Revenge is a Dish Best Served Cold

by Alperez16

My take on what a possible Jon Snow show set after season 8 could be.Bloodraven has one last trick up his sleeve before he dies,a contingency in case his doubts prove true.A broken man Beyond the Wall may not be as broken as he seems and as the ramifications of Northern Independence and Bran Stark being named King play out, House Targaryen and its last scion seek to have the laugh.

15. He Aint Heavy, He Was My Brother

The Neck 307 AC.

The Leal Merman.

Good men and true. An army the likes of which the North had called upon only thrice in the last first years. Not even the one that had fought in the Battle of Winterfell had been so soundly represented or so Wyman would wager. Robett Glover's presence among the rest of Sansa Stark's levies was proof enough of that. In contrast, even Howland Reed had not brought the Crannogmen to bear during the North's truest hour of need. Something that the words spoken had gone a long way of clearing up for Wyman and the Mountain Clans.

"I was bid to bide my time and wait, Wyman. To give no more aid than that sent to Brandon Stark. The Old Gods make their plans and those plans remain as unknown to me as they ever were."

"Yet you come now, The Howland." Big Bucket Wull spoke loudly, A question and yet not one truly.

"My gods have bid to and my heart longs for the day when I can look upon her son once more." Howland smiled.

As enigmatic as ever. Some things changed not and Wyman found himself contemplating as much on that as he did on the things that had changed greatly. There was a time when what they were being asked to do would have shamed them greatly. One where the mere thought of acting as mummers and turning their cloaks would have led to angered words and mayhap even more angered actions. Now, looking at those around him, Wyman would stake his life that none took issue with the orders they'd been given by the White Wolf.

'I am staking my life." he thought to himself.

Wylla had arrived back in White Harbor with Meera Reed and bearing letters sent by a king. A king who was soon to be a father, if what his daughter said was true. The line of the House of the Dragon going from none to one, to more than that in the blink of an eye. Just as it had gone from two to one if tales about Daenerys Targaryen's death were true. Wyman named them so even without the words written by Jacaerys Targaryen.

'That man would only be cruel to those who deserve it and some kin deserve it far more than others.'

The letter bore the truth of the forces that had rallied to the Dragon Banner. Wyman was stunned, shocked, and delighted to find that the Company of the Rose was amongst them. Even more happy to find that once the wars were done, it would be the North and the Gift that the Company would name their home. For they could only benefit from having men of their quality to call upon in the future.

That the Reach had truly thrown its weight behind a Targaryen king was no true surprise. Finding out the West had too, very much was. As for the Riverlands, more Houses than not had been Dragon supporters and time it seemed had changed that not. While the Stormlands had lost a lord and gained another in Aurane Velaryon and the new Lord Paramount had brought a broken army to his king's side.

Others were as Wyman had expected. The Lords of the Narrow Sea had only ever truly knelt to one beast, the Crownlands and its Lords went whichever way the wind blew. As for the true men of the North, it was a wolf who was truly a dragon they had fought and bled for and so it would be again. Even if that wolf didn't wish to see them bleed too much in the wars to come. A mummer's farce was the price of making that so and Wyman, Hugo, Howland, and others would gladly pay that price.

"The Old Gods' know we've paid steeper ones for far less."

More than a hundred thousand men were what Jacaerys could call upon if he truly needed to. Wyman expected the army to arrive would be less than half that. As for the army they were to face, other than the Knights of the Vale, he'd wager Sansa Stark had less than five thousand men who truly named her queen. Mayhap even less than half that who would fight when they realized what the true odds they faced were. If there was a fight to be had that was.

"You look lost in thought, old friend," Howland said as they looked out on the crannogs.

"Aye, that I am."

"Care to share?"

"I was thinking of battles to come and doing all I could not to think of those long past."

"And were you succeeding?" Howland asked with some concern.

"For now." Wyman sighed before continuing. "Yet, better I speak on the other while standing with a friend than let thoughts of it consume me while I'm abed."

"Speak and kill it before it takes root, Wyman."

It took him a moment to do so. Wyman looked out on the still water of the Crannog. At the trees that barely moved such was the lack of wind or breeze. Somewhere beyond those trees lay the Twins. A cursed place that had taken much from Wyman and the North. Much from the man who they named their king too. A brother that by all accounts was still held in the same good graces he always had been. Which given how Jacaerys Targaryen thought of the others he'd named his brother and sisters, was no mean feat. Yet, as always when it came to the Twins it was Wendel that Wyman's mind and heart were full of thoughts of.

"The War of the Five Kings, Howland," Wyman said, his voice choked and full of emotion. "What would it have been like had there been a sixth?"

"You wonder if your son would have lived had it been Jon Snow rather than Robb Stark who was named king? That had the truth of him been known after Ned was arrested, what lives would we all have known?"

"You do not?"

"Every damn day." Howland laughed bitterly. "I wager none do so more than Jacaerys himself."

"Even now he's king?"

"Especially now he's king."

"And?"

His question remained unanswered for some time. Howland stood silently beside him as he contemplated or considered just what changes a Targaryen king may have wrought. When he did answer, he did so as enigmatically as ever, and in truth, he answered nothing at all.

"This is the only life we could lead, Howland. The only path we could walk. There is no road not taken, only the road we travel each day."

Wyman was left alone with his thoughts and he spent much of the evening lost in memories of his son and heir. By the time night truly fell, it was thoughts of how the events of the Twins couldn't have played out if Jon Snow led them. The forces that he'd have brought to his side would have been too numerous for betrayal to even be considered, let alone for it to play out as it did. There would have been no Red Wedding if they had knelt to a Targaryen King, of that Wyman was certain. So as he went to his bed, he did so cursing Ned Stark and Howland Reed too.

Waking the next morning, he'd forgotten that he'd done so. After breaking his fast, he, Howland, Big Bucket Wull, and the others who had agreed to be mummers, made their way to Moat Cailin. Two days after that, they bowed and knelt before a king and queen that none of them respected and few of them liked.

The Mummer's Farce had begun and as he watched ravens fly in the sky, it was the other birds that truly captured Wyman's attention. Gyrfalcon's, Hawks, and Eagles. Birds of prey one and all. Wyman looked on as they took to the sky and flew in the same direction as the ravens. He believed if he could look a little further, he'd see those very same birds take the dark-winged ones from the world. Whether they took the messages they bore back to their masters or not, he knew not. Yet he believed they did. As he did that just as they were mummers in a king's gambit, soon other ravens would fly and act their part too.

"A war that is not a war. Battles that are not truly as they seem. Aye, had it been Jacaerys Targaryen who we'd all named our king back then, then Wendel would live still."

Gulltown 307 AC.

The Flaming Tower.

Five and twenty years he'd waited for the chance to avenge his uncle's death at the hands of Robert Baratheon and the men of the Vale who'd rallied to his cause. Memories and images of the fight outside his gate were never far from Gerold's mind and yet he'd always believed that memories were all they would ever be. He'd not sought vengeance because there had been no true path to it. To walk the one path that led to it had never truly been an option. Especially not considering his position and the perilous predicament his House had been in when the Stag took the Iron Throne.

True, he had rejoiced and celebrated in private when news came of Robert Baratheon's death. Less so when he'd heard that Eddard Stark too had fallen, as he'd never truly blamed the wolves for what had befallen the dragons or his House. Jon Arryn brought up mixed emotions in Gerold and so he'd both cursed and mourned the man's death when he'd heard about it. As for Tywin Lannister, well at least with the Lion he'd been able to celebrate as truly as he wished to do.

Events in the Realm however had never truly impacted much on the Vale during the aftermath of the death of a king and two Hands. The War of the Five Kings barely even touched them, due to Lysa Tully living up to her father's example and abandoning long-held oaths. Even when the Knights of the Vale did ride, they rode not to play a role in the ruling of the realm and so Gerold rode with them not. Never would he have done so under Littlefinger's stewardship and command and to see it made him think even less of those who did.

"Honor, glory, chivalry, and doing what's right, that's what they claimed to stand for. Yet, stand for it they never did and certainly do not do so now." he'd declared loudly when he was in his cups.

So, he'd played no part in the Battle of the Bastards. Nor in the Battle of Winterfell, though that had at least made him consider showing his banner. Only that it was Aerys' daughter and not his son who led had been enough to get him not to do so. Not that Gerold took issue with a queen, mind, more he and his family had rightly named Rhaegar Targaryen as the Last Dragon and he'd not find another in Daenerys Stormborn.

'On that, I was at least proved right.'

The things that the Dragonqueen had done had shamed Gerold greatly. Despite never speaking publicly or truly announcing his allegiance, all those in the Vale knew it was to the Dragons that Gerold truly longed to kneel to. To hear what had been done in King's Landing, to have men and women look his way and do so with judgemental eyes, was not something he enjoyed. Nor was not being able to argue and deny the things that were said about the line that had come forth from Aerys Targaryen's loins. A son who had sold his sister to Horselords and had then tried to cut a babe from her belly, if the tales spoke true. A daughter who had unleashed a dragon upon the masses and had seen to the deaths of countless men, women, and children. Innocent though most had been. As for Rhaegar, it was much harder to paint his actions in any sort of favorable light given what his brother and sister had done.

"Madmen the lot of them."

"Dragons breeding with dragons, never could we have expected different.'

"As mad as their father, all three of them."

The words had almost driven him to drink. They would have if it was not for a raven that arrived from Oldtown. Gerold still warmly remembered reading those words and finally learning a truth that had been hidden for more than twenty years. A truth that gave him hope where before there had been naught but despair. One that declared loudly and truly that the Dragons were not gone from the world. That House Targaryen had not burned out and faded away.

"No, a son lives and it is he who I owe my fealty to." Gerold had sworn to himself that very night. In front of the statue of the Father, he had named Jacaerys Targaryen his king and spent the next few moons awaiting the call.

Before it had truly come, however, Gerold had committed his oath to paper and had said to the seven hells with the consequences. He'd sent his reply to Oldtown and had then waited for the true call to come. Happy when it did and even more so by what it at first bid him to do. Nothing. Wait, bide his time, and only when the right moment presented itself, then was he to strike. For the Dragon he now served had been a Wolf too and wolves stalk their prey before striking suddenly and violently against them.

Gerold had been at the meeting when Harrold Hardyng was named the King of the Vale. He'd sat silently as words were spoken against his king and a queen. Listened as oaths were sworn to a king and queen that he'd never kneel to and as they were named over ones that he very much would and had. Sansa Stark was far too much of a Fish for Gerold to ever think her worthy of the crown she wore. Considering just how she had managed to gain that crown, this was only even more true. Yet, he'd been a mummer amongst the men and women of the Vale. Had even had to speak words that made his bile rise in his throat as they came from his lips. Words that named Jon Snow as a bastard deserter of the Night's Watch. A kinslayer. A Queenslayer, which Gerold had to admit made him almost chuckle. For the very same men who cursed his king over that slaying, had said no woman needed slaying more than she had with that very same breath.

"As for me, I'll look my king in the eye and ask him but one question. Was there any other way?"

Battle plans were made and the banners were called. Gerold not truly doing so and by the time they realized where his true loyalties lay, it would be too late for them to stop his king's plans. Plans he was now seeing the full extent of as the Redwyne Fleet arrived in Gulltown in all its fearsome glory.

More than ten thousand men would be riding through this city by week's end. Some with further to ride than others, for their plans were different than those that Gerold himself would ride with. The Company of the Rose though were men that he'd wager would be more than capable of handling the rest of his king's plans. As for the Wildlings, Gerold knew not what their role in the battles to come was. What he could see clearly after they had disembarked and hurriedly left Gulltown behind, was that never had they been so truly armed and armored. Nor had so many carts bearing items he knew not about, ever left his city unchecked.

That his king was not among the men who arrived was expected and yet Gerold wished he was. To see Rhaegar's son, to speak to him, and to cross swords with a man who even his fellow Valemen named the best sword in the Realm, would be something worthy of song. For Gerold, however, it was more than that. More even than the vengeance he sought or the comeuppance that was to be finally delivered to the Knights of the Vale and Houses Arryn and Stark in particular. It was to finally know what it was like to serve a good and true king and for the last laugh that he'd been holding in since hearing of Jacaerys Targaryen, to be finally let loose.

Moat Cailin 307 AC,

The Red Queen.

By day, Sansa rode her husband at the head of her army. An army that had been brought together with but two goals. The first of them was to finally put Jon Snow in his place, while the second was to see Sansa Stark belatedly get all she was owed. To see her crowned as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, just as she should have been all those years ago. Sansa smiled at the thought that not only would she get her crown, but just as he had dreamt when she was but a girl, her handsome prince, and king too.

For while they rode alongside each other by day, by night it was an altogether different type of riding they would engage in. Sansa enjoyed the one just as much as she did the other. The pleasure she'd longed to feel for so long, was now something she knew every night.

'And not just at night either.' she thought wickedly as she remembered how they'd snuck off together to be alone when neither could wait for the night to come.

If there was anything she'd change at all during their march to war, it would be that it was a war they were marching to. Despite Harrold's confidence, Sansa was still very wary about the forces that had rallied to her bastard cousin's side. It took until they arrived at Moat Cailin for some of that wariness to depart. The sight of so many of her Bannermen there waiting for her took her aback. Even Howland Reed and Wyman Manderly had come out in force. As had the Mountain Clans and Sansa would not lie and say she didn't sit a little straighter in her saddle as they entered the dilapidated keep.

Try as she might, she could not but help to think of her brother being named King in the North not too long after he too had brought a Northern Army to this very keep all those years ago. A shudder ran down her spine as the thoughts of what fate had befallen Robb now entered her mind. A glance at Harrold and the knowledge that the Knights of the Vale were marching for her where they had not for Robb, was enough to allow Sansa to worry not. Or worry less at least.

'Only a fool worries not about battles to come and I am no longer the foolish little girl I once was.'

Harrold chivalrously helped her down from her horse and Sansa welcomed the look in his eyes as he did so. The promise of the night to come was something she rewarded him with a soft kiss on his lips. Much too quickly the time came for the husband and wife to depart and the king and queen they truly were to take over. Harrold offered her his arm which she gladly took and they then made their way to Lord Manderly, Lord Reed, and Hugo 'Big Bucket' Wull.

Somehow, Sansa managed not to look between the two large northern lords and laugh at the diminutive Lord of the Neck as he stood between them. What surprised her even more was that she was able to greet them all most friendly and her words were spoken with no bite at all. Some of that down to the relief she felt at the fact they had marched at all, mayhap. The one worry that she'd not truly let Harrold into was that her Bannermen would not fully rally to her cause. It was a worry now that was finally chased away.

All too soon, she was in her chambers and unfortunately, alone other than Jeyne. Sansa was happy to see the warm tea brewed so very quickly and after placing some mint in her cup, she sipped it contentedly. Harrold was seeing to the settling of their men, or more precisely, his men. Her husband was ever diligent in his duties and that he then left her to her own, was at times most welcome. Now, it was only partly so. The desire that she'd seen in Harrold's blue eyes earlier had now brought a deep hunger upon her.

Alas, it was a hunger she was given no true chance of seeing sated, as work, a warm bath, and the night's feast to welcome the arrival of the king and queen all took precedence.

Sansa then found that by the time said feast was over neither she nor Harrold truly had the energy to lay together. Fingers and tongues used quickly to bring about each other's releases before sleep claimed them both. A dreamless night followed and only that the morning brought them the energy and desire to truly be with each other, or the next day may have frustrated her greatly. As it was, the fact that they had to deal with battle plans and to read the ravens and reports from their allies, was enough to do that anyway.

It was because of this that they entered the large room that served as their meeting together. Not quite hand in hand and yet to some it would at least look that way. They were the last to arrive at the meeting, as was their right as king and queen. Sansa then almost dared any of the others there to tell her that as a woman she had no right to be at a meeting to discuss their battle plans. None of those assembled had the nerve to dare say such a thing to her, she was happy to say. After briefly being acknowledged, Sansa and Harrold took their place and her husband began to lay out the tactics for how they intended to beat Jon Snow. The news they'd received from the Vale and the Riverlands about their own armies' movements was now shared with Lord Wyman, Lord Reed, Robett Glover, and Big Bucket Wull, who were ostensibly the secondary commanders of the Northern Army. For Sansa would have none above herself or her husband in that regard.

"The Knights of the Vale will gather at the Bloody Gate before riding from the Vale. The Riverlords will make their way along the River Road before joining with the Knights of the Vale at the Crossroads. Our army will march up the Kingsroad and take up a position by the Trident where we'll then be joined more fully by our allies." Harrold began and Sansa listened proudly to hearing him sound so firm and in command. The plan had been one they had both agreed on even though there may have been another that worked somewhat better.

'No, we beat him on the Trident so that any who dare name him a Dragon, can see him suffer his father's fate." Sansa had declared to her husband who spoke of using the Neck and the lands around it to force Jon Snow to them rather than riding out to meet his forces long before then.

"Would it not be best to use the Moat, the Neck itself, your grace?" Wyman asked as Lord Reed nodded along.

"It would take our allies too long to reach us, Lord Manderly. Put their forces at risk of coming under attack before we knew of it." Harrold retorted.

"Besides, my lords, our march allows for us to take advantage of the element of surprise and to be where we're expected not," Sansa added.

"An army that marches will not go unnoticed, your grace." Big Bucket Wull said.

"No, it would not, Lord Wull, yet I do not doubt that the army we march against expects this fight to be fought on much different ground than it will end up being decided upon."

There were some nods, a shared look between Lord Reed and Lord Wyman, and an eager request from Robett Glover which surprised Sansa somewhat.

"I would ask for the Van, your grace."

"You may have it, Lord Glover," Harrold replied before Sansa had a chance to. Sansa wanted to argue with him about it or even to look at her husband with some disapproval, yet she knew full well how that may seem. So for now, she kept her own counsel on the matter.

"We intend to bring our enemy onto us, my lords. To march and march hard so that we arrive and choose the ground and once we do, to entice our enemy to attack."

"Jacaerys Targaryen is a capable military man, your grace. He may not offer us the pitched battle you seek." Lord Reed replied to Harrold's statement.

"Yet he is easily provoked and once his blood is up, he will fight rather than retreat," Sansa smirked. Memories of what Jon had done at the Battle of the Bastards running through her mind. That along with other things she knew about Jon Snow, was among the many reasons why she had to be part of this army and not be left behind in Winterfell. Just as with Ramsay Bolton, Sansa knew more of her enemy than anyone else and she would put that to good use in the battle to come.

After some talk about the actual forces themselves, where the cavalry would form up, where their pikemen would be placed and things of that nature, the meeting was called to an end. No sooner was she and Harrold alone than her husband took her in his arms and kissed her deeply and truly. Sansa almost allowed herself to give in to the feelings, yet there was something she needed to know before she could, however. So, moving from her husband and placing her finger on his lips to show that it was but a brief interlude, Sansa asked about Glover and why Harrold had given him the honor of leading their Van.

"I know how mine wife feels about the man and while we will be victorious in the battle to come, even victories come with costs," Harrold said and Sansa smiled as she kissed him repeatedly. The thought of not just beating Jon Snow but seeing Robett Glover dead in the process was too good to resist.

The Fall of the Bloody Gate 307 AC.

The Essosi Wolf.

Artos and Hugo led the other third of their men along with Tormund Giantsbane and men of the Free Folk. Their task was much different than his own and along with the other two-thirds of the forces that had landed in the Vale, Brandon was certain they'd see that task carried out successfully. As for his own, he led a force of close to two thousand men, and amongst them were five hundred archers. Far too many for what needed to be done and yet, it was better to have too many than too few. Given the size of the army that Jacaerys Targaryen could call upon, numbers would be the last of their issues in the battles to come.

"No that be timing and where those battles are to be fought," Brandon whispered.

After landing at Gulltown, he'd said his goodbyes to Artos and Hugo and the boisterous Tormund Giantsbane. Brandon found much to his surprise that he'd miss the red-headed Tall Talker, just as much as he would his brothers in arms. Tormund had earned the respect of Brandon and the other commanders of the Company of the Rose, simply for his loyalty alone. For there was naught more precious in the world than that and nothing valued more among fighting men. The knowledge that the man beside you was trustworthy and would stay by your side was oft the difference between life and death, Brandon had always believed.

"Fighting with cravens leads only to the grave." he snarled quietly.

From their vantage point atop the rocky outcrops that overlooked the Bloody Gate, Brandon, and his men had watched as the Knights of the Vale passed through them. It was or would be a worrying sight if he was unaware of the plans Jacaerys Targaryen had made concerning them. Plans that he now had to see to some of himself. Calling his seconds to him, Brandon asked them what they'd seen and when was the best time of the attack. He almost laughed when it was named the Hour of the Wolf.

He felt that was fitting, even despite Jacaerys Targaryen being as much a dragon as he was a wolf. That it mattered not if the army they fought against was being led by a Stark, for the Red Queen was far more of a Fish from all Brandon had heard of her. Her wolf had been killed by her father partly because Sansa Stark had refused to speak up about what Joffrey Waters had done. Lady Malora having told Brandon and the others how each of the Starks lost their wolves and how Jacaerys Targaryen's own still walked by his side. Not that she'd needed to, mind. Each one of them had already borne witness to the White Wolf and never had it been in doubt that the Old Gods favored one with Stark blood over the others.

Considering what Sansa Stark did with the truth of Jacaerys Targaryen, even after swearing an oath in front of the Heart Tree, Brandon wagered the events to come were the Old God's response to such treachery. You damned yourself if you went against the gods and Sansa Stark had very much done so that fateful day. The full truth of that damnation would soon be visited upon the Red Queen, while it was almost time for Brandon and those with him to pay their part too.

Hours went by quickly and yet the wait for the attack seemed never-ending. Ever was it thus, Brandon had always felt. The wait for a battle was a much harder thing for him to deal with than the battle itself. Thoughts that you wished not to have would come to you as the battle drew ever closer. Whereas once the battle itself began, you had but only one thought. Or at least you did if you weren't a madman.

"You win or you die," Brandon muttered rising to his feet.

There was to be no horns blown. No torches lit to light the way. Orders had been given and his men had been divided into large and then smaller groups. Now, as the Hour of the Wolf was finally upon them, Brandon watched with pride at how silently the first set of those groups began to move. These were his men, the only men he'd trust to be as silent as the White Wolf in going about their tasks. Brandon took out his sword so he could now go about his own.

Arrows flew almost silently through the night sky. Their targets were unaware of their impending doom. The guards on the parapets were the first to feel the bite of arrows fletched by a master bowman. Brandon was more than certain that bite would be the last thing most of those men felt and in this, he was proved as right as ever.

Climbing down the long rope, he was the first to place his feet on the walkway of the Bloody Gate. Brandon was followed by four and then five of his men as they moved to the dead and dying guards. Only one of them still breathing when they reached him and that was but for another moment. The knife slicing across his throat soon sent him to the Seven Heavens or Seven Hells that he deserved to be sent to.

'We move quickly.' Brandon spoke without speaking. His hand raised as he gave his orders silently.

In mere moments, the dead guards were made to lean against walls and doors. To any who looked they'd seem to be resting or doing their duty. An unnecessary precaution, mayhap, but it was one he'd bid his men take and so take it they did. Looking at those around him, Brandon felt ever more confident that the Bloody Gate would fall and fall quickly. All in all, more than fifty men now stood with him and after sending half to one of the doors that led down below, Brandon led the remainder to the other.

It was in the hall below that the first true fight came. Brandon was forced to duck as a crossbow bolt almost struck him unawares. The wielder of said crossbow was given no chance to reload and met his end through a fierce blow from a Morningstar. Two other guards rushed forward at the sound of the commotion and Brandon was forced to end one of them himself. Something he did with no ceremony at all. A simple thrust of his sword caught the guard in the throat.

As more and more of the garrison at the Bloody Gate came to help their fallen comrades, Brandon moved to the large doors that opened out to the rear of the Bloody Gate itself. Opening them with help from two of his men, he was both happy and relieved to see so many of their forces awaiting him. It had been the one part of his plan that had concerned him somewhat. The knowledge that he'd need his men inside with him and how that would then leave him to rely on men who were very much not his. Yet, looking at them now, these men of the Reach and the Storm, Brandon would almost name them true friends.

By the time morning came about, he very much did.

All in all, they had needed to kill less than thirty men. Of the two hundred men at arms that made up the Bloody Gate's garrison, a further twenty would require some treatment from a Maester and mayhap four or five would die. The rest had been caught unawares. Some were locked in their barracks by an enterprising knight of the Shield Islands. Ser Humbert Hewett brought some glory to himself and his House with his quick thinking. Brandon thanked the young man himself and named him good and true for his actions. Humbert was not the only man that he singled out amongst the men of the Reach and the Storm.

Ser Sebastion Errol had killed more men than any other during the fighting. The knight wished to prove that he kept to his oaths once he'd spoken them. To loudly declare that the king he spoke them to needed not to doubt that he did so. Given that Ser Sebastian had fought against Jacaerys at the Battle of the Storm, Brandon could understand why he felt the need to do so. He no longer would, for Brandon would and had named Ser Sebastian good and true as well.

More than one hundred and fifty men were now held prisoner at the Bloody Gate. Oaths had been asked for and given, though none to the king that Brandon and his men served. Instead, it was oaths regarding their future behavior and conduct as prisoners that were spoken aloud. Words of comfort on how they'd be treated should they live up to those oaths, along with words that promised much suffering should they not. When it came time for him to leave and ride to join his brothers by choice if not blood, Brandon left both knights and a garrison of more than five hundred behind. Then, with barely a look back to the Bloody Gate, it was to another battle that he and the rest of his men rode to. A battle that may have already taken place by the time he reached it, if the gods were good.

"Or mayhap they are truly good and they'll wait until I reach it myself." he laughed.

The Battle of the High Road 307 AC.

The Eastern Arrow.

The arrows were Artos' design, as were the crossbow bolts. As for the men wielding them, it had taken him much time to go through those who named themselves bowmen and crossbowmen to select the most capable. Men from the Narrow Sea, from the Reach and the Storm, some from the West, he'd looked through them all and had chosen exactly who it was that either needed no further training or little of it. Time did not allow him to give them the same extensive training he'd given his men during their time with the Company of the Rose.

Still, he'd gotten close to a thousand men and had taken nearly eight hundred with him for the upcoming battle. If it could be named as such, for in truth it was truly an ambush. The plans that had been made and which he, Hugo, Torrhen, and Brandon had been a full and true part of, had shown just why that was to be so. Artos had listened keenly as Jacaerys Targaryen had explained why the Knights of the Vale couldn't be faced on an open field. That to do so would be worse than facing the Dothraki in the Great Grass Sea, which brought a smile to Hugo's face and his own if he was being honest with himself.

"All their lives this is what they trained for. The one true tactic that they know by heart and one that has proved more than effective over the years. At the Battle of the Bastards, their full charge cut through the Bolton forces as if they were naught but wheat being sheafed. While they'd not be so lucky against men who were ready for them, they'd be devastating enough and so I'd seek to break that charge before it ever got started." Jacaerys said and Torrhen was the one who asked him just how he was going to do such a thing.

"By fighting the Free Folk way." Jacaerys smiled as he looked at Tormund Giantsbane. "We fight them where they least expect it and fight them on our terms."

What exactly those terms had been, had been enlightening, to say the least. Artos wondered just how much of it was Jacaerys own plans and how much came from his Mistress of Whispers. Lady Malora Hightower possessed powers that few truly understood. Yet warging was known to them all and he'd wager it was the lady who gave Jacaerys the layout of the lands they were to fight that battle in. She, who at least directed and decided where that battle was to be fought.

The High Road had been chosen and from the moment he'd seen it, Artos had understood why. Narrow, relatively straight, and surrounded on either side by a forest and the mountains themselves, it was perfect for what they wished to do with it. Leaving Hugo to the cutting of the trees, Artos arranged his archers and crossbowmen in two long lines. For the next two days, he drilled them and crossbows were loaded as Hugo and his men cut down the trees they needed.

Supplies they had in abundance and each crossbowman had three crossbows to their name. Some of them were their own from their time in the Company of the Rose, while others had been gathered from each of the regions that named Jacaerys their king. The Reach had more than most due to the cost of the weapons themselves, while the men from the Narrow Sea had fewer to give up. Still, it mattered not, and even though it left the larger army with few crossbowmen to call upon, Artos had been told they'd be needed not.

"'Tis a different type of battle the king wishes to wage on the Red Queen and those who ride by her side. A less true one in some respects.!"

"He truly fears them not?"

"I doubt there is a thing in this world that man truly fears. Yet, it's the raven scrolls he holds in his hands, the words spoken to the daughters of the North, that give the king true comfort that his plans are sound."

Torrhen had spoken the words without any doubt and once he had, any that Artos, Hugo, or Brandon had were soon a thing of the past. Their commander had judged Jacaerys Targaryen by his actions both before they'd truly known him and since. The Battle of the Storm had shown that he possessed a mind for tactics and how he'd handled things before and since then, showed he understood politics too. It meant that they could do as Artos wished them and once they won the battle here, if need be, they could then hurry to join their forces to the king's.

The night before the battle began, their outriders spotted the Knights of the Vale and they were as formidable as Jacaerys had named them. Well armoured, disciplined and they'd come out in numbers too. Yet, Artos still slept like a babe and woke to break his fast as normal. He spoke to the men with good cheer and after briefly making sure that Hugo had all he needed, it was back to his task that he took himself. Then the true waiting began.

An hour. Two. It was on the third hour since he'd woken up that the first of the Knights of the Vale began to ride past them. In less than another hour, enough had done so for them to truly begin, and raising his hand, Artos gave the order.

A wave of crossbow bolts flew through the air and not a single one missed their targets. Man or horse, neither was discriminated against and the sounds of pain, hurt, and death rang out loudly. Up the line in front of them, the caltrops and rough ground that men had spent more than a day laying down, caused its problems. Yet despite all of that, it was the rolling of the trees that Artos looked at with awe. Jacaerys himself had come up with this tactic, as not even Torrhen had heard of it. Using the ground and the sheer abundance of good sturdy trees to its most devastating effect. Artos pitied the horses and their riders as the large trees rolled down the hills and crashed into them. Their poor attempts at avoiding their fate only helped cause confusion and chaos in their ranks.

His men continued their deadly work for some time. As the first crossbow bolt was fired, the crossbowman was handed another crossbow and then another once he'd fired that one too. By the time they'd fired off their third bolt, the first crossbow had been reloaded and the process began once again. It was lethal and it decimated the ranks of the Knights of the Vale. So much so, that the charge was called for much sooner, and though more bolts and arrows were fired, their work was all but done.

Surrenders were accepted when given. Wounds would be tended to if they could be and the victory itself was mayhap something the gods had already decided upon. For centuries the Knights of the Vale had been the pre-eminent cavalry force in Westeros. It would be many years until they could even begin to claim to be so again.

"For the King," Artos shouted as around him the cheers rang out.

The Bronze Lord.

He had never liked Jon Snow. To see a bastard raised above a trueborn child had not sat right with Yohn Royce. That said bastard allied with Wildlings had only made him dislike the man more if he was being honest with himself. Yohn had blamed them for the death of his son and even after seeing the truth of who it was who'd taken Waymar from the world, he blamed them still.

It had been Sansa Stark that he and his men had ridden to the North for. Restoring her to her rightful place had been why they'd charged and broken the Bolton lines so truly at the Battle of the Bastards. Yet, the Lords and Ladies on the North had named her bastard brother over her and Yohn had understood it not. When Jon Snow had then allied with the Dragonqueen, he'd been even more against the man. Memories of what had been down to his nephew and by who were never far from his mind. So he'd spoken to Sansa Stark about his displeasure regarding her bastard brother's actions.

There was no displeasure regarding Sansa Stark's own actions, however. Yohn had much welcomed seeing Littlefinger pay the price for his treachery and so had offered his sword and fealty to the woman who'd seen that was so. Or he had somewhat. He was and would always be a man of the Vale after all.

Now, he rode to prove his words and oaths meant as much to him as they should. He, Morton Waynwood, Ser Symon Templeton, Ser Mychel Redfort. Further down the line, there were men he named good and true along with their heirs and second sons. Men like Ser Gilwood Hunter, Ser Robert Hersy, and the lords, Jarrod Melcolm, Benedar Belmore, and Lyonel Corbray who finally wielded his family's famed sword. Together they rode to war and to crown a king and queen that each of them would be proud to serve.

"Together we'll see a bastard kinslayer dead." he smiled. It was not a smile he wore for long.

The first sign that all was not well was when a horse pulled up lame in front of him. It was soon followed by another and then another and by the time they'd realized that someone had prepared the ground and lain traps and caltrops upon it, it was too late. Something that the sounds of pain and agony that rang out behind him proved all too clearly.

"Form up! Form up! Look to the…."

They were the last words spoken by Ser Symond Templeton and Yohn was forced to look on in stunned silence as a man he'd known all his life, lost that life to a crossbow bolt. He was not the only man to do so and the bolts kept firing even as Yohn did all he could to see where they were being fired from. The who of it was a much easier thing to determine and yet even that brought up many questions.

How?

Why did we not know?

Have we been betrayed?

Are their traitors amongst us?

What do we do now?

The direness of the situation meant that there was no time to ponder on or truly ask those first few questions. It was only the last of them that truly mattered and looking down the line, seeing the true extent of their predicament, Yohn found he had no true answer to it as of yet.

He looked to the trees and finally caught sight of their enemies. Shocked even more by just how many of them there were. Calling the men nearest to him to form up, they began to move their horses towards the line of crossbowmen and archers. Only to look on in horror as their worst fears were realized.

All his life he'd worried about the Hill Tribes truly uniting for an attack. Never had he imagined they'd do so as armed as they were now. The poorness of their weapons had always been their downfall and why they could only cause a true threat to smaller parties of riders. Now, they posed one to the entire might of the Knights of the Vale and Yohn felt his blood begin to boil.

"Kill them! Kill them all!" he shouted as he swung his Morningstar and killed one of the Black Ears.

Mychel and Morton doing as he was and Yohn prayed to the Seven who are One, that should he fall today, Andar would make it back to Runestone and see it safe. For he was under no doubt that once this battle, this rout, was over and done with, it would be their family's keeps that the Bastard Kinslayer sought next.

He rolled when his horse was taken from under him. The bolt in its chest ended his mare and Yohn wished to mourn for an animal that had served him as well as she had over the years. Yohn could not, the fight he was now engaged in allowed him not to do so. A Red Hand of the Burned Men moved his way and bore a fierce-looking ax in his hands. One that was forged in a keep no doubt and Yohn cursed the Bastard Kinslayer for again allying with savages. He cursed himself too for not predicting it.

Around him, men died on both sides and yet far more were good men and true than were not. Mychel and Morton had fallen to what seemed to be men of the Reach and that would at least mean they'd be treated well if they lived, or so Yohn believed. As for his fight, he'd get no quarter from those who now surrounded him. Black Ears, Burned Men, Moon Snakes, there seemed to be members of all the Hill Tribes converging on him. Yohn promised himself he'd take as many with him before he breathed his last and just as he did so, the fight began for true.

A crash of his Morningstar was enough to do for a Burned Man. It took two to end a Moon Snake and one more to do for the two Black Ears that moved his way. On and on he fought, five men, six, he lost count as he felt the tiredness begin to overwhelm him. All he knew was that there were more and more moving his way and death was not only likely, it was inevitable. Yet it was not the Stranger's voice that Yohn Royce heard at that moment. Nor was it the dulcet tones of his wife and daughter. Instead, it was the voice of a man who bore a rose on his shield and who was clearly from the North. A man who bid him to throw down his arms and to live another day. One who offered him fair treatment and the chance to state his case in front of the king himself.

"I know no king but King Harrold Hardyng," Yohn replied angrily.

"Your false king has his own battle to wage and he too will find it to be as pointless as you've found this one. Drop your weapon and place yourself under my charge, do so and you'll live to see the morrow."

"I refuse to kneel to a heathen bastard, a Dragonspawn. Tell your Kinslaying King to go fuck himself." Yohn smiled.

"My king sent me to fuck you, Lord Royce." the northern man replied. A soft sigh came from him before he moved forward, his large double-sized ax now being held properly in his hands.

Was it tiredness?

The fact he'd fought a half dozen men already?

Or was it simply that the man in front of him had the measure of him?

In the end, it mattered not.

Yohn Royce fought Valiantly. Yohn Royce fought Nobly. Yohn Royce fought Honorably. And Yohn Royce died.

"Waymar…." he called out with his last breath.

The Truest Friend.

These people were much like his own. Some were like the clans that he'd liked not dealing with, but more were like the clans he very much did. They drank a drink that was as close to goat's milk as could be and Tormund had much welcomed tasting much of it when it was offered. Other than the Black Tar Rum, which there never seemed to be enough of, he'd found it hard to get a decent drink in the South. The kneelers much preferring weak ale and wine than a true Northern drink.

The men of the Hill Tribes, however, they named those drinks as the piss they truly were and Tormund had laughed loudly when it was only he and the Wolves from the East, who could drink for true. Jace's men from the Narrow Sea were unable to do more than take a swallow before coughing their guts up afterward. As for those from the West and South, they never even tried to swallow once they'd smelt what was in the mugs.

Words were spoken, offers were made and yet in the end it was the good steel that they brought with them and Tormund's own words with the clan leaders that sealed the accord. Jace's words rang true and though it was by his side that Tormund wished to be, especially when he faced off against the Red Queen. Tormund had finally accepted that Jace knew best and that here was where he was at his most useful.

"I need them to speak to someone who they see as no different from them, Tormund. None other can I trust with this."

"Your sister…"

"Was murdered in this very keep by a monster of a man, Tormund. I had but one sister in my life, one true sister and I knew her not."

"I should be with you…"

"You are with me and the fight you fight will be far more dangerous than mine own, so I bid you be wary, Tormund, and leave your stupid here where it belongs." Jace reached out to touch his shoulder.

"Aye, I will, as long as you do the same."

"You have my oath on it, my friend."

It stopped his prayers to the Old God not. Tormund asked them for their favor and to allow him to see his friend once more. He worried more for himself than Jace if he was being truly honest with himself. It mattered not to him that Jace believed it not, but he believed that there was naught in this world that could take his friend from it before his time. As for his own, he just prayed to be given a little more of it before they called him to their side.

Shaking his head from such thoughts, Tormund looked to those with him. More than two thousand men and women of the Hill Tribes. Burned Men, Painted Dogs, Black Ears, Stone Crows, Sons of the Mist, and Milk Snakes, there were some from each of them. One or two who had fought for the Imp and received less than they believed they were owed and these had been the hardest to bring to Jace's side. Tormund spoke words that named Jace to be unlike any kneeler they'd ever seen the like of before.

"He let my people through the Wall, fought alongside them at Hardhome against the dead uns. Took a bloody knife to his heart for doing so and never forget who it was he fought for or with."

"Others said same." Chella daughter of Cheyk said bitterly.

"Promises are never kept." Timmet son of Timmet added.

Tormund knew that both had fought for the Imp and then been cast aside afterward.

"The man you served is dead." Tormund looked at them both." Dead by the hands of the man I name my true friend." they looked back eagerly. "None hold to their oaths and promises as he does, none. If he says a thing is to be then that thing is to be. For once I dressed as you and look at what I wear now. Ask those with me. Those from the True North if you believe me not. But the offer I carry is good and true and only a fool would refuse it."

"What offer."

"The blood of those you name your enemies and a place of your own in these lands when that blood is shed. No other offer is needed than that I wager."

"No, no truer offer has ever been made," Timmet grunted.

The sound of the horses took Tormund from thoughts of days and hours now passed and to those to come. One of the Wolves from the East led their crossbowmen, another had placed barriers and rough caltrops on the ground. While a little further down the High Road to the left and the right of it, another waited to loose the large trees they had cut down. Tormund along with those nearest to him, all lay on the ground as the horses passed them by enough for the attack to begin. Jace's plan was now put in full effect and it was deadly and glorious in equal measure.

First, the crossbow bolts flew and targeted both men and horses equally. Then the trees were let roll and the sound of them crashing into horses and the carnage they wrought was a terrible thing to behold. Down the line horses and the knights upon them tried to gain some respite to little effect. Yet as much as it was all of this that Tormund concentrated on, it was those with him that his attention kept turning to. Timmet, and Chella, both wore looks that could only be named to be gleeful. Their bloodlust had been raised by the sight in front of them and when the horns blew, it was they who were first to their feet. Tormund took a moment longer to rise to his own.

Some knights had sought the comfort of the trees for safety. They were the first to find that there was to be no such thing found that day. Tormund looking as with their newly castle-forged steel, the Hill Tribes, wrought a terrible vengeance on those they'd always named their enemies. Men were pulled from horses and chopped at with axes or felt the crash of a Morningstar, Flail, or Edged Mace against their chests or heads. The latter was probably far more preferable than the former as instant death or unconsciousness was much better than what you faced if you lived still.

Tormund only fought three men during the battle. One he killed without even truly thinking much about it. The second wore a covered helm, so Tormund could see not the look on the man's face as he took his life from him. As for the third, Tormund would remember the look on that young man's face for many days to come. No older than Jon Snow had been when he'd first met him, Tormund had tried to hold back the blow. He had not been successful and even with the fighting going on around him, he'd knelt and held the young lad in his arms as he drew his last breath.

"Go to your gods, lad, may they treat you better than life or I did," Tormund said as he closed the young lad's eyes and moved to see if there were any more men to fight. Happy to find there were not.

Around him, it was pure carnage. The crossbowmen had writ a heavy price from the Knights of the Vale and had thinned their forces down quite a bit. The trees and caltrops had done their damage too. Yet, it was the Hill Tribes that truly inflicted the most casualties on the Knights of the Vale. Armed with good steel and both with the element of surprise and a large force to back them up, they were unrelenting in their assault. So much so that Tormund was forced to use men of the Reach and Narrow Sea to stop them from killing men who had surrendered or were unable to fight on.

The battle was won however and Tormund would live another day, all he needed was to make his way to Jace and ensure that he did too.

The Twins 307 AC.

The White Dragon.

He'd mourned his father at the Trident. Jacaerys took the time to stand there alone and to look at the waters where his father had lost his life. The tale of the fight and how with his last breath his father had called out for his mother, was enough to bring tears to his eyes. Knowing that it was her that his father thought of as he died was something that Jacaerys could truly understand. For if he was to meet his end in the battles to come, then it would be Desmera he called out for.

That should surprise him. Worry him. Yet it did not. True, he feared more for his wife than he did for himself, but he'd taken many steps to ensure Desmera's safety. The biggest of which he would soon be taking when he was face to face with the woman who'd tried to take her from him. Sansa Stark would find herself with no place to run and nowhere to hide from him. Her actions had wrought everything he would do to her upon her and never would he take as much pleasure in ending a life as he did when he ended hers.

No, he should be terrified that he worried so about yet another woman in his life. That his heart, which he'd thought was broken beyond repair, was once again filled with love. The thoughts that he was soon to be a father and he'd hold his son or daughter in his hands, only made what he felt for Desmera even more true. His time at the Trident honoring his father and seeing the place where he'd met his end, allowed him to chase those worries away. To replace them with naught but determination to remove from the world any who dared to name themselves his enemy.

"I have become death so that my wife and babe know only life." Jacaerys resolved.

At the Trident, he spoke to the representatives of the Riverlords. Heirs and Second Sons or Trusted Men, all bearing their lords' sealed oaths and ready to ride back and tell them what their part in the mummery to come was. Lady Malora had already seen that his messages had been received by each of those lords. Her birds flying ever true and yet, some had wished for more. Just as Jace had expected them to. For words spoken from a king's own lips were that much truer than any written down on a scroll. They allowed questions to be asked and answered and Jace had done much of the latter before those men had ridden back to their fathers and lords.

The one to Riverrun was different. Jace spoke directly to the Master of Arms and listened as Ser Desmond Grell spoke of his lord's concerns. Edmure Tully would play his part from a distance and it would fall to Ser Desmond and Ser Robin Ryger to do as Jace wished them to do.

"I wish your lord to play no true part, Ser Desmond. I'd not ask him to be a party to the fate that is to befall his niece. I would, however, bid you to remind him that nothing he can do would avoid that fate."

"I believe Lord Edmure is aware of such, your grace."

"Then have him feign an illness, an issue with his wife and babe. Anything that places the command of his men in your hands, Ser Desmond. Ride with those men to Sansa Stark and her husband and name yourself good and true."

"And after?" the knight asked worriedly.

"Play no part in the events to follow, Ser Desmond. That is all I bid of you and your lord. Stand down your men and play no part and in doing so, Lord Edmure will have proved his fealty."

"And his niece, your grace?"

"My cousin and I have our own issues to resolve and are no matter of yours or your lord's."

"Indeed, your grace."

It was a simple enough plan. A mummery for those who had named him king and the turning of their cloaks on someone who they knelt to not. Compared to the Vale, it was an easy enough task he'd set the Riverlords and the Lords of the North. So it was to the Vale that Jace turned his mind. Or tried to at least. Given where he stood it was hard to turn his mind to anything other than the brother he'd loved and lost.

The army had been left behind under the command of Torrhen Snow, Lord Mathis Rowan, and Ser Daven Lannister. Jace, Ser Humfrey, Ser Asher, Val, Lady Malora, and Ghost, Syrax, and Aegerax had set off down the river to the Twins. A journey that took them less than half the time it would were they to do so on horseback. One too that was far safer to make by riverboat or so Lady Malora had informed him. Jace, as always, bowing to her foresight in such matters.

He'd felt it the moment he'd seen the twin keeps come into view. The sense of loss had almost overwhelmed him and for once Ghost could comfort him not. His wolf too had lost a brother here and one glance at where he lay on the boat, would be enough to see his mourning. It fell instead to the Golden Eagle and Red Dragon to comfort Jace and help him through his initial feelings. Neither of them was able to help him through the ones that came later that night as he walked the very hall where Robb had lost his life. Jace cursed the world, the gods, and the Freys most of all for what they'd done.

"I should have been here."

"I should have been by your side."

"I'd have welcomed death if I died fighting for you brother."

Jace all but screamed out the words through his despair. His eyes were dry and with few if any more tears to shed. The sight of where Robb's blood had been spilled was as clear to him as if he was there when it had been. Should he close his eyes, he could almost imagine that he was and he'd already tried in vain to get to the specter of his brother that he'd found in his mind's eye.

Dark Sister had been unsheathed and with it in hand, Jace had fought against invisible enemies. Only to open his eyes and see that he was as alone as he had been when he'd entered the hall. There was naught he could do to save his brother from the fate that had befallen him. The time had long since passed when that would have been possible. So, Jace had instead mourned him and had bid Lady Malora to take him to where his body had been left to rot. Robb finding no respite after death either it seemed.

He'd washed the remains of that body himself. Had allowed none to boil the bones and clean them. Nor had he allowed any to disturb the ground of the shallow grave they had left his brother's corpse in. Jace doing so himself as he had done for Grey Wind. Both would be buried in the crypt at Winterfell and a true and proper ceremony would be held for his brother. No matter what Sansa Stark dared to name herself, it was Robb who was the last true ruler of the North. A King, not a queen, that the people would remember when they were asked who had worn the last crown of winter.

After the bodies had been prepared for their travel, Jace had taken to the parapets. Firstly to see Syrax and Aegerax as they soared through the sky. To welcome them to him and praise them both as they deserved to be praised. Secondly, to look to the east and the Vale. Jace was eager to bear witness to the battle that was fought there and he was not alone in doing so. Lady Malora looked down upon it through her familiars and Jace, who had thought of sending Syrax there, now did so through one of his own. The small sparrow rested atop one of the highest trees and through its eyes, he saw it all.

"It is done," he said simply when he opened his eyes.

"Your grace?" Ser Humfrey asked, confused.

"The Battle of the High Road has been won, Ser Humfrey. The Knights of the Vale have been broken."

"The men of the Company, your grace?" Ser Asher asked.

"Fought as truly as they did in the Battle of the Storm and found no match amongst the Valemen as they did not on that day."

"And Tormund, your grace?" Ser Humfrey asked, bringing a smile to Jace's face.

"Found good and true friends among the Hill Tribes. More importantly, a drink that he'll relish celebrating the victory with."

"Then it's just the Red Queen and the Wingless Falcon, your grace."

"Aye, just them for now," Jace replied, not speaking any more words and not truly letting his thoughts go where he knew they would. It was hard enough to stand in the keep where Robb had been murdered and contemplate the killing of one of his brother's sisters, without then having to think about doing the same with another. Arya he hoped would stay far from Westeros and never darken his door with her presence. Though he feared she very much would not and that once she learned of all he'd done, she'd seek to make him a name on her list.

'Then I'll need to end her too.'

Jace was more than happy to leave the Twins behind. To no longer think that the two keeps should be razed to the ground. Or to wish that Aegerax was as big as Rhaegal had been and that together they'd unleashed a dragon's flames upon such an accursed place. He tried not to hold the location as guilty as he did the people who'd carried out the act, but it was a hard thing to do and the more time he spent there, the harder it was becoming. So, he was happy to carry the sack from his room and down the stairs. As he was to walk to the boat and not look behind. Ghost lay on the deck with Grey Wind's bones in a sack that he'd let no one touch without Jace bidding him to. Aegerax and Syrax rested beside the White Wolf and offered him what comfort they could. Jace was happy to see it all.

A slip, almost had him drop the sack he carried and Ser Humfrey offered Jace a hand which he took not.

"Your grace, mayhap I could carry that for you. It seems heavy." Ser Asher said and Jace offered him a sad smile before replying.

"He's not heavy. He was my brother," he said sadly.

A/N: Continuing to try to navigate this site's issues and getting things back up to date.

Up Next: A lone wolf decides on her future. In King's Landing, a queen worries about her king and sees to the realm at large, and at the Trident, Jace readies to do what his father could not and to emerge victorious from an encounter there.