Elphaba818:

Hello, dear readers! I'm sure you've all been waiting anxiously for the latest chapter, and thankfully you all didn't have to wait over six months this time for an update, lol! We're mostly focusing on events happening in the North with this chapter, but I promise that come the chapter after this one, we'll delve back into the adventure happening in Essos with Torrhen and Dany with the Dothraki. Still, it'd be wise to pay attention to details in this chapter. Some events that don't seem all that important at this time will become vital to remember later, but no hints at all as to what I mean! Read and see for yourselves!

Enjoy this latest chapter, and please leave a nice review when you're done!

Happy Reading!

- Elphaba818

Chapter Twenty-Six: Striking Deals

"You don't have to go see her, you know."

Sighing, Lyaella shook her head. "No, I cannot be weak anymore… this was always gonna end up happening, that I was going to have to face my aunts and uncle." She tied the laces of her woolen dress, its thickness keeping her warm even in the chill that permeated every single chamber in Castle Black regardless of how warm the fire was. "I am not afraid anymore. Not of her, anyway."

Shireen sat behind her, idly kicking her legs. Lyaella's confidant in nearly everything since Aemon's death. "Are you sure she ends up into such a tyrant? She seems… harmless and broken to me."

Her ire rose, not at Shireen but nevertheless on display for her. "She's a manipulator. A deceiver. I wouldn't put it past her to act like this just to get my father's sympathy. It worked before Tory and I were even born, Asha and Davos told me."

"That you knew Davos still surprises me." She chuckled. "He only has sons, so perhaps he saw us as the daughters he never had."

That thought put a smile on Lyaella's face.

It was a quiet day in Castle Black, perfect for a pleasant breakfast in the great hall. "Lya!" She and Shireen were immediately greeted by Munda Giantsbane, a wide smile on her face and a matching one on her bear of a father. Even Jon enjoyed the scene. "I'm glad yeh're alright."

"Munda, I didn't even know that you're here."

"I arrived late last night, Shireen said yeh were sleepin'."

When Lyaella looked at Shireen, the Princess shrugged. "Wanted to surprise you," she giggled, while Lyaella rolled her eyes.

"Yeh're a surprise to cheer up yer friend, daughter," Tormund spoke, raising a mug of ale. "That's a compliment."

Munda grinned. "Aye, I know. Come, let's eat. Yeh look starved."

And hungry she was. Even the food of Castle Black appealed to her as she scarfed it down alongside her father, who gently ruffled her hair when she sat down. That gesture made her smile more than even the food.

"Castle Black isn't known for the food, my Lady," Lord Commander Edd spoke to Sansa, seated across the table with Lady Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne. Lyaella remembered both of them, the Ravensguard knights in service of King Bran. Unlike most of her uncle's courtiers, she liked them, Brienne a tall and confident warrior and Podrick always awkward but kind. Slipping them little toffee cubes whenever he could.

Sansa though… "It's fine. I've eaten worse." Her blue eyes flickered to Lyaella, who narrowed hers. 'Lady Bolster' and she hadn't shared one word since their spat a few weeks earlier and that was just fine by Lyaella. Soon we'll be on our way to Meereen and I never have to see her again. Hopefully she'd never see Lady Arya and King Bran again either.

"So, Lady Brienne." Shireen had just sipped at a mug of cold water, smiling at the gracious female warrior — a knight in all but name, for if Lyaella remembered correctly she had been only knighted during the Long Night. Brienne had said it herself. Still, it was hard resisting the urge to address as 'ser lady' as she and Torrhen always had in the past. "You served my uncle, Lord Renly?"

From the times Lyaella greeted her, Ser Brienne had been courteous and never said anything remotely rude to her or Torrhen. Even gave her brother some tips about his various swordplay stances. However here… she could barely make eye contact with Shireen. "I was." She took a sip of ale. "Did he tell you?"

"We exchanged letters and chatted whenever he came to Dragonstone." Shireen smiled. "Such a lovely person, and he said he loved spending time with me and my cousin Myrcella. Also spoke of you, and how you were a magnificent swordswoman."

"He did? Sounds… like him."

Shireen reached for a roll. "I never did believe that you did it. Killed him I mean. He cared for you, and I believed you cared for him as well."

Lyaella smiled softly. Shireen, in spite of all that she endured, was still a good person at heart. One of the reasons she trusted the young doe with her secrets — some of them anyway. Brienne on her part… "Thank you, my Lady."

"Given all that is happening, I wonder if you could teach me some…"

"Podrick can do it." The aforementioned young squire choked on some ale, confused. "It would do you good, to train her." Lyaella peered at Brienne, who refused to make eye contact with Shireen. What are you hiding…?

The door suddenly opened. "Lord Commander," one of the black brothers stated.

Lyaella shook her head. "He's not Lord Commander anymore," she insisted.

Jon reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Lya, that's enough." He turned as much as he could while remaining on the bench, only for his eyes to widen. "What does he want?"

Peering behind the black brother, Lyaella noticed a grim-faced man with a stubbly beard. His helmet was a pointed cone and a shield was strung across his back — a rectangular one that curved inward at the edges. Across his surcoat was a large Rogar's Cross in the shape of a red man. She'd learned the sigils of the great houses of the North long ago, but this one was… unfamiliar. "A letter for you, from the Lord of Winterfell. Ramsay Bolton."

Bolton! Spoken in the North as one would a demon, or a grumpkin… or her mother. An extinct house, their keep left to rot in ruins by her aunt's orders as Queen — one of her first if she remembered correctly. Lyaella heard her aunt stiffen across the table, expression stony but something in her eyes… was that fear?

No. My aunt may hate but she never fears.

"Give it here and begone, oathbreaker," Jon barked, voice raised in spite of the gentle morning quiet. Not even the large hearth could banish the cold that settled into the great hall.

The new arrival handed over a scroll sealed with the same mark he wore on his surcoat. Lyaella traced his eyes to her aunt. "Lady Bolton." Sansa seemed to flinch just as she had when Lyaella called her 'Lady Bolster' a few weeks ago, to which the man laughed. What is going on?

"Emmett, get him the fuck out of here," her father hissed.

The man, Emmett, hesitated — only for Edd to nod. "Do it. If he's not immediately out of the keep, kill him." With that settled, the Bolton man was escorted out.

Sighing, Jon held the scroll in his hand. "Lya, please leave us."

She cocked her head. "Why?"

"I just…"

"Just open it," Sansa spoke, her voice hollow. Devoid of anything, even anger.

Hesitating, Jon looked upon Lyaella, then her companions. "It's alright," she heard Shireen say. "We've seen and heard it all."

"'Tis a terrible thing, the young among us to be forced to grow so soon." Davos was always good for a witty aphorism, though it seemed to taste like ash on his tongue. On Jon's part, he broke open the seal and unfurled it.

"To the traitorous Lord Commander Jon SNOW." The way her father read it, the last name was clearly written in all block letters, emphasizing his bastardy. Lyaella rolled her eyes — it wasn't anything she wasn't used to, and she fought to remain strong enough to rise above it. Jon kept reading. "You have let thousands of Wildlings south of the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind and you have betrayed the North."

"Would he rather us all be corpses tearin' him limb from limb?" huffed Munda, even though Tormund shushed her. Lyaella giggled, though it died as her father's expression grew even darker… as did her aunt's, in a manner she'd never seen before.

"Winterfell is mine, bastard, come to see. Your brother Rickon…" He stopped, staring at the scroll. The once moribund and stony Sansa also seemed to rise, her jaw opening and eyes widening as she leaned over.

"Rickon?" Munda murmured. "Who's that?"

"My…" Lyaella caught herself, equally stunned. "Their brother, the youngest Stark." Shireen, listening in, clearly understood both explanations, even though the slip up passed Munda's notice. "He's been missing since Winterfell was attacked." No one talked about him in Winterfell, except to say that he died during the war. Talking over him and her grandfather Ned Stark were the only times she ever thought of her aunt close to tears.

Neither Lady Arya or King Bran reacted upon his name.

Clearing his throat, Jon continued. "Your brother Rickon is in my dungeons." Sansa's breath hitched, while Lyaella stared at her. Brows furrowed. What was she thinking? Why would she be this affected by her husband? She left him didn't she? "His direwolf's pelt decorates my floor. Send my bride back to me and you can have him back."

Sansa's lips quivered and she trembled, while Lyaella continued to be confused. What she knew of the Boltons, Sansa had been married to one of them but abandoned Winterfell and ended up linking with her father to take back the castle, the beginning of her father's slow fall. The texts about the entire episode were vague, offering no details such as the escape being during Stannis' attack or that Sansa made it here to Castle Black — whenever they tried to inquire more, Maester Marlon would simply say that Jon broke his oath and Sansa ended up taking him in before the Night's Watch could kill him.

Clearly a lie, after all she had witnessed. Sansa lied about everything, especially about Jon, so why was she here? Why did she flee her husband? Given how underhanded she had been to seize the North and rule it when Lyaella knew her… Hearing father's Wildling army exists, mayhaps she sees her chance to get the North for herself.

It certainly made sense, especially given the cruel words Ramsay said in his letter. Lyaella held no sympathy for him, but what was the point in fighting? Sansa never spoke in any terms but about 'restoring the honor of House Stark.' As if she cared anything for honor.

Jon continued as she was thinking and watching her aunt. "...I will not trouble you or your Wildling lovers, but if you don't I will ride my armies north and slaughter every Wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection."

"Let them come! We'll be ready for 'em!" Munda shouted, only for her father to calm her down.

"You will watch as I skin them living." Lyaella's eyes widened. "You and your brother shall watch as…" Jon trailed off, hands shaking as he held the unfurled scroll. "Sansa?"

She gazed at him both fearful and riveted. "Go on."

"It's just more of the same…"

In spite of her father's words, Lyaella watched as Sansa snatched the scroll across the table. Eyes falling for it, only to widen momentarily and then narrow. "Jon," she spoke. "Get the children out of here." Her voice was icy, and immediately did Lyaella see the same 'Queen in the North' that so tormented her and her brother.

Waiting for Jon to disagree, her ire rose as Jon turned to her. "Lya, please leave…"

"No."

"Lya…"

"I want to hear this."

"Trust me, lass," Davos said, already gesturing to Shireen. "You don't want to listen to this…"

"Why not? What's wrong?" Shireen looked frightened.

Before anyone could argue with them further, Sansa simply continued. "You will watch as myself and my men take turns…" Her voice caught, what looked to be a tear beading in her eyes… and then nothing. Just the same ice as was always characteristic of Sansa. One blink and any emotion was gone. "Take turns raping your sister."

Rape? Lyaella had never heard the word before. Across from her Brienne of Tarth pursed her lips tightly, Podrick looked away… as did Davos. Shireen hitched her breath while Munda glowered.

"You will then watch as I have my hounds devour your wild little brother, then I will gouge your eyes out and let my hounds do the rest. Come and see, come and see. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."

Jon released a breath he had clearly been holding, gripping the table. "Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North."

"I take it this Ramsay Bolton wasn't Lord of anythin'?" Tormund mused, oddly subdued given how long Lyaella knew him.

"He's the bastard son of Roose Bolton, who was Lord. It's why he taunted Jon's 'Snow' surname. He's legitimized and Jon isn't," Sansa shuddered. "Ramsay killed his father, that's why he's Lord now… and now he has Rickon."

"We don't know that…"

"Yes, we do." Typical Sansa, always cutting people off when they dared to think different from her. "And now his eyes are turned on us."

"How many men does he have in his army?" Tormund asked, the conversation suddenly going too fast for Lyaella to keep track of.

Her aunt sighed. "I heard him say five thousand when talking of Stannis' attack — even if he lost five hundred or so, the threat of the Wildlings would rally some Northmen to his cause…"

"But we have men!" Munda was as feisty as her papa. "And giants! And Sōnar!" She looked to Lyaella eagerly, and the young Targaryen was at a loss for words. We… We're supposed to go to Meereen. To my mother… Because of Sansa. It was her Ramsay Bolton really wanted.

"We have three thousand men, Munda, the rest are women, children, elders. They can't fight."

"I have a few hundred," Shireen spoke. "Their spears and swords are yours if you need them."

All of it was seeming to fall into place for Lyaella. Seeing this… Westeros was a harsh place and this Ramsay Bolton seemed no better than any of the parties out there given his threats and insults — rather gruesome threats, but she knew about the Red Wedding. About Cersei and Tywin Lannister from the histories. Knew about the punishments inflicted by her aunts. Why was this any different?

"And a dragon." Lyaella felt her hands ball into fists, discussing Sōnar as if she was simply a tool to be used. How dare she?! For her quest to become Queen. Her father was silent, closing his eyes… only for Sansa to reach out and grab them. "You are the last living son of Lord Eddard Stark, Jon. The North will fight for you if you and I call them… especially since we have a dragon."

When Sansa spoke that, Lyaella snapped. The implication was clear — her Uncle Rickon's plight was what Sansa was using to get Jon away from their planned journey to Meereen. To find her mother and likely Torrhen. To start Jon down the path where he would be manipulated into the person who turned against her mother and… and… Hearing not only the commitment of Sōnar but her aunt's first attempt to trick her father into serving her own ends pushed her beyond the brink. "You will not use Sōnar!" All eyes fell to her. "She is not a slave to command!"

Jon seemed to be drawn out of his brooding. "No one is claiming that, Lya…"

"The plan was to go to Meereen! To my relative Queen Daenerys!" She slammed her fist on the table, eyes blazing. "And now you destroy this plan by being tricked into fighting for her cause?!"

"Lya!"

Sansa held up a hand. "Lady Lyaella," her aunt spoke evenly, in that same somewhat gentle tone she used so many times in Lya's past — so much so that now it only made the girl want to spit. "Ramsay Bolton is a monster. No one is safe from him, even here. Even if the Wall stood between us he would…"

"He would what? Kill your brother Rickon?" She crossed her arms. "I know you want my dragon to fight and perhaps die for you. I know you want the Free Folk to fight and perhaps die for you. I know you want Jon to fight and perhaps die for you, but there's clearly another way. You go back to Winterfell."

Sansa reacted as if stricken. "What?"

"Young lady," Brienne spoke. "You can't possibly mean that?"

A shrug. "Why not? This Ramsay Bolton is offering to leave us in peace and send us Rickon Stark if his wife goes back to him." She looked her aunt in the eye, tone firm as she always wished it to be in her past. Seeing her aunt shrinking as little as Lyaella always had whenever beaten down or abused by the children in Winterfell. By sadistic Maester Marlon. By Sansa's own courtiers and bannermen.

In Sansa right now, Lyaella saw whatever she saw in the mirror back then, and it felt glorious.

"Why did you leave Winterfell, Lady Bolton?" The title made her react as she did when the soldier called her that, flinching. Shrinking even more as her face went pale — almost like a whipped dog. "To trick your brother into usurping your husband now that his father's dead?"

Suddenly Sansa just pushed herself away from the table. Walking briskly out, head down and without even a squeak of a sound.

Whatever triumph Lyaella felt at finally taking her horrible aunt down a peg turned to ash when she caught a glimpse of her father. She'd never seen him more enraged, even when facing down the men who killed him. "Jon…" she began.

Only for him to cut her off. "What is wrong with you?" It was said through gritted teeth. "Do you have no heart?"

She felt affronted — at least that was what she showed. In truth his words hurt her, but the desperation to keep him from being her aunt's pawn again won out. "Can't you see she's using you? Using the Free Folk and Shireen and Sōnar for her own ends, when she could just…"

"Could just what, Lya? Go back to Ramsay Bolton? Can't you read between the lines…?!"

"He'll kill Rickon if you don't send her back!"

"He'll butcher us anyway, Lady Lyaella," Lady Breinne said.

Jon shook with rage. "He raped her, Lyaella. Do you not care?"

Surely later she would come to regret this, but the word just came out. "So? Am I supposed to care what imagined fault she has against him when he has what she's always desired?"

It was very clearly a problematic thing to say, for… "Out."

She blinked. "What…?"

"Get out of my sight!" Jon bellowed, finger stabbing towards the door as if it were a spear. "LEAVE!" His sheer rage, almost as if Sōnar were bellowing, made her fall from her seat. Eyes wide, Lyaella was suddenly afraid of him.

"Easy, son." Davos stood, rounding the table and reaching down to pull Lyaella up. "I'll escort her and the Princess back to their chambers."

"See to it she stays there the rest of the day," Jon spat. Father… why…?

The walk to the chambers Lyaella and Shireen shared was in silence, every attempt by Davos or Shireen to speak met only by silence from the Targaryen. She sniffled a bit, but for the most part remained calm and quiet. Maintaining her composure. She was not the easily frightened, easily cowed little girl anymore. She was a dragon, and she wouldn't fall apart when her father needed her. Even if it was him that drove her to this.

She spotted Ghost almost immediately and ran for him. Burying her face in his white fur. Only then did she let a few tears slip.

Shireen said nothing, but Davos did. "Young lady, what you did was wrong…"

"No, what Sansa Stark did was wrong. She thinks she can just use him because she hates her husband." She hugged Ghost tighter, but looked back at Davos. "I hate Lady Bolster, she thinks she owns the world and is entitled for all to do her bidding just cause Ramsay Bolton 'raped her.' Whatever that is…"

Davos sighed. "So that's it, you don't know what rape is, do you?"

Lyaella blinked. "Umm… I know Lord Bolton is a cruel man. He mayhaps smacked Lady Sansa around a few times and ordered more executions for people than strictly necessary. Is that what rape means? Shireen?"

Her friend hung her head. "Oh, Lyaella, I wish I were as innocent as you."

"Innocent? What are you talking about?"

Taking a seat beside her, Ghost letting him even with his protectiveness, Davos rested a hand on her shoulder. "I wish you could stay innocent of the world for longer, sweet one, but as with the Princess the world doesn't work that way. Children will catch greyscale from toys and young girls will experience rape in some manner, in this case by meeting someone who's suffered it."

Lyaella's brows knitted together. "So, if rape isn't being smacked around, what is it?"

Davos looked awkward. "My Lady… do you know what coupling is?"

"What husbands and wives do?" She sighed. "I'm not that naive, Ser Davos. I mean, isn't the reason my name is Lyaella Snow's because there's no record of my parents being married before they coupled and I was born?" Truth or Half-Truth. Truth or Half-Truth, a deceptive yet necessary game.

"Aye, usually it's a loving and desired act by both man and woman… but in rape… only one wishes for it."

"Only one…" Suddenly it hit her, and she pursed her lips. "Lady Sansa didn't wish for it, did she?"

He looked uncomfortable. "I can't know for sure cause I do not wish to pry into business not my own, but I've seen victims of such brutalization, Lady Lyaella. How she acted is… quite typical. Fearful, hurt, desperate."

"Desperate…" Lyaella slumped against Ghost's side. "She wants Jon's help to kill the man that… raped her?" Hate her aunt that she did, but if what Davos was telling her was true… No one deserves that to happen to them.

"Lya." It was Shireen. "I cannot blame Sansa for wishing to take back Winterfell because it belongs to her house. Only the Seven know what is happening to Storm's End or Dragonstone right now, but this Ramsay Bolton is far more cruel than what you thought before. Lady Sansa being… different than all of what you thought." The implication went unsaid, however much Lyaella wished to trust Davos.

"We aren't just a product of our blood, Lyaella," Davos spoke, still the kindly father figure she knew. It grounded her. "The experiences we've endured, they shape us. You and Lady Sansa, I can see much the same between you two. Your reticence to trust others, likely for good reason, but also your trust in Jon Snow."

Oh, how little Davos knew of the future… but not even then did Lyaella ever know about what Ramsay Bolton really did to Sansa. Did it all start with that? With her being 'raped?' The hate she held for Sansa, the anger she held for what she did, still burned bright but there was that nagging thought that wasn't there before. A puzzle that added a sense of nuance to the form of the monster that had so tormented her.

That Sansa had ruined her life, but the Sansa Stark now was not that person.

However it would end up… Lyaella knew her task just grew far more complicated. Her world just a little bit more muddled.

"We're done for the day. You may relax."

"What, seriously?"

"Yes. Tell the giant to collect you."

"But we've barely done anything! You show me stuff for a minute, and then tell me we're done?"

"I do not need to explain myself to you. I must see."

"But—!"

"This discussion is over. We shall continue our lessons tomorrow." And with that final remark, the elderly greenseer turned away from his disciple and closed his eyes, opening them again moments later to reveal only the whites.

Bran scowled, and with an annoyed huff he dragged his body away from the tree roots and whistled. "Hodor, can you give me a hand?"

"Hodor," said his friend. Climbing to his feet, the giant lumbered forward and easily scooped him up.

Despite his annoyance, Bran forced a smile. "Thanks. Can you take me outside?"

"Hodor, ho."

Hodor had barely taken more than a few steps however before their way was blocked by a familiar sprite. "You shouldn't keep going out there," Leaf warned. "It's dangerous."

"Meera's out there. I wanna sit with her."

"She's not important, Bran. You are."

"We won't go far. We'll stay in sight of the cave, I promise."

Leaf still didn't look happy, but begrudgingly nodded and stepped aside. She wasn't alone in her opinion, either. All the other Children of the Forest were just as apprehensive as Hodor carried him past, but Bran was far too irritated to care. It'd been over a year since he and his friends had made it to the Three-Eyed Raven's cave, and he was tired of being here. Were it not for his companions, he was sure he'd have gone crazy by now.

As he thought, Meera was sitting just outside the mouth of the cave, her knees tucked up to her chest as she leaned against a snowy boulder and stared off into the distance. Summer was curled up next to her, head resting in her lap. His wolf's ears perked up as Hodor shuffled forward and set him down, and Summer turned to give him happy nuzzles. But Meera hardly even glanced his way.

"Done for the day?" She murmured, her tone listless.

"Aye," he sighed. "Apparently."

"Hmm."

He blinked. "That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"No, that's my question, Bran. That's all?"

"What?"

Meera still wouldn't look at him. She just kept staring off into the snowy expanse. "Every day I sit here, Bran. I sit here doing nothing while you have your visions with that old man. We've been here over a year now and that's all. You're not even doing it all day anymore."

"That's not my fault, Meera. He's the one who tells me when we have to stop."

"Why?"

"Do I look like I know?"

She turned to him, brows furrowed and mouth open and ready to keep complaining, but then she saw the clear annoyance on his own face and stopped.

"What, did you think I'm out here right now because I'm being lazy? Because I asked for a break?" He demanded. "Were it up to me, I'd be done with all this already and we'd be heading back to the Wall. I'm just as tired of being here as you are, Meera. I wanna go home."

To her credit, Meera bit her lip and bent her head. "I'm sorry, Bran. I know you hate being here as much as I do. I just… I forget you never asked for any of this, to have this gift. And Jojen—"

"I didn't know what was going to happen to him, Meera. I swear, I didn't."

"No, but he did. He sacrificed himself for you, Bran… And for what? So you could sit next to that tree every day seeing stuff with that old man?"

Bran didn't answer. He had no answer to give.

"I know this isn't your fault. Between everything with House Stark and having this power, you didn't ask for any of this. I know that…" Her eyes shifted around her, and she leaned in. "But why are we still here?" She whispered. "What's the point anymore?"

There was a long silence. Truthfully, Bran couldn't deny he'd been wondering the same thing himself. When he first met the Three-Eyed Raven, his initial impression of the old man was that he was aloof, yet earnest in wanting to teach him. He didn't understand what went on in the greenseer's head as he was always so cryptic and listless, but he had no reason to not to trust him. These days, though? He wasn't so sure anymore.

It'd started about a week or so after he'd arrived at the cave. At first the Three-Eyed Raven was devoted solely to training him and they spent all but a few hours every day entangled in the weirwood roots, seeing vision after vision of things that had occurred throughout history all over the world. Then out of nowhere one day, the Three-Eyed Raven had all but jumped out of his seat from where he always sat among the roots and had seemed genuinely alarmed. Bran and Meera had been confused by his sudden change, and to their surprise the Children of the Forest were too. Still, the Three-Eyed Raven had insisted nothing was wrong and he'd simply been overwhelmed by too many visions at once.

Bran would've accepted that and let the incident fade from mind… were it not for how things slowly started changing from that moment on.

It'd happened so slowly he hadn't noticed at first. His daily lessons started running shorter as days passed. Instead of working from sunrise to hours past sundown, they'd end at sundown exactly, but to make up for this they'd see twice as many visions throughout the day. This went on for a few months, but then after a while the visions rushed to go faster than they would've gone naturally in real life to cram in more visions after them, and the lessons ended even while it was still late afternoon. Bran disliked this as he felt like he was hardly absorbing any knowledge now, but his complaints went nowhere. After every vision trip the Three-Eyed Raven would immediately dismiss him so he could greensee on his own, but he never explained why. The Children of the Forest had no answers for this strange behavior, but they didn't seem to care either.

"He is the only one with the knowledge to change things for the better. Do not question him," Leaf would say.

Perhaps she had a point, but Bran couldn't shake the feeling there was more going on than what the Three-Eyed Raven wanted him to know. Whenever he trained him, the old greenseer seemed… odd. Bran didn't even know what it was exactly that had his gut on edge, but something seemed off with his teacher. Like he wanted to get his training finished as soon as possible even though he knew Bran wasn't even understanding everything he was seeing in the visions. But what was the point in that? How could he ever take over for the Three-Eyed Raven if he didn't understand what he was learning? And whenever he wasn't training him or viewing visions on his own, the old man was even more odd. Sure, he was still more or less his usual vacant and emotionless self, but he seemed… distracted at the same time. Anxious, even. It made no sense…

"Oy, you still here? Or are you seeing things now even without touching the tree?"

Bran jumped. He'd been so lost in thought he'd forgotten Meera was waiting for a response. "Sorry, just thinking… I don't know. I've been wondering the same lately."

She scoffed, blowing a loose curl out of her eyes. "So that's it, then? We stay here forever? Hiding in a cave from the dead? Never leaving? We never go back?"

"I didn't say that."

"No, but it's the plan, isn't it? We don't do anything different, Bran? We never try doing more?"

A lump settled in his throat, but he couldn't bring himself to swallow it and refute her. Meera had a point, and as much as he didn't like it, he couldn't deny that that's how life had been for them for this past year.

Thankfully, she didn't press him for a response and let the conversation drop. For the rest of the day they stayed out there and stared out into snowy wilderness, the day so quiet and peaceful it was hard to believe the army of the dead was on the march and could attack at any time. But despite the sereneness, Bran's mind felt sporadic, restless. Their little chat had sparked something in him, and his mind was running at top speed as an idea took root.

Nightfall soon came, and as the temperature dropped Meera signaled for Hodor to carry him back inside, Summer on her heels as Leaf and the other sprites shared their collection of roots and winter berries for supper.

"When we go home, I want meat. Pork chops with a pint of ale. And eggs," Meera grumbled as she laid out their furs. "Sunny-side up every day for a week."

"Hodor! Hodor hodor!" Hodor smiled.

Summer wagged happily, panting in agreement as he curled up beside Bran from his spot beside the tree.

Bran forced a smile. "You can keep the eggs. I want the chicken. Roasted chicken and some Northern onion soup."

Meera laughed. "I miss good onion soup. I'll take a bowl too with some brown bread."

"Aye. It's not a Northern onion soup without brown bread." They shared a chuckle, stomachs rumbling.

"Good night, Bran." Meera looked transformed with that smile on her face. Bran liked it. "If we're lucky, perhaps we'll dream hard enough to taste that soup again."

He settled down in his furs. "'Night, Meera. 'Night, Hodor, Summer."

"Ho, hodor."

Soft wagging, gentle panting.

And just like that, his friends drifted off to sleep. Leaf and the Children of the Forest milled about for a while, but soon they found their own sleeping nooks and dozed off, too. As did the Three-Eyed Raven. All throughout the cave, gentle snores and quiet breathing filled the air. It was all so calm, so serene with everyone asleep… Well, almost everyone.

Ever so quietly, Bran opened his eyes and sat up. He hated doing this without telling Meera, but to do this at all meant he couldn't tell anyone until it was over. When living in a cave with the most powerful greenseer of all time who could see and hear everything, it was imperative to not tell people plans until said plan was over. It was the only way Bran could keep this idea a secret from his teacher, and while he knew the old greenseer would be angry at him for this, he deemed it a necessary risk.

Something was going on with the Three-Eyed Raven, and if his teacher wasn't going to tell him, then he would find out for himself. Because Meera was right. They'd been stuck in this cave for far too long. Doing nothing. If there was something bad going on outside, he needed to know and leave to go help. Or if there was something important in the past he needed to be aware of to stop the army of the dead, he wanted to know about it. It was high time he got some answers.

Crawling back to the weirwood, Bran double checked one last time that everyone was still fast asleep, especially his mentor. The Raven was snoring softly, oblivious to his plan. Appeased, Bran wrapped hands around a particularly thick root and let his eyes roll back in his head as he succumbed to the familiar pull of a vision.

Snow swirled through the air, the whistling wind the only sound to be heard for miles. Aside from the wind, the silence was no different from the cave, but Bran was momentarily startled by the brightness outside. Instead of sitting in the shadows and surrounded by dirt walls tangled with roots, he was standing outside in the light of the True North, surrounded by snow in every direction. The sky was gray with a promise of more snow soon, but it was still bright and open. A true treat from the past year of hiding in darkness.

Gathering his wits, Bran turned to explore, only to gasp in alarm. He wasn't in the middle of nowhere as he first thought. He was at the base of a rocky cliff, dozens of boulders spiraling around a different weirwood, its branches drooping from all the snow on its boughs. And he wasn't alone, either. Less than ten feet away stood the army of the dead.

Men and women draped in animal furs, thick leathers, and black armor with heavy fur cloaks stood silently at attention. Hundreds of them. No, thousands. Tens of thousands. Their skin mottled grey, or falling off their bones. Their eyes a piercing, icy blue. They clutched at their weapons they'd used in death. Some held spears or axes, others swords or hammers. And the injuries which killed them were as prominent as ever. Holes in their chests stained with dried blood. Claw marks down their middles. Dismembered limbs which didn't faze their undead selves in the slightest.

They were all here. The entirety of the army of the dead. Staring at him and the snowy weirwood tree.

Bran stumbled back and prepared to scream, but the moment his feet shuffled through the snow, he realized they made no sound whatsoever. His movements didn't so much as leave a footprint in the frozen ground, nor did they crunch under his boots. Moreover, none of the wights reacted to him in the slightest as he reeled back. They just kept standing there, oblivious to him entirely. He was invisible to the dead, no more than a ghost.

Sucking in a breath, Bran gathered his courage and forced himself to move toward them. The weirwood tree was showing him this vision of the dead for a reason. He had no idea why, but he had to find out. The Three-Eyed Raven had never told him there were this many dead wights in the Night King's army. Why? This seemed very important for him to know!

The dead were unfazed as he walked through their horde. None of them moved. None of them blinked. They just kept staring forward at the snowy weirwood tree with their ominous blue eyes, oblivious to him entirely. While grateful they weren't attacking him, Bran couldn't help feeling unnerved by their disinterest… at least until he finally passed through their numbers and finally made it to the other side. His heart dropped to his stomach.

Sitting atop the skeletons of several dead horses were the white walkers, their own icy blue eyes even more terrifying than the wights by how they glowed against their frozen skin. And standing in front of them was the leader of the army of the dead itself. The Night King.

Unlike the wights and the white walkers, the Night King's eyes were focused and sharp. They zeroed in on Bran the second he stepped past the dead soldiers, narrowing curiously.

Before Bran could do anything, a shuffle behind him caught his attention, and despite his misgivings he forced himself to turn around. The Night King's awareness of his trespass seemed to have snapped the wights back to attention, because now they were all turning to him, their blue eyes locking onto his form as he quivered in the snow. They clutched their weapons even tighter, ready to use them at a moment's notice.

His heart pounded wildly. Was it possible to be murdered while greenseeing if the murderer had magic? Bran didn't know. The Three-Eyed Raven had never specified if that was possible. He had to run. Run and don't stop until he finally managed to snap out of this vision. He clenched his fists and spun around ready to make a break for it, only to immediately scream.

Somehow, the Night King and his white walkers had not only dismounted their horses without so much as making a sound, they had crossed the few feet of space between himself and them within a fraction of a second. The white walkers surrounded him from every direction, glaring at him as they kept one hand on their magical ice spears and swords as their leader stepped right in front of him, his frozen face as cruel and evil as ever.

Bran flailed backwards, screaming even louder as he landed in the snow. This was it. He was going to die. The Night King had obviously been waiting for a moment like this to happen. Why else would the weirwood tree have led him here? Somehow, the King of the Dead had to have intercepted whatever connection he had tried to make with the heart tree to lure him here and murder him. It was the only explanation.

"P-Please…" he choked, crawling back. "I… I don't want to die!"

The Night King only tilted his head, his brows furrowed.

"Please!" He panted, squeezing his eyes shut as tears sprang forth. "I'll d-do anything! Please!"

Silence. No response at all.

Bran gulped, too scared to look up. Why was he hesitating? Did this monster enjoy his terror?

Suddenly, a loud click filled the air. The click of fingers snapping.

Quick as a flash, icy fingers grasped both his upper arms and hauled him to his feet, and then a second hand seized his chin and forced him to look up. Two of the white walkers were restraining him, but none of them yanked out their weapons. They glared at him with their cold eyes, but other than manhandling him they didn't hurt him. Nor did any of the wights staring at them from their positions nearby. No… the only movement at all was from the Night King stepping even closer to him so they could be nose to nose. Bran yelped as the creature stared him in the eye, but he didn't dare try to break free. Something told him that greensight or not, to even try breaking away from the white walker's hold would probably result in breaking both his arms in his normal body when this vision was over.

For several long seconds, nothing happened. Bran's heart pounded like crazy as he awaited his end… but still, nothing happened. The Night King just stared at him, his furrowed brows narrowing even more as he studied him. Then he tilted his head, gazing off at something behind Bran in the distance for a moment before glancing at the white walkers clutching his arms.

Nodding to the two of them, the Night King suddenly walked off. A second later, the white walkers hauled him after their leader.

Bran blinked. "What…? Y-You — You're not gonna—?"

The white walker to his left tightened his grasp, yanking him harshly. The one on the right glared, a voiceless demand for silence. He nodded, gulping thickly.

The army of the dead parted seamlessly as the Night King led them past. Their eyes stayed fixed on the trespasser, but they didn't attack. And the Night King didn't even spare them a passing look. No, his focus was on the weirwood tree. Waving his hand, he signaled the white walkers to let him go once they reached the screaming face in the tree trunk, and then promptly focused his attention back on Bran.

Another tense silence passed… and then the Night King rested his hand flat against the bark of the tree. Then nodded for him to do the same.

Bran blinked. Again. "Um… what—?"

The Night King's eyes narrowed. He pointedly glared at the tree, then back to Bran again.

"You — You want to greensee with me?"

The narrowed eyes lost their edge.

"Why?"

No answer.

"No — No, you… you want something from my memories, don't you? I won't help you destroy humanity. I won't."

Sharp glare again.

"I don't know what you want, but I'm not gonna—"

Something cold and pointy suddenly pressed into his back. The white walkers again. Poking him with their spears.

Bran shuddered, but at the same time he felt confused. Something seemed off here. The Night King wanted him here for some reason. That was a fact. How else would he have ended up here in the first place when he hadn't even been actively trying to find him or his army while exploring with the Sight? But at the same time, it didn't seem like the Night King was trying to immediately hurt him either. If he wanted that, he wouldn't have ordered his guards to drag him over to this tree like this. He could've just tried to grab him or slit his throat the moment he got up close to him. What was going on?

Swallowing thickly, he raised his hand. "Seven hells, I know I'm gonna regret this…"

And with that, he hesitantly rested his palm against the tree trunk.

More snow again. He was still far north beyond the Wall, but he was in a village now. A Wildling fishing village judging by the choppy waves and the rickety dock. But it was not a peaceful village. No, Wildlings of all ages were running for the rowboats at the shore and screaming in terror as they tried to fight the dead. And by the looks of the black cloaks mixed in amongst them, they weren't alone in this fight. The Night's Watch was here too, trying to fend off the wights and load as many people onto boats as they could. On a cliff high above the massacre was the Night King and the white walkers, sitting high and mighty atop their undead horses as they watched it all rather nonchalantly.

Bran's head wheeled about as he took in the carnage. He was horrified. All these people were dying left and right. This wasn't even a battle against the dead. It was slaughter, plain and simple. And the enemy was death itself.

A sudden presence by his side made him jump. The Night King of the present world was at his side, staring at him disdainfully.

Bran couldn't stop himself from deliberately backing away a few steps. Two men in furs literally ran through his ghostly form, but he hardly noticed.

"Why — Why did y-you bring me here?" He croaked. "D-Do you… Do you w-want to use me to m-make sure everyone here dies? I-I-I don't even have that k-kind of power!"

The Night King gave him another unreadable look before raising his hand, pointing to his past self on the cliff.

Bran shook his head in confusion and started turning away to try breaking out of the vision on his own. But then a screech filled the air. An animalistic screech followed by a blur of something white and blue soaring overhead. A dragon?! A real, live dragon?! Here beyond the Wall?!

Stunned, the greenseer-in-training watched as the past version of the Night King overcame his own momentary disbelief to try throwing an ice spear at the beast, but only succeeded in wounding it when a little girl with silver hair ran into view. A little girl wearing a black dress like the Night's Watch and bundled up in a fine gray fur cloak like Northern Houses provided for their children.

If Bran thought he was shocked by the dragon, it didn't hold a candle to his disbelief now. That little girl… she was of Targaryen descent, no doubt about it. But she was a Northerner too judging by that cloak… What in seven hells…?

Silent as ever, the Night King waved his hand, beckoning him to follow as he walked across the snowy battlefield after his past self, now dismounted from his horse and following the silver-haired girl and another Wildling girl with flaming red hair inside the ruins of a building. Despite his misgivings, Bran didn't protest this time and followed readily. Ignored by the ghosts of the past, the Night King led him behind his past self as they entered the shambled remains of the Wildlings meeting hall. The red headed girl was scrambling to grab a leather bag of some sort and rooted around inside it for something as a white walker approached her, but neither the Night King of the past or present paid her any mind. No, both Night King's instead approached the Targaryen girl shaking in the back, trying to shield her dragon with her body.

The girl opened her mouth to say something to the Night King of the past, but before she could, the Night King of the present abruptly raised his hand. All at once, everything in the vision stopped. Everyone stopped moving, stopping talking. The screams outside the wreckage cut off abruptly. Everything was still.

Bran blinked. "You — You can freeze time while in a vision?"

The Night King raised a brow, but otherwise ignored his question. Instead, he pointed to the girl.

He blinked again. Deliberately. "What?"

No response.

"What about her?"

The Night King frowned.

"I… I don't know if you know what Houses and nobility are south of the Wall, but—"

The Night King quickly nodded and pointed to the girl again.

"You… You know she's a Targaryen?"

Another nod.

"Well, what about it? It's strange I'll admit that a Targaryen child is alive after Robert's Rebellion and she's of Northern descent… but what about it?"

The Night King frowned again. Silently, he pointed to the girl's eyes specifically. Then turned to point his icy finger towards Bran's eyes.

Bran only shook his head, utterly lost.

The Night King's brows furrowed in annoyance. A bead of sweat ran down Bran's temple at his expression. He didn't understand what was going on here, but there was no telling what this creature would do if he didn't get the message soon.

For a long moment, the Night King didn't do anything but stare back and forth between him and the child. Was he annoyed with him for not understanding him right now, or annoyed with himself for not being able to convey his point clearly? Then his head jerked up, a subtle smile gracing his lips as a thought came to mind. And Bran flinched as he focused back on him.

Before the boy could do anything, the Night King's eyes rolled back into his head and went white.

Images flashed through Bran's mind all at once. An image of himself, followed quickly by an image of the little girl. Then an image of the girls' storm gray eyes and an image of his own gray eyes. Then there was Ghost standing guard in front of the child, protecting her. And one last vision. A raven with three eyes.

Bran gasped as the visions faded away. He stared at the Night King for several moments before turning to the girl. Then back to the Night King. Then the girl again.

"You… You think she has Stark blood?"

The Night King didn't answer.

"A Targaryen child with Stark blood…" he murmured, wonderstruck. "I never imagined it…"

The Night King's eyes narrowed impatiently. Quick as a flash the vision of the raven with three eyes filled his mind again, though it wasn't just a flash of imagery this time. Icy rage coursed through his veins with the picture.

Bran blinked when it was gone. "My master? The Three-Eyed Raven?"

The Night King's eyes narrowed.

"I… I don't understand. What's he got to do with this?"

Another fast vision of the girl.

"What about her? I don't know anything about a Targaryen child with Stark blood!"

The vision of the girl again. Then the vision of the raven.

"I don't understand! What's my master got to do with this?!"

The Night King cocked his head for a moment, then abruptly snapped his fingers.

All at once, Bran was back in the clearing with the weirwood tree, the white walkers and army of the dead still watching expectantly.

Bran clutched the side of his head, his head rather foggy. "Ugh… never felt so muddled after greenseeing before…" he muttered.

The Night King was unperturbed. One hand still resting on the tree, he motioned Bran to touch the tree again. Bran blinked in confusion… but then the imagery of the girl invaded his mind again followed by a snapshot of the Night King trying to use the same power of her only for her to scream in pain.

"You — You want to make a connection with that girl?"

A slow nod.

"Why?"

No answer.

"If — If you're trying to connect to that girl just to add her and that dragon to your army—"

A raised hand cut him off. The Night King only gestured for him to touch the tree again.

Bran stared. For some reason, he got the feeling that that wasn't what the Night King wanted with that girl. But what did he want? Part of him was screaming at him to just break the greensight connection entirely and wake up back in the cave… but the other part of him wanted answers to this mystery. Not just on account of what the Night King wanted with that girl, but on who that girl was, too. She was a Targaryen with Stark blood. A Northerner on top of it. It couldn't hurt to stick around a bit longer, could it? Just until he found out a little more about her.

Nodding a bit at his own thoughts, Bran steeled himself for the next vision as he touched the tree again.

The snow was gone. Vanished, entirely. The world now was bright and sunny, and based on the smooth ornate structure of the open and airy room he now stood in, this place had never seen so much as a snowflake before. There were people here too, but unlike himself and the Wildlings he saw in the other vision, they were dressed in cooler clothing rather than furs. Silk dresses and lightweight leathers, the most basic metals for armor.

Bran blinked. "What the…? Where is this? Are we in Essos?"

The Night King was still by his side, but to Bran's astonishment, even he seemed puzzled.

"You — You didn't intend to bring us here?"

The Night King shook his head.

"Well… then take us back. I dunno what you want with that girl, but if she's not here—"

"We won't be used like that! Not now, not ever!"

"Torrhen… what are you talking about? I don't understand…"

"Don't insult my intelligence! You know perfectly—!"

The suddenness of these voices made the greenseeing pair focus back on the scene. Amongst the people in this room, two stood out to Bran. The first was a silver-haired young woman in a white silk dress, sitting on a throne at the top of a marble dais with many stairs. Was she Daenerys Targaryen? Bran would've stopped to stare and wonder about her and why the heart tree brought them here… were it not for the other one who caught his attention.

A young boy of maybe ten was frozen mid-step while storming down the steps. He too was dressed for the cooler climate in a simple orange tunic and tan britches, but Bran could recognize a Northerner when he saw one. His eyes might be violet like Daenerys Targaryen, but that pale complexion and dark curls were obvious traits of the First Men. And was that a direwolf following him?!

As quickly as the boy stopped moving, he suddenly sprang back to life only to lose his balance and nearly tumbled the rest of his way down the stairs. The other adults in the scene crowded around him as he moaned that he was fine while clutching his head, but Bran hardly registered the conversation. He just stood there, dumbstruck.

"That boy has Stark blood… Stark blood and Targaryen blood!" He wheeled around, eyes wild. "I don't know who that boy is, but I know a Stark when I see one! Did you bring me here to hurt him?!"

The Night King didn't respond. He just stared at the scene, his face unreadable.

There was a shout in the background as the boy dazedly argued with the adults, but Bran ignored them. His fear of the ancient being was snuffed out as icy rage flowed through him. Snarling like a wolf, he leapt in front of the Night King to block his view of the boy.

"What is this?! I've never seen this boy or that girl before! I don't know how Targaryen children like them could even be alive, but if they're Starks too and you want me to help you get to them—!"

The Night King only raised his hand and shoved Bran aside as though he were a curtain. Even so, he didn't move any closer to the adults or the child. He just stood there silently for the longest time as the boy slammed his hands over his ears. Finally, he glanced back to Bran, and upon seeing his expression, Bran's anger abated.

The Night King's eyes were wide, stunned. He hadn't expected to find this boy.

Even so, the King of the Dead focused back on him with a curious tilt of his head. He stepped forward—

Alarmed, Bran dashed past, arms thrown out to shield the boy with his whole body. "Don't you touch him! Stay away from him!"

The Night King shook his head, and his eyes rolled back in his head again. Just like before, visions flowed through his mind. This time it was an image of the boy followed by a glimpse of Bran himself while using the Sight. And another picture of a raven with three eyes.

Bran blinked as they faded away. "You… You think he has the Sight? That he can talk to us if we tried communicating with him?"

The Night King frowned, then the same visions flooded his mind again.

The young greenseer shook his head, muddled. Whatever the Night King was trying to say, he didn't understand. Part of him felt that his guess was correct that the Night King wanted to talk to this boy too… but it felt like there was something else in this imagery he was missing in the translation. Whatever it was, the Night King was on his own for dealing with it. He couldn't help him if he didn't understand him.

Shrugging away the thought, Bran gulped and approached the boy. "I'll try talking to him, but no promises that it'll work. And if you try to hurt him, I'll kill you myself!"

The boy still had his hands slammed over his ears as he clutched his head. What was wrong with him? Odd for sure, but irrelevant right now. Bran paused as he took in his distress, then hesitantly reached out to touch his arm. Part of him suspected that his hand would simply pass through the boy like smoke like it always did whenever non-greenseers came in contact with his body whenever he was in a vision… but instead his hand made contact with skin.

The boy immediately froze, the hairs rising on the back of his neck.

Bran was stunned. The other people in this room were oblivious to his presence as the Dragon Queen walked straight through him to approach the boy, but this boy definitely had greensight abilities. Without the gift, he wouldn't have been able to feel him right now, or sense his presence.

"Hello?" Bran croaked, mystified. "Can you hear me?"

He jolted, his eyes wild. "H-Huh?"

"You can! I'm relieved… Tell me, who are you?"

The boy seemed disoriented and confused, but he forced his head to turn in every direction. He was strong enough with the Sight to be able to sense his presence, but clearly untrained since he wasn't focusing on where he was. "I'm… I'm me… I'm Torrhen S-Snow…" The queen seemed under the impression he was speaking to her and tried to say something, but the boy ignored her. "What d'you want?!"

Bran thickly swallowed. "Tell me, you wouldn't know why the Night King is fascinated with you or a little girl with silver hair back in the North, do you?"

The boy — Torrhen Snow — screwed his eyes shut, shaking his head wildly. "Go away!" He screamed, stumbling for the exit. "Shut up! Go away!"

"Wait, no! Please, don't leave!" He cried, reaching out to stop him. "I just want—!"

"You! You foolish, foolish boy!"

Bran gasped and spun around. Standing directly behind him was none other than his master, the Three-Eyed Raven. Ugly rage permeated from his entire being.

A feral growl echoed through the throne room unnoticed by everyone except Bran. And the Night King lunged forward, his eyes fixated on the Three-Eyed Raven.

Bran, alarmed by the suddenness of his anger — yelped and jumped back… only to accidentally collide into a mysteriously frozen-in-place Torrhen. All at once the boy lost control of his body and fell to the floor, spittle escaping his mouth as he convulsed uncontrollably.

The Dragon Queen and the other adults surrounded the boy in alarm, but Bran gasped, horrified. "No! Seven hells, no!"

He tried dashing back to Torrhen, but the Three-Eyed Raven harshly seized his wrist. Sparing one last look at the sick child, his master waved his hand at Torrhen before snapping his fingers.

Bran gasped and fell to his knees as he awoke in the clearing. The army of wights were unperturbed by his behavior, but the white walkers were immediately on edge. Then the Three-Eyed Raven popped into existence out of nowhere, and the ice monsters quickly drew their weapons.

The Raven paid them no mind however. He simply yanked him back to his feet by the collar of his cloak. "Stupid boy! You stupid, stupid boy!"

Bran trembled. In all his time training with the old man, not once had the Three-Eyed Raven spoken to him this way. Granted, trusting the Night King was stupid of him, but the way the Raven was looking at him right now with pure fury. That haze of red in his eyes…

"M-Master Raven! I-I-I just… I was—"

"You have no idea what you've done! You stupid, stupid—!"

The Night King's eyes suddenly returned to their usual blue, and he lowered his hand from the weirwood's trunk. Ever so slowly he turned to glare at the old greenseer, a deadly chill sweeping over the entire clearing as the temperature dropped. With a wave of his hand, the white walkers immediately surrounded them, poised and ready to attack while he drew his sword. But the Three-Eyed Raven still ignored them and kept his gaze locked on the Night King.

Terror filled Bran's entire being, and he tugged on the black sleeve of the Raven's robes. "Let's go! Get us out of here!"

"Shut your mouth."

"But—!"

"Quiet!" He demanded, still not looking away from the Night King. Bran stared in disbelief, but snapped his mouth shut with a quiet click. Appeased, the Three-Eyed Raven then addressed the monster. "It's been thousands of years since we last met."

The Night King grasped his sword tighter.

"Do you regret your choice? Choosing this purgatory rather than moving on?"

Bran's eyes boggled and he shook his arm. "What're you doing?! Don't taunt him!"

"Be silent, boy!"

But Bran shook his head. "No. I — I don't know what's going on here, but I'm not dying in a vision! Send me back to the cave, please!"

"You brought yourself here, boy! You're involved now whether you like it or not!"

"Master Raven—!"

The Night King suddenly snapped his fingers. Blurs of white and blue shot forth as the white walkers lunged.

Bran screamed, screwing his eyes shut as he instinctively raised his arms… but other than being bodily shoved aside into the snow, nothing happened.

He gulped and forced himself to open his eyes. The white walkers were swinging their swords and spears at his master, but the Three-Eyed Raven was aptly avoiding their attacks. How was he doing that? He was an old man, he shouldn't be that agile.

Scrambling to his feet, Bran tried to run — if the Three-Eyed Raven wasn't going to take him back to the cave, he'd find his own way back — but he didn't make more than two steps before the Night King flash stepped in front of him.

Seeing the monster in front of him finally brought forth his master's alarm. "Don't let him touch you, boy!" the Three-Eyed Raven shouted, suddenly slipping past the white walkers and racing back to him. "Take my hand! Quickly!"

Bran didn't need to be told twice. He spun around and reached out his left hand towards his master, but the Night King was just as fast. Bran's fingers had just barely brushed the fabric of the Raven's cloak when ice so cold it burned grasped onto his right wrist.

Bran screamed in pain and terror as he grabbed onto his master, and the last thing he saw was a flash of the Night King's cold blue eyes and the burning rage on his master's face before the shock of everything that happened crashed down on him all at once, and he fell away into darkness.

"How soon can your men be ready to leave, Lady Shireen?"

Shireen Baratheon blinked at Jon. "Well, my father sent only a few hundred men here to Castle Black to protect me… I can't say for certain if there are others out there, though."

He watched as Sansa's brow perked up. "Pardon?"

"I haven't left Castle Black since my father sent me here, Lady Sansa. For all I know, there could be survivors from my father's army hiding across the countryside, trying to make their way here for asylum from Ramsay Snow or just escape the North and go back to the Stormlands. The men here now could be ready to leave tomorrow if need be. It's the others who might be out there I can't speak for."

"Ah, of course." She glanced at Jon. "Perhaps you could take Ser Davos to accompany you to find these men." Shireen nodded.

Where did my sister go? Sansa had grown, the young girl replaced with a beautiful by hardened woman. She was smart and cunning, more so than even her mother Catelyn Stark… but she was distant, melancholy, prone to anger but also deep agony. Because of that monster. "See…" he cleared his throat, calming himself. "See to it your men here can be ready to leave tomorrow, then. We'll keep an eye out on the road for any survivors from Stannis' battle."

"Very well, Lord Snow. I'll go speak with my men."

Jon smiled as the little doe trudged across the courtyard towards some of the high ranking officers of the Baratheon army. Shireen was a sweet girl. It was terrible she'd lost her parents so young, but she seemed to be falling into the position of leadership rather well. Being tutored for the prospect of one day becoming Queen of the Seven Kingdoms must have really prepared her for being independent now.

"It's a good thing that girl survived," Sansa murmured. "With her here, the Stormlands will definitely help us. No doubt they'll want revenge for the Boltons killing their king."

"You saw the battle, didn't you?"

"Parts of it," she replied, and almost anticipating his next question. "He seemed to have about one to two thousand with him, half of what Ramsay had. I could only see the slaughter, but seeing that only…"

"He had about five thousand when he set off from Castle Black. Shireen has a few hundred as guards."

"So there is still a chance of finding them?"

He nodded absently, but before he could say anything further a large shadow falling over them from high above distracted him. Sōnar had been circling the sky all day long as she tried to regain her strength from the wound the Night King inflicted upon her, but apparently the dragon had finally realized she'd not seen her little mistress even once today because of this. Ignoring the men of the Night's Watch and Baratheon army who leapt out of her path as she descended into the courtyard, the dragon hooted twice before moving towards the door to Lyaella's solar. Rumbling loudly, the dragon pressed its snout against the wood of the door and waited for Lyaella to let her in.

Immediately, Jon's expression turned cold, his eyes narrowed as he watched the door. "That girl better not open that door," he muttered, shaking his head as he recalled Lyaella's behavior from this morning. "She so much as pokes her head out right now to talk to her dragon, she'll regret it. Believe me."

Sansa pressed her lips together as she gazed back and forth between him and the confused dragon still warbling and pointedly noseying against the door for Lyaella's attention. "I'm glad you spoke up for me against her, Jon, and I agree she should be punished for what she said… but are you sure it's safe not letting her calm the dragon down, at least? What if it gets angry at her for ignoring it and tries to burn down the door?"

"No, don't worry. The only time Sōnar has ever breathed fire was when she was fighting against the dead. She won't do that, trust me."

"But if it does?"

"Then Lyaella can come out for five minutes to calm her down, and then goes straight back in. She's staying in that room until tomorrow with that one exception. End of story. Moreover, she will be apologizing for what she said to you, Sansa. I will personally see to that, I promise."

"Thank you."

"Everything all right, Jon, my lady?" Davos asked, walking up to them.

Jon nodded, though his mood was still heated. "Aye, Ser Davos, all is fine. Just talking about Lyaella's behavior this morning, that's all."

The Onion Knight tensed. "Yes… about that—"

"Part of me thinks she should stay here at Castle Black while we deal with Ramsay."

Davos blinked in surprise.

"You heard her this morning, Ser Davos. I don't know what possessed that girl to speak that way to my sister, but I will not tolerate it. If she's not going to be polite to Sansa…"

"Jon, that's not a good idea."

"She doesn't want to help us with this, Davos. I can't force her to pledge Sōnar to our cause if she doesn't want to. Moreover, if she stays then the Northern lords won't find out about her." He closed his eyes and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The last thing we need is them pledging themselves to Ramsay out of spite of me sheltering a Targaryen child. A Northern Targaryen child, on top of it…"

Sansa nodded, her expression rather stiff. "I agree," she said bitterly. "It's a pity she won't lend us her dragon, but if she won't help us, she should just stay here."

Davos frowned. "With respect to you both, you're angry with her about this morning. I don't blame either of you for that… but don't let your emotions cloud your judgment. What happened this morning was… well…"

"It was what, Ser Davos? Do not tell me you think I'm wrong to be punishing her for what she said!"

"You're not, Jon, but considering she didn't understand the full implications of what she said, that needs to be taken into consideration."

Jon blinked, but Sansa did a double take in surprise, her face losing its edge. "Say again? She didn't understand…? Explain, please. I'm the one who was insulted, and I deserve an explanation."

"Of course, my lady." Davos cleared his throat, looking… awkward . This must've been delicate. "After the princess and I escorted her back to the solar, she talked a bit and it became clear to me she didn't know what the word 'rape' even meant. She thought…" his face twisted, an apologetic look in his eyes as he glanced at Sansa. "She thought it just meant being smacked around a bit. Probably no different than how Selyse Baratheon or other people treated her while growing up."

Jon said nothing, his mind whirling. That certainly changed things. It didn't excuse Lyaella's behavior, but it changed how he had to look at the situation. "She told you this?"

Davos nodded. "That's all she thought of it, and being an isolated child I don't doubt she's still… a little innocent about how the world works." He turned back to his sister. "Lady Sansa, I don't presume it to be my business to know the details of your ordeal." Sansa closed her eyes, trembling slightly. "I know you've endured the worst and hearing Lady Lyaella's words must've been… difficult, but considering she didn't know the context of what she implied towards you, my lady…"

His sister was silent for the longest time, but Jon could tell she too was reconsidering Lyaella's outburst. "Are you certain of this, Ser Davos?" She asked finally. "How do you know she didn't just make that up for sympathy?"

"Sansa…" Jon began.

"Jon," she replied, holding up a hand. "I'm not trying to be cruel or spiteful… believe me, I know more than anyone what it's like to be a naive child without knowledge of the wider world, but that little girl…" She looked close to tears, but swallowed it. "I cannot go back to that monster. I'll die before I do, and when she proclaimed I should… Forgive me for wanting to be sure that that insult wasn't made intentionally."

He sighed and looked to Davos. "I believed her, my lady, but if you want proof, you and your brother should speak to her yourselves."

That was eminently reasonable. "Very well. Thank you for this counsel, Ser Davos. Sansa?"

It was her turn to sigh. "I am not like Cersei. I will not hold it over her if she was simply naive and foolish…" She trailed off, seeming to try and steel herself to the painful memories. "I can't blame her for being naive, but I can only hope she would reconsider letting us use her dragon if she knows how evil Ramsay is."

Davos let out a heavy sigh. "I don't know what to tell you about convincing her to let you use that dragon. Stannis offered her a more than fair deal for legitimization for both herself and her brother if she agreed to let him use it, and she was insulted by it for some reason…"

Sansa blinked, surprised. "Truly?" She looked at Jon.

He nodded. "Aye, he did. I was stunned too when I found out she refused him."

"Indeed. You'll have to find another way to convince her if you want that dragon to be part of the battle, but as far as leaving her here to avoid troubles with the Northern lords… that much is true, but at the cost of her life, probably."

Jon and Sansa stared, the latter unsure how to respond. He silently bid Davos to continue.

"Jon, you remember when she first came here and the Night's Watch was at odds on what to do about her?" Gods, did he remember that. Only Maester Aemon and Shireen took a liking to her… "Too many of them wanted to throw her out beyond the Wall or kill her and send her to either the Lannister's or Bolton's."

Sansa hung her head. "I wouldn't wish anyone that fate."

"I wouldn't be surprised if some of them were even hoping someone would suggest keeping her here to be used as… entertainment for some of the more perverse men of the Watch." Jon's fists clenched at that, while he could see Sansa's lips tightening. "If you leave her here without your protection, she'll probably be dead within a week."

He tried to refrain from punching a wall in anger. "Edd is Lord Commander now. He'd order them to follow my orders in not harming her. And don't forget her dragon."

"That dragon has been docile around the men of the Watch for far too long. Aside from scaring them whenever it lands after flying, none of the men are all that afraid of it anymore. And she was safe before because there was always at least one adult keeping an eye on her. Be it you, Edd, Gilly, Sam, Maester Aemon… I trust Edd to try to keep her safe, but he's only one man. He can't be chaperoning her from all the anti-Targaryen supporters here at Castle Black every second of the day."

It took everything Jon had not to sigh. He hadn't considered any of that, but Davos was right. Leaving Lyaella here at Castle Black was not an option. And as hurt as he knew Sansa was by Lyaella's words this morning, she didn't protest any of this either. Like it or not, Lyaella had to come with them. For her own safety, if nothing else.

Davos seemed to read his thoughts of his new realization, and nodded to the door to her solar where Sōnar was still warbling and pushing against the door for Lyaella's attention. "Like I said. Go talk to her, both of you. See for yourselves she wasn't trying to come across as bad as she was this morning, and show her it's for the best for her to come along."

Jon nodded in agreement and turned to Sansa. Sansa hesitated for a few moments, but finally nodded too.

Upon approaching the door, Sōnar paused in the middle of her head butting and turned to look at them, blue eyes blinking repeatedly. Sansa immediately tensed and stepped back, but to Jon's surprise he felt no fear upon approaching the dragon. He still wasn't in a hurry to be as friendly with Sōnar as he was with Ghost, but he could read the dragon's moods better now than he had before.

Sōnar seemed rather confused and irritated by how Lyaella wasn't letting her inside when she clearly wanted to be with her, but there was nothing in her stance or the sound of her rumbling and hooting that suggested she was going to hurt them. If anything, the dragon seemed almost puzzled by their approach.

Clearing his throat, Jon forced an awkward smile as he took a step forward. "Hello, Sōnar… I'm sure you're upset by Lyaella not opening the door, right?"

The dragon squawked, but Sansa gazed at him queerly. "Jon? What're you—?"

He waved for her to be quiet, not daring to look away from the dragon. "That's my fault, actually. I told her to stay in there today and not come out. I apologize for making you lonely, but you can see her again tomorrow. I promise."

Sōnar tilted her head, then snorted puffs of smoke before turning and gliding down from the walkways to the courtyard ground. While the dragon was large enough now to easily whack them both with either her wings or tail by accident if she wasn't careful, Jon was almost certain Sōnar had intentionally tried knocking him over with her tail this time when turning to go. No doubt about it. Lyaella's dragon was just as intelligent as Ghost when it came to human speech.

Sansa swallowed. "While I hope that girl will let us use her dragon against Ramsay… Forgive me if I'm hesitant to be close to the beast."

He chuckled. This wasn't Ghost, after all. "I thought the same thing every time she looked at me when I first brought Lyaella here. Nearly jumped out of my skin a dozen times."

"Wait, you brought that girl here to Castle Black? Why?"

There was no malice in her words. "Found her wandering in the snow alone beyond the Wall," he shrugged. "Couldn't explain how she got there, but she was a hysteric mess. Terrified, actually. Considering how her relatives apparently attacked and killed some people she and her brother knew, you can't really blame her."

"What? Her relatives killed some people? They attacked her and her brother?"

"Aye, that's what she said, anyway." Aside from perhaps Theon, neither of them had ever experienced being betrayed by kin, their Stark kin at least. "What was I supposed to do? Leave her out there in the snow?"

A sigh. "No, I suppose you couldn't do that. I know a lot of people that would… and I hate them all."

Jon understood and let it go at that. He knocked on the door. "Lyaella, it's me. Sansa and I would like to speak to you."

There was a long pause, but then a murmured consent reached his ears and he opened the door.

Despite the soft bed and chair at Maester Aemon's empty work table, Lyaella was sitting on the floor in front of the hearth, a strong fire burning brightly in the grate and a pot of water boiling above it. Cocooned in furs and blankets from the bed, she was snuggled up to Ghost as she mitigated her attention between scribbling something down on blank sheets of parchment drawn from her music box. A High Valyrian tome was drawn open, Lyaella mouthing the words while she wrote them down — occasionally taking a sip of her medicinal tea before returning to her scribbling.

It was a baffling scene, and for a moment Jon entirely forgot his reasons for coming here upon stumbling across her like this. "Lyaella? What are you doing?"

"Translating my songs," she mumbled, not looking up from her work.

"Translating your… come again?"

"I'm practicing my High Valyrian," she said quietly. "With Maester Aemon gone, I have no one here now to practice High Valyrian with. So… I thought the best way to keep at it was to translate my songs into High Valyrian and see how they sound." She paused, one hand going to her chest and the other covering her mouth before a hearty cough escaped her.

He spared a look at Sansa, who seemed far less tense around… such an innocent scene. "Are your lungs feeling weak again?"

"A little, I guess."

"You shouldn't be on the floor. Do that on the bed."

"It's warmer in front of the fire," she muttered, gulping down more tea. Cup now empty, she rose from her cozy nest to refill it from the kettle on the work table. "Especially since it's the only place I can sit with Ghost. He's keeping me warm."

Ghost's ears perked up at his name, his tail swaying softly.

"Doesn't matter, the floor's too cold. You stay in bed if your lungs are feeling weak. And who made the tea?"

Still not looking at them, Lyaella shrugged and poured more tea. "There's nothing hard near the bed for me to write my attempted translations on. And I made it. Maester Aemon told me which herbs to use."

He blinked. "You should've asked for someone to come in and move the work table closer to the bed. And next time tell someone before making that tea. I don't want you accidentally using the wrong herbs and getting sick."

That made her pause for a moment, but then she carried on. "How could I? You told me to stay in here for the rest of the day, Jon."

Jon raised a brow. "Are you serious? If you told us you needed help because your coughing was bad again, that would've been entirely different."

"It's fine, really. I'm used to doing stuff like this on my own."

She emptied the kettle entirely, but there wasn't enough liquid to fully refill her cup. She sighed, only for it to turn into another throaty cough as she moved to take the pot out of the hearth. With her bare hands.

Sansa shrieked and darted forward, yanking Lyaella away from the flames. "Are you daft?! Don't touch hot metal with your bare skin!"

Lyaella seemed to jump, staring at Sansa as if shocked she approached… But as soon as it appeared it changed and she seemed to put on a placid tone… but quizzical nonetheless as she slowly tugged her wrist away. "Sorry, I forgot. Heat's never really bothered me."

Looking at him, Sansa raised a brow. He shrugged and mouthed 'Targaryen.' "Alright… Forgive my shouting, I would rather not see you burn your hands raw."

There she stilled again, but didn't turn around this time. "Thank you," she replied, merely sighing as she turned to grab a tea cozy, but Jon swiped it first and gathered the pot from the fire. Refilling the kettle, he replaced the pot in the hearth and added in the proper herbs before pouring Lyaella another cup. "Careful, now. It's still—"

Lyaella ignored him, sipping her tea quietly despite the scalding water. Jon couldn't help but gape, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Sansa do the same.

It was only then that Lyaella finally looked up at them. "What? I just told you heat doesn't really bother me. I like hot drinks like this."

She drank more in silence for a few moments, and then—

"Sorry, by the way."

Sansa's lips parted in surprise.

"I'm sorry for what I said to you," Lyaella went on. Her tone was rather clipped and she stared pointedly at her reflection in the cup, but she still kept talking. "I talked to Davos and Shireen earlier. They… They realized I had the wrong idea about what that 'rape' word meant in your husband's letter… I still don't get why one person would want to couple with someone else if that person doesn't want to or why coupling with someone saying no is bad… but if it's worse than hitting someone and others who witnessed it not trying to help the one who was hurt, then I'm sorry. I honestly didn't know."

Silent for a moment, Sansa kept her eyes on the fire before meeting Lyaella's gaze. "Thank you, Lady Lyaella."

"He hurt you, didn't he?" There was a bit of a hitch in her voice. "Badly I mean, worse than a little slap or shove?"

Sansa closed her eyes, and Jon wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Thankfully she didn't push him away. "In ways you cannot even imagine."

She let out a little sigh. "Perhaps I had been sheltered from some things, Lady… Sansa." Jon witnessed Lyaella seeming to steel herself — not the full hostility of earlier but something more guarded. "But I can imagine other things, and I feel you and Jon do deserve to know why exactly I called you Lady Bolster, and why I still worry you will live up to that name."

His sister tensed, then promptly squared her shoulders. "I thought you were apologizing to me right now. Insulting me with that name is not a good way to do so."

"I apologized for what I said regarding that 'rape' word. I acknowledge I was wrong to mention that and I genuinely am sorry if I spoke out of turn. I am not apologizing though for comparing you to my aunt and thinking you're trying to 'bolster' yourself up by using Jon."

Jon ran a hand down his face. "Lyaella—"

"I told you before what my aunts and uncle are like, Jon, but you still don't get it. Especially when it comes to the aunt I am comparing Lady Sansa to as she was the one who raised me and Torrhen."

"Explain it then," Sansa demanded, her tone growing coolly. "What is so bad about this aunt of yours? What did she do to you and your brother that makes you so sure that I am apparently like her when you don't even know me?"

Lyaella stared at her, her expression unreadable. "You really want to know? Truly?"

"Yes."

For a moment, all was silent in the solar aside from the crackling flames in the grate. Then Lyaella gulped down more tea before holding out the cup. "You see this? This is a treatment for my having weak lungs, something I can't help having. I've had them for years… but I only started drinking this tea after I came here to Castle Black. Because the maester who works for my relatives would only give me a disgusting owl blood tonic mixed with watered down red wine to drink for it. And that stuff always made me sick."

Sansa blinked, startled. "I… I didn't know that. I am sorry that happened to you, but I haven't—"

"You haven't done anything like that to me? I know that. I'm just giving an example of the cruelty she is capable of when she's not intentionally trying to be cruel. When she's intentionally trying, though? She's worse in that regard, and one of the worst ways she's done this is similar to what you're trying to do right now by forcing Jon to help you."

"What do you mean? Are you a highborn Northern bastard?"

Lyaella frowned, her eyes drifting to himself before bending down to grab her supplies from the floor and move them to the work table. "I'm a Snow. That's all you need to know about me. The point is that a long time ago, my eldest aunt took advantage of my father's good will to get everything she needed out of him before tossing him aside. She needed his help, so he gave it freely… but then there came a day when he needed her help, and she turned his back on him. And she was very, very cruel to my mother."

Gathering up the furs and blankets, she bundled herself up in many layers before plopping down in the chair and continuing her work. "She not only put my father into a position where he was forced to choose between being loyal to my mother and consequently me and my brother rather than her and my other cruel aunt and uncle, but she even manipulated certain events to happen so that my father was forced to choose his birth family rather than my mother, me, and Torrhen. That led to other things happening that ended with my mother's death, my aunt tossing my father aside when he needed her support, and my father killing himself, leaving me and Torrhen to be raised by that horrible woman here in the North." She paused, flipping through a few pages of her High Valyrian tome to reference something before scribbling it down on a sheet of parchment. "We've been spat on, hit, been called horrible names, and as you now know about the medicine ordeal, even poisoned by other people here in the North all our lives… all while my relatives — in particular my cruelest aunt who raised us — stood there and allowed it all to happen. So forgive me, Lady Bolster, if I see the same thing happening right now with you wanting Jon to fight your battles for you against this Ramsay Snow person."

It took everything Jon had to not openly stare at Lyaella after her little monologue. He knew things must've been bad for this little girl with her relatives based on her overall behavior when she first came to Castle Black as well as the few things she'd already told him, but he'd never imagined anything like this. She probably was a highborn Northerner, though. She was too well-mannered and well versed in reading and writing to be a smallfolk girl. Still, that explained why she wouldn't explain more about herself and why she was so stubborn. Northerners were stubborn to the core. If already she had it in her head that Sansa was exactly like this horrible aunt of hers… it was a long, hard road ahead of them to convince her otherwise.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Sansa thickly swallow. Evidently she'd come to the same realization as him. "Lady Lyaella, I can understand why you feel that way based on your time with that aunt of yours… but that doesn't mean I am going to do the same to my brother. I…" she paused, fidgeting a bit before ducking her head to sweep some hair behind her ear. "I love Jon. I don't plan to betray him."

Lyaella stared at her for several moments, then shook her head before turning back to her work. "I don't believe you, Lady Bolster. You're a bad liar."

"But I'm not—!"

Jon held up a hand to cut her off. "Why Sansa, Lyaella?"

Sansa and Lyaella both turned to him, puzzled.

"Like Sansa just said, I get why you hate your aunt now after hearing this, but I don't get why it's Sansa you see this cruelty in, too. Why her?"

"I just told you—"

"But why her and not someone like Selyse Baratheon?" He went on. "Selyse was very, very harsh. She yelled at you multiple times. Smacked you once in front of me. Sansa hasn't done anything to you, though. Why be angry at her and not at someone like Selyse Baratheon?"

Lyaella seemed flabbergasted and could only open and shut her mouth repeatedly. For a second, Jon was almost certain he'd made her see the error in her own logic and she was about to apologize… but then—

"Selyse Baratheon was very mean to me, Jon, but her cruelty was only on account of her trying to protect Shireen from me possibly setting Sōnar on her. She had the wrong idea, but I can't fault her for that. That's selfless love for her family. Far as I can tell, your sister here is dragging you away from your own plans just so she can get the North and her castle back. That selfishness and using her family to her advantage."

Sansa flinched and bent her head. While Lyaella's interpretation of this wasn't entirely correct, her logic wasn't wrong either. Even Jon was at a bit of a loss on what to say now.

Lyaella seemed unimpressed by their silence, though. Or rather, she was unimpressed by Sansa's for some reason. Shaking her head in what almost seemed like pity, she checked her High Valyrian book again for reference and scribbled down more words with her quill. "With all due respect, Jon — with all possible respect I can give — can you please just tell me why you're both here? I'm in the middle of translating one of the most important songs my brother and I ever wrote together before we got separated, and I'd rather get this conversation over and done with so I can stay focused on this translation."

"Oh? What're you working on?"

"It's called Howl of the Dragonwolves. We meant to sing and play it together for the first time in front of our father's grave the night we lost each other… but as you can guess, our relatives' attack happened first."

Jon quirked his head, intrigued. "Howl of the Dragonwolves? Why would—?"

"That's between me and Torrhen," she said in a rush. She gripped her quill tighter, the feather now shaking. "Please, stop acting like I'm completely stupid and get to the point… I know you've decided to go back on your word, anyway."

"Lyaella—"

"You're not taking me to Daenerys Targaryen anymore, are you?" She grumbled, shoulders shaking. "You're breaking your promise so you can help her instead."

Jon furrowed his brows, his face going hard. "That's enough, Lyaella. You were just insulting my sister for supposedly being selfish right now, yet you are acting the same way by behaving like this."

The fluttering of the quill feather froze, Lyaella going still.

"I understand you're upset, but do not take your anger out on Sansa. She has not done anything to you to warrant such behavior, nor has she treated me in any way you are implying she might. You'd do best to make your peace with this situation. I have to help her with Ramsay Snow, Lyaella. Please try to understand."

She slowly set down her quill, looking off angrily to the side as she kicked her feet against the floorboards. "…If this is a lecture, it's a poor one. It'd be a lot more effective if she were at least trying to deny my opinions…"

"I'm not denying anything, Lyaella." Sansa pulled up a chair and sat down next to Lyaella, her hands on her lap and her tone subdued. "I cannot claim that I suffered as a child. My parents loved me, but when my father was killed and I was forced to live in King's Landing as a hostage I did know abuse." Lyaella refused to look at her, but Sansa continued as Jon also kept silent. "I know what it's like to assume the worst, to expect betrayal and torture — I was forced to marry once, before Ramsay Bolton to a man known for his lechery. I expected him to hurt me, but he didn't."

Tyrion Lannister. Jon had pegged the dwarf as not as monstrous as the rest of his family, and he had been right.

"Everyone we expected to hurt us did," Lyaella replied. "At least the ones that mattered in our lives, anyway."

"Not so different, you and I in that case." She waited for a moment before continuing. "You wish to go to Meereen, to your family, that is a sentiment I understand. But you won't be able to with Ramsay Bolton in Winterfell."

To this Lyaella looked up, eyes narrowed. "A boat, from Eastwatch to Essos…"

"Lyaella, Eastwatch is a small port, it doesn't run to Braavos or across the Narrow Sea."

"But… Stannis' old ships…"

"In this time of year, the storms block any path. We'd have to sail to White Harbor and pick up supplies."

"With the Manderlys sworn to the Boltons," Sansa finished for him. "He knows we're here and will slaughter all the Wildlings just for me, Jon, and once he finds out about you and your dragon you, there is no escape."

Jon could see that Lyaella was conflicted. "Still, you're breaking your promise, Jon. You promised you'd help me."

He closed his eyes to fight back a sigh. Privately, Jon agreed she had a small right to be upset about that since he too wasn't happy to be going back on his word about helping her, but he couldn't allow himself to be swayed by her whining. Lyaella needed to learn that things can't always go the way she wanted them to. "I'm sorry, Lyaella. Really, I am. But again, you're being unreasonable."

"Unreasonable? How's it unreasonable of me to want to be with the Targaryen side of my family? Especially when it probably means reuniting with Torrhen?"

Jon blinked in surprise. Sansa only tilted her head, puzzled.

Sipping more tea, Lyaella went on. "I don't consider myself smart, really… but I don't think I'm stupid either. I've been here for a year now, Jon. Torrhen hasn't been seen anywhere near the Wall, not by us and not by the Free Folk. And my brother isn't like me. He doesn't find a place to hide out and cry if he's upset. He's… loud. Short-tempered. Were it not for the fact he doesn't have Valyrian silver hair like me, he'd stick out in a crowd because he'd be drawing everyone's attention to him anyway since he'd be screaming and starting a fight."

He exchanged an uncertain look with Sansa before turning back to her. "All right… but what does your brother's behavior have to do with anything?"

"Simple. If he was here in the North — or even Westeros at all — he'd be causing a spectacle of some sort to draw attention to himself," she explained. To both Jon's and her surprise, she giggled. "I can just imagine it. Torrhen trying to get to the Wall by any means necessary even if he looks like an idiot, to find me. He'd be thinking of the long-term goal of finding me and Sōnar, not the immediate problem that would happen upon arriving at the Wall if he got here through a criminal sentence — not being allowed to leave afterwards. If he was still in Westeros at all, he'd be trying to get here in general even if he didn't know that I happened to be here."

Sansa's expression softened, as did Jon's. This was something they could both relate to. "Because all you had was each other? Because he was the only one truly of your blood left in the world?" Sansa spoke, long separated from any of her siblings since that dark day in King's Landing. Her relatives don't count as family. Even Lady Catelyn, for all her resentment to him, hadn't treated Jon in such a manner.

A sad smile spread across Lyaella's face. "Yes, Lady Sansa, that." For once her expression didn't cast her a look of suspicion. She plucked up her quill again and kept writing down another translation. "But it's more than that. Before our relatives' attack made us get separated, we always had ideas and dreams of places we wanted to see for ourselves one day. Visiting the Wall, flying Sōnar to Old Valyria, exploring Essos… Since there's been no rumors of Torrhen here in the North or in Westeros at all, I guess he and Shadow made it across the Narrow Sea and met Daenerys Targaryen."

"Lyaella," Jon cautioned. "You can't know that for sure." Ideas such as falling into the clutches of the Lannisters was not something he wished to consider.

"And I won't know at all unless we go to see her," she countered. "So tell me, Jon… how is my annoyance at you breaking your word unreasonable? I…" she swallowed. "I may not fully trust your sister, but you two just reunited. You both must be very happy for that… so you two know better than anyone what it's like to be away from your sibling and how it feels to be reunited with them. Unless one of you has solid proof that Torrhen is not potentially with Daenerys Targaryen, I think I'm right to be angry about this."

All was silent in the solar other than the flames crackling in the hearth. Sansa opened and closed her mouth repeatedly as she tried to think up a counter argument, but Jon was frozen, his mind blank. How were they supposed to argue that logic? Technically the odds of a little orphan boy and a wolf somehow managing to make it across the Narrow Sea all on their own and getting the favor of the so-called Dragon Queen were slim to none… but so were the odds of white walkers and dead men from the tales of old coming to life again.

Then an idea came to mind. It wasn't a perfect solution by any means, but maybe it was enough to get her to cooperate. It was worth a try, at least. "Fair enough. You have a point there… but if you're going to be comparing this situation to wanting to be reunited with family, then think about Rickon."

Sansa's breath hitched as Lyaella twitched, blinking in surprise.

"Do you have any reason to dislike our little brother, Lyaella?" Jon asked. She shook her head. "Then please… try to imagine if it was Torrhen in his position right now. If you knew your brother had been captured by someone like Ramsay Snow, wouldn't you want to help him? And wouldn't you be upset with us if we were holding you to a promise that you couldn't keep because you needed to help your brother instead?"

Lyaella bit her lip and looked away, unable to answer.

Jon's gut clenched. This was a low blow and he hated twisting this argument on her, but he had to keep going. Finally it seemed like she was starting to come around, and he had to keep pressing this point until she was fully cooperative. "Lyaella, I really am sorry about this, but Sansa and I need to help Rickon. If — If you'd be willing to wait for a while until this is all taken care of, I'll do my best to get you to Daenerys Targaryen afterwards, I promise."

Another silence returned, only this time Lyaella sighed. Her eyes narrowed, but she nodded. "For your brother, Jon, I will." He smiled, body seeming to relax in that moment. "However, I also want an assurance in return."

"An assurance?" Jon asked. "I promise to take you to Daenerys after Ramsay is dealt with, Lyaella. I do not go back on my word."

"Even still, I want the both of you to make that oath before a heart tree." Jon's jaw dropped a bit, while Sansa furrowed her brows. "No oath can be broken if made before one, and there is one north of the Wall in the Haunted Forest, barely a half-hour's ride."

"This isn't necessary…"

"Humor me, Lady Sansa. Do this and I will be more inclined to trust you… as well as allow Sōnar to help in your quest."

Now that was surprising. While Jon smiled - this would very much help them raise soldiers and protect against Ramsay — Sansa raised her brow. "There's a catch, isn't there?"

"Sansa…"

"There's always a catch, Jon. Even from a little girl."

Lyaella was frowning. "I'm not trying to trick you, but Sōnar is the only one I have of my life here. I will not have her risked in something dangerous. I will allow her to be used in battle, but only defensively to protect Jon or to prevent disaster - she nearly lost her life at Hardhome doing that, but Ramsay Bolton cannot compare to the Night King so such a role would be far less difficult."

While Sansa closed his eyes, Jon squeezed her hand. "Mayhaps this is for the best — our claim would be stronger if we win the battle rather than depending on a small dragon."

Luckily, his sister sighed but agreed. "Alright, I suppose it is all fair, Lady Lyaella." She clasped her hands together. "I am and hold no threat to you as long as you have none of the madness of your ancestors. I don't see it, but in the same way as you worry of me betraying Jon, I worry of you in regards to that. In regards to what happened to my uncle and grandfather."

"I am glad we understand each other." The tension, formerly intense, had reduced to a low simmer. It was still there… but almost dormant.

It was the best Jon could've hoped for under the circumstances. "Alright, I think we should go to the heart tree and solemnize this oath." Given Ramsay's already strong army, it was best that they didn't dally.

They had a war to fight.

"That being said, there is one other matter that must be discussed before we go do that," Sansa declared. "About you, Lady Lyaella."

"Me? What about me?"

"About how you will be exposed to not only Ramsay, but the entire North the second you step outside of Castle Black. You stick out easily with your silver hair. It's a clear giveaway of your Targaryen heritage." Her expression was difficult to read. "Given how Targaryens are seen in the North, such would be counterproductive in any negotiations, I'm afraid."

Jon sucked in a breath as Lyaella's hands immediately flew up to her silver locks. "Oh!" She exclaimed. It seemed she couldn't argue, and neither could Jon — Sansa was right. House Targaryen was… not esteemed highly in the North. "Well, I can't help that. What am I supposed to do? Stay hidden inside tents all day so people don't see me?"

"No, no. I have a better idea." A small smile curled on her lips. "Jon, where does the Night's Watch keep the dye the men use to dye their clothes black?"

Longclaw 1-6:

So the road to the Battle of the Bastards is here, and we see here that Lyaella's childhood innocence really starts to harm her. She doesn't know about many adult topics and it hurts her with her not realizing what rape is.

Ultimately, we get to where she starts to unravel mysteries that she's endured in the future, namely as to why Sansa was the way she was as she grew up. Does it change her way of thinking? Maybe it causes a little contextual change, because Sansa here is not the same Sansa that became the Queen in the North. In any case, she's forced Jon and Sansa to swear certain oaths, locking them in. Will that be a good decision or will it not?

Time will tell…

Longclaw 1-6