Tyrion
He was on the Wall when the Wildling outriders first arrived by the light of the moon. First had come half a hundred bone chariots and sleds, pulled by massive dogs the size of Jon Snow's direwolf, then men on small shaggy ponies, and lastly a large mass of infantry. Grenn had been on watch as well and they watched in silence once the Aurochs had blown the horn twice.
"I thought there'd be more of them," the big man said.
"That's just their van," Tyrion said. "Sent ahead to prepare the ground and search for enemies."
The wildlings had quickly gone to work, cutting trees and lighting fires. Within hours more of them arrived, thousands of them marching in the pale moonlight, and likely thousands more hidden by the dark of night. They came not in a single solid column, like some southern host, but in bands of a few dozen or hundred. The first to arrive took the choice spots for themselves and left their slower comrades to find their own places to make camp. It was chaos. My father would give himself a fit if he could see this, Tyrion thought as he watched two bands almost came to blows over something Tyrion couldn't see. Soon the length of the Haunted Forest was bristling with wildlings for over a mile in each direction. And countless more waiting within the reaches of the forest.
An hour after the first wildlings had made camp, with the moon low in the sky and the first hints of dawn in the east, Donal Noye and Jon Snow came to the top of the Wall with the changing of the guard. The one-armed smith limped and held onto a cane. Almost unnoticeable beneath his black clothing, was a bandage wrapped around his upper leg. The result of an arrow sent from the dark fields south of Castle Black three nights ago. Jon's wildling girl still lived and was making trouble for the Black Brothers of Castle Black.
"How many are there?" Tyrion asked the bastard.
Jon Snow leaned against the ice as he looked into the wild north. "All of them, raiders and giants, wargs and skinchangers, mountain men, salt sea sailors, ice river cannibals, cave dwellers with dyed faces, dog chariots from the Frozen Shore, Hornfoot men with their soles like boiled leather," he shook his head. "Mance Rayder has gathered all the queer wild folk to take the Wall. Twenty thousand warriors at least, mayhaps five times that in women, elderly, and children." A strange sound echoed in the night, almost like a horn or trumpet. "Mammoths," Jon said before Tyrion or Donal Noye could ask.
"And we're the only thing in their way," Tyrion said, trying to keep the despair out of his voice. "Fantastic."
Donal Noye turned toward the two great trebuchets that the stewards had restored to working order. "Give me light!" He roared.
Barrels of pitch were loaded hastily into the slings and set afire with torches. The wind fanned the flames to a brisk red fury. "NOW!" Noye bellowed. The counterweights plunged downward, the throwing arms rose and thudded against the padded crossbars. The burning pitch went tumbling through the darkness, casting an eerie flickering light upon the ground below. Tyrion caught a glimpse of the mammoths moving ponderously through the half-light, and just as quickly lost them again. A few dozen, maybe more. The barrels struck the earth and burst. He heard a deep bass trumpeting, and something roared like thunder in a language Tyrion didn't recognise.
"Again!" Noye shouted, and the trebuchets were loaded once more. Two more barrels of burning pitch went crackling through the gloom to come crashing down amongst the foe. This time one of them struck a dead tree, enveloping it in flame and revealing hundreds of mammoths.
The Wall was too big to be stormed by any conventional means, far too high for ladders or siege towers, too thick for battering rams. No catapult could throw a stone large enough to breach it, and if you tried to set it on fire, well ice burned poorly to say the least. Maybe if they had wildfire they could burn the Wall, or dragons to smash it down, but no they must take the gate, or they cannot pass. The gate itself was a crooked little tunnel that ran through the ice, smaller than any castle gate in the Seven Kingdoms, so narrow that rangers must lead their garrons through single file. Three iron grates closed the inner passage, each locked and chained and protected by a murder hole. The outer door was old oak, nine inches thick and studded with iron, not easy to break through. But the wildlings have mammoths, he reminded himself, and giants and endless numbers as well, and all the lumber for rams and siege engines they could ever want.
A sound of thousand wordless shrieks, shrill cries, furious warhorns, massive war drums, and trumpeting mammoths rose into the night. Illuminated by the flames, the moon, and the predawn gloom thousands of wildlings charged the Wall. The fires revealed their great mass for the brothers high on the Wall, but the mass of Wildlings was so great that they could hardly hope to miss. Tyrion hefted his crossbow, aimed in the vague direction of a giant riding a mammoth, and sent the bolt into the night. The catapults flung their stones and crossbows and longbows peppered the wildling horde with their missiles. But it was not enough, it could never be enough, to stem the fury of the wild.
"The gate!" Pyp cried out. "They're at the GATE!"
"Must be cold down there," said Noye. "What say we warm them up, lads?" A dozen jars of lamp oil had been lined up on the precipice. Pyp ran down the line with a torch, setting them aflame. Grenn followed, and shoved them over the edge one by one. Tongues of pale yellow fire swirled around the jars as they plunged downward. When the last was gone, Grenn kicked loose the chocks on a barrel of pitch and sent it rumbling and rolling over the edge as well. The sounds below changed to shouts and screams. "A sweeter song has never been sung," Tyrion laughed as the wildlings burned and dropped their simple ram and stone axes.
Donal Noye turned and looked around the ring of firelit faces atop the Wall. "I need two bows and two spears to hold the tunnel if they break the gate." More than ten stepped forward, and the smith picked his four. "Jon, you have the Wall till I return."
"My lord?" The bastard looked terrified and confused.
"Do I look like a lord?" The smith asked back. "You have the Wall."
"Aye," Jon managed at last as Donal Noye stalked back to the lift.
"Relax," Tyrion said. "What's the worst that could happen, all the hard work's happening down there." Jon did not look much relieved.
They stood side by side with the straw soldiers. Their longbows or crossbows clutched in half-frozen hands. Together the archers launched a hundred flights of arrows against men they never saw. From time to time a wildling arrow came flying back in answer. Men were sent to the smaller catapults and filled the air with jagged rocks the size of a man's head, but the darkness swallowed them as a man might swallow a handful of nuts. Mammoths trumpeted in the gloom, strange voices called out in strange tongues. They heard a mammoth dying at their feet and saw another lurch burning through the woods, trampling down men and trees alike. The wind blew cold and colder. Zei the Whore took a place among them with her crossbow. Hours of repeated jars and shocks knocked something loose on the right-hand trebuchet, and its counterweight came crashing free, suddenly and catastrophically, wrenching the throwing arm sideways with a splintering crash. The left-hand trebuchet kept throwing, but the wildlings had quickly learned to shun the place where its loads were landing.
"We should have twenty trebuchets, not two," Jon said to him. "And they should be mounted on sledges and turntables so we could move them."
"You might as well wish for another thousand men," Tyrion said. "Maybe a dozen of Stannis' dragons, and a few of the Targaryen dragons of old as well, just for good measure. We're just as likely to get those as more trebuchets."
Hours passed them by and Donal Noye did not return, nor any of those who'd gone down with him to hold that black cold tunnel. Tyrion fell to the ground in exhaustion, his crossbow by his side. Cramps seized his legs and sent white-hot and razor-sharp bolts of pain through them. His fingers felt crabbed and stiff, half-frozen, and raw where the crossbow's cord had dug into them. Despite it all, he kept loading and shooting, not even bothering to look over the Wall as his shot. Whenever his quiver was empty, one of the orphaned moles would bring him another. No more, he thought a hundred times, no more I'm done.
When morning came, none of them quite realized it at first. The world was still dark, but the black had turned to grey and shapes were beginning to emerge half-seen from the gloom. Tyrion sank to his knees, more exhausted than he'd ever been before in his life, all he wanted was to sleep. A dozen feet away Jon notched another arrow.
Tyrion turned around the crenellation to see the battleground speared by lances of pale morning light. Jon found himself holding his breath as he looked out over the half-mile swath of cleared land that lay between the Wall and the edge of the forest. In half a night they had turned it into a wasteland of blackened grass, bubbling pitch, shattered stone, and corpses. The carcass of the burned mammoth was already drawing crows. There were giants dead on the ground as well but behind them. "Seven Hells," Tyrion muttered. The numbers of dead Wildlings were dwarfed a dozen times over by the horde that waited in the Haunted Forest.
Mammoths and giants centered the wildling line. A hundred or more of the huge beasts had giants on their backs. The giants had no swords or spears instead they clutched mauls, stone axes, and tree trunks in their hands. More giants loped beside them, pushing along a tree trunk on great wooden wheels, its end sharpened to a point. A ram, he thought bleakly. If the gate still stood below, a swift fucking from that thing would soon turn it into splinters. On either side of the giants came a wave of horsemen in boiled leather harness with fire-hardened lances, a huge mass of running archers, hundreds of foot with spears, slings, clubs, and leather shields. The bone chariots clattered forward on the flanks, bouncing over rocks and roots behind teams of huge white dogs. Skins skirled, horns blew, dogs barked, mammoths trumpeted, wildlings screamed, giants roared in a strange language, and huge drums beat the call to battle. The noise echoed off the wall like thunder.
"The Wall will stop them," Tyrion heard Jon say. He turned to look at the bastard who stood tall, a longbow and notched arrow in his hands. "The Wall will stop them," he said more loudly. The Wall defends itself. Mance wants to unman us with his numbers. Does he think we're stupid? The chariots, the horsemen, all those fools on foot... what are they going to do to us up here? Any of you ever see a mammoth climb a wall?" He laughed, and Pyp and Grenn and half a dozen more laughed with him, Tyrion couldn't help himself as he chuckled slightly. "They're nothing, they're less useful than our straw brothers here, they can't reach us, they can't hurt us, and they don't frighten us, do they?"
"NO!" Someone shouted.
"They're down there and we're up here," Jon said, "and so long as we hold the gate they cannot pass. They cannot pass!" They were all shouting then, roaring his own words back at Jon, waving swords and longbows in the air as their cheeks flushed red with cold, exhaustion, and anger. "Brother," Jon pointed at Kegs, who had a warhorn slung beneath his arm. "Sound the call for battle."
Kegs grinned, lifted the horn to his lips, and blew the two long blasts that meant wildlings. Other horns took up the call until the Wall itself seemed to shudder, and the echo of those great deep-throated moans drowned all other sounds.
"Archers," Jon said when the horns had died away. "You'll aim for the giants with that ram, every bloody one of you. Loose at my command, not before. THE GIANTS AND THE RAM! I want arrows raining on them with every step, but we'll wait till they're in range. Any man who wastes an arrow will need to climb down and fetch it back, do you hear me?"
"I do," shouted Grenn. "I hear you, Lord Snow," others joined in the shouting and rushed to help lay down a rain of arrows upon the giants.
Tyrion meanwhile stepped back beside the panting Jon and said. "A pretty speech. Do you believe it?"
"I have too," the bastard replied.
"Good answer," Tyrion stepped forward again and began to load his crossbow, there were Wildlings to kill. The morning assault seemed to last forever but perhaps it was only an hour at most. Even so it had been more successful than the night attack. Despite arrows, burning oil, and falling rocks the giants managed to smash the gate, and enter the tunnel. Though none atop the Wall knew what had happened next. They must have been killed, Tyrion thought, else Castle Black would be aflame with Wildling hate by now.
Not long after the Wildlings retreated the pretty, young, steward named Satin came to the top of the Wall not long after the Wildlings retreated. "Jon," he said. "Donal Noye says you're too come down and rest your leg." he turned to face Tyrion. "Donal Noye and Maester Cressen would like a word," the pretty young man said.
"A word? What word? I do hope it's important," that won a small round of laughter from the black brothers.
"I mean they'd like to speak to you."
"I suppose that's agreeable," Tyrion said as he limped to the lift.
The lift came to a sudden stop at the base of the Wall. After the battle with the Thenns, it had taken them almost a day to clear the ice and broken beams away from the inner gate. Spotted Pate and Kegs and some of the other builders had argued heatedly that they should just leave the debris there, another obstacle for the Wildlings. But that would have meant abandoning the defence of the tunnel, and Noye would have none of it. With men in the murder holes and archers and spears behind each inner grate, Noye claimed a few determined brothers could hold off a hundred times as many wildlings and clog the way with corpses. Donal Noye did not mean to give the enemy free passage through the ice. So with picks, spades, and ropes, they had moved the broken steps aside and unblocked the gate.
Now the gate was blocked again, this time with the great white furred bulk of a dead giant. As he watched a dozen black brothers pulled the corpse away with ropes and hooks. A giant, a single giant, and there are hundreds more beyond the Wall. A limping Donal Noye slapped Jon on the shoulder. "Get some rest," he ordered and then he limped toward Tyrion.
"Don't tell me you killed that thing," Tyrion said as he approached the smith.
"Gods no. Only one arm and one good leg, I'd have done more harm than good. Half a hundred arrows and bolts took the beast down, and a six spears in the gut killed the other," Donal Noye now pointed to the second beast being dragged out of the tunnel now that the first had been cleared. "But not before they ripped through every gate and killed over a dozen brothers."
"Lancel?"
"A broken wrist, and bruises over his whole body. Fine other than that. Come on, we need to talk," the smith led Tyrion to the rookery.
"I'm not sure why I'm here," Tyrion said as he entered Maester Aemon's warm chamber.
"Because you're highborn," Donal Noye said as he limped to a chair by the hearth. "Because you know how the kings and lords think, and because you're one of the few people here we can fucking trust."
Tyrion quirked an eyebrow as he settled into a chair and gasped in relief. "Jon Snow doesn't make that list?"
"He tried to desert bare weeks after swearing his vows," the one-armed smith grumbled. "When he heard his brother was marching to war. If he knew Robb Stark had returned to the North and was even now fighting a war in the North?" Noye spat into the flames. "The boy's a natural leader and a skilled swordsman and we have need of both, I trust him to lead and command our brothers until the cold breath of the Others freezes us to death, but not to talk about his brother."
It was the first Tyrion had heard of Robb Stark in a very long time. "At war, you say," Tyrion said as he pulled himself into a chair of his own. "With whom? The last I heard of him I was still in King's Landing. His army in the Riverlands fighting my father. Robb had the cavalry and the Riverlords, and Roose Bolton had the foot in Harrenhal."
"Robb Stark is at war with Lord Bolton," Maester Aemon said. "News comes slowly to the Wall but when it does come it does all at once. For months and weeks we knew nothing, but now we know that Robb Stark lost a battle, an arm, and most of an army to Lord Tywin. After that things fell apart, Lord Edmure led many of the Riverlords to Stannis, and Lord Roose did the same for the greater part of the northern host."
"Where is the Young Wolf now?"
"White Harbour," Aemon answered. "Besieged by Lords Roose Bolton and Harrion Karstark. The former of which has been named Warden of the North by King Stannis."
"And how do the lords of the North feel about that?"
The ancient maester took a sip from his wooden cup. "The Karstarks, Ryswells, and Dustins have turned their cloaks to the flayed man and the stag. The Manderlys, Glovers, and Cerwyns have stayed loyal to Robb Stark, and the rest seem content to wait for a winner to be determined."
"Even the Umbers?"
Donal Noye spat into the fire. "Greatjon and Smalljon are both dead, and his other sons are captured somewhere or dead as well. Crowfood and Whoresbane are either dividing the lands of Last Hearth between themselves, fighting over it, or feasting every night depending on what rumour you believe." Donal Noye spat into the fire again. "We must've sent a dozen ravens to Last Hearth and still no word."
Tyrion put his elbows on his knees and stared into the flames. In his head, he turned over pages and pages from hundreds of books trying to remember all he could about the North. Mountain clans saved me once, maybe they'll do so again. "What of the Mountain Clans? They hate the wildlings do they not?"
Noye growled. "Ser Denys Mallister had the same thought. He sent half a dozen rangers into the mountains and they all brought the same news back. All they found was a bunch of empty villages. The clans have already marched."
Tyrion smiled. "Well, that's good news."
"Marched south," Donal Noye spat again. "Marched to join Robb Stark in his war against Roose Bolton and Stannis Baratheon. The Night's Watch will get no aid from the clans."
"That's less good," Tyrion said glumly.
"We sent letters to each of the five kings and more to the great lords, care to shed any light on their reaction?"
"Sending anything to Joffrey or Balon was a waste of ink. Renly was probably dead before the letters were even written. Robb, I'd have thought that of all the kings he'd have been the most likely to do something," Tyrion shrugged. "Either he never got the letter or he's a less dutiful Northman that I pegged him for." Or perhaps the northmen decided to ignore the commands of a beaten cripple.
"And Stannis?"
"I don't know," Tyrion said glumly. "He might send aid, he might do nothing."
"We can't rely on mights," Donal Noye rubbed his injured leg.
"We must assume that we're on our own and plan accordingly," Maester Aemon said.
"The time for planning is over," said Donal Noye. "Now we fight."
Tyrion bit his tongue. No, now we die.
Arya
Ser Rolland Storm shadowed Arya and Shireen, his white cloak wrapped around his shoulders and white armour beneath it. A dozen Baratheon soldiers in mail and black cloaks rode around them as well. Arya and Princess Shireen rode almost knee to knee on a pair of mares. Arya wore a blue and red riding skirt with silver embroidery around the hem. It was in the Riverlands style or so Queen Selyse's maids had told her. Shireen wore a more conservative dress, in the Reacher style. It was striped with silver and gold, and black does ran up and around in circles, from the hem to her chest. Because it had no splits Shireen had to ride side saddle. From Aegon's High Hill they rode down the wide street to the valley between Visenya's Hill and Rhaenys' Hill. The ocean wind picked up for a minute, bringing the smell of Flea Bottom with it.
Shireen wrinkled her nose. "It's so smelly here and everything's always dirty."
Arya sniffed for a second and looked around to take in the streets of King's Landing. There were no gold cloaks, instead, there were patrolling soldiers in gold surcoats with a red tower on them, the new city watch. Arya had heard during Shireen's dinners that Lord Alester had disbanded the gold cloaks at the King's command. Many of the rank and file were the same, only the worst had been thrown out, but the officers were now King Stannis' and Lord Alester's, and Lord Yohn Royce's too, now that the Master of Laws had taken up his duties. Besides the men patrolling them the streets themselves were different. They were cleaner than Arya had ever seen them, even the stench wasn't as bad. "It used to be worse," she said to Shireen. "People would pile everything up on the streets."
"Everything?" Shireen asked dubiously.
"Everything," Arya said, trying not to giggle at Shireen's wrinkled nose.
Shireen shook her head. "Why? King Jaehaerys built sewers, Maester Cressen taught me that."
"I think I saw them," Arya said, thinking of her time in the tunnels beneath the Red Keep, and in Flea Bottom. "Or their ruins at least."
"My Princess, my lady," Ser Rolland had ridden up behind them. "The sewers fell into disrepair during King Aerys and King Robert's reigns. Along with the laws that proscribed the dumping of filth and sewage."
Shireen pursed her lips, though only part of her cheek moved. "My father will make King's Landing beautiful again."
"He can't make it worse," Arya muttered.
Shireen giggled.
Shireen pulled gently on her mare's reins when they reached the huge square that marked the center of King's Landing. "Whoa," she patted her horse's neck to comfort the mare. Arya stopped more smoothly and turned to look the same way Shireen was, up Rhaenys' hill, toward the Dragonpit. Shireen turned to Ser Rolland. "Can we see it?"
The knight of the kingsguard nodded. "Of course my princess."
What the princess wants the princess gets, Arya thought as they turned onto the Street of the Sister and moved up Rhaenys' Hill. The higher they climbed the larger and grander the houses became until, eventually, they became manses. The homes of merchants and highborn. Above them, growing ever larger, was the collapsed dome of the Dragonpit. As they rode higher they passed huge ox-drawn wagons carrying rubble and massive pieces of stone out of the Dragonpit. All the drivers and workers bowed their heads as Arya and Shireen passed them. Before long, they were in the shadow of the crumbling stone walls of the Dragonpit. Arya bent her head back and saw the tips of tall wooden cranes peeking over the walls.
There were more soldiers at the Dragonpit, Florents, Baratheons, and the dragonmen with their new weapons. They bowed their heads or raised weapons in salute as their princess rode past them. They passed beneath the massive gate and entered the Dragonpit. Hundreds of men were at work inside, breaking down the rubble with picks and shovels, cranes lifted either large chunks of stone or huge nets full of rubble and loaded the wagons that hauled the rubble out of the Dragonpit. From within the massive structure, Arya was reminded of Harrenhal.
"What are they doing?" Arya asked.
"My father wants the Dragonpit to house the dragons and the dragonmen. He says it's been a ruin long enough. I wanted to see it."
And what the princess wants the princess gets. Arya followed Shireen as she slowly wandered the worksite, asking a hundred questions.
Meanwhile, Arya turned her head this and that, only half listening to Shireen and the workmen, more interested in watching the workers. Especially the few that had taken off their shirts in the heat. "That's a dragon bone!" Arya said as a crane lifted a chunk of stone free from the pile of rubble. Without a thought, Arya dismounted picked up her stupid skirts and clambered over the rocks and rubble.
"Lady Arya!" Ser Rolland called for her, but Arya ignored her. Work around her stopped as the labourers paused to stare at her. She waited for a second for the boulder being lifted up by the crane to get out of the way, and then dove into the rubble. She pushed loose rocks away and pulled the bone free. It was a claw, almost the size of Arya's hand, black and hard like the iron from Mikken's smithy.
"Arya!" Shireen called. "What did you find?"
"A dragon claw!" Arya shouted back as she clambered her way over the rubble. "I found a dragon claw!" Around her, the workers dropped their tools and rushed over to see the claw for themselves. Among them a big-bellied foreman, whose huge face was drowning in sweat. Two of the Baratheon soldiers, warded off the crowd of workers as Arya climbed over the last rocks. "See," she lifted the claw for Shireen to see. "I wonder which dragon's claw this was?"
Shireen pulled away from the dragon claw. "I don't know," she said quickly.
Arya's brow furrowed slightly. Is she scared?
"My Princess, my lady," the foreman wheezed as a soldier turned to let him pass. "Congratulations on your find," he said over the muttering rising from the crowd.
"Why do they seem unhappy?" Shireen asked the foreman.
"My princess? Oh, they're promised a reward for everything they find, bones, weapons, and dragonbone most of all. With your own find, there's just one less for them that's all," the big man bit his fat lip
Shireen frowned and said. "Give each man a, uh-" She looked to Arya.
Arya slipped the claw into a pouch on her saddle and mounted her mare. "A silver stag for every man who worked today!"
The workers raised a cheer, and one lanky man called out. "The Good Lady Arya! The Good Princess Shireen!"
"Seven blessings on you both!" Some called.
"Red blessings!" Shouted a man with a red scarf.
Joffrey wouldn't have done this, Arya thought as she waved and watched Shireen wave and smile as well. What the princess wants, the princess gets, Arya thought without bitterness as guards began to hand out silver stags to the workmen.
Others picked up the cheers and for a few moments Arya was back in Winterfell with her father as they road through Wintertown, smothered by the adoration of the smallfolk. Arya smiled and started waving to them. Still smiling, she turned to see that Shireen was shocked into stillness, but after a moment she smiled and waved to the crowd of workers. As one the two girls turned their horses and began to ride back through the Dragonpit.
From the Dragonpit they road north, toward and along, the Street of Silk. Arya craned her head at the closed doors and shuttered windows. King Stannis had ordered the brothels closed and their occupants evicted, the richer whores had left King's Landing for other cities, the poorer had moved to other parts of the city. Arya shook she felt little pity for their troubles. In the days after she'd fled the Red Keep Arya had feared to go to the Street of Silk. There had been too many whispers that girls who went there rarely left.
The Street of Silk turned down Rhaenys' Hill and gradually changed into the streets of guildhouses, merchants, and minor nobles until at last they left King's Landing, passing beneath the portcullis of the Old Gate. Baratheon men stood guard at the gates, taking a careful search of the wagons lined up outside the city.
The wind was blowing from the land, so it swept the stench of King's Landing away as the two girls rode on through the open fields that surrounded the capital. For the first time in many months, Arya felt free. The wind was in her hair, her mare between her legs, freedom. For a time at least. Here she could forget her father, forget her mother, forget her brothers, forget her sister.
Arya raced ahead of Shireen, quickly outpacing the princess and her guards. Arya flung her head back and laughed. From not far behind she heard her laughter echoed as Shireen rushed after her. Arya turned her head and saw Shireen racing behind her, she gripped the reins like a drowning sailor grabs a wooden spar. But her face was parted in a broad smile that in some way only made her greyscale marred face look even worse. Nonetheless, Arya smiled in return. Together they rode west and north, mostly following the bank of the Blackwater, but veering off to explore the fields and copses whenever the fancy took them.
Near an hour into the ride, Arya heard Shireen scream, not far behind her, quickly followed by Ser Rolland shouting. "Princess!"
Arya turned her mare around and trotted to where Shireen was lying on the ground. Her mare had walked off an was nibbling grass nearby. Shireen sat up slowly, nursing her left arm.
"What happened?" Arya asked.
Shireen winced, tears budding at the corners of her eyes. "My saddle," she said slowly, nodding to the pile of leather that laid on the ground beside her.
One of the guards quickly moved to investigate it. Arya dismounted and crossed the ground to Shireen to help her stand
"Ser Rolland," the guard said as he dragged Shireen's saddle from the ground. "The girth broke."
"An accident?" The kingsguard knight asked.
The guard shook his head. "No ser, it was cut. See here where the break was, the strap was cut part of the way through right under the seat where it's hard to spot. Weakened so it would break while riding, this was no accident."
Arya felt her heart start to beat faster. Someone tried to kill Shireen. Why? She wondered.
Ser Rolland's frown deepened. "We should get back to the Red Keep, none of you will speak of this to anyone save for King Stannis, Lord Alester, or Lady Melisandre."
"Yes ser," the Baratheon men said as one.
Ser Rolland turned to face Arya and Shireen. "My Princess, if you'd please I can take you back to the Red Keep on my horse."
"She can ride with me," Arya said.
Ser Rolland jerked his head in surprise then turned back to Shireen. "If that is your wish?" He asked the princess.
"Yes," Shireen smiled through her tears. "I'd like that."
Ser Rolland and a soldier helped Shireen mount Arya's horse. A second later Arya mounted behind the shorter girl. Ser Rolland tied Shireen's mare to his bridle and followed behind them as they made haste back to King's Landing. They followed the Blackwater Rush to the city, stopping whenever Shireen's pain grew too great to continue, which was often. A ride that had taken them only an hour one way took double that on the return.
When they crested the final hill before King's Landing it was almost nightfall. By the light of the setting sun, Arya could see a column of soldiers entering the city by way of the Gate of the Gods. They seemed to be a few thousand strong and were led by a party of heralds bearing banners. A pink woman, a silver eagle, a red fish, and many more. Of them all, Arya only recognised two, first, the grey towers of House Frey and the second, leading the column, was the silver trout of House Tully. My uncle, Arya thought, she had never met Edmure, but her heart sang for a moment. To know that family was so close.
"Arya?" Shireen asked as she tried to rub dirt off her face, but only succeeding in spreading it onto her hand and sleeve. "What is it?"
"My uncle Edmure is here."
Shireen pulled up beside her. "The Lord of Riverrun," she said. "My father says he is a loyal man. Have you ever met him?"
Arya shook her head. "No, I never left the North before I came to King's Landing."
"I expect you'll meet him tonight," Shireen said.
They entered King's Landing by the King's Gate and rode along River Row to the Red Keep where they used a side entrance instead of the main gate. Once inside Shireen was bundled away by Ser Rolland with barely a chance for the Princess to say good night. Alone, save for a single guard, Arya returned to her chambers.
A bare hour passed before a guard opened the door to her room. "Lady Arya, your uncle is here to see you," he didn't ask before he opened the door to let Edmure enter. Her uncle was much taller than Arya, though not so tall as other men. He had blue eyes and auburn hair like Arya's mother and all her siblings except for Jon, and his beard was red like the fires Lady Melisandre burned each night.
"It's good to see you at last," he said. "May I sit?" Arya nodded and Edmure took a chair beside her. "Your mother wrote to me when you were born, she was so happy to give Lord Eddard a child who looked like him. A child who had the Stark look."
"What about Jon?"
"Hmm? Oh yes," Edmure shook his head. "Your father's bastard."
"My brother."
Edmure said nothing for a second and then changed the subject. "They said Lord Bolton found you at Harrenhal, were you treated well?"
"He didn't find me, he betrayed Robb and when I tried to help my brother Bolton imprisoned me, then he sent me here to be a prisoner. Just like Sansa was for the Lannisters."
"You're not a prisoner," Edmure said quickly. "Not here, not to Stannis. He isn't the kind of King who holds a girl responsible for her brother's crimes."
"What crimes?" Arya asked though she suspected she already knew.
"Rebellion," Edmure said. "Treason."
"Against Stannis."
"Why are you here?" She asked. "At Harrenhal they said you fought for Robb! You're a traitor! My father wouldn't!" She went quiet unsure of what she would say.
Edmure didn't flinch at the accusation, instead, he reached for Arya's hand. She pulled her hand away, trying not to cry, and failing. After a moment her uncle reached out again and took her hand. "Maybe your father wouldn't have done what I did. He was a better man than me. A better man than most. Maybe a better man than this world deserved. All I can say is that my people were hurting and afraid so I did my duty and protected them in the way I knew best."
Arya looked away from him, anger and shame in her chest. "My father lied," she said. "He lied to save me and Sansa. He said Joffrey was the true king, that he'd tried to steal the throne for himself."
"I'd heard that," Edmure said. "A raven sent from King's Landing brought word. I thought it was Lannister lies."
What she said next brought more tears to her eyes. "I think my father would have bent the knee to Stannis. To protect those he loved."
Edmure pulled Arya into a hug.
"Is Robb going to die?"
"I don't know."
Melisandre
She walked the halls of the Red Keep, her glowing ruby sent pale shadows flickering along the walls, and men and women alike moved aside when she walked past them. Even those with the ridiculous seven-pointed star badges on their surcoats stepped aside when she came. Two of her most loyal converts followed her, carrying an unlit brazier. In such troubled times, R'hllor's visions were more important than ever and she could not bear to be apart from the fires. She ignored one knight who spat on the ground as she walked past but made note of his white and green chequy surcoat. While many of the less fanatical heathens had been mollified by Lord Alester's plan for a new knightly order, a few still persisted in their useless fanaticism. Can they not see the futility of their resistance or the danger it poses? The kingdom of Azor Ahai Reborn must be ready for the struggle. It must be united, and those heathens that cling to the old ways will be compelled by Azor Ahai's power to kneel before R'hllor.
Two dragonmen waited outside the Small Council chamber and they opened the door as Melisandre approached. She was the last to arrive, the rest of the table was already crowded by the lords of the Small Council. Maester Cressen, the old man who still held Stannis' ear, but still foolishly hated and distrusted her. Lord Ardrian Celtigar, Stannis' Master of Coin was more of a puppet for the skilled men supposedly under his command. All for the best, he became rich by hoarding his wealth, not by wise management. Lord Yohn Royce, the newly appointed Master of Laws, who was already making his name feared among the criminals of King's Landing. Lord Alester Florent, proud, vain, and disturbingly influential with Stannis. Justin Massey, a devout man, but still unaccustomed to his new position as Lord Commander of Dragons.
Without a word, Melisandre took her seat between the king and Justin Massey, opposite to Maester Cressen and Lord Alester. Her followers placed the brazier on the ground behind her and then left immediately. Stannis wasted no time, he raised a hand and two of the dragonmen standing guard opened a side door and escorted Edmure Tully into the Small Council chamber. The Lord of Riverrun bowed respectfully and then waited for Stannis to speak. The king himself also waited a moment before speaking. "Lord Edmure, I welcome you to the Red Keep," he said at last.
Lord Edmure bowed his head. "Thank you, Your Grace, it is an honour."
Alester Florent spoke next with honeyed tones to flatter the visiting lord. "Your service and loyalty are greatly appreciated by His Grace, and indeed by all the court. House Tully and the Riverlands are truly blessed to have a lord as wise and courageous as yourself. "You have done the realm a great service in taking Raventree Hall in His Grace's name," he paused a moment. "I'm sure you've heard of the Battle at Bitterbridge?"
"Yes my lord, I've heard His Grace won a great victory over Joffrey the False."
"Great indeed, a victory to shake the foundations of Casterly Rock and the West with it," Lord Alester smiled. "Lady Alysanne Lefford has offered His Grace her fealty following the defeat of Joffrey."
Lord Alester pointedly left out what Melisandre had seen in her fires a week earlier. The ashes had made a storm of crows that savaged a lioness and had taken her cave for their own. The vision's meaning had been obvious even at the time and only confirmed when Lady Alysanne had begged protection from the reavers that now ravaged the West. If Lord Edmure was aware of these events, he gave no sign.
Stannis spoke again. "I have written to Lady Alysanne, she will be welcomed back into the realm on but one condition, that being House Lefford will now swear fealty to Riverrun, not Casterly Rock. She has accepted," he ended simply, looking at the Lord of Riverrun with his stormy blue eyes.
Edmure stood in stunned stillness for a moment before falling to his knee. "Your Grace is too generous."
"It is not generosity when the reward is well deserved. You are dismissed, my lord."
"Thank you, Your Grace." The Lord of Riverrun bowed again and turned to leave.
When Lord Edmure was gone Stannis turned his attention to his Master of Coin. "Lord Ardrian, what of the Iron Bank?"
"I had Davon Mast negotiate with the banker as per Your Grace's instruction," Lord Ardrian said quickly. "Master Mast returned last evening with a contract he deemed acceptable," the Lord of Claw Isle slid a piece of parchment across the table to Lord Alester and King Stannis. Davon Mast was a merchant of some note in King's Landing. He had been one of the Antler Men, the brave souls that had taken Lion Gate in Stannis' name during the Battle of King's Landing. He and many others had been rewarded with a royal appointment to the treasury. Davon Mast, in particular, had proven skilled at his new position, and more importantly in this matter, he'd had dealings with the Iron Bank before. Stannis picked up the parchment and began to read.
The other lords of the Small Council tried their best not to look nervous or curious as Stannis read, but Melisandre simply turned her eyes to the brazier. She saw crows flying above a host of beasts that were crawling and clawing over each other in their fury to reach the crows. The same crows she'd seen attack the lioness? No, she decided. Their feathers were ragged and their eyes lack the same malice. She didn't look long, Stannis read quickly, but as she turned away she saw the flash of a black eye that sent a shiver down her spine. Disturbed, Melisandre returned her focus to Stannis and more mundane matters. Mundane they may be, but Azor Ahai Reborn must have a strong realm if he is to resist the darkness and the Great Other.
"The final agreement," Stannis said when he finished reading. "Is that a one time good faith payment of fifty thousand gold dragons will be paid immediately. After that, payments will resume one year after the fall of Casterly Rock to forces loyal to myself. The regularity and size of payments will be negotiated then."
Lord Yohn Royce huffed. "One would think, given their reputation, that the Iron Bank would try to squeeze everything that they could out of this agreement."
"Why fight when you can negotiate?" Lord Alester asked. "The King on the Iron Throne is not some Essosi merchant prince to be crushed at will by these bankers. Far better to be His Grace's friend rather than his enemy. Help His Grace in his victory then reap the rewards of Westeros united." He turned to Lord Ardrian. "Can the treasury afford such a payment?"
"Yes my lord, Lord Edmure has delivered the greater part of two years worth of taxes from the Riverlands and the enemy camp at Bitterbridge brought vast amounts of gold, coin, and other valuables stored there. We can well afford to pay the Braavosi."
"The Lannisters always pay their debts," Justin Massey japed.
Stannis cut off any further discussion by signing the contract and handing it back to Lord Ardrian Celtigar. "Deliver it to the Braavosi and arrange the first payment."
"Yes Your Grace," the Lord of Claw Isle bobbed his head in a bow.
"Lord Yohn," Stannis turned his attention to his Master of Laws. "How has the command of King's Landing progressed?"
"The gold cloaks have been reorganized into new companies, better to break up the old networks of corruption. Knights of House Royce, Florent, and Baratheon have been appointed as officers. Ser Omer Blackberry is now Lord Commander of the City Guard."
"How is the city adjusting to the changes?"
Lord Yohn answered. "I can't say for sure, Lord Renly and Janos Slynt kept abysmal records of crime and punishment. However, there seems to be less crime, though that could just as easily be because all the young men are too busy working on the walls and the dragonpit to commit crimes."
Stannis grunted. "Work is proceeding apace then?"
"Yes Your Grace, the walls have been almost completely repaired and the new tower is being built as we speak to the specifications of Lady Sato and her engineers."
"R'hllor willing the tower should be complete within two moons Your Grace," Justin Massey spoke. "And we will have the dragons ready by then."
Stannis nodded.
"There is the matter of Joffrey the False, Your Grace. He yet commands a host of some size," said Lord Alester.
"The false king continues his flight west, losing men like a stuck pig loses blood," Melisandre said in answer. The fires had shown her a pig with the mane of a lion bleeding from a dozen wounds, the drops of blood became men when they struck the ground, and malevolent crows circled overhead. "I think the Ironmen will deal with what remains of his host."
The Hand of the King nodded. "Most of his remaining sellswords have deserted. One company led by a," Lord Alester checked a note, "Ser Bronn Wolfsbane has gone so far as to join Ser Mark Mullendore's host of four thousand horse and has been of great aid harassing the rebels."
"And what does this sellsword want for his turned cloak?" Lord Yohn Royce asked suspiciously.
"Confirmation of his ownership of Oaklake Keep," Lord Alester said. "Ser Bronn claims it was a gift from Lord Mathis Rowan."
"Lord Mathis is a noble and gallant lord," Lord Ardrian said. "He would not have made such a gift without good reason."
"Mathis Rowan is an attainted rebel," Yohn Royce said gruffly. "Whatever he gave or offered this sellsword means nothing."
"I have seen him in the flames," Melisandre spoke for the first time. "There is a shadow about him and his actions, but I believe he can be trusted to fight well. So long as he's on the winning side," she said with a hint of scorn in her voice.
Lord Yohn Royce snorted once, the pious valelord didn't trust her visions, but the rest of the council knew the power of R'hllor and said nothing when Stannis nodded and said. "Let this Ser Bronn earn his rewards in my service or not at all."
"Yes, Your Grace," Lord Alester said. "Lastly there is the matter of some disturbing reports from the Stormlands. Lord Estermont writes that he has been attacked by pirates and his island is under blockade. Lady Mary Mertyns writes that Weeping Town has been captured by these pirates and that they are using it as a base to advance deeper inland. Lord Swann claims that there are raiders in the Dornish Marches, Dornish riders to be precise."
"Why would the Dornish attack now?" Ardrian Celtigar shook his head. "And pirates? This makes no sense."
"What of Lord Mathis' and his deserters?" Justin Massey asked.
"Lord Elwood's scouts place them near Felwood and moving further into the Stormlands," Lord Alester answered.
"Trying to join forces with the pirates and Dornish most likely," Lord Yohn Royce growled. "Could they have been paid off by the Lannisters?"
"Doubtful my lord," Lord Alester said. "Lord Mathis and his men betrayed Joffrey at Bitterbridge. This must be some ploy by Mathis Rowan."
"Or the Tyrells," Justin Massey said.
"No. This must've been planned for months. Lord Mace would have still lived and he hated the Dornish more than any man alive after Prince Oberyn maimed Willas."
"Mathis Rowan must be crushed," Stannis said. "If the pirates and Dornish raiders are with him or not they will be crushed in turn. I will lead the greater part of the army south recall Ser Mark Mullendore from chasing Joffrey and have him focus on harassing the Tyrells and what few Reachlords remain to them." Stannis turned to look at the most silent member of the council. "Maester Cressen, you have something you wanted to say," Stannis said to the old man.
"A letter from the Wall Your Grace, it came some time ago, but Lord Alester did not care to see it." For a moment the Hand of the King's handsome face was marred by a frown. Maester Cressen pulled a folded piece of parchment from his sleeve unfolded it and began to read. "To the five kings," Stannis began to grind his teeth. "The King beyond the Wall comes south. He leads a vast host of wildlings. Lord Mormont sent a raven from the Haunted Forest. He is under attack. Other birds have come since with no words. We fear Mormont slain with all strength. We are outnumbered worse than a score to one. The lords of the North have not answered our calls. We beg your aid in these times without it the Wall will fall and the wild horde will take the North."
I have been blind, Melisandre thought. The fights of men mean nothing if the Wall should fall… "Your Grace, the true enemy gathers in the farthest north these wildlings are His unwitting tools."
"Your Grace," Lord Alester spoke in cloying tones. "We have enough troubles in the south. Rebels still hold much of the Reach and Westerlands, a host of pirates attack the Stormlands, Ironmen reave the western shore, and half the North is still in rebellion. Perhaps these wildlings are exactly the punishment that the Northerners deserve for their treason."
Lord Celtigar was content to say nothing while Lord Royce's hands gripped the table. "My youngest son, Waymar, was a brother of the Night's Watch, he was killed by the wildlings. Forgive me, Your Grace, I fear my judgment is skewed in this."
"Your Grace," Cressen spoke. "A king who does not defend his kingdoms has no claim to them."
Stannis' frown deepened, but the sound of grinding teeth stopped. "Lord Alester is right, we cannot afford to send more ships and soldiers to the North, but neither can I do nothing. Send a raven north, command Lord Bolton to defend the Wall. I have named him my Warden of the North now let him earn the title. I charge Lord Roose to do his duty to defend the North and beat back those who would ravage my kingdom. Inform Imry Florent to return south. I will have need of the Royal Fleet," Stannis stood and left the small council chamber, followed by his kingsguard, as clear a dismissal as any.
However, as Melisandre stood to leave Devan Seaworth reentered the chamber. "Lady Melisandre," he called. "The king requests your presence."
Melisandre didn't let her surprise show. Since Bitterbridge, Stannis had been avoiding her, most likely at Lord Alester's and Maester Cressen's suggestion. She nodded and turned to follow the king's squire. "As His Grace commands," she said quietly.
Azor Ahai Reborn was waiting for her in his solar. He stood at the window staring east across Blackwater Bay. Melisandre walked up behind him. "What would you have of me?" Stannis did not move or speak for several seconds. At last, he turned away from the window and tossed a scrap of leather at Melisandre. She caught it without hesitation. "Part of a saddle."
"Part of Shireen's saddle," Stannis said. "Cut, just enough so it would weaken and break during her ride with the Stark girl and send her falling. It was only luck that she broke an arm instead of a neck."
"Only R'hllor's will."
"Find out who tried to kill Shireen," he turned his back to face the Narrow Sea again.
Melisandre bowed to his back and turned to return to the stifling heat of her chambers, where a fire was kept burning at all times. From her window, she could see the mouth of the Blackwater and the squat tower being built on the shore. A corner of land between the river, sea, and the walls of the Red Keep. It would be of packed earth, sheathed in stone with sloped walls that would run directly into the sea and against the cliffs beneath the Red Keep. Trenches had been mined out with pickaxes for the foundations, stakes marked the lines of future walls, and stone harvested from the Dragonpit was being piled to make a breakwater and eventually the walls. Dragons placed there would dominate the Blackwater and make King's Landing almost immune to attack from the sea.
Melisandre turned away from the window and focused on the flames instead. She rubbed the scrap of leather between her fingers as she searched the fire for a sign. But the more she looked for something to lead to the assassins, the more the black eye she filled her mind. Someone's trying to use the flames to spy on Azor Ahai Reborn. Her ruby began to pulse as she stared into the flames.
Sansa
She woke gradually, rising up from sleep like steam from the hot springs of Winterfell. She was in her room, though she had no memory of returning to it. There was no sign of looting, and nothing was out of place. Maybe it was all a dream, she thought, maybe Casterly Rock still stands, and the Lannisters still rule. She rose slowly from the bed, her body ached, and her head was fuzzy. Everything seemed to be blurred, colours bled into each other, and the whole world seemed slightly off-kilter.
It was daytime now, and sunlight shone through the open doors of her balcony. Sansa rose to her unsteady feet, wrapped her blanket around her shoulders, and walked into the sunlight. Euron waited for her. Not a dream then, Sansa thought with cruel satisfaction as she watched the Iron King lean against the stone and gaze out to sea with his lone eye. He didn't react as Sansa approached him. The bright noonday sun sent a shock of pain through her fuzzy brain and Sansa stumbled and fell to the ground. Euron made no move to help her.
"Three days," he said. "You slept for three days." Euron's turned to face her, his eye burrowing into her soul. "What did it taste like?" The King of the Iron Islands asked.
"Your Grace?" Sansa pulled her blanket up protectively.
"The corpse you ate, the corpse on the beach. What did it taste like?"
She shook her head. "No. That- that was just a dream, that's all."
"Don't lie to me girl," his blue eye sparkled like a piece of ice under a moon's cold light. "What did it taste like?"
It was just a dream, Sansa told herself, that's all. But she knew it was a lie she could feel the wind beneath her wings, wings not arms, feel the flesh give way beneath her beak, and the taste of human flesh. "Salty," she said. "And wet."
"To eat of human meat is abomination," Euron said. "So tell me are you an abomination? A monster that wears the skins of birds and beasts and feasts on human flesh?"
Sansa trembled and said nothing. A few seconds of silence passed, a silence pierced only by the sound of gulls and crows flying below them around the base of the mountain and on the beach. Sansa peered over the edge to look at the birds, and for a moment had the brief sensation of near weightlessness as her wings carried her over the rocks and the waves.
"That's what the old crow said to me," Euron spoke again. "Abomination this, forbidden that, he wanted to chain be but I refused. Blood and sacrifice broke my bonds. Come," Euron turned to go back inside, Sansa followed. He led inside where one of his men was waiting with a small dog and a wineskin.
Euron took the skin and put the dog on the bed, a strong hand tight around its neck. He took a sip passed the skin to her. More shade of the evening, Sansa thought, a strange tingle of longing passed up her spine. Euron passed the skin to her. "Drink," he commanded.
Sansa didn't hesitate this time. She feared what would happen if she did, and… she remembered the way her blood had begun to sing the first night she drank the thick dark liquid. She wanted to feel that way again. Sansa drained the entire skin and did not spill a drop. The world wavered and trembled, her skin flushed with warmth, and her blood sang.
"Power," Euron said. "Comes from blood and sacrifice. Kill the dog." Sansa felt her heart jump. "Cut its throat," Euron smiled madly. "Cut its throat, let the blood spill over your hands, feel life leave its body."
The Shade of the Evening made the blood in her veins sing, and her heart beat like thunder. The world seemed to slow as Euron pushed the knife into Sansa's hand. Her heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest. The world itself was shimmering like a pond in sunlight. Everything seemed brighter. The dog was trembling in Euron's grip.
"Do it." The king commanded. He pulled her closer when Sansa hesitated. "Kill it!"
She was trembling the knife was unsteady in her hands. "Please-"
"Please?" Euron said, strangely calm after his outburst. "You wanted to be free from fear," he smiled. "Or maybe you were just afraid of me? Either way," he shrugged. "Kill the dog or there will be a price to pay." His voice was as cold and cruel as the winter sea.
Sansa closed her eyes and pulled the knife. The dog kicked and struggled, spraying blood over her and the bed, but eventually, he went still. She fell weeping onto her bed. When she opened her eyes Euron was gone, the dog's corpse had been taken, and her bed was soaked in blood.
The dog was only the first of many sacrifices. Euron came every morning, made her drink Shade of the Evening and had her kill something. Dogs, cats, ravens, goats, and sheep. Sometimes he brought more than one animal and had her kill two in quick succession. No servants came with clothes or sheets, and they came only rarely with water. For the first few days Sansa tried to clean her clothes with the water that came, but then she had naught to drink for the rest of the day. There was also something strange about the blood when it touched her skin. When Shade of the Evening still sang in her veins it seemed like the blood without would sing as well.
On the fifth day, she asked the servant that brought her water. "Could I have Shade of the Evening?" Before ten minutes had passed a new skin was brought to Sansa, she drank it all and didn't spill a drop. She laid back in her bed and listened to the blood sing. The blood in her veins, the blood that was crusted on her hands and beneath her fingernails, the blood that stained her increasingly ragged dress, the blood that covered her bed, and the blood that pooled on her floors.
The blood sang a song about a young, proud lion and two hounds. The elder hound, scarred and loyal, and the other, a young and vicious wolfhound. The two hounds fought for the attention of the lion snapping and biting at each other. For a time the lion favoured the scarred hound, but then the wolfhound began to savage the lion's foes and to bring scraps and corpses back to the lion. The scarred hound was left to sulk in the rain. But then the lion was beaten in battle and became injured. His fur grew spotty with mange. The old hound helped the lion stand and defended him from scavengers. Meanwhile, the young hound fled to the safety of a stag's forest.
An eternity in an endless darkness passed her by. At some point, Sansa realised that she was dreaming. She stood naked on a field of darkness, beneath a sky of darkness, and surrounded by darkness. The only thing she could see was herself. The ground she stood on was soft and wet, almost spongy beneath her feet. Sansa reached down and groped blindly at the ground. Her fingers broke the ground and picked a part of it up. She brought it into the light of her own body. It was a flower she didn't recognise. The bulb was made of layers of petals radiating away from the center. Perhaps at one time, it would have been sweet smelling and colourful, but now it was charred black and stank of death. Thunder echoed overhead, and Sansa dropped the flower. Lightning crackled in the dark sky, its blue-yellow light revealed the ground to be an endless field of identical blackened and burned flowers.
The lightning cracked and the thunder roared as the storm above Sana swelled in power. Harsh winds blew cold rain into her, beating her like a thousand hammers. Sansa fell to the ground, her hands and knees sinking deep into the dead flowers, she pulled her body in on itself, as the rain pummeled her. The storm swept across the ground, its winds and rains making a wall that flung the dead flowers into the air and tore them apart. She could see everything now, the lightning was endless and the thunder was overwhelming. At some point, Sansa realised she was screaming. The storm came closer, racing over the ground like nothing she'd seen before, a wall of bright lightning, echoing thunder, slamming rain, and biting wind. The clouds billowed and ran like ink forming a terrible face that laughed like thunder as it struck Sansa like a catapult's boulder. And then her dream ended.
When she opened her eyes she saw moonlight poured through her window like a rainbow of snow and milk. Sansa pushed herself up and gasped in pain. With hesitant fingers, she pulled back the blood-stained sleeve of her dress and revealed the countless bruises that layered her body. Sansa rubbed at them, hoping she could simply wipe them away, all she got for her efforts was sending a wave of pain through her body.
Euron sat by the window, bathing in the liquid light, and wrapped in a large dark cloak. Sansa sat upright, watching the walls and ceiling tremble slightly, and shift colours. Black to white, grey to green, and shimmering purple and pink. Euron held a skin in his fingers, as she watched he let the cord slip and the skin fell. Euron caught it again almost immediately, but a single shimmering drop fell from the spout and fell to the floor. Shade of the evening. Sansa's heart thundered with her want, her need, for more of that strange concoction. Euron twiddled the skin in his fingers, but his eye never left Sansa.
Euron didn't spare Sansa a glance as he stared out the window. "Power," he said. "Comes from blood and sacrifice. The Children of the Forest knew this, the Valyrians knew it, the Qohoriks and Ashai'i know it still." Euron smiled. "What is one life or even a hundred lives compared to power? Nothing. Lives are cheap, men, women, children they swarm across every land in uncountable numbers," he spat on the ground, his face marred by disgust. "Useless little lives that only have meaning once I snuff them out to make something greater." Euron looked at her, his eye almost glowing in the moonlight. "I think you're ready," he stood quickly and stepped closer. He took Sansa by the hand and pulled her from her blood-soaked bed.
Euron led her from her room and into the corridors of Casterly Rock. He led her down the servant's stairs, less crowded and more direct than the main passages. There were bloodstains on the floors, and the servants and thralls ducked their heads when Euron and Sansa passed them. He led her into the kitchens, then through them to the butcher's shop. Myrielle Lannister lay bound, blindfolded, and crying on a table. "Cut her throat," Euron slipped a bronze dagger covered in strange markings into Sansa's hand. Myrielle cried out in fear.
"I… I can't."
"Why not?" Euron whispered into her ear. "She's a Lannister, you hate them don't you? You hated her your husband. You hate her." The mention of Daven made Sansa's stomach squeeze in fear, disgust, and hate. Euron grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight around the dagger. "If you want to be free from fear, then this," he smiled and nodded and Myrielle. "Is the next step."
"I need to drink first," Sansa reached for the skin of shade of the evening.
Euron pulled it away. "Just a sip," his eye was hard. "If you want the rest than kill her first," he held the skin out and let Sansa drink for a bare second before he roughly pushed Sansa toward Myrielle. Sansa stumbled slightly, the now familiar singing in her blood pushed her forward as she stumbled toward the Lannister woman.
"Please," Myrielle cried. "Please Sansa. We're goodsisters, we're family."
Sansa felt something in her break, and suddenly she was back in King's Landing, watching her father's head fall to the ground. With shaking hands, she raised the dagger. "No. You killed my family." With both hands, Sansa brought the knife back down and cut Myrielle's throat. As the knife cut through flesh, warm blood spurted, and Sansa gasped. She had felt it before when she'd killed the animals, the singing in her blood, something that could be safely ignored, the fault of Shade of the Evening. But this was something stronger and greater it filled her, body and soul, and then it was gone. The strength went out of her body and Sansa fell to the ground. Euron was laughing as he pushed the skin into her hands. Sansa drank deeply, greedily. Her blood sang with the power of sacrifice, louder and stronger than ever before, like a storm in her veins.