The flames wake Edward Stark from his sleep.
He jolts upright in bed, tearing off the covers as thick beads of sweat stream down his face and his scar burns as hot as if it is trying to melt his face. He has had this dream before – in Castle Darry, after his fight with Joffrey. Father set ablaze, turning to ash within an eternal fire, arms out-stretched, beckoning him to join. He had been horrified then. But this time was worse. This time, it felt all too real.
He opens his mouth to call out, but his throat is dry and parched – no sound comes out. And Father is not there to answer, anyway. Rolling over, he reaches blindly in the dark to find the cup of water by his bed, turned tepid by the long hours of night. A small sip is enough to soothe his throat, but cannot still his mind. He drops down to the floor, bare feet shocked by the cold stone – he half expects steam to rise up from them as he steps forward, eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, bringing forth dark shapes out of the shadows. He dare not light a torch, for fear of seeing his father burning within.
Instead, he creaks open the shutters of his window, letting the cool night air soothe his skin and staring out at the stars. He looks back to the dark corner where he knows his latest painting is still drying – himself and his sisters and their wolves, looking out at the same sky and yearning for Winterfell together. Would that it could come true in life as it did on the canvas. But even with the precious few days bought by the delays to Ser Gunthor's departure to Oldtown, it seemed the joyful reunion he had prayed for would never come. There would be one more day in the city, and then Gunthor could wait no longer. He would be sailing south with his betrothed. And who knew when they would watch the stars together again.
Or see Father. Edward looks up to the eye of the Ice Dragon, that pale blue light, beckoning ever north. He knows that somewhere out there, on a distant battlefield, the same northern star shines on his father. He will come home, Edward banishes the image of the burning man from his mind. He must! He's going to make everything right!
But believe as hard as he might, he cannot go back sleep, for fear the dream will return. And so he remains at his window, sipping his water and watching the night give way to dawn.
"Where's Arya?" Edward asks when he arrives for his sword lesson, only to find Syrio Forel waiting alone, the Braavosi spinning his training sword about in a divot in the stone floor.
"Arya is on her own today." The same answer he has given every day since their fight, since Edward told her that he was leaving for Oldtown. "Her dreams have troubled her. She has promised to bring Syrio Forel the biggest cat in all the Red Keep."
"How can she?" Edward glares. His twin has been hiding in the cellars of the tower near every hour of the day. "We can't leave."
Syrio smirks his sly, knowing grin and tosses Edward his sword. "A boy must not think of such things. A boy must only think of the moment or else…" with a flourish, he brings the tip of his own training sword swooshing through the air to stop a hair's width away from Edward's neck "you die."
"But how?" Edward sighs, unflinching from the sudden strike. He does not raise his arm to parry, and the wooden tip of his sword scratches the ground at his feet. Syrio pauses, his quick olive eyes darting up and down the length of the young boy. He withdraws his attack.
"Boy. You will not train with Syrio Forel much longer. In Oldtown, you will no doubt find a new swordmaster. Perhaps one fiercer than Syrio Forel. Or stronger. But you will not find one wiser. Tell me, boy, what you have been told before. How did Syrio Forel become the First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos?"
Edward could recite the story by heart, were it demanded of him. "By seeing the truth of things. How they really are. You didn't let the sealord tell you his alley cat was some magic beast."
"Indeed." Syrio pokes Edward in the center of his chest with the blunt end of the training sword and gently takes Edward's back into his own left hand. "You must learn to see the world the way it truly is. But you must also do the same for yourself. In this life, many men and women alike will try to tell you who you are, what you must be. But only you know the truth. You must find it, and you must believe in it, even when no one else does. The moment you begin to live a lie, then you have already lost. Men choose to wear the lies of others because they are afraid."
"And the man who fears losing has already lost."
Syrio smiles again, but for once it is warm and sincere. Tucking both swords behind his back, he rests a hand on Edward's shoulder.
"Never forget this, Edward."
Edward does not know how to respond. Has the Braavosi ever called him by name before? This really is the end. A heavy lump begins to form in his throat. "Take care of Arya," is all he can say. Syrio nods. And that is enough.
From below, the smells of cooking have begun to waft up from the kitchens as the servants, freshly finished cleaning from the morning meal, now begin preparations for the new one. It is a cramped space, far from the vast kitchens of Winterfell where Torr the chef had learned his trade, and comes alive with the crush of bodies scurrying about the tight corners, dodging bursts of steam and the heat of the fires.
But amidst it all, Septa Mordane stands, unperturbed by the hustle and bustle, carefully kneading a thin, pale dough. Her thin, wrinkled fingers, practically naught but skin and bone, press sternly into the, flip it over and begin again. Across the table, young Jeyne Poole mashes tangy lemons in a bowl with eggs, butter and sugar, squinting with frustration as she attempts to get the right consistency.
"Careful, girl, you must not beat the lemons so harshly," Mordane admonishes Jeyne without looking up from her own work. With a sigh, the girl slows.
"Is Sansa alright?" she asks, not for the first time today.
"In body, your young lady bears no illness. It is her spirit that is wounded." Satisfied with the dough, Mordane gently picks up a slender knife and begins to cut out small circles.
"Will she still be the queen?"
"That is for Lord Stark to decide," she answers sternly, pulling the bowl across to here to examine the lemon paste. She frowns, and Jeyne blushes, but ultimately the septa improves. "Find a spoon, dear, and pour." She begins to fold the cut circles of dough into cup shapes, and Jeyne slowly doles out scoops of creamy lemon filling into each one.
"Will she like them? Will they make her come out? I miss her," Jeyne says sadly.
The septa has baked Sansa's favorite lemoncakes before, and like all other attempts, they have failed to lift the girl's spirits. But now… She had heard her cry out in the night. A terrible dream, to be sure. Perhaps enough to accept the comfort and counsel she refuses to admit she needs.
"I pray she will," Mordane slowly lifts the round stone tray and carries it across the kitchen, the servants instinctively knowing to scurry out of the holy woman's way. Jeyne follows close behind, like a nervous mouse, nearly treading on the hem of Mordane's plain grey dress and watching as the tarts are slid into the brick oven to cook over small flames.
"What do we do now?" she asks.
"Now?" Mordane stands back up, her back creaking. "Now, we wait."
Sansa sits in her bed, still in her sleeping gown, blankets and sheets curled around her in tightly woven spirals, her arms wrapped around her knees. She stares across her room at the open window. How many times over the past days had she dreamed of climbing down from it? But it was too high, far too high. Just looking down at the courtyard below made her dizzy. She had felt so fierce on the hunt, one she had fought back against Maris and kissed Joffrey for the first time. But not so fierce as to risk a long fall to the stones below.
No, she was trapped here. Trapped here until her prince came to save her. A young maid ought to be able to rely on her father and brothers for rescue. But hers had betrayed her. They were part of whatever conspiracy had locked Joffrey away. Edward had confessed as much with his wild accusations. And Father… Father… She tries to force away the specter of last night's dream. The flames…
Sansa shakes her head angrily, further tangling her messy auburn hair until it covers her face completely, but she can't rattle free the image that had waken her in terror from her sleep. I don't mess him, she insists to herself. I can't! Not after what he did! He doesn't want me to be the queen! She winces, a hunger pain twisting the back of her stomach in a knot. The slight scraps of food she tears from the trays left at her door are not nearly enough to satisfy her. She had nearly fainted the day before, just standing alone in the center of her room.
I'm not even strong enough to starve myself properly, she curses silently, then nearly jumps at the sound of a soft, familiar rap at the door.
"Sansa?" Septa Mordane's ancient voice calls. "Sansa, young Jeyne helped me make lemoncakes. Please, if you would only try just one, they're fresh from the oven."
Sansa grits her teeth, straightening her back, trying for our her willpower not to reply. But in the end, her stomach twists again and her strength gives out. "Is Jeyne with you?" She can never see me like this.
"No, dear."
"Then you may come in and leave the cakes on the table," Sansa relents curtly. She hears the old wood door creak open, though the frail septa's feet make scarce a sound. She refuses to turn, instead standing, arms crossed, staring out the window. She waits for the sound of Mordane's departure, but it does not come. Instead….
"I heard you cry out in the night, sweet thing. In the Mother's love, do not hide from me."
In that moment, it all becomes too much. Sansa slowly turns, lip quivering, refusing to release any tears of grief nor fury from her eyes. Through that squint-blurred vision, she sees the kind, wrinkled face watching from within the grey blur of robes. Rushing to the table, she clutches the blue tray of lemoncakes tight to her chest and throws herself onto her bed. She shoves two of the small tarts into her mouth at once, their still-hot flavor exploding on her tongue and unleashing the floodgates of her hunger all at once. Before she's even swallowed the first two, she reaches for another, ignorant of Septa Mordane sitting beside her on the bed.
"Sansa, dear, please tell me what's troubling you."
Sansa turns to the old woman, an irritated look in her eyes. But as the gooey lemon paste melts in her mouth, her defenses soften. "I had a dream. I saw Father. But he was on fire. And I think he was chasing me. The flames got so hot I could feel them!" she answers, pastry flakes falling from her mouth.
"Oh, love, I'm so sorry," Mordane attempts an embrace, but Sansa does not allow it, only biting into another tart instead. "You should not be ashamed. It is only natural and right to worry after your father, so. But the gods will protect him."
"I'm not worried about him!" Sansa scowls. "He doesn't love me!"
"Of course he loves you!"
"No he doesn't! If he loved me, he would want me to be queen! But he's sending me away, and you're letting him! I thought you wanted me to be queen, too!"
"I do, Sansa, of course I do." The septa sits patiently, deflecting Sansa's disbelieving glares, never letting the stern yet caring look etched with wrinkles into her face by years of worry waver as her ward crams another lemoncake into her mouth. "But that is the nature of politics. Your father does not tell me everything he knows anymore than he tells you. If he believes it is best for you to leave the city, you must have faith that it is the right thing to do. Perhaps you still will be queen one day, but if these terrible accusations are true…"
"They're not!" Sansa shouts angrily. "They're all lies! Joffrey is the rightful heir, and he will be a great king and I will give him great children that the bards will sing about because I love him!"
"Of course you do, dear," Mordane reaches for Sansa's hand. This time, she lets her take it, though the other still grasps the half-empty tray. "But you are still so young. Such love is fleeting. If the Father wills it, it will be. But if not, you will find another, greater love."
"There is no one greater than Joffrey," Sansa insists, with a bite of another tart as if for emphasis, but does not pull away. Instead she leans closer, finally allowing the septa to embrace her. She buries her face into her grey robes so she will not see her tears and speaks muffled through a full mouth. "Thank you for the lemoncakes. Tell Jeyne thank you, too."
"Of course," Mordane rises. "Please pray on this, Sansa. The Crone will show you your way. And please, your brother leaves tomorrow. Do not shun him, whatever feud you bare. Or you will live to regret it."
The septa finds Fat Tom, Jory, Yorren and Syrio in nervous counsel in the solar as she descends from Sansa's chambers.
"We thought some poor bastard had fallen in and been torn to pieces the way they were raging," Tom is saying, his thick fingers tugging anxiously at his beard. "An ill omen."
"What is this talk of omens?" Mordane speaks as she enters, immediately turning the four men's attention on her. "Mind your tongues and put aside such thoughts. They would only frighten the children more. It's hard enough for them to be boarded up here without being trapped alongside your superstitions."
"It's the wolves, Sister," Jory answers, Tom blushing into silence. "They've been howling with a fury all night. The men could not calm them."
"Perhaps that is what upset Lady Sansa, so, if she could hear them all the way here. Those beasts are thunderously loud."
"In the open wild, maybe, but not here," Yorren scoffs, almost spitting but catching the stern eye of the septa. "This whole city's too damn loud."
"You say that Lady Sansa's sleep was troubled?" Syrio asks, quietly, his olive eyes seemingly staring at something invisible far in the distance, deep in thought. "Why do you say this?"
"She had a dream," Mordane shrugs as if to say All girls do.
"About her father?"
That stops the septa in her tracks, her hold on the room dropping. "How do you know?"
"Because the twins each had the same dream. Lord Stark in flames, chasing them in the night."
"Alright, that's it," Yorren lurches up, making haste to the door. "I can'nae wait another day here. I've got men and coin that must be taken to the Wall. You can keep your ship, I'll find my own. Best of luck to ye' all."
"You swore to Lord Stark!" Mordane stops the door, but Yorren brusquely forces it open.
"You want to send the children with me, I'll take 'em to White Harbor. But my first oath is to the Watch. Lord Stark is dead! And I don't want to be here when the rest of the city figures it out!"
Mordane stumbles back with a shocked gasp as the door slams closed, the watchman vanished behind it. "Of all the ridiculous things…" she turns but stops, seeing the dark looks on Jory and Tom's faces. "Don't tell me you think…"
"You don't know the old gods, Sister," Jory shakes his head, eyes on his boots. "But the old ways still live in the blood of the North. That bond is strong. If the three little ones all had the same dream…. That an' the wolves howling all night…"
"I say we take Littlefinger's boat and leave tonight!" Tom bellows.
"I will not allow it!" Mordane puts her foot down. "You may command the guard, but these are my charges! Edward will leave for Oldtown tomorrow and the girls will remain here with me until Lord Stark returns! If you want to play the coward and flee, hiding from shadows spun by your wetnurse, quivering from fables in the night, then go! But we shall persevere!"
Jory and Tom slowly exchange a long, solemn glance, then turn and slowly walk together out of the room without another word. With a shiver. Mordane slowly takes a seat. She knows not what they intend. They are no true cowards. They will never leave without the little ones. But if they try to take them by force… She clinches her thin fingers onto the arms of the chair and looks up to where Syrio still sits, unmoved.
"What say you, Braavosi? How do you read these signs?"
"Syrio Forel does not know your ways," the swordsmaster shrugs. "But I took a vow. Lord Stark may return. He may not. But whatever the future brings, Syrio Forel will defend his children with my own life."
"Very good," Mordane nods, and begins to pray. "But Lord Stark will return."
Far off in the Riverlands, the smell of smoke lies heavy and suffocating over the forest as Ser Karyl Vance and Ser Marq Piper ride on through the trees; Ser Loren Lanny bound and gagged on a horse pulled behind them. They move with the intent yet resigned pace of men who know that they are too late. And as they emerge from the woods onto the knoll overlooking the Bracken stronghold of Stone Hedge, their fears are confirmed.
What was left of Brackenton before is gone, the fires of the village still burning. And stretching across the grassy field between the freshly arrived riders, down to the walls of Stone Hedge itself, lie the remnants of a battle. The bodies of horses and men – some in armor, others in the ragged disguises of the two knights' former captors – lie on blood-matted grass, weapons still scattered where they fell. A few of the living, some on horse, others on foot, are picking their way through the battlefield.
"Did we win?" Marq asks, confused. His horse is overladen with weapons looted from the guards slain in their escape, causing him to rattle as he rides. Atop the tall, round stone walls of Stone Hedge, the banners of House Bracken are flying once again.
"Impossible," Karyl shakes his head, though he cannot give an answer for the banners. The two knights descend the hill into the stench of death. As they approach, they draw the attention of the riders – four men – who turn from their own business to meet them.
"Who goes there!" the leader demands – a young man, certainly not far beyond 16 by Karyl's judgement. He has short brown hair, recently cut to treat an injury to his head. His face is soft, with a fleshy jaw, but hardened by scars, dirt and bruises. And on his chest he wears the red horse of House Bracken. "These are the Mountain's men you ride over. Don't doubt we'll add you to their number if you give me cause."
"Ser Karyl Vance," Karyl answers swiftly. "And Ser Marq Piper. We were sent out by Lord Eddard Stark but captured by a band of Western knights disguised as brigands."
The young man winces at the name Stark, but does not address it. "Aye, I think we saw them, too. Damn lions. Who's the prisoner?"
"Another damned lion, but much poorer," Karyl looks back with contempt at Loren. "You now know us all. Who are you? And how does the banner of Bracken fly again here?"
"Harry Rivers." Lord Bracken's only son – a bastard. "Come along inside, you must be weary." He turns his horse and begins to ride back towards the castle. The others follow. Something is wrong, Karyl thinks, though Marq does not appear disturbed. But he can sense it nonetheless. They're hiding something.
As they near the gates, Karyl stops, spying a familiar face – Ser Archibald Pyle, another of the Hand's party, trading his armor for blood-stained robes as he searches the field for any injured who have miraculously survived the night. A tall, stocky man with naught but a thin ring of curled hair around the sides of his head, the bald top burnt red by the sun, Archibald looks up, recognizing them, though the silent greeting on his face is free of joy.
"The Crone has been merciful to guide you back to us," the stout knight smiles half-heartedly.
"What is the meaning of this?" Karyl looks about him. "Where is the Mountain?"
"We were deceived and ambushed. Another band of brigands, this time proudly flying the lion of Lannister."
"We met that lot," Marq scowls. "This one here was one of theirs's."
"It was a route," Archibald sighs, turning and beginning to walk back through the gate. The riders slowly follow. "But as soon as the westerners had finished killing whoever did not flee, they left into the setting son, leaving nothing but blood and scorched earth in their wake."
"Tywin has called his dogs home," Karyl scowls.
"To fight our fathers at the Golden Tooth," Marq adds ominously.
"We awoke to find the castle gates wide open, those that still hung upright. And so young Harry has taken to putting his family's land to right," Archibald looks back to the battlefield and the burnt town beyond it. "What is left of it, anyway. Ser Byron Birch and I, and a few others stayed with him. The rest are scattered, blown like stray leaves into the wind. Broken men."
"And Lord Stark?" Karyl finally forces the question into the open.
Archibald grimaces, but does not hesitate to respond. "Lord Stark is dead."
"Edward!"
The voice jolts Edward out of his half-slumber. Night has fallen over King's Landing. How long he has been asleep, he does not know. At first, he thinks he is dreaming again. Maester Gaheris is standing at the foot of his bed. He squints, shaking his head to chase away the fog of sleep. But that only makes the impossible sight clearer. The maester's robes are turned to murky shadow in the dark, and his auburn hair looks black with only faint starlight through the window to illuminate it, but the outline of his hard face and thin beard is unmistakable. And as he turns, the moonlight catches in his pale blue eyes.
"What… how…" Edward stammers.
"The Red Keep is full of hidden passageways," Gaheris answers as if it is common knowledge. "Secret, but only for those who do not know."
"Why didn't you come before now?" His confusion turns suddenly to indignation.
"It was too dangerous."
"Then why now? I'm leaving tomorrow! And I haven't warged in so long!"
"That, Edward, is exactly the point. Get up. You must have one final lesson."
Edward nearly trips rolling out of bed and slipping on his shoes. There is no time to change out of his nightclothes, that much is clear. He stumbles along behind his mentor until his eyes adjust, slipping quietly out of the room and into the hall. Gaheris must certainly have left his chain behind, for the distinctive rattle that always heralded his walk – or any maesters' – is nowhere to be heard.
Where are the guards? Edward wonders. Usually there would be someone on watch, even if only a napping Fat Tom, but the tower is empty as they wind down the stairs; down past the solar, the kitchens and even deeper still. What's going on?
But there is no time to wonder, because Gaheris is leading Edward down further – down the crumbling stone stairs that Arya has disappeared down so often during their captivity. 'To catch cats' she would say. But what kind of cats live down here? At the foot of the stair, a shiver rolls down Edward's back, as if he has passed through some veil into a forbidden, haunted part of the castle that he does not belong in. But still Gaheris leads on, around a corner and through a gaping black hole in a wall. Edward hesitates, glancing nervously back up to the stairs, to the safety of familiar rooms. But he can hear Gaheris still walking away. If Arya can do it, so can I. And so he lurches forward, stumbling over a pile of collapsed brick on the floor, and is swallowed by the shadows.
Edward feels like he's walked halfway to Winterfell before familiar shapes begin to emerge in the dark path that the maester is charting, illuminated by the intensifying glow of some great light awaiting them. They are in the Black Cells, he can tell now. Where he had trained so many nights before. Only, as they reach their apparent destination, everything has changed.
No longer are they in the small chamber, this cavernous catacomb is far larger. No longer is it dark, at least a dozen torches blazing so bright that Edward's tired eyes must squint. And no longer are they alone. The massive skull that can only belong to Balerion the Black Dread stares down at him with lifeless, empty holes for eyes. Gaheris has stopped directly in front of the skull, before ancient jaws that could have swallowed them whole, if they still had life.
"Only those of the Valyrian line could ride the dragons," he speaks ominously, without looking back to Edward. "That power ran in their blood. When they lost the dragons, well… You know your history. What good is power if it cannot be used? But you, Edward. You have power in your blood, too. Ancient power. Perhaps even older than Valyria. Men today who claim to be wise have forgotten the old ways." He lifts one hand to touch the cold, black bone, his whole body stiffening beneath the robes. "But such power can never die. It will always awaken, if only it finds the right one to wield it. Sit, now."
"But the lights…" Edward hesitates, but sits nonetheless in the center of the room. He squints in the glare of the bright torches, their lights dancing in a ring around him as if pouring forth from Balerion's mouth to consume him. Just like they had consumed Father in his dream.
"The torches will remain lit," Gaheris finally turns back to him, his form wavering in and out of shadow, the dark shape of the dragon's skull looming behind him. "You have learned to use your power in secret, in the safety of the dark. But you must learn to master it at day. You never know when the threat will come. Nor from where. Reach out with your mind, Edward. Push through the light and find it."
Edward clinches his eyes shut in a grimace so tight he nearly bites his tongue. He tries to ignore the dancing flames, the heat on his skin, the memory of Father turning to ash in his sleep. He pushes out, out into the vast nothingness, the scorning tendrils of reality slipping away like withered vines. And then, at last, he hears it. Not hearing in truth, but feeling – the panting, the scratching, the deep raspy breaths of fresh air. Tessarrion.
"A war is coming, Edward, a war where steel will not be enough. The blind fools in their towers of knowledge will turn to those like us to save them. You must be ready." The voice echoes in the void. Is it Gaheris? Or someone else.
And then his eyes are open, and he is the wolf, and the wolf is him, and he is dashing forward. One last race alongside his sisters through the ruins of the dragonpit, letting loose a triumphant yet mournful howl all the night through.