't make out any words, but he felt the activity. The Bastard's Boys were moving out. Ramsay left very early morning with his hounds and most of his men, heading north.

One hundred men were left garrisoned in the keep behind them. They sealed the portcullis and barred the gate after the other Bastard's Boys left.

The Bastard of Bolton must have a plan. He attacked Last Hearth to stop me from being traded to his father. But why would he leave in such a hurry? Bran spent some time thinking about it and couldn't reach any conclusion. He means to ransom me, but ransom me to who?

"They've left," Meera muttered, after Bran relayed the news. In the gloom of the cell, there was no day or night. It was so dark he could only just see the bruises on her faces.

"Half of them have," Bran explained. "The other half seem to be locking themselves down tight."

"Where are we? Where's the nearest help?"

"I don't know. I can see crags and ironwood trees nearby. There's a forest outside, and it's cold. It's a small stone keep with wooden walls. It looks old, decrepit, very recently occupied. I think we must be towards the mountains - maybe this keep used to belong to one of the small mountain clans - but the area seems isolated."

"He's hiding us here," she said breathlessly. "He doesn't want anyone to know about you."

Bran nodded. His stomach rumbled hungrily. "But that means there can't be any reinforcements around," Meera insisted. "And you can control animals. Could you chase these men away, just like you did with the wildlings at the Nightfort?"

The boy bit his lip. "Maybe I could. If I could skinchange into enough of them. I could control ravens or crows, rats, maybe some wolves if I can reach them. There are horses in the courtyard I could maybe take too…"

"Then do it," she insisted. "They don't know about your powers, they could never expect it. Kill the bastards." He hesitated. "Do it, Bran. Beat them."

"And what happens if I do?" he said slowly. "We're still chained, Meera. We still can't escape."

"We'll find a way, but you've got to stop them from hurting anyone el—"

"But it won't. It won't stop them. How many fully-grown, armed men can birds and rats defeat?" Bran argued. "Maybe I could take down ten. Maybe even twenty. But one hundred? They won't fall that quickly. And all it will take is one of them to come down here with a sword and then we're dead. We're at their mercy." A shiver ran down his spine, his voice cracked. "One man with a sword could kill us both, and they're all experienced killers."

Maybe if it was just Bran's life he would have taken the risk, but Meera's too? No, he wouldn't. He couldn't. I can't let Meera get hurt.

Meera looked stunned. "Bran, we… we don't have any other choice."

"We do," he whispered. "If Ramsay Snow wanted us dead, he would have killed us. He's not going to." Not until he gets his use out of me, whatever that is. I must figure it out. "Our plan hasn't changed."

He tried to imagine what his father would do in this situation. Father would do what he had to do, no matter how scared it made him. I am a Stark, I must return to Winterfell. "He's going to hold us prisoner. We're going to let him," said Bran. "We're going to let him take us to Winterfell. We're going to let him bring me close to Roose Bolton. And then I'm going to end this war once for all. Roose Bolton is the one who must die, not Ramsay."

"Bran…"

"It will work," Bran insisted. "I've done it twice now. First on that wildling, then on the bastard's soldier. I steal their skin, and their minds break. They can't handle it, they snap, and they die bleeding from the eyes. There's no defence against that. Ramsay caught me off-guard before, but if I had another chance I could do it. I can do it."

His insistence sounded so empty in the dark prison cell. Meera stared at him, agape.

"You were dead to the world for over a day after the battle in the forest," Meera warned. "You do it, and you collapse too. You fall unconscious and you drop into… whatever that place is where you go."

"So I only have one shot," Bran said, suppressing the gulp. "But I'll collapse for a while, Roose Bolton will collapse for good. As soon as Lord Bolton dies it's over. I can save my sister, I can the end the war. I can do this, Meera."

"And in the meantime?" She demanded. "What are we supposed to do until then?"

"We just wait. Let them think that I'm helpless," Bran whispered. "That's the plan, Meera. We wait and we get ready."

They argued for a while. Meera tried to convince him otherwise. She talked a lot about reinforcements that could be coming, ways to set traps and ambushes for the men. Ways to get them out of their prison.

By noon, she was interrupted by the sounds of boots coming down the stairs. A foul-faced man with a hunched back came to finally feed them - bringing cold chicken stew and water. Bran didn't like the way the man leered at Meera, but Bran was thirsty enough he swallowed the water down so fast he was nearly sick.

The man left the prison door open when he left. There was no point to close it, considering the thick chains around their legs. Meera didn't say a word, but he heard her counting the footsteps of the man walking up the stairs, to try and plan out an escape.

Through the skin of rats on the main floor, Bran heard grumbling. The men were complaining about how Ramsay took the women with him. A lot of the men seemed to establishing their camp tightly.

He heard the crooked man calling the holdfast 'Thistle Hall', which he immediately shared with Meera.

"Thistle Hall. I think this place must have belonged to House Norrey, they have green thistles on their coat of arms," Meera said, pondering. "So we must be close to the Gift."

"House Norrey," Bran repeated. "Why doesn't anyone know we're here? House Norrey is a friend to Winterfell."

"Maybe this holdfast is abandoned. Or maybe none of the Norreys survived."

He didn't reply. In the distance, Bran felt Summer cry mournfully. The direwolf was left limping, struggling to survive in the cold. The thought made Bran's heart ache. Be safe, boy. Just be safe.

Every hour felt torturous. The next day was the same. They slept on the floor. The same crooked man coming to feed them. They day was the same tense, constant and quiet fear. Meera tried asking for a bucket for their waste, but the man just jeered. Bran needed the toilet first, and there was choice but soil himself. His eyes stung and he finally broke down into sobs, but there was no judgement from Meera. Only fear.

In their cell, Hother Umber's corpse turned pale and bloated, and started to stink. Bran watched the old man's flesh slowly rot, the foul odour filling the air.

This is what Ramsay Snow wants, Bran thought weakly. He wants to torture us. To leave us trapped in a cell like this. He wants us to suffer, he wants us to break down. For no real reason other than that being what Ramsay Snow likes.

Bran would never forget what it felt like, to touch the mind of a person who had nothing in his heart but hate.

He spent most of his time in different skins, looking through his third eye. Bran escaped his body by slipping into the bodies of animals, as far away as his powers could reach.

He felt sorry for Meera, though. She couldn't escape her skin.

The days were agonising. And then it was a week, and then weeks. The time never passed easily. It was always, always terrible.

One night, through Summer's skin, Bran saw a huge shadow fall over the earth, heard a sound like a hurricane fill the air. The trees shook as something huge passed over the wolf, heading into the mountains. The direwolf could do nothing but hide in its den, trembling in fear.

Bran couldn't even process what it was, it had been too immense. Meera had been confused too when she told him. She thought that it had maybe been a sudden squall, but bran knew it wasn't. There are monsters in this realm. He thought back to the Stranger he had seen in his dream.

Summer would have fled the woods after that, but the wolf was left hiding and starving in his lair. With Summer's injury, he couldn't even hunt properly, he had to scavenge for meals.

Shortly afterwards, in Thistle Hall, Bran saw some huddled men talking very nervously. The gates were sealed, and no one was even allowed outside. They didn't even allow open fires in the courtyard anymore, lest the smoke give away the garrison to… something. What were the Bastard's Boys afraid of?

In his cell, the stink turned so hideous that even the man with crooked back could barely stand it. Meera never stopped scratching and struggling to break the iron manacles.

I am Brandon Stark of Winterfell. I am Brandon Stark of Winterfell…

He felt himself struggling just to stay sane. Frequently, the men in the keep would comment on the erratic behaviour of the rats and birds around them.

One night, Bran collapsed out of pure exhaustion. Flies and bugs were buzzing around him. He opened his eyes, and he was standing in the middle of the courtyard of Winterfell itself. He could see the grounds where he and Arya used to play, and all the towers and turrets that he used to climb…

"I am sorry, Bran," a voice cawed from atop the stables. Bran saw a flutter of black wings. A raven. A raven with three dark eyes.

"You," Bran gasped. This is a dream. His legs wobbled. "You could help us."

The raven didn't reply.

"You could help us!" he shouted. "Bring help, bring anyone. Do something!"

The bird's voice was soft. "I cannot."

"You must! They're going to kill us! Or they're going to keep us here until we break! You must help!"

"I did try to help, Bran," the three-eyed crow said sadly. "I tried to bring you out of this realm. I wanted you to escape before this war sucked you in as well. If only you had crossed the Wall, things could have been different."

"I couldn't, I couldn't cros—" he stammered. The raven remained impassive, only staring at him. I chose not to cross the Wall. "Does Jojen still live? What about Hodor?"

The crow did not reply. "Why won't you tell me?" Bran demanded.

"Because such attachments are dangerous. There is no answer I can give that won't cause one hurt or another."

He's evading the question. The three-eyed crow always evades the question. "Does anyone know where we are? Is anyone coming for us?"

"This is not your war, Bran."

"This is my war! I'm trapped here, I'm part of it!"

"You are meant for greater things."

He shook his head. "What did you want from me? No more half-answers, no more vague statements. What do you want from me?"

"I give vague statements because you would not thank me for details," the bird replied.

"Answer me!" Bran screamed. His legs collapsed. There were tears in his eyes. "You say that I was meant to fly, that you could help…" Bran gulped. "You said that winter is coming. And I saw something. In my dreams. It was cold, it was death, it was…"

"A white walker. An Other." The voice turned softer. "Yes, they are the reason I need you. They are the… well, let us call them the enemy. The true enemy."

The stranger of black and white. The very thought still made him shudder. "And you want me to defeat them?" Bran demanded. "What was I supposed to do?"

No reply.

"Answer me!" Bran screamed. "Answer me, or I'll never listen to you ever again. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

Wings fluttered, the beak twitched. There was a soft mutter of breath. A sigh, he realised. "No. You were not to defeat them. I wanted to keep you safe, Bran. I summoned you north to try and protect you from them."

"Why?"

"Because they cannot be defeated," the three-eyed crow admitted.

There was a long pause. Bran just stared incredulously.

"The Others cannot be defeated any more than the cycle of the world can be changed. To fight them is to fight winter itself," the crow said. "They can only be endured."

"I… I don't understand."

"You are the next greenseer, Bran. You are part of a legacy that goes beyond you, in ways you cannot possibly know. When the Long Night comes, the living will turn cold and the forests will perish, but afterwards there must be a greenseer to restore balance. To bring back the trees. It was your place to save the world, but only after the Others have destroyed it. That was why I tried to keep you safe." The birds ruffled its wings. "Yours is the place somewhere between ice and fire; to represent the living, who make their stands and build their lives between two outer elements that only know how to destroy."

Bran shook his head trying to understand. "But… but my family. My friends."

"There must be sacrifices, Bran."

Realisation struck. The greenseer manipulated Jojen to come to Winterfell, so that the crannogmen would take him north. "You mean… when you were calling me north of the Wall, you wanted me to abandon them all to die!"

"Death will be a mercy compared to what comes next," the bird said darkly. "This war will consume the world, and for them, for the children of the moon, the north is only the first step."

All of the stories of the Long Night, the white walkers and the monsters came rushing back to Bran. Old Nan's tales. "Then the last hero," Bran muttered, "and the Battle for the Dawn, when the white walkers were defeated…"

"They are children's tales, Bran. Exaggerations of a history long past but coming again. The Others were not defeated; it was the result of a bargain struck. A treaty, mostly forgotten to men. The Long Night ended only because the Others chose to retreat."

Bran stared in shock. There was a hollow, humourless rasp of laughter from the three-eyed crow. "Yes," the bird agreed. "I do not easily accept it either. I try to fight against it, I try to give men a chance to resist. For what little it is worth, I oppose them however I can. But in my bones, I know that it is useless."

His head was spinning. "In the stories," Bran said with a gulp, "the white walkers were beaten by the children of the forest."

"The children of the forest know the futility of opposing them better than most; this song has been written for a long time." The bird's beak shook. "No, the children cannot stop them. The children created the Others, once upon a time."

"What? They created them… !"

"I suppose summoned is a better term," the crow explained, "not created. In their time of final desperations and last stands, the children of the forest summoned a force elemental and eternal from beyond our world, and bound it into the bodies of men. Ice given flesh, that is how the Others as we know them came to be. That was the beginning of the white walkers - created during the time of the First Men. Perhaps the children responsible intended the Others to win the war for them, but I think it more likely that it was an act of final spite against all men." The bird sighed. "A curse such that men would suffer eternally the same torture that they inflicted on the children."

He didn't know how to reply. The bird hopped down from its perch. "Like I said, Bran, this war is greater than you know. You are not prepared."

"How am I supposed to prepare? I'm a captive, I'm in a prison surrounded by killers. Ramsay Snow," Bran said with a gulp. "Can you help stop him?"

The three-eyed crow scoffed. "'Ramsay Snow' is meaningless. Just another madman who wants to rape the world, I have faced his like many times. He is nothing to be concerned about."

"Not a concern?!" Bran couldn't believe the words. The memories of Hornwood, Winterfell and Last Hearth all flickered before his eyes. "He holds me prisoner! He tortures me! He has Meera too, he… !" Bran hesitated. "I felt his mind. It was full of hate. It wasn't normal, it wasn't…"

"Hm. A legacy of his ancestry, perhaps?" the three-eyed crow mused. "I know of the bloodline, he does claim distant descent from the Others themselves."

"What?"

"During the Long Night, and afterwards during the Cold Spring, while the Others ruled as overlords there were many twisted offspring formed between unions between them. Half Other, half human. Some came from sacrifices given, or from captives, and other men and women would even lie with them willingly for promises of power," the bird explained. "Over the thousands of years the bloodlines mostly either went extinct or were exterminated, but some traits still emerge. Did you look at his eyes, Bran? You can see the Other's influence in his eyes."

Those pale, blue eyes. "Ramsay Snow is a white walker?"

"No. Gods no. He is human, but he has something of their influence in his blood. Perhaps he is not even aware of it, but you can see the traits. It breeds men and women without empathy, to whom cruelty is in their nature, and everyone around them is but cattle. House Bolton earns its reputation - it is not a power that should be underestimated."

Bran stared. He remembered that moment; he had tried to jump into Ramsay's skin and the man had flinched back. The bastard had reacted instinctively. "Is he a skinchanger?"

The bird paused. "No," the three-eyed crow said finally. "I do not believe he has had any training as a skinchanger. But he does have a similar sort of power, one which I do not think he is even aware of."

Bran needed to take a deep breath. All around him, Winterfell was shaking. "Could I kill him?" Bran demanded. "Or his father? Could I take his body and kill him?"

The bird stopped. There was a silence longer than the previous ones. "You have power over nature itself," the crow said distastefully. "It is a gift you do not know the value of, and you are wasting it. Your power is meant to shape and crystallize miracles, yet you use it to crack petty stones."

"It's my family! It's my home! I'm trying to save it!"

"Don't you understand, Bran?" the three-eyed crow insisted. "As foul as this bastard boy is, he is but a pale imitation of the Others. Do not waste your time with this war in the north; there is a greater duty that is needed of you."

"I can't. I'm trapped," he panted. "I'm in a cell."

"No," the crow said sadly. "You are not trapped. You were never trapped, no more than you were crippled. You must come to me, Bran. I can show you how to use your powers properly."

"I can't, I—"

"If your body can't move, leave it behind. It is not needed, you know it's not." The voice turned harsh, strict. "Leave your body, and move into your wolf. Take your wolf to a heart tree. And then leave your wolf, and enter the tree. Come to me directly, through the weirwood roots. I will be there to greet you."

He froze. The air in the courtyard was cold. "But… but…" he stammered softly. "If I leave my body behind then how do I get back?"

"You do not, Bran."

He wants me to abandon everything, he realised with a gasp. The thought of Meera in that cell flickered before his eyes.

"I summoned you. I do not need your physical form," the three-eyed crow said. "It is less than ideal, I admit, but you do have a way to escape. And you must escape. You must leave it all behind you."

There was a long moment of a silence. Bran stared, his mind running through all of the vague comments and promises the crow had ever given him. For so long, Bran had believed that the three-eyed crow was the only way he would ever walk again. 'You will fly', the crow had said…

"You monster." The words from Bran's throat were like a wolf's growl. They were so vicious the anger surprised even him.

"Bran…"

"You lied to me! You deluded me! You said you would make me whole! That you would teach me to fly!" There were no tears, but his eyes burned. "You promised me my legs, and you knew that I would go anywhere to not be a cripple! And you never told me what you really needed because you knew I wouldn't want to."

"Sacrifice is not an easy duty to 'want', Bran."

"You just want to use me!" he screamed. "Just like Ramsay, just like all the others, I'm just another piece to you!"

"I want you to save the world!" The crow's voice clapped over the world like thunder. It was not a man's voice any longer, it made Bran think of the legends of the old gods themselves. Bran's entire spirit recoiled. The whole castle shattered, Bran saw towers collapsing into rubble. "This cannot be neglected. You have a choice, Bran. A choice between damning the earth or saving it. You can either remain trapped or fly free."

The dream was collapsing around him. The earth cracked like an abyss, revealing the tunnelings below. He saw Winterfell falling under a storm without equal. "And what about my friends? What about my family?"

"That is the choice. That has always been the choice."

The earth collapsed. Bran felt darkness swallow him.

Suddenly he was back in the cell. His whole body lurched, wheezing and cough. He could barely breathe, arms flailing. The stink, the fear, the pain… he felt it all again.

"Bran… Bran…" Meera's voice. "It's alright Bran… It's alright…"

He felt her hand holding his. She had to stretch herself out across the floor to reach him despite the manacles, but he could feel her hand. She had slender fingers, but strong. She didn't stop muttering in his ear, trying to calm him.

Even in the horrible, disgusting prison, she was the only thing holding him together. And yet there was a pain in her eyes like she might break too.

The night was quiet. The three-eyed crow's words echoed in his head. I could do it. I could move myself into Summer. I could leave everything behind. I don't have to be the crippled little boy anymore.

A choice between saving the world or damning it, the crow had said. I could close my eyes, leave my body and not come back to it.

Then he looked at Meera, frail, trembling and holding his hand. She was trying to reassure him even though she needed more help than anyone. Bran looked at Meera and made his decision in an instant.

I choose her. I won't leave her behind.

The days and nights passed slowly. Every day was the same, trapped in that cell.

On the second week, Bran threatened to bite his own tongue, or strangle himself, or anything, unless they were given buckets, linens, and basic hygiene. Their prison was left so foul by then that not even the guards could walk in without cringing, but the crooked man only smacked him over the head in reply. Still, Bran made the same threat the next three days, and by the fourth the boy must have looked so desperate that they had to concede.

They can't let me die. That's not much power, but it's some.

The bastard's men grumbled and moaned as they wiped the cell with a dirty mop. Meera and Bran would pretend to be unconscious so they wouldn't beat them. One of them gave Bran and Meera a flea-infested horsehair shirt so long that it could be used as a dress, while Bran's old, stained, wool clothes were discarded into the latrine. By the time they finally moved Hother Umber's corpse, the body didn't even look recognisable. Bran had spent over a fortnight watching it decay, barely six feet away from him.

In return for a bucket, regular waste disposal and occasional clean linens, Bran promised not to try and kill himself. When the guards unfastened his manacles to change his clothes, they didn't bother putting the chains back on. After all, the men laughed, he was a cripple - it wasn't like he could run.

The cell door was open and he was unchained, but he couldn't even leave. Instead, he dragged himself over by Meera to sit by her.

Every chance they had, they would talk. The conversations were only things keeping them sane. Meera would tell him about life in the Neck, about Greywater Watch, about her father, and all about the ways that crannogmen would hunt. And Bran would tell her about skinchanging, and what felt like to take another skin. Together, they started to plan.

There were ninety-two men garrisoned in Thistle Hall. Bran counted them one by one through the eyes of animals. He even tried to learn their names; like Luton, Yellow Dick, Grunt, and, their leader, Skinner.

Then, one of the Bastard's Boys was kicked in the head while tending to a horse, and after that there were ninety-one.

A few days later, another man fell off the palisades while patrolling, and then there were only ninety.

The very next day, a man was ambushed by a pack of wolves while foraging in the forest, and then there were eighty-nine. That one was perhaps a mistake, because afterwards the garrison became far more paranoid.

Then, Bran had to get more creative. He took the skin of the biggest rat he could find in the keep, and made it swim in the latrines. Then he directed it towards Yellow Dick while he slept. The rodent bit Yellow Dick's toe clean off, and then mauled the man's foot with sharp, gnarly teeth. The rat died quick for its efforts, but a week later Yellow Dick lost his foot from the infection.

Bran could feel the keep become more and more tense. The men never knew what was happening, but the mood in Thistle Hall was changing. They were a small force of men garrisoned in an old keep in an isolated forest. Confined. Trapped.

"Be subtle," Meera insisted. "Don't push too hard lest we lose our advantage. We want them to be just the right amount of scared."

Bran stalked and hunted them one by one. He thought of Last Hearth, and he felt nothing when he killed them. He felt more sympathy towards the animals he used than he did towards them.

The weeks passed slowly, then they turned into months.

Gradually, Bran felt Summer begin to heal and head west towards him. After weeks of scavenging and starving, the direwolf grew strong enough to move. One night, Bran heard Summer's howl from the forests right outside, and the sound gave him strength.

The Bastard's Boys too heard the howl, which made them Bolton men even more scared. The very next day, a horse went mad in the stables, and trampling three men and killing one. The horse was so crazed it had to be killed.

They served horse meat the next morning.

Afterwards, at Meera's suggestion, Bran started to target their leaders more selectively, the men who were keeping control. Perhaps if the competent leaders were killed, Meera said, someone incompetent would take over. Learn more about them, kill the right ones and you could herd a force of men into poor leadership and reckless actions.

Bran stalked the men through birds across the keep; watching, listening, waiting.

They are all scared. Even killers and monsters could get scared. One time, Bran snuck a rat close enough that he could overhear frenzied whispers between Skinner and two others. The rat's ears couldn't make out sentences, but he caught some words - he heard 'wildlings', 'dragon' and 'Jon Snow'.

Bran's heart pounded as he made out his brother's name.

As the weeks passed, Bran began to understand why the men were remaining so confined and holed up in Thistle Hall. "They're hiding," he said. "They're not hiding from Umber or even Bolton men, they're hiding from wildlings."

"So it's true," Meera whispered. "Wildlings across the Wall. The Bolton Bastard must have picked the most backwater and isolated holdfast he could find so that nobody will find you, or even know where to look. That means he's scared, Bran."

Bran nodded. The thought that Ramsay Snow might fear something was not as comforting as it might have been, however. He remembered the black shadow that passed over Summer.

Over the next few weeks he caught many more murmurs mentioning "dragon", but the men seemed nervous to say the words out-loud. The word only made Bran more confused. Wildlings and dragons.

What is Ramsay planning? Why not take me to Winterfell already, if there are wildlings about?

For so long, absolutely nothing happened. The mood in the garrison became so tense that fights broke out in the courtyard. The men forbade hunting parties, or even anyone leaving the gate.

The number of Bastard's Boys in the garrison fell below eighty.

Bran heard men muttering, saying that Thistle Hall was haunted. And they are right - it is.

The boy spent so long in that cell that he started to forget what it was like outside. There were no rowdy celebrations in Thistle Hall anymore, the mood was too grim and silent. At night, the only sound in the cell was Meera, scraping constantly against her manacles using chips of stone. She had been scraping for weeks, months.

It was a moonless night when Bran's birds finally sensed movement in the forest. He felt Summer stir, prowling in the dark. He smelt horses on the dirt road - horses with riders, along with hounds barking. A party of half a dozen hooded figures riding straight for Thistle Hall.

The men reached the keep and pounded four times against the wooden gates. There were no horns, very little noise at all. From the courtyard, the men seemed to tense, but once they heard the four knocks the mood changed.

It took three men to move the wooden logs barricaded behind the gate. The only sound in the forest were bats and birds. As soon as Bran had found a chance, he jumped from a crow into the body of one of the hunting hounds. The dog tried to howl in pain as he forced his way into his skin, but Bran took control so quickly the animal could only whine.

Bran could feel the colour around the dog's neck. The dogs were yelping, but the man holding the leash was ruthless with the lash. The door crept open slowly. "Quickly, m'lord," a man hissed. "Come inside. This forest is a cursed place."

One of the hooded figures chuckled snidely. "Cursed? You think there's anything in these trees more dangerous than me, Bones?"

"Of course not, m'lord."

The man lowered his hood. Bran recognised that smirk instantly. Through a dog's senses, Ramsay Snow stank of old and dried fish, covered in an old dark wool cloak speckled with salt. He's returned, Bran thought. Finally. How many months has it been?

The riders came inside. Every man stationed in the keep gathered around, all of them worn and tense and clutching torches. "What news, m'lord?" a man asked with a gulp. Luton. "Is it time?"

"Aye, it's time," Ramsay laughed. "The trap is readied and it's time for the bait. I trust the little prince has been kept well?"

"The boy is right where you left him," Luton nodded. "The brat spends more time sleeping than anything."

"Be sure of it. Time is short and I cannot linger, but after this is done I intend to give Brandon Stark the treatment he deserves." He glanced around the men, and snapped, "What are you standing around for, fools? Tend to the horses. Ben Bones, see to my girls."

The aging man, Ben Bones, bowed quickly and yanked the hounds. The dog Bran possessed tried to squirm, to stay in earshot of where Ramsay was huddled with his men.

"—sure he's ready to leave," Ramsay was ordering. "This ends at Winterfell, and the little prince has his role."

"How many?" One of the men said nervously. "I hear there's legions of the savages."

"My father prepares for thirty thousand, but there's less," Ramsay said with a chuckle. There was a cruel edge to his voice. "Deluded savages without a clue, and fools that chose their side over my father's. We give them time to muster, and we destroy them all at once. The Bastard King wants a battle, and we will oblige."

There was hesitation among the garrison, but Ramsay just laughed, clear and mocking. "What of the Dreadfort?" Yellow Dick asked. "I heard that the Dreadfort has fallen."

"No, the Dreadfort still stands. It'll likely last for another few weeks now, but my lord father has already resigned himself to its fall or destruction," Ramsay snorted. "It will be torched in dragonfire, no doubt, or broken by giants, it truly doesn't matter. Nothing important is there, the Bastard's siege is pointless."

The words caused the crowd to ripple. "The dragon," a man said. "So it's true."

"How can we face that?" another gulped. "If it's truly so large…"

Ramsay sneered. "You scared, Jarl?"

"No, m'lo—"

"I got no need for scared men in my ranks," Ramsay snarled. "I need hounds. Men willing to tear open a few throats. If that thing between your legs is so small, then I'll cut it off and turn it into the girl you act like."

The man called Jarl quivered and retreated quickly. The Bastard of Bolton glared around at his Boys, his sharp blue eyes alert for any sign of weakness in his men. "The dragon will be taken care of," Ramsay hissed. "Do not concern your fool heads over that. The realm itself rejects the dragon, and an especially useful old man has come to lend his assistance to that end. Do not ask. All you need to knos is that victory is in our grasp."

Luton looked around the men, twitchy. "And the army?"

Bran caught Ramsay's smirk in the torchlight. "The army isn't a problem either," he chuckled. "My lord father has been arranging that. Not all of the Bastard King's 'allies' are as loyal as they might pretend."

Ramsay stepped back, motioning to the garrison. All eyes were on him. "Listen up, boys! This will not be a battle, it will be a massacre!" he shouted. "We will let the Bastard King gather up his army, right outside Winterfell gates, but the battle will be won by daggers, not by lances, swords or shields. We will kill 'King' Jon Snow right in the middle of his camp!"

King Jon Snow?! Bran was so shocked that the dog whined, but Ramsay only laughed louder. "Did you know that the dragon goes berserk whenever the Bastard King is threatened?" Ramsay continued. "The beast doesn't even know the difference between friend and foe, it sees all men as the same meat. We kill the king, and then the dragon kills all of the wildlings for us! They have already lost, but none of them have even realised it yet."

The Bastard's Boys were clapping, stomping their feet. The hound struggled to hear the words over the news. "What of Lord Bolton?" someone asked.

"My lord father has his task, and I have mine," Ramsay scoffed. "Yours is to be sure that the little prince is in place for when—"

That was all Bran managed to hear, as the kennelmaster yanked the dogs away. Bran tried desperately to overhear what Ramsay was saying, but the man huddled at the other end of the courtyard with his men. Ramsay gave instructions in a sharp, firm voice and forced each man to repeat it.

The whole keep was stirring, for the first time in months. Bran tried to listen in through the bodies of crows on the wall, but birds didn't have the right ears to make out human words.

The night felt dark, dangerous. Dogs were barking and boots stomping. Bran watched with bated breath, but Ramsay didn't even enter the keep. The Bastard of Bolton stayed only long enough for his horses to rest and to pass instructions to his men, before ordering that the riders would be on their way before daylight. Ramsay was impatient to set off again, but there were no ravens in Thistle Hall so he had to stop to deliver instructions again.

It was the hour of the nightingale when the gate opened for the second time in one night, and Ramsay's horses set off down the dirt path at a quick gallop. Bran could feel Summer in the trees, stalking the road from the foilage. He wanted to attack Ramsay, to stop him leaving, but there were ten other riders with him. Summer wouldn't be able to fight ten armed, mounted men, not even with Bran's help, and Bran couldn't risk his wolf's life.

They closed the gates behind him. Bran heard Skinner shouting for men to ready supplies and horses for a quick march. The lull that had settled over Thistle Hall was shaken off quickly. Whatever Ramsay ordered them to do, it seemed they were to abandon Thistle Hall and follow quickly.

With a gasp, Bran returned to his body. His heart was pounding. Meera was over him, green eyes wide with concern. "Bran," she whispered. "What happened? What's happening out there?"

"Ramsay Snow," Bran gulped. "He arrived and then left again quickly. The garrison is preparing to set out."

"Are they taking us to Winterfell?"

Bran nodded. "There's to be a battle at Winterfell." He paused, trying to make sense of what he heard. "My brother. I think my brother is leading wildlings. Jon Snow is leading an army to take Winterfell."

It was the only thing that made sense. Meera just stared at him. Jon Snow, wildling king? How? Why?

No, Bran could answer that last one. He must be trying to save Arya. If they've got Arya, then Jon would go to the ends of the earth to save her. Did Jon abandon his vows, and open the gates for the wildlings in return for an army?

"And they're going to kill him." Bran was shaking with fear. "I heard them, they're going to kill Jon."

Her mouth opened in surprise, and then she nodded. She focused on what was important, no questions or doubts. "We've got to stop them. Warn him."

"I don't know where he is," Bran hissed. There were heavy bootsteps across the floor above. "I don't where we are, Meera."

"Then we escape. We find out," she said. "How many men are there? Did any leave with Ramsay?"

"Five did," Bran replied. "But we still can't go, we're trapped…"

"Actually no," Meera admitted. There was the clatter of iron rings. "We're not."

Slowly, she raised her leg upwards. The iron bracelets still clattered around her ankles, but the chain to the wall had been broken from the joint. Bran stared at shock. "I broke through two nights ago," she explained, with a grim face. "Rusted iron is not as strong as you'd think. You were too deep in your warg, there was no chance to show you."

Bran could only stare. Meera's fingers were scarred and gnarly from where she scratched at her manacles. She broke chips of stone from the wall to scrape at the metal, he thought. Her nails were ruined and blistering, it must have pained her hands, but she didn't stop. She worked day and night, for months, no matter how much it hurt.

Those manacles had been thick. Bran remembered thinking it was pointless; the guards must have thought it would be impossible too. And nobody put the manacles back on me because I'm just a cripple. They never bothered closing the cell door either.

"What of the door at the stairs?" Bran asked, breathless.

"That's locked, I already checked," she answered. "But that's just a normal door. I could break through, with a bit of work."

She's been free to move around for the first time in months, Bran realised. And yet she stayed on the floor to keep me company . His heart fluttered. There's nothing holding us back, we could escape together. Then he remembered. "What about the men?" His voice trembled. "Meera, how are we supposed to get through all of those men and out of the gate?"

"How many are there?"

"Seventy-four."

"I could set a trap, ambush a few while they're sleeping. I'm a bog-devil, that's what I do."

"Can you ambush so many?" She didn't reply. "And if we sneak out, they have horses and they could track us down." Bran grimaced. "And we'll never be able to sneak out anyways, because I'm a cripple and I'll just slow you down."

"We'll find a way, we will. We've got Summer to help us."

"We still need to get out of the gates first. There's seventy-four men standing between us and the gates - seventy-four murderers." Each one bigger and stronger than Meera. Maybe she was smarter and a better hunter, but that could only count for so much.

"Seventy-four men who have grown complacent. They won't be expecting me, they won't even see me coming. And they don't even know about what you can do."

"And if there were ten, sure. Maybe twenty would be possible. Thirty is pushing it. But seventy?" He shook his head. "It's not going to work, Meera, you know it's not."

"We have to try!" she argued. "We have to."

Bran realised why she was pushing so hard. "Because as soon as they move us they're going to realise you're not chained anymore," said Bran. "As soon as they start marching we're going to lose our advantage."

"We can do this," she insisted. Her eyes didn't flicker; she was a hunter, she didn't allow herself to hesitate. "Trust me, Bran."

"I do. But I won't let you kill yourself trying." She was so beautiful. Her ropey brown hair was a mess, her skin pale and pasty, and her face gaunt, but somehow Meera was still so strong, lean and determined after so long of captivity. Every night he had seen her flexing her legs and straining her muscles, forcing herself to stay fit even when chained. "We'll find another way, Meera. Somehow."

There was a long moment of quiet. In the gloom, he saw her face crinkle. "Could you make a distraction?" she said finally. "Some distraction, enough to give me a chance."

I don't know. He couldn't say the words, but his expression was enough of an answer.

Meera paused, and then continued. "We can steal a horse, Bran. Steal a horse and ride away."

"And how do we get the gate open? Or get through the courtyard?"

She didn't reply. Thistle Hall wasn't very big, but it was secure. Meera had been trapped in the dungeons, but Bran had inspected all the sharpened wooden palisade through birds and rats. He had seen no escape large enough for two children.

"Can you even carry me up the stairs? Escaping is hard, but you have to do it carry a useless body with you," Bran asked in a croaky voice. His face was pained. "Meera, if I hold you back, then you should just try to run witho—"

"Don't even say that, Brandon Stark," she said sharply. "And don't insult me by asking. I took a vow, remember? By earth and water, bronze and iron, ice and fire."

Her tone caused him to twitch. He didn't know how to reply. I need to do something. Some way to get rid of the men. A direwolf alone won't be enough, maybe a big elk, or a bear, or a…

Bran stopped. He heard her words. Ice and fire.

The idea came slowly. "What?" Meera asked. "Bran, what is it? Do you have a plan?"

I do. But it's not a good one. "Meera, are you sure?" he pressed. "Are you sure that you're strong enough to carry me?"

"I can carry you, Bran."

"And how fast will you be able to move?"

"Fast enough," she promised. "Tell me how fast I must go, and I'll do it. We're both getting out of here."

And it had to be soon. Before the garrison was ready to move out. We're only brave when we're scared. I must be very brave now. "Alright," Bran nodded. "I think I have an idea. Just promise me you'll be ready to run when the time comes."

She did. Bran gulped, closed his eyes, and he tried to concentrate. He tried to picture ice and death. He opened his third eye, extended his mind, and tried to see how far he could go. The world blurred, like stepping out of his body and into a dream.

He felt the earth around him. He felt the roots, he felt the snow. Everything was twisted and distorted, slipping away from his body, but he pushed outwards.

Bran remembered that feeling of pure cold and he tried to find it again. He focused on the image of a Stranger of black and white. The last time, at Last Hearth, Bran had felt himself drawn to it as he slept.

He could feel its presence, even though mountains and horizons separated them. Something about it polluted the aura of the land for miles around. In his mind, the Stranger felt like a beacon - a beacon of power as bright and as horrible as a cold blue sun.

Bran followed its trail like a moth drawn to the flame. He felt the power shiver as he approached.

The white walker sensed him searching for it too. He could feel it and it felt him.

There's something about our abilities, Bran realised. They feel similar. We share common powers. Except the Other was colder and more powerful than he could even understand – it felt like an entire storm, unholy and tainted, crystallized into the shape of a man. Like winter itself given flesh.

The vision came into focus. He saw it; the Other was exactly how he remembered it; half scorched black and half icy white. There was only a single bright blue eye, the rest of its skull looked scorched by flames. It was covered in darkness, limping on the ground in earthen cave. Hiding in the shadows, body crouched and infinitely patient.

Outside, a snowstorm howled. The air felt so cold it chilled Bran's ethereal body. Something about the Other made the very earth colder. Bran was in the earth and in the roots, watching it through the ground itself. The Other twitched, like a predator sensing prey.

"Little boy," the voice croaked. A voice like scraping ice, so cold it chilled Bran to his bone. "I see you."

It speaks the Common, somehow. I can understand it. Can it understand me? "I can see you as well," Bran replied.

The Other paced, twitching. It had its icy sword in its hand, so cold that mist chilled around the blade. Bran backed away instinctively. This is just a dream, the exact same as I do with the three-eyed crow.

"Scared," the Stranger said. "Scared little boy."

"Yes," Bran agreed, gulping. "I'm very scared. I also will be very brave."

It was looking right at him, like a cat might stare at a particularly interesting mouse. "'Brave'. I know that word too. Mortals call themselves brave for denying the inevitable, but they're not. Only blind."

He remembered what the three-eyed crows said. "You want to kill us." The cold seemed to chill him to the bone, his throated choked. "You want to kill all men."

"Kill. Kill. No, we do not… we do not want to kill." It took a step forward. Bran took three steps back. "Death is coming to all mortals, death by fire. We are here to save you all."

It didn't blink, it didn't each twitch, Bran noticed. Like a statue of ice, or a predator staying very, very still. "Fire and ice, little boy," the Stranger continued. "Fire would burn the world into ash, but ice freezes. Preserves. The fire would consume you all," the Stranger rasped. "The ice, it offers immortality."

It took another step. Bran forced himself to meet its gaze. Every instinct he had screamed at him to run but…

"I saw you killing those men. Those Night's Watch men. You killed them without a second glance." It didn't reply. "But then you saw me. You stopped to talk to me, and I don't think you do that very often. Why? Why did you pay any attention to me?"

"Scared little boy," it replied.

Bran shivered. "I was drawn to you. I don't understand it, but… but I think that you have power, and I have power too. We see each other. And you feel like a threat to me, my whole body is trembling. I feel like screaming and running away right now. It's like every instinct I have is yelling at me to run." Bran took a deep breath, trying to focus. "And I have to wonder… if our powers are similar… maybe you feel the same way about me too?"

No answer. "I think that's why you stopped to focus on me," Bran continued. "I think you paid attention to me because I'm more of a threat to you than thousands of men combined."

That was why the three-eyed crow wanted me. Whatever plan the Others have, I'm not a part of it. Maybe I'm a challenge to it. "And I don't think you like threats. I think you would want the chance to kill me. Or freeze me, or use me, or whatever."

There was a long moment of silence. "Little boy," the Stranger said finally.

No time to back down now. Its attention was on him. "I think you'd want to come and get me, then?" Bran challenged. His voice turned into a shout. "Come on! I'm right here, why don't you get me? Think about how good that would be for your war!"

The world blurred. Bran tried to picture Thistle Hall, and pass the scenery onto the Other. It shone like a beacon to me, maybe I can be a beacon to it too. "Come on. Right here. West, towards the mountains," Bran gasped. The vision shuddered. He felt a cold sweat on his brow. "Follow the wolf's howl. It will lead you right to me. Come and get me."

Its head cocked. There was no reply, but that eye shone. This is my only chance. What could defeat seventy-four monsters except one bigger, scarier monster? "If you knock four times on the gate," Bran continued, "then they'll think you a friend and open the gate for you. The men will try to stop you, but they can't, can they? They won't be able to stop you."

No reaction from the Stranger. "You think it's a trap," Bran said. "And it is, but not for you. And I think that I'm valuable enough of a prize that you're going to come anyways. And you better come quickly, because otherwise you might lose your chance."

The dream was shaking, dissolving. "So come on!" he screamed. "Come and get me!"

The cave dissolved. Bran shot awake, gasping for air. He saw darkness. Stone walls. The cell. The cold still lingered to his brow, and shivers down his spine.

Meera was staring at him, squeezing his hand. "Bran, what happened? What was it?"

He was still struggling for breath. "I've got a way to get us out," Bran wheezed. "Something very dangerous is going to come for us. There's going to be screaming, and then everyone between us and the gates is going to die."

Heavy boots above him; seventy-four Bastard's Boys. This cursed keep where they had been imprisoned for so long. Whatever happens, Ramsay Snow will not be able to use me as bait. "Just be ready to run, Meera. Just be ready to run."