Roose Bolton climbed up the steps of the main tower and he looked over at the carnage below him. Tents were lit up in flames, and so were the Stark banners. Frey and Bolton men alike attacked the rest of the Stark men, killing anyone who stood in their way. Now, the campground that Walder Frey had pitched earlier to house the Stark Men had become a battleground. A butcher's den.

The flames from the feasting tents reached halfway up the sky. Some of the barracks tents were burning, too, and half a hundred silk pavilions. Everywhere swords were singing as they clashed against others.

Then, coming out of the gates, a handful of Frey men began chanting, carrying an effigy of Robb Stark's body with Grey Wind's head crudely sewn on it. "Here comes the King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!" they mockingly chanted, as they paraded the effigy around and cheered.

Roose's eyes swept over the scene of chaos and horror. The flames of the fires below reflected in his pale eyes. He was now the new Warden of the North, and now his reign had just begun. And everyone would remember the name of Roose Bolton and his house.

The following day, Tyrion Lannister walked through the gardens of the Red Keep. By his side was Sansa Stark, whom he had married days earlier, and behind him was Shae, who had been his personal whore but now was a handmaiden to Sansa. It was something none of them wanted, but it was something that had to be done to appease Tywin Lannister. And to appease Tywin, they had to put on a show, showing the world that they were a married couple.

"Ser Eldrick Sarsfield and Lord Desmond Crakehall," Tyrion muttered under his breath as two men walked past them. "Ser Eldrick Sarsfield and Lord Desmond Crakehall. Ser Eldrick Sarsfield and Lord Desmond Crakehall."

Sansa peered down at him, wondering why he was muttering the names. "What are you doing?" she asked him.

"I have a list."

"A list of people you mean to kill?" she asked. She remembered Arya had a similar list when she was at the Red Keep, and Ned Stark was the Hand of the King. That felt like years ago now.

"For laughing at me? Do I look like Joffrey to you? No, death seems a bit extreme. Fear of death, on the other hand …"

"You should learn to ignore them."

"My lady," Tyrion began, "people have been laughing at me far longer than they've been laughing at you. I'm the half-man, the Demon Monkey, the Imp."

"You're a Lannister. I am the disgraced daughter of the traitor Ned Stark."

"The disgraced daughter and the Demon Monkey. We're perfect for each other."

Sansa chuckled. "So, how should we punish them?"

"Who?" Tyrion asked. "Whom?"

"Ser Eldrick Sarsfield and Lord Desmond Crakehall."

"Ah. I could speak to Lord Varys and learn their perversions. Anyone named Desmond Crakehall must be a pervert."

"I hear that you're a pervert," Sansa retorted.

"I am the Imp. I have certain standards to maintain."

Sansa chuckled, then sat at one of the garden seats. "We could sheep shift Lord Desmond's bed," she stated, but she was met with a look from Tyrion, which meant he didn't know what she meant. "You cut a little hole in his mattress and stuff sheep dung inside. Then you sew up the hole and make his bed again. His room will stink, but he won't know where it's coming from."

"Lady Sansa!"

"My sister used to do that when she was angry with me. And she was always angry with me."

Tyrion cocked his head. "Why 'sheep shift'?"

"That's the vulgar word for 'dung'."

"My lady …"

"Well, you asked me," Sansa interrupted before Podrick Payne approached them.

"My Lord. My Lady," Podrick greeted. "Your father has called a meeting of the Small Council."

Instructing Sansa and Shae to return to their quarters, Tyrion walked briskly to the Tower of the Hand. As he entered, he found Cersei and Grand Maester Pycelle gathered with Tywin and Joffrey. Joffrey was almost bouncing, and Cersei wore a savouring smug smile on her lips. However, Tywin looked as grim as ever.

"Killed a few puppies today?" Tyrion asked as he sat down at the table.

"Show him," Joffrey told Grand Maester Pycelle. "Come on, show him.

Grand Maester Pycelle's gnarled hand reached out to offer the parchment, but his grip faltered, sending the roll of paper fluttering to the floor. "Oh! Apologies, my lord. Old fingers," he stammered.

Tyrion sighed and reached down to grab the parchment himself. He unfurled it and read it out loud. "'Roslin caught a fine fat trout'," he read. "'Her brothers gave her a pair of wolf pelts for her wedding. Signed, 'Walder Frey'.' Is that bad poetry, or is it supposed to mean something?"

"Robb Stark is dead," Joffrey laughed. He looked at Grand Maester Pycelle. "Write back to Lord Frey. Thank him for his service and command him to send Robb Stark's head. I'm going to serve it to Sansa at my wedding feast."

"Your Grace, Lady Sansa is your aunt by marriage," Varys interjected.

"A joke," Cersei pointed out. "Joff did not mean it."

"Yes, I did," Joffrey stated. "He was a traitor, and I want his stupid head. I will serve it to Sansa at my wedding feast and make her kiss it."

"No," Tyrion said, his voice slicing through the room. "She is no longer yours to torment."

Joffrey's temper flared. "Everyone is mine to torment," he sneered. "You'd do well to remember that, you little monster."

"Am I?" Tyrion asked with a cocked head. "Perhaps you should speak to me more softly, then. Monsters are dangerous beasts, and just now, kings are dying like flies."

Joffrey's face reddened, and he clenched his fists. "I could have your tongue out for saying that."

Cersei reached a hand out to Joffrey and placed her hand over his. "Let the dwarf make all the threats he wants. Hmm? He's a bitter little man. I want my lord father to see him for what he is."

"Lord Tyrion should be forced to apologise immediately," spoke up Grand Maester Pycelle. "It's unacceptable, disrespectful, and in very bad taste."

Joffrey's patience wore thing, and he snatched his hand away from his mother's before looking at Tyrion. "I am the KING!" he bellowed. "I will punish you."

"Aerys also needed to remind men that he was king," Tywin told Joffrey. "And he was passing fond of ripping tongues out as well. You could ask Ser Ilyn Payne about that, though you'll get no reply."

"Ser Ilyn never dared provoke Aerys the way your Imp provokes Joff," sneered Cersei. "You heard him. 'Monster', he said. To the King's Grace. And he threatened him . . ."

"Be quiet, Cersei," Tywin interrupted. "Joffrey, when your enemies defy you, you must serve them steel and fire. However, you must help them back to their feet when they go to their knees. Elsewise no man will ever bend the knee to you. And any man who must say 'I am the king' is no true king. Aerys never understood that, but you will. When I've won your war for you, we will restore the king's peace and the king's justice. Margaery Tyrell's maidenhead is the only head that needs to concern you."

Joffrey had that sullen, sulky look he got, and he surprised them all. Instead of scuttling safely under his rock, he drew himself up defiantly and said, "You talk about Aerys, Grandfather, but you were scared of him."

"Joffrey, apologise to your grandfather," said Cersei.

"Why should I? Everyone knows it's true. My father won all the battles. He killed Prince Rhaegar and took the crown while he hid under Casterly Rock!"

Tywin stared over at Joffrey. "The King is tired," he said. "See him to his chambers."

Cersei got up and took Joffrey by the arm. "Come along," she said, pulling him out the door.

"I'm not tired," Joffrey protested.

"We have so much to celebrate. A wedding to plan. You must rest."

Tywin looked over at Grand Maester Pycelle. "Grand Maester, perhaps some essence of nightshade to help him sleep."

Joffrey moved out of Cersei's grip and turned around. "I'm not tired!" he told them again.

With Cersei's hand guiding him and Grand Maester Pycelle's shuffling steps following, they all exited the room one by one, leaving only Tywin and Tyrion alone in the wake of their departure. Tyrion's fingers twitched with the desire to follow suit and escape Tywin's oppressive weight.

But Tywin's voice halted him in his tracks. "Not you."

"You just sent the most powerful man in Westeros to bed without his supper," Tyrion quipped.

"You're a fool if you believe he's the most powerful man in Westeros," Tywin retorted.

"A treasonous statement. Joffrey is King."

"You really think a crown gives you power?"

"No. I think armies give you power."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Robb Stark had one, never lost a battle, and you defeated him all the same."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Oh, I know. Walder Frey gets all the credit. Or the blame, I suppose, depending on your allegiance. Walder Frey is many things, but a brave man? No. He never would have risked such an action if he didn't have certain assurances."

"Which he got from me," Tywin stated. "Do you disapprove?"

"I'm all for cheating. This is war. But to slaughter them at a wedding …"

"Explain why killing 10,000 men in battle is more noble than a dozen at dinner."

"So that's why you did it? To save lives?"

"To end the war. To protect the family. Do you want to write a song for the Dead Starks? Go ahead. Write one. I'm in this world a little while longer to defend the Lannisters, to defend my blood."

"The Northerners will never forget."

"Good," Tywin said. "Let them remember what happens when they march on the South." He looked down at his papers on the table and picked them up. "All the Stark men are dead, and the Northern armies lay scattered. Roose Bolton will be named Warden of the North, where he can pick up the pieces and unite and rally the North behind him. Winterfell still stands, and the Stark's ally Rumplestiltskin is there. I'm sure he will try to launch an attack. He must not find allies that will help. Once Sansa's son comes of age, that should help them decide who the true Warden of the North is."

Tywin stood up and looked over at Tyrion. "I believe you still have some work to do on that score," he said and moved to the desk at the back of the room.

"Do you think she'll open her legs for me after I tell her how we murdered her family?" Tyrion asked as he followed his father over.

"Just brother," Tywin told him. "Catelyn Stark escaped the Twins with Rumplestiltskin. That's how I know he will be at Winterfell. It's protected. Besides, that doesn't matter. One way or another, you will get Sansa Stark pregnant."

"I will not rape her," Tyrion stated.

"Shall I explain how the world works in one easy lesson?"

"Use small words. I'm not as bright as you."

"The house that puts family first will always defeat the house that puts the whims and wishes of its sons and daughters first. A good man does everything he can to better his family's position, regardless of his selfish desires." Tywin looked over at his son and cocked his head. "Does that amuse you?"

"No, it's a very good lesson. Only it's easy for you to preach utter devotion to family when you're making all the decisions."

"Easy for me, is it?"

"When have you ever done something that wasn't in your interest but solely for the benefit of the family?"

"The day that you were born. I wanted to carry you into the sea and let the waves wash you away. Instead, I let you live. And I brought you up as my son. Because you're a Lannister," Tywin said before walking away.

The image of Tyrion Lannister dissipated from the centre of the newly established war room at Winterfell. In the middle of the table sat a crystal ball, which Rumplestiltskin had enchanted to enlarge the vision inside, which took up the centre of the room.

Rumplestiltskin had listened to the conversation between Tywin and Tyrion and the meeting beforehand. But it wasn't just Rumplestiltskin, but Belle, Ser Rodrick, Maester Luwen and Catelyn Stark, too.

Catelyn looked at the crystal ball. "Tywin's cunning knows no bounds," she said.

"Aye," agreed Ser Rodrick. "He's a true puppeteer, that one."

"It is clear that the Lannisters will stop at nothing to solidify their control over the North," Maester Luwen said.

Belle frowned and turned to look at Rumplestiltskin, leaning back in his chair and tapping on the armrest. "What can we do now?" she asked. "How can we counter such manipulation?"

"We hit them where they hit us, of course," Rumplestiltskin said. "I think it's time I paid another visit to King's Landing. Maybe someone down there is more sympathetic to our cause."

"And what do you plan to do down there?" Ser Rodrick asked.

Waving his hand over the table, Rumplestiltskin conjured a small vial full of a black substance. "It's high time that Tywin Lannister feels what it's like to lose someone close to him. To feel like he is losing everything. He says he is the most powerful man in Westeros. Well, that's because he hasn't met me, dearie."

Belle looked over at the small vial. "Rumple … is that what I think it is?"

Rumplestiltskin nodded. "Dreamshade. A more highly concentrated dose than what I was infected with. If done right, this should kill someone in minutes."

Belle's eyes darted from the vial and Rumplestiltskin. "We need to be careful, Rumple," she told him. "We can't become what we fight against."

"The Lannisters have proven time and again that they're willing to do anything for their hold on power. I'm not suggesting we become them, but we must show them they're not invincible. And not just them, but the entire realm."

Ser Rodrick scratched at his beard. "If we do go through with this, we'll need the right target," he said thoughtfully. "Someone whose death would hit Tywin hard."

"Leave that to me," Rumplestiltskin said. "I know exactly who to choose."

The meeting soon ended, and they all began to go their separate ways until Catelyn caught up with Rumplestiltskin and Belle. "You wouldn't have seen where Bran is, would you?" she asked. "When I left Winterfell, I left behind three children. Robb, Bran and Rickon. Robb is dead, and I've seen Rickon, but where is Bran?"

Rumplestiltskin sighed. He had been regretting this conversation for a long time and hoped it would never have been brought up. "He is on an adventure on his own," he said. "Up North."

Catelyn's eyes widened. "North?" she repeated. "What kind of adventure takes a young boy so far from home in these dangerous times?"

"Bran has his own destiny to fulfil," Rumplestiltskin explained. "Young Bran's path is intertwined with something greater than just himself. Something I didn't quite realise until the children of Ned's friend visited us: Jojen and Meera Reed."

Catelyn's brows furrowed. "Jojen and Meera Reed?" she repeated. "What do they have to do with Bran's destiny?"

"Jojen has the gift of greensight. A rare ability to glimpse the future through his dreams. And not just the future but events that happened long ago in the past and events that are happening at this very moment. They've taken him to see someone. Someone who lives beyond the Wall."

"But he's just a boy, Rumple. He's not equipped to face the dangers beyond the Wall."

"I understand what you must be feeling right now, Catelyn. I truly do. But they know how to summon me if needed, and I'll be there to help them instantly," he told her before conjuring a crystal ball in his hands. "Thake this. It's enchanted, so when you look at it, it will show you Bran."

Catelyn took the crystal ball from Rumplestiltskin's hands, brushing her fingers against the smooth surface. She stared down at it with a frown. "This is a kind gesture, Rumple, but it's not the same as having my son here with me."

Belle placed a comforting hand on Catelyn's shoulder. "Rumple is right. We will also keep an eye on him through the crystal ball. And if anything goes wrong, he will be there to help."

Catelyn smiled and nodded. "Thank you," she said, tightening her grip on the crystal ball before tucking it into a small pouch and leaving the room.

Belle stayed close to Rumplestiltskin before looking up at him. "I do believe that you should fight for justice, but don't let yourself be consumed by darkness," she told him. "You've come a long way. Don't let it be for nothing."

Rumplestiltskin met her gaze. "The path we need to tread is a treacherous one," he told her. "To get what we want, I'm afraid the Seven Kingdoms will have to meet the Dark One. But don't worry, Sweetheart. You have always seen the best in me, even when I couldn't see it myself. I will let your love guide me so I am not consumed by the Darkness again. I promise."

Catelyn returned to her room, which hadn't been touched since she left to meet Ned in King's Landing. She looked around the room and sighed. The room was filled with memories and mementoes of her past. A stark reminder of the life she had led before everything changed – before her world had shattered.

She walked over to the window and gazed out at the courtyard below. The sunlight bathed over the people and objects below, and a bitter wind blew past her and through the trees of the Godswood as if it was carrying the secrets of the North. Or, as Ned used to say, the secrets of the Old Gods.

She closed her eyes momentarily, allowing memories to wash over her. The laughter of her children and the warmth of Ned's embrace. It felt like a lifetime ago now. She looked over at the wooden balcony, where she had once stood with Ned, watching Robb and Bran – and even Jon Snow – practising their archery – and when Arya had sneaked up behind them and hit the bullseye on her first try.

"And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" echoed Ned's voice.

Sighing, Catelyn turned away from the window and walked towards the hearth. The dying embers emitted a faint warmth – a feeble attempt to ward off the chill that seemed to permeate her soul. She sat in front of the fire and pulled out the crystal ball Rumplestiltskin had given her.

Cradling the crystal ball in her hands, she stared into its depths. Its transparency showed a flicker of the fading flames from the hearth reflecting in her eyes. "Bran," she whispered.

As she concentrated on the crystal ball, a soft glow began to emanate from within the middle of the ball. The glow grew stronger as purple clouds within the crystal ball parted, and an image began to form. It was like a window to another place and a landscape she hadn't seen before.

Inside the vision, she saw Hodor pushing Bran in a small cart. Beside him, Jojen Reed was walking, and they looked over at Meera and Summer running back to them.

"It's empty," called Meera as she and Summer ran back from the rubble of the abandoned castle behind her.

"Let's find a place to sleep," Jojen said, and he and Hodor began walking again, following Meera's lead. They entered the ruined castle – the Nightfort, and Hodor peered over the knee-high lip of the well and said, "HODOR!"

The word echoed down the well, "Hodorhodorhodorhodor," fainter and fainter, "hodorhodorhodorhodor," until it was less than a whisper. Hodor looked startled. Then he laughed and bent to scoop a broken slate off the floor.

"Hodor, don't!" said Bran, but too late. Hodor tossed the slate over the edge. "You shouldn't have done that. You don't know what's down there. You might have hurt something, or . . . or woken something up." He looked around, watching as Meera and Jojen stared at the fire they had made. "Maybe we shouldn't stay here."

He remembered the tales Old Nan told him about the Nightfort. It was mentioned in her scariest stories. It was here that the Night's King had reigned with his Corpse Queen before their names were stricken from the memories of man. It was also here where the Rat Cook had served an Andal King his prince-and-bacon pie, where the seventy-nine sentinels stood their watch, and where the brave young Danny Flint had been raped and murdered.

This was the castle where King Sherrit had called down his curse on the Andals of old, where the 'prentice boys had faced the thing that came in the night, where blind Symeon Star-Eyes had seen the hellhounds fighting. Mad Axe had once walked these yards and climbed these same towers, butchering his brothers in the dark.

All that had happened hundreds and thousands of years ago., to be sure, and some maybe never happened at all. Maester Luwen had always told him that Old Nan's stories shouldn't be swallowed whole. But once his uncle came to see Father, Bran asked about the Nightfort. Benjen Stark never said the tales were true, but he never said they weren't; he only shrugged and said, "We left the Nightfort two hundred years ago," as if that was an answer.

"You'd rather be out there?" Meera asked.

"There are a lot of stories about this place," Bran told her. "Horrible stories."

Jojen looked over at him. "I always quite liked the horrible stories."

"So did I," Bran said. Thinking about Old Nan's stories made them come to his attention, and now, they were the only thoughts in his head. "Once. Did you ever hear about the Rat Cook?"

"No," Meera answered with a shake of her head. "Who's he?"

"Just a cook in the Night's Watch. He was angry at an Andal King, why, I don't remember. When the King visited the Nightfort, the cook killed his son and cooked him into a big pie with onions, carrots, mushrooms, and bacon. That night he served the pie to the King. He liked his son's taste so much that he asked for a second slice. The Gods turned the cook into a giant white rat who could only eat his own young. He's been roaming the Nightfort ever since, devouring his babies. But no matter what he does, he's always hungry."

Meera let out a small laugh. "If the Gods turned every killer into a giant white rat …"

"It wasn't for murder the Gods cursed the Rat Cook or for serving the King's son in a pie. He killed a guest beneath his roof. That's something the Gods can't forgive."

Walder Frey sat in the banquet hall at his table, eating his mean while he watched his maids and servants scrab all the blood from the wooden floor from the previous night. He smiled to himself as he popped a forkful of food into his mouth and looked over at Roose Bolton.

"'The Late Walder Frey', old Tully called me because I didn't get my men to the Trident in time for battle," he said. "He thought he was witty." He looked towards the ceiling. "Look at us now, Tully. You're dead, your grandson's dead, your son spent his wedding night in a dungeon, and I'm Lord of Riverrun." He laughed.

"The Blackfish escaped," Roose pointed out. "And his daughter is out there somewhere with Rumplestiltskin."

"They have no allies. They're just relics of an old time. Besides, I have Tywin Lannister backing me. Who do they have now?"

"As you say."

"They all laughed at me, all those high lords. They all thought they were better than me. Ned Stark, Hoster Tully. People snigger when I marry a young girl, but who said a word when Jon Arryn married that little Tully bitch?"

"You'll be needing a new young girl."

"Yeah," Walder said resignedly. "Got that to look forward to."

"Hmm."

"And you, the Warden of the North." Walder raised his goblet in a toast to Roose. "No more Starks to bow and scrape to. Must have been torture following that stupid boy all over the country."

Roose slowly approached the table. "He ignored my advice at every turn. If he'd been a trifle less arrogant…"

"Calling himself the 'Young Wolf'. How's that for pomposity?" Walder chuckled. "Well, he's to the Young Wolf!" Bringing his goblet to his lips, he let out a mocking wolf howl before taking a sip.

"Forever young," Roose added, and they both laughed.

"I suppose you'll be moving to Winterfell now that the war's over," Walder said.

"I'd have to claim it first," Roose stated. "There's still Starks there. And Rumplestiltskin. They won't be willing to move without a fight."

"Yeah. Suppose a good fight will do your men good." Walder leaned forward. "What happened up there? I heard that Greyjoy boy tried to seize the place while other Ironborn raided the rest of the North. I heard other Ironborn began to defend the North against the rest of the attackers, like some civil war between Ironborn. And then, nothing."

"Rumplestiltskin defended Winterfell against the Ironborn and banished Theon. I sent my bastard boy Ramsay to root out Theon. Ramsay delivered, of course, but he … Well, Ramsay has his own way of doing things."

In the North, Ramsay Bolton sat in the dungeons of the Dreadfort, eating a grilled sausage. He looked over at Theon, who was shirtless and bound to a wooden cross in a mirror to the flayed man on the banners of House Bolton.

He turned to look at him. "Well, the girls weren't lying," he told him. "You had a good-sized cock."

Theon looked over at Ramsay, panting heavily. He still felt the pain of Ramsay cutting and ripping off his cock from days earlier. He looked over at what Ramsay was eating. At the two grilled sausages on the plate. Ramsay noticed how he looked and then looked down at the plate. "What?" he asked, then realised what Theon was thinking. "No." He held up the plate, showing him what was on the plate. "Pork sausage." He laughed. "You think I'm some sort of savage?"

Ramsay leaned back in the wooden chair, twiddling the fork in his hand. "People talk about phantom limbs," he began thoughtfully. "An amputee might have an itch where his foot used to be. So I've always wondered …" He looked down at the pork sausage and picked it up, hovering it in his hand and watching it bend. "… do eunuchs have a phantom cock?" He turned to Theon, watching as he sobbed. "Next time you think about naked girls, will you feel an itch?" He waved the sausage in his hand towards Theon.

Theon wept more, and Ramsay took a bite of the sausage. "Sorry," he chewed. "I shouldn't make jokes. My mother taught me not to throw stones at cripples. But my father taught me to aim for their head."

"Kill me …" whimpered Theon.

Ramsay stopped eating and turned his head towards him. "Sorry, what?"

"Kill me…" begged Theon in a whimper.

"A little louder?"

"Kill me!" Theon yelled before weeping and whimpering again.

"You're no good to me dead. We need you." Ramsay finished the last bite of his meal before getting up and walking over to where Theon was. He pulled his head back so he could look him in the eyes. "You don't look like a Theon Greyjoy anymore. That's a name for a lord. But you're not a lord, are you? You're just meat. Stinking meat. You reek." He gasped and stepped back. "Reek! That's a good name for you. What's your name?"

"Theon Greyjoy," Theon replied.

Ramsay let his palm crack him across his cheek. "What's your name?"

Theon stammered. "Theon Greyjoy." But Ramsay slapped him again. "Please…" Theon whimpered.

"What. Is. Your. Name?" Each word was punctuated with an ominous – yet deliberate – pause

Theon's breath shuddered, his voice barely audible as he surrendered to the inevitable truth. The truth that Ramsay wanted him to admit. He wasn't Theon Greyjoy anymore. In fact, he was sure he was never Theon Greyjoy. He had only ever been one man. "Reek," he murmured, his voice only a mere fragment of his former self. "My name is… Reek."

That night, Bran was asleep, but he awoke a couple of hours later when he heard the noise.

His eyes opened. What was that? He held his breath. Was he dreaming it? Was it a nightmare? He didn't want to wake Meera or Jojen for a bad dream, but there was a soft scuffling sound far off.

Leaves, he thought to himself. It had to be the leaves rattling off the walls outside and rustling together. Or it could have been the wind. But the sound wasn't coming from outside. Bran felt the hairs on his arm start to rise. The sound was coming from inside. It was with them.

He leaned up and looked around. "Hodor!" he whispered, and Hodor got up. Meera was the next to get up, and she picked up her dagger and looked around without a word. Summer joined them, growling low as they all looked ahead, watching.

A tremendous black shape heaved itself into the darkness and lurched toward them. Meera lurched ahead with her dagger and fell on top and fell on top of the shadowy creature. "Don't kill me!" he begged as he flopped and fought.

"Who are you?" Meera demanded.

"Sam! Sam!" came a woman's voice as she ran towards them. She was holding a baby in her arms.

Meera turned around. "Who are you?" she demanded again.

"Gilly," the woman answered. "Don't hurt us."

"Where are you going?" Jojen asked.

"To Castle Black," the fat man – Sam – answered. "I'm a brother of the Night's Watch."

"My brother…" Bran began. "He's in the …"

"Shush," Jojen said.

"Who's your brother?" Sam asked.

"Doesn't matter," Jojen stated.

Summer slowly approached Sam and Gilly, growling. Same looked over at the direwolf. "You're Jon's brother. The one who fell from the window."

"No, I'm not," Bran lied.

"I've been around Ghost enough to know a direwolf when I see one." Sam looked over at Hodor. "And I've heard all about Hodor."

"Hodor," Hodor said with a smile.

"I'd be dead if it weren't for Jon," Sam stated. "If you're his brother, you're my brother, too. And anything I can do to help you, I will."

"Take us north of the Wall," Bran said.

Sam was silent for a moment. He had just come from beyond the Wall. "What? Why in the world would you want to go …"

"I don't want to," Bran interrupted. "I have to."

"How did you get through the Wall?"

"Does the well lead to an underground river?" Meera asked. "Is that how you came here?"

Sam ignored her. "Come with us. There are steps carved into the south side of the Wall. Hodor can carry you to the top. We'll walk straight to Castle Black."

"Come with us," Gilly said. "There's nothing north but death."

"If Jon is alive, then Castle Black's where he'll be. It's the safest place for you."

"The safest place is Winterfell," Bran said. "But I can't be there. Not yet. I'm needed beyond the Wall."

"What I know is what I saw," Sam said, still thinking about his previous encounter with the White Walkers. Well, White Walker. "If you saw it too, you will run the other way. I know it."

"You saw the White Walkers and the Army of the Dead?" Jojen asked.

"How do you know that?"

"The Night's Watch won't be able to stop them. The Kings of Westeros and all their armies can't stop them."

They were silent for a moment until Sam spoke up. "But you're going to stop them?"

"Please, Sam," Bran begged. "I have to go north. I have to."

A rider galloped along the hills of the Iron Islands until it reached the stronghold of the Greyjoys. Once there, he handed Balon and Asha Greyjoy a message and a wooden box. Balon took the letter while Asha took the box.

Balon frowned as he saw the wax seal on the parchment. The seal of House Bolton. He snapped it, unfurled the message, and began to read it:

"Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands and invader of the North.

"You and the rest of the Ironborn have given the North a good fight. But now, it is over. You must relinquish all claims and land that you have on the North. Remember, your home are the shit-stained rocks to the west of Westeros and not our lands.

"On the first night of the full moon, if your men haven't given up to Moat Cailin, I will personally march down there with my men and drag them out, where I will personally have them flayed alive.

"In the box, you'll find a special gift – Theon's favourite toy. He cried when I took it away from him."

Balon cocked his head at the paper and joined his daughter, Asha, who had opened the box. He stared at what was inside it. The severed remains of Theon's cock, which was all covered in dry blood. He looked away in disgust and began to read the rest of the message.

"Accept my demands, or more boxes will follow with more Theon.

"Signed, Ramsay Snow, natural-born son of Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and Warden of the North."

Sighing, he turned to Asha. "Get that out of my sight," he said of the box with Theon's severed cock inside. Asha looked over at her father, and he met her look. "Theon disobeyed my orders in the first place. It is his fault he's been captured."

Balon had never told Theon to attack Winterfell in the first place. Only to raid the western coastline of the North before they got stronger. But Theon wanted to be different. He wanted to prove himself to his father by taking the seat of the Starks. But, taking Winterfell was more difficult than he anticipated. And then, forces from Winterfell – former Ironborn – began to attack the strongholds of the North that the Iron Islands had captured to free them from Balon's control. Ultimately, they had no choice but to retreat back to the Iron Islands or Moat Cailin, whichever was the closest to them.

And now, this bastard of the Dreadfort wanted more terms from them? To force them out of Moat Cailin and for them to never return to the North?

"There's fight left in these old bones of mine," Balon said. "I will not let some bastard tell me what I can and cannot do."

"What do you suggest, Father?" Asha said.

"I need you to take our best ship," Balon answered. "For you will be commanding it. And not just the ship, but the best men in our army. You will sail past the Seven Kingdoms until you reach the Weeping Water. There, you will march on the Dreadfort. We will show Ramsay Snow and House Bolton that we do not yield to threats. We do not sow, especially to the likes of him." He pointed to the wooden box on the table. "Theon may not be a man anymore, but he still has Greyjoy blood. And it's time we bring him back where he belongs."

Sam and Gilly led Bran, Hodor, Jojen, Meera and Summer to the tunnel that separated the two sides of Westeros – the lands of the Free Folk and the lands of the Seven Kingdoms. Sam removed a small, black dagger from under his cloak and gave it to Bran, who examined it carefully.

"What is it?" Bran asked.

"Dragonglass," answered Jojen.

"We found them at the Fist of the First Men," Sam explained. "Someone buried them a long time ago. Someone wanted us to find them."

"Why?" What are they for?" Bran asked.

"Killing White Walkers."

"How do you know that?" Meera asked.

"A Walker came for my baby," Gilly said. "And Sam …"

"But no one's killed a White Walker in thousands of years."

"Well, I suppose someone had to be the first," Sam said.

Bran handed the dragonglass dagger over his shoulder. "Take it, Hodor."

Hodor took it and looked over at the shiny surface.

"And the archer," Sam said, handing the rest to Meera. "I got lucky with one of them. There are more. Many more. And for every one of them, the dead men, more than you could count." He took a deep breath. "I wish you'd come with us."

"I wish I could," Bran said. "I really do." Ban and his group parted ways with Sam and Gilly and continued through the tunnel to reach the other side of the Wall and onto whatever was waiting for them on the other side.

On the island of Dragonstone, Davos Seaworth descended into the dungeons, where Gendry (one of Robert Baratheon's bastards) sat with his back against the cold, metal cells.

"How are you keeping?" Davos asked.

"Great," Gendry lied. "Never better."

"It was just a bit of blood."

His blood. Gendry thought he would see his family and be with people who wanted to be with him. But, it turned out that Melisandre – the Red Priestess of Stannis Baratheon – only wanted his blood for some spell of hers. Bloodmagic, she called it. "I should have known. Every time a highborn asks my name, it's trouble. We're not really people to you, are we? Just a million different ways to get what you want."

"I'm not a highborn," Davos corrected.

"She called you 'Ser'. I heard it."

Sighing, Davos turned to sit against the bars. "A recent state of affairs. I was born in Flea Bottom, just like you."

"Sure, you were. You're my friend. You're here to help."

"I lived below the Street of Flour."

"How far below? How close to the Red Keep were you?"

"The shit that poured from their privy pipes flowed down the side of Aegon's Hill, along Tanner's Row and right in front of my front door on Gin Alley. The Street of Steel, with your armour and your knights? You lived in the fancy part of town. And here we are now. Two boys from Flea Bottom in the castle of a king."

"Yeah, we've come a long way. We're all the same, really. She went to great pains to point that out to me."

"If you mistrust fancy people so much, why were you in such a hurry to trust her?" Davos asked.

Gendry turned to look at Davos. "Pretend you're me. Never been with a woman, never talked to a woman. And then she comes at you, big words, no clothes. What would you have done?"

"She does know her way around a man's head; I'll give her that," Davos said, and they both chuckled.

"So, how'd you become a lord?"

"Oh, that's a long story."

"Better not, then. I'm a bit busy."

"Many years ago, I helped King Stannis out of a difficult situation. He rewarded me with a lordship. And this." Davos held up his hand, showing Gendry the loss of his fingertips.

"You see? Highborns."

"I didn't want to be a lord. I nearly didn't accept."

"Why did you?"

"I did it for my son. I didn't want him to step over a river of shit every time he stepped through his front door. I wanted him to have a better life."

"Does he?" Gendry asked.

"He's dead." Killed by wildfire in the Battle of Blackwater Bay.

"How did he die?"

"Following me." Davos got up and looked at Gendry in his cell before moving to leave the dungeons.

The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across the room as Tyrion Lannister reclined back in his chair, holding a goblet of rich, crimson wine. He looked at Podrick Payne and leaned over the table, pouring another goblet. "Keep up," he instructed.

"I don't think I can, my lord," Podrick said, watching as Tyrion poured him another goblet of wine.

"It's not easy being drunk all the time. Everyone would do it if it were easy," Tyrion said as they heard the door creak open and close and footsteps approach them.

"Leave," demanded Cersei as she stood over Podrick. Podrick stared up at the Queen Regent. Then, placing his goblet on the table, he got up from his seat and left the room. Cersei looked over at Tyrion. "So, enjoying married life?" she asked Tyrion as she poured herself some wine. "An unhappy wife is a wine merchant's best friend."

"She doesn't deserve this," Tyrion said.

"Deserve? Be careful with that. Start trying to work out who deserves what, and before long, you'll spend the rest of your days weeping for every person in the world."

"There's nothing worse than a late-blooming philosopher. Will you be facing your marriage to Ser Loras with the same philosophical spirit?"

Cersei chuckled. "I won't be marrying Ser Loras."

"I seem to remember saying something similar about my own marriage."

"You're not me. And thank the Gods for that. Besides, if you want to improve things for Sansa, you must give her a child."

"So you can tell Father it was you who finally talked me into it?"

"So she can have some happiness in her life."

"You have children. How happy would you say you are?"

"Not very. But if it weren't for my children, I'd have thrown myself from the highest window in the Red Keep. They're the reason I'm alive."

"Even Joffrey?"

"Even Joffrey. He was all I had once. Before Myrcella was born. I used to spend hours looking at him. His wisps of hair. His tiny little hands and feet. He was such a jolly little fellow. You always hear the terrible ones were terrible babies. 'We should have known. Even then, we should have known'. It's nonsense. Whenever he was with me, he was happy." She moved to sit at the table next to Tyrion.

"And no one can take that away from me," Cersei continued. "No one will ever take that away from me; how it feels to have someone. Someone of your own."

"How long does it last?" Tyrion asked.

"Until we have dealt with all our enemies."

"Every time we deal with an enemy, we create two more."

"Then I suppose it will go on for quite some time."

Gilly and Sam trudged wearily through the snow-covered oath that led them back to Castle Black. Once they were at the Night's Watch fortress, their destination was Maester Aemon's quarters. Pushing the door open, they were met with the sight of an old maester, who was nearly blind, and whose face was etched with lines and wrinkles of age.

Sam cleared his throat, breaking the silence in the room like a thick fog. "I know how this must look," Sam began. He had brought back a Wildling woman and a baby from their expedition beyond the Wall. He was sure people would start rumours that he fathered the baby. "What I meant was …"

"I swear to you, my lord," interrupted Gilly.

"I'm not a lord, my dear," Maester Aemon corrected. "Not for many, many years. Every man who joins the Night's Watch renounces all former titles. Among other things. What is your name?"

"Gilly," answered Gilly.

"Ah. For the gillyflower. Lovely."

"Yes, my …" She turned to Sam, unsure what to call Maester Aemon.

"Maester," whispered Sam.

"Master," repeated Gilly.

"Maester," corrected Sam.

"And the child?" Maester Aemon asked.

"She hasn't chosen a name yet," Sam said.

"His name is Sam," Gilly said, and Same looked over at Gilly in confusion. Did she name her son after him?

"Tarly," Maester Aemon began. "Do you remember your oath when you joined this order?"

"He's not my child, Maester Aemon," Sam said. "She's one of Craster's wives. I remember every word of the oath. 'Night gathers, and my watch begins. I am the shield that guards the realms of men'. The realms of men. That means her as well as us. We didn't build 500 miles of ice walls 700 feet high to keep out men. The night is gathering, Maester Aemon. I've seen it. It's coming for all of us."

Maester Aemon listened intently, his milky eyes fixed on Sam as he spoke. "Gilly," he finally said, "you and your son will be our guests for now. We certainly cannot send you back beyond the Wall."

"Thank you … Maester," Gilly replied. "I can cook and clean, and I can …"

"Good," Maester Aemon interrupted. "Samwell, fetch a quill and inkwell." Sam turned towards the desk and picked up a quill and inkwell lying on it. "I hope your penmanship is better than your swordplay."

Miles better," Sam told him with a smile.

"We had 44 ravens at last count. Make sure they're all fed. Every one of them flies tonight."

Davos was back in his quarters on Dragonstone, where he began reading through the messages sent to them for Stannis to reply. It was a tedious job, but it had to be done. And he was also thankful that Shireen – Stannis' only daughter – was in the room, too. She was good company, but also, she had been teaching him how to read, which would come in handy if he got stuck on a word he had never seen before.

Picking up a scroll, he unfurled it and began to read. "'To His Grace King Stannis Baratheon'," he read out loud. "'Invaded …'" No, that didn't sound right. "'Invited to the name day celebration for Rylene Florent on the first nigit …'"

Shireen turned around. "Night," she corrected him.

"'First night of the full moon.' Why is there a 'G' in night?"

"I don't know," Shireen said as she moved closer to Davos' desk, clutching the book she was holding. "There just is."

"Well, your father's not going to go to that," Davos said, placing the parchment to the side.

Shireen held the brown book up to him. "My book is better than these boring scrolls. You could read about Balerion the Dread. They say you can still see his skull in the dungeons beneath the Red Keep. I'd like to see that someday."

"I've been trying to stay out of those dungeons my whole life."

"'His fangs were as long as bastard swords'," read Shireen before returning to her spot.

"Aye, old Balerion's better than anything your cousin Rylene's got on offer," Davos said with a chuckle. "But now that I'm your father's Hand again, I must keep him informed." He reached for another scroll. He broke the seal and unfurled it and began to read it. "The King does not have time for this drudgery," he continued before reading from the scroll. "'To all the lords and knobble men of Westeros …'"

"Noblemen," Shireen corrected.

"'Noblemen of Westeros, the Night's Watch …" Davos continued before trailing off and reading the rest to himself. He frowned, and his brow furrowed slightly as he read it.

Shireen looked over at him. "What is it?" she asked before they heard the tolling of the bells of Dragonstone. "Why are they ringing the bells? Are we being attacked?"

Davos stood up and looked over at Shireen. "Stay here. Bar the door," he instructed as he left the room and headed down to the room with the wooden painted table of Westeros. It was where Stannis always bided his time. And he was there, with Melisandre.

Stannis looked over at Davos when he entered. "The usurper Robb Stark is dead," he told him. "Betrayed by his bannerman."

Davos looked over at him, then at Melisandre. "And you take credit because you dropped a leech into the fire?" Well, a leech full of Gendry's blood, which was supposedly king's blood.

"I take no credit," Melisandre said. "I have faith, and my faith has been rewarded." She smiled at him.

"Your Grace," Davos said to Stannis, "the world has got so far bent. I've seen things crawl out of nightmares, but my eyes were open. I don't know if Robb Stark died because of the Red Woman's sorcery or because, at war, men die all the time, but I do know that uniting the Seven Kingdoms with blood magic is wrong. It is evil. And you are not an evil man."

"Do you know who had this table carved and painted, Ser Davos?" Stannis asked.

"Aegon Targaryen."

"And do you know how Aegon Targaryen conquered Westeros?"

"On the back of his dragon, Balerion the Dread."

"He had a smaller fleet than the kings he faced and a smaller army, but he had three dragons. Dragons are magic, Ser Davos. My enemies have made my kingdom bleed. I will not forget that. I will not forgive that. I will punish them with any arms at my disposal."

"You do not need to burn the boy," Davos said of Gendry. "If what you say is true, a drop of his blood killed Robb Stark …"

"And our King is no closer to the Iron Throne," Melisandre interrupted. "A great gift requires a great sacrifice."

Stannis moved to look out the window of the Room of the Painted Table and looked over at the cloudy sky and the still waters of the Narrow Sea.

"His name is Gendry," Davos said. "He's a good lad. A poor lad from Flea Bottom, who happens to be your nephew."

"What is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?" Stannis asked.

"Everything."

"The boy must die."

Davos departed Stannis and Melisandre's company and descended to the dungeons. Taking the keys to the cells with him, he unlocked Gendry's cell and stepped inside. Gendry looked up at him. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"You're leaving," Davos answered.

"Is this some kind of trick?"

"Yes, but not on you." Davos tossed a coarse cloak over to Gendry, who wrapped it over himself, and the two of them walked through the dungeons and out onto the beaches of Dragonstone, where a small boat was waiting for him.

"Aim for that star," Davos instructed, pointing to a bright star in the western sky. "Don't stop. There's bread and water. Go slow with it." He began to push it into the water. "If you finish it, no matter how thirsty you get, don't drink seawater."

"I know not to drink seawater," Gendry said.

"Row for a full day and night, and you'll reach Rook's Rest. You'll want to stop there. Don't. She'll find you."

"Where should I go?"

"You must keep the coast on your right side until you reach King's Landing."

"The gold cloaks are looking for me," Gendry stated.

"They were looking for me for twenty years. Do they know your face?"

"No."

"I'd worry more about the Red Woman."

Gendry climbed into the small rowboat and took the oars in his hands. "The other way," Davos told him, and Gendry turned around.

"Have you ever been in a boat before?" Davos asked.

Gendry shook his head. "No."

"Do you know how to swim?"

"No."

"Then don't fall out. Go on." Davos said, watching as Gendry began to row out into the ocean.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because it's right," Davos said. "And because I'm a slow learner. When you get to Flea Bottom, have a bowl of brown for me."

A lone horse galloped into the gates of Castle Black. Its frantic hooves echoed off the icy grounds as it ran. Jon Snow lay sprawled across the horse's back – his vision blurred by pain and exhaustion – he couldn't help but reflect on the path that had brought him to this point.

No one had told him what the Night's Watch was like. His father and family had allowed him to join. They knew what the Night's Watch was like, and they didn't tell him. Especially his father. He had wanted to run away from the Wall and join his brother south, fighting the war against the Lannisters, but some man he had never seen before stopped him. Forcing him to head back to the Night's Watch. He supposed that's how he had gotten into this mess. He returned to the Wall, where he was part of a ranging expedition beyond the Wall. Then, he infiltrated the Free Folk and was betrayed by the woman he loved. Well, he betrayed her, but at this moment, he didn't care. All he could feel was the arrows that she had shot into him.

The weight of his actions pressed upon him, and the icy wind seemed to cut deeper as he struggled to take shallow breaths. In that moment of agony, Jon's mind drifted back to the Night's Watch oath he had sworn years ago. The words echoed in his head, carrying the solemn promise he had made:

"I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men."

Yet, somewhere along the way, he had begun to question the true meaning of his vows. Had he become the shield, or had he become a weapon of betrayal? Was this the path he was supposed to take, or was there another?

Through his blurry vision, he could make out the figures of Pyp and Sam above him. "Pyp? Sam?"

"Hush, now," Sam told him. "You're home."

That evening, Davos was brought before Stannis and Melisandre after he had heard what Davos had done. Freeing Gendry from the dungeons. Stannis rubbed his temples in slow, circular motions. "You don't deny it?"

"No. I let him go," Davos said.

Melisandre approached him. "Your mercy saved the boy's life. You feel good about that?"

"Aye. I do."

"You saved one innocent. How many teens of thousands have you doomed?"

Davos took a breath. "There has got to be another way."

"What other way?" roared Stannis. "Tell us about this other way!"

"I don't know, Your Grace," Davos replied. "I can't see the future in the fire."

"Very well, Ser Davos Seaworth. I, Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of my Name, Rightful King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, sentence you to die."

"Very well. But since you haven't yet unnamed me Hand of the King, I must advise you against it. You're going to need me."

Melisandre ignored him. "Take him away," she said to the knights, who dragged Davos from the room of the painted table.

Stannis looked over at him. "Why am I gonna need you?"

Davos resisted the knights, pulled out a piece of parchment, and held it out to Stannis, who took it and began reading it. "It's from Maester Aemon of the Night's Watch," Davos explained. "Their Lord Commander is dead. Took a ranging party north and never made it back. One lad did, though. What he saw beyond the Wall, it's coming for all of us."

Stannis finished reading the message and passed it to Melisandre, who read over it, too.

"When did you learn to read?"

"Matthos taught me before he died so I could better serve you."

Silently, Melisandre crushed the parchment in her hand and placed it into the brazier, watching as the flames grew stronger. "This War of Five Kings means nothing. The true war lies to the North, my King. Death marches on the Wall. Only you can stop him."

"You can't stop him alone," Davos told Stannis. "You need someone to rebuild your army for you. Someone to convince this lord and that lord to fight for you. And to bring sellswords and pirates to your side."

"I've made my decision," Stannis stated.

"He's right," Melisandre told Stannis. "You need him. He has a part to play in the war to come."

Stannis scoffed, then he laughed. "You see, Ser Davos? You've been saved by that fire god you like to mock. You're in his army now."