Bran

A sudden gasp awoke Bran from his sleep. He was sweating and out of breath. He sat up, letting his fur blanket slide from his chest. It was still nighttime, but only just.

His arms were shaking, but it was not from the cold. There was a fear coursing through him, fear that had a similar feeling to the power within the sight that pulled him into memories.

Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

A whimper came from Summer. His direwolf was looking at him, but constantly fidgeting in place.

Could it be the time had come they had all been dreading?

Bran laid back down and warged into his flock of ravens.

As one, the flock took flight from the dead oak outside of the castle and soared into the sky, flying over the lands asleep with the rest of the night, heading for the one place in the North that was never asleep when the night was dark.

The flight of the ravens was timeless, as being part of their minds warped Bran's perception. What should have been hours upon hours of flying felt like minutes. The whole of the north passed under them like it was carried on the surface of a rushing river.

Before even reaching the Wall, a sight caught the attention of the flock. Hundreds of humans running south and riding on horseback as fast as they could. Men wearing cloaks of black, cloaks green, and many others.

Finally the flock found the Wall and the castles where many should have been garrisoned, but there were none, only a storm waiting and thousands of corpses arose as soldiers for the King of the Dead.

Castle Black has fallen, but only some of the army was there. The flock headed east for the castle at the end of the Wall. But as it did, in the depths of Bran's mind and soul, he could sense something about the Wall. It felt empty, devoid of something that had always been there, only he couldn't tell what.

Finally the Castle was in sight and the world was beginning to brighten from the dawn shrouded out by the storm. Eastwatch by the Sea had fallen to the dead as well, but someone was there, waiting. At the head of the army waiting there was the Night King, looking out at the flock with a smile. He raised his arms up and a blue light began to glow in his palms. The flock banked around, watching what he was doing.

A great thunder of cracks erupted from the Wall. The world around began to shake with such fury, not even the White Walkers standing with their King could stay up. Then suddenly began the collapse of the greatest structure built by Man, Child, and Giant. The Wall which stood against the tests of time for thousands of years broke apart and crumbled down. Ice chunks as big as keeps and cottages fell and exploded when they hit the ground.

The cracks continued down the Wall. High in the sky, the flock had a view of miles and miles away, all of the ravens able to watch as here and there, the Wall collapsed against the storm, all of it.

What took generations to build, fell in a matter of minutes. When the last piece of ice had made its final tumble, the army of the dead began to march south, heading for the first and only place of resistance in Westeros.

Bran returned from his flock, gasping for air. His room had been dark with shadows when he began, but now there was light all around and Podrick was standing vigil to him half dressed and disheveled.

"My lord," Podrick began, but before Bran could respond, everything began to shake. The bed posts scraped on the floor and books fell from the shelves they sat on. All of it was momentary and became still once again.

"The Wall," Bran said, "It's completely gone. The dead are coming."

"What?" All the color left Podrick's face.

"Podrick, go wake up Jon, everyone."

"Right," Podrick shook his head and darted out of the room.

"Bran," Meera touched his shoulder, looking just as pale. "Is it really gone?"

All he could do was nod. "He waited for me to see it fall." Just remembering the pride and pleasure in that look, the Night King had formed a giant cold stone in the depths of Bran's stomach.

The shaking of the castle had just about awoken everyone up. Bran had met with the rest of the Starks and the Targaryens in the Great Hall privately and relayed what just happened.

Despite having faced them before, Jon still became almost overwhelmed, having to sit down and collect himself. He simply nodded in acceptance and told everyone to get situated for the meeting.

Bran was wheeled outside next to the bench his family sat at as all the Lords and Ladies of Westeros gathered around and Jon stood in view of them all on the wooden dias.

"We all felt that tremor earlier," Jon started, "and it was the sign that the Long Night has officially begun. Hours ago, the Night King attacked the Wall and used unbelievable powers to win. The Night's Watch, the Tarly's… they lost." A collective gasp swept across the audience. "Bran," Jon looked at him, "there were twenty thousand men… did you see how many were able to escape?"

Bran shook his head, but not because he did not know. "Maybe two thousand, but no more."

"What about my father?" Dickon Tarly stood up. "Is my father alive?"

"I didn't look to see. I'm sorry."

Jon looked over at Smalljon. "Send out as many riders as the survivors need. Bring horses, wagons, anything to help them get here alive. Now." Smalljon immediately went off with his orders with several Northmen trailing behind him. "I was a fool."

Bran replied back quickly, hating to see his brother doubt himself. "No, we couldn't have known. His powers have become an unbelievable force themselves." He hung his head. "He commands the winds as powerful as the waves of the ocean in a storm, he can shape ice with mind alone. The problem is the connection."

"What do you mean?"

"You're coming here is like a road made in the sight, Jon. Those with the power can travel here as well. The Night King you know followed, and shares his power with his past."

"So you're saying we're fighting a Night King twice as powerful?"

Bran pinched the bridge of his nose. "More than that. Don't forget, he took over the body of a Three Eyed Raven. The power within became his too. Our only hope is to make our stand in Winterfell."

"There needs to be another way," Jon said, "we lost half our numbers when I fought him the first time. If the Night King's strength has grown then even with the greater army and three dragons… if we managed to win, the cost will be almost absolute. We can't afford that."

Arya spoke up, "but we can't afford losing completely either. Everyone here knows the chance of death is almost certain."

Jon shook his head. "There has to be some way we can fight his powers. Bran, can't you do it like you did against Euron?"

Bran shook his head. "Not directly. It was my other self that did the hard fighting. He sacrificed his essence to shut out your Night King's influence in the past except for strengthening ours. We have the advantage that he cannot watch us at least, which means we can surprise him."

"What kind of damn surprise can we give?" Lord Glover asked. "The greatest line of defense in the history of the world was overrun and destroyed in a single night. What can men do that can match that kind of power?"

"We have three dragons on our side, Glover!" Rickon spoke up.

"Dragons that could die and turn to the Night King's side!" Another lord added.

What started as only a few voices of panic eventually turned into the entire room erupting in arguing and exclamations. Some broke among longstanding rivalries - Dornishmen screaming at those from the Reach, or the Northmen arguing with Westermen and the few Free Folk still there. The Dothraki pretty much shouted at everyone, while any Unsullied present said nothing. But overall the back and forth was a free for all.

"We must evacuate to the Neck, hold them there!"

"And give up the North? Never!"

"Their Graces could use their dragons, hit the Night King then and there."

"And if the dragons fucking die, what then?!"

"There is no hope… all hope is lost…"

"Everyone… everyone please listen…"

Ears perking up, Bran noticed Samwell Tarly trying to step on the benches, waving his hands to get everyone's attention. It wasn't working… "Jon," he said, gesturing to his brother. "Sam."

Eyes flickering between Bran and the wildly gesturing Sam, Jon nodded and closed his eyes. There needed not be much of a wait, for… An earth shattering roar rocked the great hall, making the walls tremble. Whatever shouts and discussions were drowned out by Rhaegal, shocking everyone into a tense silence. Clearing his throat, Jon gestured to the stiff, surprised Sam. "Years ago, my dear friend Samwell Tarly was the first person to ever kill a white walker in thousands of years."

"Him?" snorted Harry Hardyng of the Vale. "The only thing he could swing is a turkey leg!" More than a few laughed at the jape.

"Are you calling me a liar, Ser Harold?"

The icy tone in Jon's voice killed any laughter. "No… your Grace."

"Good. He has something to say and I believe we should listen." Bran smirked a bit as Jon gestured to his friend. "Go on, Sam."

Sputtering a bit before he cleared his throat, Sam looked around the great hall. "The odds… they are daunting, but the dead can be fought. And killed. They are quite fragile individually, and to the right weapons, but it's only as a mass that they are a threat."

"We're not fuckin' facing only one or two, but hundreds of thousands!" grumbled Lyle Crakehall, to which more than a few other lords nodded their approval.

Sam, for his part, stood his ground. "A fatal blow to one walker will take out all the wights it raised from the dead. Walkers by themselves can raise thousands… and they will appear."

"Why?" asked Loras Tyrell. "If they're so vulnerable, why not stay behind?"

"Because corpses are weak, while they are strong."

"They will fight," Bran added, all eyes flickering to him. "It is the only way they can control their army. A horde of dead men is a ponderous beast, needing constant orders to stay unified and attacking their objective."

"Each dead walker is one that will take down a large portion of their army with it." Sam patted his chest. "I've fought these monsters for years. My friend, the King, has fought them for longer. Everyone in the Night's Watch and among the Free Folk know their danger, as does hundreds of knights and soldiers that fought at the God's Eye. We can win this fight, but only if we believe we can." He looked towards Jon, smiling. "I trust my King to lead us to victory, as everyone should. Who's with me?"

There was a long silence, a tense one, until Lord Rickon broke it. "To victory." He drew his sword.

Lady Lyanna joined. "To victory."

Loras Tyrell was quick behind. "To victory."

"To victory." Lord Dayne and Lord Velaryon were next, and soon dozens of throats bellowed the call, heralding their trust in Jon

A trust Bran knew was well-placed as he eyed his brother, who sat back on his throne, the picture of a warrior King. One whom had embraced his destiny at long last. "Let's get to work."

Daenerys

"Dracarys!"

At the command, Drogon opened his maw and unleashed a stream of flame at the bare ground. Snow and dead grass just dissolved in the superheated inferno, while the soil beneath was undoubtedly scorched into ash. Daenerys felt the heat blow back at her, searing her. Bathing her in the sweet embrace of the flames. She embraced it as her own, urging Drogon to continue harder and harder. Unleashing as much flame as he could until his maw was empty.

Over a minute… better than his last record.

Banking around low over the landscape, Dany watched as Viserion dove. "Dracarys!" A far more heavily-accented Valyrian, touched with Northern brogue. Not as heavy as Jon's, and elegant in a feminine sort of way. Loud and proud, matched by Viserion's shrill shriek that heralded his test of fire parallel to the trail of destruction Daenerys left.

This brought Daenerys more joy than her own achievement. Astride Viserion was Sansa, practicing just as Dany was. Learning to ride as Dany had done over the Bay of Dragons what seemed like a lifetime ago. She was improving every day, every dragon ride. Mayhaps she'd be ready to fight the dead as a proper dragonrider…

"Good job, love!" she screamed over the wind as Viserion banked towards her. "Love you!"

"Love you too!" Sansa shouted back, smiling if stiff on her saddle. Daenerys grinned back and ordered Drogon to arc upward. Knowing Sansa would follow, giving her more experience. They climbed for at least several minutes before she gave the same order to dive.

Winterfell bloomed in size as they dove, Daenerys smirking slightly as she clicked her tongue. Drogon roaring at the implied command as he continued towards the white ground below them. Diving lower and lower until he finally leveled out, so close to the plains before the ancient keep that if he turned ninety degrees to the side, his wingtip would dig into the ground and then some. Behind, Viserion roared as well, Dany sparing a glance over her shoulder to see her smallest son following close behind.

The flash of red hair still astride the saddle filled her with joy. Her love was keeping up, if not as well as their man. With a grin, she focused fully on Winterfell.

Truly, it was a beautiful keep. Austere almost like Dragonstone. Built for functionality and in such a simplistic way as to showcase the beauty of such a rugged land, the North for the First Men and the Dragonmont for the Valyrians. Large, cylindrical towers that lined the two concentric rings that made up both the outer and inner walls, alongside the ring around the sacred Godswood… it teemed with history, with culture. With a spiritual strength that Daenerys knew served as the best refuge for her hidden nephew. For the woman he called sister and they both called lover.

A place she could consider her third home after Dragonstone and the Red Keep.

Viserion, smaller and sleeker, had managed to catch up slightly. Daenerys looked behind her to see Sansa hanging on… Her face seemed flushed and her grip was a little too tight on the saddle, but she was stable. Finding Dany's gaze and smiling slightly in return, chuckling nervously.

A mischievous glint in her eye, Dany grinend and gestured to her. Bank left as she banked right, the two of them to pass on either side of the keep. She kept her gaze until the rosy-cheeked Sansa - her cheeks the same color as the fiery red locks that Daenerys adored - nodded. With a whoop on her accord and an abrupt cry from Sansa, the dragons hooted and made in separate directions.

It was Daenerys who would shoot past Winterfell first. "Tilt side," she commanded in Valyrian, Drogon dipping his wing almost in salute to those within. Viserion, ever one to pay attention, either did the same himself or obeyed Sansa's command to copy his larger brother.

Below them on the walls, those inside and manning the battlements cheered. Be it for her, for Sansa, or for the both of them. She picked out Missandei, clapping her hands. She found Arya, whooping in delight and leaping up and down. And Daenerys swore she could see Jon gazing out a window in the main keep - she was certain his eyes were filled with awe and adoration.

The same feelings her heart burst for him every moment of every day.

All three dragons had made a small hill about a quarter mile outside the keep to the west. Rhaegal lounged in the bare ground, snow burned away by him to make a proper sleeping den for him. Dany smirked at her dragons and their antics… would that be what it was like to watch real children of hers grow? Sweet little babes of her and Jon, or Sansa and Jon? She hoped so.

Drogon circled around the hill twice before he flapped his wings, coming to a halt and plopping onto the ground with a bit of a rumble. Viserion was not too far behind, his drop far less rumbling from his smaller weight. Dany sighed, straightening her back and cracking the kinks out of her arms, legs, and spine. Riding was wonderful, but mayhaps the cold was making her more stiff and uncomfortable than before. Odd.

While the saddle had made riding her son far easier, climbing down his tall shoulder hadn't changed. Daenerys eased herself down his spines with a honed grace belying over a year of determined practice, dropping the final two feet and feeling her boots crunch on the shallow crust of snow that had sprinkled upon the ground in the night. She'd been in the North for a while now, but Dany still marveled at snow.

From Drogon's grunt - how he shook his body to free himself of the snow and ice that had coated him during the flight - he did not agree. It made Daenerys giggle. "Blood of my blood," she murmured in High Valyrian fondly, rubbing the scales of his shoulder… drawing his head curving around to nudge her affectionately. "Do not be miserable. Enjoy yourself"

Drogon couldn't speak to her, but the expression in his amber eyes seemed skeptical… And then he raised his head to watch Viserion land. Something Daenerys wished to watch as well.

In contrast to the skilled grace of Daenerys while astride her son, Sansa's efforts to climb down were… stiff and clumsy to be honest. Dany tried not to be too harsh in her critique given her love's solo riding experiences could still be measured on her fingers, but it was hard not to giggle. Biting her cheek helped, but when Sansa slipped about three feet from the ground and plopped on her arse in a thicker portion of the fallen snow with a poof of white powder, it truly became unavoidable. The merry laughter that spilled from her lips, enough that she had to clutch her stomach lightly.

Hair askew having to escape the northern braid she'd styled for the day's ride, Sansa smacked her fist on her thigh, groaning with embarrassment. Such embarrassment turned to a scowl as she regarded Daenerys' amusement… which only made her laugh harder. "Do not get me wrong, Sans," Dany said, stifling her giggles. "But I thought that you were supposed to be on your feet?"

Put out, Sansa crossed her arms. Still on the ground. "I am glad my pain and humiliation is so amusing to you," she answered sanctimoniously, huffing as Dany gave her a sympathetic look.

"Oh, stop it," Dany replied, walking over to her and extending out her arm, which Sansa stubbornly refused to take. "I was just teasing… fine, I'm sorry." Nodding, Sansa's expression softened and took her hand, letting Dany help her up. "It doesn't help that you are adorable when indignant."

Sansa tried to be put off again, but Dany's earnestness had broken her resolve. "Seven hells," she murmured, but she smiled and leaned down to kiss Dany on the lips. A kiss reciprocated eagerly, the two of them melding together. Sansa's chilly nose and lips nipped at Dany's skin and it was a rather… lovely feeling. And yet, they had to break apart. Still holding each other though as Sansa sighed. "Gods, I'm horrible aren't I?"

Daenerys shook her head. "You're too hard on yourself. It's only your seventh flight."

"Eighth," her love corrected her, breaking the embrace to walk over to Viserion. Daenerys' son had already begun eating the livestock left for the two, but rumbled in contentment as Sansa ran her hand along his scales. Something that never ceased to marvel Dany. "In peace I wouldn't be so worried, but we don't have much room for error, do we?"

"You'd make a natural dragonrider, and there's no doubt in my mind you'll be an expert… but we do not have the time to properly train you." She shook her head. "Even I wasn't properly trained."

Her bride eyed her with understanding. "You didn't have anyone to train you, all the dragons having died… and the dragonriders. You hatched the dragons out of stone."

A nod. "I was making it all up as I went along... Missandei found some ancient texts on the subject, even a weathered copy of Septon Barth's Unnatural History, but they only helped somewhat." She reached down to clasp Sansa's gloved hand tightly with her own. "I trusted my instincts, and my bond with my dragons."

"I am a direwolf, not a dragon… Viserion might be accepting me because he understands the situation…"

"No." Dany squeezed her hand again. "I know my children - your children too, now. Viserion bonded with you, however inexplicable it may be… Trust your instincts and you'll be fine, I promise."

Again, Sansa brought her lips to Dany's, and the kiss was sweet and sorely needed.

Shivering a bit, Dany broke the kiss. "Let us take this inside. I'm starting to get chilly." That was an understatement. Even bundled up tight she felt the chill deep in her bones.

The smirk on Sansa's face was just unbearable. "Oh, lovely southern woman can't stand the cold… borderline cliche." She began to lead her back to Winterfell, hands weaved together. "Don't worry, as a Lady of House Stark I shall protect you from the chill. Wherever we are in the castle."

"Oh, wonderful." This time, her shiver had nothing to do with the cold.

Halfway on their return to the castle, Ser Jorah met them on the hill. "My Queen," he bowed his head, "the smiths have finished." He needn't not say what, for the concealed excitement and smirk upon his face gave the answer.

Daenerys smiled excitedly. "Come on!" She practically pulled Sansa forward in a fast walk, wanting to see her new blade as soon as possible. They were all almost out of breath when they reached the Winterfell forges where a group of smiths were grouped around a table.

"Your grace," Aradhar greeted with a proud look on his face. He stepped forward through the crowd and presented a fine sword resting in a scabbard wrapped in black leather and bronze fittings inlaid with silver and rubies set. The hilt of the sword was just as beautiful, also forged of bronze throughout the guard, pommel and ring in the handle. "It's my honor to present this to you." He offered the handle out.

Daenerys stepped forward and felt that aside from the crowd she found gathered already, more eyes were watching eagerly for her to take forth her new blade. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around the handle, finding her grip perfect. She tugged her arm back and drew forth her sword, finding the weight something unfamiliar but wanting in her hand. The ripples upon the blade were just as beautiful as those on Longclaw though the length was ten inches shorter. A perfect size for a woman of her stature.

"Every good blade deserves a name, Khaleesi."

"Hm…" Daenerys swung the sword once in a movement that Jorah had taught her before bringing the blade an inch from her nose, eyeing the pattern up close. "To the men of the common tongue, they shall know this sword as Dragon's Breath. But to those who know high Valyrian, they shall know it as Dracarys."

Tyrion

More than a dozen voices were speaking all at once over the map of Winterfell and the surrounding lands to the north. Tyrion had never seen such a vastly laid out plan for a battle before. There had never been such on this scale for thousands of years.

"I'm not sure I should be here, uncle." Tommen said gingerly. "I've no mind for tactics yet."

"Yet," Tyrion repeated with emphasis, "so pay attention so you may learn now. And by the end of this meeting, you'll be conveying the strategy to your captains and sworn vassals. You are to lead them, Tommen."

Tommen nodded and paid closer heed, the lad finally emerging from the long shadow of his late mother.

"The biggest threat the wights pose is their attack as a mass," King Aegon said at the head of the map. "They do not march, they swarm. Corpses pushing and piling onto one another in a great wave that swallows anything that tries to meet it. Our first concern is breaking that wave."

"We dig consecutive trenches," Edmure Tully said, tracing his finger on the battlefield several times, "and by the time they reach the castle walls, no such wave will be there."

"We can't house two hundred thousand men in Winterfell walls," Lord Rickon Stark had said with his Maester and Ser Brienne of Tarth at his back. "What if he had a line of archers near the center to start thinning out the dead when the trenches break their charge?"

"We would need to create retreat routes should we need to call them back," Manfrey Martell said. "And trenching the entire battlefield prevents our cavalry any room to fight."

A nod from Baelor Hightower. "We can place earthworks to cover each of those paths. Crossbowmen guarding them to prevent the dead to swarm… plus caltrops to throw once the last man can retreat over them."

"Still doesn't do anythin' for the horsemen," Yohn Royce snorted, rolling his eyes at Baelor. The latter, while a knight, was a subpar horseman - preferred to fight in the melee rather than the joust. He had a bit of a reputation among the others as a result regardless of his sunny demeanor. "They are are strongest asset, and the only way we can truly push back the swarms rather than let them smash us head on."

Rickon eyed the Valeman with not a little disdain. "They will outnumber us significantly, our ranged weapons the only true advantage we have not counting the dragons. As far as I am concerned, the horse should dismount and fight as a shield wall." That stirred up a hornet's nest among the southern knights.

"Are you mad?" Harrold Hardyng scoffed. "Me fight on foot like some commoner?" While such was the only arrogant statement vocalized, Tyrion knew many shared his sentiments.

"Highborn or lowborn, good Ser," the King replied, "All are but meat to the Night King."

An idea came to Tyrion. "Perhaps all we need is a single trench," He said firmly with many eyes turning to him. He approached the table and drew a line at the outermost place on the battlefield. "What if we were to dig the trench fifteen feet deep and twenty feet wide? The dead would fall and fill the gap, breaking their charge," he picked up several horse tokens that represented the Dothraki, "and just when they start to gain their footing, we send the horses to charge a circumference formation and pick them off. Their ranks would be thin, and the dragons would have the perfect moment to pass by and set alight all the dead trapped in the trench. The footman stay behind and ready to absorb the battered remnants ahead of the walls."

"That's quite sound, my lord," Edmure agreed.

"It's a good start," Aegon agreed, pulling out several thin rectangular sticks to represent the trench. "But even with that, it'd only be a matter of time before the ranks regain their mass and they simply roll through the flames we send down… we need something to control the flow of their ranks into the trench."

"We build barricades and fit them with dragonglass." Robin Arryn suggested.

"What about a wall instead?" Tommen suggested. "We build a stone wall just as high as the trench is deep. They'd be stopped in their tracks at the first start and trickle into the trench, giving us more time."

"Very wise, nephew," Tyrion said with a smirk.

"Indeed," Lord Royce said, "but is construction of such a structure possible in the time we have?"

"With two hundred thousand pairs of hands at work, I'd be more surprised if it wasn't." Tyrion looked at Rickon. "But we need access to a quarry if one is even nearby."

"Here," Aegon said, bringing forth a second map of Winterfell's surrounding land, "forty miles south, right there." He tapped his finger on the indicated area. "I want every man experienced in mining to go. Any additional hands will go along for whatever's needed. Lifting, transporting, clearing snow. We have to build two years worth of work in a fortnight. This is our top priority now."

"The Westermen are perfect for this job, your grace." Tommen said.

Aegon nodded. "I'm putting you in charge then. Can you handle it?"

"As long as I can have my uncle assisting me."

"Anything you need, you come directly to me. Understand."

"Yes, your grace."

"We should probably seek out the Wildlings for this task as traversing through winter landscapes far harsher than these are menial walks for them."

"Aye, that's a good point," Aegon agreed. "I'll talk with them personally about that. Just keep your men in line."

"Lord Tyrion," a Winterfell guardsman came up to him, "there's a woman here to see you. She has a summons from the Kingsguard."

"A woman to see me?" Tyrion confirmed. Was it a whore? A few years ago He would have enjoyed the gift from his brother, but now it only strained things between them even more. Jaime wasn't the brightest of course, but this made him stupider than their cousin.

He wouldn't have it, not like this. He'd send the wench on her way at least. The guardsman told him she was waiting inside the South Gate and Tyrion went there in haste, wanting to get his mind back on track on the matters at hand.

Upon his arrival at the South Gate's courtyard, Tyrion did indeed find that among the bustling people and soldiers, there was one girl who stood out from the rest in waiting, looking around at work being done. She was indeed quite the pretty thing, soft cheeked and a young thing, and her hair was just as gold as a Lannisters. Her eyes were a calm blue… and somehow familiar to him.

When the lady spotted him approaching, she straightened herself and brushed a hand over her blue dress.

"Lord Tyrion Lannister?" She asked in a nervous but sweet voice.

"That I am." Tyrion greeted her with half a smile as she rummaged in a bag at her side. "What business of yours brings me to your company, my lady?"

The girl retrieved a letter and gently held it out to him. "This letter was for my mother, but she passed away several years ago. I thought it would be decent to appear in her place at least, milord. You see, she told me that there might come a day like this."

Tyrion was completely lost. His original assumption was completely wrong and he had no idea what this matter was about. "Forgive me, but I don't understand what this is about." He took the letter from her and saw a broken wax seal - an official one bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, not of the King but of the King's household. "What was your mother's name?"

"Tysha, milord."

Tyrion froze before his breath was lost in something close to a whimper. It couldn't be… this had to be a trick, some hoax Jaime was trying to pull for his forgiveness… but the eyes of this girl, he recognized them when he saw her first. They were Tysha's eyes, he knew it.

"Did you know her, milord?"

Tyrion swallowed, finding his words lost on him. "I… She got hurt because of me a long time ago." He looked at the letter. "May I?" the girl nodded and he unfolded the parchment and read it silently.

Tysha, you are hereby summoned to Winterfell by request of the Kingsguard of his Grace King Aegon Targaryen for matters concerning the crimes against you committed by Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock. Expenses for travel shall be compensated upon your arrival unless you require such to make the journey itself.

The letter crumbled in Tyrion's hands.

"Milord?" the girl asked, "what's this about?"

Tyrion looked up at her. "You mean you don't know?" She shook her head at him, and when he saw her eyes again, he saw her whole face as well, how something else about her was just the same familiar. His intuition struck at him like an arrow in the chest. "How old are you?"

"Two past twenty, milord."

Fuck… this was his daughter.

"And, your name?" he managed to get out.

"Joanna Snow."

"Joanna…" The hurt inside Tyrion grew far greater than it began. Why would Tysha have named her daughter after his own mother? "Did your mother ever tell you anything that gives you an idea why this letter came at all? Perhaps why she hated my family?"

"Not much about that, milord. She hated Lord Tywin with a passion, but that was about it. She never spoke much of the rest of your family, except when it came to the word about Joffrey being born of incest. I remember how much she laughed when she first heard about that."

Tyrion felt himself at a crossroads now. Should he tell Joanna the truth that she clearly was missing, or would it be better that things remained as they were?

"I'm sorry that your journey was in vain, my lady. But if it comforts you, know that the justice your mother deserved was found the day my father died." He handed the letter back to her. "If you'd allow me, I'd like to provide an escort for your journey back to White Harbor."

"I'm not going back yet, milord. I'm going to stay and help however I can."

"That's very noble of you, Joanna. If there's ever anything you need, let me know and I'll see it through."

"Thank you, Lord Tyrion."

Joanna gracefully stepped away, walking over to where many were at work to find where she would be best put to use, and Tyrion nearly collapsed in his place.

A great wave of emotions swallowed all around, nearly drowning his mind all at once before he could comprehend each one. The woman he loved was dead before he ever had the chance to see her one last time, to speak to her one last time, but he had a daughter, a beautiful daughter who carried none of his ugly face or disgraceful nature. She was good and kind… but she did not know that she was his… she didn't realize it… and maybe that was for the best.

If Tyrion's father or sister had ever caught wind about Joanna's existence, she would have been gone that very same hour no doubt. The Life of House Lannister was a dangerous place, one that Joanna did not deserve to be brought into and punished just for her blood.

"Are you alright, Lord Tyrion?" a man in Lannister armor asked as he was passing by.

"No," Tyrion said, "not in the least bit at all."