This chapter was edited by Gladiusx.
28th day of the 8th moon (2 days after Percy took Moat Cailin)
Winterfell
Lord's Solar
Bran tapped his fingers on the desk as he reread the letter. This morning, a knight under Lord Manderly's service delivered it, along with one of the many shipments sent from White Harbor up the White Knife to the nearby river port.
"…The audacity of the princess!"
"…Brings up a couple of good points…"
"…Know nothing about this foreign sorcerer!"
Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik left him to his thoughts as they argued and discussed the contents of the message. They had been at it for the past few hours, and Bran dearly wished he could be like Rickon, who ran off after the first hour from boredom. But the sliver of envy disappeared as quickly as it had appeared - he could not, would not, run away from the troubles of his home anymore.
Bran still remembered that day when word of Sansa's safe return North had arrived, and the elation that threatened to overwhelm him. So happy he was, that he had not bothered visiting the Godswood for three days as he ordered a feast to celebrate. Since the sudden silence from the three-eyed crow, Bran had consistently tried to connect to the Weirwoods. He could tell that something had changed, and his powers had come far easier to him.
It started with him wearing the skin of a raven and finally learning to fly! It was such an addicting feeling that he could not help but occasionally ignore the world around him as he flew around Winterfell. At times, Bran would be attacked by larger birds of prey. The first time he was so scared he immediately cut off the connection, though the echo of the poor raven's death had made him wary of flying again… at least for a few days. That was when he started visiting the Godswood; The Reed siblings occasionally joined him until Jojen got sick, and Meera stayed by his side.
Alone in front of the Heart Tree, with only Ho–Walder nearby in case he needed anything, Bran felt solace in front of the melancholic face. Once he fell asleep on its roots, he dreamed of things… strange things that he had trouble understanding. Some terrible, some inhuman, and others beautiful and cold.
But mostly, Bran dreamed of faceless figures speaking to him. It was a strange ghostly realm he found himself when asleep. Figures of brilliant white, eyeless yet not unnerving. Many voices attempted to speak to him, yet he could barely understand them. Bran discovered they spoke in a tongue that felt familiar yet still different.
One of them stood out more than most, for instead of being shining white, he seemed more… real. Powerfully built, clad in wolfskins with a hammer hung on his belt, yet his face was still unfathomable to Bran. He tried talking to the figures, yet they could not understand each other, and Bran could feel their disappointment. Until he grabbed one of them, and the visions started.
So many of them, so indescribable, so ethereal and disjointing. Memories of battles from a bygone era, of First Men wearing the skin of their bonded animals, of castles rising over a swampy land and then collapsing from the passage of time. Figures of valorous men not only enduring against the tide of countless dark fiends and neither-dead-nor-alive creatures of yore but even pushing it back… before settling onto a lone warrior with dark hair and glowing green eyes, as he seemed to fight against both the heavens and the seas.
The visions ended as abruptly as they started, and Bran could only ask:
"What was that?!"
And surprisingly, he got an answer!
"Things that were, things that are, and things that might just become."
Bran had visited the Godswood less as those visions plagued his mind - whoever the ghost that spoke to him then had remained adamantly silent. The shades hiding in the Weirwood thankfully did not bother him in the castle or his sleep, even though he knew they were watching. He could feel them, yet strangely, Bran felt no fear or malice from them.
Summer did not either, and his Direwolf had even better senses as he stared unblinkingly at the fireplace where another ghost stared longingly over an ancient tapestry that must have been hundreds of years old.
It was then that Bran realized those were the ghosts of his ancestors… and that none of them understood his tongue, which meant they were far older than he could fathom. It also killed any hope in him to meet his father, though he got the feeling that without his bones interred in the crypts, Eddard Stark's soul would never find rest. Still, the ghosts helped protect him from other things he knew were also watching him.
He could feel the many eyes of countless beings that both exist, yet not truly. One seemed to be glaring from the heavens, another from the depths of the earth, yet it was a many-limbed one that Bran kept seeing its shadow near wells and ponds. It would disappear before he could get a good look at it, and Bran always found one of the ghosts in its place, sword in hand and blurry face scowling in the distance.
Always towards the south, they would stare. Sometimes, to the west, but usually to the south.
Still, Bran had not remained idle these past few weeks. His control in skinchanging improved; Soon, he could jump from a raven to an eagle mid-flight, even if Rickon always interrupted his flights. Bran rubbed his brow in embarrassment; he had the habit of wearing the skins of animals when duty called. He did not want to be stuck in a castle, stifled with endless responsibilities and listening to petitions and woes.
Bran wanted to be free! To be able to fly anytime he wanted, with no worries about the world and its unending problems. And yet, the reality was not so simple, for even if he ran away from his duty, it would still catch up to him.
His eyes glazed as he read through the letter again…
From Princess Sansa Stark of the Kingdom of the North to Prince Brandon Stark of Winterfell.
Dear Bran,
You cannot imagine how much it gladdened my heart when I heard about your recovery. I still recall that day like it was just yesterday, our Lord Father had gathered Arya and I in his office to let us know. It was one of the few times both of us had something to celebrate together in that cursed city.
Such beautiful days long past - how things have changed.
Father is dead, murdered, by that vile monster Joffrey. Our people were slain in cold blood by the treacherous Lannisters and their dogs. Arya is gone without a trace, yet I refuse to believe she is dead. For many moons, I was forced to witness our Father's head rotting on a spike by our enemies. Not just Father, but even Septa Mordane, Steward Poole, and many more of our people. They did not even spare poor Jeyne Poole or any other children in Father's retinue.
It was the most horrible point in my life, so much so that I wished I had the bravery to end it. To just throw myself off the ramparts headfirst and deny our enemies a valuable hostage. Alas, I was too cowardly to do it, and the gods had other plans for me.
I am sure whispers and rumors of my escape from King's Landing have reached your ears. Not just that, but surely, you have heard of my arrival in White Harbor, for you have sent me my own personal retinue befitting of a princess. For that, you have my deepest gratitude.
Yet I have received the most disturbing news from Lord Manderly. He tells me tales of the Bastard of Bolton and how you prevented Ser Rodrik Cassel from mustering men to wipe him out of the Hornwood lands. I do not know what was on your mind then, little brother, yet I hope you understand that your inaction had caused many innocent lives to be lost.
I believe you met Lady Donella Hornwood during the harvest feast. Lord Manderly informs me that she had requested aid against the Bolton Bastard at the time, yet none was given aside from politicking to take advantage of a grieving widow. Now, she is dead, brutally murdered in her own home.
I realize now how unfair it was for our kingly brother to place such heavy burdens on your young shoulders. Believe me, little brother, I do not blame you in the slightest. No, the fault lies with our many enemies for taking advantage of our moment of weakness. Do not fear, however, you should not need to worry about such heavy matters any longer.
I am sure you have heard tales about my savior. Allow me to put those rumors to rest; I was saved from captivity by a brave warrior from the sea. Perseus Jackson is his name, and he brought me to White Harbor, where I was then wedded to him under the auspices of the Gods, old and new. You have a new brother now, Bran. I would love for you and Rickon to meet him. Using his mighty powers and our loyal bannermen, we shall purge our kingdom from all invaders, both within and without.
By the time you receive this letter, Percy, as my beloved prefers to be called, should have already retaken Moat Cailin. We shall deal with the Bolton Bastard next, and then we shall march to Winterfell to regroup before cleansing our shores from the Ironborn threat.
Finally, after over a year, I shall be home, little brother! No longer will you have to worry about matters of state and war that you are not yet ready for. I firmly believe that you will grow into that role, regardless of your injuries, but now, the North needs a strong hand to guide it.
I look forward to seeing you again, brother. Say hello to Rickon for me. And beyond all else, know that your sister loves you both dearly.
Sansa.
"My Prince?" Rodrik's voice awoke him from the stupor, and the young Stark was met with two expectant gazes. Oh, they were heavy–the weight that crushed your shoulders, not the mundane things you struggled to lift, "Have you made a decision?"
Bran tapped the desk again as he hummed in thought. It did not take a genius to understand what his sister planned; Sansa desired the power to rule. Perhaps she had the right of it, he was not raised for this. He never wanted to be a lord, responsible for thousands of people, resolve disputes, or even send men to fight–possibly to their deaths. Yet his dream of adventure was denied. A cripple could never join the white cloaks or the black brothers, a cripple could never climb the Wall the same way his Uncle said the wildlings oft did.
A large part of Bran wanted to simply follow Sansa's advice, to let her come here with her powerful husband, whom he was sure he had seen in the Weirwood a couple of days ago. Bran had been meditating as Jojen had instructed him when he felt a surge of something coming from the Heart Tree, and the moment he touched it, he found himself staring at a man with a powerful presence standing in a swampy godswood. To say he was shocked would be an understatement, but if that was truly Sansa's husband, then perhaps she had the right of it; allow his good-brother to be the sword the North needed.
Yet a tiny part of him rebelled at such a thought. Even if he could never walk again, he was still a son of Eddard Stark. So what if he was merely eleven years old? There had been kings and Lord Commanders younger than him. Bran may not be able to stand on his own feet, yet he could fly. And he knew exactly where the North was truly threatened from.
Enemies from the South or the Iron Isles have always existed, yet they do not matter. Bandits? Any old huntsmen could hunt those rogues down, but as the Stark of Winterfell, he had a far more important duty than any of those so-called threats.
"Maester Luwin, has the rider from the Night's Watch recovered enough to return to the Wall?"
"Aye, yet he requested another meeting with you, My Prince. He fears that the warnings in the letter to be defici–"
"I have decided."
The words had a finality to them, the sort he had heard his father speak and silenced all men in anticipation. Bran opened his mouth and closed it several times; doubt started clouding his mind. Was this the right choice? He had already been entertaining this course of action for a sennight, ever since the raven arrived from the Wall asking for aid and then the rider that followed two days ago with further details.
He bit his cheek and narrowed his eyes at Sansa's letter; this was not the time to be hesitant. Bran would show all those who doubted him that he too, was worthy of the Stark name.
"The Starks have always supported the Night's Watch in their greatest time of need. Lord Commander Mormont warns that a massive army of wildlings is barely a day away as the raven flies from the Bridge of Skulls. My brother Jon is doing his best to delay them, but it is only a matter of time before they invade the North en masse."
Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik nodded grimly, waiting for him to continue. "Winterfell's garrison stands at two thousand men, with seven hundred of them lancers. One thousand footmen shall march through the Northern Mountains, mustering the Clansmen along the way, to fortify the Bridge of Skulls. Then, they shall wait for the impending attack by the Wildlings and repel them."
"That would weaken Winterfell further when we are beset by enemies!"
"Do not worry, Ser Rodrik. Winterfell has never fallen; we would still have over a thousand men and all our lancers. You shall continue training more recruits, and I shall order Mikken and the other craftsmen to fashion more weapons and armor."
"Still, such a force would need craftsmen and other followers if they were to remain by the Bridge for a long time." Ser Rodrik warned, "Westwatch-by-the-Bridge had remained abandoned since before Raymun Redbeard sneaked into the North through the bridge. It would need to be rebuilt, and proper supply lines established with the closest Houses."
"The Clansmen would not muster for anyone other than a Stark," Luwin warned gently. "Only the Flints of Breakstone Hill have ravens, and they would obey a muster bearing the sigil of the Stark of Winterfell. Yet, for the other thirty-nine clans, something more tangible would be necessary."
"True, which is why I will send Rickon with the army." Bran couldn't help but chortle at the pair of old, stunned faces gaping like fishes. "He will be commander in name, but in truth, he shall foster with one of the clans. I have not yet decided whom. Walder shall go with him as his personal bodyguard. You have trained him well, and I hate to force him to remain here as a glorified steed. I will leave it up to you to assign the captains, lieutenants, and serjeants of the force, Ser Rodrik."
"Very well, My Prince. Should we also call for a general muster? The Mormonts, Glovers, and Ryswells have men to spare. Young Cley Cerwyn had taken it upon himself to harass the Ironborn besieging Barrowton, but his meager cavalry cannot hope to deal any true damage. We shall need as many men as possible to dislodge them."
"Do so. You are dismissed."
As his advisors excused themselves to do his bidding, Bran wondered if he was doing the right thing. He felt that sending Rickon to the clansmen was a good idea, and his brother would have free rein to run wild in the great valleys of the Northern Mountains. Sending nearly half of Winterfell's garrison, along with more camp followers, builders, masons, carpenters, and so on - his home would probably feel emptier over the next few weeks.
Bran shivered as a chill crawled up his spine, instinctively covering himself with his fur cloak and staring at the open window. It was sunny outside, and he did not feel any wind. Bran was sure his decision was astute, and he needed to make that decision; otherwise, he would prove everyone right. That he was but a cripple, no good for anything.
Yet the feeling of dread that sent shivers down his spine did not go away, no matter what.
.
.
.
Hundreds of miles away
Asha shoved her way through the crowd of gawking Ironmen, watching the body floating face down on the water. She had just returned from a hunt, looking for her brother to inform him that time was up, only to learn where he was.
Drowning himself. Again.
"How long has he been like this?"
Asha turned to the first captain she found, who she belatedly realized was the elderly Lord Dunstan Drumm; the notoriously volatile captain was for once shocked, standing silent as he stared at her brother with wonder in his eyes.
"Two hours–" Two? Asha had half a mind to go there and drag her no doubt dead brother from the water just to kill him again for wasting their entire plan over– "Since I arrived here. Some say the Prince had been at it since dawn, and yet he still breathes!"
The Kraken's daughter gawked as she stared at the sun; It was nearly dusk. Asha then turned to her brother, finding bubbles coming from where his head was dunked in the Saltspear. Before she could decide what to do, Theon Greyjoy raised his head abruptly with a guttural gasp that did not sound human at all.
Everyone on the beach was silent as her brother took deep breaths before he started chuckling loudly. Then, he turned to them, and Asha felt sweat forming on her brow as she saw his eyes; there were no whites; it was an all-consuming blackness. Theon stared at them all for a few heartbeats as if making sure he had everyone's attention before his smile grew impossibly wide.
"It is time!"
A*H*M
7th day of the 9th Moon, 299.
Dragonstone
The Red Witch
"Damn you to the Seven hells and beyond, you witless harlot!"
"Shut yer trap, Dontos."
One of the Queen's men, those few that remain loyal anyway, punched the lordling in the stomach before gagging him. It did nothing to hide the hatred directed at both her and Selyse, yet Melisandre had long learned to let such eyes of malice flow off her like water off a duck's back.
They would never understand that they were merely fulfilling their fated purpose. For even though they were disbelievers, R'hllor would still embrace their unworthy lives in the light of his flames. A worthy sacrifice to hatch the two beautiful dragon eggs nestled at the center of the pyre.
Melisandre remembered little from her childhood, apart from Melony of lot seven. Yet she still recalled seeing the Targaryen dragons flying in the skies. She had witnessed the Dread in his ancient glory, though she had never seen him fly. She was there when the dragons died, and she will be here when they return once more.
For surely R'hllor had sent this boon to her king. Despite his sudden change of heart, Melisandre still believed that Stannis Baratheon was Azor Ahai reborn. She did not understand what had happened in these sunset lands that had caused the false gods to awaken from their deep slumber, yet they had deceived the king. A paltry blade of lightning could hardly compare to the boons the Lord of the Light could provide.
Melisandre was ready to bless the king with more tangible powers, for she could feel her connection to R'hllor deepening even if his visions had become less clear. Unfortunately, King Stannis was stubborn and had summarily dismissed her. Only by the grace of her Lord did Queen Selyse remain loyal, and those dragon eggs were unveiled at the right time.
R'hllor's light truly shone even in the darkest moment, even for a wayward champion such as her. What use was a shining sword compared to dragons?
"Please, have mercy! You would burn a holy man?!"
"Holy? You are but a deceiver worshiping false idols." The Queen's uncle, Axell Florent, sneered at the septon, yet Melisandre barely acknowledged the false priest's pleas for mercy as he was tied next to the young lad from House Rambton. "To be fed to the flames of the one true god would be a great honor for the likes of you."
That was two sacrifices for the two eggs, but one more was needed to facilitate the awakening. Truthfully, if it were up to her, she would have burned all those too stubborn to obey their Lady, R'hllor knew Selyse dearly wanted to. Alas, all of her senses screamed in warning the moment Melisandre had even begun contemplating the thought–clearly a warning from the Lord of the Light.
"Bring the fool."
Her voice was sharper than a whip as the Queen's men dragged the infernal creature that had so tested her patience. The damned thing clutched its head as it was dragged through the yard, struggling so much it needed four people to handle it. It moaned and screamed in pain about nonsensical things.
"THE SEA! THE DEEP! DEEPER THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE! IT COMES! IT COMES!"
Melisandre had instantly detested the jester when she first laid eyes on it. The creature always gave her an uncomfortable feeling, but it was when it danced in front of her, laughed in her face, and called her by her name, she knew it was no simple fool.
"Melony Melony, nearly thirty by a hundred, yet won't see the big three-oh-oh. From ashes and death to fire and shadow, Melony Melony, lot seven wants its due!"
Utter nonsense, she was certain of it. "Tie him in the center - its spirit is tainted and must be cleansed by the flames. And gag his incessant rambling."
The men gleefully obliged, thankfully ignoring her break of character. Melisandre gazed around them; they were on an abandoned strip of beach near the Dragonmont, it was the only place they could guarantee privacy for their goals. She glanced at Selyse Baratheon's pallid face. It was a sad state of affairs that the Lady of Dragonstone was forced into such clandestine practices, but Melisandre knew they did not have the people's loyalty anymore.
As she stared dispassionately at the men binding the fool, Melisandre wondered what the stony doe saw in that thing.
Thinking about Shireen Baratheon, the Red Witch was irked at how she had seemingly taken control of the castle with none of them the wiser. Only two days prior, Melisandre realized the treachery that had caused her to hasten the ritual. She would have respected the decisiveness and alacrity of the girl had it not caused her so much grief. Shireen Baratheon was vital for Stannis Baratheon to grow into his role of Azor Ahai; Nissa Nissa needed to be strong and beloved by the hero before he claimed her life and soul to reforge the red sword of destiny.
At first, Melisandre had thought Selyse was Nissa Nissa, but the cold, utterly loveless marriage quickly disabused that notion. Yet even a hardy man like Stannis Baratheon loved his daughter dearly, even if he scarcely showed it. Perhaps… perhaps if the Lord of the Light had deemed fit to cure the girl's Greyscale, Stannis wouldn't have turned his back on the one true god.
Alas, the ways of R'hllor were unfathomable even to her at times, though this surely had to be a test.
Melisandre glanced at the midnight skies, where the Bleeding Star had been clear for all to see until that fateful day moons ago. It had seemingly disappeared as if sucked straight from the heavens towards the distant oceans of the south. None realized the importance of such a phenomenon, yet Melisandre feared that yet another ancient foe was stirring.
The Great Other to the North, and the Abyssal Demon of the Deep.
The sound of angry waves crashing on the rocks behind them grew ominous, yet the crackling of the torches in the leal men's grasp was as reassuring as ever. What chance did the terrors of the night stand against the fire that burned against the cold?
"We are ready, My Lady."
Her gaze slid over the Queen, the surrounding men, and the sacrifices before settling on the two identical eggs, glimmering like enormous amethysts in the ruddy torchlight. The shadows danced, making the black swirls amidst the scales look as if they were alive.
"Tonight, we have a quest to fulfill from our Lord," Melisandre began, channeling all of her charms into her words. "Azor Ahai has been misled by the false gods of stone and trees. It comes down to us to help our King find his path back to the Lord of Light's embrace."
"R'hllor!"
"The Red God!"
While the Queen's men were few, they were loyal, most importantly devout–and suitably loud, even if the situation called for subtlety. Melisandre could not help but smile at their cheers; even the captives' muffled groans did not ruin the moment.
There was no use for more words, and the Red Witch approached the pyre, forming flames in her bare hands that came as naturally as breathing. She could have set the pyre aflame from afar, yet she stopped right before the wretched creature whose bloodshot dark eyes stared at her own crimson. Melisandre wanted to see fear and terror in those dark pits that haunted her every waking moment, yet there were none. In fact, the fool had completely ceased his struggle as he stared at her with a gleam in his eye and an upturn of his gagged mouth.
Patchface the Terror was mocking her, even with one foot in the grave!
Melisandre barely registered the distant sounds of galloping horses approaching and the Queen's men grabbing their weapons before she set the pyre ablaze, consuming the three sacrifices and the eggs. The false priest and the rowdy noble screamed in agony through their bindings as her hotter-than-normal flames cooked them alive.
But not the Fool; the wretched creature shook as the fire consumed him, and Melisandre stared in shock as she realized he was laughing. Soon, his gag burned away, and she had a terrible feeling that she should not allow him to speak!
"Patchface!"
Turning at the sound of the Princess, Melisandre nearly cursed aloud at the sight of the approaching force. Shireen Baratheon was atop a palfrey, leading two dozen men-at-arms and five knights to their clearing.
"You damned girl, what are you doing here?" Selyse's furious roar made everyone pause–even her daughter. "What are you waiting for? Kill the traitors! We cannot allow the ritual to be interrupted."
"Subdue them, but do not harm my mother." As their men brandished their weapons, Shireen ordered her men to attack before leveling a furious gaze at her. "Kill the witch if she resists!"
Melisandre narrowed her eyes at the girl's audacity. She was so close to achieving her Lord's will! Forming a fireball in her hand she threw it at the approaching knights, but her aim was off, and it flew over their heads into the darkness of the sea. Yet even so, it was enough of a distraction for the Queen's outnumbered men to get a fighting chance against their foes; for now, each of their movements was wary as they all glanced at her hands.
Shireen jumped away from her panicked steed and marched angrily at them, two of her men on her side. She made a striking presence with her stony scowl and an ornate dirk held tightly in her hands.
"Out of my way, witch!" So entranced was Melisandre with the princess' sheer gall to so boldly come here that she was nearly too slow to dodge the knight's slash, yet she still lost her footing and fell at the edge of the pyre.
Normal flames would not have harmed her, but this was a sacrificial pyre; any who entered it would be consumed as an offering. Her hands desperately flailed to keep her balance but to no avail.
No, the worst wasn't Melisandre perishing–she was long prepared to give her life should the Lord of the Light demand it. But her presence–or any other, would disrupt the ritual in an unfathomable way.
Melisandre rasped in pain as she crawled away from the flames consuming her dress and roasting her flesh while fervently praying that the eggs would still hatch. She noticed Selyse screaming incoherently as the other knight tried to grab her, only for them to freeze at a sudden ominous cackle.
"Ah, I did not expect such a scene when I finally connected to the Deep One's apostle." The voice came from behind Melisandre, and she whipped around to find the wretched creature grinning wildly at them, even as his skin burned and his bones blackened. "Shame he could not control the mighty powers of the god, or perhaps he refused to accept the blessings? Either way, it appears I have chosen the worst time possible to finally possess his broken mind."
"Who are you, monster? And what have you done with my jester?!"
Shireen Baratheon's stormy blue eyes promised pain and retribution as she glared at the pyre. The sounds of the waves grew louder, and the sky seemed ominously dark, yet Melisandre could feel nothing but trepidation as she gazed at the young princess. There was something different about her, something that gave the ancient witch pause.
"Hehehe, I am the godliest man in the world; one who shall become God." The creature glanced down at the dragon eggs, "Ohhh, more drakes for me! Do take care of them for me… IF YOU SURVIVE MY PET! HAHAHAHA!"
The jester's insane laughter echoed on the beach, even as the men clamored and shouted something about a Kraken. Melisandre glanced behind her only to find a hideous-looking giant squid crawling out of the sea, grabbing several men with its many tentacles, and throwing them away. Suddenly, the Fool gurgled as his body melted before their eyes. The flames grew white-hot, and Melisandre's eyes widened as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and light sprang from the ground just as a pair of golden eyes appeared in the heavens followed by a loud roar.
She barely took a step away when the pyre exploded, and she knew no more.
.
.
.
Ser Clayton Blackberry stared at a scene that might as well have come from the seven hells. The entire island had awoken by the sudden storm, the crackle of thunder, and yet another partial eruption from the Dragonmont. Lightning seemed to rage in the heavens, and the Blackberry knight had dragged his brother Jate and a score of men-at-arms to where the smallfolk had seen flames and unholy screams coming from the nearby beach. It did not take long for him to realize that a large portion of the garrison was missing, along with the Queen, the Princess, and the Red Witch.
Upon arriving at the beach, they stared in awe at the terrible behemoth strewn on the beach, full of stab wounds and riddled with arrows and bolts. It looked like a giant squid, yet it was far more hideous and monstrous than those treats he liked to eat fried with butter. It must have been a battle for the tales as he stared at the many fallen men on the shore, dead and broken, though a few still lived, yet they were not unscathed.
"Quickly, tend to the wounded. And make sure that bloody thing is dead!"
As the men hurried to obey, Clayton recognized one of the knights still breathing; Ser Perkin Follard was one of the converts to the Red God but returned to the Seven following the King's return to the faith. Clayton knew he had become a close ally to the Princess, but who hadn't when the alternative was a woman who had lost her wits and a foreign witch. The man's sword arm was broken and his armor looked like it was hit by a battering ram.
"What happened here?"
Ser Perkin barely managed to open his tired eyes and coughed out blood. "The Witch and the Queen… They tried to hatch the dragon eggs and would burn people for it. The Princess… She discovered the plot. Rallied us here." Suddenly, the man's eyes widened. "The pyre. Find the Princess, now!"
Clayton nodded and looked around, and it was not difficult to find where the pyre used to be. The beach was blackened and turned to glass, and the Blackberry knight nearly gagged at the stench of roasted flesh mingling with the overwhelming stench of brimstone as he discovered several burned husks around the center. There was a large pile of ash and sand that nearly reached his midriff, and as he approached, Clayton stepped on something solid. Looking down, he found a familiar-looking red ruby that cracked and turned to dust even as he held it.
Movement from the pile of ash caused him and his men to jump in fright. They drew their swords, wondering if they would be of use against whatever monstrosity had been brought to this world. Never in Clayton's dreams would he have imagined what happened next, for an amethyst reptilian head poked its head out of the blackened sand, its eyes a brilliant electric blue, and its elegant head tilted inquisitively as it saw them. It had two black stubs on its head that Clayton vaguely recognized as tiny horns and a long neck with scales that gleamed like dark amethyst under the thick curtain of moonlight.
"D-Dragon!"
The Blackberry knight did not know who started the whisper, but within a few seconds, a hundred people had gathered around the hatchling. They stared at the wondrous creature, looking at them curiously before its eyes widened. It shook its body out of the ash, revealing small wings that still beat powerfully enough to disperse the mound of ash.
What laid beneath caused Clayton to wonder if he was dreaming. A pinch to his thigh told him that he was not and that his eyes were not deceiving him.
Shireen Baratheon was curled in the ash, naked as the day she was born, with the dragon nestled over her torso. Only, the scars of greyscale were gone, and a much more beautiful sight bloomed in their place. The entire left side of her face, neck, and arm were covered in the same brilliant amethyst scales as the dragon. Her dark hair seemed to pool around her like a gentle waterfall, as it had grown uncontrollably; its color seemed to have grown so dark that it even drank in the pale moonlight.
A moan and the princess opened her eyes and the right one was the familiar blue she inherited from her father, while the left one–surrounded by a coat of purple scales–was amethyst.
Sansa unintentionally goads Bran into being proactive. Please remember that this is still an eleven-year-old who is trying his best to serve his home. This is not the annoying little shit from season eight.
Theon is finally on the move.
And finally, the most important development of the side-plots in the story. Introducing Shireen Baratheon; Westeros' first-ever Dragon Girl!
Poor Patches. Having to fight against a demonic god trying to control his mind for decades only to die to some pyromaniacs. At least his death won't be in vain. The Storm God/Warrior still watches over his champion and his heir.
Two guesses on who possessed Patchface in the end.
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