Dawn War - Iscalta - A Song of Ice and Fire (2024)

Chapter 1: Bran I

Chapter Text

He woke in a sweat despite the cold that had seeped into his flesh. Into Meera’s as well, despite his arms around her and the babe. They’re ready, he knew at once. Ready to march on the Wall. How he managed to glimpse into the future so cleanly was beyond Bran but under the circumstances he appreciated any help that could be given. Had I been awing above them, I might have thought it happening for true. Instead he stood among them, the endless dead hidden in the trees, watching as the cold giant sounded his horn and the Others themselves turned the huge shards of wall into a blizzard that spanned the breadth of Westeros. Just to dump it on our heads before they come calling. We ought to make sure anyone north of Last Hearth pulls back to the castle. I want to see what’s going on, at least. When he reached for a raven though, it was as if every bird he could find turned to mist, turned to fog in his grasp. He got only the haziest glimpses of Queenscrown, returning to his bedchamber feeling wholly worse. A slight movement out of the corner of his eye took his mind off the Gift. The smallest pair of grey eyes bright despite the predawn darkness were locked on him over Meera’s shoulder. Good morning, my prince, Bran thought. His princess was a light sleeper, he learned that in the years they spent in the Raven’s hollow. Even with a whisper he might rouse her, and he was loath to do so. The eyes took in Bran’s face, the infant prince looking at him suspiciously in his two-month-old way. He never cries, Bran wondered. He fusses when he’s hungry or when he needs his clout changed. Apart from that, he never makes a sound. Faintly Bran couldn’t help but worry and he knew Meera did as well, but her parents didn’t seem overly concerned and so it was their experience he relied on to soothe the butterflies in his stomach. Lord Howland has more to worry about than one quiet babe. Whenever he wasn’t with Meera and his grandson, he was everywhere else in Winterfell it seemed. The ramparts, the crypts, the keep, the yard, the great earthen ring that even now the giants push into place, block by block… Those not of the Neck soon learned the endurance of the crannogmen. They ate little and slept little, spending every waking moment fletching arrows for their funny little bows or else shoring up the castle’s defenses with every manner of ingenious (some said untoward) measure meant to foil or snare the enemy. Slowly getting up for a look out the window, Bran was unsurprised to see yet more snowfall. Heady, too. The kind that comes to stay, that doesn’t melt at the first hint of sunrise.

He turned his back on the outside world and brought the fur blanket back up over Meera. She muttered uncertainly in her sleep. You might find it heavy, but it will keep you warm, princess. It had been a good while before she’d taken to blankets. When Bran asked incredulously if she had not had them in the Neck, she’d shaken her head.

“Fur, wool or cotton, any blanket would rot off your body or else fill with the eggs of creatures you’d not want on your skin.” Bran shuddered at the memory.

“Remind me to never ever go to the Neck.” Truly, it was as if the crannogmen were a race unto themselves. Short, slight, quiet. With big green eyes. He couldn’t begin to count them so many had come to Winterfell, and even then, they all looked the same and sounded the same. A tactic meant to unnerve, perhaps. It had worked wonders on the Valemen, knights and lords both giving the smaller people a wide berth despite their harmless affect. Meera sat up in bed, her hair a long dark curtain tangled around her head.

“I ought have this cut…” she said.

“Don’t trouble yourself. You’re not like to get it caught on anything in Winterfell.” he said, finding himself fond of her black tresses.

“A wight can grab it, though.” Ever the crannogwoman. If it cannot be used to your advantage, it will be used against you.

“Or Howland, when he gets a bit bigger.” Bran frowned. “Perhaps you might tie it back out there and let it down when we’re in here?” She smiled.

“As my prince wishes. But once the wights come in force, I’ll do as I please.”

“In the meantime, let your prince do as you please.”

“Well, I think breakfast might do me good.”

“I’ll go get it right away.” He moved for the door immediately but Meera stopped him.

“We could have it in the hall, perhaps.” she said, sounding shy. Bran grinned from ear to ear.

“Shall we bring him down, then?”

“I think it’s time. He may want to leave if the noise gets too loud, but he’s old enough to be seen at least.”

“Prince Howland Stark of Winterfell.” Bran said aloud. I wonder what Father would have made of him. Of sharing a grandson with his most stalwart vassal. He held Howland while Meera bathed and dressed, tapping his nose to make him huff in amusement, perhaps the beginnings of a laugh. Howland cooed in turn when presented with one of Meera’s fur slippers, grabbing at it enthusiastically whenever it was in sight. Perhaps he can smell his mother on them. Or he just likes the feeling of fur. His mind wandered to another Stark, one he’d looked the castle over for when Howland was first born. He’d found her in the crypts of all places, staring down a dark passage that according to her led to a hidden plain ringed in razor rock. Either out there, he supposed, or in the godswood by herself. Sansa has become quite the recluse. I knew letting her wander beyond the Wall was a mistake. Maybe seeing Howland will set her to rights. “I’ll meet you in the hall, Meera.” he told her when she had dressed, finally able to get into boots again with a giddy gasp. She took their son, Bran kissing his head and her cheek before they left.

“Be careful. She is your sister and mine and I’m sure she would never do us harm on purpose, but maybe Sansa is capable of more than what she knows.” Meera whispered.

He didn’t bother checking her room or the hall, where once it was the smart bet to find Sansa Stark trading courtesies with one lord or another. When she was not in the godswood either, Bran felt his heart sink. I pray I don’t find her frozen to death from the inside in the crypts. The vines and roots that had taken hold in the crypts near the Hungry Wolf had frosted over, the floor icy and slippery. On staring into the empty crypt, Bran could only gape in dismay. He’s gone. How the Singers had not realized at once was a puzzle he had to look to the vines around the crypt to piece together. The Other saw the trap and tore its teeth out. There was water on the floor of the crypt as well. Washing away the dust that kept him flush to the far wall. Now he’s free to cause all the harm he can before we capture him again. Or kill him. The crypt was cold, of course, but not the kind that seeped into the soul and ground the mind to a halt whenever an Other was near.

“Long gone, then…” he said aloud. As is Sansa. His tongue slid between his teeth. Where could she be? Where could he be? Bran found himself following the crypts, heading further into the darkness. Toward the grotto. He had not been back since they’d first found it. It was a place of wonder, no doubt, but it was also a place for the dead as much as the living. Given Howland’s birth, Bran felt his living family needed him more just now. The frost that formed on the stone would have shone mirror-bright had the Singers’ workings not been undone, but as it was the greenish-gold glow was quite absent leaving Bran to use the rats that skittered at his feet as guides. Even then, they will only take me so far. Normal animals cannot abide the presence of an Other. Of winter given face, voice, form. The rats stopped at the entrance to the grotto, the rune-covered arch a Wall in its own way. Bran spotted a white sliver slipping through the trees. He braced for the cold, that legendary cold, but no paralyzing wave was forthcoming. Maybe the trees put a stop to it. Leaf had said as much when the wights simply dropped on entry into the Raven’s cave. The power that moves them is powerless here. Well, until I mucked that up. He moved as quietly as he could as quickly as he dared but nimble as Bran was he was certain his every step sounded like it was taken on mammoth feet to the cold one’s ears. “No dead down here to move, anyway. No dead kings for you.” Bran muttered under his breath. Sansa had the right of it. Had we not scoured the crypts, the Other could have turned Winterfell into a crypt castle with just the kings newest dead. The faces in the trees frowned out of their trunks impassively. Annoyed, almost. Bran knew better than anyone how set the trees were in their ways, how any deviation rankled them to their wooden cores. So too with the old gods. Perhaps it was simply part of being a tree. Though he was hardly surprised, Bran found his inability to catch up to the Other irritating. Even crippled he is fleeter of foot than I. He only caught up because his quarry had stopped moving, staring at the pact on the wall of the grotto. On reaching him Bran sucked in a breath. Fine white hair fell down to the Other’s shoulders and he was clad in icy armor, makeshift though it seemed. Lighter than beyond the Wall. Perhaps one needs time and cold aplenty to fashion true plate-of-ice. Whoever you are, you’re no icesmith. The flesh seared away by Meera’s smoky sword had not regrown, instead replaced once more by well-shaped ice. Bran had no doubt the Other knew he was there, but what threat could he pose? Why bother turning? “This is a Stark place. You’ve got no right to be here.” Bran tried to sound as Father had when he wore the face of Lord Stark, but his voice was high and chilled, echoing off the walls. Bran the Boy, not Prince Brandon of Winterfell. He swallowed. No more. When he spoke again, his voice did not waver and it echoed in tones of iron. This time the Other turned. Beauty had returned to his face, the skull beneath it no longer visible through the skin. What was visible was the dark glassy scar beneath the armor where Meera had poked him with the dragonglass arrowhead. I pray Jon brings back as much as he can.

He stood his ground, staring at the Other as his cold blue eyes took him in. The steel in his spine sparked a memory he thought forgotten. Once in another life he’d been paired against Prince Tommen in the training yard by Ser Rodrik Cassel. Tommen’s eyes were green though, his face round and red. After a bit of huffing and puffing Bran had knocked him to the ground, pulled more by the weight of his padding than pushed by any skill of Bran’s. Meanwhile you could go through Ser Rodrick and all the rest without stopping for breath. The Kingslayer was supposed to be a splendid knight, but steel shattered against razor ice no matter the gold spent on it, parted for a crystal sword heedless of the times it had been hammered.

“The things I do for love.” he said, choking up at the words. The Other’s remaining hand flexed and a sharpened icicle appeared as if from thin air. Nothing comes from nothing, the Singers say. From the water in the air, or else left in him. A moment later and its edge had spread until it was a sword for true. Past the Other the figures of grey and green stood frozen in the stone. I wonder if they ever got this close. He stopped not three feet away. Bran did not so much as shiver. “That’s how you lost before.” he said, pointing to the figures. “That’s how you’ll lose again.” For the first time Bran saw disdain creep into the Other’s face. Again, he was reminded of the Kingslayer. Where Jaime Lannister was hollow as a suit of armor though, the Other was full of dread purpose. Still, Bran saw the nose flare, the cold lips curl. Not a word of the True Tongue and still I struck a nerve. No doubt he’ll understand this just as well. He stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes. “Mlhhh.” There was movement too fast to see, a noise like a tree crashing down. The Other was knocked off his feet, slung to the ground like a dog would a rat and there was a crunching, cracking sound as his armor shattered off his body. Bran blinked. What just happened? For his part the Other stirred feebly on the grotto floor. As if he’d run full sprint straight into a brick wall. Footsteps behind him made Bran turn, still at a loss, only to see an obviously dead woman coming straight at him. He dove behind a tree but she made no move to pursue, instead pouncing on the Other and driving her elbow into his mouth. Another sound of ice cracking, freezing blood spattering the moss that covered the floor. Quite unceremoniously she stood, hoisting him under his arm before dragging him back off toward the grotto’s entrance. Have I just been saved by a wight? Bran turned on legs that had turned to water, stumbling after her. Standing by the arch was another woman, someone straight out of one of Old Nan’s tales. In her grip was a walnut branch. A dozen black feathers dangled from the wood bound by red thread along with a white one from a bird far rarer, far fairer, than a common raven. Yet the eyes are not an Other’s. Tully, even when the rest of her has turned to ice. “Sansa?” he asked. Her hair was a mess of tangles and weir leaves, she smelled of pine and earth instead of sweetscent and yet the more he looked the more his sister shone through. A Stark at last, if one less fit for the second Long Night than the first. She seemed as like to speak as the wight. The green-eyed wight. Dimly he heard it dragging the Other up the steps. “We should make sure he can’t get out again.” he told her shakily. When she gave no answer again, he took her hand. Forgive me, Sansa. He reached for her and found only a tree-bending blizzard raging within. Well, an Other may reach her but not me. His effort made her blink in the waking world though, the unflinching stare melting into unsure glances around the grotto. Her perfect lips parted.

“Bran.”

“Sansa, are you hurt? Did they get in again? Did-”

“Bran, I saw them. I saw every one of them-”

“That is quite enough.”

Branch’s voice sounded angrier than Bran thought a Singer capable of being. Both he and Sansa turned toward Branch, the harmless-looking creature’s gentle hands balled into fists.

“Branch? What do you mean? What’s going on?” Bran asked. Branch ignored him utterly, which was very much a first.

“You are perilously close to going down a road that can only harm, Princess.” Sansa gulped.

“I didn’t mean any harm-”

“A hurricane does not mean to sink ships by the dozen and drown sailors by the hundred. A blizzard does not aim to scour a fertile field of crops or freeze men where they stand.” Bran frowned.

“You speak as though my sister were a child playing with a crossbow.”

“Wiser minds than she have tried to make themselves master of forces that will not be ruled.”

“I didn’t try to master anything.” Sansa said, her voice hardening. “I was sick of waiting around for someone else to handle my problems for me. Maybe if your ways, so sacred, worked in the first place, you wouldn’t be huddled in the dark with a pair of orphans trying to figure out how to put an end to the Others’ schemes.” Branch blinked, as did Bran. “We tried it your way the first time. At best, we can only hope to force them away and forget they ever existed.”

“There is no other way.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Winter is part of the world, as much so as the other seasons. Your kind exist for a reason, surely, as do men. So, too, must the Others. Why, I cannot fathom-”

“I already explained. They are winter’s will embodied. They seek to scour all life within reach, because that is what winter does.”

“Winter is sleep, not death. The world goes to sleep and yes, the sun is further and dimmer and yes, life is harder, but not so much for creatures borne of cold. Others and ice spiders, they are alive as we are. Life does not seek to destroy itself out of hand. Why would it?” Branch could not seem to comprehend her words, lost for his own. He cannot think outside the roots, the trees. The past, Bran thought. At least Sansa’s trying something different. Maybe she got lost in some briars, got a little muddied, but she seems alright now. Branch for his part seemed ready to cry. “Easy enough to hide behind the old conflict. It’s something else about the Others. Something that rankles you to your core. The other Singers, too.” Bran reached for the Singer’s three-fingered hand and for the first time he saw one flinch.

“You are one for stories, Brandon Stark. There is one told among your kind, about the Night’s King.” Bran frowned. “Not the miscreation of our own doing. The thirteenth man to hold the Wall.”

“How would you know about the history of the Night’s Watch?”

“Let him speak, Bran.” Sansa said, soft and ready to listen. Like Mother.

“Before men forgot the threat of winter and the ones who brought it, we gave them that which you call dragonglass often and generously. There were no secrets between the Watchers on the Wall and Those Who Sing the Song of Earth.” His lip quivered and curled. “Until he came.” He was silent for a long time. To speak of him is pain, Bran thought.

“Old Nan used to tell me stories about him. How atop the Wall one night, he saw a woman wandering in the Haunted Forest. A woman with cold white skin and eyes like blue stars. A corpse queen, as Old Nan put it.” Sansa’s own blues widened. “Well, you get the picture.” Bran said, less to spare Sansa than Branch.

“What became of her, when he was overthrown?”

“She disappeared. There was no trace when the northmen scoured the Nightfort-”

“She was no more corpse than the Watcher she wooed.” Branch said as quietly as he could, it sounded to Bran. He is beyond pained, he is hurt hollow. “No part of her was any less alive than the men who forced her to flee back to her kind. When men arrived, there was discord. After that brief strife though…you cannot know how glorious it was. We were close to the giants, are close to the giants, but…”

“They’re giants.” Sansa said rather bluntly. “They go their own way.” Branch nodded.

“Men were our great trial and our great triumph. Men helped us to cast them out, back into their blighted emptiness even as they raised the dead among them as their chattel.” Is that what all this is about?

“Branch, wights are dead things. That the Others can raise dead people to fight for them, that isn’t a failing of the Singers. That isn’t us being closer to them than you, choosing to be with them over you...” Branch’s forehead creased and he shook his head. Bran was reminded vividly of his father-by-law. What can cause such lasting pain? A wound in the spirit, not in the flesh. One that never heals.

“It was not the first time. The first time one among your kind…but it was the last.” Branch nodded. “The gods watched, and we saw to it that it was the last.”

“Take an Other to wife, you mean?” Bran asked, so confused, while Branch gasped as if stabbed.

“Winter roses are not our doing, nor of our making, Brandon Stark. They brought them south into green lands when the Long Night fell. The Ones That Walk With Winter…what they have, what we lack…” He was doubled over, unable even to weep. “The next time you find yourself among them, Sansa Stark, look a little closer. You may then see what so draws our ire.” he said, before turning and staggering away.

Bran made to follow, mind reeling, but Sansa slipped an arm in his and held him fast.

“Let him go, Bran.” she said.

“I don’t understand-”

“Neither do I. I haven’t the faintest idea. But he is far too upset to go prying further into matters his kind clearly would like buried forever. I need you to be my lookout anyway, so I can get back to my room and bathe before I go showing you, your princess and your new prince off to the rest of Winterfell.”

“Er, what about that?” Bran asked, pointing to the length of walnut. “Who’s-”

“Ramsay Snow’s. It was his dying desire to be part of me, as he put it. I suppose he thought I might have been with his get, and that I’d not have it in me to drink a barrel’s worth of moon tea to put it off. To my very great relief, I felt no sickness nor aches and no cravings were forthcoming. I needed brew no tea. After my last jaunt across the Wall, I returned…in rather a wild mood. I may have scared the wits out of poor Brienne, I ought to apologize…”

“Sansa, you have a wight of your own dragging our friend back to his cell. That may require some explanation.”

“Not if people don’t see her. She can stay there, dragonglass in hand, a tireless ever-watchful sentry while the Singers go about repairing the cell and getting on with doing whatever else they need to do. Gods know it will be more she’s done for others than anything she did in life.” Sansa said dryly. “Go ready Howland for a bit of showing-off. Meera needs you just now, not me.” Bran swallowed. She isn’t incoherent, or cold, or Other-eyed. I think she’ll be alright. He nodded, squeezing her hand before he left her for the surface. I suppose after the Raven’s hole, I’m done with being put off by tight dark spaces. He didn’t recognize the guardsmen on duty, two hairless chins of an age with him. They nodded nervously, one after the other. Boys, worried about chasing girls or getting drunk once their relief appears. That was never me.

“Just see that nobody goes down there. The Singers- er, the Children of the Forest like dark and quiet, not a gaggle of children chasing each other around.”

“Yes, my prince.” they replied in unison. At least we recaptured the Other before he could cause any harm. Bran thanked the gods for that much. On reaching their room he slipped inside quietly, closing the door behind him.

“It would be easier on you if I came in through the window. Quieter, I wouldn’t wake him on you.”

“Easier, too, for you to slip and fall. Only instead of to the floor, you’d fall what, thirty feet?” Meera replied, gently rocking Howland as he fed. It was an idyllic scene, one Bran hated to ruin, but he brought her current with the goings on in the grotto anyway. Her lips tightened but she didn’t stop her slow, rhythmic movement and the babe kept on his quiet course. “Did you expect him to stay bundled up until the king returned? I’m only surprised it took him this long to get out.”

“But Sansa-”

“Sansa wanted to find out for herself what she is worth. For all we know the Other thinks she was playing with him, the cat letting the mouse go only to catch it again.” Howland gave a hiccup and Meera patted his back.

“Here, I’ll hold him while you change. I know you aren’t proud-”

“Proud enough not to go before the lords in a nightgown with a babe at the breast, Bran!” Meera said, cheeks turning rose as she found a clean jerkin and leggings. Green and brown and grey, ever were they hers to wear.

To Bran’s relief the hall neither cheered nor rushed Meera to get a glimpse of the bundle in her arms. There were raised mugs and tankards, more than Bran could count as well as countless calls of congratulations and a few for someone to pay up, sparking laughter in the hall. Not much else to do but build whatever pops into Lord Howland’s head or bet on our babe’s gender, I suppose. He was absent as he almost always was, here and there and everywhere about Winterfell. Atop it, below it, sealing every crack and slowly but steadily putting the pieces together. A southern lord commander would remain in the keep and direct the defenses from a fireside chair. Not that the little man’s approach was decried by anyone. If anything, their guests found the vigor of Howland Reed and his countrymen nothing short of astonishing. Bran pulled a chair out for Meera on the high table, slipping a blanket around her shoulders to keep her warm. He saw Lord Arryn shoot the table a few glances. Probably looking for Sansa. Poor Lord Royce. While he waits for his liege lord to ask Sansa for her hand, I can imagine a scarce few people less fit to one another. Then he thought about it again. Perhaps he was being unfair to the Lord of the Eyrie. He wasn’t so stiff in his ways or thinking as were many lords his elder and indeed had only been civil to the peoples from beyond the Wall when they felt the urge to join the goings-on in the hall. Sansa was just as possessed of a wildness as Jon, if one eminently more dangerous and unpredictable. Storms are dangerous and unpredictable. That doesn’t make them bad. Again, Bran found himself reconsidering. Liberal as Harrold Arryn was, Bran could not picture him taking Sansa’s new friend or games of come-into-my-body with something beyond the Wall in stride. As breakfast wore on the hall slowly filled, mostly with northmen and valemen. Some of the more known wildlings were sat around the leftmost table, closer to where the king would sit than the door. Once Jon returns, he’s like to do things in the godswood where the wildlings are more comfortable. The giants, too. Maybe the Singers would see fit to join in turn. Or maybe they’ll stay beneath the earth and dismay of things that happened before their own lifetimes. Maybe it had to do with all the change happening of late. They don’t do well with quickly adjusting course. Like the Others, I imagine. Wood or ice, once on a path they stay on until they fall. Not that he’d ever suggest such to a Singer, even one less resolute (if one existed) than Branch. Bemoaning men’s impermanence just then seemed to Bran rather foolish. At least we’re not afraid to go our own way. We may not be so able as the Dawn Races, but our paths are ours to choose.

When Sansa joined them, she wore a spotless ivory gown shot through with grey silk at the wrists and hem. No few heads turned, though whether that was due to her or the walnut stick she held Bran could only guess. Behind her as ever came the pack of hounds, the big black one laying beneath the table at her feet. Oh, now the wildlings feel welcome, Bran thought, rolling his eyes. Top a stick with a skull and all of a sudden, you’re worth looking at twice. It may keep marriage offers from high lords away but who can say what is proper in the wild? Sansa paid the murmurs no mind, didn’t even look up from her plate but Bran saw the look on Harrold Arryn’s face. Not fear, as with the Waynwoods. Not mirth, as with the wildlings. Something in between. Perhaps he knows more of Sansa’s time in Bolton hands than I realized. Small wonder, then, he took such joy in watching the giants smash their cavalry aside, watching Jon smash the Bastard of the Dreadfort’s teeth in. If only the other lords saw it quite that way. The time for courtly courtesies would end with the coming of the Others, Bran knew. Manners and homage would not send them packing back to the Land of Always Winter. The snows fell every day as well, keeping the walkways in the castle clear had become a chore without end. I hope Jon comes back soon, he thought, feeling small. I may be Prince of Winterfell but I wouldn’t last long if Tommen’s wight attacked me in the yard. Nor can I lead half so well as Jon. His melancholy didn’t go unnoticed, Meera sliding her hand into his and squeezing. Nor soothe half so well as Meera. House Stark fell from focus when the next course arrived, free food and ale bringing the conversation a bit louder as the hall’s occupants fell to talking among themselves.

“Can we bring him outside? I would think it’s too cold for a babe…” he wondered.

“Too cold is a matter of perspective, Bran. We’ve borne cold worse than this.” Meera replied. Bran shivered at the memory. Meera dragging him through a blizzard. Hold the door. How strange that the last command Hodor obeyed, after years of serving House Stark, would be Meera’s. Maybe he knew a Stark when he heard one, even unto death.

Despite her bold words, Meera held Howland close as they moved out onto the ramparts. His burbling earned him a kiss on the head. Not to be outdone, Bran honored him as well making her laugh.

“I suppose you’re right. He is no stranger to cold, to snow. I wonder if he had to contend with it in the womb.”

“Who can say what happens before we come into this world, Bran?” Meera replied, feeding Howland beneath her heavy blanket. The approach of one of the giants from the wolfswood drew several cries from the sentries.

“My prince-”

“A giant is approaching. They’re rather hard to miss. Still, at least you didn’t simply wet yourself. Next time just make one of us aware. Giants don’t much like our ballyhooing whenever they turn up.”

“Yes, my prince.” When the giant reached the wall of Winterfell, he was red-faced from running and needed a moment to take several massive breaths. Then he began to speak excitedly, his elated voice making Bran’s bones rattle. He saw Howland’s grey eyes pop open wide, looking around warily while the giant talked. The Old Tongue, Bran thought, understanding maybe a word in ten. The guard ran off and returned with a grumbling older woman from among the wildlings whose sour mood vanished on sight of their visitor. A few exchanges in the Old Tongue later and she was grinning wide as the giant.

“He says Moga had her baby. A girl, the other giants are fairly excited. I guess they haven’t had a wee one come along for a bit.” Bran felt a smile creep across his own face.

“Tell him she has our congratulations. We had a babe come along recently as well, the world has yet to grow sick of us. Despite what the Others may think.” The woman relayed his words, the giant snickering (a truly odd sight to Bran) before he moved off, back toward the wolfswood.

“Well, that should please Jon mightily. A new giant rising is just the kind of news he’ll be looking for on his return.” Sansa said from behind them.

“You made quite the impression today. Both with your gown and your stick.” Bran told her.

“If someone is curious, they may ask me.” she replied, shrugging.

“And if Jon asks?” That shook Sansa, so much that her lip quivered.

“I will tell him the truth. At the least I can be of more use than some firedancer who can’t tell future apart from flames.” She pulled a face much like Arya used to and Bran found himself laughing. There is room for all at Winterfell, even in the cells for the Other, but none for the followers of the red god from the east. As if the Singers needed something more to be upset about.

Bran closed the door behind them when he returned to their room, eager to let Howland get some sleep.

“I thought we’d get a visit from my mother today.” Meera said, looking worried.

“She must be with your father, then. I’m sure she’s fine.”

“I would have asked a few people, but it’s not exactly like they can tell the crannogmen apart from one another.” Well, you aside, sweetling.

“Shall we pay her a visit, then? Howland doesn’t seem in the mood for a nap anyway.” Bran said, running a finger down the babe’s cheek. Again, the grey eyes popped open, slowly looking around in front of him. Hello, there. Howland stared out from his bundle, taking in Bran’s face.

“Alright, let’s go. Surely she has time to dote on her grandson.” He made for the window without thinking, promptly going red at Meera’s expression. Then she was laughing, tears in her eyes.

“Well, it’s easier to get there by climbing!” Bran replied defensively, trying not to fall in love with her all over again.

“Not with a babe in arms. We’ll walk, unless you don’t know how to get there going hall to hall?” she teased. Bran led her to her parents’ room without another word, ignoring the hot feeling in his face. Several crannogmen were posted in front of their door, idly peering about without saying so much as a word to each other. Meera’s smile returned and she made a sound, one that made them all jump and look to her immediately.

“What was that?” Bran asked, startled by their uniform reaction. She made the sound again, Howland looking up.

“It’s the sound of newly-hatched lizard-lions, calling to their mother.” She made it again. “Awp!” The other crannogmen (and women, Bran saw) looked on fascinatedly. “I used to be able to get them to come out of their eggs when the time came. They would hear me and spring out, crying for food.”

“You and no other, princess.” one of the women said.

“Lady Fenn.” Meera replied. “Bran, this is Syra Fenn, Lady of Wyrelake.” Another ladyling from the Neck, Bran thought excitedly. She looked perhaps of an age with Meera, though it was truly hellish hard to tell for certain. That his princess came form the same bogs and quags as her fellows never ceased to astonish him. She favors her mother, he thought, if not by much. Again, she made the sound and it snapped Bran out of his reverie. To his astonishment, Howland reciprocated with an odd little squeaking of his own.

“Lady Reed is asleep just now, princess. She took mildly ill after the babe came, perhaps a touch of exhaustion, but she should be fine.” Meera looked confused.

“Ill?”

“We thought it odd too, princess, but they were your father’s words. We are no longer in the land of our ancestors, perhaps only there are we proofed from sickness. Once he is certain Lady Jyana has regained her strength I’m certain she will rejoin the rest of us.” The journey back to their room had Meera almost in tears.

“Has your mother been ill before?”

“Never. It’s the first I’ve ever heard of one of us taking ill, save when Jojen nearly died as a child. She can’t have got greywater fever in Winterfell, though.”

“Lady Fenn suspected it was just exhaustion. I’d be under the weather too if I were on my knees ready to catch my grandson for who knows how long.”

He stood in the midst of a massive blizzard, a storm the like of which he’d never seen even in the glimpses he’d gotten of the Dawn Age when he was with the Three-Eyed Raven. Winter, and with a vengeance. Looking around, he saw trees, hills, and countless wights walking slowly but implacably onward, even rising to walk again when the winds knocked them off their dead feet or tossed them about like so many leaves. But who am I, who can stand in the midst of the Army of the Dead unbothered? It feels like Summer, but Summer died with Leaf and the Raven. He followed the countless dead, the huge shadows of wight-giants plodding here and there. Given the viciousness of the blizzard and the severity of the snow, it was some time before he realized just where he was. I know this place, he thought with a growing dread. In the distance he spotted the glint of gold atop a high far tower. Queenscrown, a hundred miles south of the Wall. No need for a raven this time, either. They must be about to sound the horn. A sharp cry woke him at once, so suddenly he gurgled unintelligibly and took a full minute to become sensate. Another sound, of fist on wood. Looking outside Bran saw only darkness, the moon absent. What can it be at this time of night? The noise prompted fussing and burbling from Howland while Meera, already awake, sought to soothe him.

“Something’s happening, Bran. I can hear guards running on the ramparts from our window.” she said tersely. He dressed as fast as he could while answering the door, finding himself face to face with the sentry from that morning looking similarly disheveled.

“We’re getting members of the Night’s Watch, my prince. Coming from the Wall. I…you’d best come along, my prince.” he said. Bran made to close the door but Meera had come up right behind him.

“Aren’t you tired?” he asked her.

“I was tired the night I pulled you from the cave. Better tired than dead.” she replied, bringing Howland with her.
They were the last ones in the hall, northmen and Vale knights and wildling chieftains all present while Howland Reed took the account of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

“We were atop the wall when they came in force. Them, their dead, and gods only know what else crashing through the trees. There were cold giants too, they had a massive horn that took a tempest to awaken. One of them sounded it and lightning began to hit the Wall.” he gulped. “Forget the Horn, I thought the ice beneath me would give from that alone. We took the lift down fast as we dared and just started running. I didn’t stop for anything, not even to see the Wall come down. What daylight hours we were spared were spent on sleep only to run like dogs when daylight went. Two days, three, I can’t remember.” They had come from a dozen different places, a dozen different peoples, but to a one Bran saw the same expression on each of their faces. Lord Royce’s mouth moved for a full minute before he realized he wasn’t speaking.

“I don’t understand, my lord. Are you saying Castle Black has fallen?”

“I’m saying Castle Black is gone. Gone with all the other castles. Not the Wall, though. One of them shaped the pieces into snow as they fell and sent the mother of all blizzards south after us as we ran. Any of the lads who couldn’t keep moving got swept up in the wall of white. I expect they’re right back to it, on their way here now.” Immediately Howland Reed began to speak, so fast Bran had trouble hearing.

“Assemble my lords, and in force. All your power, all your men. It seems the Others wish to pay us a visit. Let us be courteous hosts and greet them.” Then he moved from the hall, leaving his peers in stunned silence.

“What he said.” Frygga, the chieftain of the Ice-Wives said, and they went about it, rushing to and fro to wake the castle.

Chapter 2: Missandei I

Chapter Text

Despite the sun on the banners that flew from every spire and tower, Missandei found herself rising before the selfsame sigil nearly every day. As it was in Essos, she thought. The Dornish were not unpleasant, exactly, but they were deeply proud in a way that mirrored the nobility of Slaver’s Bay entirely too much for her liking. Thin skin and hot blood make for poor neighbors and poorer lovers. When word that she was Daenerys Targaryen’s emissary got around the court, she heard little else than the same half-dozen stories of various Dornishmen repelling the Iron Throne’s efforts to conquer them. The death of Rhaenys. Daeron, the Young Dragon. Aegon the Unworthy and his puppet-dragons. Lord Tyrell and the scorpions. Only a few had made the key realization that Missandei, and by extension, the queen, had nothing further from her mind than attempting a military conquest of Dorne. In a similar vein, Torgo Nudho got no shortage of dirty looks. Their hosts’ first impression, no doubt, was a foreign soldier seasoned from campaigns across the water. In time, though, they began to see him as simply part of Missandei. A stateless bodyguard instead of an occupying presence. One who could not care less whether a dragon banner is ever flown from the Tower of the Sun. As it stood, the woman Ellaria Sand less ruled Dorne than led a household that happened to be the seat of House Martell. Never mind that the last Martells were killed by her and her daughters. That was no business of Missandei’s, though, she was there only to warm the Dornish to the queen. At least I put them out of sorts. No doubt they were expecting someone altogether more martial. Perhaps a Dothraki, or even a Westerosi from outside Dorne. It only showed the Dornish mindset, that looking to take offense at any slight intended or otherwise. The child who sticks his hand in thorns just to brag he’s bled. Such smallness as it was made Missandei sad. They did not enslave the commons below them and rarely bothered with affairs outside their borders, but the world was much larger than Dorne. Her eyes found Ellaria again, flirting with a woman wearing a purple sash dotted by little golden beads. Again, Missandei was reminded of the frills of the Masters’ tokars. Silver, gold, pearl. There are masters the world over. The other women were either slowly getting more incensed, in Obara’s case, at the pretentions of a man with an opal in his ear shaped like a perched vulture or batting her eyes at Torgo Nudho in Nymeria’s. Tyene, the only daughter of Ellaria’s body at court as far as Missandei understood, was absent. Sand, they call themselves, but those who live in Sunspear’s shade and relax in the Water Gardens have no business living in a desert.

She excused herself, taking to wandering Sunspear’s halls. The guards were no Unsullied, coupling in dark corners or else playing cyvasse, looking bored. Guarding what, exactly? And whom? Nobody paid her any mind, not the dragon queen’s harmless Sothoryi pet, so Missandei went back to her room to wait for Torgo Nudho. If he can work himself free of Nymeria Sand without giving offense. Missandei had wanted to prompt him to come herself but she didn’t want to get a wry response from the Sand Snake. Better to let him come when he can. Her room wasn’t particularly finely furnished, if anything it appeared as though it had been almost looted when she first arrived at Sunspear. Her rooms at the Water Gardens had been the same way. Perhaps someone the Dornish were keen to forget occupied the space I do now. Missandei shivered, from unpleasant thoughts and the night air both. It was certainly warmer than Dragonstone had been, but even Sunspear had been subject to nights no Dornishperson had fit clothing for. There’s nothing in Dorne that offers fur worth wearing, either, she thought. There is nowhere to hide from the wind outside city and castle walls. If winter reaches Dorne in earnest, there will be a real problem keeping warm. A peek out the window compounded her concern, watching people in the city streets below scurry from alley to alley. I wonder how proud the commons are to be Dornishmen alike with people like Ellaria Sand. A dead prince’s paramour and milking it for all it’s worth, and the Dornish lords all but let her. For now. She blinked in surprise when her eyes trailed downward to the sandstone outcropping directly below. A wilted orchid sat on a small piece of parchment folded neatly in the shape of a lion, nestled in a cranny to protect it from the wind. Impossible to spot unless one looked directly down from this particular window. A rush of excitement flushed though her despite her reserved nature and she somewhat sheepishly looked around to make sure no one was watching. Despite her best efforts a sudden cold gust blew the orchid off the paper lion, the dead flower sweeping off to the docks and the Summer Sea beyond. The sight captivated her until the orchid finally vanished into the night. At least I got the lion… she mused as she straightened up. To her astonishment she could see lines of ink through the lion’s paper flesh and straightaway she got to unfolding it, tongue between her teeth so as not to tear it. The craftsmanship astonished her, as did the lion itself. Tyrion Lannister had made no little mention of the enmity between the Martells and the Dornishmen behind them and the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, yet here was a lion tucked away just below one of Sunspear’s windows! The room’s previous occupant? No wonder the room looked as it did. Who would the Lannisters be so foolish as to send into the arms of an enemy? An unwanted family member? Missandei frowned, already not possessed of the regard Westerosi had for the lions of the westerlands. Finally, the paper lion came unfolded and Missandei sat on her bed, taking in the words before her.

I can be certain that whoever finds this will be no Dornishperson. Much as I love my future people, they have a certain senselessness that leaves them blind and deaf to all save what fits them in the moment. Perhaps that’s what has wedded them so to vengeance against any slight, real or perceived. I am always hopeful that my presence here and eventual marriage to Trystane will help turn a page, but I am not so naïve as to be heedless of the danger around me- particularly after Prince Oberyn’s death. Should I die in Dorne, I would like whoever finds this to tell Prince Trystane I will love him always, to tell King Tommen I am ever his devoted servant, and to tell Ser Jaime Lannister I only wish I knew him better.

-Done in the hand of Princess Myrcella Baratheon

Missandei stared at the paper until her eyes hurt. They roved over the graceful letters, over the name. A name I know, she thought. I heard it back on Dragonstone. ‘For Myrcella,’ the crippled knight had said. Tyrion had been greatly saddened by news of her death as well. I suppose she was right to hide a testament somewhere. Obviously the Lannister brothers held Ellaria Sand to blame for the girl’s untimely death, but had the princess herself seen it coming? Yet while Sand feasts and beds and acts so carelessly, a girl years dead is more alive than she. Often are the gentle and mild mistaken for unable, for unknowing. Carefully Missandei folded the parchment up, tucking it in the sole of her shoe. Dornish clothing left no other place to put it! She went back out into the hall amid thoughts each more troubling than the last.

“I didn’t take you for a wanderer.” An amiable voice called from further down the hall. Amity to hide the poison. She must not know any Naathi. Already weary of her new companion, Missandei turned to see Tyene Sand striding toward her.

“Hello, Tyene.” she said.

“Shouldn’t you be fending off Nymeria’s attempts to steal your Summer Islander?”

“Torgo Nudho is not a Summer Islander. He considers himself Unsullied.”

“And Nym considers herself Dornish. She’s as much YiTish, though. Did you know that?”

“I thought it possible. Once in a great while, YiTish merchants paid the House of Nakloz visits to dispute with them over trade tariffs. They were not fond of the Ghiscari claiming to precede them to the written word.” Missandei let a small smile form in the corner of her mouth. “Nor were they very amenable to the practice of slavery. One night, Master Kraznys got drunker than usual and inquired as to the price of a Lengii woman.” Tyene Sand whistled.

“I bet the YiTish loved that.”

“They stood to a one and left immediately, taking everything they’d brought with them. Saffron, jade…overnight their prices tripled. They tripled again when it became quite clear that the YiTish would not be returning under any circumstances. When it came out that Kraznys mo Nakloz was to blame for so offending Astapor’s only source of precious stone and spices, the other Good Masters all but cut his house out of ruling the city.”

“Nymeria acts the mysterious beauty when trying to catch a Dornishman, whispering all manner of nonsense in his ear about her mother’s homeland. About the only bit I ever believed was how fond the YiTish are of the Lengii.”

“That much was true. Once they were great enemies, or so the histories say, but now YiTish fleets patrol the waters around Leng without pause, hunting corsairs and slavers alike with unerring accuracy and astonishing ferocity. More than once I’ve heard the rumor that the YiTish patrols are guided somehow to those ships unwelcome in Lengii waters.”

“Or, the YiTish know the waters well, better than any intruder.” Tyene replied. Missandei shrugged.

“I’ve never been that far east; I can only say what I’ve heard.”

“Do you know what I’ve heard? That Nymeria stopped in Naath while the Rhoynar were looking for a new homeland. It may be there is a drop or two -or three- of Rhoynish blood in common between you and House Martell.” The idea was remarkably distasteful to Missandei. Yet an expression of inclusion. Yet again, given by a shameless snake.

On her return to the hall Missandei saw Torgo Nudho’s face relax perceptibly, if only to her. He stood abruptly, cutting Nymeria Sand off before he made his way to Missandei, passing behind the columns rather than marching through the reveling Dornishmen.

“He looks as pleased to be here as you do.” Tyene said wryly. A sound hit her ears then, one that drowned all else out. Missandei slowly turned her head away from Tyene Sand, mouth half-open. The Sand Snake and even Torgo Nudho were forgotten as Missandei again left the feast hall, finding herself on a balcony and staring at something truly unforgettable. The owl was white as a full moon, whiter, with blue eyes that pierced right through her. It hooted. That’s no native bird. Tyene’s approaching laughter behind Missandei did not get so much as a blink from the animal. The sound died abruptly when Tyene joined her on the balcony, watching the owl stare at them from its perch on a banner pole. Again, it hooted. Whether by chance or something else, white flurries began to feather down from the sky. The day’s fading light made for a truly spectacular view, even as Missandei got a sharp shock from feeling the bits of white, pure cold, hit her skin. Her heart sank, a nameless dread forming in the pit of her stomach. Something is about to happen, she thought. Something Dorne could not be less ready for. Slowly, she reached the balcony’s railing and peered down into the darkness, the streets far below hidden by the gathering dark of night. There was nothing to see.

“Missandei.” Torgo Nudho called, his voice a steady base for her heart to beat to. She felt his hand take hers, unexpectedly forward from a man who stepped carefully around her. The owl gave a last hoot and soared off toward the ports. Missandei swallowed. It’s happening now. Right now, and I can only brace for it.

“We need to go,” she said. “We need to go someplace safe.”

“The Tower of the Sun is the safest place in Dorne.” Tyene said, though she sounded unconvinced. Missandei paid her not the least bit of mind. “Torgo Nudho, you must wake the palace guards. We are under attack.” she said, certain of it as she was uncertain of their enemy. His stony gaze did not reflect alarm, but she knew he trusted her, even more so when it came to danger.

“Then we will go to a place of safety, Missandei of Naath. Perhaps it is time we returned to the Queen. You’ve spoken your piece to everyone of importance in this land called Dorne, we are of no more use to her here.” he said firmly, glad to be quit of cunning Snakes and proud Dornishmen. Missandei had a sentiment of agreement on the tip of her tongue when her every instinct told her to go back to the railing, to check again and make certain there was nothing there. She took a deep breath and pulled from Torgo Nudho, rushing to the railing and looking down bold as any Sand Snake.

The face that stared back was not a foot away. Eight huge blue eyes reflected her face better than any mirror. Two enormous fangs were frozen in a predatory grimace, the frontmost pair of legs raised alike, ready to pounce. Then the fangs clicked. Just as the face began to grow closer, she spotted Torgo Nudho’s arm shoot out from the right, a purple blur fast in his grip. He buried it in the creature’s face soaking Missandei’s fingers and front in frigid blood. A sound unlike any she’d ever heard, a high piercing hell-screech, filled the night. The creature wrenched itself free from the weapon and Missandei saw its eight-limbed body fall out of sight. Two. Five. Ten. Thirty, she counted uncomprehendingly as more of the same crept nimbly up the sandstone. On spotting her the lead creature gave a shriek, its fellows rushing on so much like a wolf pack.

“Run!” Torgo Nudho bellowed, pulling Missandei from the balcony. Her Naathi sense of calm, a boon in Daznak’s pit, was no help now. The eyes, the fangs, the legs had done what no number of Sons of the Harpy could do, not truly. Echoing hoots and cries in answer from over the railing only spurred her on, until she was outstripping Torgo Nudho and Tyene Sand both. Get away, her instincts screamed. Get away from this place, get away from them. She dashed blindly past a swaying guard who smelled of red wine and burst into the hall, the faces a mixture of alarmed and confused. They cannot have missed the noise. Tell them, she screamed at herself. Nothing passed her lips but air. Instead another sound filled the room, one as like and yet maddeningly unlike the screeches as could be imagined. Like cracking stone, like cracking bone. But different. It was loud, unafraid, uncaring who heard. They no longer need the element of surprise. The sounds of battle joined below them and in the streets besides, the quiet night exploding into shouts, then into screams. It sounded like an entire host had stormed the city. The Tower of the Sun’s occupants began pulling daggers out of waistbands and boots. Does it sound like we’re being attacked by a typical army? There are no shouts of anger or commands. I hear nothing but dying Dornishmen. Fatted caterpillars munching mindlessly on the branch, heedless of the web woven around them. She heard countless feet quickly ascending the various staircases, heard the other two finally catch up. “Mama! We have to go!” Ellaria looked stunned at her daughter’s antics.

“What-”

“Spiders! The size of hounds, the size of horses!” More screeching, a sort of piping hooting as they made their way up the tower’s outside.

“Is there another way out of here? One inaccessible from the streets?” Missandei asked quickly.

“The only one we can reach from here is in the throne room.” Nymeria Sand said, stretching out her whip.

“You can run. I’m not about to let the blood in Father’s veins be chased out of Sunspear.” Obara Sand said in turn, what few guards sober enough to stand gathering unsteadily at her side.

“Then stay and die.” Missandei said, taking Torgo Nudho’s hand and heading for the throne room.

The sight of the twin thrones, spear and sun, did little to inspire the Dornish. Immediately Nymeria dashed to one of the tapestries that hung innocuously next to a round window, pulling it aside and elbowing the bricks behind it to reveal a space between the throne room and the outer wall.

“It’s not meant for a whole crowd at once…” she said, as if in realization.

“Go, then, Mama. Take the court, we will follow after.” Tyene said.

“Not until all the rest have gone before. To do any less would shame your father’s name.” Ellaria replied, voice steely. Torgo Nudho had to give more than one sharp shove to get everyone down the hollow passage but to Missandei’s surprise the throne room actually began to empty.

“Where does this lead?” she asked while the herding continued.

“A hidden harbor, out away from the city proper. There is always a ship there, of sound make and loyal crew, ready to take the fleeing Martells wherever they wish to go.” There are no more Martells, Missandei thought. You killed the last. The last few Dornish lords disappeared into the wall. Out of the corner of her eye Missandei saw Ellaria Sand kiss her daughter on the forehead before sending her through the passage with Nymeria. Battle joined in the feast hall below, ending as quickly as it had begun. The hunt-packs had begun to climb the dome, evidently heedless of its smooth surface. Time is short and growing shorter. Her fear began to subside, the Naathi calm rising over it like the tide coming in over a sunken ship. Missandei took Torgo Nudho’s hand.

“I suppose it will be war, then.” she said, choosing her words carefully.

“War, once we reach the Queen. She will force away the darkness that has come to grip this place.” He nodded.

“No Naathi has ever won a war, Torgo Nudho.” He frowned.

“I do not understand, Missandei of Naath.”

“I can be of no further use, no further benefit to the Queen. Translators do no good in wars against enemies that speak no known tongue. I have no purpose, Torgo Nudho, no reason to reach her. You do.” He got her meaning then.

“I would be a better soldier, Missandei of Naath, if I knew I had you to fight for.”

“You are the commander of the queen’s Unsullied, her finest troops. There are no other Torgo Nudhos.” She felt tears rise, trickling down her cheeks. “She will find other Missandeis of Naath.” He might have been a statue.

“I won’t.” he said finally. “Even if there are, I do not wish to look for them.” His hands closed around hers, polished flat of calluses from years of holding a spear.

“Go. Every second is one fewer you have to put between yourself and the enemy.” she told him. He quickly slipped an arm around her waist and brought his lips to hers. A knife can cut away only flesh. Then he was gone, disappearing into the gap as she’d instructed him. Then the bricks came together again, and the tapestry fell in front of it. Nothing more did Missandei want than to see the face of the man who had only seconds ago held her.

While Ellaria Sand started and gasped at the sounds of approaching footsteps, Missandei only closed her hands in front of her as if she stood next to the Queen in the Great Pyramid of Meereen. Chittering noises and the sounds of cracking sandstone were followed by great tumbling slabs, smashing into pieces against the marble floor. Missandei did not move, even as the great pale bodies began to pour through the holes in the dome, massing in its underside. She could hear Sand shuddering from revulsion, shivering from cold. Some are not so large as others. The smaller ones dart about so, the larger make no such haste, she thought detachedly. The doors, barred as they were, shook with the force put upon them until they simply flew off their frame. They slammed to the floor looking so much like a table-top, while several creatures even stooping stood taller than men trudged into the throne room. They bore greatclubs hewn from ice and wore strange white pelts Missandei did not recognize. They paid the pair no mind, looking around with sharp blue eyes, long noses sniffing warily. Their flesh was blue as well, the weak blue of a morning sky gone to cloud. One of them wore silvered splint, cracking its jaw at the sight of Missandei of Naath and Ellaria Sand. “I will not kneel.” Sand said, voice wavering as she tried to project that famed Dornish resolve. The resulting bellow shook the glass in the room’s round windows and made Sand shy backward.

“Kneeling would be beside the point, Ellaria Sand.” Missandei said, the creature turning to peer at her. “I know the bearing of a sellsword when I see one. Even one so unusual as you.” Another yell, a primal wordless cry. That Missandei neither jumped nor made a sound seemed to give it pause. A dismissive snort later and it was poking its head back in the hall, speaking a harsh unruly tongue. It came back in, holding its club head down as it stood by the door. People began to filter in, Dornish, and for a moment Missandei was unsure just what was going on. Then she saw their gaping wounds, their torn bodies, their missing heads. Their ice blue eyes. A darkness, the Queen named it, Missandei remembered. From the furthest north. Two beings as unlike the lanky sellswords as the sellswords were from Missandei came in next. One was armored in what looked like glass to a Naathi, yet from the northerners’ talk on Dragonstone she knew it for ice. He, it could only have been a he, had long hair bound up out of his eyes and held a spear that bore the still-snapping head of Obara Sand, one blue eye open and staring. The other was female and even slighter of build than Daenerys Targaryen, yet in the prime of womanhood for her kind for all that. Countless tiny spiders poured from her sleeves, her nape, from under her hem. Perhaps it was because she had so recently spoken of Yi Ti at length, but Missandei saw something both impossible and undeniable. “You have the Furthest East in you, of that I’m certain. How, I cannot say.” The spiders never stopped, from her person nor from the ceiling. While her companion only looked at Missandei as a boil to be lanced, the spider-bearer looked at her as a delicacy yet untasted. She came closer. Missandei could feel frost harden on her skin, chip against her lips. What passed the full white pair before her were not words so much as sounds of the world, ones she had never heard. Sounds one might, if only they went north far enough.

“If I am meant to understand, I must disappoint you.”

“She asks, ‘what are you?’”

The voice was so rapt, the response so quick that for a moment Missandei thought the creature herself had spoken. On looking around, she could only see Ellaria cowering behind the spear throne.

“Pray tell, what are you to speak without a mouth?” she asked, paying no great regard to a person with which she could not speak anyway.

“The same that breathes without lungs, that blows without lips.” A chill breeze blew against Missandei’s neck. Short, she thought.

“I’ve never spoken to the wind before.”

“A great many things have happened of late that have never happened before. Least of all speaking wind.”

“Or walking dead.”

“As it happens, the dead have walked ever since there were icy wills to move them. Hardly new.”

“I have never known the wind to be so glib.” More speech from the spider-bearer.

“She asks again.”

“I am an interpreter myself, in truth. I would be glad to answer if I knew who was so relaying my words.” A laugh, cold and careless.

“There is no interpretation of the True Tongue. What is said is what is meant. Truth is all that can be relayed.” The snow that drifted from the ceiling past the pack began to spin and dance, plaything of the wind or whatever power gave it voice. Missandei saw something shape itself from the tumbling snow, first a head and then a body beneath it. But for the emptiness of it, the etherealness of it, it might have been mistaken for one of the walking dead. Wide blue eyes stared unblinkingly out from a beautiful face gone to ruin, frost gathering at the lips and nostrils. A frozen last breath. Cheekbones were visible beneath the peeling frostbitten skin and what remained of blonde hair turned to brittle white webbing the further from the skull it got. A girl, Missandei realized, with a dead orchid in her hair.

“I don’t suppose you’d answer the selfsame question yourself if I asked.” The arms came up, as transparent as the rest of her.

“Freely, to the best of my knowledge. Unfortunately for the both of us, I don’t have the first notion. I know only I can ride the breeze easier than any man ever rode a horse, that any weapon, from stone to steel, will no more harm me than grant me life anew, and that I have a single person to thank for the loss of the one I had.” Her head turned, long hair blowing on a breeze Missandei did not feel, toward the thrones. In an instant she was behind them, Ellaria squirming in her iron grip. “I cannot favor you with the warmth you once showed me. Allow me to repay you in coin of another kind.” The wind-thing said, putting her lifeless mouth to her captive’s. At once Missandei hear the churning of insides turned to ice, heard the cracking of bone as splinters of limb and rib ripped free of skin. What remained of Ellaria Sand lay prostate for only a moment before it began to move about, scuttling on broken limbs. The eyes had burst, yet Missandei knew if they had not, they would sear bright icy blue.

Speech from the spider-bearer made Missandei tear her eyes from the wind-thing and its new-made thrall.

“She asks once more.”

“Tell her I am Missandei of Naath.” Cold wind blew over her shoulder, but she could hear the meaning in it. Speech. Another smattering of cracking ice in reply.

“You are a long way from your birthplace.”

“As are you.” The wind-thing duly translated. This time the spider-bearer laughed; a sound as beautiful as it was terrifying.

“Further than you know.” The wind-thing did not need to add inflection for Missandei to know its accomplice was greatly amused.

“Why have you brought war here?”

“Actually, I can answer that. Dorne is known as the Empty Land in the True Tongue, and to be honest there has never been a better name for anything, ever. You’re no Dornishwoman but you’ve spent no fewer than a few months here. You know of what I speak. It is all pride and poison.”

“What is that to them?” Missandei asked, pointing to the bearer.

“Nothing. They don’t care a whit about this race or that, this house or that one.”

“Then why have they come here? Why now?”

“There are greater aims than the stomping out of a few snakes, to be sure, but I wasn’t about to let another do my stomping for me. Even one so…footy as the Weaver.” The wind-thing took in the sight of the thrones for a long time before she appeared sitting primly in the spear-seat. “Dorne. If there were something in it worth keeping, I would not have come. Whilst here I endured no few threats, first veiled and then blatant even though I sought only to bind up the wounds it suffered in the past. A different princess’s ghost spurred Prince Oberyn to seek vengeance on Ser Gregor, and yet after the wheel had run the lot of us over beneath it, I’m the one left to haunt these halls. A Lannister. How did that come to pass, I wonder? I suppose it doesn’t matter. Dorne did not want me for a brief few decades, so it can have me forever. I will make Dorne the Empty Land for true.” Missandei heard clicking behind her, heard the drip of something hit the throne room’s marble floor. “Goodbye, Missandei of Naath.” Myrcella Baratheon said indifferently as Missandei beheld the Weaver’s waifish form melting away, an eight-legged abdomen taking the place of her slender legs and clicking fangs her pretty mouth. Before Missandei could think on Torgo Nudho, she felt twin daggers sink into her chest and watched her eyes go wide in the Weaver’s thousand own.

Chapter 3: Theon I

Chapter Text

Just when it seemed he’d be able to sleep even with the hell-wind screaming through the castle’s towers, Theon heard a bloodcurdling scream. He started out of bed half-blind and half-drunk, succeeding only in ringing his head rung against the stone doorframe of his room. That would have hurt less were we underway. Black Wind’s wood instead of Ten Towers’ stone. Two doors down he could still hear the Glover boy blubbering in shock- and smell the stink of the fishwaif as it burbled past the whelps’ door, on toward Theon. Uh oh. What did I do now? Warily he waited for the thing to reach him, hoping it wouldn’t go all rigid. A Myrish tube for something to peer above the waves with. For once his luck held and the little thing merely croaked at him. Honestly, it’s not so bad. Gods know once we make the north it will be all hateful glares. At least the fishheads just croak and poke at our steel. Wearily he trudged past it, looking in on the Glovers. Not quite ten and not quite five. Erena hid behind Gawen, sniffling into his back as he gaped at Theon.

“Fish-people.” he said listlessly, shrugging, while the Glovers shook. Then again, they’re only babes. I was shaking worse on going to Winterfell and all that waited for me there were Starks. “I trust you’re ready to quit the Iron Islands, my lord. If not today, before the week is out. You should be on Bear Island within the month and back in Deepwood Motte not long after that.” There was a fit of whispering.

“Erena says it could be dangerous to go north. She’s scared of monsters.”

“There are monsters everywhere, my lady, and more come by the day. From the bottom of the sea, from the furthest east, from the furthest north. It almost makes you pine for the days when we fought over chairs, eh?” More whispering.

“She says she doesn’t want to go.” That threw Theon for a loop. Then again, she was only a babe when she came to Ten Towers. It’s all she knows. If only Daenerys Targaryen was so reticent to leave Essos we might have steered clear of all this mess.

“You have a mother you’ve never met, my lady. A home you’ve never seen. In truth, Ten Towers is no fit place for a northern lass to come up.” While Winterfell proved the perfect place for an iron lad to come to manhood. He strained his ears but heard no forthcoming whisper.

“I’ll try and bring her ‘round, my lord.” Gawen said sullenly.

“Do that. Winter’s given us a few cushy kisses, these towers might come down when it brings its fists to bear.” Theon told him.

Gwynesse was still telling a much put-upon Reader that Ten Towers was hers by right when Theon found them in the hall, thralls moving trunks and sundry through the castle’s corridors down to the docks and from there aboard Black Wind. He tried a bit of salted cod, surprisingly fresh despite the long voyage from Dragonstone.

“Have you seen my mother, uncle?”

“She’s with your sister. It seems she needs a good bit of coaxing to quit Ten Towers for some uncertain place. Just where are we to go once the northerners have left our company?”

“Sea Dragon Point, Reader. As Asha said at the kingsmoot, those coasts are thinly peopled and have riches the islands can’t imagine. Timber, fields, furs.”

“What’s to stop the northmen from simply doing away with us?”

“Better a northman than the Crow’s Eye.” Rodrik gave a snort and for a moment Theon could see the iron beneath the parchment.

“You speak no lies, nephew. We’ll set off as soon as Sea Song and the other ships are ready for a long haul.” As good as it gets with the Reader, Theon thought. When he made to leave the hall he almost collided with Jorah Mormont. He looked singularly surly.

“There are more of them about.” he said. “It’s gotten to where I can smell them even through the water.”

“Your nose isn’t that good, Mormont.” Theon replied. “There are a handful of passages down to the sand of the island even in a castle new as Ten Towers. Maybe they’ve gone and made camp down there.”

“We’d best go see. Elsewise I’m afraid someone’s left a ton of rotting fish out just to draw them on.” Theon shrugged and made to grab a torch, but Mormont grunted in displeasure.“You know they aren’t fond of fire.”

“I know too, that you need no light to see. I’ve no wish to slip on slick rounded steps, though.” At the top of one such stair in the armory, Theon set the torch alight. “I’ll go behind you is all.”

“Just don’t fall and send me falling down with you.” As if it’d hurt, Theon thought. Even with the light of the torch he moved slowly, Mormont outpacing him a half-dozen times. Once he stepped into thin air and his stomach flipped only for his foot to find a step further down. His gasp, barely audible, still made Mormont spin and hold him in place.

“Fuck, I’d rather go down on hands and knees.” Theon said, feeling green.

“And break your nose on every stair.” Theon nearly said his nose hadn’t been broken (that he remembered) but Mormont was the sort of man who would happily grant him that honor. See, I’m getting better at this all the time. Keeping my mouth shut. Nearly five minutes of straight descent followed before Mormont spoke next. “It’s leveling out. Best douse that torch.” When he did, darkness swallowed Mormont and the caves both until Theon could make out only his hazy figure. Aye, and the stink has gotten worse by the moment. We’re right on top of them.

In the days before the world had gone mad, the only visitors the dank cave-like additions to the ironborn castles had been priests of the Drowned God, bathing in seawater easier to get to and hidden from the commons. Even among the priestly vagabonds, noble blood does come to bear. Fucking Damphair. The pools were not overlarge, but Theon knew they ran deep. For how long, no man could say. Until we teach a maester fish-croak. The creatures were nowhere in sight, but their stink lingered like an oil stain.

“How long until they appear?” Mormont grunted grumpily.

“Fucked if I know. Got a fishing pole?” Silence fell as moments became minutes, yet still the fish-heads did not surface.

“I suppose they just left.” Mormont said finally, turning to Theon.

“Let’s be off, Greyjoy.” Theon didn’t move. “Greyjoy?” Mormont’s voice sounded as though Theon were underwater, a rushing in his ears quickly drowning the northman out. The darkness began to lift but slowly, and he found himself standing on a sort of reef- staring up at a great swirling mass of liquid glass. The surface, seen from below. Theon had gotten somewhat used to the intrusions, they were no flensing knife, but the dozens of long shapes that cut through the glass were another matter. A fleet, well on its way. But who? Nobody else is this close to the Islands. He blinked and found himself back in the cave, teeth gritted so hard they felt like to crack. Mormont prodded him. “If you’re going to have a fit, this is the place. No need to scare the Glovers with your sea-madness.” Madness would be fine enough, Theon thought. Instead, it’s all impending doom. Suddenly the reek hit again, fresh and oily. Then they began to slide from the pools in almost complete silence, until the dingy cave had room enough only to stand. Theon smelled them more than saw them. They’re even worse in the close darkness, where the stink has nowhere to go. They seemed alert, even agitated. More than one bore the marks of recent battle, dark slits and scratches on this one and that bleeding still, gleaming in the dim light.

“What happened to you?” Theon asked, his voice lost in the shuffling of slimy bodies and smacking on the sand of fishy feet. Not a word of Common Tongue between the school of them, most like. But there’s another tongue I know, apparently, that may reach them. “Mormont, why don’t you head on up? If I’m not there in ten minutes, just leave without me.”

“Your sister will never allow it.”

“Then say rather I’ll meet her later on.” Mormont didn’t move, though out of northern obstinacy or pigheadedness Theon didn’t know. “The Crow’s Eye could be upon us at any moment. You’d best get gone before he realizes he’s been robbed blind.” Almost with a reluctant look on his face, the knight turned and started up the stairs. Now there’s no one here to hear… Theon shook himself and tried to remember how to make the gurgling sounds. At first it just sounded like he was gagging up a piece of meat, then there were breaks in the gibberish and Theon could hear words. He heard a school’s worth of fishy jaws drop slack, knew he had every bulging yellow eye on him.

The last time I tried to rally men I took an oar to the back of the head. He thought the words out a bit at a time, thinking in the Common Tongue but speaking whatever hell-gurgle he’d been gifted.

“What happened to you?” he thought, his gurgling notwithstanding. The croaking then was maddening, echoing off the walls in a pandemonic uproar, until a single croaker squeezed past its fellows to stand before Theon. The stink made him tear and his nose twitch in agony, but when its needled maw parted no croaking passed from within it. Instead a booming voice filled the cave, rich and resounding, one that somehow didn’t echo. The other fish-men flopped down in reverence. The voice spoke in the selfsame tongue, though Theon understood without a hitch.

“You have enemies all about you. This does not please me, it does us no good if we cannot hold up our side of the arrangement.”

“Uhh, what?”

“Go with your kind. You have precious little time and that afforded you is rolling back even now.” Sounds like a good idea. Anything to be far from whatever’s beneath the waves, pulling strings.

“We’re doing just fine, as far as the ‘arrangement’. Ironborn are no less goatheaded than northmen given the chance, and where we’re going is no balmy beach.”

“You asked to be informed should your enemies rear their heads. You have been. That is the arrangement I was referring to.” The memory of the blue-skinned man sparked with a vengeance. His voice had been deep then, rich and bass, but the power that coursed out like heat from a bonfire had been quite absent.

“Seaworth’s son.” Theon gave a sigh of relief. “You could have said as much, I was expecting something quite else.” His glibness did not please the man, wherever he really was. Likely still doting on his mother. Or else I’ve pulled him from a harem of mermaids, and he has every right to be short with me. Theon felt rather abashed.

“I am a worthy son of the sea. My siring makes no matter and what name I might have above the waves still less so.”

“Right.”

“Go now. Before the fight comes to you while you are yet unready.” The fish-head jerked out of its trance, croaking excitedly. Clearly, Seaworth had gone. Theon stewed in the darkness, feeling so much like a scolded child or a boy told he was not ready to sail. Once he lost the fish-heads’ interest he turned and felt his way back up the stairs in a definite sulk. How much more ready can I be? The Crow’s Eye is only a man, Silence only a ship. Both can be sunk easily enough.

The caves had reeked of fish-head, but at least they were warm. The cold built as Theon ascended until he could hear the curses of men topside grumbling about the sudden wintery front. Eye-opening. Winters are cold. He rolled his eyes. When he finally reached the hall though, he steadily reconsidered. His hands jittered from cold even through leather gloves and he slipped one of his fur pairs on to keep what fingers remained to him. Still, I’d rather be here freezing than in Dorne abed with the Sand Snakes. The same could not be said for Asha, visibly discomfited at the state of the Iron Islands all her past bluster aside. Even so, Theon felt no need to make mock of her.

“You’re still not gone?”

“I wasn’t about to leave without you. What kept you?”

“I had a chat with that seaborne prick.”

“He’s here?” The color rose in Asha’s cheeks.

“Relax. He spoke to me through a croaker, and only in Croakish. Nothing much for you to miss.” Her lips pursed. “Are we about ready to go?”

“Once Mormont pries the Damphair’s fingers from the castle’s doorframe. I don’t think he’s so keen to leave.”

“Neither am I now that I’m back. I can’t bloody well go back to Winterfell and nobody’s going to welcome a ruined ironman, so the islands are all I have left to me. You may yet find a place for Asha, but Theon’s was sacked and burned.” Her indignant blush vanished as quickly as it had come.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ve got no particular wish to run this time. At least, to run from.” I ran from Robb when I thought it would make me a prince. I ran from Euron when he took the Islands. I ran from Ramsay when I ought have killed him with my own ruined hands. I am done with running from. She stared at him.

“Theon, there’s no call for you to throw your life away so uselessly-”

“Here, Winterfell or somewhere in between, it doesn’t much matter. I may yet survive anyway; I’ve gotten this far.” She looked ready to argue further but the Reader preceded her.

“We’re ready to set off. Harlaw’s remaining ships are fitted and gathered just offshore, Black Wind just needs to start north for the fleet to follow.” Asha looked from him to Theon, at a loss for words. What the fuck am I doing? He thought, wondering just what drove him to such futility. Euron will come and deal with me. Asha can put more open water between Silence and Black Wind in the meantime, he answered himself. No doubt the fish-heads were comfortable enough in the dank pools beneath Ten Towers as well as the other castles on the islands, likely unwilling to give them up to one such as the Crow’s Eye. I suppose I have more in common with them than I thought. He got a last long look from his sister before she turned to leave, only to crash headlong into a lad red in the face and breathing hard.

“Longships from the northwest, dozens of them, it looks like the Iron Fleet’s returned!” the runner cried.

“Never mind dying alone then, Theon. We’ll kill the Crow’s Eye together or die in the attempt.” Asha said through gritted teeth.

“No, my lady. Silence isn’t leading them, but Iron Victory! The Lord Captain has returned!” the boy said, pointing at the hall door.

“The last we heard of Victarion, he was reeling in the Shields.” The Reader said dubiously.

“Euron must have tasked him with ‘rescuing’ the ironborn still stuck on the northern coast. Probably hoping the wolves would succeed where the roses failed.” Asha replied, while Theon only looked to the north. The fleet massed at vision’s edge was no mirage. Despite the cutting of the cold wind and the fat falling flakes it grew steadily closer, seemingly heedless of the worsening weather.

“They’re against the wind.” Rodrik said. “Their oarsmen will be useless if they push on too much longer.”

“Who is Victarion eager to return to, though, Reader? The Damphair or Euron?” Asha asked. Theon thought along similar lines. It isn’t in Victarion to go against his elder brother, even when the Damphair pleads for him to do so. The ox deaf to all but the one farmer he will heed. The wind cut deeper and the flakes grew fatter.

“Miserable fucking weather to row in.” Theon muttered, yet the arriving ships did not slow down. He heard the Reader extend a Myrish eye and raise it close to his own.

“Can you see anybody?” Asha asked hurriedly. Theon watched as his uncle’s mouth soured into a frown.

“Their sails are coated in a sheen of ice. It’s taken to their hulls and masts as well.”

“What? But they’re only sailing from so far north, Uncle.” Asha said quite unnecessarily.

“They could be sailing from hell. They look as though a blizzard has had its way with them for days.” Theon took the eye and looked again to the northern horizon. The longships were advancing with truly incredibly speed. Just how Victarion, a man with less imagination than a statue, had managed such a feat was lost on Theon. Closer, he could see the ice that had formed to keep each ship seaworthy, great slabs shoved ramshackle into gaps in the wood to prevent sinking- if only for a time. We ought hear them, Theon thought. Hear their curses and cries of ‘Land!’. A sinking feeling formed in his stomach. Oh, I think we’re in for an ass-fucking. There were figures on the decks of the ships, but they weren’t moving as sailors ought. Rowing benches were filled and the men working them churning away with tremendous endurance, in such unison Theon could not believe his own eyes. They’re headed straight for the beach, he realized. They have no intention of docking first.

“I think we’d best get back to the castle,” he said, growing more certain of his words as the line of ships became clearer. “Uh, right now.” he added. Only when the silence remained unbroken for several more minutes did people finally get moving, Theon hastily poking more than one back to hurry them along. No need to panic, he thought, the feeling rising from the pit of his belly. Jon’s words sprang to mind, fear of some mysterious enemy from the north. He said they’d come, the islands peopled enough to be worth scouring. The wind picked up again, far more effective than Theon’s urging at getting the lot of them back behind Ten Towers’ stone walls. Even among family, better safe than Stark.

Clouds once cotton went the color of iron, sending off what sun the day would give them. Theon groaned from Ten Towers’ ramparts, having spent enough time in the north to know what to expect. Sure enough, the snow was joined by driving rain, drops that felt like needles against Theon’s face. Bloody fuck, it’s worse than snow. Worse than I remember, even. Visibility fell to within a few strides, then a few feet. Without Asha standing next to him Theon might have suspected she’d fallen from the parapet. Even with the Myrish eye it was anyone’s guess just what Victarion was up to in the bay. Then there was a sharp chorus of crunching, of ships beyond count running aground in the shallows of Harlaw. Theon heard the waters churn and froth as if in the grip of a terrible storm. More terrible than a few painful drops and numbing flakes ought warrant, anyway. Maybe Victarion had insisted a watery landing to please the Drowned God? He’s certainly stupid enough. Still, there were no cries nor calls from the landing ironmen. Twin great spouts of water fountained up from the churning deep. Theon spotted even through the rain and snow a steadily surfacing mass of ice. An iceberg out of one of Luwin’s lessons, shaped jagged-like. One shark fin after another. There was a tremendously loud grinding sound, of ice on ice he supposed. What came next was like nothing he’d ever heard, beautiful as a maiden’s voice and more terrible than any scream he’d given at Ramsay’s hands. A light, bright as day, glittered midway up the frontmost fin. Then Ten Towers was shaking beneath Theon’s feet, the world gone white in a blinding flash. The sound came again, the shock came again, and he could hear the fucking castle coming apart. They’re loosing at us, he thought dimly. What, how, who can guess- A third sound, and this time the stones beneath his feet flew up, flew back, throwing Theon bodily from the ramparts. He came to his senses with a gasp, trying to force air back into his body, coughing and twitching until he finally filled his lungs. Disoriented, he felt around to try and determine if it was safe to stand. Though his back ached to no end, it did not feel as though he’d been truly hurt. When he stretched out his left hand, he found only air. Had I fallen another foot to the left, I might have been splattering in the yard instead of slapping against the landing. Still woozy he sat up, trying to get his legs to agree to carry him. There we are, he thought, rubbing his calves even as the rain sought to drive them numb again.

“Fuck.” he gasped, unable to get anything more out as he moved to stand. A loud, hoarse bellowing in the yard below stunned him still, his heart beating faster than he could count. At least the rain has stopped. Snow fell and snow alone, the voices in the yard undeterred.

Slowly he rolled onto his side, then his belly, peering down with one eye. A half-dozen men…things… were moving about in the yard, each eight or nine feet tall and holding a thick wooden shaft capped with a twinkling two-foot tip of ice. Those don’t look anything like Jon told, Theon thought. Where are the castle’s defenders? He looked down to see that whatever the ice-ship had loosed had cleanly succeeded in blasting away the castle’s gate. Blinking the last of the fog out of his eyes he could see the lanky brutes were not alone. Men dashed pell-mell this way and that, weapons in their hands swinging blindly through the air or else hands outstretched. The smell of low tide reached him next. Not men. Our own flotsam thrown back at us. Many still had flesh to burn, but more still were little else than skeletons swinging axes or thrusting spears. Who knew how many bodies had laid only feet below the surface of Harlaw? The Others, apparently, Theon thought, trying not to vomit. More telling was the lack of sounds of battle. Have I missed it? He saw no trace of anyone he’d come ashore with, nor for. Theon prayed to any god who’d listen that they’d somehow gotten quit of Harlaw before the dead men had pressed on from the beaches. No need for docks when you can just founder hulk after hulk and let your masses pour out of them, like ants out of a hill. He got onto all fours, edging out of sight, crawling as quickly as he dared back toward the nearest of the castle’s towers. No using the front door. Not that there’s a front door to use anymore, he mused. It’s either jump or go back down that stair. In pitch darkness, too. Theon inched his way over the threshold, rubbing his sore ribs as he stood. The clattering of bones caught his ear and he surged forward out of instinct, spinning away from a thrust cutlass as he grabbed the first thing he could reach, a golden candlestick likely plunder from a raid on the westerlands by a long-dead Harlaw. He parried the cutlass easily enough, the skeleton’s swings and jabs utterly without reserve. Theon felt almost a fool when he brought the candlestick down on the thing’s bony elbow after a particularly daring thrust threw it off-balance. It splintered immediately, though the skeleton paid the injury no mind as it took to swinging its balled fist. Theon rapped his weapon against the tide-bleached skull, hearing the bone crack against the gold. The force of Theon’s blow knocked his enemy backward, reeling on bony feet. Of bloody fucking course, how much can a skeleton weigh? He rushed it again and with a single maimed hand was able to grip the backbone beneath the skull and heave the skeleton, dashing it against the stone wall. Bones snapped, chipped, broke, yet the thing gave no sign the blows had in any way hurt it. Limping forward, it feebly lashed out with its remaining fist. Fuck this. Another blow with the candlestick knocked the skull free of its bony body, another shove saw it dashed against the floor. Theon looked on, breathing hard. What power moves them must pool within the bones, else a bare skeleton could not move.

He stood there, clutching the candlestick, when a fit of laughter found him. He clapped his hand over his mouth, half dismayed and half ecstatic. The first enemy I’ve bested in a fair fight since I don’t know when. Maybe ever. He was still laughing when the sounds of countless running feet sounded from the tower’s stair. Right, that was stupid, he thought, still grinning despite the crisis. He pushed a nearby heavy wooden table flush against the door, yet another up to brace the first. Then his smile died. What is that going to stop, Theon Greyjoy? One? Two? How about ten? A hundred? A thousand? He turned away from the stair, running and mumbling incoherently. How am I going to get out of here? I can’t well jump into the sea from the ramparts! The noise behind him advertised just how badly the tables had failed to stymie the oncoming dead, flesh or bone. As he was facing forward, he avoided falling into a gap in the ramparts, a great fissure formed from one of the ice-ship’s blows. It’s either jump or meet the dead, he figured, so he gave himself some room and ran directly at the gap, leaping as far forward as he could manage. Immediately he saw his folly and lowered expectations accordingly, a single gloved hand finding purchase on the rampart’s stony walkway. Dangling like a worm from a small boy’s fist, tongue between his teeth, Theon tried to pull himself up only for his hand to slip against the rain-slick stone. To further fray his nerves, the dead sounded almost flush with the very ledge he’d jumped from. Down it is, he decided, using the candlestick as a pick to quickly descend down the fissure. Right, right, that’s it, make the fall into the yard a bit less death-defying. The dead did not pursue him down, likely from a lack of finer movement. Let’s see a skeleton climb down after me.

“Bony cunts!” he cried, cackling with glee again. The bottom of the great crack in the castle wall stopped his descent but with only fifteen feet to fall Theon slipped from the rend in the stone, landing with nary a sore foot. Or I’m too numb from cold to notice. He straightened to find himself staring directly at the lanky brutes, each regarding him with pronounced distaste. “Uh. I thought I’d escaped.” Theon said lamely, almost apologetically. The nearest creature’s bellow spurred his flight, dashing madly past a gaggle of skeletons and sending one flailing into its fellows’ midst. A sudden grunt and Theon ducked. An icy maul buried itself in the wall where his head had been a half-moment before, a brute clad in gleaming silver scale roaring in fury as he brought his fist down next. Theon rolled over and jabbed out with the candlestick, planting it soundly in the thing’s blue right eye. Howling in agony it pursued even as Theon fled, maul knocking holes in Ten Tower’s masonry no man could ever manage. The stair, he remembered, down to the pools! Then he remembered the dead men, how they could only have emerged from the surf. It’s a chance I’ll have to take. Even if they kept some wandering around Harlaw looking for hidden ways in, that’s no guarantee they found one. Much less the one I plan to use to escape! The castle was oddly empty in proportion to the masses that had come ashore, though Theon suspected during his senselessness atop the ramparts the castle had been scoured and the horde had moved on to likewise pick over the island proper. My luck, he wondered. As the others die to a man, I lie in shock out of sight. The stair down was obstructed by a trio of the walking corpses, though a good shove sent them tumbling down the steps while Theon followed as quick as he could manage without slipping. The caves were dim as they had been before, but Theon could see the flickering of the nearest pool regardless. At once he took as deep a breath as he could hold and dove in, swimming to the bottom and then crawling into a flooded tunnel leading out away from the cave and Ten Towers above it. Just as he was running out of air, he found a hollow space above the water just big enough to fill his lungs again. Before he resubmerged to make good his push to freedom, if freedom lay at the end of the tunnel, Theon was possessed of a last comforting thought. If I drown, they’ll never find my body.

Chapter 4: Daenerys I

Chapter Text

There was nothing, truly nothing, like the feeling of flying. The wonderful pulling in Daenerys’ chest as her body swayed this way and that, a plaything of the winds with only the loosest balance, the least control… And yet, this is nothing like that. Her body felt like one long powerful lance of muscle and the wind that whipped her hair into an unholy mess only Missandei could untangle had yet to blow into her face. The world was one long unbroken line of blue, some strange wordless part of her mind quite taken aback by the lack of something. Just ocean. For leagues, for miles, for ever more, it seems. She flew until the sun had twice risen and set, her body dreadfully sore and aching to the bone, yet the sea had yet to yield even a sandbar. It just keeps going, she thought, while that other part of her bristled at the unspoken challenge. There is nothing more to see, she told herself. Nowhere more to go. I must have flown from Meereen to Dragonstone and back, and yet, nothing. Then that other part, that wordless pride, huffed. A loud tempestuous snort that tried to hide her failing strength, her slow decline. At long last she could fly no more and pitched gracefully from the sky, the great blue above blending into the one below. This time the wind did whip into her face, blowing the breath from her lungs, as the tiny wiggling worms became great crashing waves. A long way to fall, she wondered. She could hear the sea roiling, smell the brine and taste the salt. Just before she met the water, she woke up in Jon Snow’s arms. The King in the North’s arm was snugly wrapped about her belly and his fur cape was pulled over them both, quite efficient at keeping out the rare gusts that made it into Drogon’s lair in the Dragonmont. It was snowing, the cold bits of fluff tickling Dany’s exposed nose and cheeks, but she found she did not mind in the least. Surely, I’ll see snows colder and crueler than this. Particularly with where I’m headed. Not for the first time Dany felt a certain foreboding at the prospect of going north, of going to the North. Giants, wolves the size of horses with the minds of men, savages from a hundred hundred tribes…and a race shaped as if from ice itself, intent solely on doing away with all the rest. Meereen had been an unending exercise in tedium, though perhaps that was the idea. If people have taxes and slavery to complain about it means that war, famine and plague are elsewhere. Still, Dany had no illusions that she was the person most fit to lead in peace. Peace was boring, plenty an insidious slip into complacency. After all, dragons are not peaceful creatures. I may not be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but I am the Mother of Dragons. Nothing and no one can take that from me. I am the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. I am the Breaker of Chains. If anyone belongs somewhere where myth and mundane are one and the same, I do.

Jon muttered in his sleep, something in the Old Tongue. Dany had no more knowledge of it than he did of Dothraki, yet she could hear the affection, the cherishing in the rough stony words. Even in dreams, eager to go back to where walls cannot constrain him. She found she could not fault him, not the King in the North, a man who loved freedom so fiercely. Maybe I’ve a soft spot for it. Khal Drogo was no different in that regard. The atonal noisy squawking of Dragonstone’s gulls made her murmur in irritation and hide under Jon’s cape. Go away, she ordered in her mind. Could they not see the two were sleeping? There’s no Drogon here to scare them away, they’re likely feasting on the leftover fish the townsfolk missed. She tried to drift back off, back to where Jon Snow waited for her, but all that happened was her temper got the better of her and she burst from the cape, bellowing in Dothraki and throwing whatever bits of rock and bone she could reach in the dragon’s nook. Dany blushed when a thought came to her. I sound like an angry child, not intimidating in the least. No doubt I’ll turn and see him red in the face and weeping from laughter. Rather than look to him she tried climbing up to where one of the damnable birds sat, a fat grey gull who paid her not the least bit mind. Aside from a hand cut on the rocks she didn’t make much progress, wincing in pain as she sucked on the cut. As independent as a child as well. I couldn’t so much as tie my braids if left to my own devices. She stomped away from the wall of razor rock, sat down in the middle of the clearing and promptly crossed her arms in a royal huff. Could Jon have truly slept through all that? Curiously she turned to check on him and instantly wished she hadn’t. Rather than laughing up a storm, the King in the North lay curled on his side, lost for breath with tears streaming down his long northern face. Her mood only got fierier, and in a few moments she let out a little scream of frustration as she pounced on him.

“I may not command the gulls, but you will heed me, Jon Snow!” she commanded, hands upon his shoulders. His laughter amused her as it infuriated her, so she pressed her lips to his if only to silence him! That’s better, she thought at once, while his hand grazed up her arm. “Hmmmph!” she said, mouth still to his.

“Hmph.” Jon replied, giving her backside a gentle squeeze. Voices from down the mountain made her groan, going to a whimper when he removed his hand. “Dany, we’d best get going anyway. There’s no time to lose.” She lay her head on his chest, trying to shut out the rising voices on the beach. She was no naïve maiden in a story, she knew he was right, but that didn’t make it easier to get up, nor to shake the snow from her hair.

“This had better be good.” she muttered, singularly grumpy.

Dany entertained the idea of having Jon carry her down the stairs just to be difficult, but the voices on the beach quickly turned unfriendly and so the pair of them hastily made their descent. It’s not so bad when you can run, she thought. Once on the bottom landing, her breath hitched in her chest. Ships, she thought. Some were pooling on Dragonstone’s shoreline or in the port town, while others sailed past the island to the north and south. To land elsewhere, she thought. They’re no longships…they look Essosi. Volantene. I of all people would know, save me. She swallowed, feeling increasingly nervous. Had the slavers followed her across the Narrow Sea? Had a triarchy made much the poorer by slavery’s death sent a fleet after her? Jon’s breath stalled behind her, though out of similar thoughts or something else she could not say.

“Who are these, then?” he asked, sliding an arm around her waist.

“I’m not certain.” she replied.

“Well, better get down there before they spot any man-fishes. I can’t imagine the man who would take them much in stride.” he said, sounding his ever-weary self. And I had him ready to chase me around Drogon’s lair. Hmph! Stupid war. Once they reached the beach, she spotted several men arguing near the shoreline. At once, some nearby Unsullied took up positions around her, Jon moving out of the way to let them. From behind their slender forms she tried to make out what was being said.

“…crossed the fucking Narrow Sea to come here, you have not the first inkling-” Her jaw dropped. I left him in Meereen. More choice words were exchanged before she could think any farther.

“What’s that to me, cunt? If your hair’s any tell, you stood at the bow like a maiden’s dream the whole way. Meantime, the rest of us are like to laugh ourselves shitless at the sight of you.” It sounded like Tyrion’s pet sellsword. At least it isn’t northmen. Fists would have flown by now. Something still teased at her. This seems more than Daario would bother, even given his affection. I did leave him Regent of the Bay of Dragons, surely any man would have sat on those laurels. She slid deftly behind one of the Unsullied, trying to keep out of sight. Noticing her sudden timidness, Jon walked past her and over to the men.

“Who are you?” he asked Daario. The sellsword seemed taken aback, spotting at last the phalanx of Unsullied. Oh no, Dany thought, despairing.

“Move up.” she commanded in Valyrian, the soldiers maintaining their formation without a second thought. Daario looked past them, his face the same stunned-witless mask it had been when last she saw him. “I left you in charge of the Bay of Dragons.”

“The dragon left.” he replied. “My interest in Meereen left with her.” Ever the sellsword. I’m sure you looted the place and fled with your Storm Crows as soon as I was beyond the horizon. Were she to voice the thought, would he even bother to deny it?

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“For you.” he answered, as she knew he would.

She took in what men had come along with him. One she recognized, if faintly. One of the Masters. Why could he have come? The man looked at her with listless, almost lifeless eyes. There is something awry here. Some greater purpose than a sellsword’s besottedness. “Who took you across the Narrow Sea?” Daario didn’t answer right away, still torn between her and Jon. He looks as if he’s wrestling with something greater than himself. Ever had that been Daario’s way. They’d shared many nights in Meereen, but Daario Naharis seemed to know instinctively when his abilities were outsized by his circumstances. An apprehension in his nature he shows no one but me. To all others he’s the fearless swashbuckling Storm Crow.

“The Golden Company.” he said, after an inner struggle.

“What do the Golden Company want with Westeros?” Jon asked in turn. When it became evident Daario was going to be of no help one of his cohorts, a Basilisk Islander, shouldered him aside.

“Malko, of Port Plunder, Your Worship. When you left slavery bleeding in the dust, silver queen, it turned Essos into chaos. A few of us saw the situation for what it was quick enough to turn sellsword and join the fleet massing in Volantis. Nobody was being turned away, not even Ghiscari.” The sullen man’s mouth twitched.

“To what end, Malko of Port Plunder?”

“To empty the red castle of lions and sit a dragon in its iron seat.”

“I needed no aid-” When Malko interrupted her he seemed almost abashed.

“Not you, Your Worship. It was an Aegon the sweepings of the east flocked to, if for no other reason than to leave Essos behind.” Her heart felt like it had stopped. An Aegon, like the one killed while still in his swaddling on Tywin Lannister’s orders. An Aegon like I might have married had House Targaryen never fallen.

“There are no Aegons. The last died with his sister during Robert’s Rebellion.”

“No, Daenerys. If the tale is true, that same whelp was smuggled out one way or another and has his sights on retaking Westeros for House Targaryen, same as you.” Daario’s silence finally broke. At once she knew none of the men were this proclaimed prince, none could pass for Valyrian stock praying to all the gods together.

“Where is he?” she asked, looking uncertainly to Jon. He cares not for talk of dragons nor kings, only what this news might mean to me. For me.

“Just offshore. His court as it were thought it best to see what was what before dumping him in your lap.” Daario said. His amiable words did not hide the real reason this Aegon had not yet landed himself. They want to make sure I am not hostile to the idea of a male claimant to the Iron Throne. She wondered what this man who claimed to be her blood would think, would say, on learning what had transpired during her time in Westeros. At least the Dothraki and the Unsullied fight for me, not for gold or personal gain. What sort of man would take slavers, pirates and sellswords on to help him win a kingdom? She answered herself. The same sort that would sell his sister to bloodthirsty savages for a chance at that same kingdom.

Dany walked away from Daario Naharis then, heading back to the close sharp safety of the Dragonmont’s base. Out of sight of the rest, she collapsed against the grey stone, sitting on the smooth stone landing. More than one gasp escaped her as she tried to comport herself, but it was a losing battle. In mere moments she was in tears, forehead on her knees and her face buried in her legs. Is this what Arya Stark felt when she saw Jon after years apart? There had been no doubt, no conflicted feelings visible in the princess’s reaction. Not when she ran at him, not when she wrapped her arms around him. There was no possibility of Jon being feigned, either. Not with that long face and those grey eyes, so like the princess. Of her family Dany had known only Viserys, a shadow’s shadow. I’m not like to see myself in this Aegon, be he prince or peasant.

“A lot of explaining will need to be done.” Jon Snow’s voice called from somewhere above her. Looking up quickly in surprise, she beheld his head sticking out from a jut of rock a few feet above her. He must be lying out on it, lazy and spying! She sniffled and wiped her nose.

“You’ve no right to be eavesdropping.”

“None at all. What are you going to do about it?” he said, yawning down at her. She earned a yelp when the snowball she tossed found his northern nose, face quickly disappearing. The scuffling above told her that she was due for a return volley with interest, so she cuddled close to the stone to reduce her viability as a target. Stupid ranger training, she thought sulkily. Always sneaking and spying and stealing me for a kiss when I ought be doing other things! A snowball exploded directly under the rock but defiladed as she was it seemed even a seasoned ranger like Jon Snow could find no way to make his throws count.

“Ha! Some ghost you are!” she cried defiantly, only to shriek in dismay when a whole curtain of snow came down from above, as if he’d pushed all of it off the rock at once! She dashed out from her sanctuary to avoid it, but she only found herself scooped into a pair of arms as soon as she was clear of the rock. “Cheater! You’re a poor sport.” she said, burying her face this time in Jon Snow’s chest as he laughed. “Now I’m cold.”

“You’re never cold.”

“I am now.”

“Not compared to me.”

“Hmph.”

“Hmph, hmph.”

“Hmph!” Dany snorted, crossing her arms. “Carry me back to the beach.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I command it.”

“So?”

“I’m a queen.”

“And?”

“Hmph!” she huffed, feeling her cheeks go red. “You’ll do it,” she said, “because I’m your queen.”

“Only if you let your hair down when we come to Winterfell.”

“I’ll do what I want.” she replied.

“As do I. I’ll carry you because I want to, not because you asked, and certainly not because you’re a queen.” In that vein Jon Snow bore her in his arms. She grumbled under her breath about savages and stubborn northmen as they returned to the steadily growing group of men on the beach. This Aegon may be the perfect prince, Dany thought. I’ll not be parted from my stealing ghost for anything. Stubborn as a tree stump though he may be.

The newly arrived were just more fodder, that much was obvious. Sellswords out of every Free City and what was once Slaver’s Bay, each man ruined by her war against slavery and forced to hold the steel themselves or starve. It wasn’t just the wealthy who wanted me dead or gone, she thought. Ghiscari commoners held themselves above slaves and I put an end to that division, to say nothing of middlingly wealthy men who could not recover from their wealth in flesh disappearing overnight. That this Prince Aegon would use such men to further his own cause made the taste in Daenerys’ mouth all the worse.

“You’ll want to give the water some space.” she told a group of them in Valyrian as they talked about the castle overhead, a genuine work of the Freehold at its height. They looked at her with combinations of distaste and confusion. “Fish-men.” she said. “Walking fish.” Likely they think me mad. Let them, then let them soil themselves when the morning’s treasure washes ashore. It’s nearly time. Sure as sunrise a detachment of Unsullied marched down from the castle, paying no mind whatsoever to the newly landed strangers. Surely all the best has been pushed ashore already, she thought. Dragonstone’s vaults were so full its empty dungeons were put to use holding the excess treasure and even they were nearly at capacity. There hadn’t been time to examine it in detail, Tyrion and Varys had given it a go the first day and weren’t close to finished when the second day dawned, and their work had compounded. “Will this prince be joining us presently?” Dany asked the group at large. They just came for gold, she thought. Nobody in his inner circle will have come ashore with Essos’ chaff.

“His wet nurse, the lordly, lordly Lord Jonnington-”

"Connington, Salladhor.” One of the other pirate captains corrected him.

“Pretentious as a preening peacock amongst his hens, I name him. He ought wear one in place of dancing griffins.” There was a goodly amount of chuckling and laughter at this, even from the Ghiscari which surprised Daenerys. At her evident uncertainty the man’s mirth was renewed. “Salladhor Saan, Your Grace, of Lys.”

“Forgive me, but you don’t look Lyseni.” Dany replied doubtfully.

“I made no claim to be Lyseni. Only that I was of Lys. A man may be of one place and from another. I am not having the pale skin and fair hair that so makes Lys famous, this is true. No more than you look queenly with your stained leather vest, knotted hair and crownless brow. Yet for all this lacking you are doing, you are a queen, yes?” Was that an insult or a compliment? Occasionally Dany had pangs of homesickness for how things were in Essos, but such ways of speaking were not something she especially missed. At least the northmen speak plainly.

“That depends on who you ask, Salladhor Saan.” she replied finally. It was the pirate’s turn to frown in confusion. Dany gave a small shy smile, feeling a little better at paying him back in the same coin. A chorus of displeased swearing and complaints accompanied by the strong smell of fish made Dany turn to the waves, several fish-men wading to the beach while still more popped their heads above the surface. The screaming started moments later. Luckily the Unsullied sergeant on duty had the wherewithal to order the Essosi kept at bay while the Narrow Sea’s denizens came ashore. At once Dany spotted gashes in their pot bellies, even missing eyes and limbs. They were terse and high-strung, needly jaws set an inch or so apart. A fish-man’s way of grinding his teeth. They’ve seen battle recently and had their slimy hides bruised. She’d thought them eerie when they came before, croaking and squawking among themselves in tones of dull conversation, but this was starkly different. All Dany could hear was the seawater bubbling out down their gills and whatever lungs lay within take long heaving breaths, the slits that served as nostrils flaring. I hope they brought someone who speaks the Common Tongue… As she had the thought the waters parted yet again and the burned man stepped out of the surf. Though he was near to her, his words were for Jon Snow.

“Your dead men fight livelier than most living.” he said, panting hard. Dany watched the last of the morning’s merriment disappear from Jon’s face behind a brooding pall.

“They do, Matthos Seaworth. That’s precisely the problem.”

On seeing Salladhor Saan, Matthos huffed in derision and turned to the fish-man nearest him, croaking gutturally. Evidently it took a moment for the Lyseni to realize just what, then who he was looking at.

“My friend’s good fortune proves proof against even wildfire, it seems. Either that or your salty Seaworth hide. You have your father’s gift of coming back to life.”

“All such allows is to die a second time.”

“At least you’ve stopped giving the red woman’s ravings more credence than your father’s sound words. All it took was a fleet of men lost in green flame to make you see sense.” Matthos Seaworth seemed almost chastised. More talk of R’hllor, Dany thought. Worship of the Red God was somewhat commonplace in Essos but she’d seen no trace of it here on the other side of the Narrow Sea.

“It wasn’t a red god that gave me breath below the waves, nor cast me up again in time.” His words were sullen. An apology, or one as like as he’s to give. While the Essosi were still gaping at the fish-men, Daenerys idly scooped a handful of glittering coins from the sand and began tossing them at her guests.

“I’ll not pay you an iron bit for your losses endured in the end of slavery. Quite removed from that matter, I’ve more treasure than my vaults can hold, my dungeons too. It pleases me to be rid of the least part, and so I put the burden upon your sore shoulders.” she said, looking to the Ghiscari in particular. The Dothraki do not buy and sell, but they do give gifts. Hopefully those who’ve come from slavery’s ruin can see that.

“Where did you fight them?” Jon asked.

“Dead ships sail blindly once the Narrow Sea opens into the Shivering Sea. What few we sink are not missed- living ships become dead ships quick enough bemired in frigid fog or hunted by dreadnoughts cut from icebergs.” Jon’s grey eyes popped. He was right, Daenerys thought. They have not neglected the sea.

“We have to get back to Winterfell with all speed.” he said, though Dany suspected he spoke more to himself than any listener.

“That you ought. If they bring their power much further south, you will find the Narrow Sea closed to you.” Matthos intoned.

“Lord Connington will not take this well. His intent is to push onto King-” Daario blurted, heedless of all works spoken out of any mouth but the queen’s.

“There is no reason nor call to molest the capital further. Lord Connington is welcome to come calling while we outfit our fleet for the push on to White Harbor.” Daenerys said.

“I’ll pass it along-”

“Allow me.” Matthos said, departing with a complement of the fish-men. For their part they took in the Essosi with passing glances before their interest dulled, muttering among themselves. They ought have steel, or at least bronze, she thought, looking at their spears. Driftwood and bone are a poor substitute.

“Perhaps we ought to rouse your northmen, hm?” she asked Jon, keen to move off the beach. Keener though to get away from the fish-men or the slavers, that’s a question. He broke from whatever he was going over in his head.

“Oh, right. Hopefully everything went well for Alys.” Hopefully everything goes well for her child as well, Daenerys thought. The first born in such a time.

A baby’s cry was scarcely a surprise, yet it seemed to change minutely from one moment to the next. Daenerys let Jon lead her through the slight winding passage into the huge hidden chamber, the murals not lost of their majesty even after multiple viewings. Across the way Alys Karstark remained where Jon had laid her. She was still panting, but her breaths were long and steady instead of quick gasps.

“Is everything well, my lady?” Jon called softly so as not to let his voice echo.

“Come, Your Grace, and see for yourself.” came Alys’ answer. Quietly as only a ranger could manage Jon crossed the span of the cave, Dany’s own footsteps elephantine to her ears. I must get him to show me how he does that, she resolved. I’d like not to be so heavy footed in comparison. Her self-conscious thoughts died on the vine as she got closer to the huddled group of northmen, Lady Karstark hidden from view. They are so quiet, Dany thought. I hope all is well. The baby’s fussing seemed the only sound in the world. Then Dany swallowed. Either the babe has two mouths or Alys has given birth to twins! When the northmen noticed the pair they dutifully made room, Dany too short to go peering over any shoulder higher than Ned Umber’s. She heard Jon’s jaw drop open. In Alys’ arms were twins indeed, each at a breast, and in Sigorn’s was yet another baby at whom he gaped in blank shock. The girl looked as though she’d been through a hurricane, yet she couldn’t seem to keep a furtive smile off her face.

“Well, now we know what happens when you match a northern girl and a wildling.” Jon finally got out, earning a quiet “Har!” from Tormund Giantsbane and the quietest giggle from Alys.

“If my Thenn will stop gaping, maybe he’d like to introduce our eldest daughter to the fold.” Her voice made the big man blink.

“Aynikka, after my own mum. I told Alys it was bad luck, that she died bearing my father a stillborn daughter, that babes ought have milk names first, but-”

“-I’m made of sterner stuff than any Thenn, though it’s plain to see adding some doesn’t hurt.” Alys finished firmly. Sigorn gave a reflexive chortle.

“You’re made of sterner stuff than any man, or giant or dragon or Other for that matter.”

“The kind that goes well with a bit of Thenn. Mmm, maybe more than a bit…” Sigorn blushed beet red while Tormund laughed aloud in spite of his efforts at silence.

“And them?” Jon asked, nodding to the two she held.

“Hmm. Sigorn likes Harra and Torrha, after my…well, they’re Karstark names.” Three girls! Then again, what do the Free Folk care? Indeed, Sigorn wanted a daughter rather than a son. Well, prayer answered. Perhaps each by a different god. The Dothraki saw girls as a disappointment from the start, by the very fact that they were not boys and would not grow into fierce warriors. True to his earlier wish, Sigorn looked utterly besotted with the tiny bundle he bore in his great arms. Dany dared not voice the thought that next came to mind. I wonder what the likelihood is that all five of them survive what is coming.

After ascertaining that Lady Karstark and her newborns were well in hand, Jeyne Poole dutifully helping the new mother at every opportunity, Jon withdrew from the circle, Dany quickly following.

“I hope Sigorn is stronger than he credits himself.” Jon said grimly.

“Why do you say that? Surely the gods that saw fit to send three babes at once will proof the parents against any harm.”

“I didn’t mean that way. I saw what havoc two daughters of different age and temperament wreaked on my father and his lady wife. Imagine the chaos those three will wreak with so formidable a mother and all the north to dash about and cause mischief in.” Dany blinked. Oh. Then she giggled.

“They have names befitting their homeland, despite being born on Dragonstone. No storm here to cause their mother grief, either.”

“Not the kind with lightning and wind, anyway. An exile from the east with an army-”

“Jon, I have an army. You have an army, if far to the north. The remaining lords of Westeros together, even, could match and overcome pirates and slavers-turned-sellsword without either of our aid. Out of their own mouths our guests confess that this Prince Aegon’s so-called ‘army’ is naught but those fleeing a dying land.”

“He is still your kin, if they are to be believed.”

“If he is Rhaegar’s son, then I suppose I’d be a fool not to at least meet him.” she replied neutrally.

“Do you not believe he is who they claim?”

“Say rather it is in my mind how easily a baby with the right look can be believed to be a Targaryen.” Say also that I’m reluctant to tell this man and all his supporters they came for naught, in the end. That the dragons have flown beyond the sight of men and if they are still alive, are up to their own devices. She wrapped her arms around herself. Jon mistook it for just the cold and slipped his own around her shoulders. She lay her head on his as they departed the cave, the air tinged only with the salty scent of the sea. Good, they’ve gone. At least for now. Jon took his leave of her once she’d warmed, favoring her with a kiss on her cheek and stealing a giggle. Off to see the lords to it, she surmised. Once the King in the North had left the Unsullied resumed their positions around her and she found herself heading back toward the ever-growing party of Essosi. “If Prince Aegon will not come ashore, I am happy to go to him.” she declared, eyes on Daario Naharis.

“At once, Your Grace.” he replied, one of the boats they’d landed in brought to shore so she could step in without getting wet. Jon may think me foolish for not waiting for him, but he has the lords of Westeros to herd and hurry along. Surely, I can deal with one purported prince.

The waters got fearful looks from the oarsmen, but Daenerys’ gaze was affixed on the ship in the distance, the magnificent carrack that had a wooden dragon’s head at its prow and a Targaryen banner flying above the off-white sails. His is different, if only just, she thought. Only someone who’s spent their life looking at the proper thing would know, though. Their pace was not so quick as she’d have liked, either.

“They are scarce about to pop out of the water to bother with us. You may put your worries aside and dip your oars faster.” she said in curt Valyrian. Her chastising got a bit more speed from the muttering oarsmen. On reaching the ship Daenerys read the word Fortune painted on the rear. Not a Targaryen word. Not Fire and Blood. Then again, neither am I. Not wholly. A rope ladder was lowered. Daario moved to help her but Daenerys countermanded him. “I’m not so unable as to quake before a climb.” With that she ascended, breathing hard even through the simple effort. If Jon Snow can scale a sheer wall of razor rock, I can climb a bloody rope! Her hand found the deck’s rail and she pulled herself up, one leg and then the other. Then she was standing on Fortune’s deck, a bit out of breath as she took in those already aboard. Some of them were Westerosi, of that Dany had no doubt. Dispossessed, she thought. Exiled, come to claim their own. There was a beautiful girl of Dornish cast, the only person seated, taking Dany in behind a sphinx’s unreadable face. A boy who looked as much like Gendry as a stag did a bull, too, and the ever-smirking face of Petyr Baelish.

“Your Grace.” A big man with red eyebrows and red hair going grey, clashing griffins on his surcoat stepped to the fore. At once he knelt. For a moment Dany wondered if his sabaton had come unfixed. Oh. Kneeling. I’d forgotten about that. The Free Folk did not kneel any more than the Dothraki did, and the rest of Westeros was pleased pink to follow the savages’ example.

“Stand, ser.” He is a knight, of that I’m certain. He acts too much like Ser Barristan not to be. He rose, evidently overcome by the moment. The Dornish girl had to mutter something and one of the other knights gently jostle him to get him speaking again.

“I have the honor to be Ser Jon Connington, rightful Lord of Griffin’s Roost and by His Grace’s warrant, Hand of the King.” He turned to his companions. “With us are Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne and Wyatt Sunglass, Lord of Sweetport Sound, among others.” Others is right, Daenerys could not help thinking. If you seek to buy the stormlanders’ loyalty with a bastard of Robert Baratheon’s, you’ll find them too wealthy now to tempt with coin so poorly minted. The doors to the captain’s cabin opened and out came yet another knight, a tall man with a common face. He was followed by an altogether different sort of man, (a boy, Daenerys thought before she could stop herself) one who carried himself upright and unhurried as was so common among the common-born, no matter the continent. He was fair, he was graceful, and his cropped hair was of a shade with Daenerys’ own. On seeing her he stopped in his tracks, evidently thinking hard on what to say.

“Apologies if you were waiting long, Daenerys. I spent the entire voyage getting that damned blue dye out of my hair.” he said almost sheepishly.

Chapter 5: Sansa I

Chapter Text

To her surprise, Sansa found herself waking in the bed she’d fallen asleep in. No dreams, she thought. I wonder if that’s good or bad. Quickly she flitted behind Myranda’s unblinking eyes, making sure the Singers’ new roots were in place and the Other himself quite unable to manage another escape. He hasn’t Howling Wind’s talents. Then again, men did not share all the same knacks. I can no more climb than Bran can sew. She got up, heedless of the flurry that blew in through her open window. Drat, she though crossly. I must remember to close the window or I’m like to wake up to everything coated in white every morning. Then she blinked. Outside was black but for the pinpricks of light, torches burning where they could in the yard below or the far ramparts. Still dark, she thought confusedly. Her ears registered a constant stamp of feet, people running about all over the castle. Her sleepy, placid mood vanished and she dressed as quickly as she could, pulling on a thick wool cloak more for show than comfort. At least I need not hog all the hot water anymore, she thought. It gave the others pause in Winterfell when she wore only a summer gown while freezing gales raged most every day though, so she wore the cloak. As innocuously as she could she lastly took her walnut branch in hand, the pack of hounds up and ready when she was. Again, she wished it were Lady at her side instead of mundane dogs. It is no fault of theirs, she thought, feeling guilty. Nobody paid her much mind in the corridors with her hair hidden by the hood but on reaching the hall the skull-capped branch gave her away and the guards let her pass unbothered. Lord Royce sat pale-faced at one of the tables, several of his knights closely attending him. On seeing her he made to stand but seemed curiously unable. In armor, anyway. He’s too old to fight, but not to think or plan.

“What’s happened?” she asked. He took several shallow breaths before replying.

“Apologies, Princess Sansa. The aspect of another battle…it has me off my feet for the moment.” he said blusteringly. Playing it off as eagerness for the fight.

“You may find it easier to move without your breastplate, my lord. Wights I hear come in numbers that make armor irrelevant, for the most part. If anything, it will slow you. Dead men do not tire, why cede them more ground?” Your steel will not stop razor ice regardless. At her words he swallowed, trying to will his legs to carry him.

“Off with it, then. Seven save me but I’d sooner die on my feet than my ass.” One of the older knights guffawed at his lord’s command, helping to remove the breastplate and the rest of the heavier armor. “I may still need to brain somebody, so the gauntlets stay.” Sansa offered her hand and pulled him to his feet, watching a bit of color seep back into his cheeks. “They’re coming from the north, of course.” he said. “Out of the wolfswood.” The giants, Sansa thought at once. They must be brought behind the ring.

Once she might have run for the ramparts, or the castle’s fastest courier. Instead Sansa reached out for one of the forest’s countless owls and promptly began screeching her head off, the numerous mountain-sized people slowly rousing and peering about. It was a few moments before Sansa realized that even with the owl’s spectacular sight, there was no trace of so much as a dead man’s little finger. That does not mean they are not near, she thought. Of course, the owl could no more coerce the giants than carry them and in due course her screeching got the mammoths out of sorts. That made the giants focus. Then Sansa got an idea. She flitted from branch to branch until she found the right mammoth, a hoary old cow that eyed the owl irritably. On reaching for the mammoth something altogether different happened even than with the black hound. Rather than picking a fruit, it was quite as if a hand had popped from the boughs and gripped her own in turn. Danger, she thought, images of a tide of dead men making the cow snort in alarm. She got to her feet, trumpeted, and trundled off at once, the others of her kind quick to follow her lead. The giants will come now, Sansa thought. They will follow the mammoths anywhere. There was a fair bit of irate chatter in the Old Tongue and the astonishingly loud wail of an unseen infant, but nobody was left behind, to Sansa’s relief. Perhaps it would do well to bring Myranda up out of the crypts. Once the giants were well underway she returned to the waking world, finding herself in the arms of a seated Harrold Arryn.

“Sansa, if you’re going to get up to your northern nonsense the least you could do is sit down first.” he said, red from embarrassment and from admonishing her. He’s quite right, Sansa reminded herself. I am not invulnerable spirit; I have a body still to mind. He eased her to her feet. “Where did you go?”

“Out to the wolfswood to warn the giants. To get them out of harm’s way.” Harry swallowed.

“Good thinking. Still, it wouldn’t have been good to have your head dashed open on Winterfell’s own floor from a fall. Shall we find your brother?” Yes, Jon will know what to do. Then she remembered Jon was a world away.

“I suppose so. Better that than reeling in the hall less than useless.” she said, shaking herself. Another moment and she was ready to go, heading for the ramparts and finding the others there. While most everyone from the north proper as well as the Vale stared into the darkness, Bran wasted no time in bringing Sansa up to speed.

“The Wall has fallen. What members of the Night’s Watch survived both that and the journey south have only just reached us.” His face was grim but set. Sansa blinked.

“What about Last Hearth?”

“Either whatever in particular’s out there stayed off the kingsroad, going through mountains and forests, or the castle was removed as an obstacle before they could send warning.” Are they so close?

“Have we heard anything from the other northern houses?”

“Apart from those here in person, Princess, not a word.” Howland Reed said, appearing from the midst of several of his crannogmen. Not a word from the enemy, either. One would think the wights would attack straightaway with the giants headed out of reach. Then bluish light bright as day broke from every horizon from the north and the ground rumbled quietly, pebbles shaking loose from Winterfell’s walls.

“What is that?” Bran shouted, Lord Reed watching with an older man’s composed air. Thunder, Sansa answered in her head. Thunder from the ground.

Whatever it was moved off after a few minutes, the tempests receding and sending the castle into darkness once again.

“Well…pretty, but whatever that was supposed to be-” Bran said uncertainly.

“It wasn’t for us. They were trying to hit something else, someone else.” Lord Howland replied. He turned finally to the north. “They must be trying to cut the castle off from the countryside. Isolating it before they let the wights at us.” He cracked his fingers. “We’d best get the rings built sooner rather than later. We’ll need to work at night, I think, in torchlight if they’ll stay lit.”

“That’s not like to please the giants.” Sansa said doubtfully.

“Neither will such a tempest loosed upon their heads.” Howland replied grimly. Dutifully, several fluent speakers of the Old Tongue were dredged up and informed of their task. Their faced advertised their eagerness to perform such a task.

“I’ll go as well. What giants speak the Common Tongue may do better putting our words in terms more easily swallowed.” Sansa said, her wariness of the big folk put quite in perspective by what else she’d seen of late. Nobody objected, mostly because Sansa suspected their minds were on whatever had happened just over the horizon. Doubtless we’ll find out when the Others feel ready to throw it at Winterfell proper. She put the blinding lights and shaking ground out of her mind, intent on making certain of the giants’ continued well-being. Jon would do the same. He’s not here and Bran is busy with the Singers and with Meera and their babe, so the giants fall to me. What wildlings fluent enough in the Old Tongue and steeled enough to ask more of sleep-deprived giants seemed led by one older man with a bald head who limped along on a wooden peg in place of a foot. A Thenn, Sansa knew at once. They were fluent in the Old Tongue and used to obeying superiors. Maybe that discipline will rub off on the giants. Not that they were an unruly lot- if anything, giants were more reserved than men, even shy. They mind their mammoths and wander about. Precisely nothing like the stories Old Nan used to tell Bran. She made to introduce herself to the Thenn but he only looked at her.

“Know you are.” he said curtly. “Firehair.” He pointed to her branch. Perhaps they believe it improper to talk to me, Jon’s sister? Or are they afraid of me? She didn’t see fear in the bald man’s face, though. No doubt they talk of me in their own circles. To the Valemen I’m simply Princess Sansa, but what am I to the Free Folk? Or the giants, for that matter? They walked out to the outer ring together, the other half-dozen wildlings giving them a wide berth. My talkative escort must be someone of ill repute. When she turned to look at them, she saw they were Thenns all but a single filthy boy who might have been of the ice-river clans. At once they stopped, every pair of eyes on her. Wary, yes, but not of the old Thenn.

“Is something wrong?” she asked finally. The boy’s hanging jaw and wide eyes told her he at least spoke not a word of the Common Tongue.

“No talk. Near gond.” A familiar terse voice said. Not so near. I’ll need Val to explain this, she may be more helpful. The others had torches, but Sansa needed none to see the bunches of prostrate forms looming out of the night. One giant slowly rubbed his eyes with his fists. Something came trundling toward them from behind a motionless mammoth, making funny piping noises. The Thenns froze while Sansa smiled at the sight of the baby, its little trunk coming up to rub her side. A louder heavier snuffling from the mother turned several giants’ heads immediately and one of them came forward to spur the baby back toward her. When the giant saw Sansa he froze in turn, the mud-brown eyes, primitive square face and shaggy black hair clear to her even in the darkness and the falling snow.

“Baelfea.” he grunted quietly. I’ve heard that word from them before, she thought. A look to the Thenn confirmed her suspicion.

“Baelfea.” he reiterated. “Old Tongue. Firehair.” Sansa stood there, still and silent. So did the others, despite the cold and the snow. I’m sure I’ve been called worse behind my back in King’s Landing, Sansa thought. I’d rather be Baelfea than a little dove. Or a little bird, for that matter. But would I rather be Baelfea than Sansa Stark?

“The dead are near. The earthen rings must be completed sooner than planned. I’m afraid work will need to be done at night to make this possible.” Sansa said, the Thenn translating. She saw the giant’s nostrils flare, his unkempt beard fluttering with the force of his exasperated breath. He answered in the Old Tongue.

“Torr say saw big light. Felt ground shake. Firehair want dirt faster, so do Torr.” Primitive to a southerner, but not ignorant by any means.

“Do you know what it was?” she asked. It turned out the Singers are a deal more like the Others than they care to admit or have shoved in their faces. Do the giants know more of our enemy as well than anyone’s bothered to ask? Torr peered into his hands.

“Men not like gond, like nagran. Men live small.” He ran his tongue over his huge dark teeth. “Live small, only time to think small thinks. World big. World old. Big life in it still, life men live too small to see. Big life far away. Far above, far below.” Sansa blinked.

“The Singers say just the opposite. They’re afraid that the world of men will overtake the one that came before.” At this, Torr laughed aloud, shaking his great head in utter bemusement. Sansa actually saw a tear roll out of one of his dark crinkled eyes to freeze in his beard.

“Nagran often sad. Often weepy. Sad it not stay summer all times, sad all green must go to brown, to grey, to white. Gond say, Nagran must have rocks in head. Think same thinks since beginning. Never different. Different, any different, make Nagran sad.” And some claim the giants simple. It’s words they lack, not thoughts. Sansa found herself quite in agreement with the giant’s words, even through the Thenn. If Branch would stop weeping over things long past and bother to look the present in the face he may find, miracle of miracles, something to approve of. Perhaps that’s the problem with using the trees, at least the way the Singers use them. It ties one to the past the more the generations roll by. She spotted other giants and their mammoths moving back toward the northern section of the ring. Sansa followed, intent on making sure the giants were at least working without a horde of wights trying to get at them. Thankfully the great blocks’ cutting and raising had been done in the weeks prior, leaving the moat to stop the wights simply rushing the walls except by one narrow bit the giants used as a bridge to reach the wolfswood. That same block they began to pull up once Torr spread the news that the forest was likely overrun. Only once it had been put into place did Sansa realize that with the outer ring’s completion Winterfell had become an island. One about to bear the brunt of a storm the likes of which have not been seen since the Dawn. She wondered whether the mountain clans, so leery of wildlings, would be so prickly if they saw what might well be passing through their ancestral lands just then. A spearwife or an Other. Val or Howling Wind. A choice everyone in Winterfell had made, their decision advertised by their presence. If only the Others had been more rambunctious when Father was alive. Perhaps the situation would not have got so out of hand. On the way back to the castle she gave it more thought. King Robert was too drunk to see what a blind man could, and Father, bless him, was not the man to check the Others. Jon is his true heir, not me or Bran or even Robb, but Jon can look forward, a trait rare in northmen.

She was quite lost in thought when she caught sight of Brienne of Tarth’s blue armor. The tall woman looked almost embarrassed, her face a deep red. For a breath Sansa thought it was because of the man she was talking with, a bit taller even than she. Then Sansa saw the burned face, the puckered hairline, and recognized the curt gravelly voice. Bran, Jon and even Howling Wind fled her mind. Then at Brienne’s noticing of her the man turned. Sandor Clegane was missing an ear and his face was even more haggard than it had been the night of the Blackwater, where hellish green light had turned him from frightening to nightmarish. He’s not so scary as I remember, Sansa thought. Nor so imposing. Then again, it’s hard to think of a man as imposing when one has seen a giant join battle. If anything, the man looked terribly tired. I wonder where he went after the battle. What sort of road brought him back to Winterfell. She gulped, feeling suddenly self-conscious regarding her wild hair to say nothing of the walnut branch she held, and made her way through the ever-present throng of crannogmen. He looked as stunned as she felt, either unable or unwilling to move as she got closer.

“I didn’t think the world could do you any more harm.”

“Neither did I. Then along came a bitey blue bitch.” he replied, color rising in Brienne’s cheeks. No knight, Sansa remembered. Not the man she thinks on so often.

“What was the issue?”

“Your sister. Me and her were on the road, nowhere to go and nowhere to be, when-”

“Pod and I chanced across them. By the time we’d settled our differences, Arya had disappeared-”

“-we got into it, she fucking bit me, baying like a hunting hound-”

“-I was not-”

“-end of it all, I was lying on the valley floor with a broken leg, a mouthful of blood and nothing left. But one thing led to another-”

“-and here you are.” Sansa finished. Brienne was still bristling, so Sansa turned to her. I had forgotten about Podrick Payne anyway. Maybe he’s been keeping his head down seeing as it was his own blood that killed Lord Stark. “Speaking of young Podrick, perhaps you should make certain he’s staying out of trouble, Brienne. This man and I have much to discuss, and I’d sooner do it where you needn’t feel the urge to defend me.” The blue beauty pursed her lips, looking hurt in her way. “You kept my mother safe. Don’t think I don’t want you here, Brienne.” Her feelings were hard to put in words. She is a noble-minded daughter of the Seven. Of the south. What could she, blessed as she must be, know of the real world? Of wood and stone and ice and bone? “I just think this man is more fitted to what I want to say just now.” She turned to the man who had once been the Hound. “Even with all our worthy visitors, there are empty rooms aplenty in Winterfell. Full barrels, too. It would please me for you to stay in the castle instead of one of the inns in the winter town. It has only recently been rebuilt, and buildings are still going up notwithstanding the war-”

“-if there’s building to be done, strong backs ought be doing it. I don’t need some cushy hearth-lit room.” Sandor Clegane told her. I might tell him he’s highborn, after a fashion. I might order it of him. That’s what Sansa the Little Bird would do. Sansa the Lady. Not Baelfea, with Ramsay’s whore on strings, Ramsay’s hounds in tow and Ramsay’s skull in hand.

“Nobody will look too hard at a man who can do the work of two, perhaps three.” she said. “The smallfolk keep to their own business. Indeed, with the coming of the crannogmen they’re even more reluctant to come into the castle than during the peaceful years. One inn or other will have risen up against the walls by now.” All she got in reply was a short nod.

It was a small matter of pulling the skull off the branch and holding it in her off hand beneath her cloak, her red hair hidden by a hood. The same provision had been made for Sandor Clegane’s face. The smallfolk of the yet-named inn were gathered tight around several tables that looked fashioned from warped or rubbish wood. It will be a painful few years, until all the splinters have been worn away. Even then, the tables will never sit even. After she slid a silver stag at him, he duly looked at the coin rather harder than their faces.

“Room or two upstairs. Breakfast an hour after first light. Stay as long as you please.” he said amicably, immediately turning his back to them. Once thus lodged, Sansa removed her hood and deftly recapped the walnut branch. All the while, Sandor Clegane watched from the door, only speaking when she looked at him.

“I’d light the hearth, but you don’t seem chilled.”

“I’m not. And you hate fire anyway.” All it does is burn and blind. She sat down at the room’s little table, another wobbly woebegone thing. Slowly he sat down across from her.

“It’s my knee,” he said, “I felt it twist in the mad rush from the Wall. Hasn’t been right since.”

“I had no idea you were swift as a flying falcon, Sandor.” Sansa asked. The puckered grimace that had become his face twisted in something like worry.

“I was on my own from the off. Never did catch a glimpse of…them once I’d gotten off the Wall. I’d just found Stranger again, I wasn’t going to lose him to anyone, living or dead.” Sansa felt a little flutter in her heart. That the horse had survived to reunite with his master pleased her greatly. Then her elation was tempered by uncertainty.

“Stranger’s no common plow horse, but…”

“Even a warhorse isn’t about to outrun a blizzard.” Sandor finished, nodding. “Well, all told, he didn’t. He just kept running, right on through it. Even when the winds were stripping branches off trees and throwing men around, I never left the saddle.” Sansa’s eyebrows arched.

“Small wonder you reached the champion’s circle at the Hand’s tourney.”

“Hang champions, hang tourneys. Stranger holds onto me, not the other way ‘round.” Even after Howling Wind and all the rest, Sansa found it in her to be surprised.

“You might have said something earlier.”

“It’s not my tale to tell. Stranger’s business is his own.” Sandor said stiffly.

“Where is he now?”

“Someplace. Close, probably. But not where one of your fool sers will spot him and try something.”

“He must eat…”

“When there’s food, and only if he remembers.” That made no sense to Sansa, but it was far from her chief concern. “Besides, I’m keener to know just what happened to the little bird I left trapped in a sea of green flame.”

Where to start? While Sandor slowly sipped ale from a dented tankard, Sansa told him of all that had transpired since their last meeting. From being set aside by Joffrey in favor of Margaery to being married to Tyrion to being brutalized by Ramsay. To her surprise telling Sandor that part was easy, even her farce of a wedding night to the Bastard of the Dreadfort. Harder was speaking of her reunion with Jon, of seeing his ascension by the assembled lords’ common assent. Of the nights she’d spent in the Haunted Forest in the body of an ice spider and the lanky brutes that slunk through the tall sentinel pines. Of Howling Wind and the Lords of the Long Night. Sandor never interrupted, never commented, just drank and listened; his eyes locked on her face. At the mention of the name Baelfea and what it meant, he stopped drinking. She’d talked more in the last hour than she had in the last year, and when her words stopped, she felt exhausted.

“You’re not a little bird any longer.” Sandor said. No. I’m an ice spider, glutted in her hollow beneath a fallen tree. I’m a bloom of winter roses growing over lion bones. I’m a white owl with blue eyes, on an arm clad in icy silk. I’m Lady, wherever she is. “One morning, a few days after the Red Wedding…your sister told me she saw your mother dead in the river. In a dream.”

“Did you believe her?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You don’t strike me as the…well, as the type to set stock in such things.”

“After Stranger, it’s not so hard to imagine. Certainly, I’m no clinking grey rat who thinks all that goes on in this world can be put on paper.” Sansa found a smile curl her lips.

“It’s not every man who would take kindly to learning that the person across from him made a corpse walk.”

“Worse things have been done by worse men. Meat and bone, that’s all we are. If you’ve put some to use before your enemy could, what’s to piss my breeches about?” Ahoooooo. Ahoooooo. Ahoooooo. The trumpet’s blaring shook Sansa from her thoughts. One of the sentries on the parapets.

“It’s them. The Others.” she told Sandor. “Perhaps their dead men have finally been sighted.”

“Good.” he replied, standing. “It’s been too long since I’ve fought somebody. Let’s get you back to the castle first, though.” At her frown he shrugged. “It isn’t for your safety. I want a crack at them before you figure out how to make them crumble to the last corpse or burst into flame or some such fuckery.”

Out on the ramparts the winds were steadily picking up.

“When will they come?” one guardsman asked, wrapped in a blanket and shrugging off snow. Several dirty looks made him turn red. “Just putting it out there. All this time waiting for them, now they’re right outside-”

“Barnard, do us all a favor and shut your fucking mouth.” the sergeant on duty muttered. One of the stormlanders, Sansa remembered. What few of them had survived from Dragonstone to waiting on the wights had become flinty as any true northmen, the sergeant in particular with his long beard and steely eyes. They follow Davos Seaworth now, or would if he were here. The day’s fleeting light was already fast fading, the sun dipping into the west. It’s getting harder to keep track of time. The days are shorter than normal days, the nights longer than normal nights.

“What good are we here? We ought be out at the dirt wall where we can see them, get at them.” Sandor said grumpily.

“Let’s see what they do first. They have three such earthen walls to scale, not to mention the moats before them, before they reach the winter town and the castle proper. Why throw ourselves into their midst just for the fight?” Sansa asked in reply. All according to Lord Howland’s stratagem, she thought. Lizard-lions rarely chase their food, they spring from the bogs in ambush. They know food enough will come to them, as Lord Howland knows fight enough will come to him. The last glint of sunlight vanished, and night began to fall. At once Sansa could hear the wolfswood come alive. As such, anyway. The sound of countless rushing feet reminded her of the Battle of the Bastards- if there were ten times as many men fighting it and they’d all been rendered mute beforehand. No trumpets, no calls to arms, no cries of valor. The combination was truly unnerving. Instantly she spotted men readying to go out to the wall if needed, if the garrison was not enough. Several giants were plodding out to the outermost ring as well, determination in their faces. I wonder if this is the start of it, Sansa thought. If this northern push is their first action, or if they’ve found a way to cause trouble other places as well. For the first time in a long time, Sansa felt herself go cold. The war is starting and here we are, no dragons, no second army, and no King in the North. The defenders’ shouts of “Moat!” were met by a mass mobilization by the crannogmen, the olive tide pouring out of the castle and the hollow bits of ring to reinforce the contested bit of wall. As the sounds of battle joined and grew louder, Sansa braced for the worst. There were screams, shouts of pain and terror, but nothing so horrible as she imagined. Could it be the wights are stymied by the moat? That they lack the ability to scale the wall quick enough to present a true threat? It had only been a thought, the earthen rings, but it seemed as the moments became minutes and the garrison held that Sansa’s simple idea had quite proved worth doing. A moment more and Bran was beside her, Meera as well, her smoky sword prominent on her hip.

“Just wights for now.” Sansa said.

“For now.” Branch’s sullen voice replied, coming up the stone steps. “Maggots may reach the corpse first, but that doesn’t dull a wolf’s interest. Nor a shadowcat’s, nor a bear’s.” Ever cheerful. There was only the faintest sound of cured leather boots fast approaching, even to Sansa’s ears. Only she and Branch turned to see who was about to be on them and for a moment Sansa felt irritation at glimpsing Myranda. Is it my worry that draws her? The eyes were different though, not the green that Sansa had put into them. Blue. Blue like stars. The dead girl did not shamble along as the wights had in the Haunted Forest, nor did she pay anyone else the slightest mind. Sansa had time only to raise her arm in defense before Myranda tackled her- or rather, whatever had taken ahold of her strings bid her to. Even when Meera put her sword through the corpse’s back her feral rending hands did not still. A foot away, an inch, and Sansa recognized the eyes that stared out from Myranda’s face. Walls of glass, she remembered as a pair of cold hands shoved her arm aside and clasped around her throat. Or tried to. Instead, Sansa’s palm caught her in the ribs. The walls of glass went wide, the mouth dropped open, and Myranda flew from the ramparts as she’d done when Theon had killed her. While chaos reigned on the ramparts and Bran frantically tried to tend to Sansa, she could not tear her eyes away from the hand that had struck Myranda. There was nothing to denote anything out of the ordinary, but Sansa felt it tingle, felt it hum. Only after he realized she was unharmed did Bran pick up on it as well. Eventually the feeling faded until her arm felt like a wet cloth, like she’d bumped her elbow on something especially hard, but the memory of what had been was crisp and clear in her mind.

“Like I said,” the rough voice of Sandor Clegane said softly as he brought her to her feet, “Save some for the rest of us. Else your bastard brother will come back to Winterfell with you having won his war for him.”

Chapter 6: Samwell I

Chapter Text

Gilly spent the evening looking over the various dresses in the townhouse they were quartered in.

“I’m not going to keep any,” she said, “the people who live here will likely be back one day and they should find everything as it was.” Sam murmured in agreement, lying on the bed with his eyes on the ceiling. Vaguely he could hear Little Sam giggling, likely hidden under the bed. His whole world was in the room with him and yet Sam’s thoughts could not be further away from them. Over and over he saw the dragon crashing through the ceiling of the Red Keep, scales glittering like black opals and snorting smoke. Turning steel into sap. Sam swallowed, trying keep his thoughts settled. If that dragon had been at the Fist, he would have done for all the wights, the White Walkers, and the Others as well. Torches and pitfires might die in their presence, but this is something else. The black flame had surged with tremendous force from the mouth that loosed it, sure as a loosed arrow. Or more aptly, a scorpion bolt. Or a giant’s thrown boulder. Even if it took longer to end an Other than their chattel, Sam didn’t see how something could withstand such overwhelming force. There are two more as well, he reminded himself. Somewhere. Perhaps they’re mixing it up with the dead right this moment. An odd feeling bubbled in Sam’s chest, making his hands tremble over his chest. Perhaps this is what hope feels like. After so many years dreading the prospect of the Others, Sam found himself contemplating if even they had their limits. What had it taken to kill the dragons of the past? Another dragon, or a scorpion bolt in the eye. Or an entire chain of fire-mountains erupting at once. One trick I’m confident the Others will not play on us. Once more in his mind’s eye a torrent of black flame surged out and iron screamed, bubbling in moments. If they can do that to iron, imagine what they can do to ice. Jon had been too preoccupied with Daenerys Targaryen to confer with after the throne room but on the way to the townhouse Sam heard lords great and small talking as soon as the pair were out of earshot.

“Seven save me, I never thought I’d see a lizard.”

“I often thought about them when I was a lad, but I didn’t imagine them so alive.”

“Those red eyes…he was looking at us just the same as we were at him. There were thoughts going on in there…”

“Fucking terrifying.”

“To think they were used in wars over the throne. The Field of Fire…who can say it was any sort of battle now?” Precisely, Same had thought. Only then did he realize Gilly’s chatter had died. He looked to her and she was giving him the same reproachful look she always did when he tried to spare her discomfort or uncertainty.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. Maybe she’s got the dragon on the mind as well, passing it off for Little Sam’s benefit.

“Sam, you’re not the only one who can work out a dragon would do for the dead.” There was fear in her eyes, but not the kind he saw on his family’s face in the throne room. She understands what a boon the dragons may well be. If not a blessing.

“I didn’t want to dwell on it and make you worry.” Gilly’s mouth tightened.

“I’ve had a White Walker come grabbing at Little Sam. Talk isn’t going to scare me.”

“Well, obviously you know what them being here means. The other lords-”

“-haven’t seen half of what we have. They’ll come ‘round when the dead men come. If not then, when the black fire lays them low.” she said, picking Little Sam up. He beamed at the sight of Samwell.

“HA!” he laughed aloud, reaching eagerly. Smiling himself, Sam took the lad in his arms.

In the sitting room Sam found House Tarly proper eating fish for supper. Hardly surprising. There’s naught else to eat in King’s Landing but what Dragonstone’s got coming in- or rather, what the man-fishes do. Despite their quite terrifying appearance, on closer examination the man-fishes didn’t seem to do much more than wander around on the beach waiting for leave to go back to sea. They can come up, but that may be more accident than design. Surely, Sam figured, they could make quite a mess of things if they chose, but until lately he’d heard no more than fishing stories of such creatures. The Citadel’s wisdom seems less wise by the day. Sam frowned. He wore no chain, yet he could close a wound well as any maester and write better than most of them as well. All the better to show the rest a lord who can put his own name to paper, he thought dryly. As well as one who isn’t afraid of something greater than himself. The looks he got were mixed. His mother’s smile was warm as ever he remembered and Talla seemed pleased enough to see him, but Dickon looked uncertain. Lord Randyll looked as sour as ever. Nice to see you too, Father. In front of father and son was a jug and two wooden cups, likely rougher fare than they drank out of at Horn Hill. Boo hoo, thought Samwell as he took not a cup but the tankard, face falling at the half-full weight. He emptied it in one long draught, setting it down afterward.

“Northmen like to drink.” Sam said, shrugging at his family’s astonished looks. I may have drunk more than I can hold, but better that than be too afraid to taste a sip. He turned to his brother. “Don’t get drawn into a drinking contest at Winterfell, Dickon. It isn’t worth waking up two days later with bloody knuckles, no shirt and a broken nose.” He moved to the door. “If you want Heartsbane, it’s in my room. Just know you’re not going to kill an Other with it in anything remotely resembling a fair fight.” Sam added without turning around. Stepping out into the night, Sam could hear what people remained to King’s Landing go about their business. All this tumult among the lords and they couldn’t care less. He wasn’t altogether surprised to see other banners from the Reach hanging from balconies or out of windows of the other townhouses and inns on the street. No doubt we’ve split by realm as cleanly as on a map. The Seven Kingdoms only exist for the privileged. For the vast majority, it’s just Westeros. He chuckled humorlessly at seeing the half-dozen buildings claimed by the red apple of Cider Hall and all its offshoots. House Fossoway can’t piss itself without arguing who’s in charge. I’ll bet the man I found at Highgarden has already lost his house’s support. He found himself making his way over to the larger of the inns flying the red-apple banner, hearing arguing inside as he thought he might. Before he could think, he found himself hammering on the door with a fist. At once it opened and he had to stop short of punching a Fossoway retainer squarely in the face. Sam stolidly shouldered past while the man spluttered, finding the Fossoways themselves red in the face and almost at blows in the sitting room while the hapless proprietor looked on. Taste of Glory, Sam thought. Foss’ Folly, more like.

Hard to miss as he was, it took a few moments for them to realize someone had arrived. Gradually, silence fell.

“Don’t let me interrupt you.” he said, arms at his sides and hands again balled into fists. Several people made to come forward at once, prompting the fighting to start again but it stopped as soon as it began when they saw Sam’s expression. This isn’t going to work. No more Tyrells, no more throne and still they fight. Over Cider Hall just as they fight with the other lords over Highgarden. “It strikes me that certain matters must needs be resolved before we sail north.” He thought for a moment. “The Dragonpit has room for everyone. We will fill it with the Lords of the Reach and settle affairs in stone, with no ambiguity.” His words were calm, even disinterested, but Sam had to work hard to hide his anger. “If you lot could collect yourselves and proceed with even a modicum of dignity, I’d appreciate it.” Not hard enough, he thought.

“Who, in particular? We can’t agree on who-” one knight asked.

“Everybody.” Sam replied. “Every single Fossoway there is to be found. Your green cousins, too. No one will claim absentia, nor abstention.” He visited each other cluster of banners. Grapes, towers, horns-of-plenty and all the rest were invited to a council in the Dragonpit. I suppose they will make the wrong decision, as they most always seem to do. He saved the townhouse the Tarlys were quartered in for last. “The others are heading to the Dragonpit of all places. I suppose they want to puzzle out what problems remain somewhat in arrears.” he told Lord Randyll. As he suspected, the man’s mouth became a tight white line.

“Who summons us?”

“I don’t know. Outside I saw people heading that way and was bright enough to inquire what was going on. If you want to present yourself as a candidate for Highgarden, you’d best get your family moving.” Lord Randyll had his wife and children out of the house inside five minutes, off no doubt to bang his empty head against the wall. Wearily, Sam headed back upstairs, careful not to wake Gilly and Little Sam should they be asleep. He was half right, finding the lad dozing in a bundle of blankets while Gilly watched the lords and their retainers head for the Dragonpit.

“Where are they all going?” she asked at once.

“To pull their heads out of their asses and shove them up each other’s.” Sam replied, drawing a reactive giggle from Gilly before her look became reproachful again.

“Is it the red-apple people?”

“The red-apple people arguing who’s reddest, and everyone in general over that castle we found them at.” Gilly frowned.

“Apples are apples. Red, green, yellow, each will fill your belly full as the other.”

“Tell them that.” She was quiet for a little while.

“They’d not listen to me, Sam. But maybe they will to someone else.”

“I don’t think there is anyone else. It will have to be one of them.”

“You should ask the old woman. Old Olenna. See what she says.”

“Olenna Tyrell is more like to poke the bear than let him lie.” Gilly nodded.

“Mhmm. Even if she doesn’t want to go, she surely would for just that reason. She’s got nothing to do but bother people. Let her, Sam.”

With no little amount of trepidation, Sam paid a visit to the old woman. Her huge guardsmen were bleary-eyed and especially ornery but Olenna Redwyne herself seemed surprisingly hale given the late waking.

“Old people don’t sleep, Samwell.” she explained, waving a hand impatiently. “I had only to look out my window and see all manner of goings-on, what have I missed?”

“A council has been called in the Dragonpit, my lady. I suppose it’s to sort out who among the Fossoways is Lord of Cider Hall and who among the Lords of the Reach is Lord of Highgarden proper.” Her face fell slightly. I suppose it’s the only acknowledgement House Tyrell will get. Another family in their place is the Reach’s way of saying they’re gone.

“Well, that’s all well and good, but the Dragonpit is on the other side of the city and I’m near eighty.”

“Aye, you’re a decrepit old raisin but there’s juice in you yet. Elsewise, you’d not had lived through all you have and all you’ve lost.” Gilly said from behind Sam. To his absolute astonishment Olenna’s wrinkled face brightened at her words.

“You’re still a Redwyne of the Arbor. Your nephew will want to hear your counsel, if no one else will.” Little Sam fussed in Gilly’s arms, peering at Olenna in recognition and pointing with a sleepy smile. He does like to point at things. “Even if they wave your words away, everyone of high birth in the Reach will be there. An opportunity to show up and annoy all of them at once. Perhaps your last.” Resolve creeped into the wizened face before him.

“The Queen of Thorns, they call me. I suppose I’d be a fool bigger than your father to miss giving them all a last good prick, eh?” she said, reaching to a nearby little table. On it was a small jug from which she poured a dark Arbor red.

“Your father’s?” Sam asked.

“My grandfather’s.” Sam’s eyebrows went up. I wonder how much a cask of that costs. “You can squeeze the wine from the grape, but you cannot squeeze the grape from the wine, he used to say.” she seemed to be talking more to herself than them. “Ripe and Ready.” She snorted humorlessly. To Sam’s surprise, she filled another cup. “The last of the small lake’s worth I took with me when I wed my dear daft Luthor.” she explained, holding it out. “I never told anybody about it, drinking only when I had a child. The years passed and I started doing so too when a Redwyne I knew died. Eventually my children started having children of their own. That seemed more cause than any to tap into a cask. I got so drunk the night Margaery was born…” the ghost of a smile rose and set across her wrinkled mouth. “The day she died, too. The day they all did and left one old woman alone with naught but barrels to witness her grief.” Sam was reminded irresistibly of Maester Aemon, giving voice to the past when he felt his many days at last were numbered. He took the cup from her mildly shaking hand. “Ah, forgive me. That wretchedness started perhaps a year ago.” Olenna sounded almost embarrassed.

“It’s no trouble my lady, but I think we’ll need another cup.” She frowned.

“I thought you were intelligent, Samwell. Any fool could tell you that’s a bad idea.” Can she tell I’ve already had a half-tankard tonight?

“A headache’s a headache, big or small.” Her eyes flitted from Sam to Gilly and back.

“Headaches come and go, aye, Redwynes know this better than most. What we also know better than most is wine is perhaps the worst thing-” She stopped talking abruptly. Sam turned to Gilly himself and was startled to see her eyes wide and her mouth tight. “Oops.” Olenna said, going red as a wine grape.

He felt numb all over, even as he helped the twin guardsmen find a carriage. Were it not for Erryk catching him once or twice, he’d have certainly fallen over. Is this how all men feel when they find out? Or am I still Sam the Craven, afraid of my own shadow? He found he didn’t care one way or another, too preoccupied with trying to figure out Gilly’s future to worry about being a coward. It won’t matter if it’s a boy or girl, Father thinks Little Sam is mine and he’s no sooner to disfavoring Dickon than he was when he sent me to the Wall. That rather set Sam at ease. One more bastard isn’t like to bother anyone. We’ll be too busy fighting the Others when the time comes for anyone to whine about the Night’s Watch vows. Still, he had broken them. Not bent, as he’d been doing near as long as he’d been in the Watch but broken them clean and for true. Olenna, astute as ever, noticed Sam struggling with himself.

“Vows are words and words are wind, Samwell Tarly.” she said dismissively, peering expectantly out the carriage window. Arryk drove while Erryk clung to the rear rather deftly for a man so large, in Sam’s opinion. On their arrival at the Dragonpit Sam was dismayed but not altogether surprised when he heard shouting coming from within. At least they won’t wake the lords of other kingdoms, clucking chickens on full display for all to see, Sam thought. As he passed through the crumbling stone halls to the pit proper, he wondered at how far he’d come. Once, a fat boy’s cruel father sent him off to die. He was still a jumble of nerves and half-realized thoughts when the voices snapped him from his reverie, as well as quite relieving him of the butterflies in his stomach. I ought be alone with Gilly and Little Sam just now, not wrangling chickens and wiping noses. Unlike before, Sam waste no time waiting for someone to notice or acknowledge him. Once Gilly and Olenna had their hands to their ears, Little Sam pressed to Gilly’s chest, Sam put his borrowed trumpet to use. He kept at it until the shouting stopped and he wouldn’t have to yell himself to be heard.

“Is this the measure of the Reach’s power?” he asked, louder than he meant to. “A man without a thought in his head, a basket of spilled apples, some casks of wine? Had I known you lot would shame me so, I’d not have bothered going to Highgarden to rally you in the first place.” No one spoke. No one moved. They know who I am, he thought. Everyone in the Reach had known about fierce Lord Randyll Tarly’s bookish son. “Fruit and flowers it seems are only too fit to be your sigils. Towers too, to lock yourselves into and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.” All this because everyone here claims some blood or other in common with Garth Greenhand, a man who may well have not lived at all. Even if he had, he’d have more in common with Gilly than any lord from the Reach. “Have you at the very barest figured out who’s going to lead the Fossoways?”

“That’s the rub, Samwell.” Paxter Redwyne said after a bit of silence, when it was clear Sam had no more words for them. “We have a lackwit, two babes and an old woman to say nothing of the hale men vying for Cider Hall.” Sam rubbed his eyes. The wine was catching up with him, delicious though it had been.

“Very well. The apples argue who is sweetest while the Others wait below for them to start dropping off the branch.” He waved a hand and put them out of his mind. “What about Highgarden? Have you come to a consensus on that point?”

“Your father doesn’t even know what consensus means, Samwell.” Olenna said wryly from his side.

“Nominally, it would be the lord of that selfsame castle who calls his vassals to council. As it stands, we can’t quite work out just who called this one in the first place.” Baelor Hightower said.

“Samwell did, or are you as still and unthinking as your sigil?” Olenna said irritably. “Hewas sick of waiting around for one of you to have the stones to put forth for Highgarden to his face so here we be, putting all the burden on your clueless heads.”

Those lords he claimed only to be relaying the message to looked at him.

“I arrived at Highgarden expecting you to be finishing up the petty politics. Instead I found you had yet to even start. We marched to the kingswood and every night’s topic was Highgarden. Still no decision. It was my bright idea to tell Daenerys Targaryen a lord chosen by his peers would make you all happiest. Are we truly so unable to simply fucking pick someone that we must ask another to make the choice for us?” He decided to make no mention of the Others or the events at the Wall for as long as possible. They are like children. Talk too much of things above their heads and they go crosseyed and wander away. “It isn’t the dragon’s job to choose for us when by rights we ought choose ourselves. Our affairs are no more her concern than hers are ours.”

“There are a hundred men here with more than little claim to Highgarden, Samwell-” Sam interrupted Paxter before he could finish.

“Then choose another way. Any way. If not by blood, choose by deed. But choose. Claiming kinship to Garth Greenhand won’t stop the Others anyhow, my lords. It won’t stop a nosebleed. I only hope this is a lesson you can learn even so late as now as opposed to later, on the field of battle.” As he suspected, he saw no inklings of understanding, no comprehension in their highborn faces. Nor will I, he thought, until they see for themselves. “I suppose I can’t hold it against you. I only learned myself by being made to fight well outside my weight- and I am fat, my lords.” Though not so fat as I was. “I got knocked down more than once, by all manner of comers. In the north you’ll have to take getting knocked down as well, my lords. The people, the animals, the cold… there are no harvest banquets that make for songs a hundred years down the line. No fruit on the banners, either. Direwolves and bears, angry giants and lizard-lions, among others, are fitting sigils for the northmen.” More than one face grew pale. It’s as if the dragon just landed in our midst again.

“I heard they have giants up there. Real ones, not Umbers.” Desmera Redwyne’s voice was silk against the sound of steel on steel.

“So far as I know, Lord Eddard Umber is the last of his house. There were giants in Mance Rayder’s host, and if Jon Snow says they’ve taken up in the north proper, they have. They’re not half so hostile as most wildlings, though. Leave their mammoths alone and they’re content to let you south along, bugs underfoot.” It became steadily harder to keep his eyes open, even in the midst of full conversation. Too much wine, he thought. “But you’re harvesting before you’ve planted. Worry about your petty nonsense once we get up there if you like, just know that there’s no such thing as a second chance. Forget your furs and you will freeze. Lose your horse, the wolves will have it down in minutes.” He slowly turned, fighting to keep his balance. “Just pick a lord paramount and follow him, sure as he would follow the dragon.” He didn’t remember getting back into the carriage, but the hazy image of the roof stuck out even as he felt Gilly lean into him. Little Sam’s sleepy burbling proved harder to shrug off than all the lords of the Reach shouting together, and Sam himself fell asleep then and there.

He woke to snoring so loud his first thought was of Grenn.

“Pyp, give him a kick.” He muttered groggily, only realizing after a few head-clearing blinks that it was Olenna Redwyne snoring so. Maybe I’m still asleep, he thought, before the headache hit and the inside of the carriage spun madly. There was more than Olenna to hear though. He tensed at the sound of multiple pairs of feet walking around outside. Armored, Sam thought. Bracing for the coming pain he opened the carriage door, making Gilly murmur and turn away in protest. He blinked out the sunlight, yawning while the world came into focus. There were men everywhere, in every manner of armor and looking as if they’d come from a dozen different lands. Sellswords, Sam knew at once. But who had hired them, for what purpose, he could not begin to guess. Sam gingerly got out of the carriage, wincing from the pounding in his head more than what weak sunlight reached King’s Landing. Does the snow ever stop? he wondered. It was winter, after all, but even so it was early for the snows to fall so often and so heavily this far south.

“Who are you?” someone barked at him suddenly. Sam was too distracted by the white sky to answer. “Oi! Over here!” He heard the snapping of fingers and looked down to see perhaps the ugliest man he’d ever seen looking at him sharply. The sellsword had the bearing of an officer and his armor was of finer make and keep, but nothing could hide the mask of scars a life of battle had made of his face. Nor the nubs it had of his ears.

“Fine, here you go.” Sam said, and his fist flew out. He felt his knuckles find the man’s jaw and the sellsword promptly flew backward into a dozen full sacks of grain. A faint groan sounded from the pile, the man feebly making to rise.

“Ugh…” he muttered, swaying a bit as he spat out what seemed a spoonful of blood. Staggering slightly, he brought his fists up. “Alright, young buck, let’s at it.” he grunted, trying to keep beady brown-black eyes on Sam.

“Hold there, Franklyn. No need to lose a few teeth over an honest misunderstanding.” A portly man with greying hair trundled over. “Ho, there. Our boisterous brown apple didn’t mean you any harm, lad.” he said to Sam, smiling genially. The word apple teased at his aching brain. “Harry Strickland.” The odd man introduced himself. Evidently, he thought Sam should recognize his name because he turned pink when there was no forthcoming impression of recognition. “Captain-general of the Golden Company.” Ah, now there’s a name I recognize.

“Oh.” Sam replied. “Uhh, splendid. We need all the swords we can get.” Whatever response this Harry Strickland was expecting, that wasn’t it.

“Just what do you think we’re doing in Westeros?” Sam shrugged.

“Taking the gold some lord or other owes you to support him in these turbulent times?”

“We’re sellswords, not retainers.”

“Then I haven’t the first idea what you’ve abandoned the no-doubt lucrative fighting of the Free Cities and the Disputed Lands for to cross the Narrow Sea.”

“Precisely because it’s not been so lucrative. One day it was business as usual, Myr against Lys, Volantis against everyone- then Daenerys Targaryen turned all on its head when she burned slavery down sure as she did the slavers themselves.”

“You’re against Daenerys, then?”

“Not so much against her as for another. A more fitting claimant to the Iron Throne.” To a bubbling molten pool, running across the throne room floor. Harry Strickland did not seem in a great rush to share just who had contracted the Golden Company though, no more than identity of this “claimant” who could apparently put themselves before her in the succession. Sam felt no great urge to regale the man of what had happened in the Red Keep in turn.

“Well, if you’re looking for who’s in charge-” Harry Strickland only looked more lost by the moment.

“You are a Reachman, yes? It was my understanding the Reach is ruled by House Tyrell.” He looked over to the ugly man, still plainly glowering at Sam.

“The Tyrells are all dead, killed in the destruction of the Great Sept of Baelor. A vile ploy by Cersei Lannister, herself killed by Ser Jaime Lannister to prevent her sending the rest of King’s Landing the same way.” By then Harry Strickland had gone positively pale, looking so much like a shaken white frog that Sam had to look away to avoid laughing at the man. “I take it your benefactor is somewhat ignorant of the goings on in Westeros, so far removed as he’s been.” The so-called sellsword gaped like a fish plucked from a pond while his men looked on, faces differing in color as well as expression. What madman would nominate this creature to be captain-general of the most storied sellsword band in the world? Another man came through the throng, one the common swords seemed to have a deal more respect for than Harry Strickland. A Summer Islander, Sam saw. He is not so old as to normally have hair white as a cloud, though.

“I am Balaq, commander of the company’s archers.” Sam saw the goldenheart bow slung over his shoulder.

“Black Balaq, he’s called proper.” one of the men said. Funny, he looks Westerosi. A fair number of them do, actually, Sam thought on closer inspection. “Nothing is half so black as the queen’s dragon. Not only in scale, but temper as well.” he replied casually. That seemed to please Balaq, or at least he found it humorous. Wonder why they call him that. Imaginative lot, these sellswords.

Sam took it upon himself to wake the other lords of the Reach before they could rouse and find themselves the unwilling hosts of a company of sellswords. He played it off as just another nuisance rather than a crisis, shrugging in surly irritation whenever someone inquired as to just who’d flung the Golden Company at King’s Landing.

“Who could afford the Golden Company’s price, though? Free Cities pooling their gold to send them after Daenerys?” Lord Hightower asked from his bed. Perhaps he’s smarter than I credited him at first, if only just.

“The Golden Company are paid to fight, not to kill. Sellswords, not assassins, my lord.”

“A sellsword is an assassin, only louder and drunker.” Hightower retorted grumpily, standing to dress. The other lords woke in much the same vein, with much grumbling and complaining but little true anger. It must be a relief, Sam pondered. The wars with each other have stopped, at least for the moment. The first night in a while spent under roofs and in beds for many of them as well. When he returned to the Tarly townhouse, Talla put the same question forth when she learned what had happened. He waited until Gilly and Little Sam were ushered upstairs by spry Lady Olenna before answering. Besides, Talla’s smarter asleep than Lord Randyll and Dickon are put together and wide awake.

“The only person I can think of that the Golden Company would be willing to risk so much for is a Blackfyre claimant of some kind or other. Stingy on the details as the captain-general was, he did suggest his benefactor had a better claim than Daenerys. That doesn’t exactly suggest Blackfyre to me.”

“If they’re professing to be a Targaryen, it has to be one of Prince Rhaegar’s children. They would have a better claim than their aunt. But they were killed when King’s Landing was sacked.”

“So the story goes. Then again, dragons were dead and the Others a drunken northern myth. Madder things are happening by far than one endling having dodged death.”

“It can’t be Princess Rhaenys. Everyone recognized her when she and her baby brother were laid out before Robert on the throne.” A days-old baby, though, that nobody outside the nursery must have gotten more than a passing glance at…

“Prince Aegon, then. Aegon, the Sixth of His Name, I suppose he accounts himself.”

“Who sailed expecting to find a throne and a queen both waiting for him.” He’s like to be doubly disappointed, then. The issue of the throne has quite been settled, and she herself has gone on to Dragonstone with Jon. Daenerys did not strike Sam in the least like a maiden princess in a story, waiting to be rescued by some strapping hero. Wild creatures need no rescuing, least of all from each other.

Chapter 7: Jon I

Chapter Text

The northmen could not be any more eager to get underway. Jon paid Alys due congratulations once more before taking leave of his countrymen, heading out of the cave to sit on a rock near the beach and stare west, where he knew the ships carrying the lords of Westers and their assembled levies would soon appear. Though he tried to keep his mind on practical matters, on issues of supply and troop movement, on organizing the landings at White Harbor to not be an utter shambles, Jon soon found other thoughts forcing themselves to the forefront of all that went on in his head. Ygritte and Val were reduced in prominence while Daenerys Targaryen and her mysterious relation from out of the eastern chaos occupied his mind’s eye. She did not seem over-interested, he thought. If anything, she seemed uncertain how to handle an army we weren’t expecting. Surely, they would be put to good use in the north, the trick would be getting them to go up with the lords assembly instead of charging on to King’s Landing. Then again, they have no dragons and I doubt they want to let Dany wander off in the company of the King in the North. Dany’s words expressing doubt about the newcomers echoed as well. A past lover from Essos, joined on with his lads only to reach her. That seems truer than a crass ploy for power, a crown, a throne. The man was older than he, that much was obvious, and as different as could be from Jon. A girl’s dream, a woman’s nightmare. Perhaps that was all it was. But then, I’ve seen the look he gives her before. Toward the end, Val scarcely looked at me any other way. Guilt oozed up to blend with everything else. It would have been simpler to stay, he thought. Stay, with my people and with Val. Never mind the rest, anything south of the Neck. That could not be, though. Sansa saw the truth of that. His guilt only compounded when he thought on her, adrift among prickly northern lords, not to mention the masses of wildlings that must have seemed wild savages to her eyes. She could not so much as stomach one of Old Nan’s stories when we were little. I suppose she’s charmed Harry the Heir, wittingly or no. The knight was something straight out of a song, with sky-blue eyes and clean blonde hair. Arryn colors. I do not envy this Robert Arryn’s task of keeping his lords true when a far fitter scion of his house spreads wing.

Honed as his senses were, even with Ghost being difficult, Jon heard the man approach on almost plodding feet.

“I’m sure I can be of no help with whatever your inquiry is.” Jon told him.

“Oh, I think I’ve found just what I’m looking for.” The Common Tongue was accented but clear. When Jon looked up, he saw a man with amber skin regarding him sullenly. Jon blinked to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. Amber it was, though his hair was a limp listless rat’s nest and his goatee untrimmed. Not from the voyage, either. This is a defeated man. Without a word the Essosi freed himself and started pissing against the rocks, Jon only just agile enough to stand away.

“All I hear of Essos is how elegant and poised everyone is, how life itself is a dance-”

“Dance enough, until a grey plague finished what the dragon queen started.” From his belt he pulled a small flask, filling even as he emptied.

“You’re no advocate of hers.”

“And you’re no khal nor sellsword, yet she seems fond and more of you.” Swaying slightly, he righted his leggings to Jon’s relief.

“Who are you?” Jon asked, when he could think of nothing more to say.

“Yezzan zo Qaggaz.” The man replied, snorting shortly at Jon’s gape. “The House of Qaggaz held great sway in Yunkai. The uncle I was named for was the richest man behind its walls and all was well, the world wine fountains and everfeasts.” Why do I suspect a great many men could tell me the same story?

“Your House dealt in slaves.” Jon surmised. Yunkai. A Ghiscari mongrel, then.

“So did everyone’s. What wars we waged were fought with funds and slave-flesh, out of sight and out of mind. Even the Dothraki did not see fit to bother us. Until Daenerys Targaryen came, with her seething sea of screamers and a howling twister of hungry mouths behind it, eating everything it could catch. The sacks were blight enough, the freedmen rising doom for all…but the Pale Mare bore rich men and poor, the slaves and the free, the lowborn and high.” Jon’s indifference to the man softened, if only a bit.

“From how you tell it, this Pale Mare finished what the wars started.”

“It finished more than that. All of Slaver’s Bay soon bore the bloody flux’s weight, one measured in pits and piles of bodies. There was no time for prayer, no room for burials. We burned them all, until our eyes were dry of tears. No one spoke of wealth or blood then. We saw ourselves for what we were, worms wriggling in a harpy’s bones. Still the flux burned through us, snipping family trees here and cutting them down there.” He swallowed, as if unable to stop speaking. “We needed no torches for light at night. The fires burned hot and high and had no lack of tinder. By the end, perhaps one man in five remained alive to burn the other four.”

He took out yet another flask, emptying it as well. Jon said nothing, too fixed on the ghastly image of whole cities of corpses burning at a time.

“Slaver’s Bay, we called the place once. The freedmen in their wit preferred the Bay of Dragons, even when there were none flying over it any longer. It’s the Mare’s Hoof now, as much a blighted hell as Valyria.”

“Small wonder, then, that you joined the sellsword companies planning to sail west.” Yezzan looked at him.

“The Mare could do for Westeros quite easily.”

“Not so. Westeros is not fed by one river and there isn’t such upheaval among its people. Even then, there’s a simple reason Westeros has little need to fear your bloody flux.”

“What is that?”

“It’s killed so many so quickly that there’s no one left to spread it. The sellswords on the beach spoke nothing of this Pale Mare, so it must not have reached the Free Cities.” Jon’s words made Yezzan zo Qaggaz quiet for a bit.

“Fire made Valyria what it was, and in fire Valyria ended. I suppose it’s fitting flesh did the same for the last of Ghis’ descendants.” He sat down on the rock, looking ready to walk into the waves that lapped against Dragonstone’s sand. Rather than let the man stew in his gloom, Jon found himself speaking as soon as he could form the words.

“You are the last of the House of Qaggaz, I take it.”

“The very last. The wars we weathered. The flux, we didn’t.”

“All the same. You are most welcome in Westeros, Yezzan zo Qaggaz. You, your flux-fleeing countrymen and all others who’ve come west.” That broke the Yunkai’i out of his black stupor.

“I could not stay. I could not stand amidst the ruin of a world I loved. I came-”

“-to die, and indeed you may. As a sellsword or just a man seeking his end. Perhaps you thought you’d die besieging some Westerosi castle or another. Or trampled by Dothraki, or in a camp brawl, or just a slow death by drink. Do you know, Yezzan zo Qaggaz, that you will not die any of these ways?” The man turned minutely to Jon.

“The man leading the Golden Company and the sellswords proper, this Ser Jon Connington, would disagree with you.”

“Ser Jon Connington is free to see for himself. There is no throne waiting for his prince at King’s Landing, no blushing bride waiting for him at tale’s end, no Eversummer. Neither is there safety waiting for anyone fleeing Essos.”

“Wars still to be fought. One stands a better chance in war than in the midst of a great plague.”

“Not so. Not when the enemy is such as comes against Westeros and the world at large, I should guess.” Yezzan frowned questioningly. “You and yours have burned more than your share of dead men. In fact, this is most what makes you attractive. Come with me, and I will show you why.”

Jon watched the man take in the murals, not altogether surprised when he saw no recognition in Yezzan’s face.

“I don’t suppose you have stories of the Others in Essos.”

“No, whatever they are. The monsters of our stories look like your queen.”

“They’re-”

“It doesn’t matter. If these scrawls are to be believed, there are fights left to die in. Tell me where, and I will go.”

“Even someone who’s lost the will to live must see that having addressed the dead before leaving is a mercy. Should the Others bother to go so far east, they’d have found a civilization’s worth of corpses to mobilize. Such familiarity with death ought make seeing wights for the first time a little less of a shock for you as well.” Jon stooped and carefully plucked a shard of red dragonglass from the glittering cave floor. “Careful with this. Even unworked it’s sharp enough to draw blood. Useless against their chaff, but it does the trick against the Others themselves like nothing else.” Yezzan took it, staring into its crimson depths.

“Frozen fire, the Valyrians called it. Growing like moss in the bellies of mountains that belch fire.”

“You know it?”

“It wasn’t common, but enough of it made its way out of Asshai for it to be known to Slaver’s Bay. Black, though, always black. I’ve never heard of red. Or green, or purple.”

“Lucky you.”

“What can glass do that steel cannot? Or stone, or any other substance?”

“Well, you said the Valyrians called it frozen fire. Perhaps the heat is in there still.”

“Were that the case, steel would keep the heat it takes to work it.” Jon only shrugged.

“I don’t know one way or another. All I know is that their blades part steel like steel parts cheese and their armor can stop a scorpion bolt from point-blank range. Unless it’s tipped in dragonglass.” Yezzan began slowly spinning it in his hands, turning it over repeatedly. “I must leave you now. There are other people I must coordinate, shipments of dragonglass to load onto their ships-”

“Go. There is enough here still to warrant further gathering. Sellswords bore easily, I’ve found, but I think the simple task of filling barrels and bags with objects that glitter like gems may tickle their fancy.”

“Bags? No, no, if it breaks it’s useless.”

“How so?” Jon blinked at him.

“How can we tip a spear or arrow in dust?”

“You can’t. But that doesn’t mean you can’t dump it on a surface and render it impassable for a time, or simply toss a bag at one such creature’s feet.” Yezzan’s observation stunned Jon. Of bloody fucking course, it’s the stuff that does the trick, not the shape! “Go.” Yezzan said again. “You’ll want to make sure as much of this goes with you as possible, I suspect. Those passing this island from further inland will be most helpful in this enterprise.” Jon felt oddly bad leaving the man alone in the dark with naught but glass and torches for company, but he had more important people to put to purpose than one wayward Yunkai’i.

The first ships to appear came not from the west as Jon had hoped, but from the east. More sellswords. Their number was surely no burden and besides, more ships meant more shipments, but Jon would have preferred to confer with the lords as a whole one more time before they all appeared piecemeal all over Lord Wyman’s lands. Dany’s hair could not be missed even at a distance, so when Jon did not spot it right away, he figured she was still getting to the bottom of talk of a Targaryen. I wonder if she’ll wait to tell him the Iron Throne is gone. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. That’s her business. If she wants my opinion, she’ll ask. Idly he walked back over to the gathered leaders of the advance force.

“Are you still waiting on your prince to come ashore?”

“Our paying patron, say rather.” Matthos’ pirate acquaintance, the one with the mad-sounding name said.

“Where else have the Golden Company landed?” Jon asked the man who had once been Dany’s paramour. His shaky, almost nervous demeanor had gone somewhat, but he still turned to his companions.

“Lord, lordly, lordly Serlord Jonlord Sernnington never paid us to keep our mouths shut.” Malko said genially, laughing at his own wit. He got a snort of laughter from the sellsail in turn.

“Yezzan’s the dourest fellow my pirate eyes have yet beheld, and even he would have laughed at that, friend.” Sall-something, Jon thought. Sall-something Saan.

“Right, then besides Dragonstone, uh, the plan was to come from Volantis on to King’s Landing itself to rally the people to our cause or else draw what Lannister swords it held still, Dorne somewhere for the princess and the stormlands for that king’s son.”

“Edric. Good enough lad, even with those bloody elephant ears.” Saan opined.

“King’s son?” Jon asked.

“Fat King Robert’s get on a foxwoman, or so the serly lord tells us.” Malko said. Talk of foxes made Jon frown. Evidently it was noticeable because Saan gave another snort of laughter.

“I take it you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Stannis’ family-by-law.”

“I have. The displeasure was mutual.” He remembered the Florents, southern fools all, and was content to keep thinking the world had seen the last of them. As for this Edric, he’s welcome to try and woo the stormlords away from Gendry. Something tells me he’ll not succeed. “You mentioned a princess as well.”

“I did. Stunning thing, though a bit melancholy.”

“The prince seems more than fond of her.” Malko added, smirking.

“So is any man with eyes.” The once-paramour replied, rolling his own. “Arianne Martell. Though she’s as eager to keep her family name quiet as the prince is to bellow his own from Fortune’s bow.”

“This house, that house, this lord, that lady…” Malko put his fingers to his temples, eyes wide.

“Maddening and no mistake, my friend. The Westerosi have been mad as long as I have known them.” Saan replied.

All in all, Jon found the men positively amiable. I have known lords, princes, kings, born to every prize and privilege treat their fellow men worse on no more account than of birth. It felt to Jon that he could not find himself back among the Free Folk fast enough. Saan’s smile disappeared as soon as Jon noticed it, though.

“There was another in Stannis’ camp. You would not forget her if you saw her.” Jon nodded grimly. “What became of her?”

“I don’t know. Once we secured Winterfell, we sent her packing. Hopefully she’s quit of Westeros by now.” Jon did not go into details and Saan did not ask.

“Ah, here we are. Finally.” Malko said, waving his hands over his head, telling whoever was watching to hurry up and land.

“By the way…” the paramour said lowly when the other two had gone further down the beach to wave the flagship in, “I am Daario Naharis.”

“Jon Snow.” Jon replied at once.

“Not a hard name to remember.” Not unless it is your own. Jon thought on the times he might have shed his bastard’s name. Stannis offered to make me Lord of Winterfell. Dany suggested she legitimize me. The name Dany had once told him echoed in his head. Ashara Dayne. Jon couldn’t picture Ned Stark chasing girls here and there, even in his youth. It would not have been an empty tumble, a single night. Whoever she was, Lord Stark held my mother dear. If she were Ashara Dayne after all, I have no proof of it and never will. Even if she were, she is only a name to me. His brow furrowed. Better than none at all, he told himself. The chatter of sailors made him turn toward the surf to behold several longboats fast approaching, a huge dromond with black and red banners and ribbons flying from every sail idling further back. They could just as easily dock in the port town and save the rocky ride in. Unless Daenerys neglected to mention it? Once close enough, men in each longboat hopped out to drag them ashore so the infirm or delicate need not get wet. I wonder if this Aegon would be so hell-may-care if he knew there were fish-men in droves in that very water. Jon felt a smirk creep across his face. Or if he knew the kingdoms he seeks to rule are about to be flattened by the Others if left unchecked. The smirk went as quickly as it had come. Malko stepped forward to assist in the landing while Saan watched in appraisal. Weighing the trouble against its worth. A sellsail to the bone. A middle-aged man stood in the boat but did not step out, speaking indistinctly in a low voice. Then Jon spotted the lad behind him, seated next to Dany. That must be him. Neither the older man nor the silver-haired youth were looking at him, though, or even at their allies along the shore. Pale blue eyes and purple both were fixed on the skies above Dragonstone. Hair can be dyed, Jon thought, but show me how to turn eyes purple. Any doubts as to his identity would be hard to voice on seeing him. Jon saw also his flawless face, unmarred by line or scar. The man who lead him was no new-made knight nor a stranger to the battlefield, but the boy himself looked more merchant than king.

Once he set foot on the sands of Dragonstone, the old knight let out a long slow breath. The fire above his eyes and on his chin is going out. No doubt he thought he was running out of time. Jon looked away from the pair to Dany who alone of the boat’s occupants was looking at him. She does not seem excited, even for her family’s sake. Then Jon remembered that in the strictest sense, her family was whittled down to one haunted knight. I wonder if she’s told him that much yet. She stepped over the side of the boat opposite them, pretending not to see their outstretched helpful hands. Following her out, though gladly into the boy’s arms, was a striking beauty Jon could only surmise of Dornish birth. After her came a big man who did have all the forced courtesy of a man new to his spurs with a white cloak flowing from his back and a lad not five years Jon’s junior. Stannis’ ghost, Jon thought. He could be his and Selyse Florent’s son in a second. He found that a bit eerie and so looked for whoever else had made common cause with Aegon, the Sixth of His Name.

“Oh, fuck.” Jon said, wondering mood replaced by dull irritation. Coming ashore in the company of a somewhat jittery man in green sable with seven gold stars linked around his shoulders was Petyr Baelish, whose own smug countenance and courtly manner vanished at the sight of Jon. His words made the younger among the newcomers look at each other uncertainly while the old knight frowned.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice confirming Jon’s suspicions. Used to giving orders and having them followed. The southern pomp cannot be hidden, even after years of exile.

“Jon Snow. And you, ser?” Dany answered for him, wasting no time in rejoining Jon’s company.

“A Jon as well. Lord Jon Connington of Griffin’s Roost, as well as a few other Westerosi highborn.”

“Indeed, the highest.” Lord Connington said brusquely, turning to the lot. “Princess Arianne Martell of Dorne.” he indicated the Dornish beauty. You don’t say, Jon thought. A lover of titles even among kneelers. Jon’s notion was given greater credence when it came time for Lord Connington to introduce his charge. “Aegon of the House Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” He gestured to the youth in question, who looked at Jon almost perplexedly. A boy, for all those windy words, Jon thought. Had it been Stannis waiting for him, all the sellswords in the world would not have got him Dragonstone, let alone the Seven Kingdoms.

“Hello.” Jon said pleasantly. “You’ll want to boot Littlefinger out of your entourage sooner rather than later. Nobody will inspire more uncertainty among Westerosi than Petyr Baelish.”

“It warms me immeasurably to find myself in your presence once again in turn, Your Grace.” Littlefinger replied, leaning heavily into the last two words. Aegon looked to him, confused.

“What?”

“He means me.” Jon clarified for him, crossing his arms. “Haven’t you got wounds elsewhere to poke and watch bleed?”

“Not now, with what’s become of Essos. I’d not have missed this for the world, in fact.” While the exiles may think he’s after profit and titles, I know better,Jon thought for a moment before speaking next.

“Right. What’s going through Littlefinger’s head is, maybe if I pit these two together, I can wring some advantage out of the chaos duly created. It comes as natural to this man as flying to a bird or swimming to a fish. Either Daenerys becomes taken with you and that throws Arianne and thereby Dorne off-balance or your stalwart advocate finds all his lovely words bouncing off a brick wall. In that vein you might be embarrassed in front of your court such as it is and surely it would spur you to seek the North’s renewed allegiance with me perhaps removed as an obstacle. Any number of things might happen where new conflicts would quickly sprout, no doubt tended carefully by their maker, only for him to profit once they’ve run their course. I’ve not got half the time needed to play that game and anyway, it’s not one I care to play. Suffice it to say I’m taking the lords of Westeros for a bit because I need them and they me. Afterward you can have any and all that will have you. Go on calling yourself King of the First Men, even. Know, though, that if you want the North, you will have to take it from me. The Free Folk and the giants as well. I am the natural son of a man held beyond reproach by the northmen and by common assent named King-Beyond-the-Wall. You’re welcome to come with us by all means, more swords and spears cannot hurt when the Others come, but in the north we put no stock in red castles and iron chairs. In the North, we do not kneel.” There was red rising in Jon Connington’s face and irritation on Littlefinger’s, yet all Jon Snow could hear was Mance Rayder, roaring with laughter.

“Snow, you said.” Connington said, evidently hard-pressed to keep his tongue civil.

“Aye.”

“A bastard from the north.”

“So far as I’ve had to deal with. At least, until recently.”

“Who are you to make off with half of His Grace’s ancestral lands?”

“Well, if he’d like to claim them for himself, among other things he’ll have to contend with a flooded riverlands full to the banks with randy bull lizard-lions fond of horses as well as of men.” He looked to Aegon. “None of the logs are logs.” It wasn’t surprising to Jon that the king was lost for words, obviously unsure what to say even if he had the tact not to gape uncomprehendingly. Ah, a piece then. Moved by others with no drive of your own, it would seem.

“Torrhen Stark knelt when the dragons came calling.”

“So he did. As you yourself have said, though, my lord, I am a Snow. As much wildling as northman, as much bastard as king. I see no dragons in your entourage and even if I did, I have before and happily told him off to get what I wanted or where I wanted to be.” From out of the corner of his eye he saw Dany go pink. Evidently Lord Connington had noticed and Aegon as well, yet Jon found himself caring nothing for their opinions. Jon looked past her to the western horizon, whistling under his breath. “Arriving just in time not to make a difference. Truly, a tree does not change its bark.” Jon pointed to the ships coming into view, no doubt due to make the port town by that evening at the latest. “I’m going to get the northmen in travelling shape.”

“I’ll meet the other lords in town. In fact, I’ll just have each ship loaded with dragonglass and sent on its way, no need to linger here when it’s north for us.”

“Your Grace?” Connington asked, ashen-faced and confounded at the lack of support for his king from the Mother of Dragons.

“Yes, my lord?” Her question was prompt and polite.

“What about…I don’t understand.”

“Jon Snow and I, in the company of the assembled lords of Westeros so far as we could manage, are sailing to White Harbor and from there, marching on to Winterfell to try and check the movements of the Others.” There was no comprehension on Aegon’s face, as Jon suspected there mightn’t be. Raised in Essos, I doubt he’s ever heard of them before.

“Your Grace, the Others are a cradle story.” Connington said, looking at her as though fearing for her senses.

“Some cradle story.” The gloomy voice of Yezzan zo Qaggaz called from behind Jon. “You ought to have a look in the cavern hidden down that way.” He pointed the hidden gap in the rocks out to Jon Connington. “These Others were no child’s lark to whoever painted on those walls or shoved that diamond high in the ceiling.”

“Come north with us, cousin.” Dany told Aegon, and for the first time Jon heard something like earnest in her voice regarding the arrival. Nephew in truth, Jon thought, though he agreed with her less patronizing term. She looked both sad and rather resolved. Here it comes. “The Iron Throne served its purpose for both of us, it seems. A shiny ideal to strive for and damn the consequences. I’ve seen the thing in person, Aegon. It’s not worth such reverence, not nearly so much as whatever woman you’ll take to wife is due. Drogon sent it after the people who sat it and I’d be of no help proving your legitimacy anyhow. I’m not Aerys Targaryen’s daughter, I’m the natural daughter of a man worth being the daughter of and much relieved by that fact. You’ve no need for swords to help you win the throne, but we’d much appreciate your assistance in this endeavor. I have coin enough to keep your sellsword army from crumbling after what little fund you’ve got dissipates, and anyway if I’m told right there are plenty more women than men in the north, partnered with all the wine Cersei Lannister was kind enough to leave us for the taking.” At once the assembled sellswords, sellsails and other Essosi with no stock in who ruled Westeros looked to her in rapt attention. Gold, wine, women. Lure enough for any man. More so than any restoration or royal family. Said aloud it was plain their middling interest in seeing a king enthroned who was in their debt paled in comparison to that in a queen eager to shower them in wine and treasure for no other purpose than to follow along for a bit. They’ll need to be brought up to speed I suppose, Jon thought. It can be managed in the voyage to White Harbor. He was less optimistic regarding the prickly Lord Connington, whatever his connection to the Targaryens of the past might have been. The others in his circle who believe in him as well. For one, I’ll let this Edric take Gendry’s measure and see if he has the sense not to expect the storm lords’ homage after such a meeting. Jon gave Dany a quick kiss on the cheek, making her go pink all over again before leaving her in the good hands of her Unsullied. I doubt the northmen will care one way or another, he thought. Though the Free Folk will likely be all for bringing more fighters into the mix.

“Another dragonrider, then?” Tormund asked hopefully after Jon had brought him current.

“I wouldn’t know one way or another. There’s no dragon on hand in the first place, so it looks like we’ll have to cross paths with one to figure that out for certain.” At that the big wildling frowned.

“We’ve gone from one side of the south to the other and nowhere did I see anyplace a dragon would want to kip for the night, let alone call home.”

“I guess that means we’re just going to have to check the north.” Jon smiled at the wide grin on Tormund’s face.

“You mean it?” The prospect of tracking down a crafty, irritable fire-breathing predator seemed only too grand a prospect to Tormund Giantsbane.

“We need only to get the dragonglass on the lords’ ships before heading off ourselves. As they’ll be here in mere hours, I’d put our own departure inside a day.” Tormund whooped aloud, earning a thrown rock from the other side of the cave. Alys Karstark glowered at the pair of them, a babe in each arm while Sigorn cradled the third. She at least looked pleased to remain where she was. Warm and comfortable, instead of on a swaying ship with three babes to tend to. Jeyne Poole was with her as well, as was Ned Umber, each taking turns whenever one of the parents needed to rest. Jon didn’t need their gazes to tell him that Dany had arrived; her scent of smoke and horses and grass was a dead giveaway. “How’d it go?” he asked her softly.

“I told her I would not do him wrong. I’ve seen enough falsehood in the world without adding to the mix.” She sat in his lap.

“And?”

“I suppose he’s more than fond of his Dornish princess.”

“Shouldn’t they be? They’re cousins and he needs to maintain his Dornish affinity before any other.”

“She’s pregnant, Jon.” Her voice was very quiet, her words only for him.

“Well, I’ll offer them congratulations when I see them next.” Jon said, trying to play it off. Instead she bit her lip.

“I only wish I could stop my people from scattering to the wind on my death, whenever it comes.” she said finally.

“They don’t need you to lead them by the ear, Dany. Any more than the Free Folk or the northmen need me.” He slipped his arms around her. “Once the Dothraki get a taste of the North, of living in the north, of northern ale, of spearwife skirt, they will never leave it. There is more food than can be eaten, more fields than can be ridden. The freedmen and the Unsullied can no doubt fill the gaps left by the wars in the more settled northern castles, as well. If your lads haven’t returned by the time the Others are sorted, I’ll be glad to take you through the North moor by stream by field looking for them.” He got a little hiccup of laughter. Who needs crowns when you have treetops? Who needs thrones when you have mountains? Aegon, the Sixth of His Name, is welcome to his Dornish cousin. A tame creature she is, whereas you are all wild. All dragon. All mine.

Chapter 8: Asha I

Chapter Text

Once she’d felt Ten Tower’s gate get knocked in, Asha had wasted no time.

“To ships!” she’d screamed as loud as she could, still barely loud enough over the noise of the ice-ship’s volleys. “To sea!” It was hard enough coming down from the ramparts without bothering to check who was keeping up, and Asha had jumped into an empty cart rather than waste time with the last dozen steps. Dust from broken masonry had mixed with the heavy snow and it was all she could do to cough her way out of the fast-crumbling castle. Men were massing on the shoreline and in the tide, pouring from the ice-caked hulks like wine from a cask. As soon as each tiny figure made landfall it began to advance on Ten Towers as fast as it could manage, stopping for neither orders nor rest. Because they need neither, Asha had thought. Despite the chaos, the hulks’ running themselves aground on Harlaw’s beach reminded Asha that the docks had yet to be attacked. We are not trapped yet. She ran down the beach, the sand hard as rock beneath her feet, her chest burning from breathing cold air. Black Wind lay at anchor at the end of the last dock, bobbing invitingly. If I can only reach it. Hoarse bellowing echoed from the beach, the first sound the enemy had yet given. Asha didn’t stop to look, fear a better spur than any lash. It took her a single stride to get up the gangplank. Once on the deck she went about cutting every rope that held the ship in place, not stopping her preparations even when the sounds of boots behind her reached her ears.

“Make ready to cast off!” someone cried.

“Fuck that, cast off!” Asha had replied. Only when the ship started moving, pulling away from the dock and Harlaw itself, did she try to catch her breath and stop the rush of thought in her head. The ice-ship made no move to follow, intent it seemed on making certain the island was well taken. Still, Asha saw it loose some of that awful light their way, ships here and there bursting into frigid kindling. Men blown to bloody bits of meat and bone. She had no doubt the ice-ship could catch Black Wind, even at full sail. It needs no wind to move, she thought. Nor oars that I can see. Moreover, it was huge, long as six Black Winds bow to stern and had room to hold tenfold more crew. Even choked with fear and dismay, a small part of Asha knew she had never wanted something so badly.

The rattling of the anchor-line irritated her so that she turned to tell the fool shaking it to stop or leap overboard. Instead she saw a bony hand clinging to Black Wind’s deck rail, the corpse it belonged to pulling itself up and over. It had only time to stand before Asha’s thrown axe took it in the face and sent it promptly back over the side, clattering against what sounded like plenty and more of its fellows on the way up.

“We’re being boarded!” Asha cried, whipping out another axe as the corpses, some little more than barnacle-crusted skeletons, continued to pour onto the deck. A proper fight, she thought. Even against reavers long dead. They came quickly and tirelessly, as she had expected, but there was not the least bit of thought in any of their movements. They threw themselves at Black Wind’s crew, swinging driftwood, rusted blades or just dead fists at anyone in reach. A thrown barrel was enough to knock three of them to pieces, spare limbs wriggling on the deck as splintered skeletons tried still to fight with no legs or arms or even skulls. Asha’s dread was quickly replaced with derision. Even a thrall could give a better effort, even a thrall would make a sterner test. Amidst the sudden song of battle, Asha spotted long red hair shouldering past her to the rigging that held the anchor. Hagen. The woman brought an axe crashing down on the railing, cutting away the anchor- and the line the dead had used to climb up. For her trouble one of the stinking things rapped her in the back of the head with a driftwood cudgel and Hagen dropped where she stood. In turn, one of the ironborn simply grabbed the dead man by his hipbone and heaved him overboard with a single hand. When he turned Asha saw Tris Botley’s face, red from the run to the docks.

“Not worth much are they?” he yelled. Not alone, she thought. But there’s plenty more where they came from. She felt something poke her hard in the chest. At once she swung her axe, promptly snapping it in twain on Mormont’s front.

“Ass.” he muttered, poking her again with the Reader’s Myrish eye. “Lord Glover had it when I scooped him and his sister up on the way out.” he said, ignoring what dead remained to fight. Either it was luck as many had gotten up the line as did or whoever sent them had planned on more still making the climb. Asha could see no fallen ironborn among the mess of briny bones.

“Get us gone,” she told her helmsman.

“Where?”

“South.” Qarl said, emerging from the throng. His face was ashen, clearly the dead unnerved him. Stinking of brine, no wonder.

“South will put us on Banefort lands, a spit of beach cut off from the rest of the westerlands by proper mountains. No doubt the dead will come calling after us and we’ll have nowhere left to run.”

“Perhaps the Cape of Eagles?”

“Anywhere we might reach, the dead can too.” Asha said, lifting the eye to her own. Through the tube she could see the ship in detail, a single piece of ice flawlessly cut from a larger iceberg. Strands of silk hung from what rails she could spot running ‘round the base of each great fin and again halfway up. Her breath caught in her chest. What could only be Others were standing at each foredeck, accompanied by nine-foot gangly creatures with sharp cruel teeth and subtly long noses, hair cut short in sharp contrast to the Others, save in one case. On the upper deck of the front fin an Other without a hair on its head and wrapped in white bear fur had its squinty blue gaze directly on Black Wind. On me, Asha thought. They need no tubes to see this far. Its arms were crossed and from its belt hung a grapple hook wrought from razored ice, the same as the dagger Ooloop had given her. Around its throat was a silver chain with dozens of long barbed arrowheads, silver also, hanging from it. The rest of the crew were focused on Harlaw’s beach and the dead swarming around Ten Towers, while others were more attentive toward their ship. Their mouths were moving but Black Wind was too far away to hear their tongue. Finally, the sails caught the cold wind and they were away, Asha staring at the ice-ship until it shrank out of sight.

Even quit of the Others, the snows did not stop. It’s the cold, she told herself when she could not stop her hands from shaking. She slipped them under her arms to keep them warm. Only the cold, she thought as the memories came back for the dozenth time. Castles crumbling, ships turned to splinters, dead men seething out of their salty sleep by the score. The Others had no more part to play than lob lights at us. No wonder I can’t stop shaking. Despite her objections the crew seemed set on the Cape of Eagles, likely out of shock more than a calculated risk. It will be some days before we reach the cape anyhow. No doubt we’ll know by then if Mallister lands teem with the dead. When night fell, she felt someone toss a thick blanket around her shoulders.

“Don’t argue. The rest are sleeping and losing a finger to frostbite will ruin your throw.” Mormont grunted.

“Did you see anyone else when you snatched the Glover whelps?” She tried to keep her voice from breaking.

“I’ve never seen anyone run half so fast as when you made for this ship, Greyjoy. If you’re hoping the Reader and his sisters made it out to sea, you’ve not got much to hope for. Aeron had no idea where he was or what was going on around him, I can’t see him making it either.”

“What about Theon?”

“He was right next to you. When did you last see him?” She thought hard.

“I…I didn’t. One second he was there, the next the ramparts he was standing on were gone.”

“That seems answer enough, then.” Theon and the Damphair done for. Just the Crow’s Eye and I left, if he’s still alive.

“Iron Victory was among the hulks that beached on Harlaw. I suppose that means Victarion and his Iron Fleet do their reaving for the Others now.” Mormont only shrugged.

“You saw what the dead are worth without massive numbers. If you cross paths with him, give him an axe and heave him over the side.”

“Knowing him, he’d sink fast enough. He was fond of wearing plate at sea, to show he wasn’t afraid of drowning.” Her companion snorted.

“The world is well rid of a man so foolish-brave.”

“He may not have been so keen if he knew what was really going on down there. Fish-men and things.” It was then she realized the fishwaif had quite gone missing as well. “Oh, fuck. Not like she could just slink into the waves with the dead all around.”

“They didn’t strike me as the swimming kind. Walk along the sea bottom, fine, but not swim through open ocean. If she turns up, fine, if not…don’t lose sleep over it. Enough people are going to die, you can’t dwell on one waif.” That cheerful sentiment reminded Asha just who she was talking to. Fucking northmen. Show them a peach, they’ll show you a pit.

“I can still be glad the Others didn’t take the time to come after us.”

“You know as well as I do the dead were lucky to get as many topside as they managed. It wasn’t one or two ships they were after, they wanted to take Harlaw. You saw, again, as I saw, what their ship could do. Why waste breath chasing stragglers?” Silence fell, while Asha tried to come to terms with what had happened. There are more people on Harlaw than those who live in Ten Towers, she thought. Smallfolk. Miners and fishermen. The very real possibility that the Iron Islands might be reduced to a few bloodstained rocks and corpse-choked bays made Asha’s lip tremble. She shook herself. Had we stayed, we’d never have gotten away. She snorted. Gotten away. Floated off, more like. All but unnoticed by the enemy, save for one.

Her mood did not improve as the night wore on. The snow kept at them, piling quickly on the deck whenever they let it.

“None of this is natural,” one of the men complained. “Snow isn’t supposed to follow you like flies hot on the trail of a corpse.”

“It isn’t following us, Roggon. My guess would be it’s snowing everywhere.” Asha told him, trying to spot movement. Trying to find proof we’re not adrift on some black void, where sea and sky are one. The clouds had quite blotted out the stars and so what little light they had was due to torches that had to be kept sconced out of the wind, where their warmth did not reach the deck.

“Mormont, you’ll have to be our lookout. Indefinitely.” Asha said when the man returned from checking on the Glover children. “How are they?” she asked.

“Scared out of their wits, of course. Cold and hungry, too.”

“I could say the same of my crew.” Seasoned reavers all, yet more than one pair of hands shook at the rigging, more than one pair of legs shuffled about sluggishly despite their haste to get away. Asha knew shock when she saw it. Only I’m used to seeing it in my enemies after a victory. When he spoke next his voice was lower so that only she could hear.

“What are we going to do if they find us?” Most like we won’t even know they’ve found us. We’ll hear ice grinding on ice, the dark will turn to light and that will be it.

“They’ll be busy taking the islands for a little while. Even with a ship like that.” Then she remembered Ten Towers’ front gate crumbling. Or not.

“Very good. And if there’s another like it waiting for us in Ironman’s Bay?”

“Well, then we’re just fucked. No sense worrying about no-wins, you moody northern cunt. Might as well worry about a rogue wave flipping us over and never mind the Others.” Asha felt a hint of color in her voice, a smile flit across her face. Mormont grumbled something and shoved off, likely to find one of her crew to be grim and miserable with. She set about replacing the axes the dead had taken overboard with them, startled by a leather scabbard beneath her stash. Carefully she sifted the common dirks and axes aside to reveal the sword Theon had plucked from the surf on Dragonstone. Mormont must have kept hold of it even when he grabbed the Glovers. Thanking chance for the northman’s quick thinking, she pulled it out of the pile of iron blades. He was a foot away just now and I didn’t notice he didn’t have it on him. There’s dark, there’s night, and then there’s what we’re stuck in. Carefully she freed it from its scabbard, taking in the dark blade. The torchlight makes it look alive, she thought. Then she had another idea, looking back into the pile. Just as steadily as with the sword she pulled out the bundle of rags, maddeningly cold in her grip. She shook it and out came the razored ice, the dagger falling to the floor without a sound, without bouncing or rattling as any earthly metal would. Let’s see which is master of which. She put no force into the sword, touching its tip as gently as she could manage to the piece of crystal. Immediately there was an ungodly squealing, like she’d just speared a pig. The ice parted at once, hissing angrily as the sword simply melted through it. She sat there on her knees, openmouthed, unable to get the sound out of her head even with the Glover children shrieking. Eventually their little lungs gave out and they had to stop for breath but before Erena could go on making a fuss Gawen started at the sight lying on the floor. He came over, Erena clutching his side from behind him and shaking her head into his cloak.

“That’s Valyrian steel.” he said, prodding it with an arrow. Instantly the arrow’s head cracked down the middle, the ruined dagger’s cold not so soft to common iron. “Why is it in here instead of with Ser Jorah?”

“Mormont has more to worry about than keeping track of one sword.” Ask him and he’s like to say his days of needing swords are over. Asha remembered when he’d torn away the bars of the Damphair’s cell.

“Still…someone should have it. It’s not doing any good in here with us.”

“Ironmen favor axes, boy. The sword’s too long, too unwieldy on the deck of a longship.”

“Your axes are iron, and iron does not work.” The little lord pointed to the arrow. “Swing them all you like. After they’ve cracked against funny icy swords, you’ll wish you had something stiffer than a headless axe in hand.” Gawen stooped and huffed as he pulled the sword up. “Do a thing the way it’s done, not the way you want to do it, my father used to tell me. I thought he was talking about building snowmen.” He hefted it and the sword flipped on its point, the hilt landing in Asha’s lap. “I suppose it would work for killing them, too.”

She took in the hilt, the twin dragons with ruby eyes.

“Hold on…” Gawen said, less stiffly, making her look up. He sat down across from her, Erena peeking out from behind him at the sword. Evidently, he forgot whatever it was he was going to say next, and after a few moments of awkward silence Asha gave him a tap on the shoulder to settle him. “Where did this come from?”

“Theon found it washed up on the shores of Dragonstone. The, uh…fish-people started sending booty ashore in exchange for any seastone we might find. That’s why we tossed the Seastone Chair from the towers of Pyke.” She told him, feeling more foolish by the word. “Look, it was Theon’s doing. Blame him.”

“You got whole beaches full of treasure for a few hunks of smelly stone and one slimy chair?” Gawen asked. “It sounds like your brother knows what he’s doing.” Or he got lucky, for once. “Off the coast of Dragonstone, you say.”

“Aye.”

“So, before that, it was in the Narrow Sea somewhere?” Asha’s mouth tightened.

“It stands to reason.”

“Uh…”

“What is it, lad?” she snapped impatiently.

“When I was at Ten Towers, there was naught to do but hide under my bed. When I got tired of that I started wandering around, and one day I found the Book Tower. There were a lot of books that were too hard, but I found one that seemed written plain on purpose, as if to make what was in it clear even to an ironman.” Asha’s curiosity won out over her pride.

“What was it about?”

“The Blackfyre Pretenders. The house, such as it was, and their rebellions. Um, there was a lot of fighting. But at the end it said the man really behind the first few uprisings, that Bittersteel, he died in Essos as a sellsword.”

“What has that got to do with us?”

“Well, the Blackfyres took their name from the sword Aegon the Unworthy gave his bastard son. The sword became their Iron Throne, they fought over it as often as they came over trying to win the chair.” Slowly, realization dawned on Asha.

“But the Blackfyres were wiped out. Bittersteel never managed to put one on the throne.”

“There’s no mention of him wielding Blackfyre the day he died. What if the remaining claimants weren’t to his liking? After yet another defeat, what if he was so bitter, he decided that even if the Targaryens had the Conqueror’s throne, they would never get his sword?”

“You think, what, he just…threw it overboard?”

“Bittersteel was that sort of man. He could nurse a grievance better than any woman could a babe.”

“In this, he was nothing special. My own father was of that make.” Gawen frowned.

“There’s a lot of wars. Grievances and slights that grow bigger, like a snowball. Books about them filled whole shelves in Lord Harlaw’s Book Tower.” Asha got his meaning. Not so dull as most northmen. It must come from growing up a ward of Uncle Rodrik’s.

“This isn’t a war about slights, though. Or thrones, or lordly rights, or things like that. The Others think they can roll over Westeros fine and dandy, the people in it just waiting to be cut down. They’re not attacking over a slight, or a throne, or who’s heir to what. They’re doing it because they can.”

“Like the ironborn, eh?” Gawen asked.

“Aye.” Asha let a rueful grin fill her mouth. Only better. Better at shipbuilding, sailing, fighting. And killing. Better and more at killing.

She spent the next few hours with the Glover whelps, trying to ease their little minds. Gawen was too old to be put off and too sharp not to know their situation was dire, but he held his tongue for Erena’s benefit.

“What else did you find in the Book Tower?” Asha asked. Gawen shrugged.

“A lot about the ironmen. Some was written about the ironmen themselves, but most was written outside the Iron Islands by maesters, so you have to take that into account when you’re reading. One person might call the Red Kraken bold, the other reckless. Who wrote a book is often more important than its title.” Erena tugged his arm suddenly.

“If you want to talk to the lady, you can do so yourself. I’m not a puppet and you’re not a mummer.” The elder Glover told the younger. The girl turned pink.

“I can read too, but not all the books in the big tower were in the Common Tongue.” That surprised Asha. I never knew the Reader to learn another tongue.

“What did the words look like?”

“They were funny. More little pictures than words. But the big pictures, they were scary. Trees with droopy leaves, ropes hanging from them. And the heads. Big scary black heads.”

“Have you seen the book she’s talking about?” Asha asked Gawen.

“I never did. Those stupid heads gave her bad nightmares for a good while, though.”

“They were chasing me. I was in that green place full of droopy trees and they were chasing me around!” Gawen rolled his eyes.

“She lost the book, so I could never spot them myself.”

“Heads like…on pikes?” Asha asked the Glover girl.

“No. They weren’t…people heads. Or, not real ones.” She made a face. Her jaw went firm and rigid, lips a tight line and her brow heavy over staring eyes. The suddenness of it made Asha shiver. “They might have been statues. But statues are supposed to have bodies, not just be big heads.” The girl’s words made not a lick of sense to Asha, but she knew something of nonsense becoming something much worse in dreams.

“You say they were black.”

“Black as night. Not gray, like Gawen thought I meant. Black.” Asha looked down to the sword. Quite possibly a Targaryen heirloom.

“Like the blade?” Erena looked at it carefully, eyes roving over the metal with a focus Asha would not have thought her possessed of.

“If I say yes, it would be wrong. But they were more like this than stone.” she said of the sword. Asha shook her head.

“Enough to worry about just now without adding on a few silly pictures in some book, my lady. At least, I think so.” Cold races, deep races, and us caught in the middle. Erena gulped and hiccuped.

“I only ever saw the book once, after all. Could be I’m just remembering the pictures worse than they were…” Even so, she didn’t sound totally convinced. Her brother can finish calming her down, I have a ship to mind.

Even hard-pressed as they were, the men at the oars seemed loath to breathe too loud. Afraid to alert cold ears and draw cold eyes.

“We should make the cape soon.” Tris Botley murmured when Asha came near. Not that we’d know. We could skirt the Mallister lands until Black Wind’s bow breaks against Seagard itself.

“Mormont.” She called as loudly as she dared. A grunt in the darkness was her only reply. “Keep a weather eye, yeah?”

“For what?”

“Land. The Cape of Eagles.”

“We can’t land below the Neck-”

“I don’t intend to. Just to stop at this town and that along the cape, maybe take on whatever we can find. See what we will in regard to the Mallisters. At least we can let them know they have new neighbors, ones that will make them pine for the days when ironborn came calling.” Asha said, as if they were just running low on supplies. Maybe we can manage to make off with a few people, even. Fresh arms for the oars, extra swords for if we run into another floating hulk. Asha spent the next few hours pacing the deck, ears pounding trying to hear the water part somewhere out on the water. Listening for the sounds of the Others. Grinding ice, the clatter of bones.

“There.” Mormont pointed off to the left. “We’re on course for land, but if it’s people we’re looking for I can see a fishing hamlet down that way.” Asha whistled under her breath.

“For what it’s worth, Mormont, I’m glad you’re with us. Glad, too, that your time in the east hasn’t taken the north from you.” Another grunt. Wordy, these northmen. Still, better than a poisoned arrowhead. She waited until they got a bit closer (or so she guessed) before she next spoke. “Can you see anyone? Alive or otherwise?”

“No. It just looks like a fishing village. Everyone’s probably asleep.” Or dead, off to roll over the next village and the next before pooling around Seagard.

“Shall we ready to dock?” Tris asked.

“Aye. Weapons at the ready, but we’re not here to reave.” Asha replied, cursing the darkness for what seemed like the thousandth time.

“Can we light torches? Or will that draw them?” Qarl mused.

“We don’t even know if they’ve made land yet.” Hagen replied.

“If you lot can’t see, the rest doesn’t matter. Light your bloody torches. We can see off a few walking corpses for our trouble and go on our way. If all of them go out at once-”

“We fuck right off.” Asha finished for him, nodding. One by one each crewman got a torch and Asha spotted their destination; a little village that might have been raided a hundred times. Only now we’re here to help, Asha thought. As well as ironborn can, anyway.

The biggest of the village’s three docks was still only just long enough for Black Wind.

“Bring the sword.” Asha told Mormont. He coughed in reply. She turned to see Gawen standing between her and her cabin, the sheathed sword in his arms and Erena standing behind him, looking terrified.

“I want to go.” he said.

“Absolutely fucking not.” Asha replied. He turned to Mormont.

“Knights in the south have squires. I could be your squire, like in battle.” Mormont gave a soft sigh, showing infinitely more patience for the Glover boy than any ironborn, Asha included. He got to a knee easier than a man his age ought have managed.

“Even the squires have training, my lord. They know what to do and what not to do. Still then, I’ll wager you could work that bit out, having grown up at Ten Towers. Don’t begrudge your time in old Harlaw’s Book Tower against the ironborn. Few northmen see so much of the world, if only on paper.”

“If I’m so smart, why can’t I come?” Glover asked, sounding every bit the boy he was.

“This isn’t going to be a battle. Gods willing, we’ll be back before anything can go wrong, but if it doesn’t, we’ll have no warning. The enemy won’t fight like men, like knights- a squire wouldn’t be much use against enemies that don’t feel and don’t flee. When you’re someplace safe, like Bear Island or Deepwood Motte or wherever you end up, you can learn how best to fight them from those that have done it before. Until then, you’re to stay on the ship and take care of your sister. You understand?” Gawen Glover gulped, trying not to cry. Would he even know his own father should they meet again? Asha wondered.

“Yes, Ser Jorah.”

“Good boy. Back in the cabin with you both, I’ll see you when I get back. Might be we’ll have some Mallisters you can swap stories with.” Glover gulped again, nodded, and led his sister back into Asha’s cabin. Once the door shut, Asha exhaled.

“Not so hard-hearted after all.” she mused aloud.

“Hard enough to crack some iron heads together, if only for the sound.” Mormont replied. Immediately those nearest him began slowly shuffling out of arm’s reach.

“Is the gangplank ready?” Asha asked, receiving murmurs in the affirmative. “Then lay it down. The sooner we can see the place is free of Others and their chaff, the sooner we can be off north.”

“Where both the Others and their chaff are sure to be in abundance.” Mormont said, stretching his arms out in front of him, touching his fingertips together. Asha thought about punching him. Why bother? He’d not feel it unless I wore a silvered gauntlet.

One dock was much like another, but the hard earth beneath Asha’s boots let her know winter had come better than any snow. Frozen ground, as like to give as mortared stone. It’s lucky they have the sea; the Cape of Eagles’ smallfolk won’t be growing crops for a long time. They numbered a half dozen. Aside from Mormont, Asha took ashore with her Tristifer Botley, Qarl, Roggon and Grimtongue. Tris because the others murmur he’s more silk than iron, Qarl because I don’t need him forgetting the battle for the bedchamber. Roggon Rustbeard and Grimtongue needed to make no such displays. Ironborn to the bone were both of them, and bone-deep was their dislike for each other. Perhaps it’s just the color of their beards, rust-red and coal-black. Or because Roggon loves to drink and boast while Grimtongue hates nothing in this world more than the sound of his own voice. Whatever the reason each was always eager to prove the better of the other. As the blacksmiths say, iron sharpens iron, Asha thought with a rueful grin. If the hamlet had a name, Asha did not know it. Raid too close to home and the greenlanders will come in force, as they did when Lord Balon tried to crown himself. Hovels and huts sprung up out of the darkness as she moved, hoping her torch and small party were proof enough they weren’t there to reave. But for their footsteps, the place was silent.

“Anything, Mormont?” Asha asked.

“Not that I see nor hear nor smell. Only the salt of the sea.”

“These folk may have fled to safety somewhere; a kick could reduce one of these stys to kindling.” Tris suggested. A sudden scrabbling noise from within one of the further hovels was loud enough to wake the dead to Asha’s strained ears. At once her axes were raised and from her left Roggon dashed to the gap in the wall that served as a window. He took a quick look inside and disappeared into the hut before Asha could call him back, emerging with a wriggling red mongrel under one arm. The pup snapped and yelped in indignation but when Roggon produced a bit of dried beef from a pouch on his belt, the animal quieted straightaway. When he chanced to see Asha’s face, he shrugged.

“What? Dogs is good beasts. Beats buying one off a kennel keeper.”

“That runt won’t live to be a dog, and you’ll soon follow him if you go off on your own again.” Qarl warned. Roggon’s face went redder than his beard.

“While your smooth pink cheeks will set the dead to rights, is that it, Maid?” At once the pup began growling at Qarl, which earned him another piece of beef from Roggon.

“Anybody in there, Rustbeard?” Asha asked before Qarl could offer a reply.

“Not a one, captain. Living, dead, or living dead.” A cursory check of the other huts was all they needed to confirm that the place had been deserted.

“Might be they went off to Seagard to get behind stone walls.” Roggon muttered once they regrouped.

“We’d have seen signs of a struggle had the Others been here.”

“Would we?” Asha asked. “All they need do is roll up while the place sleeps, coat it in freezing mist and wait for the new-made dead to rise and trot out for orders.”

“Nothing’s frozen over thus, Your Grace.” Tris replied. “Had the Others been here there would be signs. Unnatural ones, but still.” His observation met with mutters of agreement from the rest.

“Well then, I suppose it’s Seagard for us-” Asha began when a wolf’s howl cut her short, coming from further inland. The wriggling pup froze in Roggon’s arms. Only a wolf, Asha thought, before a second howl joined in. Then a third, then a fourth. Asha counted eight before another howl cut the rest off, one deeper and richer than any common timber wolf.

The Stark direwolves are all accounted for, Asha thought quickly. The female had gone to the stormlands with her mistress and the King in the North’s had not come south. On a ship, anyway. Maybe he’s wandered further than Snow suspects. Roggon looked ready to run off into the night after the beast, no doubt eager to strike gold after having found a penny.

“Eight, and the big one.” Asha said aloud. “Go out there and you’ll feed them all, Rustbeard. Your mongrel can serve for afters.” she said tersely.

“There’s more than eight.” Mormont amended. “The rest are trying to encircle us.”

“Wolves won’t go after men bearing torches. They fear fire.” Qarl said.

“Not when a direwolf’s calling the tune, boy.” The northman replied. Asha recalled the direwolf she’d seen on Dragonstone. Taller than me sitting on her ass.

“We’d best be off. There’s no one here to rescue and no dead men to rescue them from.” Asha said with sudden iron certainty. Those hills are not so far away as I’d like. Might be something is on the other side, weighing up whether to charge.

“There they are.” Mormont said suddenly, without color. Trying not to give anything away. Asha could see only the barest shapes beyond the light of the torches, but she could see the many (many) hairs on the back of Mormont’s neck go up. He sees something all right, and it’s more concerning than a few wolves.

“There what are?” she hissed, feeling like a worm left to dangle for the fish. A moment more and she let out a gasp. There is no darkness so deep as could hide eyes like those. The blue eyes stared out from just beyond the hamlet’s outmost hovel, icily regarding the ironborn. The noises of the pack grew ever nearer, though the eyes staring out from the hill did not move.

“Time to leave.” Mormont said, his words for once clear and measured. Without a word more he suddenly tackled Asha down, there was a sound like an axe striking wood and a white spear with a long icy head quivered squarely where she’d been standing. A hoarse bellowing cut through the dark. Words, she thought woozily. Talking. Mormont dragged her ten feet back and another spear landed dead-on where seconds before he’d laid her out.

“Fuck!” she heard Roggon cry, twisting the shaft of his axe in his hands.

“To the ship!”

“Fuck you, Mormont, I want a proper fight!” the reaver shouted in reply. As if in answer a dozen wolves charged out into the torchlight, some common and others white as clouds with flawless blue eyes. Asha scrambled to her feet but the pack made no move to take them down, content to ring ‘round them neatly as a seamstress at needlework. She could hear Roggon’s pup yipping fearfully even through the blood pounding in her ears. In the time it took to reorient herself the eyes had disappeared, only to resurface just out of the torches’ light. Too tight by far to go dodging another spear, Asha thought of their predicament, but then it isn’t wolves tossing spears big as scorpion bolts at us nor bellowing in some wintry tongue. Roggon bellowed another challenge. They’re waiting, Asha realized. Waiting for one of us to break. To charge or flee. Then they’ll come at us. Her heart felt fit to burst behind her ribs.

“Don’t move.” she said, trying to get louder than a whisper and failing. Another pair of eyes joined the first, staring out of an unseen head set higher than any man’s. Asha remembered the gangly brutes from the ice-ship. From afar, they left little impression… A swarthy face leaned out of the night, the madly wide blue eyes behind them staring down a long nose. The mouth beneath it was full of sharp crooked teeth that pointed backward in its mouth, set in a monstrous grin. The thing was clad in ratty furs and bore no arms, unlike its disciplined fellows on the ice-ship. Its cold exhales smelled of entrails. Of blood when first exposed to air. Beside it stood a wolf possessed of a direwolf’s size and an Other’s eyes, regarding them with cold disinterest its cohort did not share. Which is the beast and which the master? Asha wondered, even in her terror.

A thrown axe buried itself in the brute’s left eye, earning a grunt of alarm. A long arm ending in spindly hooked fingers flew out from the darkness, the creature’s wild swing enough to break the pack’s discipline if only for a precious moment. The pack was in no more hurry to catch a blind backhand than Asha’s crew and torches swung in the direction of the normal wolves further threw them into disarray.

“Run!” she screamed, unable to hear herself over the yips and barks of the pack, the lowing of the creature and the cries of her own panicked crew. Only when she felt the wood of the dock underfoot did she turn back to look. Amazingly, not one of her men had fallen behind- but the creature was hot on their trail and gaining ground, hands outstretched, mouth agape. But with only one eye, Asha thought pleasedly- until the brute simply ripped her axe out of its face. Even as it gave chase its ruined eye relit, blazing forth blue as ever sure as a hearth given a fresh log. Asha felt her heart skip a beat. You can’t be serious. It took a lucky axe thrown by Tristifer hacking the monster’s thumb off only for it to make a fist and simply spring out a new one for Asha to know for certain her eyes could be believed. How the fuck do we kill this thing? She could hear confused voices on Black Wind’s deck, quickly turning to shouts of alarm. When the last man had rushed past her she made to follow. Asha heard the dock creak as the monster crouched, heard it crack as it sprung. She could smell the foul breath filling her nostrils once again. Five strides from the gangplank, three, one- Her right leg exploded at the knee. Before she could scream, before the pain could hit, she was slammed to the dock hard as as a hit from a charging bull. Her nose crunched flat against the gangplank and two teeth swam free in a mouthful of blood.

“AAAAAAGGGGGHHHH!!!” Her agonized scream, its gleeful roar, they were one as Asha tried to remain conscious. An arm looped around her waist, hoisting her off the deck easily as if she were a sack of turnips. No, she thought, until she felt the coarse hair of Mormont’s cheek against her forehead. Then she was flying, tossed with a single arm, landing in the midst of her crew. A heartbeat later and she was in Mormont’s arms again, being dragged to her cabin. Still another later and she heard Black Wind’s deck groan as the monster matched Mormont’s leap with one of its own. A bellow, a lunge, and Fingers was sailing overboard. A howl, a fist like a warhammer, and Droopeye Dale crumpled against the mainmast like a snowman in summer. Mormont dropped Asha, who felt a small pair of hands quickly drag her away from the knight.

“HERE.” the northman called, his voice thunder amidst mousy squeaks. She watched him draw the smoky sword, watched him level it at the monster. It gave a wordless frenzied roar, swinging wildly at Mormont. Fists that had not moments before sent grown men flying dented his plate easily- and left nary a scratch on the hairy chest beneath it. Its jaw hung loose in an almost idiotic gape. Out snapped the sword, tracing a jagged path down the brute’s chest. The scream of agony that filled the air made Asha’s eyes water and cross. Her vision filled with blinking red and yellow dots. She could hear its flesh sizzle, a trivial surface cut soon becoming a hideous smoking scar. One that did not heal. As its hands came to the wound, head up and bellowing into the night, Mormont planted his sword squarely through them both and the chest beneath it. Asha saw its wide eyes go wider still, collapsing onto the deck. Mormont neatly sent its head rolling across Black Wind’s deckplanks, coming to a stop a scant few feet from Asha. The blue eyes flickered.

Flickered.

Flickered.

Flickered, and went out.

Chapter 9: Tyrion I

Chapter Text

The least Varys could have done was live long enough to see this. Forgotten when the royal detachment left for Dragonstone, he’d had to tag along with The King in the North’s sister and her bull. The ships available to them were few and so each had been packed to the hull with stormlanders. Rowdy even when sober. Mercifully the voyage to the island was short and without complication, drawing a silent prayer of thanks to whatever god had his side-eye on Tyrion Lannister that day. Catching a rare glimpse of Catelyn Stark and the Young Wolf’s ‘widow’, he gave it another go-over. Might be it’s just those two.

“Thinking of going for a dip?”

“Blackwater Bay is not the Red Fork. Moving seawater is much harder.” she replied, peering over the side. Talisa gave her a gentle shake and seemed to jerk her out of a fog. “Oh. It’s you.” she said, her dazed, disaffected tone hardening.

“Mostly.” Tyrion tapped his nose. “I can’t imagine Sansa will find me any more handsome for all my valor.” Mention of her daughter made the water around Catelyn’s eyes and mouth still, her lips tightening. They were made of water, but was the water them? He remembered the stories the Tully soldiers had spread to the rest of the riverlanders and they still to the assembled Westerosi at large. Rains to flood the forks, rains to wash away a castle. It was hard for men to appreciate the beauty of the dragons; all they saw was fire and teeth. They were no less beautiful for all that, though. Even with the stories swirling ‘round the assembled armies, the others seemed to regard Catelyn and Talisa more as interesting curios. Ladies of the rivers, who milled about and kept their own morose counsel. With the power to turn a kingdom into a floodplain. Beautiful, but no less terrifying than a dragon. And dragons are mortal. Dragons tire, dragons hunger, dragons die, too. Those two do none of those things, as far as anybody knows. It was a few moments before Tyrion realized he’d been staring. “Apologies, my lady.” he said, blinking. “It’s just occurred to me I have yet to give you my condolences for your son’s death.” Her expression did not change.

“The way I hear it, I need not give you any for your lord father’s own.”

“No. I shot him, I’ll not deny it. Should he appear wrought of gold, I’ll happily let him bludgeon me to death. No bloody end of mine will make me regret what I did, though.”

“Nor what we did to House Frey.” Talisa spoke from behind Catelyn. “Others may crow the Red Wedding was the doing of this one, that one, but not the rest. Robb is still dead, as is the son we share who never so much as drew breath.” Catelyn reached behind her and took the young woman’s hand, the stormy gray whorls in the girl’s rippling form slowly fading. Pus from a boil.

“I can’t imagine Sansa will be any more receptive of me.” She held up her hands. Tyrion watched the currents whorl from her wrists, down ‘round her fingertips and back up.

“You’re her mother, my lady.” Tyrion said, cracking a weak smile. “Worse than a grotesque, worse than a dwarf, worse than a bankrupt, worse than a patricide, I’m a Lannister. Had I so much as a penny to my name, I’d bet on you.”

The days afterward were spent in front of drawings of ships, Tyrion’s mind put to moving everyone and everything north as efficiently as possible. No Varys to help me, either. Just as he got everything sliding into place, the Golden Company arrived and his plans were fit only to feed the hearth.

“It doesn’t help that their landings are an utter shambles.” he complained the night before their departure.
“From Duskendale to Storm’s End and Dorne besides. We had no paymasters, no captains of the column, no greater aim than Dragonstone. An addled dwarf in the company of Dothraki and Unsullied puzzled out a better disembarking, now show me a funnier lark than that.” They were in the cave, seated slipshod around several fires. In his company was Daenerys as well as Jon Snow. She favored his blather with a giggle. After a few hours new faces joined them, to Tyrion’s surprise. Even hooded, even in drab clothing, there was no hiding the prince’s purple eyes or the princess’ Dornish face. “How did you find us?” Tyrion asked, amazed.

“Don’t act intruded upon. When it takes Littlefinger half the night to find where a queen has disappeared off to on an island tiny as this one, you know she’s hidden well.” he replied. “I brought wine, too.” At the word ‘wine’ heads all around them turned.

“Is it that southern stuff too sweet for flies?” Tyrion heard Tormund Giantsbane ask.

“Sweeter. And free.” Their guest replied, tossing over a skin. That’s one way to ingratiate yourself to people north of the Neck. Tyrion found he needed a swallow before he spoke to the beauty seated across the flames.

“Princess Arianne Martell of Sunspear.” She made no reply, but a bundle of rags behind her Tyrion had mistaken for more wine spoke up.

“So says a Lannister, but a Martell might call her ‘Your Grace,’ as she’s married to the king.”

“Quentyn, be quiet.” she snapped, at once the fiery Dornishwoman she appeared to be. Tyrion turned to Daenerys.

“Prince Quentyn Martell.” He pondered that a moment, then wrapped his lips around a wineskin and upended it, only stopping when his cheeks hurt. Swallowing with a groan, he smiled bemusedly at the queen, hiding her mirth behind her hand as he knew she would.

“Yes.” The rags said, quickly scattering to reveal a broad, plain face possessed of eyes the same earthy color as the locks that ran down its cheeks. A brick with a face. Tyrion looked to Daenerys.

“I’d do my little trick again, but I’ve not got enough left.” he said, shaking his wineskin. Ned Umber, who happened to be passing by, immediately put a new one too heavy to lift in his free hand. The lad was staggering and very nearly collapsed into the fire but for Daenerys poking him with a stick to prop him up. Tyrion could hear the jingling of coins and saw he was wearing a small cask on his head. Is he drunk?

“I heard some of the Dorthyak lads saying they could empty a cask of ale faster than any three northmen, Jon. I had to defend our honor.” He grinned, still swaying. Jon instantly turned to Tormund.

“Don’t look to me. I’ve been here all the time, Sigorn and that Karstark have their hands full with their litter, and the merling girl’s not like to start emptying casks left and right.” The King in the North turned to Lord Umber.

“Who was with you, my lord?”

“I didn’t have anybody with me, so I had to do it myself.”

“Do what?”

“Empty a cask.” Oof, thought Tyrion.

“Well, just sit yourself down, lad. Let your head stop floating.” Tormund said, making room. The boy sat down next to the Martells, still grinning, coins running freely from his pockets and the last of the barrel’s contents dripping down his face.

“These were minted across the last century and more.” Tyrion observed, looking at some.

“The Dothraki children made a game of picking coins from the surf after the dragon’s share had been collected.” Daenerys said from over his shoulder. “Lord Umber, why did they give all these to you?”

“Because I won.” Ned Umber said, before he collapsed backward.

Jon Snow sat there for a moment before he got up and tossed his fur cape over Umber as he snored. He sat back down without a word, looking utterly unbothered while Tormund poked the fire with the stick. The queen’s gape seemed to surprise him, as did Tyrion’s. The Martells and their mysterious ally were quite forgotten.

“What?” he asked.

“He’s like to die!” Daenerys cried.

“Far from. No Umber has ever died of drink.”

“Har!” Tormund opined.

“Northmen like drinking.” Jon Snow said, he famously of little thirst. Northman to the bone, if a sober one. I can’t imagine his first night back will be one he remembers the next morning, though. Nor his countrymen.

“There you are!” a loud voice called, echoing off the cavern walls. Something about it, or the loud plodding steps that accompanied it, sounded curiously irreverent to Tyrion. A big man as like Tormund Giantsbane as unlike appeared, wiry orange hair and beard appearing all the more vibrant in the firelight. “A cave’s no fit place for you to rest your head, Your Grace. Not the queen’s, either. The Hand says you both are better off in your cabin on Fortune.” Aegon’s mouth tightened.

“I spent a lifetime trying to get back to Westeros. I’m not spending my first night here on a ship.” He scooped some dirt from the cave floor and let it fall from between his fingers. “Westeros. Not Essos, not the Narrow Sea.” Tyrion heard the will beneath the words. He’ll not turn back, not now. Only, there’s nowhere to go. No throne to sit, no queen to wed, no dragon to ride.

“Still.” Orange-hair looked around, markedly unimpressed by what was on the walls. Relics of the Dawn Age and he looks at them like they’re the work of a child clutching a bit of charcoal. Then Tyrion’s focus sharpened. The Essosi had no point of reference regarding the arrival of the Others, but those Westerosi born south of the Neck… To those of Andal descent, the Others are a drunkard’s dream.

“You’re Westerosi as well, I take it?” The man gave a grin, and a decidedly unfriendly one at that.

“Born to a blacksmith at Bitterbridge, common as you like.”

“True as you can find, as well. Ser Rolly Duckfield, of my Kingsguard.” Aegon introduced him. Tyrion’s eyebrows went up. Not a Dragonknight, not a White Bull, not a Barristan the Bold. Just a big man with a sword to swing and an axe to grind. No doubt he would die for the man seated next to the princess, but that didn’t make him fit for a white cloak. Then again, my opinion on such matters is scarcely one to take to heart. He subtly shifted so he could see Daenerys’ reaction. Wisely she maintained an unconcerned expression, but she had known Ser Barristan Selmy and Tyrion could just imagine his reaction to the first of the prince’s guardians. Puffed up ponce that he was, he’d not have been wrong about this. “Who’s with Lady Mellario, then?” Aegon asked his bearded duck.

“Lord Connington’s seen to her safety and comfort both, Your Grace. She’s well cared for on Fortune.” Tyrion had to think for a moment. Mellario of Norvos, once wife to Prince Doran Martell. They could not have known their attempt to seat this Aegon would succeed, yet they brought the princess and her mother along anyway. That was telling to Tyrion and worrying as well. They were as eager to leave Essos as reach Westeros, if not more so.

“How will you get word to the Golden Company cohorts that we’re going north if they’ve washed up every which way?” Tyrion asked, thinking it might be best not to let everyone wear on each other’s nerves too long.

“Why would we go north?” Ser Rolly asked. As if I’d said we’re headed to the moon. Tyrion expected the typical dour rote from Jon Snow but the broody bastard only pointed to the nearest mural.

“Fighting to be done. Believe me, there’s no use for sellswords this side of the Neck.” He seemed content to make Daenerys giggle every so often, poking the fire whenever it sputtered. Still more voices came from down by the cavern entrance, but they were muted and furtive. Tyrion spotted Yezzan zo Qaggaz’ bloodless face, accompanied by sellswords and dispossessed Ghiscari both.

“Gloves on. Metal if you have it, hide if you don’t.” He pointed this way and that, to the largest deposits of dragonglass. Bags and barrels besides.

“I thought we came across the sea to cross swords.” One man grumbled to his compatriot.

“Gold is gold, and scooping up shiny shards of glass isn’t a bad way to fill one’s pockets.” The comrade replied. They resolutely ignored the fires, acting as if the sundry kings, queens, and lords assembled were no more than rocks on the cavern floor. Jon Snow got up and started helping, not even turning to look when Tyrion heard a splatter and a loud curse in argot.

“I told you it was sharp.” Qaggaz said dully, dragging a sack behind him out toward the open air. Daenerys seemed torn between staying with Tyrion and joining Jon.

“Oh, never mind me, Your Grace. Once the first haul has reached the ships, just pick a cabin and ready for the voyage. I’ll be along once all the glass as can be gathered is on its way.” He said, shrugging casually and swigging more wine. As the queen’s silver hair vanished down the tunnel after the King in the North and the sellswords after her, Tormund Giantsbane gave a yawn.

“Think I’ll get meself a nice warm cabin to coop up in, too.” He walked off into the darkness in the wake of the shrinking torchlight. The questioning glances sent Tyrion’s way made him weary. Still he told as much as he knew, save for what he couldn’t reasonably say in good faith. What went on with Jon Snow at the Wall isn’t the faintest bit my business, anyway. Nor between Daenerys and the Dothraki. Even so, once the lords of the mainland showed up in the port town rumors of all kinds promptly flew surrounding the pair and Tyrion could only shrug at the inquiries.

“He came back to life, or so they say.” Rolly muttered.

“So they say. His scars are real enough. Might be he just took the knifing of a lifetime and nobody could feel a pulse in a place that cold. I wasn’t there.”

“You were there for the throne, though. All the lords were.” Aegon said, Arianne dozing on his shoulder.

“I was.” And Drogon showed the lords what dragons mean, what they are.

“And?”

“And what? The dragon turned the throne to tallow, crashed up through the ceiling and headed west over the horizon as fast as he could.”

“Where, though? Where might he have gone? There’s nothing to the west of Westeros, only the Lonely Light a week’s steady sail from Great Wyk.” At Tyrion’s questioning glance, Aegon almost blushed. “Haldon taught me all the houses, particularly those less than inured to House Baratheon of King’s Landing. The Greyjoys among them, and the Farwynds, among others, as their vassals.”

“Nothing to reach by sail, perhaps. But Drogon is a powerful beast, if not especially graceful in the air. Strong, the way a bull or boar is strong. If there is anything to be found across the Sunset Sea, Drogon’s black shadow will cover it.”

“And the other two?” Quentyn, he of singularly plain looks, asked. Perhaps he sought to wed Daenerys when it became clear Aegon had designs on Arianne. The thought almost made Tyrion burst out laughing but remembering the prickly Dornish pride stifled his mirth.

“Not the first idea. All I know is they vanished shortly after we landed here. Jon Snow is of the opinion they’re someplace they won’t be noticed- or at least, where the people aren’t able to get word out to the rest of the world.”

“There’s no place like that in Westeros.” Quentyn said, so sure of his words.

“Below the Neck, maybe. The North is huge and wild, the lands beyond the Wall even more so. When it comes to dragons, food and freedom are the key. They may be of Valyria, but heat is not so alluring to them. They’re aflame on the inside, no summery land could ever warm them further. Wherever they are, they’re someplace no right-thinking man would ever go.”

Fatigue sprung on him so quickly it was all he could do not to mimic Lord Umber and keel over. He stood, legs sore and cramping.

“I’m off to the docks. I’d recommend you and yours return to Fortune for proper rest. Northmen and Free Folk may take to caves, but I’m too used to having something between me and the ground to much find it comfortable.” He took his leave of them then, waddling out the cavern mouth and through the well-hidden crack in the mountain’s base to come out into the cold night air, tinged with salt from the sea. Out from the warm cave and the drink both, with sea spray blowing in his face Tyrion found a second wind, heading toward the lights of the port town as fast as he could. Even as he made it past the gate, it occurred to him he knew not in which tavern he belonged, or on which ship. Hang it, he thought, furiously blinking sleep out of his eyes. He kept himself upright through sheer willpower, breathing heavily and all but staggering up the gangplank of the queen’s flagship. I’ll sleep on the bloody deck if I have to, he thought. At least here I know nobody will pitch me into the sea. Either his snores woke him or the bucket of water, but it seemed Tyrion had been asleep only moments before he was soaked to the bone and freezing besides. The sharp whipping wind was enough to smack the cry of alarm soundly from his mouth. As soon as he found his feet he was slipping on the frost-slick deck, promptly falling face first onto the wood. Gurgling unintelligibly, he tried to blink the spots out of his eyes, rolling over and stiffly sitting up. Ow, he thought. The sky was white, the morning frigid, and the snow looked likely to fall for the foreseeable future. After the dull pain subsided and the world stopped spinning, Tyrion pulled himself onto his feet with the help of the deck rail. A snowy shore was sailing past in the distance. We can’t have gone so far north yet. I was asleep a night, not a week.

“Crackclaw Point.” A half-familiar voice said while Tyrion steadied himself. He turned to see a stocky man in boiled leather staring out from a mess of grey hair. Small for a man-at-arms, but still tall enough to peer down that squashed nose at me.

“Lothor Brune.” Tyrion said. Baelish’s man, and one best kept clear of the Lords of the Reach. “Ser Lothor Apple-Eater.” He corrected himself. “From the Blackwater.” He got apple cores above his bear-paw sigil and I lost half my bloody nose.

“It sounded grand enough at the time. Then I heard the jest that mine was the first bear paw ever to reach for an apple.” He looked singularly glum.

“A better lark than any dwarf joke I’ve heard, and I’ve heard every single one. At least you have the sword to back your reputation.” Brune’s presence wearied Tyrion all over again. Baelish must not be far. “Why not put a mockingbird in the paw?”

“Lord Baelish wants that least of all. Without device or decoration, I’m just another sword, and that’s the way he wants it.”

“Speaking of, where is he?”

“With the king he found in Essos on that bloody big ship, that Fortune, I suppose.”

“Why are you not with him?”

“He told me to keep an eye out for dwarves and spiders. I was having a perfectly good time getting drunk with a few Estermont men when I saw you waddle by, burbling nonsense. The lads laughed like they hadn’t in years, and I got up and followed you here.” Tyrion turned to look at the shore again.

“We could be hundreds of miles north.”

“Aye, but we aren’t. Snow like this and in the crownlands, too. Seems a little out of sorts, even for winter.” Tyrion saw no people on the shore, no trace of anyone passing through but for the other ships in Daenerys Targaryen’s fleet. Unpeopled, as it might have looked to the First Men when they came to Westeros. The thought made Tyrion shiver.

“Will we have time to make Winterfell ready for a great number of visitors before the lords arrive?”

“They went on ahead as soon as all that glass got loaded. We’re bringing up the rear.” That seemed unwise to Tyrion. No royal buffer between the rest of Westeros and the northmen? Brune shrugged. “It was one of theirs’ ideas. The wolf bastard or the dragon queen. If they were lost at sea or such, the glass would still arrive and in the hands of men who know how to use it.” Planning for the worst possible outcome. Neither Jon Snow nor Daenerys Targaryen are needed to at least give battle. The austerity of the plan and its grim logic both impressed Tyrion. He knew better than to ask a lackey like Brune what his master thought of current events, but then Littlefinger had never given a straight answer in his life.

“Others, eh?” he asked neutrally. Brune shrugged.

“On Crackclaw Point it’s the squishers that give children nightmares. Only, it seems they’re just a race of smelly sea-dwellers content to mill about and croak at each other. Bah.” His dismissal of the man-fishes did not wholly surprise Tyrion. Brune didn’t look like the sort to go wide-eyed at much of anything, much less a walking fish holding a driftwood spear or even a sharp rock. But they’re not made for walking around in the sun, waiting for armored knights to charge them. In the pouring rain or a gale out to sea, even Fortune would capsize from a dedicated assault. He tried to imagine one of them spurred to anger or amidst battle. The Unsullied used spears as well, but they aimed to form phalanxes and execute tactical maneuvers. Discipline that the creatures make no sign of having. I suppose they go the opposite route, then, with massed charges. Storming the enemy and overcoming them with sheer numbers. He remembered a visit to Lannisport, where he’d had to accompany his Uncle Kevan to meet with men who owned the city’s fishing boats. Out on the water it was the fishermen themselves who had the glamorous task of dumping chum into the water and once they had, the surface of the sea became a freezing frenzy. More gooseprickles. I don’t envy whoever or whatever finds themselves in their midst with blood in the water. While he dwelled on that singularly unpleasant memory, Brune grunted pointedly and elbowed him. Thoughts of thrashing summer sharks receded when Tyrion spotted the queen’s silver hair coming out of the cabin. If he had ever seen it in a sorrier state Tyrion could not remember but her small secret smile and pink cheeks advertised the weight that had come off her shoulders. Happy to be rid of Aerys’ shadow and the throne’s, both. Happy, too, in her White Wolf’s presence. The selfsame wolf was next out on deck, quickly wrapping Daenerys in a thick fur blanket. For her part, she leaned her head on his chest. Tyrion quickly took stock of how the other people topside felt. He saw no northmen yet knew Jon Snow would never be parted from them, figuring they must be below somewhere. A few Dothraki lads milled about, loudly talking to each other to give the impression they were not completely unnerved by the sea churning around them. Tyrion had not even attempted to learn their barbaric tongue. After all, he thought, I mangle Valyrian badly enough. No need to offend the horselords.

In only moments Tyrion was glad for the blanket around the queen’s shoulders and her place in Jon Snow’s arms both. The cold was truly maddening, the kind that seemed to catch in his bones and spread out rather than coming from somewhere outside. No wonder northmen like to heat their wine. When he tried to pull on gloves, his fingers were stiff and clumsy and it took wholly longer than it ought have. I’d best be careful. I don’t want to lose one to the frost. Or the rest of my nose. Here’s hoping Aegon and his Essosi have clothing fit for winter proper. The crew seemed similarly unnerved by the cold, even fur clad as they were. No doubt the Dothraki are wondering just what sort of people can live in such circumstances. They looked rather absurd with fur scarves simply tied about their heads, huddling wherever they could get out of the wind’s sharp cut. All the while, Jon Snow made no sign he was the least bit discomfited. If anything he seemed happier, quite quit of his normal brooding frown. Eager to be home. To bring his sister home as well, to see his wolf again perhaps. Hopefully Daenerys takes to the north and it to her. What he saw did not make him optimistic, though. She was not one to shy from cold or snow, but this was something no man should be expected to endure. I can feel my fucking eyeballs freezing. He was still cursing the north as a godsforsaken white waste when a sudden gust carried him a good two feet, bumping hard against the deck rail. Frantically he threw himself to the deck, trying to prevent himself from being blown overboard. Though certain everyone saw it, Tyrion could hear no laughter. He waited for the sudden bluster to pass before getting back to his feet. Jon Snow was not smiling anymore. Neither was he brooding- his face was wary and his grey Stark eyes were wide and watchful.

“Perhaps only necessary crew ought be topside for now.” he said, voice carrying despite the wind. “We’ll get a fire going in the galley and keep the crew at half shifts.” So they have a chance to get warm, no doubt. Tyrion watched him send the queen below and approach the helmsman. “If it gets any worse, we’ll simply make do with oars below. No need to snap the mast or lose the sail.” Notably he did not go below to keep Daenerys company, instead moving about the deck and telling people to keep moving, not to sit for too long. And this during the day, with the sun out to warm us, Tyrion thought. It was much the same the day after and the day after that. Place your bets on what comes off who first. It came to pass that remaining on deck was simply too dangerous and so they quit the sail and put men at the ship’s oars.

“Well, now, this isn’t so bad.” Tormund Giantsbane said, enthusiastic if unpracticed at pushing an oar. “Out of the cold, out of the wind, and still we’re making three-quarters time. Har!” His jovial air seemed only to mystify the Essosi, who freedman or Dothraki looked positively terrified of the white world that could just be glimpsed from the galley steps. The big Thenn, Sigorn, was similarly new to rowing- though once he worked it out, could do the work of three men. That is, when Lady Karstark isn’t in need of him. The babes never stopped fussing but with the wind and the constant chatter it wasn’t so much a bother. I’d rather listen to fussy babes than freezing wind, howling loud as a pack of direwolves.

Tyrion was just grateful he could have a piss without having to worry about it freezing midstream when he noticed Jon Snow talking to the helmsman. Waddling over, rubbing the ever-present cold from his arms, he noticed the queen present as well, her hair hidden in a fur hood. I didn’t even notice her at first. Their faces were all he needed to see to know something had gone awry.

“Well?” he prompted.

“We’ve lost the fleet.” The helmsman said, barely audibly. He doesn’t want to spread panic. Still, Tyrion felt his stomach sink most unhelpfully.

“We’re all headed to the same place. I suppose it doesn’t matter who gets there first. If anything, the others will have a good laugh at our expense being feasted by the Manderlys while they wait for us to show up.” Jon Snow replied, shrugging.

“Your Grace, it’s not that simple. I’ve tried to find our bearing and we could be headed across the Narrow Sea or straight back to Dragonstone for all I know. Whenever I look outside, all I see is white and gray.” That made Jon Snow swallow. The boy beneath the king, though he grows fainter every day.

“Just keep a steady pace. We can’t have gone so far off course. With land to our left, we’ll know we’re still going the right way.”

“If you say so, Your Grace.” The helmsman said, shrugging and getting to it. While Jon Snow’s broodiness crept back into his face and Daenerys pursed her lips, Lothor Brune came over, fresh off an oar. Tyrion introduced him, the knight nodding to the pair.

“Is there something you need, Ser Lothor?” Daenerys asked.

“Need? Well, Your Grace, it’d be awfully grand of you for one of your dragons to show up and give us a good warm.” She seemed unable to tell if the man was jesting or giving insult. Evidently Brune noticed but before he could excuse himself the whole ship gave a sudden loud groan- and then the lot of them were thrown into each other, the floor beneath them rising and falling freely. Lovely. The rat in the dog’s mouth again. There was a loud thud as something struck the deck. That better have been a barrel or a loose bucket. The helmsman passed Tyrion by as he went to check, muttering darkly about winter weather. When he did not return after a few moments, Tyrion took it upon himself to go bringing the man back down before the wind took him. Before he could enjoy freedom from the steadily worsening smell below the cold hit him and he swore loudly. Hunching his shoulders, it was a moment before he noticed the wind had died down.

“Finally.” On looking to port he saw they were at the mouth of some bay, a hazy hint of land still further north. “It’s still colder than can be believed, but without the wind it’s not half so bad.” He tried to figure where they might have ended up. We must be in the Vale’s waters. “Strange that it should go so quickly, though.”

“Nothing strange about it. Just the calm.” The man replied. “Before that.” He pointed north. Tyrion looked and felt his jaw drop, his insides turning quick to ice. The entire northern horizon was filled with white, a blizzard that defied his mind’s attempts to fully take it in. Flashes came and went in the tempest, the same as oft happened in storm clouds high overhead. Is that lightning? Then the rumbling began. At first Tyrion took it for thunder, louder even than the hammering in his chest. Then he screwed up his ears, wondering if he’d simply gone mad. There was something to the rumbling, a rhythm, a cadence. A voice, he thought weakly. That’s a voice. He heard others coming up the steps behind him. The blizzard, or tempest, or whatever it was continued to roll squarely toward them. All the while the voice got louder, stronger, clearer. The voice of a god, Tyrion thought. Singing up a storm for the ages.

Whoever had come up after him went straight back down at the sight of the storm. He tried to move, to get his legs to carry him to shelter belowdecks, but it wasn’t until the hail began to bounce off his face in painful little jabs that he found himself moving. It was a shambles, everyone either clinging onto each other hiding under tables or stuffing themselves into crannies. Outside, the god-song grew still louder until Tyrion could feel it in his feet. He was just debating whether to simply hide in a barrel when he caught sight of the queen and Jon Snow prone in each other’s arms. There was no hiding the tears streaking down her cheeks, but her face was determinedly listening to the King in the North’s words.

“Hold onto me,” he kept saying. “and I’ll hold onto you.” Then Tyrion was less a rat in a dog’s mouth, more a sheep in a dragon’s jaws. He flew from one end of the ship to the other, cracking his head on the floor and his knee on the ceiling. So quick was the flurry of blows he couldn’t even catch his breath. It seemed whenever he found floor again, there was another peal of thunder and once more the ship’s interior spun. He heard the mast burst, sure as a child snapping a twig. Again his face met the side of the ship, a slurred curse all he could manage before he was pitched about once more. Only when he felt a hand clasp fast ‘round his ankle did the madness stop, another hand gripping his shoulder and pulling him close. Tyrion was too dazed to take hold himself, arms hanging limply at his sides while unconsciousness called to him. The storm continued to pitch the ship to and fro but he was no longer bouncing off its insides, able finally to catch his breath.

“Hold onto me,” he heard in High Valyrian, “and I’ll hold onto you.” He fought to keep his eyes open. I know that voice, he thought. His arms felt like they had bricks hanging off them, yet still he brought them up to come around the queen’s waist. Please let it end soon, he prayed. To whom, he had no notion. Surely the Seven had no power and less over whatever had sent the storm. Let us get off the sea before it claims the lot of us. He bit down on his tongue to keep himself from passing out, the pain fending off the tantalizing prospect of simply giving up. “Tyrion.” The queen’s voice was soft, almost terrifying in its soothing tone. “Tyrion.” He realized the ship had ceased to shake, the world gone blessedly still and quiet. Only then did he let go, finding himself on the floor of the ship. I’d rather fight the Mountain than go through that again. Then the ship gave another lurch and it was all Tyrion could do not to break down sobbing. Then he realized it had come from the ship running aground. Faster than he could think he was topside, all but jumping off the deck to reach the snow-covered shore. He could not have cared less where they had been forced to shore, just then he could not have imagined wanting anything more than steady ground beneath his feet. Not warmth, not wine, not a woman.

The others gave him space while they disembarked, and more than once Tyrion could hear someone vomiting freely from the ride they had been given. One among them was the queen, who seemed singularly worse for wear. Get up, Halfman. He rose as quickly as he could manage, staggering over to her. Jon Snow had her seated on his leg, her hair held out of her face as she did what she had to. When she came up, she was ashen and she looked mortified. Tyrion snorted derisively.

“Tepid, Your Grace.” Then he turned away from them and utterly outclassed her, feeling as though he’d never want to eat again.

“Where are we, anyway? Some kneeler-land or other?” He heard Tormund ask loudly.

“The Vale.” Jon Snow answered.

“Aye? The place all them knights came from as helped us quash the Boltons?” Tormund sounded rather pleased.

“Forget the Boltons. How are we supposed to get back to Winterfell without a ship?” Lady Karstark asked, looking rather frazzled. She had a babe in each arm and the Poole girl kept close to her with the third. Well, at least they all made it.

“I doubt a ship would get us any further than this.” Tyrion replied. They all looked at him. “Come off it. You all heard the voice same as me. If we try the sea again, we’ll end up thrown right back onto the shore. If we’re lucky.” Little Lord Umber, fresh off his own hands and knees, looked at a loss.

“We could try going true north. To the Bite. Might be some Sisterman would be good enough to take us further on to White Harbor…”

“You don’t know the Vale, lad. The mountains alone would stop us, not to mention the hill tribes, shadowcats, rockslides…”

“No god-song, though. No tempest-blizzards that fill the whole horizon.” Umber countered.

“The Mountains of the Moon are no less navigable, my lord. Truly. I was the unwilling guest of Catelyn Tully once upon a time. During captivity I saw just how perilous travelling through the Vale could be without a sturdy armed escort and people who knew where they were going.” Silence but for the water lapping against the snowy shore. At least the Narrow Sea has yet to freeze. He spotted Sigorn staring up at the mountains, tongue between his teeth.

“They’re not the ‘Fangs.” he said after some thought.

“I should bloody well hope not. The Mountains of the Moon are quite ordeal enough.” Tyrion replied. He looked about to try and spot anyone else. Jon Snow was quickly doing up the queen’s cloak to keep her as warm as could be managed. Lady Karstark, her Thenn and the Poole girl each had a babe in their arms, trying to calm their crying. He spotted the boy lord Umber pop off the top of a barrel that had slid off the deck, pulling out a wineskin and tossing it to Brune to share with Tormund. I could be stranded on some bleak shore with worse.

He remembered his hatred for the mountains after a scant hour of walking. Everyone makes short jokes, he thought, but what truly burns me is when I can’t keep up. For his stunted build, Tyrion Lannister’s arms and legs had no want for stamina. That much the gods vouchsafed me. Still, his calves began to burn and ache long before he saw signs of weariness in the others. I doubt I’ll see it in the Thenn at all. He was born to mountains, if anything he ought to feel more at home here than in the Haunted Forest. He wondered if Jaime would do any better walking up and down, snaking around boulders and ears strained for sudden rockslides. His time at war was spent ahorse or in a cell. More than once he nearly lost his footing and the ground only became more treacherous and ever steeper the further into the Mountains of the Moon they went. With a party numbering less than a dozen it was difficult but manageable, so far. Not so with an army. He knew well the countless tales of armies breaking against the Bloody Gate. Failing to reach the Eyrie, much less take it. When the day’s light began to fade, Jon and Sigorn both attested that the best thing to do would be find a place where a fire could be kindled and wait for dawn.

“Mountains familiar as your mother’s face are treacherous whores. It’s rank madness to go plodding about in the pitch dark here, where the stone is strange.” The Thenn opined. The rest of them together had not half so much experience with such terrain and so they got about looking for shelter. Sigorn found a small cave but he and Jon Snow seemed unsure as to whether using it was wise. When Tyrion asked why, Snow only pursed his lips.

“We’re on a game trail. Sheep and goats wander through here to reach other grazing grounds, and like as not the shadowcats slink over the same stones in hot pursuit.” Sigorn informed Tyrion. He looked at his feet. I see no difference between where I’m standing now and where I stood an hour ago, save the elevation. Castle-born folk don’t belong out here, no more than wildlings belong in the confines of a city.

“Had we Ghost we’d leave here with goat meat and shadowcat skins both.” Jon Snow said forlornly. Tyrion was more knowledgeable when Daenerys asked how the cave had come to be, why traces of old firepits lingered in the cavern floor.

“The tribes that call these mountains home have learned their every pebble. Perhaps this is a place they use when far from their homes proper, out on a hunt or such. Given the season it’s unlikely they’ll come while we’re here.”

The stink that came while Jon Snow and Sigorn labored over the kindling made the queen cough. Sigorn went for his axe and Jon Snow for his wolf-sword, Brune quickest to it with a knife in each hand, but they paused at the look on Tyrion’s face. Slowly he got up and walked into the night, stopping just outside the cave mouth.

“The Stone Crows are accomplished at hiding in the mountains,” he said, “but there is no hiding the stink of Shagga, son of Dolf.” The trees and twisted trails could have held a hundred savages out of sight but the men who stepped out from hiding looked scarcely like the Stone Crows he remembered. Shagga led them as he had when Tyrion last saw him, but the big man had lost at least three stone. The others with him were in a similar sorry state, half-starved and sunken-eyed. Shagga looked dumbfounded. Either at Tyrion’s reappearance in his homeland, at being found out purely on merit of odor, or just because Shagga’s mind oft ran slow where matters of combat or pillage were not concerned. When there was no forthcoming reply, Tyrion thought quickly but spoke slowly, so as not to confuse the tribesmen. “We were coming up the coast when a storm straight from hell pushed us onto the rocks. It sounded as though some god or other took issue with us reaching White Harbor.” While Tyrion pondered if Shagga even knew what White Harbor was, Shagga stepped up to him as he always did when he wanted to throw his weight around. Rather less to throw these days, though.

“The gods have gone, Tyrion son of Tywin.” He grunted. “The Stone Crows will hear no more of gods, or Shagga son of Dolf will-”

“Yes, yes.” Tyrion interrupted, waving his hands impatiently. “Though I see you have no goats.”

“Shagga will make do. Shagga remembers the lessons the Halfman taught the clans.” Is that humor?

“Whereas I remember you being rather bigger-”

“Shagga has not eaten well since the snows began to fall. The Stone Crows followed him from the forest near the Halfman’s smelly city when armored men began to arrive. Stone Crows are fierce fighters, but to stay would have been death. The road back was flooded in many places, and the Stone Crows were not the only clan to lose many men to the logs with teeth that filled the swollen rivers.”

“Lizard-lions are a prickly lot.” Tyrion agreed grimly.

“These lizard-lions were proofed against even the steel the Halfman gave. The men were not so proofed against their teeth in boiled leather and hauberks.” So matter of fact, even in disaster.

“You needn’t fear them any longer. They’ll not follow you into the mountains.” Shagga snorted.

“Shagga son of Dolf is not simple, Halfman. These lizard-lions like space and rivers and deep water free of salt. There is no space, there are no rivers and there is no water free of salt deep enough for them to want here. It is not these lizard-lions that make our number smaller by the night, that swallow whole tribes in a wash of corpses sure as a rockslide.”

“Corpses?” Tyrion heard Jon Snow ask behind him. He turned to see the bastard emerging from the cave, followed by Sigorn. Daenerys came out as well, Jon Snow to Tyrion’s approval letting her stand on her own.

“Shagga heard the sounds of a fire being built. The cold can kill a man, but a fire will kill us all.” Tyrion’s eyes went wide while Jon Snow took the raider in.

“Corpses with blue eyes.” He said. Low muttering broke out among the Stone Crows.

“Blue eyes only fire can close.” Shagga agreed. “Who are you?”

“Jon Snow, and I know the blight that plagues you. All too well, in fact.”

“Jon Snow knows then, the ones that shepherd the dead.”

“Aye. A cold race from white lands that have never seen a sunrise.” Shagga looked at him for a long time.

“Shagga has seen them, holding swords of sharpened ice and wearing armor that shifts to match what lies around it. They scale sheer ice, leave no tracks in fresh-fallen snow and make dead men dance whenever it pleases them.” Jon Snow nodded.

“The Others, we call them.”

“What does Jon Snow call their allies?” For the first time, Tyrion saw Jon Snow completely shocked.

“The dead men?”

“Dead men are dead men. Shagga speaks of great tall monsters, half again as tall as men, with long noses for sniffing out hot meat and whose bodies close any wounds they take as soon as they are given.” Sigorn looked no more composed than Jon Snow, so it took a hard elbow from Daenerys to bring the King in the North back to ground.

“Is there more Shagga can tell of these creatures?”

“Better still, Shagga can show you.” Oh, this is a bad idea.

“We’d best go now. The Others see in darkness what a man cannot with the sun overhead and will hide from the dawn.”

“Not if they are not expecting battle, not when things need doing.”

“What would an Other do with a free moment?”

“If Jon Snow will hold his tongue, Shagga will not cut it out for him.” When word got around that the Others had beat them to the Vale with their chattel and other, more mysterious elements both, nobody was keen to huddle in the cave and wait for Jon Snow’s ranging to return. Those with weapons held them tight and close, while Daenerys took charge of the baby girl Sigorn had been holding to free his hands. Accompanied by the Stone Crows, they set off on a winding path through the mountains that seemed to go in every direction. No wonder the hill tribes have never kneeled to the Andals, Tyrion thought. They are children of the mountains as the Arryns never could be. More than once the lot of them were forced to ground or into snowbanks when some noise or other spooked Shagga but nothing sought to make a meal of them.

“Whatever became of Timett or Chella?” Tyrion asked when they stopped longer than usual.

“Timett fed a lizard-lion. Chella was lost when the webs began to fill the trees around the falcons’ nest.”

“Webs?” Tyrion asked, skin breaking out in gooseprickles.

“The Others have spiders big as hounds, big as horses.” Tormund muttered from behind him. Wonderful. Just preceding a rocky outcropping, Shagga halted. He turned to Jon Snow.

“Press flat to the stone and look down. Do not move. Do not scream.” Tyrion was puzzled until he spotted the thin jut of rock that ran perhaps ten feet from the ridge. Perfect for a man to lay on and espy the movements of knights in the Vale of Arryn below and the Bloody Gate besides. At least the mystery behind the hill tribes’ knack for avoiding the Knights of the Vale had been solved. While Jon Snow duly followed Shagga’s instructions, somewhat impressing the mountain clansman, Tyrion took a breath and peeked over the ridge proper. It seemed the stone fell away from his perspective, the Vale of Arryn rolling out on the valley floor below. Dizzying as the view was, Tyrion could see masses of men moving about, like ants around their hill. No, not men, he corrected himself. More striking were the taller lighter figures that barged through the dark masses utterly unmolested, heading where they pleased. What in the gods’ name are those?

“Those aren’t Others.” Jon Snow called back as if in answer. “Others are not so tall, and they don’t shove wights out of the way just to do it.”

“Those are.” Shagga replied. “Near the gate.” Tyrion could hear the stone shift, so eager was Jon to get a look at them. He heard the King in the North’s breath hitch. Must be them, then.

Tyrion moved over to better view the Bloody Gate. A fitting name. The fortification swarmed with wights, moving atop it keeping their dead watch or else filing out from the Vale onto the high road. And then on into Westeros proper.

“That must be the Eyrie.” Jon observed.

“Aye, sky cells, Moon Door and all.” Tyrion replied. Possibly my least favorite place in Westeros. “It’s impossible to keep supplied in the winter, though, so the Arryns close it and retire to the Gates of the Moon at the base of the Giant’s Lance.”

“Who builds a castle next to impossible to keep, heat, feed?” Lord Umber asked from the rear, teeth chattering.

“The Eyrie is impregnable, or so they say.” Tyrion replied.

“Not to ice spiders, it seems. I can see webs on the Bloody Gate and that stump of a castle at mountain’s base both.”

“Nor to dragons.” Daenerys added. “Visenya flew up there on Vhagar and the Vale became Aegon’s that very day.”

“Bully for Aegon. Without Drogon the Eyrie’s as out of reach as the sky itself.”

“This Drogon is free to try and take the falcons’ nest.” Shagga snorted in derision.

“Drogon is a dragon, not a man.” Daenerys said crossly. Oh, did I forget to mention it? Tyrion thought, turning to Shagga.

“Have I got a tale for you.” A long bone-chilling hooting sound filled the air. Immediately the tall figures on the valley floor moved for the comparative shelter of the rocks. The wights, puppets that they were, remained where they stood. The sky, grey-white as ever, suddenly shimmered, grey where white ought be and vice versa. What the- Tyrion’s thought froze solid as something sailed momentarily into view. The creature was barely visible so perfectly did its body match the sky, but Tyrion saw sure as sunrise the graceful neck tapering to a long, needly head, the pair of legs, the tail, the wings that held the animal aloft. A dragon, he thought in rapturous terror, but when it was joined by others of its kind, his dismay subsided. No. Too small, too skinny, and not nearly so independent. Some small corner of his mind remembered reading about the differences between true dragons and the bestial wyverns of Sothoryos as a boy. Graceless plodding brutes without a thought but for their appetites. The animals that lazily circled in loose formation above the Vale of Arryn were no wyverns, though. If anything, they were the total opposite. Sleek, fast, and hunting in unison. And where a wyvern will suffer no rider, it appears these creatures have no such prejudice, he thought, spotting figures on the backs of several of the animals.

“Can they see us?” Daenerys whispered.

“I’m sure they can. The more pertinent question, I think, is do they see us?” Tyrion answered, all but pulling Jon Snow back off the stony shelf. The creatures remained in view a few moments more before disappearing back into the freezing sky.

“It is a nest for something else now.” Shagga finished. Something we have no answer for, should the dragons remain absent. Coming down from the ridge, Tyrion’s mind could not focus on one thought for more than a second or two. A bizarre urge to laugh reared in his throat and only with effort did he choke it down. They must be nesting in the Eyrie, where the air is coldest. They must not like getting too warm or surely they’d have dived to snatch up a wight or two. But if their present circumstances were too warm, with teeth chattering, limbs stiff and faces frosty… Tyrion’s excitement tempered with the old pain at hearing all the dragons had died. We could not get someone atop one even if it were willing. The cold they prefer is too much for any man. Still, the thought that mad Lysa Arryn’s impregnable fortress had become the roost of hitherto unknown creatures from the trackless depths of the Land of Always Winter made Tyrion want to laugh until he cried.

The rest of the journey through the Mountains of the Moon was comparatively dull. Painfully so, Tyrion thought, rubbing his legs for what felt like the thousandth time. They moved during the day, hiding at night and huddling together to keep the dread chill out. Always they watched the sky, ears straining for the creatures’ hooting. After all, we’ll hear them before we’ll see them. The Stone Crows’ path avoided the castles of the Vale as an added refinement, taking them squarely away from where the wights would congregate in the largest numbers.

“After all,” Jon Snow said one evening, “the fewer people there are to kill, the fewer there are to rise again. Out here where nobody lives, I think we should be fine.”

“Fine for now, Jon, but what happens at trek’s end? We can’t hide in these mountains forever, we’ll freeze or starve and never mind the Others, their brutes, their spiders, their dead men or their flying lizards.” Daenerys asked. Tyrion had been pondering that same dilemma and could see no rosy finish, himself.

“Assuming we make it the rest of the way through the Mountains of the Moon, we’ll find ourselves on the southern shore of the Bite without a ship. Perhaps White Harbor has sent out patrols looking for us. Even if they have, there’s no guarantee they’ll find us before we die from the elements.” He expected to see the old dour northern grimace on Jon Snow’s face but quite defying Tyrion’s expectations, the King in the North seemed almost resigned. He is afraid, but not of the Others. They pressed on northwest through the mountains until the air came easier in Tyrion’s chest and the intermittent lightheadedness left him for good. Thank the gods. Though still freezing, it was beyond a doubt too warm for the Other’s flying mounts and so attitudes relaxed as much as the situation allowed. Incredibly, in Tyrion’s opinion, not a one of the three babes died on their passing through the Vale. When Daenerys expressed her own happiness that they had survived, Alys Karstark only smiled.

“Aynikka, Harra, Torrha. Half Karstark and half Thenn, they’re too stubborn by half to let a little cold steal them out of a world they’ve only just come into.” Sigorn had spent the last few days talking the Stone Crows and other scattered clansmen who’d joined them to accompany them still further.

“There’s food and drink at the wolf castle,” he told them, “and proper wild girls who will take an ear off with their teeth if you step wrong around them.” The prospect of slowly starving to death in the mountains of his birth did not seem overly attractive to Shagga and his tribesmen, and so once more Tyrion found them his companions for the foreseeable future. He’s an utter brute, of course, but there have been worse men. Really, it’s his stench that puts me off. Glimpsing a line of deep, dark green that unfurled to the north seemingly in defiance of the white that ruled all else, a slow realization dawned on Tyrion.

“Uh, Your Grace?” he asked of Jon Snow their last night in the mountains. Daenerys had to gently tug his elbow to make him see Tyrion had addressed him and not her.

“What is it, my lord?”

“Ah, it’s just that something’s come into view.”

“Has it?” Jon Snow asked, carefully cleaning a bighorn sheep Lord Umber had spotted earlier.

“I would like to make expressly clear that freezing to death on the shores of the Bite, while no doubt an ignoble end, may well be less of an ordeal than certain other options.” Lothor Brune, close-mouthed to a fault, continued cleaning the carcass. All the while, he listened intently.

“What other options might those be, my lord?”

“Well, it seems to me in rather poor taste to press the hospitality of a people who might take a dim view of Lannisters on their land.”

“Shagga son of Dolf has led the Halfman through the mountains on a path Dolf showed him, who was shown by Holger, who was shown by Bragol. Any one of whom would have slain Tyrion son of Tywin where he stood.”

“He’s rather right, my lord. I can scarcely think of a place outside the westerlands your family is not reviled.” Umber said, almost apologetically. Do I have to say it?

“Do you mean to take us through the Neck?” Brune dropped the leg he was holding; Umber’s eyes went wide as plates and tears formed in Alys Karstark’s own. Jon Snow ignored the reactions of those who’d grown up hearing stories of the Neck and those who lived within it.

“It’s part of the North. We can stick to the kingsroad-”

“Which has absolutely, certainly, without a single doubt been flooded.”

“It won’t take us long. A week or two and then we make Moat Cailin. White Harbor after that, where we can rest and press on to Winterfell. Hopefully ahorse, with the rest of the lords alongside.” Though the others had no inkling of what must lie waiting beneath that seamless mat of green, Tyrion suddenly felt ready to walk straight back up the mountain and start waving his hands at the Others. Or better yet, pitch myself off the ridge. A quicker end, and cleaner, than any crannogman will give a Lannister.

Chapter 10: Arya I

Chapter Text

Despite the cold, despite the driving wind, despite Nymeria’s odd skittishness of late, Arya scarcely went a moment without seeing the dragon melt the Iron Throne in her mind’s eye. At the time, it was like she was seeing something her thoughts couldn’t comprehend. The Iron Throne had been there, in King’s Landing, since before she was born. All the fighting I saw in the riverlands, all the men dead on this side or that so someone might be king. And the dragon twisted it in on itself with a breath. But while the others could see only the metal glow brighter and brighter until it hurt to look at, Arya saw the dragon, too. The scales were so black and the light so bright his body had become a huge shadow, red eyes wide and full of pain and rage. Not his, though. The black fire had surged forth, and Arya saw iron bubble. I saw it run like melting ice. A stiff, no-nonsense voice from ages ago echoed in her ear. Do you know what happened?

“Dragons.” Arya had replied, as if it were mundane. It was a story then, she thought. The same as the giants and the Others and Sansa’s tales of brave knights and valiant heroes.

“Dragons happened. Aegon Targaryen changed the rules.” Tywin Lannister had told her. The expression he wore in Harrenhal’s solar had been one she’d never seen before, nor since. Until the throne room. Arya felt no cold as the voyage pressed on, her hands clasped in front of her as she played it all out on the cabin ceiling. Balerion, flying over the highest towers, the strongest walls. It wasn’t wings that put an end to Black Harren and his line, though. Had Aegon been astride a wyvern, Harrenhal would never have fallen. A sea of black flame, of crumbling towers and sagging walls later and Black Harren’s folly was done. And dragons were seared into the thoughts of every Westerosi from that day until their last. To further stymie her efforts to put it in perspective, the dragon she saw had been little. At least, compared to the Black Dread. I saw his skull beneath the Red Keep. She wondered what it looked like from his back. What did the Conquerer see when Balerion loosed his fire? Like men dying in the hundreds, in the thousands. On the Field of Fire, too. She’d wanted nothing more than to see them in the flesh, talk to Aegon’s warrior sister, Visenya. After King’s Landing, she was not near so certain. She had no idea what kind of people they were, the first Targaryens, out of the public eye, but Arya of late had grown unimpressed with them. Either they were as ignorant as the rest of Westeros or their flippant use of the power they wielded made them more dangerous than the beasts they rode. They used a warhammer to crush an ant.

She was still brooding on the disparity between Aegon and the kings whose crowns he sought to take when Gendry stirred beside her.

“Wolf dreams?”

“Dragon dreams.” she replied moodily. Rather than try to console her, Gendry just sat up and stretched. Part of her wished he’d whisper comforting things, but the other part knew that would do no good and only irritate her. He knows me well.

“At least you found your mum.” he said, shrugging. Did I? There was part of Catelyn Stark in the woman…person...being that occupied the smallest cabin. Elsewise she would not have struggled so to find me, nor did she try to steer Jaime Lannister from his course. There was some and more of the rivers in her now, though. And in Robb’s widow. She is more daughter to who men call Catelyn Stark now than I am. Perhaps Gendry understood that much as well and was just trying to get her mind off dragons.

“What are we going to do when we reach White Harbor? We have only a few more days at sea.” she muttered.

“Probably I’ll marry a turnip.”

“What about me?”

“You’ll be my wedding gift, a shiny anvil.” She punched him in the side, knowing he’d not feel it.

“You’re a turnip.”

“Well, better a turnip than a carrot-” She quieted him with a kiss, trying to shove away her unease as if it were another person in the room.

“Carrots are better.” she whispered against his mouth.

“Are not.” he replied. “Anvil-heads are, though.” Her exasperation at his serene stubbornness to her amazement seemed to do just the trick, the butterflies in her stomach the excited sort instead of anxious. Did he know that much would work as well? “I’m going up for some air.” he announced, standing and dressing. Even with all those layers he’s still going to be cold to the bone.

“Not without me. You might spot a fish and jump into the sea to marry it.” Arya said in turn, dressing as warmly as she could manage.

“Why would I, when I’m too busy polishing you, anvil-head?” Their banter continued up to the deck until the sudden frigid exposure made Arya’s next loving barb stick in her throat. “Bloody fuck.” Gendry swore, easing her behind him and out of the wind.

“I could build a second Storm’s End in your shadow. You’re too big to marry a turnip-” Arya had got right back to their game only to stop midsentence at the sight of Davos Seaworth at the ship’s bow, fiddling with something in his hand. Lady Marya was at his side, but if she noticed his fidgeting, she paid no mind. She knows him better than he knows himself. Maybe that’s where Gendry learned the trick. Lord Buckler and Ser Rolland Storm, the Bastard of Nightsong, were on the deck as well, in deep conversation. A golden dragon says they’re talking about Gendry. Arya was surprised to find that they were actually talking about Nightsong itself.

“Caron lands have no lord just now. Word is some foot stepped on your brother during the Blackwater-” Lord Buckler began.

“I don’t give an iron bob about what catspaw the Lannisters named to steal a castle from Stannis years ago. What are the chances we make it back, anyhow? The last army that left the stormlands for the north never returned, if you recall.” Storm replied. They’re discussing Ser Rolland’s possible legitimization. Rather than pull Davos from whatever memories were tormenting him today Arya found herself stepping up to the two men. On noticing her they both nodded. “Princess Arya.” they said in unison.

“Ser Rolland, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.” At once the man looked weary of her words. “I spotted you at Storm’s End, ser. You know as well as I that any men still with the heart to fight are dearer by the day. What’s the harm in wearing your sire’s name if you’re never going to return to Nightsong anyway? Why not die Lord Rolland Caron, if only to spite the Lannisters and their stupid foot?” Ralph Buckler clapped Storm on the shoulder.

“Well said, princess!”

“Who’s to spite? All the Lannisters are dead or fled-”

“So are many of the stormlords.” she reminded him. “Thanks to Stannis’ northern adventure more than half of the noble houses of the stormlands have died out or vacated their holdings, with vast swathes of the admittedly small kingdom left outstanding.” Including his own. “What little we can do from here to sort his mess out, we ought.” Buckler threw his other hand up, as if she’d just said the simplest truth.

Storm looked rather uncomfortable, but he was saved having to reply when footsteps behind Arya advertised a newcomer. Both he and Buckler ‘my lord’ed their visitor, and even though the man in question was indeed a lord by writ it still surprised Arya when she turned to see Davos Seaworth standing by the deck. They know he is not a man who lives trivially. He wasn’t even a stormlander, born in Flea Bottom, and yet the stormlanders proper put as much stock in his words as in anyone’s. Save Gendry, of course. Arya caught a faint whiff of burning wood and saw the man’s bloodshot eyes. What little sleep he’s gotten has been plagued by nightmares.

“If you’d excuse us?” he asked of the other two, who nodded and were off at once. Lady Marya didn’t so much as meet Arya’s gaze, instead ensnaring Gendry in idle talk about his work. I know when someone doesn’t want to be overheard, my lord, Arya thought. Still, she let the Onion Lord’s mummery proceed until he was ready to talk. “Apologies. I know full well you’re able to have a chat unheard, but I wanted you to hear it before I went bringing up bad memories for the lad.” He opened his hand. The bit of charcoal he carried always was smoking slightly. Arya frowned.

“Did you try to get a fire going on deck?”

“No.” Seaworth replied, gazing down at the burned bit of wood.

“Nightmares?” When he looked up quickly, Arya gave a snort of humorless laughter. “Come, ser. You’re not the only one with his mind on what happened in the throne room.” He shook his head.

“Fire’s on my mind, aye, but not the sort a dragon breathes.”

“The red kind?” He nodded. Arya swallowed. “On the way to Storm’s End, I thought perhaps it wasn’t something you were eager to bring to light. You told me how you found yourself with Jon…but I’m wondering how it came to pass you left Stannis’ service.”

“I made a bloody botch of things, as I most often do.” he said simply.

“Did you sneeze and give away the army’s position to Bolton scouts?”

“No. I left when I ought have stayed, or at least not left alone.” He was silent for awhile, looking torn between hurling the wood into the freezing sea and slipping it back in his pocket.

“If you’d rather not speak of it, Lord Seaworth, I understand.” Arya said, trying her best to sound like Mother had whenever Father was upset about something. “We have enough to contend with at moment without drudging up past pain.”

“We were marching from the Wall, on the way to Winterfell when we suddenly came up snowbound. Either we would freeze to death, starve, or the Bolton army would do for us.” Arya wasn’t surprised. More than once she’d heard men say that in the north, autumn was just winter lifting up her skirts. “Stannis charged me with heading back to the Wall to fetch aid from your brother. Men, food, whatever could be spared, as if the Night’s Watch had an ear of corn in surplus. The red woman sought her fire god’s aid in melting the snows. Well, if you remember what went on between her and Gendry, that R’hllor only gives after he’s been given.” I remember. Only too well.

“The army escaped the snows, I know that much. Stannis and the rest were finished off by the Boltons in battle.”

“Only after Stannis gave his daughter to the flames to melt the snows in the first place. Most of his men abandoned him then, either gone over to Bolton or wandering off to die. I don’t imagine there was much proper battle after that.”

No wonder he has fire on the mind. From what Arya had seen, the dragon’s breath would turn a man to ash before he could so much as scream. Not so with the stake. Had No One remained, Arya did not doubt she would be howling to track the red woman down and cut out whatever beat behind her pale chest.

“So you think R’hllor melted the snows? Wouldn’t he have saved Stannis proper, also? Shouldn’t he?”

“It took me a good few months to get the first thought together regarding the whole farce. Something the king said though, about the old gods, got me thinking.”

“Jon?” Davos nodded.

“He said the red woman was free to proclaim R’hllor had sent him back all she liked. It wasn’t R’hllor who lived, who lives, in the moors, the hills, the forests of the north.” Arya felt a surge of longing, of affection for Jon.

“He was talking about the old gods. Saying they sent him back.” Again, Davos nodded.

“That logic made me wonder if maybe the old gods hadn’t meddled beforehand, too. Melted the snows, I mean.”

“Why would they do that? The old gods aren’t fond of fire-”

“Regardless of the girl’s death, I mean. Or maybe because of it. I don’t claim to know how gods think or feel, but maybe they just made it easier for the Boltons to rid them of Stannis and R’hllor’s remaining faithful both.”

“The tick buries itself in the wolf’s flesh, and the raven plucks it out again.” Arya mused. Davos gave a joyless snort of his own.

“Maybe that’s all this business with the Others is.”

“How do you mean?” Davos shrugged.

“The Freys killing a northern king protected by guest right, a hungry fire god and his pet zealot running amok on ground that belonged to them since before the First Men came, since when it was just giants and children of the forest…how much more were they going to let pass? How much more were they supposed to take? Could be they let the Others loose to stir up trouble, their way of finally putting their foot down. ‘Right, we’ve had enough of you fucking people, now here’s a broom to sweep you clean away.’” Davos’ words drove what little warmth Arya could muster straight out of her. Like what happened to the Freys. They broke guest right and Mother came back up from the rivers to rain them from the world. What did the old gods care for Andal blood? Why would they stay their hand? Neither Arya nor Davos had found their voice when Lady Marya returned with Gendry. Only when her bull gently slipped an arm about her waist did Arya speak.

“What was her name?”

“Shireen.” Davos replied. “She’d be about your age now.”

“Were you attempting to rid yourself of that, then? I assume it must have belonged to her.” Arya indicated the bit of wood he held.

“This wasn’t my doing, princess. I woke up this morning to find it on fire proper, burning on the cabin table without scratching the wood beneath. By the time I got the bloody thing out, my face was black of smoke.”

“I had a right time of it trying to air everything out afterward. All out clothes smelled of smoke.” Marya intoned.

“Well, no harm done. Your clothes are too thin for winter, you’d have replaced them at any rate.” Arya told her. Wearily, Davos agreed. “Just keep an eye on it, Lord Seaworth.” Arya told him. “Wood prone to bursting into flame without being consumed might well come in handy where we’re headed.” A paltry concession for your loss, Onion Lord, she thought, but at least the old gods are content to let you bob through every squall and storm without sinking. Her earlier thoughts on the Targaryens seemed foolish, especially in comparison to the gods they mocked. Dangerous. They were men and women, no less mortal than the meanest orphan. It was the dragons the world knelt to. Why didn’t the old gods intervene then, she wondered? Why didn’t they send blizzards to slap Balerion, Vhagar and Meraxes from the sky like the buzzing flies they surely were? Perhaps it was because the old gods knew what would become of the overproud people from the east. Ground down to a single barren girl, the possession of their most devout son. The dragons themselves fled to who knows where. It had taken years, centuries, but then, Arya supposed gods had nothing if not time. Burn our trees. Chop them down. Pray to bloody fire demons and gods made of wax and glass and sweet incense. One day your bones will be dust. What pittance of your kind interests us, we will take for our own. In the end, we get it all.

It was no fault of Davos Seaworth’s that he’d endured more tragedy than most, but Arya could endure being in his silent mourning presence no longer. She bid the Seaworths good day and went to find someone else to talk to, anyone, who might gods forbid broach a cheerful subject. Spotting the shivering form of Lord Selwyn, Arya made for him, Gendry in tow.

“Oh, good day, princess.” he said, typically pleased as stormlanders were to see she and Gendry in each other’s company. Though he lives on an island, a world apart from the mainland.

“Hello, Lord Tarth. I had a question about your daughter, if you’d permit me?”

“By all means, princess.” Talking of Brienne took the weariness from his face a little.

“She told me her father taught her the sword.” Glad though he might have been to talk of Brienne, Arya could see the color rise in his cheeks.

“Oh, I was never one for the tourney yard, nor the practice yard.”

“Then who taught her to fight?”

“A leal knight in my service, Ser Goodwin, gone these many years.”

“Well, were he alive I’d give him my congratulations.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s not every knight whose pupil overcomes the Hound.” His eyes went wide.

“Clegane?”

“The same. She bit an ear off and tossed him down a mountain for good measure.” The color rose higher despite the cold. “I would not be so embarrassed to have a daughter who can fend for herself, my lord. Silk dresses and pretty songs are not like to be proof against the Others, while Valyrian steel in a practiced hand is battle-proven, if the King in the North is to be believed.” Lord Selwyn swallowed uncomfortably.

“I heard rumors, but only those.”

“That she’s got half of Ice? I’ve seen it myself, my lord. Oathkeeper, she calls it, and I quite like the name.” Meanwhile the other half languishes beneath my bed for want of a proper wielder. A proper name, as well. Then another voice echoed in her ear, one rough and gravelly. Lots of cunts. The idea of Sandor Clegane presented with the other half of Ice struck Arya as quite a good one. He’s one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen, but if Jon speaks true of the Others he’s useless with even the best steel. Normal steel, anyway. Gendry seemed unwilling to press Lord Tarth further.

“I suppose we’d best get back below before one of us loses an ear.” he said when the winds picked up as they always did come evening.

“I don’t fancy losing my nose, either.” Arya replied, allowing him to lead her back to their cabin. Dinner came in the form of a pair of bowls of broth.

“Careful, it’s hot.” Arya told her bull.

“Not so hot as the forge, nor your face when you’re embarrassed.”

“Says Ser Stupid when he was blushing like a maiden in lordly garb!” Arya scoffed. Gendry thumbed his nose at her, so she stuck her tongue out in reply. “Mleh!” she said defiantly. He only rolled his eyes.

“Eat. We’d best get as much rest as we can, no telling what shape White Harbor will be in.”

“You’ve never even been to White Harbor. What do you know about it?”

“Nothing. But things tend to go shitways right when I’m having a good time, so I’m just getting ready for it.” She ate in a sulk, unable to wholly refute his point. Things will be better, she thought. There’s nobody to come chasing after him, nobody cares that he’s Robert’s bastard anymore. No throne to fight over, either.

Being that there were comparatively few lords and their retinues coming from the stormlands, all their ships arrived in White Harbor on the same day. Lucky, Arya thought. They passed the massive jut of stone men called Seal Rock, teeming with weather-eyed crossbowmen. Scorpions, spitfires and their crews besides also manned positions on the rock. She spotted ships of the Redwyne fleet and Daenerys Targaryen’s own at the city’s outer harbor, people wearing a hundred different badges trying to keep track of one another. Someone ought get down there and sort that mess out. When their own ship closed with the docks, Arya spotted Jon’s friend Samwell Tarly standing on a statue’s plinth, its occupant a merman cut from white stone. He sounded a trumpet in his fist every now and then and seemed to be busily directing the shambles into a semblance of order while the city guard did their best to help, namely pulling people out of the water who found it in themselves to fall off the docks. The north, Arya thought. I’m only feet away. The ship slowed to a halt and while it was being tied down Arya watched Nymeria carefully. No running off now, girl. I know you’re as excited to be home as I am, but you’ll scare people if you fly off in a full sprint. Gendry stepped closer.

“Ready?” he asked.

“So ready.” she replied, yet not without uncertainty. This is my home, she thought. I should feel differently about seeing it again than I do. Perhaps White Harbor was bringing back unpleasant memories of Braavos or King’s Landing. Or maybe it’s the snow piling up in the corners of the walls, the waters frozen so solid they’ve had to extend the docks. Indeed, she could see men standing on the ice jutting out from the stone foundations of the city port, idly fishing or fetching water. She got the distinct impression that snowing as it was and busily, it was still a reprieve from what the city had grown used to. The walk down the gangplank proved treacherous even, as the snow made it go slick and singularly slippery. Arya’s teeth only let her tongue go when she set foot on the wood of the dock with her bull behind her and her wolf behind him. She let out a slow exhale and saw her breath rise in a white cloud. I’d forgotten that. She found herself shrinking backward into Gendry rather than walking ahead, apart, as a Princess of Winterfell ought. Not like it matters, nobody here will glance at me twice but for Nymeria. And did the direwolf get looks. Jaws dropping, eyes popping, yet the Queen of the Fords nimbly followed her mistress, resolutely ignoring every sight, sound and smell White Harbor could tempt her with. Nymeria gave no sign she was distressed, yet Arya knew they shared the same misgivings. Surely she must remember the north, yet she’s skittish and uncertain to be back. Perhaps it had been her dreams. A set of blue eyes, and one mismatched brown-and-white. Funny goats, too. And the ravenousness… Arya turned and saw Nymeria’s fur had stood on end. Her eyes were wary pools of gold and the look they gave Arya was not one she liked. “Fine. There’s nothing wrong with stupid dreams about stupid eyes and stupid goats, anyway.” she told Nymeria, told herself.

“Nothing wrong with stupid anvil-heads dreaming them, either.” Gendry said gently from behind her, easing her on. In Braavos I dreamed I was Nymeria, she thought, but who does Nymeria dream she is?

She spotted a direwolf banner flying above the merman of Manderly. Eager to have Jon back, she mused. She doubted that someone would risk their neck flying a banner from the top of the New Castle to honor a girl thought dead for years. She spent the journey to the castle proper explaining House Manderly’s origin to Gendry.

“They were from the Reach, but they got kicked out a thousand years ago. I forget why. They came north landless and friendless, and the King of Winter put them on the White Knife and bid them defend it. So they’re northmen proper now.”

“Might be they always were. The Reach could have booted them because the Manderlys saw the rest for what they were.” Gendry replied, making her smile and no few passing guards carrying tridents cheer his words. Once inside the castle, Arya got to rubbing her palms together. Where Nymeria had refused out of hand (paw?) to enter the Valyrian fortress on Dragonstone, Lord Wylis’ own castle seemed to be no such obstacle and she came along without a second’s hesitation. No foul magic here, then. Before she could help Gendry any further she found herself beset by a dozen maidservants, each it seemed more eager than the last to wait upon a princess. Seven hells, she thought before she could help herself.

“Good day, Princess Arya! I’m Lottie-”

“-you look so like the King-”

“-are you and Lord Baratheon going to be married?-”

“-were there dragons on Dragonstone-”

“-did the dragon queen sail with you?”

“Quiet now, stop clucking like a coop of hens!” said a rather strict looking septa, plucking Arya from the throng. “Apologies, princess. Their enthusiasm for meeting you is comparable to meeting Daenerys Targaryen.” Does she even know White Harbor may well be the seat of the Faith of the Seven in Westeros these days? That thought make her tremble most terribly, her recent thoughts on the old gods coming back with a vengeance. We get it all. “Goodness, Princess! You’re shivering!” The woman sounded so like Septa Mordane fawning over Myrcella that Arya was tempted to bolt like a frightened fawn but Gendry took her slender hand in his big one, running a callused thumb down her wrist.

“I’ll not be far.”

“Fear not, my lord. We’ll have her warmed up and in a proper winter dress by dinnertime.” The septa said, all business. “In fact, perhaps a hot bath might do you good as well.”

“After the forge, nothing’s hot, septa.” Gendry said, making the serving girls giggle. He followed them to the threshold, then kissed Arya’s hand before he sought out his own room. I wouldn’t mind a bath, but all this fuss makes it hardly worth the getting wet! Her hair had grown long in the stormlands and still longer on the voyage north as well and besides a few artful snips here and there, Arya found the locks rather less a burden than they’d been when she was small. Smaller than I am now, anyway. Gendry had known her with short hair and long anyway, he’d likely just laugh himself silly at the sight of her hair brushed, combed and set in a curtain down her back than a flyaway sparrow’s nest all about her head. All the while Nymeria slept in a corner, more than passing fond of floor that didn’t rock and sway beneath her. I hope she doesn’t have another nightmare. She’ll start awake with teeth bared and scare the daylights out of everyone. The maidservants were quick to realize she wasn’t in the mood to talk and went about their chores without pressing further, chatting idly amongst themselves.

“So many knights! The ones from the Reach are all so handsome! There was one with a green apple clasping his cloak, he looked like something out of a song!” A dozen Sansas, each more besotted than the last. Arya could only pray the gods did right by them. Righter than they did by Sansa, at least. Thinking on her sister gave her a whole new set of gooseprickles. I can only remember the girl Cersei had on the steps of the Great Sept the day they murdered Father. It had been the queen, her son, and their mute catspaw who had done their killing for them. What had possessed Ilyn Payne, an aging headsman with no exceptional skill to speak of to cross swords with the monster that the Mountain had become escaped Arya. Maybe he wanted his old infamy back. Or maybe it was something else. Knights kill monsters, even knights like Ser Ilyn.

The silver-thread dress they slipped her into could not have been for any other person. They might have done better to buy a Manderly’s weight in food than throw away good silver on me. The septa gently set her hair to rights one more time and slippers were found to keep her feet warm even against the white stone that made up the New Castle.

“We both know if lies were gold, that single one would make you be richer than any Lannister ever born.” he replied. The color rose in her cheeks before she could stop it and then the doors to the hall were opening, the merman’s herald calling their names. It was like they were underwater, with sea creatures covering every inch of floor and column, the wall behind the throne doubtless meant for Lord Manderly himself covered by a battling kraken and leviathan.

“No man-fishes.” she noticed.

“They’ll have to add some if they come to visit.” Gendry agreed, as they took their seats. But for the Manderlys themselves, we are nearest the dais that holds the chair. Wylla was older than she and a pretty girl enough besides, but Arya knew for every look she got the Princess of Winterfell got ten.

“Usually it’s you people stare at.” Arya muttered as the rest were seated, storm lords and river lords and lords of the Reach, even a few from the crownlands down at the end.

“Aye, in the south and the stormlands. Here, you’re the one who matters. Here, you’re the one they love.” They were simple words, without pretense, but Arya could hear the love in them. It made her want to cry. She had a real task on her hands trying not to let tears fall, with all the attention she was getting she wanted to project strength. Gendry slipped his hand over hers under the table, obviously sensing how overwhelmed she was. “They’ll likely think you’re just glad to be home. No need to hold back, Arya.” She wiped her eyes on a napkin and took a moment to settle all the butterflies inside. Calm as still water.

Those nearby were rather pointedly engaged in conversation with their neighbors when she looked up. I wonder what they think we’re talking about.

“Picking out names, most probably…” she muttered under her breath, half-consciously.

“For what?” Gendry asked. Thick as a castle wall. Then it was his turn to blush.

“What is it?”

“I thought it was proper to wait until after marriage to start…”

“Trying for a baby? Well, I suppose it is, but they’ve no idea you haven’t asked me yet.” Gendry flustered and tried to hide his embarrassment by passing along a tray of lobster. “Well?” she prompted.

“Well, what?”

“Why haven’t you asked me yet?” He coughed aloud, nearly spitting out his wine. A half-cup, too. He looks so like King Robert, yet he couldn’t be more different. A surge of affection for she of yellow hair, whoever she was, who had given Gendry Waters life filled Arya then.

“Because you’re a princess.”

“And you’re a lord.” she shrugged. “So?”

“So far as I know, princesses come before lords.” Does he mean I ought wed a prince instead? At her confused expression he shook his head with a smile. “Anvil-head. I mean, you ought do the asking, as you’re my better. Just like before.”

“That’s not how it works, stupid.” she said. “The man asks, always. Even if he’s a stupid stag-”

“Stag this.” he responded, kissing her on the cheek and making her go scarlet. The cheers made it sound like the whole hall had been watching! “There aren’t enough people here to embarrass you proper. Maybe I’ll wait until we reach Winterfell, where a proper godswood waits.” Arya didn’t know how to feel about that. Father followed the old gods, Mother the Seven. Or she did, before… She gulped. “What’s wrong?”

“I just…I don’t think the old gods much care, is all. They don’t care one way or another about most things, but the things they do care about, they care a whole lot.” And Father died on steps sacred to the Seven, not the old gods.

“Not a godswood, then?” That seemed to startle Gendry.

“I just don’t want to wait, is all.” Her voice was a whisper. His typical expression, a blend of uncertainty, fatigue, and plain stubbornness, vanished and Arya saw Robert and Renly shine through like the sun peeking through heavy cloud cover.

When Wylis Manderly spoke from his spot on the dais it almost made Arya jump out of her skin. Lord Baratheon vanished and Gendry returned, her Gendry, brow furrowed as the hall’s attention turned to their host. Arya would have been nervous to speak before so many lords from all over Westeros but the fat man before her showed no such skittishness.

“As it seems unlikely His Grace will join us before the day is done, I’m taking the opportunity to welcome you all to White Harbor. Though the North proper belongs to the Old Gods, the Snowy Sept is quite outfitted for our southern friends who keep faith with the Seven.” His words sparked a goodly amount of relieved murmurs. “As for organizing the moving-on to Winterfell, we can get about that in the morning. I don’t think a crowned head is needed to tell us that much. The snows and winds have stopped ravens flying between here and Winterfell for some time, but I can’t imagine they’ve gone and moved the whole castle on us.” Laughter now from the filled hall. Not so if there were crannogmen in attendance. While Wylis went on about these lords being quartered there and such, Arya reached for Nymeria, asleep in the room she and Gendry shared. To her surprise the direwolf was up and pacing, hackles raised and nose twitching. What is it, girl? The wolf’s ears heard what she could not, and the storm on approach sounded one fit more for the stormlands than the north. Coming from the east. Or was that north? She had to wait a few moments to make certain her mind wasn’t playing tricks on her- or at least that Nymeria’s wasn’t. Two storms, each coming closer. That made no sense whatsoever to Arya. But then, she wasn’t a direwolf, Nymeria surely knew her ears better. I just hope we aren’t caught out in the open by one of those. When she returned to the Merman’s Court, dessert was being served. Gendry showed no interest in it, noticing her getting back to her own body.

“At least you didn’t seize up. You were leaning on my shoulder and looked like you were dozing for a few moments, that’s all.” He muttered out of the corner of his mouth so only she could hear.

“Was I? I thought I’d gone up against a stone column.” He rolled his eyes.

“Ready for bed, then?”

“Aye, and one that isn’t going back and forth and makes you dream sideways.” His words made her giggle. He stood, bid his storm lords good night and led Arya from the hall.

Nymeria was if anything more agitated when Arya met her in the bedchamber, all but pawing at the window and whimpering like a kennel whelp during its first thunderstorm.

“What’s the matter with her?” Gendry asked, looking as confused as Arya felt. Again Arya reached for her, and was promptly floored when all she found inside the direwolf’s mind was a raging tempest with thunder so loud her ears rang. She tried to get a grip, to center herself on Nymeria, but it was no good. A raven in a snowstorm. Less, a sparrow in a blizzard. When she came to her senses, she was on the bedchamber floor, a pillow behind her head and Gendry frozen in place over her. “I thought you were dying-”

“No. I can’t get to Nymeria proper, something’s wrong.”

“Obviously, you’re on the fucking floor-”

“Not with me, Gendry.” Her saying his name made his eyes go wide. “I think we ought find Lord Manderly.” she said in a small voice. There was nothing for it then but that Arya be granted an audience with the fat lord, Gendry looking in no mood to try convincing all was well. All the trust he denies his own instincts he puts in mine. Two sleepy guardsmen received quite the shaking awake when the Lord of Storm’s End gave one a literal shaking.

“Lord Manderly, where is he?”

“Upstairs, milord, preparing for bed with Lady Leona-” Gendry elbowed him aside, Arya following close behind with Nymeria bringing up the rear and ensuring their path was not impeded. In the lord’s private chambers Arya found Wylla sitting by a lit hearth in a chair made for someone her father’s size. On seeing her the girl’s eyes went wide.

“Princess Arya!”

“I need to speak with your father, my lady.” Arya said tersely. “If he must be woken, please do so.” Wylla curtsied and dashed out of the room, returning with a yawning Wylis. With a glance at Arya his sleepy demeanor vanished, the eyes in the doughy face before her rapt and wary. The fat man is just a front, there is iron ‘neath the icing. “Apologies-”

“Hang apologies, princess. I let the flayed man lead me straight into captivity on the Green Fork when I ought have dragged him down to river’s bottom. You need not ask for my pardon.” Arya gulped and nodded.

“Earlier I- well, Nymeria… heard storms approaching from the north and east. Two different ones, mind, and that struck me as odd. She’s not so nervous normally-” Wyman held up a hand and called for his captain of guard.

“Have the city walls manned, wake the sleeping guard shifts. We’re under attack, or about to be.” The man vanished at once while Arya felt so foolish. “Now it’s my turn to beg your pardon, princess. I was with your brother in the riverlands, I remember Grey Wind well. Oft, we’d be marching along plain as pidgeon pie when all of a sudden, he’d slink off in the wrong direction, only to lead our outriders right to a Lannister force meant to be tracking us. Your wolf, Nymeria did you name her, is not to be ignored. If she thinks something is wrong, it is.” There was no ridicule in his words, no suspicion, even as his wife appeared from their chamber door and gaped at him.

“I don’t understand, Wyl-”

“Neither do I, Leona. I haven’t the first clue, but I don’t need one. Fate can wave its hands in a man’s face only so many ways, and this is one of them.”

Those men of White Harbor who rode with Robb needed no convincing either that something was amiss. The river lords, too, who fought with the Young Wolf and survived the War of Five Kings and the chaos afterward were resigned to another fight, while the lords of the Reach were mystified by the sudden shift from merriment to grim purpose by their neighbors. Arya heard Samwell Tarly telling anyone from the Reach who would listen about Ghost, how he would bring Jon game when all the hunting hounds of the Great Ranging turned up nary a squirrel.

“They know when trouble’s near. They’ll act funny, like.” Her uncle Edmure added in passing. He turned to Arya then. “I think you’d best go find your mother.”

“So I can hide with the women?” she asked, feeling coddled.

“No, so she can help however she may. I hear you might know a thing or two about fighting, but that won’t help in pitched battle. Not when there’s a dozen men pushing and shoving around you and mud’s in your eye and your helmet’s so hot it makes it impossible to think. You ought stay out of danger if at all possible, we don’t even know what’s going on yet.” Though she would have given a thousand Needles to stay with Gendry for whatever the storms would bring, instead Arya found herself leaving him in the care of Davos Seaworth and the storm lords in the armory. When the onion knight tried to explain how all the armor went together, Gendry only put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“I’m a blacksmith. I know how to get armor on.” he said with a bemused smile. When Alyn Estermont held out a sword, too, Gendry looked at it like he was being handed a live chicken. “Never was one for swords.” he said, looking past Estermont to a warhammer leaning up against a wooden circle shield. He picked it up and gave it a looking over while one of the lads slipped the shield over his left arm. Just before Davos went to slip a helmet over his head, Arya saw the look on Gendry’s face.

“Wait!” she called. “Gendry, what’s wrong?” Anvil-head. We’re about to face gods-know-what, he wants to marry you but can’t work out how to ask, a thousand other things-

“The hammer’s too small.” Lord Baratheon’s smile flashed out from under the helm. His storm lords laughed heartily, Ralph Buckler slapping him on the back. Arya felt ready to punch him, then remembered he was clad in steel. No fair, she thought.

“If I can’t stay with you, Nymeria will.” she said, crossing her arms.

“Eh. She’s less likely to bite than you are.” Another round of laughter from the men around them, Estermont and Buckler and the Bastard of Nightsong. She leapt at him and he caught her in the air, letting her sit on his forearm so she could kiss him ‘neath the helm.

“You’d better come back. If not, I’ll beat you up.” she whispered.

“As my princess commands.” he replied.

Finding her mother proved to be quite the chore. You’d think a pair of bloody water-women would be all anybody wants to talk about. Stupid lords. It struck her then that perhaps they were remaining out of sight quite deliberately. It used to be me that hid from Mother. White Harbor was not King’s Landing though, in size or waywardness of planning. Arya found her way back down to the water with ease, spotting men readying weapons or getting armored or even bringing what defenses lay on the city walls to bear. Spitfires and trebuchets throwing flaming rocks are well and good but the Others’ dead men won’t run when a scorpion bolt spits them. She dashed up the steps as fast as her silver dress would allow, out of breath when she reached the top.

“You have to set your bolts alight.” she said between gasps.

“Eh?” the sergeant of the line asked, turning to look for someone his height. When he finally spotted her, he stared like she was something out of a drunken ramble. Perhaps I am. “Bloody hell, you’re short.” he said.

“The King in the North says dead men don’t feel pain. Blades and blows won’t stop them. Set your bolts alight. Even if you miss, you’ll see where your shot landed and if you happen to hit an enemy, he’ll go up in moments.” Her words seemed to only confound the man further.

“Right, lads, pitch on the bolt-heads.” he blurted, too confused to argue. “Pass it up and down the wall.” she said, going back down to look for her mother. I hope she hasn’t frozen solid somewhere. That would be my bloody luck. At last she found her sitting by a fountain in a small cobblestone square, ignoring the gapes the few people present were giving her. The water had frozen, of course, but the Young Wolf’s mother and widow were watery as ever. Arya found herself lost for words. Nothing? Not even “I missed you?” It took Catelyn looking up by chance to spot Arya and by then she was ready to head back up to the New Castle. Her eyes are the same, she thought. The same as I remember. The face was different, younger, fuller, and of course there had been no rippling across it in Arya’s youth, but the eyes that looked at her were all Tully. Rather than exasperation or disapproval as had been the rule during Arya’s girlhood, relief washed over Catelyn’s features.

“The rivers didn’t wash it all away.” Arya whispered. “Didn’t wash you all away.”

“They must not have. At first I thought I was more river than woman, but…”

“Not now. Not once the anger has gone.” The Volantene girl finished for her. But while the anger remains, you’re a storm with a thirst for vengeance. Arya chose her next words carefully.

“It may be that your anger will serve us better than your newfound peace.” Relief turned to uncertainty and Catelyn looked in her hands.

“I used to think if I only had the power, I could end Robb’s war in a fortnight and we could all go home. Once I did, I rid the riverlands of the Freys, and still I’ve yet to have my children and my home returned to me.”

“Sansa is at Winterfell, closer than she’s been to either of us in years. We have to make it to her, though, lady mother. If whatever’s out there has its way, it won’t matter that we came so close.” Her hands came up and they found Catelyn’s. She could feel the currents flowing beneath the surface, yet her fingers remained dry. “Right now, we don’t need Catelyn Stark. We need the Lady of the Rivers. Once it’s over with, though…I’d like to have my mother back.” The sound of drums began to grow over the racket of White Harbor arming itself. At first it was barely audible, then a strong steady baseline to the chaos all around. Jon never spoke of the Others banging drums. Dead men need no preservation of morale. “What’s out there isn’t going to buckle from volleys of arrows or couched lances. If we’re going to live to tomorrow, you’re going to need to give them as good as they’ll give us.” If those drums are any hint, it will be quite a fight. Any louder and I’ll not be able to hear myself over them. Arya felt a raindrop on her cheek, the first since the snows had begun to fall in unceasing earnest. The doubt on Catelyn’s face began to harden into resolve. “My husband-to-be is out on the walls with my direwolf. I’d like to get them back afterward, as well.” Arya said.

“You will.” Her mother answered.

Chapter 11: Jaime I

Chapter Text

He was ten. A son had just been born to the king and Father sought to hold a splendid tournament to celebrate the occasion- and, Jaime suspected, to impress upon the king, Prince Rhaegar and the realm at large House Lannister’s grandiosity, its wealth, its power. All but screaming to the world he seeks Cersei’s bethrothal to Prince Rhaegar. The knights poured into Casterly Rock and Lannisport beyond, packing both to the rafters to say nothing of their retinues. There was too much to look at, even after spending sunup to sundown on his feet with Addam Marbrand and the other boys, running all about the place trying to take account of all who’d come. No doubt some lords will do their best to parade their daughters in front of Father. Jaime knew it was a fool’s hope. He’s more like to take the black than wed again. He watched the carpenters slowly, painfully slowly to Jaime raise the stands from which the gathered highborns would watch the riders tilt.

“Who will win, d’you think?” Addam asked.

“Today? The prince, probably. Or a Kingsguard. Tomorrow, I’ll win. I’ll be better than anyone in Casterly Rock, in Westeros, too.” Jaime answered, having thought of nothing else all day. It was more than joy. Jaime could see his life’s purpose unfurled before him, waiting only for him to run at it with both arms outstretched. I want this. I don’t care about anything else, anyone, even me. That night his revelation vanished at the look on Cersei’s face.

“You were gone all day.” she complained in a childish huff.

“I was looking at-”

“Who cares? None of them’s the prince, he and the king won’t arrive until the day before the tourney starts.” Cersei dismissed the world coming to their doorstep as she would a course at dinner she misliked. It was always this way. It was why we never drifted apart. We saw in each other what we cared for most. In you, I saw my better half. In me, you saw yourself. She was his reflection, the vital part that the womb had sundered. A cracked glass, warped to twist and bend the bearer. Tyrion might be an ugly child and grow into an ugly man, but he would be able to face his reflection in a mirror. Jaime knew his place, even with all of Cersei’s pouting, but what would Tyrion’s place be? Nobody will ever look at him twice but for his ugliness and his name. Father will no doubt shuffle him off to some nobody family just to be rid of him if even he lives to manhood. Cersei hates him already, she blames him for Mother’s death and so does Father, in his way. How could a babe be blamed for being born? How could I be blamed for Cersei? The gods knew what she was from the off, that’s why they bloody sent me after her. “You did not have to do it, though.” The Cersei of ten said, Joff’s crossbow thrumming and a lance burying itself in Jaime’s gut. If I’m dead, why does it still hurt?

He was fifteen, a new-made knight, surrounded by men twice his age and size and yet it was he who intimidated them. The white cloak came at Cersei’s suggestion, so that Father could not pair him off to Lysa Tully or some other girl. At least, I thought so. Tyrion ever suspected it was because Cersei wanted one less body between her and what she considered hers. The rest had been a mummer’s farce. Father returned to the Rock with Cersei and Jaime had been given orders to go to King’s Landing from Harrenhal to guard the queen and Prince Viserys. From there he saw the man beneath the crown. Aye, and the men beneath the cloaks. Barristan the Bold, the White Bull, Jonothor Darry… Each blind at best to the madness of the king they guarded. Slaves to what they called their vows, their honor. No wonder it was me the gods put in that throne room instead of one of them. It was that blindness that inspired Jaime’s own toward Queen Rhaella and her half-remembered lover, that deafness to men’s screams that inspired his toward a woman’s grateful sighs and whispered sweetness. The thought of Jonothor Darry’s reaction to it made Jaime smile. Darry had died on the Trident with his prince and hundreds of better men without a stake in the game of thrones who wanted only to go home at war’s end. How do you like that, Ser Jon? Or you, Ser Barristan, Ser Gerold? Prince Lewyn, Ser Oswell? Or you, Ser Arthur? Without me, there would be no Daenerys Targaryen. No Mother of Dragons, no dragons proper, no restoration of House Targaryen. So take those white cloaks of yours red with the blood of burned men, grey with ash, black with bits of bone, and wipe your arses with them.

“You did not have to do it, though.” The six of them replied, standing over Aerys’ body, voices a hollow echoing chorus.

“You sound like fucking sheep. Each bleating his duty to the next, each blind and deaf as any statue while your queen suffered nightly at her husband’s hands. You put a white fleece ‘round my shoulders, Ser Gerold. No doubt I looked a proper sheep as well, until I could no longer pretend my hunger was for grass instead of hot red meat. While the flock was bleating elsewhere, I roared so loud it killed a dragon.” The shades disappeared and there was nothing left to do but sit on the throne and wait for someone to come. The Iron Throne had oft sliced Aerys to ribbons but Jaime was clad in plate and quite proofed from any injury. When it was Ned Stark to find him seated there, possessed of the same unthinking unfeeling honor as the blessed White Sheep, it was all Jaime could do not to scream Aerys’ madness into the man’s face. He left instead, intent on stopping his father’s men from savaging what remained of the Red Keep’s inhabitants. Only, when he went through a door it was the tower in Winterfell in which he found himself, the one he’d flung the Stark boy from. I had two hands then. No better than Ser Gregor, with prince’s brains still on his gauntlets when he raped and killed Princess Elia. Or Amory Lorch, who killed a girl of three with who knew how many dagger thrusts. The wrong person fell from that window. I would have done better to leap out with Cersei in my arms, straight past Stark and into legend. Another blow caught him higher in the chest like a lance at full tilt.

Jaime surged forward and instantly felt as though he’d been trampled flat by a runaway horse. His scream was drowned in the torrent of mud and water he coughed up, to say nothing of the mess of his own making. I’m on fire, was his first dazed, panicked thought, for a half-moment thinking that he was too late in ridding the realm of Cersei. He tried to move, again panicking at his body’s lack of response, only to realize they felt as though someone had tried to pull them off him. His head pounded worse than any wine could cause. Or woman for that matter. He stewed in agony another few moments before remembering one in particular. Cersei. His eyes shot open and the handless arm that held her reached out but there was nothing and no one to find, only a sea of cold mud and the sound of waves lapping against a shoreline. Dawn, he thought, bleak and colorless though it was. A voice called out from further inland, sounding uncertain. Jaime tried to answer, tried to rise, but what air he could take in scarce kept him alive and he still couldn’t move. His nose woke up and it was hit by an oily fishy smell, making him gag all over again. There was a low gurgling croak. He blinked the stars out of his eyes to behold perhaps the ghastliest thing he’d ever seen. A bulging pair of yellow eyes stared madly out of a pointed head, twin combs of needly teeth poking out from the mouth that cut across it. Jaime gave a yell and flopped ineffectually, only further aggravating his back. Another face, puckered with scars yet unquestionably human and in a state of pure astonishment, appeared across from the hideous creature. It gave a wet gulpy sound, one the burned man returned.

“Stop that thrashing. Your back may not be broken, but it will be some time before you can stand unaided.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Jaime gasped out finally after coughing up a fourth Fork. Someone I’ve heard of, but where?

“The poor fool you next to landed on.” He tried to remember what had happened. I don’t remember hitting the water. Only the sapphires. “By rights you should be on the bottom of Blackwater Bay. As it stood, I was close enough to stop you drowning and drag you to shore.” Aye, but which shore? “We’re near the Rosby road.” The burned man squinted as he looked out at something. “It looks like an army’s on the way, riding from the northeast.” Duskendale. He looked back down at Jaime, face a disdainful puckered frown. Fuck you too, you ugly bastard, Jaime thought in reply. The man turned to leave and his fishy companion with him. Jaime was content to be rid of them and lie there until the tide came in and buried him with Cersei when he remembered the dragon queen’s task for him. Casterly Rock. The Rills. Winterfell. He wanted nothing more than to let the waters take him, to lie there until his injuries did for him or the animals did. Instead he found himself moving, agony though it was. “It’s a miracle you’re alive as is. Your insides may be ruptured from the fall-”

“Then there’s nothing can be done for me in any case.” The sounds of men ahorse and on foot grew nearer. “I don’t suppose you managed to save the woman I leapt out with?” Jaime asked, unsure what answer he wanted. The man’s disdain faded, if slowly.

“I’m sorry, Ser Jaime.”

“Where is she now?”

“About a hundred yards nearer the city. We left her in the Spider’s care.”

“Lord Varys?”

“He was flushed out of the sewers by the rains. In fact, he may well be searching the riverside for you right now.”

“And the wildfire?”

“Look for yourself, ser.” Jaime turned to the river, to the bay beyond. The green piss had already begun to dilute into the water proper. He found himself giving a long, slow sigh. In a day, it will be as if it never was. The boil of Aerys’s madness lanced, the pus drained away. All the wound needs now is binding and time to heal.

The sounds of the approaching army grew still closer.

“You’d best be off.” Jaime said, standing aright and unaided. Never mind it hurts like seven hells. “They’re crownlanders, most of them, so might be they’ve heard of your lot before but seeing you up close is a bird of a different plumage.” The burned man didn’t seem overly disappointed by Jaime’s words but when he turned to leave Jaime stopped him. “I was talking to your fishy friend.”

“I don’t belong up here any more than he does.”

“Horseshit. I remember you now, I’ve heard tell of your meddling from here to Dragonstone.” The burned mouth shrank to an angry red line just visible in the scarred face. That must have hurt like seven hells, too. Maybe he and Clegane will meet someday and compare notes if no one’s killed him yet.

“You don’t know the first thing about me, Kingslayer.”

“I know your father was the only voice in Stannis’ camp worth listening to, one all the Florent fools the red god could throw his way couldn’t turn false. Truly, that’s something. I know you went overboard on the Blackwater, though true enough what you got up to before you found that Greyjoy fool in your lap I don’t know. No matter, you’ll have plenty of time to tell me the story on the trip west.”

“Do I look about to leave sight of the sea?”

“No doubt you’re fond and more of it, but you belong up here with us.” The fish-thing gave a noisy gulp. Matthos Seaworth answered, evidently translating Jaime’s words.

“A thing breathes water, seems to me that’s where it ought be.”

“Whales breathe air and yet they own the seas.” Jaime countered, remembering one of Tyrion’s rambles as a boy. “Besides, I’ve been hearing stories of mermaids from fishermen in Lannisport all my life. Might be without your brother nearby stealing all the gazes you could find a fishwife of your own.”

“Half-brother, and his affairs are his own.”

“Aye, but you follow his mother as devotedly as once you followed Stannis’ red witch.” Water now, instead of fire.

“She pulled me from the brink of death, Kingslayer. Is homage not her due?” Matthos’ scars flushed red in incense.

“Homage, perhaps. You’d do better to save your reverence for the woman who gave you life, though, and not every mysterious beauty who crosses your path. The way I hear it even with you surviving the wildfire more Seaworths sank on the Blackwater than not.” Talk of his mother made Matthos’ anger, the sort Jaime had seen on a thousand young men’s faces regardless of station from peasant boys to Loras Tyrell, drain away. A look I’m sure I never gave my elders. I never had a mother to disappoint. For all his scars Matthos couldn’t hide his thoughts and it was clear he was thinking along similar lines. “Think of the push towards Lannisport as getting your land legs back. Getting used to eating, sleeping above the waves again, of breathing air more than a few minutes at a time. Listen to soldiers talk, complain, congratulate each other, drink with those as can stand the smell of fish-”

“It’s them that smell, not me.”

“I’m covered in mud and gods only know what else and still I can smell you through it, Seaworth. If nothing else, snap up a bath whilst up here.” Jaime smirked, for a moment forgetting just what had led to him standing on the banks of Blackwater Bay. “Two bits of driftwood we are, landing far from where we began.”

“Aye.” Matthos said, mind somewhere else. He turned to the man-fish, giving a guttural gulp. Jaime didn’t know what to expect, but the thing simply turning on its finned feet and waddling back into the surf wasn’t what he pictured. Matthos let out a long breath. “They are not men.”

“Indeed. I hear water’s wet, as well.” The lad shook his head.

“There’s no…” He seemed to be trouble finding the right words. I know well that struggle. “Life is different down there. There are no songs, no smiles, precious little light even.”

“Hold on, what about the mermaids?” Matthos snorted.

“Believe it or not, I once looked even worse. Boiled red, eyes puffed near shut and stumbling around, I was a right pathetic thing. Stood next to him, my father’s son, well…to put it bluntly, I was not a rival for their affections.” Jaime nodded.

“The lady ironborn were quite taken with him.” Matthos looked up.

“I missed the sun.” he said after a time.

“Well, you’ll miss it at least a little longer. No doubt you’ve heard all the talk about up north.”

“More wars to fight. I didn’t miss that much, at least.” There are always more wars to fight, Jaime thought.

He didn’t feel like sobbing himself stupid in front of an army he himself had assembled, so Jaime headed toward the shape of King’s Landing at the end of the bay. At least I’ll never have to set foot there again. He thought he’d spot Varys sooner, but his bald head was nowhere to be seen.

“A little further on.” Matthos spurred him gently. Finally, Jaime found Varys seated on a rock, ready as ever for him. The man looked an even sorrier sight than Jaime. A smellier one, too. At least I’ve only got mud on, he thought, for once feeling truly sorry for the Spider.

“Ser Jaime.” Varys greeted him as he stood, even favoring him with a bow. As if we were in the small council chamber again. As if we were anything more than what we are.

“Where is she?” Varys turned and nodded toward the treeline.

“I thought perhaps you’d want privacy.” Jaime did not answer, making at once for the copse of drooping elms. Drowned or nearly so, he saw. Even fifty paces from the shoreline, a hundred, his feet still squelched in the mud. The rains must have swelled the bay, he thought, before he reached the trees. He found what he was looking for at the base of the lone elm that seemed to have weathered the water’s rise. I wonder what I’m supposed to feel, he thought, staring at the prone body. His phantom hand rand across his chest, where the quarrels had struck him. Almost unthinkingly he simply tore away his tunic, letting it fall into the mud. If a crossbow did for Father, why not me? The wounds were there, of course, but smaller than he expected. I stewed on the shoreline for who knows how long. I ought be dead of fever, surely. Qyburn had numbed the bolts without her knowing, though. Perhaps he did more than that. There was all the force behind the quarrels a crossbow ought have had, but the heads…they had been smaller, and without barbs. Perhaps it was his aim to make my survival as likely an outcome as possible. Or Cersei’s death before she could light the caches. Jaime wondered at the creature responsible for what the Mountain had become as well as for his own standing in the elms. A man so able, reduced to tending corpses at Harrenhal until fate brought me to him. Perhaps it was our swapping stories over my rotting stump that so ingratiated him to me. Then he was closer and Qyburn was gone from Jaime’s mind, replaced by the person who had scarcely ever left his thoughts for as long as he could remember. Varys had closed her eyes but Jaime didn’t have to see their glassy stare to know Cersei was dead. Even through the mud the gashes in her dress were visible, dark dry blood staining the silk as it had in the days when it was Aerys the throne was cutting to ribbons. He bent over, stiff and wincing, having to get on his knees to slip his arms around her. The noises of the army drew nearer, so Jaime made as much haste as he could muster to bring Cersei back to the shore. Varys started when he caught sight of them. “Ser Jaime, we could perhaps build a cairn but the logistics of bringing her back to Casterly Rock…” Jaime didn’t answer, letting the water carry Cersei at least as much as he was. Only when she was too heavy to hold without his head going under did his fingers loose from around her foot, letting the tide pull her out. He went under then, using seawater to wash away the mud. Perhaps her touch as well. Jaime tried to find what power within had kept him standing aright in the throne room but it was long gone. He tried to make himself feel anger, relief, to summon any of that hot temper he was so known for. Instead he felt only sadness, only a great tired emptiness. Even now we’re the same. She was what the world made her, he thought. I’m what the world made me, too.

By the time he got back to shore, the hand that remained to him wiping the water from out of his eyes, men he half-recognized were massing wherever they could find solid ground. He saw Rogyr talking to some of the lads Jaime had fetched from King’s Landing’s cells. Urchins and orphans with no reason to go near a horse save when they hide in the stables to avoid the city guard.

“Horses aren’t so hard, once you work out what goes on in their heads.” he was saying, running his hand down his own mount’s deep brown head. “Toward food and away from aught with teeth or claws. Toward calm and away from noise.” No wonder he made such a good horse thief, Jaime thought. Had he been born to different circumstances he’d be a wealthy stablemaster. He stepped gingerly toward the gathered men with Varys and Matthos Seaworth close behind, only noticed when one of the squires gave the three of them a double take. Joss Stilwood. The Mountain’s own squire. No doubt Ser Gregor had precious little need of him after dancing with the Red Viper, he must have answered the rally from somewhere in the capital. Closer still, Jaime could see the boy’s dead eyes, his mouth unmoving as if it had been sewn shut. Likely he’s seen no end of horror serving Clegane. He knows the value of keeping quiet, keeping small. Stilwood’s silence distantly reminded Jaime of Ser Ilyn, whose own fit better than his jerkin. I could do worse for a squire, no doubt he’s at least serviceable or he’d not have lived long.

“Who’s in charge of this shambles?” Jaime asked, Joss only turning toward the trees in answer.
“Come with me.” Jaime said as he passed, ignoring the looks the men were giving him. Under all the mud and without my pretty golden ball-scratcher, I’m not like to be recognized. At least, until I run into someone I know well. That someone happened to be Renfred Rykker, looking singularly unhappy to be away from Duskendale and his family. What in seven hells is he doing here? “Lord Rykker.” Jaime announced himself. Renfred turned wearily, ready it seemed to hear another complaint from one of his captains, stopping cold at the sight of Jaime.

“Hurry up, Rykker, we haven’t time to lout about-” Bronn likewise froze in his tracks. You’re supposed to be going north with Tyrion. Someone has to keep an eye on him. “Fucking hell…” Bronn muttered, squinting. “Any gold left under all that mud?”

“Gold enough to knock you on your ass.”

“Fuck that, you haven’t even got a golden hand to do the trick proper with.” Bronn for once seemed genuinely stunned Jaime had resurfaced. “Uhh…Did you make it to the red castle, then?”

“I did. Everything’s been taken care of, we’re free to move on west.” Rather aptly in Jaime’s estimation, Bronn didn’t ask the particulars. He doesn’t want to spread any rumors amongst the army, such as it is. He may make a lord yet.

“Right. Uh, well, you’ll need a drying off. Each day colder than the last, it’s a wonder you haven’t caught your death already.” Were I not just now dead to feeling I might well have bloody noticed as much.

“Is the army marching in good order?” The men looked at each other.

“Fuck are you on about, Kingslayer? You’re the one who sent the raven.”

“Even with two hands, I was never one for letters.” Jaime said, utterly mystified.

“Then who in balls sent this?” Bronn asked irritably, pulling what looked like a raven’s scroll out of his surcoat and handing it to Jaime. He wiped his hand on his pant leg and dried it as best he could before taking the parchment, opening it with his teeth. Gods, if I never get it right but once, let me read this now without the letters tumbling all about. The first part looked like a standard command to maneuver, in this case ordering the First Army of King’s Landing to proceed from Duskendale to the capital, but Jaime spotted an independent bit of writing further down.

Ser Jaime, if you’re reading this, I must assume you are still alive and have succeeded in our enterprise. I suspect very few men would have seen our task to its conclusion. I hope you’ll excuse my going over your head in regard to the army, but I suspected you would want it near rather than languishing on the coast and so here it is. As for your wounds taken during our enterprise, worry not. My experience has taught me well how to keep a weapon from killing a man, even a crossbow. I may not be there when you read this, either elsewhere or…unavailable. In such a likely case, I’ll take this opportunity to commend the plan conceived on Dragonstone. Proceed west with all haste and set the westerlands to order if need be, rally them as best you can. Truthfully, my only regret is that I may not be permitted to research the goings-on in the north, you are fortunate that you will see them firsthand. I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.

There was no name. Jaime looked up, befuddled, to see Bronn holding up a piece of black glass. Taking it, Jaime saw it was a link, one of a number a maester might have worn.

“Anyone else besides you and your bald friends?” Bronn asked pointedly, nodding to the pair behind Jaime.

“No.” Jaime said. “Aside from finding a horse of my own, all that needs doing just now is getting to the Rock in time to matter against whatever is marshaling from the lands beyond the Wall.”

“That and getting you a proper wash. You look like you woke up in a pigsty, Lannister. If this lot is going to march all the way west, we’d best give them something shiny to follow. Besides, it wasn’t exactly a quick stroll from Duskendale.”

“Half a hundred inns and hamlets lie between here and Casterly Rock, the goldroad is well-traveled.” Jaime replied, awkwardly getting atop a gray courser Stilwood brought forth. “We can press on west and worry about stopping later.” He remembered the army’s push on toward Harrenhal, even in the hellish rain. They’re hardier than given due. Varys could have been anyone so filthy was he, so Jaime was unsurprised when he put on the air of an unlettered guardsman, pulling on a leather cap and getting on a horse as well, leaning heavily to the left to suggest deafness in his right ear. Matthos was more of a concern, but the man stiffly managed his way into the saddle as well, slipping on a jerkin Stilwood tossed him. “It’s hellish easy to get snowbound when you’re camped.” Jaime said loudly, both giving the order to those around him and leaving the rest up to Bronn and Rykker to hear. That’s what you say when the men complain that they’re not getting a chance to camp. He rode out of the clearing, more and more men hurrying to join him when word of who he was filtered down from the officers on down. There was still the matter of passing ‘round King’s Landing to reach the goldroad proper and Jaime found himself deliberately looking north rather than south. Don’t look at it, he told himself. Don’t look at it. Eventually, you’ll pass it by and then you’ll never have to lay eyes on it again. That thought so filled him with resolve that soon the trot became insufferable and Jaime gave the courser his heels, spurring the beast on. The others were hard pressed to keep up save Rogyr who, even with a head start, Jaime could not outride. He knew he was being reckless, knew he ought be in the midst of the army rather than at its head like some hero from a song, but there was no enemy to espy and no danger save the cold. His phantom hand twitched, as if searching for reins to hold. Jaime could feel the mud stiffen in his clothes, clumping in his beard. That’s two now, Kingslayer, he told himself. When word gets out, they’ll do you better and call you Kinslayer. Crippled, freezing, leading a rabble on to nowhere. The pace and rising wind hid his exhausted sobs, and he played off thumbing the tears in his eyes as trying to flick away the mud. I fell further than you did, Stark, Jaime thought ruefully. I win.

He did not turn even to watch King’s Landing vanish over the eastern horizon. He kept on until he felt like to fall from the saddle, the wide sodden path easy ground for his courser to cover. Swift, Jaime thought. Only when his taps and mutters could get not another step from the hooves beneath him did Jaime stop, the sudden call from twenty yards behind calling those who could keep up to a halt. Bloody hell, my horse thief can ride. By the time those on foot caught up, night was falling and Jaime could not hear his own voice for the gasps of air, the groans and sounds of bodies collapsing to the ground. Bugger it, he thought, slipping out of the saddle himself as Stilwood got about setting up a tent. Not exactly what the Lion of Lannister would be expected to sleep in. Then again, I’m not exactly Tywin Lannister’s golden son anymore. He looked at his stump. Now where am I going to get another hand? It was a moment before Jaime realized he was thinking in terms of steel, not flesh. Bronn may jest but it was shield and sword both. At the very least it knocked the teeth out of that Frey fool’s mouth at Riverrun. He supposed just them it might well be on the bottom of the Narrow Sea, or even washing onto Dragonstone’s shores at that very moment. In that case, I may well see it again, even if in a few years.

“Milord misses the hand he used to whet his sword?” A rough voice chuckled. Jaime looked up to see a grizzled man with a crumb-filled grey beard grinning at him, every tooth yellowed and stained. Speaking of the siege at Riverrun… “I remember when you showed that Frey cunt what for. I laughed so hard I near to shit meself.”

“Aside from Stilwood, you may be the one among the Mountain’s men still alive.”

“Aye, could well be. T’ rest all ran off in the riverlands eager to find gold to make up that as was promised by Ser, but I’ve not seen a one since they left Harrenhal.”

“You’re a lucky man, then, to have missed the rains.”

“Miss ‘em? Ser, I was soaked to shit all night and all day, I just had stone walls around me while I did it. Might’ve stayed in that giant’s cunt of a castle too, but Holy Hunnerd and all them didn’t want those as rode with Ser as hangers-on.” He idly scratched his nose, ignoring the steady fall of flakes as they began to cover the mass of tents.

“What are you doing here, then?” Shitmouth looked taken aback.

“Milord took me off those star-wearing twats’ hands when he rallied men in Harrenhal.”

“You might have made yourself known then.” Shitmouth frowned.

“Eh. There was lots to do, and pardon me milord, but you looked in no mood to hear a man-at-arms ask for gold.”

“As it happens, I’m still not. House Lannister is no likelier to give you whatever the Mountain promised than before. What I promise, though, you may count on receiving, if in due time.” Shitmouth chewed on that awhile, running his tongue over his teeth.

“Eh. Sits better than the block or the rope, sure.”

“What are you going to do with gold anyway? There’s nothing out in the country to plunder, no war to fight.” Yet, anyway.

“Gold opens doors, milord. A lot of gold opens a lot of doors. I’m not getting any younger and I don’t plan on spending what time as I’ve got left living off my sword. Gold enough to keep my cup and bed full both each night, maybe right in that there lion port next to your Rock.” He gave a sudden wheeze, coughing wetly into his fist. “Aaagh, this cold’s done and fucked me. I’m off to fill a tent before it’s a cold hole I’m filling.”

“The ground’s too hard to dig a grave anyway.” Jaime said, looking away from the man and toward Varys and Matthos, getting about finding tents of their own. How did I end up in such company?

“Ser!” he heard a voice cry, saw a short figure all but dash over in marked contrast to the men nearby, some already asleep. Freglyn looked ecstatic to see Jaime, the way he often saw lost soldiers running toward friendly banners.

“Good to see you too, lad. I don’t suppose you’d fancy leaving King’s Landing behind after this? Not going back, like?” Freglyn spat in the mud.

“I’m not going back there, not for nothing, ser. I heard tell about the dragon, how it flew up to the red castle and crushed the roof in before the dragon queen had him burn the throne in front of all them lords!” Jaime’s weariness vanished and he heard Rykker cough up a gulp from his waterskin.

“She what?” Varys asked, gaping at the boy. Rykker was at Duskendale and Varys gods only know where, they wouldn’t have seen it for themselves, but Freglyn here was in the city if not the throne room. He told them everything, how Daenerys Targaryen had told the lords assembled who her father was, that she had no right to call herself their queen. How the lords in turn more or less tossed her reasoning aside and went ahead with her anyway, almost as a ‘why not?’. Because they know without someone minding them, they’ll fight each other on and on. Easier to have another giving the orders.

“I heard it from a horn-of-plenty knight, he was up there with his lord when it happened.” Freglyn said.

“Where’s the beast now?” Jaime asked, while Varys continued to gawp unhelpfully, looking so much like a round-faced pink man-fish. The lad shrugged.

“After he destroyed the throne he shot back up through the ceiling and flew west. Might be someone will have spotted him, aye, the way we’re going.” he answered, seeming to make the realization on the spot. There are mountains in the west, the selfsame ones we’ll have to cut through to reach the Rock. The forest by Crakehall, too, where a dragon could hide for years and never be found. At least, by men living to tell of it.

“What’s in the westerlands a dragon could want?” Matthos’ sharp voice broke Jaime from his cluttered thoughts. They all turned to him.

“Shit, you’re an ugly fucker.” Shitmouth said. “Eh. Not so overdone as Ser’s brother, though.” He prodded Seaworth with a stick, sniffed it, said “Eh,” once more, and tossed it over his shoulder. He seemed not to care a bob one way or another. Probably another one of Clegane’s men dulled to the fear of death. If the dragon finds us he finds us, and that’s the end of that.

“What do you mean?” Jaime asked, as Stilwood got to building a fire with Freglyn’s enthusiastic help.

“He’s a dragon. Unless you fear he plans to crack open your rock and brood over all the gold inside, there’s not much west to entice a dragon.”

“I’m not worried on that front. The Rock’s good and empty of gold.” Jaime replied wryly.

“I’ve heard he came to the fighting pits in Meereen, perhaps attracted by the noise.” Varys said, more to him than to the rest.

“Mee-where?” Shitmouth asked, looking up from having sat on a log.

“A slave-city in the east. Or was, I suppose, before the dragon queen did to slavery what her pet monster did to the Iron Throne.” Jaime informed him.

“Eh?” Jaime ignored him, wishing for nothing more than Tyrion at their little fire to defer to. What does a dragon do when there’s no silver cunt on his back spurring him on?

He looked to Varys, as knowledgeable a man as any save his brother. The Spider only shrugged.

“I’ve not the first guess as to where he might be.”

“Did you hear any tales from the east about the dragons themselves?” Varys’ abashed face hardened into a sullen look.

“The other two were chained up beneath the Great Pyramid when it was found that Drogon killed a child. They grew particularly truculent, even with the queen, and were not receptive to her unless given food.”

“Eh? No shit, pardon my saying, ser. Cunt locks me up in a hole somewhere, I’d not be up for being patted like a dog either.” Shitmouth opined, now trying to spit-polish the mud from his boots.

“Who was the poor soul who had to let them out for the voyage to Dragonstone?” Rykker asked, giving Varys a suspicious look. Either Varys is showing his cards or Rykker’s made him for more than a hedge knight. The spider looked in turn to Jaime.

“Your brother. He was bothered by reports that the dragons weren’t eating, and with the queen vanished on Drogon’s back he took it upon himself to make sure they would.”

“How did he manage that?” Jaime asked. Tyrion, you fucking idiot.

“Quite despite my many misgivings, he went down into the catacombs where they were kept and pulled the bolts from their collars. I suppose it was unnecessary, they would have pulled the chains from the walls sooner or later, but still.” Varys’ eyes were cold, his gaze sharp and appraising. Lord Tywin’s Bane, indeed. He remembered the rumors and the names the westermen had for Tyrion as a misshapen infant, each wilder and more fanciful than the last. Well, Father was blind to Cersei and I. If he missed us, he’d have missed anything. He remembered too, Tyrion’s fascination with dragons, how he knew all their names before even those of his own ancestors. That irritated Father to no end. The ugly little boy would go on about Balerion the Black Dread, Vermithor the Bronze Fury and all the rest to anyone who’d listen and more than one other Lannister who soon grew weary of the endless prattle. Only Uncle Gerion ever humored him. Jaime could still see the smile that never left Lord Tywin’s youngest brother’s face, still hear the laughter that was never withheld. Lost beyond the Narrow Sea, no doubt sunk with his Laughing Lion. Thinking on the past had soured Jaime’s mood and so he found himself heading for his tent soon after. The Rock holds too many ghosts for me, he thought as he lay on his sleeping mat, staring at the cloth above. Claim or no, should I live to war’s end I’ll not spend my days roaming its halls as Cersei roamed the Red Keep’s. Forgetting gold and crimson for a moment he surprised himself with how quickly sapphire blue took their place. Perhaps I’ll find out what’s become of you Brienne the Blue, Brienne the Beauty. At the very least, I can take you back home to Tarth, to the safety of your father’s lands. That was easier to think on than all the ill fortune had befallen House Lannister, and he fell asleep with their last meeting in his mind. Even from Riverrun’s ramparts, I could still see the blue in her eyes.

A frigid cascade woke him sharply and Jaime found himself thrashing under his tent, collapsed by snow. After a bit of wriggling and no shortage of foul utterances he wormed his way out, made all the more difficult by his maiming. Popping his head free of the snow, he peered about to see the stuff had fallen nearly to knee-height, making his spirits sink ever lower. Winter is Coming, he thought blackly. On my fucking face. The other tents he could see were but pointed ridges in the snow and everywhere he looked the world had become a white map, free of every feature. The horses aren’t going to like this. By the time his companions were woken and in turn the officers, Jaime saw the snow wasn’t about to leave their company. We’ll be trudging in this mess from here on to Deep Den. It was midday when they began moving again, and at not even half-time. The horses had to be led carefully lest they lame themselves with a wayward step, and it was devilish hard to keep the sun, small and wan, in their sights as they followed it due west.

“Forget castles and dragons, you’re more likely to find your golden hand than the goldroad.” Bronn grumbled, breath a white cloud that smelled of ale. Shitmouth had gone to tying cloth about his face to keep his nose and mouth warm, which made Jaime distantly wonder if the smell of his own breath was like to kill him. A funny story at the least.

“We don’t need the road, truly. We’ll keep west until we hit the mountains and follow them further in until we find Deep Den.”

“To think I could have followed that lovely vicious bitch to Dorne.” Bronn said, almost sighing.

“Without me to pull you out of every pit of snakes you’d be dead within a day.”

“I’ve saved your arse, and your dwarf brother’s, more times over than you two have mine put together.” Jaime turned from leading his horse to see how the rest were doing, and the army behind them. Varys seemed most interested in being briefed on Matthos’ time beneath the Narrow Sea, while Freglyn and Joss tried valiantly to keep Jaime’s spare horse from stepping right into a snowbank. Renfred Rykker was little better, shivering beneath his hood. We’re not set for winter weather, Jaime thought. Not for this lovely gift of white from the old gods, anyway. No winter clothing, no spare food, and far from any great source of wood or shelter. We could walk right over the bloody Blackwater Rush and not realize it but for the slipping on the river’s icy surface.

The days were much the same, Jaime leading his army through the snow that had so quicky caught them out. At first, he hoped that it had been a sudden storm of intense strength but piddling size, then as they pressed on he could see the countryside had been blanketed as far as he could see. After managing to find not the goldroad but the Blackwater Rush and to Jaime’s amazement losing not one horse to its hidden icy grasp, they had to slow further and make sure the army in its entirety got across the treacherous span. To check his count, he asked Bronn and Rykker what count each had made. Neither man’s estimate much pleased him. Perhaps a thousand. Not a tenth of them mounted, not a tenth of them true soldiers. Rabble they might have been, but they did not let it show. Men died, either of cold or hunger or sheer exhaustion, but not so many as Jaime supposed might. Food was scarce, but not so much they needed to consider eating the horses (as yet). Well, sudden snows have treated men a deal worse, he supposed. When he told Rogyr that at least a week’s more travel laid between them and the foot of the western mountains to say nothing of Deep Den, the man only gritted his teeth and nodded before going back down the column to spread the word.

“We’ll be rather spectacularly late to Winterfell I suppose, but it’s not as if it’s our doing. Mayhaps we’ll ride up only to discover the rest have done for the Others already.” Jaime muttered. Or maybe I’ll be called the Late Jaime Lannister in addition to Kinslayer and Kingslayer. Spotting Stilwood and Freglyn off to his right, muttering to one another in the way boys hoping not to be overheard only did, Jaime put the journey out of his mind and went to see what they were up to.

“Oh! Pardon me, ser.” Freglyn said at once, turning red and looking at his feet while Stilwood only nodded. Commoner and highborn, if barely. Yet snow slows one sure as t’other, cold chills one sure as t’other.

“Scheming to try and dig a rabbit out of the ground?”

“Ah, well, actually, ser, we were talking about the snow.” I shouldn’t be surprised. Damn little else to talk about! Still, Jaime humored them.

“The snow?”

“Aye.” He looked to Stillwood. The lad shifted.

“Well, reminds me of something, is all.” That did surprise Jaime.

“It does?” A nod.

“Once in the riverlands, we were stuck up in an abandoned house trying to keep out of the rain while Lord Tywin and the rest looked for the Young Wolf. The place was infested with rats, see.” he said, as if that explained the first thing. When Jaime gave no sign of understanding, he continued, though slowly. “Well, the other men, those that run with Ser for years, they got to getting rid of them. Last building standing in the village, we weren’t about to find a roof and four walls again any time soon. They stopped up every hole and nook they could find, leaving plenty of crumbs and such near the one they made a point not to. Weese kept his dog near at hand and every time a rat was bold enough to come out for a bite of cheese or a nibble of a corpsy finger, that spotted bitch caught it in her teeth. Over and over again, until the walls stopped skittering and the dog’s whole head was dripping red. Weese hated rats.” He looked at his feet. After awhile, squeaking rats may well sound like screaming men. If anyone’s lost the difference, it’s Gregor Clegane’s squire.

“The fuck does that have to do with anything, boy?” Bronn barked over Jaime’s shoulder when the silence drew awkward. Stilwood started at his tone, shaking himself.

“Just, it wasn’t snowing when we went to sleep that night.” He thought it over. “Well, it was, but not as like to cover the army while it camped. Wasn’t snowing hard enough to do either when we woke up caught sure as a mouse in a bag of flour.” That image drove the lad’s point home to Jaime.

“Instead of chain shirts, steel sabatons and the like, it’s snow doing the stopping up. Forcing us one way and one only, straight to the dog.” Jaime said, Stilwood nodding while Bronn laughed.

“It just reminded me is all, ser.” Stilwood said, turning away from the sellsword. “It just reminded me is all.”

Only when Jaime could just see the mountains did the snows begin to shallow. Still, the sight of them filled him with relief. The sky showed no inclination toward burying them again and with the snow easier to move through, they could be on Deep Den’s doorstep in only a few days. Not before time either, Jaime thought. In the mountains there will be wood to burn and perhaps even game to hunt. Just now, I’d like to get the army into cover and fed more than press on to the Rock.

“We may get luckier still,” Jaime said one morning as camp was struck. “Further from the riverlands and the fighting, we might find a village or two before we make the castle proper.”

“Whose seat is this Deep Den anyway, Ser Jaime?” Rykker asked.

“The Lyddens, Lord Lewys in particular.”

“Oi, I know him. White badger on green, is it? He rode with your father when they were chasing the Stark boy.” Jaime nodded.

“He was in the honor guard that saw Lord Tywin’s body returned to the west.” To the Rock. Free of the specter of the Rush lurking beneath the snow like a viper under hay, Jaime felt reasonably confident that the horses could be pressed harder and go further from the column. After one such sortie over a large hill, Rogyr returned red in the face and out of breath.

“A town, ser! Walled in palisade as well, not some hamlet!” Despite the man’s exciement there was nothing about the situation that seemed remarkable to Jaime. We must be near the goldroad after all. Frequented by wealthy passers-through, small wonder a town might grow larger and organize some manner of defense. When Jaime got over the hill he could indeed see several buildings nestled in a ring of wooden stakes, the whole town standing squarely in their way. Last stop before the mountains. Whoever owns the inn here is likely to be rather wealthy for a lowborn. Only when he turned to congratulate the men nearby on their perseverance did he see the look on Stilwood’s face. Jaime spent the next day fretting over just what to do next, the town looking more and more welcoming the closer they got. No doubt the rats thought the finger just as tempting. The night before they were due to make the wooden walls, Jaime stunned the others.

“We go around.” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. Every face save Stilwood’s gaped in dismay. If anything, the boy looked as relieved as Jaime had ever seen him. That means this is the right decision. The rest voiced every reason to fill the town’s every building and let the men recuperate, even taking a day to rest at the cost of not eating. “And if another snow traps us there? We’ll be eating each other before the week is out. At least skirting the mountains, even going over its toes, we’ll be free to build fires of an abundance of wood and no doubt bring down at least some game. I’m no ranger but I don’t see so much as a rabbit track just now.”

“How much does it add to our little walk?” Bronn said, already despairing of talking Jaime out of his course.

“Another day. A day and a half at most.”

“Seven save us.” Rykker muttered from between his gloves. Mutter all you like, my lord, Jaime thought. I have had my fill of Whispering Woods, and your lady will thank me and young Stilwood here too when you return to her at journey’s end.

Chapter 12: Daenerys II

Chapter Text

Coming down from the mountains, Daenerys could see that the Neck stretched off far into the distance without the least hint of end. The edge of the world, she thought. In a way, it very much is. The end of the south, with its chivalry and knights and bustling cities, and the beginning of something very, very different. Her misgivings were shared by the others, even Jon, though he worked to keep any reluctance from his face. The egg before the nest, Daenerys, she told herself. First, we must needs get out of these mountains, full of monsters earthbound and otherwise.

“At least we kept clear of those flying beasts.” Tormund Giantsbane grunted as the ground at last began to level.

“You would not have had Shagga son of Dolf and his Stone Crows not come. You would have walked right into a cold web or a hungry smiling thing.” the hill tribesman said in immediate reply. Nobody argued with him. Indeed, without one born to these mountains, of them as Jon is of the North, we’d have been stuck in that cave forever. Tyrion for his part took every step like he was walking directly off a cliffside.

“It can’t be so terrible. People live their whole lives in the Neck, no?”

“They do. Quite literally. Crannogmen never leave their bogs, never set a toe outside those swamps. Everything I’ve ever read or heard of them details a people that have joined themselves to their country in ways that mystify even maesters, and they aren’t fond of being intruded upon. If you care to look into House Frey’s past, you’ll find at least three instances of full armies setting off from the Twins intent on razing Greywater Watch. There’s no mention of what may have occurred in there afterward, but not one man returned in victory or defeat. How deadly might one side be that the other dies to the last, Your Grace?” Daenerys gulped instinctively. Not even dragonfire kills everyone. There were survivors of the Field of Fire.

“There will be room to stretch yet before we call on the crannogmen. Work the feeling back into your legs, you’ll need them to carry you through the Neck.” Little Ned Umber piped up, clearly discomfited by the daunting obstacle before them. Strange that even of all the places I’ve been, I’ve never been anywhere like where I’ll be in a few days’ time.

“It may not even be so bad. With all the bull lizard-lions in a rush to snap up the riverlands’ bounty of waterways and bodies both, we’ve little cause to suspect floating logs to be anything but logs.” Jon said evenly, kissing Dany on the cheek as he doubled back to check on Alys Karstark.

“A cow can kill easily as a bull.” The new-made mother replied, even punching him on the shoulder. Dany remembered the hrakkar of the Great Grass Sea. The males had splendid manes and size, but it was their wives what did the hunting. Bull lizard-lions showed no such laziness, no such indolence as far as Dany had observed.

“Maybe they weren’t so much pushed out as simply following the food.” She voiced a thought the night they reached the mountains’ base, the flooded fields of the northern riverlands half-frozen off to the west.

“Which would a man sooner choose, Your Grace? A full table or a full bedchamber?” Jeyne Poole asked in reply. “I remember passing though the Neck on the kingsroad on the way to King’s Landing when Lord Eddard became Hand. The way I heard it, lizard-lions will go off eating when they breed. The bulls in the riverlands were probably all ready to have at their harems when they were kicked out of the Neck. With no cows to woo, they spent their time eating and making show at each other.”

“They sound very like men, Lady Poole.”

“I doubt a bull has ever had so much to drink he couldn’t tend his girls, though.” Alys called from the back, making all three women burst into giggles.

A thunderous outcry broke her waking drowse and she was loath to let her head leave Jon’s shoulder. Despite the noise she was unafraid, intimately familiar with it. You’d think one day they’ll tire of racing madly at what they want and ride up with some decorum, she thought, yet she was smiling despite her exasperation when several Dothraki galloped down the frosty beach toward them. The Bite, what but for some song-storm, we’d have long since crossed and made landfall in White Harbor. Instead we’re forced to enter the North through the swamp before us, after an exhausting walk through the Mountains of the Moon. Malakko reached her first, breathing hard as his horse and looking overjoyed at having found Daenerys alive. To her surprise a fair brunette girl behind him succeeded in not being flung off by the horse’s furious pace. Wynafryd Manderly, she remembered.

“Khaleesi!” he cried, dismounting with a whoop. “We feared the hooves of the Great Stallion sank your…” he trailed off.

“Go on. Not ‘water-cart’.” Wyn prompted him, sliding off the horse herself. Malakko bit his lip.

“Ship, blood-of-my-blood. I’m happy he saw fit to let you come this far as well.” Dany told him in Dothraki. Lady Manderly smiled. So she knows at least a bit of the tongue. Dany was further surprised when even after she had switched to the language of his birth, Malakko continued in the Common Tongue.

“His hooves near sunk our ship as well, Khaleesi. We came on rocks and had to walk all the way from your land’s end.” He pointed back the way he’d come. Dany looked to Wynafryd.

“We ran aground north of the Fingers. Lands belonging to Coldwater Burn, they sometimes sail north joining Gulltown merchants already on the way to sell their wares in White Harbor.” All the while more of Dany’s bloodriders rode up, as ecstatic to see her unharmed and alive as Malakko had been. Counting the party who’d come through the mountains, Dany estimated roughly fifty people. Among them were the Dosh Khaleen, who apart from looking as though a dozen Necks were preferably to another moment spent aship, seemed unscathed. Ornela in particular embraced Dany without a second thought, the elder women sharply reprimanding her.

“Khaleesi, what kind of place have we come to? I heard a voice so loud it made thunder crash down on us and dash us to pieces on the sharp rocks.” she whispered, equal parts awed and terrified. In short, how a Dothraki might react to such a circumstance, Daenerys thought.

“The storm is past. We must think on where we are and what we must do now.” Ornela nodded meekly. The Dosh Khaleen in Westeros, add it to the list of things nobody ever thought would happen.

They meandered back over to the others, Jon waiting patiently for her to find places for each crone with a strong man to escort her.

“You’ll have to walk.” he told her kos, pointing to the sodden ground. “It’s slippery even here. Further on it won’t be frozen at all, and the mires will slide out from under you -and then over you- before we have time to notice you’re missing.” Despite their curious approval of Jon Snow, his words they would not heed.

“A horse is needed to escape the logs with teeth.”

“The one you’re riding from, but what about the one you’re riding toward you’ve yet to see? Again, assuming you don’t just ride into a marsh or into a hill of arrowhead ants.” Jon held his finger and thumb two inches apart. Only when one of her bloodriders sank hip deep in the mud approaching the wall of creeping green did it become apparent to the Dothraki that even with the flooded ruin of the kingsroad at hand, it would be unwise to go into the Neck mounted.

“If a man should die, how would we burn his body?” Dany heard one of the crones ask another. “Unless he is burned, he will never find the Night Lands.” This line of thinking brought on a sudden fearful muttering even among Dany’s seasoned screamers and they began eyeing the heavily vegetated marshy expanse before them with great apprehension.

“Doomed to wander this green hell hidden from the sun, looking for the Great Stallion and his herd.” Dhokko whispered, already jumping at every ripple in every pond.

“Better then to keep your horse well in one hand and your arakh in the other.” Malakko said, no less leery of the heavy canopy and close-growing ferns, bushes, and other less readily recognizable plants.

“Well, come on, then. Standing on the crannogs’ doorstep isn’t going to get us any closer to where we need to be.” Jon’s courage was undercut somewhat by his feet squishing noisily as he approached the fronds near the flooded road. Dany heard him swear under his breath after narrowly avoiding falling into the muck. He stopped just before he could disappear into the green. Another step and he’s in the north, Dany thought, a new wave of apprehension washing over her. Where he could not belong any better. Whether I do remains to be seen. She squelched noisily up to him, her leather boots keeping her feet dry if for the moment.

“Did the skilled master ranger hear me approach? Oh dear, at least he’ll be useful getting us through this swamp.” Dany said in an airy voice, trying to make light of it.

“The best ranger ever to live has the same odds you might at finding the way through the Neck, sweetling.” Jon replied, stealing a quick kiss on her cheek even despite his dreary mood. Her face flushed and there was knowing murmuring from everyone behind them.

“You might have waited until they couldn’t see us…” Dany grumbled, incensed at being embarrassed in front of her people once more by the White Wolf.

“What’s the fun in that?” he replied, taking her hand and leading her past a long leafy fern, his breath hitching when his foot found the ground beyond it. The North.

Even with the kingsroad to follow, more or less, Dany could plainly see that without constant keeping in check, the greenery on either side would quickly swallow up the path. She never thought she’d miss being cold, but the gusts and winds that blew from the east off the Bite grew weaker and fewer in number it seemed with every step. The foliage is growing thicker. She remembered the great table on Dragonstone, how the Bite it seemed was not so far from the road proper, but here, now, on the ground, it was not remotely the case.

“I hope we’ll at least find a dry place to kip…” Tormund Giantsbane was muttering to the tall scarred Sigorn.

“Not here, we won’t. We’d have to go further inland, where the jinglers’ horses will be even more hampered.” Jon stopped at random or so it seemed to Dany, sometimes going twenty paces between going to ground and sometimes not even making it a full foot forward. Either he’s actually managing, she thought, or he’s just going daft trying to find hidden dangers nearby. She’d heard plenty about the dangers of the Neck, every awful sounding creeping thing and lurking hungry beast, and distantly she felt glad Ser Bonifer had not been on the ship with them. He might have been lost in the storm or the mountains, she thought. Better he should be safe in White Harbor waiting for us, for me.

“I thought you said there were people in here?” Malakko asked Lady Manderly, off to Dany’s right.

“There are. Crannogmen, we call them, but they have a number of less civil names.” From a glance at Ornela, Dany could tell Malakko was reminded of the Lhazareen, the harmless shepherds the Dothraki called the Lamb Men. Everyone in Essos doesn’t fear Lhazar, though. Doesn’t talk of the shepherds as if to lay eyes on them is to court a haunting end.

“These crannogmen must not like the road.” Malakko said doubtfully, it seemed voicing the others’ confusion. I see no trace of anybody save us, Dany thought. No hint of any living creature save the plants. When the day’s light began to fade though, that changed. Little bits of light shone through the trees and floated above the surface of every black bottomless pool and soon a hundred different cries and more were filling the close air, getting closer as the road continued to lose ground to the green on either side. To Dany’s surprise they came upon a clearing in the endless lushness, a wide circular copse where the foliage had been cut away. It was the first evidence that they were not alone in the Neck. Jon spent fifteen minutes circling its perimeter, it seemed to make sure there were no hidden catches or hunter’s snares. Eventually he stood and Dany could see he was at a loss.

“The ferns are new-cut, the space too perfect to be natural.” He looked about. “They were just here.” Just here, and we heard not a thing. Even feet away, perhaps. His words did not remotely comfort the Dothraki, she saw. These people are not helpless Lhazareen, fit only to be raided for slaves and booty. The lizard-lion feeds on horse and lamb alike.

Jon got to seeing that Lady Alys was comfortable as she was like to get, Sigorn and Jeyne Poole dutifully helping her as best they could with the babes. Jeyne’s prickliness with Dany vanished whenever she got a chance to wait on the Karstark girl, dabbing her forehead or brushing her hair out of her eyes or any of the hundred other things a devoted lady-in-waiting might do for her charge. Even after years in the capital, she is still northern. Dany busied herself with helping the Dosh Khaleen get situated, the crones staring at the dancing lights in their midst, entranced by the marsh’s countless voices. Her fearless bloodriders were not so enchanted, peering fearfully into the darkness beyond the clearing every few moments. After awhile she tired of their timid mutterings.

“Are you blood-of-my-blood or children who cry and hide when Drogon passes overhead?”

“Drogon is of the Great Grass Sea, Khaleesi. He is the Great Stallion’s own get, surely, made of fire and wind. There is no fire here, no wind. This is a place where earth is water and water earth, where horses cannot run. It is a fearful place.” The oldest of the crones said gently in Dothraki.

“Yet you are not afraid.” Dany answered.

“I told you before, I am not afraid to see my children again, my khal. Your bloodriders have much life ahead of them, it is good they fear to lose it.” Dany’s irritation slowly ebbed at the old woman’s words. She looked around, at the people as varied as their names. Not a one looked at all at home in the Neck. The Dothraki picture the hereafter as an endless Great Grass Sea, where they ride with the sun and the stars. Small wonder they mislike the wet dark closeness of the Neck so, I suppose this must be very nearly how they picture hell. She made her way back to Jon Snow, passing Tyrion and his little entourage.

“Are they alright?”

“They’re just anxious to be well quit of this place. To be honest, so am I.”

“I no less. This is the North, aye, but it’s also a world else. I suppose you can see now how the Andals never managed to cross it, never managed to bring the Faith of the Seven into the North proper.”

“Bugger that. I can’t make head or tail of how it ever came to owe allegiance to the Starks of Winterfell in the first place. Perhaps your notion that it was a way other than conquest is true after all.” Jon only shrugged.

“It was a long time ago. All I know is that my lord father never once took issue with them, never once had to go settle a dispute with Greywater Watch.” He tossed a blanket down on the driest patch of ground he could find, one free of green. Promptly she lay down, muttering about being hungry while Jon Snow filled the space behind her, an arm snaking under her own. “When aren’t you hungry?” he whispered in her ear.

“Hmph…” she replied, eyes already closed.

It was hot, hotter than the Red Waste with the sun high overhead. The air itself was heavy, heavy enough to make opening her eyes a true trial. A wet heat was her first thought, so unlike the arid east. Her jaw ached, her arms ached and as soon as she tried to move something else her eyes fell shut again. Up, up, she told herself, the primal hidden other snorting in defiance. She heard a weak whine then, the humid air a heavy net pinning her to the sand. Dimly she registered confusion, uncertain quite how she’d got to where she was. Jon was with me… Immediately there was a louder snort, sullen and irritable. It took getting her legs under her to achieve getting off the sand, her arms feeling like wet rags. Blinking the bleariness out of her eyes, she beheld a world so green it took her several moments to wrap her mind around what she was seeing. The trees dwarfed her, huge ferns and vines thick as a man’s arm hanging from every branch, deep purple flowers popping vibrantly from the verdant wall. She closed her eyes and waited a moment before opening them again. The paradise world did not vanish, and in a moment its sounds and smells found her also. Flowers, rain, dead vegetation sinking into the forest floor to feed that growing anew…joined by a constant low buzzing, what might have been a far-off waterfall (or two), birds calling to each other further down the beach… she turned to shoo them away when the sight of them made her whole body tense, her breath hitch. Several animals were wandering the beach, picking at the morning’s flotsam, cawing at each other over fish or some shelled morsel. Not a one of them had feathers, in fact they were the strangest creatures she’d ever seen. Greenish yellow with pale bellies and long beaked heads, they moved…honestly, something like the dragons did, with the claws on their wing tips serving to carry them forward while their legs did the moving. Another reflexive snort. The nearest one turned toward her, regarding her with little beady eyes. The primal part of her grew uncomfortable, huffing shortly and lunging after the creature. Its beady eyes bulged and off it went, flapping over the surf and crying out to send its fellows sailing off north after it. She realized she was hungry, starving, ravenous…so much so that she got to snapping up every fish that lay stinking in the sun, crunching up every creeping crab she could spot. Leaves tossed into a forest fire, she thought, despairing. A sudden high piping sound made her turn back toward the jungle, the gloriously untouched jungle, to see a lizard standing near a fern, stopped midstride and gaping up at her. Just as she charged after it, its narrow-toothed mouth opened and she felt something like rain shower across her face. For a moment she was unaffected, then her right eye felt as though someone had shoved a finger into it, down to the knuckle! She went to cry out, went to put her hand to her eye, but instead she just stomped around in agony, shaking the leaves on the trees with a roar. What?

It took a moment for Dany to realize her body was moving quite of its own accord, utterly heedless of her attempts to regain control. She couldn’t even look down to see where her feet were taking her as she charged into the thick undergrowth of the jungle, the floor quite hidden from the sun by layer upon layer of canopy. Another roar sent a few heavy round fruit falling from some large-leafed branchless trees nearby, the irritant boiling away in only a few moments. She felt her primal side bellow out its outrage, pride quite tarnished by the tiny piping creature’s escape and the pain it caused her both. There was a surly snort, a quick whipping sound and suddenly she was on her back, eyes rolling in her head and brow aching. What is going on?! Then she stilled at the sight of the thing that had hit her. It was another lizard, huge and stocky instead of quick and fleet of foot. On four pillar legs too, instead of two runner’s legs. A cow instead of a jackal. Its round head was covered by short horny spikes, more running down its sides. The tail that came off the back ended in a thick bony bludgeon, one it swept along the jungle floor in an unmistakable threat. While Dany tried to reconcile what she was seeing with what she understood, the body she wore let out an irate scream and got aright, hissing and snapping- at least, until the armored lizard-cow whipped its bludgeon through the air again, Dany pulling back without a breath of time to spare. The sapling that caught the ball of bone instead of her head snapped cleanly, collapsing with the force of the blow. Slowly her wounded pride gave way to a sort of passive curiosity, and when the lizard-cow shuffled off further still into the green expanse, the body Dany was trapped in followed. The jungle only grew hotter, the air heavier with humidity as the day wore on, but her own uncertainty was quickly being shoved aside by that voiceless part of her. A fascination, a wonder, one that even the sight of horse-sized spotted spiders dashing away as she advanced could not quell. Realization slowly dawned on her even as the body continued on its way, quite uncaring as to Dany’s feelings on the situation. I may be the dragon queen, but I’m not near the size of one. On either side, great black wings stabilized her front while two powerful legs pushed her forward. I may be the dragon queen, but I haven’t got wings like one. The mouth, packed with sharp teeth, parted. I may be the dragon queen, but I could never roar like one. The call then was not irritated, not surly, not something she’d ever heard her children sound in the waking world. A sort of giddy trumpeting, a roar that started in the base of the belly and magnified tenfold by the time it left the throat. Then the ground shook. Silence fell so absolutely Dany could hear the great heart pounding in her chest. Not to be intimidated, Dany reared up and sounded a trumpeting boast as loud as she could manage into the air. The roar that came in answer rattled the teeth in her head and made her eyes water. Before her ears could stop ringing the boulder-cracking roar came again and shook the ground, shook the jungle, shook the world.

“Dany!” The sweltering heat had gone, as had the torturous humidity. She let out a gurgle, blinking spots out of her eyes before finding herself in Jon Snow’s arms.

“Guh?” she grunted stupidly. She tried to keep the last glimpse she’d caught of the jungle from falling through her fingers. The trees moving, shifting, branches snapping and dead trunks falling. Even as people flocked around her, Dany could not quell the thoughts running through her mind. “I found him.” she said, her words lost in the tumult. After what I just heard, these are no more than sparrows singing in the bushes. She put a hand on Jon’s chest to soothe him, blinked the sight of his grey eyes and the boggy Neck back into view. The sun had not yet risen. Yet when I was Drogon it was the height of day, with not the least hint of winter to be found. The roar that had caused Drogon to go crosseyed and his tongue to vibrate in his mouth echoed in her ears. What kind of creature can roar like that? After a moment she answered herself. One big enough to rock the earth as it moves. Her hand on Jon’s chest squeezed and she managed to get out of his lap and to her feet, thoughts still jumbled. Drogon had been scared. More than that, he had been terrified…and wholly spellbound. He’d not have budged if Jon were plucking me from ‘twixt his feet. So worried was she for her child’s safety that it took her another few minutes to fully return to the here and now. Though she made to move away from him he held her close, near, dear. She couldn’t help but smirk. Now who’s possessive? “I’m alright, Jon Snow.” She kissed his cheek and it was his turn to go red. He let her go but slowly, and she was content to keep her hand in his. “I dreamed is all,” she told the Dothraki present, “I dreamed of Drogon in some hot green land.” News of the black dragon even in a dream made them smile, something they had not done since entering the Neck.

“Did you dream of him, Dany?” Jon asked, face one of brooding northern concern.

“I did.” she answered simply.

“Or did you dream you were him?” It was Tormund and Sigorn’s turn to look interested. She frowned.

“It was only a dream. Like on Dragonmont, when I dreamed of flying. Falling into the sea, too.” She felt a bit foolish. Hardly a rousing picture. But then, I’d been flying for days over trackless endless ocean. Jon Snow, mischievous thieving ghost that he was, was smiling. “What?” she demanded crossly of him, irked by all the gazes.

“I didn’t know people of Valyrian descent could warg.” Dany’s eyes went wide, but she could not find the words to refute him.

“What makes you think it’s me and not these damnable bogs finally getting to me?”

“Well, I can hardly say it’s your Hasty side bringing you dreams of Drogon.”

“Hmph! You’ll not speak as to my father’s family, Jon Snow. He’s an anointed knight and you’re nothing but a wild thief.” Both Tormund and Sigorn gave loud hoots of laughter, clapping Jon Snow on his shoulders. She left him to his incorrigible friends and found herself crossing the clearing, heading toward the Dosh Khaleen. Ornela immediately took her in hand, seating her next to the oldest and most venerable of the crones.

“Your bloodriders are glad, Khaleesi.” She put a worn leathery hand to the ground and it came up sopping, the crone tipping the mud out. “What have they to be glad of in this place?” For her part the crone did not seem at all out of sorts. Dany answered in Dothraki.

“They’re glad for news of Drogon.”

“News?” she coughed. “Blind I may be, but I am not hearing his wings, feeling his heat, smelling his kills. Were he near I would know and so too, would you.”

“He’s nowhere near. Not in this awful place, somewhere where the sun is high and cold has never touched.” The old one clasped her hands in front of her and stuck her nose between her palms.

“Day, you say. Yet the world smells of night.”

“The maesters at the Citadel and the learned among the lords of Westeros commonly acknowledge the world to be round. It stands to reason that just as our side suffers night, the side opposite enjoys day.” Tyrion’s voice made Dany turn, yet the crone seemed unmoved by his words. She seemed preoccupied with staring into her hands. As the crones spoke no other tongue, Dany duly translated his words.

“The Great Grass Sea runs one end to the other. Were there a place within it where a rider need only to keep straight on and ride into the stars rather than stay bound to the grass, the Dothraki would have found it long ago.” Another crone opined, looking at Tyrion distastefully. Once Dany translated, Tyrion only shrugged.

“So it may. But that only suggests the Great Grass Sea itself is flat, not the world beyond it. If anything, it gives credence to the theory that the world the gods made is much bigger than anybody rightly knows. The sun is round. The moon is round. The seven wanderers, not mere comets passing by but the fixed objects that come and go with the seasons, are round. Why should the world not be?” It was harder to put Tyrion’s words into Dothraki, lacking the finesse of the Common Tongue. ‘Wanderer’ might imply waywardness or solitude, concepts disagreeable to the Dothraki, so Daenerys found herself using the word ‘world’ to describe the skyward objects as well as the one the lot of them shared. Whether it was, strictly speaking, correct to do so, Daenerys found herself not caring one bit. I’m not a bleeding starwatcher.

Lady Karstark’s stifled scream made Dany turn her head in alarm, the poor girl wriggling like she was caught in a snare. Finally, Little Ned Umber stuck his hand into her coat, giving a scream of his own as he pulled out what looked from afar like a slaver’s whip covered in wriggling hairs. The boy’s earsplitting wail got worse by the breath. Though Dany started off at once it was Jon Snow who reached him first, grabbing the wriggling whip by the end that had embedded itself in the boy’s hand, quite through his thick fur glove. He gave a short yank, firmly gripping the thing by both ends. Up close Dany could see its bright orange body, the barblike yellow legs wiggling off its foot-long segmented form…and the two black pincers near its head, clicking noisily and dripping clear liquid. Umber was on his knees, clutching his hand and breathing heavily while Jon looked for someone with a dagger to hand. Sigorn was up to the task, but Tyrion’s shouting distracted him.

“No, you bald bastard! An archmaester would pay five gold dragons for one of those! Maybe ten!” Umber’s eyes popped open and his nostrils flared.

“Give me that fucking thing!” He snatched it with his one good hand before the king could blink, stuffing it in an empty wineskin and pulling the drawstrings tightly closed. Dany could hear angry scuttling from within the leather pouch, but it seemed proofed against the insect’s sizeable mandibles.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Lady Alys screamed at him while Jon stood there, hands out and open, stunned into silence. The little lord took another few deep breaths, pulling off his glove. Twin holes round across as arrow shafts dribbled blood from the back of his hand.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I’m going to do with this fucking little fuck. I’m going to pay a Myrish glassmaster to build me a nice big box. I’m going to stick it in Last Hearth’s greenhouse, fill it with dirt and Neck-muck, and slide this fucking fuck inside along with all the crickets, spiders and caterpillars I can find. This fucker can dance for me for the rest of its days, gorging in a glass gaol.”

“Last Hearth hasn’t even got a greenhouse!” Alys cried in disbelief.

“Then I’ll have one built for the box I’m having built for this fucking fucker!” The boy hopped off still wringing one hand while the other clutched tightly the wineskin and the angry scuttling prize within. Jon looked into his hands.

“Welcome to the Neck.” he told Dany. He looked to Little Ned Umber, a shyer milder boy Dany had yet to meet. Unless strong drink or slaver’s-whips are concerned. Alys Karstark glowered after him, muttering colorfully under her breath as she began to feed one of her daughters while Sigorn timidly held the second, Jeyne Poole stolidly shushing the third. “Welcome to the North.” Jon added.

“What was that?” Dany gasped, trying not to cry from sheer exhaustion.

“The maesters call them centipedes. Well, ones that would comfortably fit on a fingertip, anyway.” Tyrion breathed, hands on his knees as he slowly exhaled.

“If these may-sters were so eager to see the world as it is, they would be with us now, eh?” Tormund Giantsbane said dismissively.

“I thought it was a whip at first.” Dany piped up, turning red as they all looked at her. “Only hairy. Well…leggy.” She shuddered. “I thought I stamped out slavery and all the whips of the world both in Essos. Little did I know I’d find slaver’s-whips waiting in Westeros, with just as bad a bite.”

“Begging your pardon, dragon queen, but I’d feed a pit of those vicious little coils afore I ever called a man my master. A little honest venom never hurt nobody. Besides, Alys isn’t hurt none and the lad’s learned well not to stick his hand where he oughtn’t afore he asks! Har!” Tormund laughed. The prospect of a nasty bite would keep men’s hands to themselves. A pity we can’t give women the world over one each.

Once heads cooled, Jon Snow called them all to ready for travel.

“I don’t think anyone here’s so stupid, but I have to stress that you must stay with the column, such as it is. If you wander off, we’ll never find you.” Tyrion’s hill-tribesmen and the Dothraki, fierce prideful people both who resented taking orders, were not so prickly when they came from Jon Snow. In due time they left the clearing, heading north as best they could despite the quickly worsening state of the kingsroad. In less than an hour it vanished completely, leaving them to wade through unmappable winding rivers, snake through tall grass and pray the rustling they heard was each other and not an irate rattletail, and simply struggle through the mud, oft sinking as high has their waists. This is hell alright, Dany thought as Jon pulled her free from the muck for the dozenth time. No place in the world could be worse than this. Then she felt a drop on her cheek.

“Oh, fuck you.” she said savagely as the rains began to pour down. She kept a tight hold on Jon Snow’s hand, letting him take her close and lead while she tried to keep as dry as possible. Soaking fucking wet then, she surmised after only a few moments. Something brushed against her leg and for a moment Dany was ready to wet herself quite aside from the rains when a shiny moss-green shell broke the water and she found herself staring down a cruelly beaked turtle the size of a serving tray with a trout in its mouth. It glowered up at her for a moment, as if irate she had the nerve to exist in that spot at that moment in particular, before wading past the lot of them paying not a one the least bit mind.

“That fat bastard would have made good soup.” Ser Lothor said from somewhere behind Dany.

“No doubt, surely worth a few lost fingers and a hand or two. We could toss them in for flavor.” Tyrion replied dryly. It isn’t turtles making the Dothraki eye the water so fearfully, Dany thought. Turtles can’t burst from the mud and pull down horse and rider both at a leap. Every so often they’d come upon a log rotting in the river but after a few tense moments (and a thrown stick or two) the reasonable conclusion that each wasn’t a lizard-lion was reached and on they went. She knew well the question on everyone’s mind. Where are they? The answer too, that most everyone had likely gleaned. Why, with their husband, with their lord. The true Lord of the Neck, the crannogmen be arsed. The two bulls that had squared up below the walls of Riverrun were sizeable enough, each at least twelve feet in length. How big must the one who proved their better be? They stopped that night on as solid a crannog as they could find, keeping Dany in the middle with the northern girls and the Dosh Khaleen. He could pass us by right now with all his wives in tow and we’d never so much has glimpse him, she thought as she stared out into the night, the rains loud enough to drown out the croaks of hidden monstrous bullfrogs. Let him, she thought grimly. He, king of these bogs as no man ever could be.

Once the rains let up it was moments before the lot of them were praying for the deluge once more. Fuzzy black flies, swarms of biting gnats and droning whining bloodthieves that burst in red splatters when slapped all plagued them as they moved. I never thought I’d miss the bloodflies of the Red Waste. Soon they were joined by truly frightening hornets, thumb-sized droning creatures white as bone that gorged themselves on the other insects. Every so often Dany would feel something like a finger poking her, standing still until the hornet in question left her body for another helping.

“I don’t care what the Others do to us, Jon Snow.” Tormund said heavily, his red beard a sodden muddy rag. He shook his head. “I don’t care if they kill the lot of us. At least we’ll be shot of this place for good and all.”

“Do you know, my brother sought to conquer the Seven Kingdoms with the Dothraki as his butchers?” Dany told him blithely. “Someone should have told him horses don’t do well in swamps. And that lizard-lions are never ones to turn down horseflesh. Or manflesh, for that matter.”

“He sounds a mammoth-sized ass, heedless of the simplest truths. Mance was neither and he was perilous near to getting us past that there Wall. Had we done, we’d have rolled over the North but good, hit this Neck of Snow’s, and that the fuck would have been that. They ought to have had a c- er, a man with a sign. Just stroll on out to us, bold as you like. ‘Congratulations. You lose.’” Dany gave a humorless snort. She turned to see how the members present of her khalasar were doing. Each had a swarm caught in his hair, bare chests and shoulders red from bites, welts and worse. Finally, Wyn Manderly could stand it no more and with tears in her eyes she took Malakko’s arakh to her own waist-length braid, heaving it off into a pool. The sight made him stop cold, looking at her with grim realization. He took his weapon from her, looked at it for a long time, and cut his own long braid. He tossed it after hers, bells and all, and watched it sink into the muck. The other kos stared at him, horror in their eyes.

“I feel no shame.” he told them. Looking around, he beheld the constant droning swarms, the stinking pools, the trackless rivers, to say nothing of whatever else lurked in the confines of the Neck. “This is not a place for men. It was made by gods hateful of the outside, and so it is they seek to shame us. I feel no shame.” he said, louder. “I am Malakko, son of Qogo. That you have defeated me is no true defeat for me, nor true victory for you- I am only a lone rider, and you are gods. I will reach your lands beyond this hell. I will ride through your fields, your moors, your forests, your mountains. I will see your hairy elephants and men as tall as trees, your wolves that think like men and men that howl like wolves. I will kill your walking dead and send your cold children to you with an arakh made of black mountain-blood. I will wed your merling daughter and my sons will do all these things as well, and their sons, and theirs, and theirs still after. They will be born onto your earth, live under your sky, and ride among your stars with me when their long lives are spent. Gods you are, but you will feel shame at Malakko, son of Qogo’s hands.” He took a breath, heedless of the vermin that even then feasted on his bare flesh.

“The lad’s gone goofy. From the buzzing or the bites or both.” Brune grunted from some distance away. No, Dany thought. This is the way of the wild peoples. Those who fight for every meal and ride outside the safe high walls men build. The way of wolves, the way of dragons. A ripple in the water made Dany gaze east. The way of lizard-lions, too.

When sleep proved a quarry too swift to catch, Jon got to teaching her all the lords of the Neck he could remember.

“Fenn, Peat, Boggs, Cray. Quagg, Greengood, Blackmyre.” she recited.

“There are others, too. Crannogmen of lordly birth take their names from more than just the swamps themselves. Coyl, Sworrm, Webb and Styng. Hysh, Sourwilt and Bitterbloom. Redbind, whose sigil you’ve termed the slaver’s whip, you clever.” he nuzzled her nose while her skin broke out in prickles. What sort of highborn takes a foot-long venomous insect for a sigil? Or Redbind for a name? “And Reed, of course.” he continued.

“A black lizard-lion on grey-green.” The easiest house, the most important. “Are they a numerous house?” To her surprise, Jon shrugged.

“I only know what Maester Luwin taught me.”

“It wasn’t Lord Stark who taught you all the names?”

“It wasn’t my place to ask my lord father the nature of his vassals. I was only a bastard, if anyone it ought have been Robb. But I never heard aught from him either. I suppose after joining my father on half a hundred trips all around the North but never once setting foot in the Neck, it became an unspoken rule.” That only befuddled Dany further. It isn’t like a powerful man to refrain from making his presence felt. Or showering largess on those he knows to be true to him. Perhaps Lord Stark had found Lord Reed ill company in his youth, or he just couldn’t be bothered with the Neck. Or he wanted Westeros to forget about the crannogmen, she pondered, the northmen included. If not primarily. Another shiver crept up her spine and just then Dany could not be readier to put the swamps behind her. If it means bitter cold, hell-winds and biting frost, so be it. Tormund had the right of it, nobody born outside these bogs belongs in them a single minute. Her thoughts wandered to another verdant hell, one so hot it could squeeze the life out of a man given time. Not much, either. In such a place her child wandered, heedless of danger. Her eyelids drooped for a moment. She could see them, all three of them, as they had been when no bigger than dogs. Viserion, always keen to perch on my shoulder even when he got too big. Curious in regard to men and their doings, splashing in the lily pool whenever I dipped my feet in. Content to scavenge when he could, the least prone of his brothers to be off hunting for too long. Rhaegal, gentle as a wild dog and harmless as a coiled adder. Ever was he wary of men, then disdainful of them, then hateful of them. Their noise, their stink, if he had his way all the cities of Slaver’s Bay and the world beyond would bathe in bronze flame. Only happy when he was high awing or far from people, stealing from Drogon at every opportunity. Cunning, deft, fast. She had seen neither in over a year. When once I had them in my arms. Content Viserion and capricious Rhaegal. I thought chained, they might behave, but it only served to make them wilder and singularly unhappy with me. Though, neither beast had been to blame when the herdsman brought in the blackened bones. Neither named for Drogo, who was once my sun-and-stars. Dothraki to the bone, who valued only strength, only power. Gods only know what he saw in me.

The world had gone punishingly hot again. There was no need for her to blink the sun out of her eyes though, as it could find no path through the thick green canopy overhead. Drogon, she thought excitedly. Where have you gone to? He had survived his encounter with the unknown, the great something that had set the dragon’s heart hammering beneath his black bones. Just then it was clear Drogon had no eyes nor ears nor nostrils for anything else but a trace of that same something, the memory of which replayed constantly in his mind. “As intelligent as men”, she remembered Tyrion saying. How Drogon knew to dismiss each crashing footfall and blaring bellow Dany had no idea but she knew the dragon would not be lead off-course. The bloody thing was huge, she thought somewhat crossly. However did you manage to lose it? Only when he caught the unmistakable stink of carrion did he stop his mad clambering through the undergrowth, making a beeline straight for a reek that would send any other animal running. When he burst from the trees onto the carcass of yet another breed of lizard-cow, one possessed of armor nor bludgeon, his building glee dulled into a sullen sulk. He sniffed it. Despite the ripeness of the reek, the exposed bone and obvious rot, there was good meat and he was hungry. The fire built in his chest, boiled in his throat- and then there was a roar like to split the ground he stood on in twain. Immediately his head snapped to the sound, giving a roar of his own in giddy reply. A pebble tossed against a mountainside, Dany thought, worried for the foolish-proud dragon. As Drogo was when his wound needed tending to. The world shook, steps taken on feet bigger than Drogon’s head. An eyewatering reek worse than any corpse filled the air, and Dany could hear through Drogon’s ears a nearby cloud of buzzing gnats. The smell, the sound blew food from his mind completely. The worse one grew the louder the other got and the more animated Drogon became. Only when she beheld an odd bent tree trunk did she realize it was a leg, one that ended in three huge clawed toes. Dull mud-red it was, and before she could look higher a low guttural throating sound filled the jungle, its inhabitants falling silent. Including Drogon, she realized. She looked up. A lizard, she thought, if made a god. The ox-sized head stood twenty feet above the ground, more, with teeth longer than daggers poking from its mammoth jaws. Vestigial, almost useless arms poked awkwardly from its huge muscled chest but the tapering tail that trailed behind it was anything but awkward, gracefully keeping the animal balanced. Its nostrils flicked and it stepped further into view, Drogon watching openmouthed, in shameless awe. Jon told it true, a tiny part of her piped up. Without wings an animal was free to weigh however much its skeleton could carry- and in the god-lizard’s case, that was more than a half dozen Drogons. It looked down at him, nostrils sniffing, huge head turning this way and that. Drogon suddenly let out his loudest shriek, a sound that from Dany’s own experience caused grown slavers to wet themselves and flee, tokars left to fall. The god-lizard did not so much as flinch. It drew in a long breath. A roar from another time, another world, one the scars that laced and latticed over its face chest and sides advertised held no room for men. Drogon gripped the ground, yelping to himself under the sheer volume of the creature’s resonant sonorous roar, but even as it rattled the very teeth in his skull it was obvious the god-lizard was showing off. Look at me, the roar said. Look how powerful I am. You are small and I am great.

The lizard gave a sudden snort, turning and slowly thundering away, when Drogon gave another shriek and pounced on its back, burying his black teeth in the thin skin at the tip of its nose! He flushed himself with the god-lizard, who gave a earsplitting agonized scream, and promptly went to ground, trying to roll on top of him! Though the lizard had unquestionable advantages in size, weight and strength, this seemed to be what Drogon wanted. He merely scampered onto its belly and took off, repeating this dance until the god-lizard was streaming blood from its muzzle, neck and shoulders. Though Drogon was determined even he could not stop the animal from charging off, scarcely able to keep up given the occluding nature of the jungle’s branches and hanging vines. Such barriers were no deterrent to his quarry though, who simply crashed through them without losing a step. It was all he could do to keep up, nipping at the monster’s ankles. He bit its nose whenever it tried to drink, bit its neck or the bony ridge above its eye whenever it stopped to gorge. The dogged chase only ended when the god-lizard ran headfirst into a crumbling stone wall, sending the ruin falling to the jungle floor at last. Breathing heavily, it turned to face its pursuer, its roar shaking Drogon’s bones in his scales. He tried to reply in kind, but even his deepest roar could only sound a kitten’s mewl to the animal before him. It charged suddenly, covering ground at incredible speed before Drogon could react- and in a moment more it knocked him flat on the jungle floor, stuck fast in its jaws, teeth crashing together- to find his scales quite unscathed. The yellow eyes bulged and Drogon again sank his teeth into its muzzle, making it scream anew. It flung him off, sending him crashing into a tree, but Drogon was no worse for wear and he got right back to it. Every time the god-lizard tried to bull through him, he tore at its face until it retreated. As the sun set the creature finally collapsed, through hunger, through thirst, or perhaps through sheer exhaustion. Drogon clambered over its enormous body and bit down hard on its shoulder making it low in agony once more, but he at no point used his fire. Feebly (for a god-lizard) it tried to buck him off, but Drogon’s persistence and cunning had the creature dead to rights, if for the moment. His efforts seemed less and less an attack to Dany though, who could only watch in stupefied disbelief, and more a provocation, a firing of the creature’s blood. Bold to the point of rank madness, given its size next to his! Just now though, it’s not next to, but under. He kept the god-lizard’s bleeding flank gripped in his teeth, flushed himself with it again, and did not let go until he’d had his desire of it- of her, black flame searing through the canopy as he made her his. He roared a final time until spots bloomed in his eyes and his lungs screamed for air and slipped off his prize, exhausted, insensate, and in a breath, asleep.

Dany shot out of Jon’s arms so fast even his ranger’s reflexes could not catch her. She was so overawed all she could do was gasp for breath. For an electrifying moment Drogon’s brutal ecstatic triumph was hers and she could not keep a thought for more than a half-second at a time. You had her, she finally managed. She was well beyond you, and still you brought her down and made her yours. The Dothraki follow only strength, only power. You are named for my sun-and-stars, it makes sense you would seek strength and power out in turn. Gentle arms looped around her and she gave the accompanying chest a panicked shove, sending Jon Snow flat on his back into the mud with a grunt. Finally the feeling faded and suddenly she was too tired to stand, falling gracelessly atop the King in the North.

“Dany?” she heard him whisper, among the cries and curses in both the Common Tongue and Dothraki. “Are you alright?” What power had surged through her petite form had quite gone by then and she felt like nothing less than a jellyfish removed from water, unable to do anything but ooze out and lay there uselessly.

“Yes.” she muttered into his ear, before finding dreamless sleep. When she awoke the sun had risen, quite following the notion that while Drogon’s world was dark hers was light and vice versa. I feel better, she thought meekly, though when she stirred a gaggle of the Dosh Khaleen were on her at once, poking and prodding as they had when she was a girl in their tent. “No more of that.” she murmured sternly, before violently retching up the rations of the day before. Well, at least no one will much mind me making a mess in the Neck, she thought. A waterskin was handed to her and she gratefully gulped its contents down, wiping her forehead with her wrist. I feel as though I’m still with Drogon in that vibrant jungle hell. Jon’s scarred face, his lovely grey eyes hovered over her and gave her the strength to sit up. He pulled her into his lap. “Are we there yet?” she murmured weakly, laying her head on his chest.

“Not quite. But look, it seems our camp is doing the wading for us.” Dany squinted and saw indeed that the opposite riverbank was sailing lazily by.

“North, I hope? I’d hate to have us going the wrong way.”

“North, aye. Then White Harbor, then Winterfell, and I can get you out of those soaking clothes and into nothing at all, save perhaps a bath in the hot springs ‘neath the castle.”

“Don’t tease.” she replied, slapping his chest. His smile did not disappear until his name was called.

“Snow.” Short and curt. Both of them turned to see Tormund staring at something on the other side of the river. At first Dany could see only cat-tails, lilies and hundreds of reeds, but the break in the swamp foliage got more pronounced as they began to drift toward it. Slate grey he was, wider at the middle than a barrel on its side. He lay sunk into the muck with five smaller lizard-lions gathered around him. He’s a lot bigger than twelve feet… When the sun’s light found them, the cows opened their mouths at once but made no other move. Slowly the male surfaced, floating off balance until his feet found purchase at the edge of their crannog. He pulled himself from the water, strutting idly onto their silty patch of island.

“Fuck me…” Dany heard someone moan. The bull lizard-lion came straight on, his gait unrushed, to stop right in their midst. He laid back down, shut his eyes, and let out a long low rasp-grunt. Promptly his wives joined him and he opened his own huge mouth in turn, going still as a statue. He pays no mind to us, for we aren’t worth his time.

Gingerly people started backing away from the bull, congregating on the far end of the crannog. The Dothraki were gaping, the hill tribesmen half ready to charge and half ready to leap into the water. Jon had his brooding look on and Dany knew he was trying to gauge the animal’s length.

“Not more than five-and-twenty feet. Not less than twenty, either.” He slipped an arm around Dany’s waist, sliding her behind him. As if I were a helpless maiden.

“Does he look like to move to you?” she snapped.

“I don’t care. I’d sooner it were me between the two of you than you between the two of us.” he replied, as only a stern northman could.

“Besides, I’ve heard from your own mouth that animals will forgo food when breeding. Jeyne Poole told me much the same.” Something about the whole affair was subtly off though, like a tapestry hung just askew. She found herself walking past Jon, getting as close to the lizard-lions as she dared. We saw dozens of displaced bulls in the riverlands, she thought. There are only five cows here. Surely there must be more? Quite contrary to her confidence that the bull was like to turn to slate before he moved again, his nostrils flared and his eye opened. The bumps on the end of the great head twitched and the bull let out all his air in a long hot exhale. When Dany did not move, he slowly rose, taking his ponderous bulk back to the waterline and disappearing into the gray-green swill, his wives in tow. She turned to Jon. “Fond of Freys they may be, but they like not the smell of Targaryens. Or perhaps Hastys.” His brooding panicked look broke into a smile and soon he was laughing, hard as on Dragonmont.

“Look!” Ned Umber pointed to something to the northwest. Several fallen trees had become dams, catching river debris and trapping plants to form a makeshift cove. Atop that foundation more sticks and mud had been applied, creating a sort of lodge. Finally, we’ll meet the crannogmen. There were no cries of alarm, no sounds of children playing, no voices at all in fact. When they got closer they could see why- there were holes in the roof and the place itself looked half-flooded. Still closer, Dany could see that the entire place was teeming with lizard-lions, each lithe and graceful.

“No bulls.” Tyrion voiced Dany’s thoughts. “Not a one of them is male.” A slow wondrous hopeful seed began to grow in her chest. Somewhere without men, where no man would ever go. A nest of bone hornets in a nearby tree buzzed loud enough to wake the dead and Dany pulled a fatted leech from the side of her hand. There is food here, but even so it makes no matter. Lizard-lions do not eat when it comes time to breed. There is freedom here, there are no walls to hem them now. She took an automatic step toward the lodge. In an instant Jon Snow had her right hand and Tyrion Lannister her left.

“The bulls all left at once, and in no little hurry. There are no people here, elsewise the crannogmen would have met us as soon as we came into the Neck.” She spoke more to herself than they, the closest cows catching Dany’s scent and turning toward her at once. Eventually their crannog came to a stop a scant few feet from the dome’s entrance, though only the top had yet to sink below the water’s surface. “Food and freedom, my lord. You know more of dragons than any man alive.” she told Tyrion. “More food than can be eaten, more wives than can be counted, in a place men could not belong less.” His darling noseless face turned slowly, so slowly, in the direction of the dome, though he did not let her go.

“What if all that’s in there is a harem of famished cows and their hungry husband?”

“Then they’ll eat me while you’re helping her escape.” Jon said grimly, drawing his bastard sword.

“Oi, you’re not getting eaten afore me, Jon Snow!” Tormund cried incredulously, jogging over.

“I need you to look after Ned Umber. We may be back in only a few minutes.” Jon told him, the wildling’s face falling.

“Aye. He’s a good lad but he’s got room in his head to grow some sense and that’s no lie.” Jon slid in first, the water reaching just below his chest. His face broke into a deadpan frown.

“Well, small help Longclaw will be in this. Toss me a knife, Tormund.”

“Har!” came the ready reply, taking the Valyrian steel sword and providing a common dagger. Dany went in next, heedless of the cold water as it seeped into her clothes. They were ruined anyway.

“Aren’t you coming?” she asked Tyrion, before realizing the water likely came over his head. The yearning on his face as he looked at the flooded dome was palpable.

“Getting wet here. I think I feel something on my leg.” Jon said sharply, simply taking Tyrion on his shoulders and making for the dome, Dany close behind.

Pitch dark but for what sunlight could find its way through the cracks in the ceiling, they had to make do with squinting and Jon using his dagger to feel the walls out to make their way forward. Dany was glad for it. Who knows what creeps and nests in these walls. Better a hidden serpent should taste steel instead of Snow. Underneath the dome proper the cracks were greater but fewer in number. Dany could just glimpse yet more water, a great deep pool that ringed a single stationary crannog. Lizard-lions need no doorways, she thought. Likely there are ways to come and go aplenty in the depths. There were cows aplenty as well, motionless at water’s edge with mouths half-open. The air was hot, the mud hotter, and Dany found herself squinting in the humid darkness for a hint of cream, a glint of gold. I know you’re down here, my love. Once, I fed you fish from out of my palm. A long hiss sounded from the far crannog, indolent and dismissive. Dany wanted to dash for it, to run as fast as her feet could carry her, but Jon Snow held her close even as they reached the water.

“We’ll have to swim.” he said grimly.

“We can make it. They’re not moving, if we’re careful and quiet they’ll never know we were here.” Dany hated the pleading note in her voice. Miraculously they made it across, the silt beneath Dany’s hands as precious as her first touch of Dragonstone’s shores. It was hot, hot, enough to make Tyrion mutter in discomfort as they moved up toward solid ground. The great body before her was hidden from the cracks of sunlight but Dany could feel its heat. She was so ready, so ready to see his golden eyes. When indeed they opened and shone a hungry merciless moss-green, Dany had time only to think well, this was rash before the black head that held the eyes snaked toward her. Coming beneath a crack of sunlight Daenerys beheld a monster, a lizard-lion black as night resting on a jut of pale stone. Thirty feet if he’s a foot, with just as many wives. They did not lounge about him though, did not wait upon his pleasure as the others had outside. Perhaps he is a cannibal. On further inspection though, Dany could see the animal before her had none of a bull’s thick dense mass, its head was not so wide and its limbs not so stocky. The massive cow regarded the three of them impassively, her legs tightly gripping her pale perch. She hissed again, no doubt trying to ward them off. Why does she not just charge? The silt beneath her rasped in answer, a deep bass that echoed off the muddy walls for a full half minute. Then the pale slab rose, the cow atop it hissing in displeasure, a winding ivory body emerging from the morass. Distantly she heard Jon and Tyrion hastily back away. Memories of Viserys popped up of their own accord. Gaunt, sickly, haunted. The softly grunting body in front of her brimmed with muscle, the picture of health, of wild vigor and virility, and moved with the thoughtless confidence of the invulnerable. Another pair of eyes blazed forth from high in the darkness, pools of swirling molten gold split each by a single ivory line. Viserion took another breath, his great chest rising and falling while Dany stared up in wonder. Viserys thought himself a king but he had neither realm nor throne nor queen. Here you are with all three, a king for true. Beneath the light she glimpsed his head, his golden horns. A golden crown, she thought. A splendid golden crown, that men shall tremble to behold.

Chapter 13: Brienne I

Chapter Text

Even days later the princess’ words still stung, rankling deeper than any insult any man had ever paid her. Because their words were empty, just wounded pride. Sansa was speaking out of genuine concern for me. Jaime Lannister could stoke her into a towering temper but Brienne in all her lonely life had never felt so inadequate. In such a subdued mood, she’d taken to making sure those southerners who’d come to Winterfell were faring well. Eventually came the turn of the valemen and their handsome liege. Lord Arryn took a single look at Brienne from across the table the Knights of the Vale frequented, looking bemused if anything. When she asked if there was anything he or his worthies needed, Harrold Arryn laughed.

“There’s wine by the barrel and dinner’s hot and fresh every night. Nothing much more to want for but perhaps an end to the waiting. Crannogmen keep seeing off the sorties against the outer wall before anyone else can get there.” His mouth curled into a smirk. If Sansa tells it right, the lost wights don’t matter. Their numbers are beyond counting. Then the blue eyes narrowed the slightest bit. His mousy homely Waynwood relations did not notice, roast chicken and kale occupying their attentions. “Right, I’m off for a piss.” Harrold said abruptly, slapping his hands on the table and pushing himself up. His gaze flicked to the doors, to the mouth of the hall, and back to Brienne. She gave a slight a nod as she could manage. He was off immediately after. She gave him a good few moments, wandering the hall to make a show of moving on, before she too left the hall and the scent of chicken and the sounds of laughter. “Well then, what’s gone wrong now?” he asked, his careless affect gone. “I haven’t seen Princess Sansa in a few days, so if you’re looking for her-” Brienne was ready for him to give half a hundred different dismissive answers. There are women all around Winterfell for me to chase. I’ve been too busy keeping the lads in good order. Gods, but you are ugly. “-don’t.” His abruptness made her blink.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?”

“Don’t.” he said again, clear and unconcerned. She stared at him. Tall as he was, she was taller. Broader, too, she thought, though she felt no embarrassment. After handily outsizing most every prospective husband, she’d quite gotten used to being the biggest person in the room.

“What do you mean?”

“When last I saw her, she was coming out of whatever northern fog keeps trying to fill her head. I can only guess she’s well at something or other now that you’ve got no reason to involve yourself in. Myself, either.”

“You speak as if you know her quite well, my lord.” Brienne said, her tone hardening a bit.

“I didn’t need to know her at all to know squashing a vicious bastard and freeing an imperiled princess is what any maiden would tell you makes a knight. Only, she didn’t need me freeing her. We didn’t even need to be there. Trust our luck to arrive in time not to matter.” He shrugged.

“You mean the giants.”

“I mean the stupefying wave of wildlings Jon Snow brought down from the Wall. And yes, the giants. The men who survived serving Stannis told me of how the big lads atop their mammoths smashed his pretty armored center to bits. That greyhair, Lago, he took the lesson well to heart. When it came time to smash the Boltons’ center, the giants knew what to do.” Brienne frowned, and Lord Arryn noticed. “All the chivalry, all the skill and training and seasoning in the world don’t matter when what your fighting can turn you into red stains with a single fist, a single foot. Never mind the tusked trumpeting hulk he’s riding, smarter I hear than any horse.” That had taken Brienne quite aback as well. While the giants were responsible for the great earthen rings going up, it was the mammoths who hauled blocks of permafrost too heavy for a dozen giants to move. More than once a mammoth would turn in its traces to look at something or follow some odd sound, trunk coiled and curious. They would look at men the same way Brienne had seen dogs do, and ravens, the sort of animals maesters supposed might think. A dog isn’t going to smash a column of seasoned knights though, Brienne thought. A raven isn’t going to crash through everything but mortared stone.

“Have you seen the other beasts? Prince Brandon says the giants call them rhonok or some such.” Brienne shook her head. To her astonishment, Lord Harrold Arryn of the Vale offered his arm to her.

“My lord?”

“Come, it’s bright as we’re like to see outside for a good long while. They should still be grazing at the base of the earthen ring.” He wants me to go with him, she realized. Maybe he thinks out here’s not private enough. Surely he must know there are likely Littlefinger’s men among the Knights of the Vale, if not the lords themselves. Astonishing herself still more, Brienne took his arm and let him lead her outside, into the midmorning flurries. “There aren’t so many, not near so many as the mammoths, but that should change. The way the wildlings tell it, Mance Rayder called a halt to hunting any of the beasts to please the giants. I suppose with more room to mill about and kept away from the Others or hunters or whoever, the hope is they’ll get to rebounding.” Lord Arryn said obligingly, as if they were talking about his destrier. Even through the furs Lord Arryn couldn’t help but shiver, cursing under his breath. “Do you know, it’s not the cold that bothers me. It’s that the cold bothers me that bothers me. Were I a different sort of man I’d follow the king to hell, but…raised in silk and satin, on the finest fare, at Ironoaks…” Brienne stopped walking. Ah, now I see what he’s about.

“I vowed to keep Princess Sansa safe, Lord Arryn. Wherever she goes, I will follow.”

“That’s grand of you. Say all goes as well as can be expected and we win out, some way or other. Will Sansa want to spend the rest of her days rearing a brood of squalling babes, safe behind a stone wall? Not the Sansa I know. I’m sure before the Lannisters so misused her and the Bastard beat her black and blue, she might have found that life alluring. You saw the walnut branch with Ramsay Snow’s skull on it, yes? Seems to me she’s got new plans. Or, at least, isn’t about to stick to any old ones. When that time comes and she finds herself more comfortable in the company of woods witches in the Haunted Forest, if not further afield, where will you be? Shivering at her side in your blue armor, looking more out of place than a septa in a brothel?” Brienne frowned.

“I’m less a stranger to cold, hurt and hunger than you are, Lord Arryn.” she said icily.

“I don’t doubt it. Any more than you must doubt that if Sansa were still the maiden from the story, she and I might well be married already. Lord Royce, Seven save him, asks me almost daily why I’ve not yet broached the matter. The simple truth is, I have nothing whatever she requires. Littlefinger might have sent us to get closer to ruling the north, Lord Royce might have intended the Battle of the Bastards merely the raising of the curtain on an Arryn-Stark marriage, but the lads and I came because we wanted to. Sick of sitting in the Vale hearing about everyone else, about the great battles of the War of Five Kings while Lady Lysa tittered to herself and wrung her hands and brushed her stunted son’s hair.”

“I’m not sure your words would move many in Westeros. There isn’t a family great or small who didn’t lose someone in the war, some rather more than others. I was with Renly at Highgarden when it all started, he and the chivalry of the Reach struck me as noble then, foolish now. If half of those boys-called-men lived to tell their parents of their folly, the gods were kinder than they’re known to be. You’ll forgive me if I see certain similarities between you and Renly, between the knights of the Reach and those of the Vale.”

“That’s just it, my lady. The lads and I are gallant fools to a one, I’ll not deny it, but we’re not about to head somewhere we’ve less than no business being. Renly wanted the Iron Throne for no other reason than because he was most like the kings in all our arsefool southern stories. The kind who stay honorable and handsome and chivalrous forever, who never age and never die. Well, Renly got the never aging part right. As for me, I’ll keep well clear of the royal family but for whence I’m called. When I am, though, I will not let them down.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, Brienne wrestling with herself.

“You were there, at the accession.”

“I was. I declare, a grander spectacle I’ve not seen, the preceding battle included. Drunker I’ve never been and If I ever am, woe betide me.” He laughed to himself.

“Why him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why Jon Snow? Why not Sansa, she’s trueborn-”

“Trueborn, a beauty without equal, and well worth going to war over. None of which concern the wildlings in the least, to say nothing of the giants. Maesters love to argue themselves hoarse over claims and blood ties and aught, but what does it really mean? Look at me, for example. Aye, I’ve got a drop or four of Arryn blood. What the fuck has that got to do with me lording over a thousand better men? Because somehow, when all is said and done, I’m the one with the Arryn name and the most Arryn blood left? What is that to someone who’s spent his life, or indeed hers, following someone who has earned their place not by blood or birth but deed? Shit, Robert had no more right to the Conqueror’s throne than the Conqueror had to Westeros at large. You might say Jon Snow has no right to the crown he wears, but we didn’t give him all that much voice in the decision. The wildlings, the northmen, the valemen, the last few hard old tree stumps who made it from the stormlands. It’s his right because we say so, and never mind the rest. He took Winterfell back for House Stark, not Sansa. Not to say she had nothing to do with the victory, if she hadn’t teased Littlefinger into action we might not have had cause to come north at all. Maybe Littlefinger thought she was calling for help against the Boltons, he certainly didn’t count on a horde of savages and a triple-line of giants on mammoths stealing his moment of fortune.” Brienne’s bad mood was soured further by confusion. And men say we like to talk in circles.

“If she didn’t want your help dealing with Ramsay, whyever would she have summoned you?”

“Maybe she took the king’s words to heart about the true enemy being someone else altogether. A problem a few hundred extra knights could readily help solve.”

“Whom you could say were really behind your own rise to Lord of the Vale, and never mind the falcon in you.”

“The same might have been said of Lord Renly, had he seen fit to stay in the Reach where he belonged. If what I hear of him is true, he’d not have left an heir behind anyway and all would come to Stannis in time.”

“I found him lying against a tree after the Boltons took him unawares. The man was broken, I had only pieces left to sort out.” Lord Harrold let out a hoot of laughter.

“Stannis Baratheon, famed and feared, killed by a woman. With Stark steel no less, shaped in a Lannister forge. A more ignominious end I can’t imagine. Where was his red god then?”

“Where’s any god when truly they’re needed?” Brienne asked in reply, Lord Arryn snorting in agreement.

Gods but they’re big, Brienne thought sheepishly as they passed a giant laid out flat on his back who might have been dead but for his twitching nose and occasional thunderous snores.

“Eh?” A loud voice called from further down the innermost earthen ring. Rather flat-footedly another giant approached them, one shorter and less muscled than his sleeping kindred. No beard, either. Perhaps he’s not yet reached manhood, or whatever giants call it.

“Lately they’ve been having him mind the calves.” Lord Arryn tapped his nose. He doesn’t want to say the word and get our visitor excited. A snort from above made Brienne uncomfortably aware of how closely the giant watched them, blinking his big mud-brown eyes. When she could no longer pass off looking at Lord Harrold as politeness she turned and looked at the massive creature before her. Even were he man-size, the lad would have been burlier than anyone Brienne had ever seen, with huge hairy feet and great powerful hands. No wonder they use mauls. His nose twitched.

“Eh.” he grunted again, nimbly tapping his middle finger against Brienne’s chest. “Big. Big like sky, blue like sky.” he smiled, teeth huge and square. For some reason that made Brienne feel rather less uncomfortable.

“Are the rhonok around?” The sleeping giant gave an irritable grunt and sat up, grumbling in what could only have been the Old Tongue. He looked around blearily but quickly, as if expecting one of the beasts to be running amok at the moment. The younger giant gave answer in a calm, unrushed tone, the elder rubbing his eyes grumpily and trotting over. He stopped at the sight of Brienne.

“Eh?” he muttered, eyes going wide. The same mud-brown. Either they’re eyes common to all giants or you two are father and son. Like his get, the older giant tapped Brienne’s blue armor with a finger. The Old Tongue flew back and forth with astonishing rapidity, Brienne again taken aback by the quickness of the words.

“I am Brienne, of Tarth. Uh, an island far to the south.” she said. Usually it’s me making others sound like chipmunks. The son got to translating. Evidently something about Tarth the father found distasteful, letting out a displeased groan.

“I don’t think they’re fond of deep water.” Lord Arryn said quietly, though Brienne was sure the giants heard. You might have told be that before, my lord.

“Wug Wod.” the elder giant said finally, his son quickly shooting him down.

“I Wug Wod.” he said, sounding as only a younger man correcting his elder could.

“I Wug Wod.” He pointed to his son.

“Wug Tar, herd rhonok.” Wug Tar nodded in approval. “Herd now.” his father said, not looking at him. The lad’s face fell and he shuffled off in a sulk. Brienne couldn’t help but laugh, Wug Wod smiling in agreement. Chores, youth’s great bane and age’s great boon. Eventually Wug Tar returned, red-faced and panting hard, one of the animals in tow. Brienne spotted a handful of cabbages in his big fist.

“Rhonok not horse. Push rhonok, rhonok push back. Greens, pull rhonok.” Wug Wod said as a cabbage tossed at Brienne’s feet brought the calf right up to her. The shaggy beast seemed shortsighted so she kept still, following the giants’ lead.

“They’ve got good noses and ears, to catch out anything trying to run up on them. Or so the prince tells me.” Lord Arryn said, as if he knew her thoughts. When the cabbage was no more the baby immediately moved off, snuffling and nibbling on every patch of frozen grass it could find. Wug Tar gave a tired groan and followed, Wug Wod looking after him with a combination of pride and concern. Why, they’re no more than herdsmen, Brienne thought, put into this world to keep men from bringing down everything possessed of tusk or horn.

The walk back made Brienne think on her own father. He was no less proud of me, as much as the courtly way allowed. She wondered what life would have been like had her mother lived long enough for Brienne to remember her. Had Galladon lived, had Arianne and Alysanne made it out of the cradle. Most other people had the names of great heroes stuck in their heads, Aegon the Conqueror, Duncan the Tall, Ser Barristan the Bold. Stuck in Brienne’s were the names of her siblings. Occasionally, too, was Jaime Lannister, though Brienne doubted his path would bring him north of the Neck twice in a lifetime. Who knows? He’s a proper ass and would think nothing of slipping over the Bite once word gets out I’m here just to twist my ear. The family that could have been, the many ghosts Tarth held for her were for the first time wholly supplanted by other faces she could not place, with names she did not know. Blonde hair and green eyes go well enough together, House Lannister’s looks are proof enough of that. Hang thinking on what’s been, should I spend too much time wondering what may be, I’ll find myself daydreaming right into the path of a charging mammoth. “Dry your eyes, my lady.” Lord Arryn said gently as they neared the castle. Only a flight of fancy, as silly as falling for the first man to treat me half decently. I only pray he survives what storms Cersei can bring down on him on the way to Casterly Rock.

“If you’re looking to clear your head, there’s nothing like rattling a few skulls in the training yard.” Lord Harrold suggested. Brienne lifted an eyebrow.

“Is that an offer?” He laughed aloud.

“There are spearwives the castle over and what’s more, most of the Mormont fighters Lady Lyanna brought from Bear Island are women themselves. No doubt they’re itching to get into a good scrap. Go to them, and by the Seven uphold the honor of the south.” Had it come from any other man, Brienne would have suspected him of jesting. He knows well his true place, despite what the Valemen think of him. He’ll not climb an inch higher than he can reach and he’s keen to keep out of business too big for him. She wondered if that came from having precious little family in his own right, of living as a ward of Anya Waynwood’s. No doubt pushed to give generously to his broken-wheel relations on his ascent to the Eyrie. Small wonder he puts such stock in Jon Snow if half the tales told of him are true. As had become the norm, the yard rang with the sound of steel on steel, the curses and cries of men locked in combat bouncing off the bricks. From what Brienne could see, wild courage fared poorly against what the wildlings called “kneeler” discipline, but on rare occasion it was spectacularly reversed. A thickly set man with an unkempt mop of blonde hair dressed in furs and hides was giving a long-bearded stormlander all he could handle, using his scythe to keep his opponent’s broadsword off-balance. He was slower to move than the swordsman but quicker to react, deft for such a big man and it was only moments before his arm caught the other man cleanly across the jaw, knocking him to the ground sure as a tree branch would knock a rider from the saddle. Brienne spotted several other men nursing various injuries off to the side, one of the visiting lord’s maesters going up and down the line as needed.

“Toss all the kneelers about, Weepy. Best you’re like to do before it’s an Other tossing you around like a bag of potatoes.” a spearwife called from somewhere on the upper level. The big man turned and hurled a snowball quick as a flash, earning a shriek of surprise from on high. When he stomped from the yard Brienne saw his face was full and fleshy, almost too much so. His blue eyes were streaming and when the light caught the wetness and shone off his boyish cheeks it made him look faintly absurd. With none of that blonde hair on his face. A boy in a man’s body. Brienne made to follow him but a voice in the yard called her back. “Never mind him. Weepy’s not the sort you go out of your way to soothe.”

Brienne turned to see the same girl, willowy with the remnants of the snowball in her long black hair eyeing her up.

“Weepy?”

“Aye. The Weeper’s mongrel. Looks enough like him, great greasy sausage that he was, but nobody’s seen him since the battle at the Wall. He wasn’t one to come along and hide with the crows behind the ice, so most like he’s wept his last at the hands of the Others.”

“Why do you call his son ‘Weepy’?”

“Because he can’t keep his eyes dry any more’n his pig sire could. ‘Cept the Weeper’s eyes were runny and rheumy, Weepy’s are just always wet because people jerk his chain.”

“You’d do better to best him in the yard instead of mocking him.”

“Why? That’s stupid. A bad step and he’d break my pretty nose. Let him at the half-dozen kneeler lads I’ve got eager to get between my legs, then maybe I’ll put my spear to him.”

“Might be a froggy lad puts his spear between your legs, nice and sharp and slick with poison.” Brienne knew well the deep raspy voice of Sandor Clegane but the proud spearwife assumed he was just another man. When she turned, all wild pride, to see the man standing behind her, overtaking her by a foot and more, she got a good look at the ruin the Mountain had made of his face. He wasn’t looking at her though, his eyes were on a half-dozen of the little boggy people gathered in a corner of the yard. “They don’t fight fair, though. They don’t give a fuck about honor or any of that. The weepy lad, he’s only got a scythe to gut you with. I bet if it came to a real fight, those froggies would happily kill the rest of us off not near so gently.” One of them turned, though man or woman Brienne could not tell. The face was a chalky white but for the black tarry lines running about the face, bisecting it and partitioning it, pooling in the eye sockets. A Styng, Brienne knew at once. “Might be if we asked nice, they’d toss one of those nests over, big as a man’s head. Full of something worse than blood and brains, too.” The Styng retainer’s fellows turned toward them, faces frighteningly blank. There is no hate in them. It’s not in them to hate, they just kill absolutely everyone who tries to cross the Neck. They and the other houses of the marshes. “Look, now you’ve bothered them. Bugger off.” Clegane barked, the girl scampering immediately. After another few moments the crannogmen went back to their own affairs, though given a rather wider berth than before.

“What was that about?” Brienne asked Clegane.

“You know just as much about fighting as me. That lad could be someone worth a full pail of shit, even with his stupid scythe instead of a real weapon.”

“Wildlings haven’t the first notion of discipline. The time would be better spent, to greater success, teaching a giant to tiptoe.”

“A beating or two will knock that out of him. If he weren’t good enough in the first place I’d not bother.”

“We could send him to the castle’s master-at-arms.”

“Not so good as either of us and you know it. If you’re so keen not to be looked at while you knock somebody down, a fat lot of good you’ll do when the dead men manage to get past the walls.” The color rose in Brienne’s cheeks instantly. “Hang it. I’ll bloody well do it myself.” he said, heading off with just the slightest hint of a limp. At least that’s one scarring he’s escaped.

The sound of someone else heavy of step approaching made Brienne groan inwardly. When she looked for the newcomer though it took an honest moment for her to realize she was looking too high.

“Down here!” a girl’s voice cried. Brienne looked down to see the tiny Lady of Bear Island staring at her appraisingly.

“Hello, Lady Mormont.”

“Shove ‘hello’. If you’re looking for someone to spar with, nearly every woman who came with me from Bear Island is itching for the chance to try you.” Lady Lyanna’s smile was wide and earnest. “The younger of us can watch. Better that than have some knight too flustered by teaching girls how to fight to get a word in.” Though the King in the North had indeed decreed that all who could hold a weapon should be learned in how to use one, in practice it was slow going bringing the lords ‘round to the idea. Brienne was well familiar with odd looks and low muttering. After Jaime had given her the blue plate and Oathkeeper both, though, the dark looks and grumbling lost what bother they still held for her. Besides, none of them could beat me. Sandor Clegane never gave me grief for carrying a sword or wearing armor, either.

“It would break up this interminable waiting. I think I’ll take you up on that, my lady.” Brienne told her, smiling despite herself. The little lady was off like a shot, returning with several women dressed as unladylike as Brienne could imagine. Sheepskin under leather under chainmail under fur. The lot of them had not a beauty among them, all rather stocky and barrel-shaped, but Brienne knew fighters when she saw them.

“It’s good the lot of you tend to maces. A bashing blow is harder to turn aside than a thrust or slash.”

“Unless it’s coming from Valyrian steel.” the foremost of the women said.

“Still. Were we to swap, neither of us much familiar with the other’s weapon, I’d bet on me.”

“So would I, Lady Blue. You’re taller, stronger and your arms are longer. A shadowcat’s teeth might be longer than a bear’s, but the mouth behind them isn’t half so strong. The weapon doesn’t do the fighting, but the bearer.” True as can be told.

“What’s your name?”

“Beccah. As for you, word’s gotten around Winterfell quick of the lady warrior in blue armor with a red sword.” Brienne drew Oathkeeper, letting Beccah and the other Bear Island women have a look.

“Pretty enough, but how’s it handle?” one asked.

“It’s wanting those lions off, for starters. Stark steel ought wear wolves or nothing.”

“Especially because male lions don’t lift a paw to help their wives hunt. All they do is laze around and sire cubs when comes the time.”

“Men are fools for gold, now why would somebody make a sword so gaudy?”

“Eh. Chip the rubies out and put sapphires in their place, it won’t look so tasteless. Blue goes better with gold anyway.” The words were offhand and thoughtless, but they made Brienne blink.

“Hang this talk of men, lions or otherwise.” Beccah said shortly, waving her hand in an impatient swat.

“You first, then?” Brienne asked.

“Aye, or soon they’ll be at blows to work out who gets first crack at you!” Lady Mormont piped up, clearing off with Beccah’s sisters-at-arms.

Brienne watched Beccah’s broad arms raise her mace, her gloved hands tighten fast around the oaken handle. That’s good stout wood. I hope I don’t break it on her. She raised Oathkeeper in reply, ready to let the she-bear have first blow.

“Dead men!” the cry came from somewhere north. A wide grin spread across Beccah’s face. “Later, then. I’m ready just not to brain a dead man-” The cry came again, from the west. Then the east, then the south.

“Dead men! DEAD MEN!” Brienne watched the grin falter and fall into grim purpose.

“Let’s at it.” she said through gritted teeth. A huffing from the entrance to the yard caught Brienne’s attention next and she saw Podrick Payne standing there with his hands on his knees, looking as if he’d run the breadth of the castle in the half-minute since the first cry of alarm. She stepped up to him and let him catch his breath, heedless of the crannogmen even then swarming uncountably around and atop the Great Keep and the Great Hall. Their strange addendums to the castle allowed for them to pass quickly between the ramparts and the towers without sacrificing number necessarily, letting them bubble up in a spear-toting gush wherever needed. “Are you ready?” she asked. Pod nodded, face ashen and eyes wide. At least he isn’t shaking. Despite her long strides he managed to keep up, even as she took the steps up to the ramparts three at a time. Walls they could build until the stars fell but the giants had known nothing of bridges- another innovation of the crannogmens’ that allowed troops to move from the ramparts out to the inner wall, then the inner ring, and so on. The bridges themselves were staggered and rigged to collapse if need be to keep the enemy from using them in turn. Who knew bogs made great builders? There were people on the walls, people on the ground below, and the noise was such that Brienne didn’t hear Pod until he was practically shouting in her ear.

“Where should we go?” Her first instinct was north, after the first alarm and, well, north, when thoughts of the thick wolfswood made her head west. Pod hadn’t waited for words, as good a judge at action to come as any lad. At least in battle. Put him in a ballroom and he’s adrift. The castle’s defenders had done their best to clear the nearest trees away while the giants had laid the great blocks. Even with a hundred feet of stumps and fallen brush between it and the outer ring the forest stood inviolable, free of House Glover and its vassal houses and the mountain clans both.

They seethed out of the trees like spilled ink soaking into fresh parchment. Numbers were one thing, but the mob was packed so dense it looked as if there wasn’t room to bring a weapon to bear from one figure to the next. Not that wights need weapons to be a danger, not in numbers like these. Even thirty feet up Brienne felt unprepared as the figures grew closer, heedless of those who tripped or fell over the uneven ground, trampling them underfoot. There was no thinning at the back, no rear rank that she could see- they were packed like fish in a barrel from the ring’s earthen face straight back to the wolfswood itself, a sea of dead. Of grasping arms, of gnashing teeth. Wights in black, wights in fur, wights denuded even of skin or limbs, the sight took Brienne’s breath away.

“Before the wildlings tried the Wall, someone japed that if a hundred and two brothers were to hold against a hundred thousand wildlings, each would have to kill a hundred or more. Pyp promptly informed us he wasn’t confident he could kill a hundred wildlings. Well, if everyone here found it in them to kill a thousand dead men each…we’d still not leave a dent.” Brienne heard a soft voice mutter. At first she thought she was looking at a girl, but the black of the Night’s Watch gave the man away for what he was. He noticed, because his next words were no less inspiring. “An ugly woman and a pretty man, fitting fellows to die together.”

“Satin, shut your bloody hole.” The once-Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch muttered. Eddison Tollett, who brought us news that the Wall was no more. Brienne feared the dirt beneath them might give to dead hands clawing at it, dead bodies running up against it, but the notion of the earth being too cold to break seemed to prove true. Tollett seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “What a lark, that cold should prove our savior and a burr in the Other’s arses.” Brienne wasn’t so certain they had been saved as yet, though. If the dead men are in such number all around the ring, all the Others need do is wait. It may take years, but time they have. Movement behind them clued her in to archers massing on the middle and inner rings as well as the ramparts, each nocking a burning arrow. Likely Lord Reed’s notion, or the prince’s. Each rank loosed as one. A fourth ring, one wrought of air and fire instead of earth, bloomed outward in all directions from the tops of the walls. Although many went out on the trip back to ground, more stayed alight- and cut the dead down in a wave of quick-spreading flame. Cheers went up (as well as screams), only to die away when more dead came out of the trees, heedless of the flames as they were of their own fallen.

“Movement at the treeline!” Brienne heard Pod cry, though he went unheard by the others. Brienne screwed up her eyes, trying to see through the rising flames and the countless bodies both. Bright blue pinpricks at forest’s edge gave away the presence of something else in those far trees, watching the destruction of the wights impassively. The fires began to die, one by one.

Long, lanky bodies loped out of the darkness here and there, ice-blue forms shaped as if from nightmares. Their arms and legs were long and narrow, fingers hooked and spindly. Their noses, too were strange- long and pointed, under wide mad eyes. Brienne could see most were naked, menfolk all, while some wore instead pelts or even hammered shirts of silver mail or splint. Again, most went without a weapon, but others clutched ice-hewn greatclubs or long wooden shafts topped by hooked icy heads. The archers would wait no longer and a new volley shot out from the walls, the creatures their target. Great sheets of ice formed in the air, there and gone, warding the brutes from harm.

“VETRARTONN!!!” they cried in a deafening cacophony, in what might have once been the Old Tongue before who knew how long in the icy wastes of the Land of Always Winter had made what it would of the language. Another figure stepped out of the trees, taller than its fellows and clad in something rich and white that could only have been snow bear fur, the head worn as a hood. Rather than a club, it gripped a long piece of wood capped by a piece of glittering quartz the size of a barrel lid. The outcry only got louder as the creature waved its hand, the few fires remaining snuffing out at once. “VETRARTONN! VETRARTONN!” The others butted the ground with their weapons or else beat their chests or clapped their hooked hands. The one in white took a long breath.

“IDIR A GRUHIR!!!” he bellowed, the rest lost to frenzy and dashing for the earthen ring with all speed. At their heels came hundreds of quick-moving pale shapes. Brienne’s stomach turned. Spiders. The size of hounds. Which was more eager to close with the ring, she could not say, and even as they came more dead emerged to replace those fallen to the flames or the creatures barreling their way through the wights’ ranks. The white-clad leader made no move to stay behind, running at the head of his kindred. Every time the flaming arrows flew, he raised his stick to the sky and what water lay in the air hardened into icy panes if for just long enough to blunt the arrows. Where the wights had failed to scratch the ring, much less surmount it, Brienne suspected the monsters berserking toward their position would not be so stymied. A ring of silver-splinted bodies closed tight around their leader once it was clear they would, in fact, reach the ring.

“Hold!” she cried, as loud as she could manage. She heard the creatures’ ragged breaths, the shrieks and skittering of the spiders as they left frozen ground for frozen ring. A monstrous hooked hand appeared at ring’s rounded edge. “HOLD!” she cried again.

A swarthy wide-eyed head came up next, mouth a twisted grin of wayward pointed teeth. Out came its other hand, quick as a sucker punch, and only Tollett tackling Satin out of the way stopped the cruel searching fingers from grabbing him. Instead they closed around one of the Bear Islanders and simply flung her backward into the horde of dead before the creature tried to bring itself to bear. Brienne had just enough time to snap Oathkeeper through the air and cleave a leaping spider in twain before it could tackle her off the top of the ring. The air grew frigid and filled with bluish light, the earth beneath Brienne’s feet shook as if struck by a giant’s maul, frost forming over the surface. The brute finally clambered up to where she and the rest were waiting, looking at them as a wolf would a line of fatted chickens. Another hand appeared at ring’s edge. Again the wall shook and it was trial enough to remain standing aright without having huge brutes tearing at them all but freely. Then a bag burst against one of their heads and the greenish liquid within ate away at its face until Brienne could see the icy bones beneath. From the hollow space beneath the ring came crannogmen beyond count, hurling bags of acid or dragonglass dust where they may to create havoc among the raving brutes. Bellowing in wounded fury, one of them lashed out blindly and caught Brienne squarely in the chest, knocking her off her feet and the ring’s top both. She let out a low whine, trying to get air back in her lungs. Blinking stars from her eyes she watched the hollow section of the ring empty, taking the attackers unawares. Before she could even register relief, the air went cold again, blue light blazed forth from the other side of the dirt and something hit it, cracks spreading from under the hollow slowly but surely. Then the wall simply collapsed, dust and dirt filling the air while dead men and white spiders stormed the breach. Brienne beheld the white-clad monster step through the gap, blue eyes narrowing on spotting her. Jutting from his jaw was a large silver tooth, around which was wrapped a crude gold armband ringed with wards. Up came his stick, the quartz on the end twinkling with what could only be magic. He drew in a breath, raised staff’s end to his mouth. He blew out, a concentrated icy gale flew at her face. She heard a clear brilliant ring as the spell caught her in the center of her chest. Again Brienne went off her feet, the memory of the Hound’s most savage blow no more than a caress as she was laid out some thirty feet from the spot she’d left, the stars spinning brighter and air harder to keep in her chest.

Up, a voice called from within her. Her father, Ser Goodwin, Ser Jaime, Sandor Clegane? All four? Up. She sat up and winced at the feeling of bent plate poking her in the belly. Something closed around her, a grip tight enough to further warp the blue plate wrapped around her. Up she went, unable to see or breathe. But for the wide blue eyes, she thought. But for the scent of fresh-spilled blood. Glittering gold, sparkling silver. The gold rune-ring, the silver tooth that bore it.

“Fiodr.” At first she thought she’d gurgled unintelligibly, then she saw the second swarthy face. It was possessed of the same silver tooth, as well as silver sickles that hung from its ears. It had no eyes for her though, only for the creature in snow bear fur that held her aloft as a girl would a doll. There was more Old Tongue, but she could not catch it. The brute tossed her away almost absently and Brienne felt the bent plate open a fresh gash between her shoulders. Cold proved a balm stronger than any pain though, and she made it to her feet yet again to limp after the pair. Don’t fall, the voice within her said. If you fall now, you’ll never get up. There were no wights around, none she could see, but she was too tired to wonder why. Maybe I’m dead already. Some septons theorized that the Seven Hells were battles unending, lit by unseen fires and filled with bloody haze. Tall figures blinked about just at the edges of her vision, too sturdy and constant to be more shadows. Even now, I have Oathkeeper to hand. I did not lose it, Ser Jaime. One of them stepped closer. A grunt let her know it was yet another of the cold brutes, a greatclub held fast in its fist. Suddenly it poked her in the shoulder, the arm that held the sword. She swung out weakly, just managing to keep her feet. Another grunt, another prod in the shoulder.

“You make for a poor mummer. Finish it.” she said curtly, tears hot despite the cold. Grunt. Poke. At last some semblance of sight returned to her. The creature’s eyes were on her sword, a lone cruel finger pointing firmly to the snow-slick ground. “I’d sooner bury Oathkeeper in mine own gut than be parted from it, monster. Much less drop it.” snarled Brienne. Her tone was unmistakable, even if it spoke no Common Tongue. Its long nose twitched; its nostrils flared. Then its foot was on her chest and she was back to ground, though not with near so much force. Carefully the club nudged Oathkeeper from her hand and flicked it away into the night. “No…” she groaned. Then she was in the air again, the creature holding her firmly about the waist and making briskly for the safety of the wolfswood. She saw wights massing for another charge, broken bodies of other dead still twitching where they lay. The trunks of every tree were layered in thick webbing, spiders thrice as large as had charged the ring nestled ‘neath fallen trunks or high in the branches. Snow began to fall, a light airy blanket of flakes. Brienne was too tired to so much as bat them away, so it took her a moment to realize there was order to the snows, a shape that held even as the flakes that made it sank to earth, only to be replaced by still more. Blue eyes bright as stars blinked out of the snows, inscrutably looking her over. The snows whorled together still more tightly, to make what might have been a cloak or mantle. All the while the blue eyes, bluer than her own, never left Brienne.

Chapter 14: Missandei II

Chapter Text

The slavers had taken great care not to kill when they raided Naath, as every corpse they left was coin left lying on the ground as well. Her village was put to the torch to further cut them away from their homeland, erasing their place there as they were led out to the beach. The white sand had been a thing to see, warm and forming to the bottom of five-year-old Missandei’s feet. She remembered being hurried along, the slavers eager to be quit of Naath once their business there was ended. Fearful of butterfly fever. A single fluttering black-and-white creature was enough to get the grown men, armed and seasoned, fleeing to the other side of the captive column. It is no fault of theirs, Missandei remembered thinking, the butterfly bobbing about innocently. They cannot help what they are. The little boat, the bigger boat, and life had gone on until one day in the Plaza of Punishment when the silver-haired visitor revealed she spoke Valyrian. The first person who spoke to me as if I were a living, thinking being, same as her, since I was taken. Daenerys Targaryen had suggested she might return to Naath if the notion was one she liked, but Missandei could not remember the name of her village and besides, her family had not survived the raid. The Naath I belonged to burned that night. Daenerys had become my purpose, my place of being. Then Her Grace had asked her why a thirsty man would choose death over water. I told her there were no masters in the grave. The Daenerys in her mind grew even more petite, her deep blue dress losing its solid color and going all manner of blue, grey, white, black. Behind her, the hateful wind-thing that had once been Myrcella Baratheon sat in the throne that had once been the Prince of Dorne’s while Ellaria Sand’s corpse skittered about on broken limbs. Missandei could hear also the mindlessly animate head of Obara Sand stuck on a spear, clacking away with dead teeth. The petite form receded- no, something else had burst from it, the fair dainty form a veneer only. One that when stripped away, revealed the perfect creature to kill a butterfly. The Weaver’s body had moved on eight legs, her lithe arms reaching out hungrily for Missandei. Her gentle face had given way to countless staring eyes and below them, great clicking fangs that dripped something clear and cold. Had I known such a being such as you existed, I would not have spoken so. Then the fangs caught her squarely in the chest, cold sharp daggers full of frigid hunger.

A sound like glass shattering made her conscious of the world, returned her to the waking land. The cold that had so chilled her was gone. When she tried to move, to rise, she found that she could not. Her limbs would not respond and besides, she was bound up neatly in something white and sticky. The cracking sound did not abate, nor the gentle whisper of a breeze that made Missandei sway in her cocoon. An empty scouring wind blew in reply, dry as it was cold. Myrcella spoke to me in the Common Tongue and to the Weaver in something else. If only she understood! Something told her the language the wind-thing had mentioned, the True Tongue, was not one spoken by anyone in the known world. A sharp, hoarse grunt cut through the blowing winds, a third tongue. One infinitely more fitting to a mortal mouth. As to the speaker, perhaps the sellsword officer. Whatever he is. The dry wind changed to accommodate him, Missandei could hear harsh, guttural words. Perhaps no mortal race can speak the True Tongue, she wondered, if Myrcella must relay the Weaver’s words to the cream of her own troop. She could not help but feel sullen with herself. Nineteen languages I learned, nineteen, and here words are being had in two I never have! A sudden odd wooziness took her, first subtle then overbearing. I’m upside down, she realized, and it’s taken me this long to realize it. Perhaps it was the numbing cold, or whatever had dripped from the Weaver’s fangs. She felt her toes wriggle, her fingers twitch. Perhaps in time the rest of me will follow suit. All the while the conversation far beneath her continued in its unhurried, even uninterested tone. Myrcella cannot scour Dorne of life from the Tower of the Sun, she must leave it at some point. As for the Weaver and the rest, they were no less flesh and blood than Missandei. All living things must eat, even Others, and the jagged backward teeth that sit in their sellsword’s mouth are not for eating snow. Once they leave, I’ll try and free myself. Other voices came and went, the stony grunts of sellswords and the unearthly True Tongue from what she supposed must be still more Others. Her hopes of remaining undiscovered sank. Or maybe I’ll stay put a bit longer. Only when all sound below finally quieted did Missandei bestir herself, or try to, stiffly wriggling in the silk without impediment from the material, to her surprise. Maybe it numbs instead of sticks. Finally, she felt her hand break through the bottom of her prison, tearing away to create a means of exit. All this she did quietly, stopping every so often to listen for a voice until she freed her head. I needn’t have bothered, she mused on glimpsing the floor below. There’s nobody here. The Tower of the Sun’s throne room had become quite a ruin, webs here, there and everywhere amidst the rubble. Missandei saw she was indeed hanging from the broken dome, her silken binding one of several. There was no hint of movement from the others, so she soon disregarded them and looked to the floor. How to get down. Then the problem of what to do once she’d gotten her head back above her feet popped up in her mind. I suppose the only way out is behind the tapestry. No doubt the Others have the rest of Sunspear well in hand. Slowly she wriggled down, out, her hands gripping the wrapping’s sticky sides. Slowly it began to stretch and unravel, Missandei’s efforts slowly closing the distance between her and solid ground. Just when she thought she was managing quite neatly, there was a loud ripping sound and the silk sagged on one side. Oh no. She quickly pulled her feet free and fell the last ten feet, surprising herself when she landed on all fours with little discomfort. Her relief died as it was born when she got a look at the hands holding her up, the toes poking out from under her ruined dress.

Missandei’s fingers were withered, graying, bony things, the spaces between her thumbs and fingers thin like a bat’s wings. Her fingers had lost their nails, as had her toes. Then her reflection came into focus in the ice on the floor. Her skull shone through the skin of her face, her teeth visible behind what were once her lips. Once, Daenerys had taken great pride in aiding Missandei with her hair, particularly when they learned Torgo Nudho was taken with her. I have no need of aiding now. I have no hair to need aid with. The rest of her was ruin as well, numb and stiff with no trace of life’s warmth. For a terrible moment she wondered if she were dead, then she felt a faint stirring in her chest. Slow, she thought, after counting no more than a half-dozen beats in a minute. Far too slow. She made for the tapestry in a daze, still staring at her hands, every so often glancing at the floor to make sure she had not been seeing things. Yet for all this, it does not hurt. Missandei supposed there were worse fates. My life remains to me, my mind is still my own. She could not say the same for the Sands, those who had stayed in typical Dornish defiance. Then she remembered there had been another in the room when the Weaver had tasted her flesh. A dragging sound issued from behind the spear-inlaid throne and Ellaria Sand’s creeping corpse emerged, mindlessly crawling along as best its twisted broken limbs could manage. It made no sign of seeing Missandei. How could she? Her eyes have burst from her face. The sight of the wretched thing made her feel dreadfully cold inside, making her realize the cold without had quite ceased to bother her. Valar Morghulis, it is said in Essos. All men must die. Valar Dohaeris, too. All men must serve. These Others make one the other. She left the crawling corpse where it wallowed, pulling up the tapestry to find that the secret way behind it had yet to collapse. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. House Martell’s words, words that bespoke well that fiery Dornish pride-vanity. Undone, Missandei amended. The tapestry slid back over the gap in the wall and she was plunged into darkness. The way was tight and curving, a steep spiral that Missandei knew was taking her to the base of Sunspear, if not lower. Once she reached level ground and the passage opened up, she found brass braziers flanking the way’s exit, the fires that once burned within given way to smoldering ash. Not so long since people came this way, then. The possibility of Torgo Nudho’s escape made even the sputtering embers seem brighter. She moved on, out into the dim sandstone chamber. It seems the Martells have had need to flee Sunspear enough times to warrant such clandestine measures. Thinking on Dorne’s once-rulers kept her mind off her predicament and so she kept on it as she left the base of the spiral stair behind. Ellaria said there was a harbor at passage’s end. If they made it that far, there will be no ship for me to escape on. She kept going, more braziers keeping the way lit well enough not to walk into a wall or trip on a mislaid brick. Not that there are any. More than well built, this passage is well maintained. Missandei couldn’t help but frown. I might have guessed. The rich had their own bolt holes out of the cities of Slaver’s Bay, same as the common bricklayers and the street sweepers. She tasted salt on the air and heard the faint lapping of waves. Water that’s yet to freeze. Let this be a good omen.

The chamber gave way to a natural sandstone cavern, one Missandei could see opened up into the sea proper. I must be at cliff’s base, directly below Sunspear and the city both. Brick became board beneath her feet, a sleek narrow pier that stuck out over the water that filled the cavern’s front. Despite its proximity to the passage behind her, Missandei could see no trace the water had ever risen high enough to touch the bricks. Wine savored but never swallowed. There was no boat, at least none she could see, so Missandei walked out to dock’s edge. Still at least fifty feet from cave’s mouth, and I haven’t time to fret about how to proceed. The Sands would never have told Myrcella about the passage, but she stuck me as passing clever, inevitably she’ll come upon it. I just hope her business elsewhere keeps her, and when she makes her return, I’m well on my way. But on my way where? She lowered herself into the water, wading away from the dock and toward the opening in the cliff face. I can worry about that later. That I live is victory enough. A sudden glint in the rocks cresting around the edges of the cavern mouth caught her attention, something small but easily catching what sunlight there was outside to catch. Something shiny. Something purple. An excitement quite unlike her carried her the rest of the way, swimming without feeling herself tire until she’d reached the rocks. Carefully she reached into them, knowing well how sharp dragonglass could be. When her fingers touched it she gave a small gasp, gently plucking the shard from between the sandstone juts. Torgo Nudho made it this far at least, she thought. Cloth from his tunic was wrapped about the rounded bottom still, to make a safe end by which to hold it. Only when she left the darkness of the cave did she look at it, the purple glass darker than any amethyst. Purer, too. Then she blinked. In the leather wraparound, she could see the Valyrian glyph that represented the word ‘grey’. The making of the glyph was not so precise as with a proper writing tool and in the dark red of blood, but Missandei knew well what she was looking at. I taught him how to write his name myself. Clutching a rock, she turned the shard over half-expecting to see ‘worm’ finger-drawn on the other side. To her surprise, it was blank and there was no trace that he had tried to finish. It isn’t because he was killed, she told herself. He hid it in the rocks for me to spot on my way out. How he supposed I’d come that way, how I might live past our parting, I will never know. Perhaps I’ll ask him when I see him.

Bobbing from one rock to the next, Missandei made her way about the cliff’s bottom. The waters were rough and choppy, but it was not so hard as she might have guessed- there were parts where she all but left the water and scrabbled forth between outcroppings on foot. A bigger rock took more time to tackle, she had to hug it and edge right to stop the current and the waves from dragging back the way she’d come. When Missandei made it around and she beheld Sunspear’s port, Torgo Nudho was driven wholly from her mind. A huge white piece of ice floated dauntingly in the small bay, shaped as to be a ship of sorts save that it lacked any kind of sails. More ships lay in a proper shambles on the shore, hulks and derelicts run aground with figures shuffling listlessly from them. That will prevent a relief landing, she thought numbly. The hulks have rendered Sunspear’s shores and docks both a mess of rotting wood and briny flotsam. Not to mention both are likely full of dead men. That she could hear no screaming was in Missandei’s mind almost worse than the sounds of massacre. I will make Dorne the Empty Land for true. The wind-thing’s unblinking stare had been void of pity, empty of anything resembling compassion. Death will do that, I suppose. I can’t imagine she has much more to exist for than to haunt the Dornish and hound them to the bitter end. The obstacle of the huge white ship quite confounded Missandei as to how a ship could have left the area without being spotted. Unless they were. She left that thought as quickly as she had it. Or they made off before the flagship took up its position. I can’t very well swim all around the bay to avoid it at any rate and nothing’s getting done just bobbing here. She stayed as close to the rocks as she could manage, watching closely for any movement on the shore proper. Ah, there they are. A half-dozen lank brutes loitered on the beach, picking through the hulks as they would for whatever might take their fancy. One of them had his eyes on the city proper, up away from the beach, but a sharp bark from another individual, seated and picking its teeth with a bone, brought it sulking back to its fellows. They’re certainly not close-mouthed, Missandei thought as the lot of them kept up a steady flow of grunts and more hard stony words. Nor were they especially vigilant, more focused on grabbing from the wrecked ships or stuffing something from the waterline in their mouths. Sellswords left to wait for orders. No doubt they’d rather join in the looting of Sunspear for whatever might draw them. Closer still Missandei could see their long swarthy faces, the noses that stuck out so dramatically twitching nonstop. As chance would have it one of them turned and looked right at her, making her heart skip one of its few beats. The being gave no outcry, it didn’t even blink. Then it yawned, showing off a mouthful of cruel teeth, before turning back to its fellows. Not one to shrug off fortune as it might come, Missandei foundered in the surf for a bit before finding her feet, walking slowly up the beach, looking to the brutes as often as she dared. How could he have missed me?

Only when the one with the bone toothpick looked up, not at her but where she had been, did Missandei realize her error. No one could miss footsteps in the sand. As soon as the thought crossed her mind the creature bellowed in alarm, on its feet in a flash. It went over to the hulks, ripped off a sharp bit of wood as a makeshift jabbing weapon and dashed madly for the tracks in the sand. It will be a short pursuit, Missandei thought quickly, before scaling the side of a moss-covered boulder, one set in place who knew when to shelter the docks proper. She thanked whoever might have set the line of stones in place in antiquity, reaching the top just as the brutish creatures reached the boulder’s base. They got to looking around, eyes in hunters’ squints, noses twitching most ably. Then the toothpicker started swinging out as it would, this way and that, throwing sand and bellowing. It thinks something is near, trying to catch it with blind swings, smell it, catch it in a shower of sand or else startle it into moving and leaving more tracks. More than once one of them glanced up, utterly without a reason to spot Missandei that she could see, and simply looked right past her. Your superior saw me clear as day in the Tower of the Sun. Why can’t you? It was only a matter of time before the racket they were making drew such a superior’s eyes though, or worse. Missandei left them to their worsening argument, losing sight of them as fists started to fly. I suppose nobody will think to find a survivor at the site of so heavy a landing. The Sands hadn’t seen fit to show her Sunspear at ground level, as the common-born of the city saw it, but even if the notion had come to mind it was likely to be dismissed out of hand. Ellaria was no commoner. An Uller bastard, her daughters the get of a prince. She never knew what it was to go without. Missandei wondered if anywhere else in Westeros had fallen to a sudden attack as Sunspear had. With commoners as doomed as here, while the highborn hid behind stone walls. The city proper had gone silent, covered in a healthy layer of snow which further complicated the situation. I’ll have to go through buildings to keep my tracks better hidden. The orange roofs and dun bricks of the shadow city as well as Sunspear proper so looked queer blanketed with snow and void of sound nor living thing, but that only made Missandei’s winding progress through windows and cellar doors quicker. I would think to find the enemy at least, making sure the city is secure. Perhaps the Others figure the cold is enough, the snows well fixed to bury any Dornish dead- unless they plan on having them march west on their countrymen. The smell of blood wafted in a dizzying miasma from a large stables just outside the innermost of the Weeping Walls, making Missandei halt and search for a window to peek through. Once found, she beheld a mass of dead horses either piled about or hanging from the rafters, yet another brute tossing a few over its narrow shoulder. At first she thought the monster just fat, then she spotted the bosom bound in hide, the stringy hair that hung down about its face rather than cropped short, the rounded swell of its midsection. Nothing comes from nothing, she thought. The female was broader and taller by a head than her male counterparts, and from what Missandei could see, markedly heavier. She was more than just slinging the carcasses around, she was divvying them up, occasionally moving one from one pile to another to satisfy some rationale Missandei could not imagine. Then she saw the she-brute’s teeth, sharp jagged cones that pointed backward in her mouth. Teeth meant for trapping, for snapping shut and swallowing whenever they find purchase. Small wonder they let the brutes have all the horseflesh they can catch. The Others have their spiders, faster, stronger and smarter than any horse.

Rather than attempt to sneak through the abattoir, she slowly went around. Occasionally the monster within gave a grunt or murmured something in the Old Tongue, answered by a number of high reedy voices. All the better I went around, Missandei thought. As if to catch her out, fresh snow began to fall. I feel no cold, and now my tracks may well be better hidden. The rest of her journey through the shadow city was blessedly uneventful, seeing no one else living, dead, or otherwise. Indeed, the dead men must have been sent off to raise havoc in the rest of Dorne. They’re useless as household retainers or workers, why let them stand idle? Rather than more brutes, she spotted a single milk-white figure standing atop the Weeping Wall, gazing east. The Weaver’s beautiful captain. Then again, if all Others are beautiful, are any? He had seen fit to discard Obara’s head, his spear free to gouge and gore as it would. What Missandei could see of his face advertised an unhurried but razor-honed instinct, a sort of disciplined wariness. The emptiness may remind him of home. Perhaps he does not want to fall into complacency. Torgo Nudho and the other Unsullied officers spent silent watches in a similar fashion. The Sons of the Harpy taught them well the difference between peace and quiet. She shook herself, trying again to focus on the trial before her and not on Torgo Nudho. First, I have to make it outside the walls. Then I have to get quit of Sunspear without him spotting me in the wide openness of the desert surrounding the city. She made first for the mouth of the Threefold Gate, the beginning of the path from city’s edge to the castle proper, but on spotting several large webs strewn about the sandstone columns and yet another Other raising corpses as he found them and sending them through the gate, Missandei resolved to take the road less travelled. I’m sure one of these hovels or winesinks has a secret way under the wall. A friend to smugglers, or at least one ready to profit off their efforts. Reprieve came in the form of a sagging pillow house. Under a crate behind the counter, she found a hole that let out into a storage room. One full of wines and rather exotic garb that had likely been skimmed off a much larger more impressive fortune, the smugglers’ cut that the Martells had never missed. When gold flows like water, one doesn’t look for missing coppers. There was a low tunnel out of the room, dug straight through the sand that held the city up, bricked clumsily in uneven chunks of sandstone. There might be a dozen of passages much like this one all about the shadow city. Perhaps lain when the dragons came the first time, in case the people wanted to flee the dragonfire. Again in darkness, Missandei had to feel her way through the tunnel, trying not to trip on a random risen brick. Walking down the pitch-black corridor was like walking into the past, things long since done springing to mind. I wonder if the Sons of the Harpy used such means to walk here and there throughout Meereen without being noticed. We would never have become aware of them. No doubt such a trick was how they caught Ser Barristan out. The old knight had meant well and only wanted the best for Daenerys the queen, but in Missandei’s heart she doubted whether he could separate her from Daenerys the woman. Different prospects entirely, and Her Grace was of a mind to completely ignore the latter in her marriage to Hizdahr zo Loraq for the sake of the city’s peace. Certainly, she cared more for the Meerenese lowborn than their own nobility ever had. Yet they resented her for taking the consolation of being higher than slaves away.

There was no sound from above, though whether that was from a lack of movement topside or her being too deep to hear, Missandei had no notion. Others make no sound when moving anyway, but I might hear their monsters snarling at each other or tossing rubble around. Abruptly the ground beneath her began to rise, leading her back toward the surface. Then she cracked her head on the ceiling, barely catching herself from tumbling back down the way she’d come. Managing to withhold her gasp of pain, she gingerly rubbed her head and felt for the upward tunnel’s ceiling. They purposefully did not dig the way up cleanly. Perhaps that was a measure to deter pursuers who had found the tunnel. The poetry of it made Missandei huff humorlessly. Perhaps I’ll make it further yet. Safe for the moment down where the rays of House Martell’s sun never shine. Going forward she used her hand to feel for another sharp drop in the height of the tunnel so as not to knock herself unconscious. After having to squeeze through two more, the last flat on her belly, Missandei rolled onto her back to behold the gray-white sky. Oh, more snow. She was in a shallow hole, no more than three feet deep and narrow like a grave. Snow already fallen came up to her elbows, but she was past being discomfited by white flakes and carefully made to turn herself around without rising so that she might behold Sunspear from afar. Evidently no one (or thing) had gotten wise to her escape, no dead men poured out from the gates, there were no spiders skittering down from the walls. Then she looked above the walls. The great dome had collapsed but for a single section, curving over the hall. To Missandei, it looked like a great crescent. She gave another humorless chuckle. Call it Moonspire now, topped by the Tower of the Moon. Turning away from the ruined city, she saw that her escape had taken her east, the hole itself hidden in a dull pile of rocks sticking out of the sand that shared its yellowish color. There were countless tracks heading still further east in the sand, a numberless plodding horde sent to sweep Dorne sure as a broom across the floor. The last place they’d look for an enemy is behind their wall of dead. Besides, the sands shift and the snows fall without respite, so I’d not leave tracks anyone could easily follow. She shook away the snow, crept out of the hole, and with a last glimpse at the bowed, bent, broken former jewel of Dorne, began to walk east. There was nobody to harry her, no cawing of birds or calls of animals. There was no sign that anything at all lived but Missandei. What if I’m all that remains? That stopped her where she stood. What if Myrcella and the Weaver are just what I’ve seen? The Others may well have saved Dorne for last and reduced the rest of Westeros to a wintery waste fit only for beings native to whatever cold darkness they hail from. Her eyes went wide. For a moment she was at an utter loss, unable to determine what would be the best course going forward. Then she swallowed and took a breath, trying to regain her Naathi composure. If it’s indeed come to that, no harm in going a little further. If only just to go. If it hasn’t, then every step and second counts. She resumed walking, trying not to draw attention to herself. When the silence got to be too much she broke into a run, managing the dunes and drifts as best she could. Even if there is no life left in Dorne, even if there is no life left in the world at large, there is life yet left in me.

The sky didn’t change as the hours wore on, the same whirling white no matter which direction Missandei looked. There was no way to tell when in the day she was without the sun to go by, but she figured night would come regardless and by such means did two days pass in Missandei’s estimation, resting when she had to. Snow became water when held and breathed on and so the desert had ceased to be one in truth, but there was nothing to be seen what might be edible. The prospect of starving did not so scare Missandei of Naath as it did rich men who had never missed a meal in all their lives, but it was neither one she cared to entertain further than necessary. I suppose I could always go back the way I came and give the Weaver another attempt. Then she glimpsed the line of white. At once she was on her belly again, creeping up a dune to peek over the sand. Another ice-ship floated in the bay to the south, occasionally discharging some type of projectile from one of the two great holes on each side with the floating town at the mouth of the Greenblood as its target. More hulks lay wrecked all along the shoreline, dead men tumbling and spilling out to follow the river inland. Poleboats were already headed that way, those she supposed that had gotten off as soon as the Others’ watercraft had appeared. Although it was apparent the boats were well within range of the ship’s attacks, it was solely focused on destroying the town before it. Perhaps each shot is too dear to waste on a single boat, or it’s just the Others being Others. Destroy population centers and let the winds, the snows, the wights sort out what survivors there may be. There was no point in heading down to the ruin the town had become, so Missandei crept down from the dune and continued east, sticking as close to the river without revealing herself. How queer that one among a people who kills nothing survives the wroth of a race that kills everything. There was nobody coming down the dunes, nobody for any wights to chase, so Missandei didn’t worry about dead men coming to look for landbound survivors of the floating town’s destruction. The Planky Town, they called it, Missandei remembered. The thought of the fleeing boats spurred her on, the prospect of survivors carrot enough to get her running again. The tracks of the dead men persisted as well, the sand a great mess of scuffs and footprints lined with snow. Those who’d landed with the Weaver at Sunspear, still ahead. Then again, they didn’t have to stop and sleep when they came this far.

Missandei remembered the Painted Table on Dragonstone, but the maps she’d found of Dorne in Sunspear did more than show the region’s coastline and mountains. The houses took greater precedence than the land’s features and each house had its own holdings outlined in fitting colors. And where I’m standing was red and black, a golden hand some distance still east. Godsgrace, the seat of House Allyrion. The first castle the dead men will find, the first place there will be enough people worth stopping to kill. She would never catch them on foot, not when she had to rest and they did not, but then she too remembered the boats that were fleeing the destruction of the Planky Town. A dead man is tireless but slow. Surely a boat could make its way up the Greenblood faster than the fastest walking corpse. She looked for the best place to head over the dunes and make for the river’s edge, fearful of missing the last possible fleeing boat. At a gap between the drifts she found what she sought, ready to leap into the freezing water if she must to avoid being mobbed by the dead. The river was slow but not yet frozen over and there were boats to be waved down approaching the bend on which she stood. Assuming they don’t catch sight of me and row on, taking me for a wight. One of the poleboats was in a particularly sorry state, more a rowboat and sagging into the river at that. Even if they stopped, I don’t know if their boat could hold another person. Then she saw the boat was occupied by a single person, a struggling girl leaning on an oar too big for her. Older than a child, younger than a woman. The hiss-whisper that escaped Missandei made the girl look up, eyes wide and wary. They went wider still at the sight on the sand, mouth gaping as she tried futilely to push the boat onward and keep it from shoring itself. When it did, the girl’s pushing against the current and the current itself driving her boat onto the shore, she dropped the pole and picked up a spare plank, swinging it like a cudgel. Careful! Missandei thought, the girl’s swings wide and panicked, succeeding only in taking her off-balance and sending her backward into the freezing river. At once Missandei waded around the ruined boat, pulling the girl up and onto land. Though she was no less soaked, she felt no cold. I wonder if this will last until the end of my days. The girl did not share her acquaintance with the Weaver though, and what breaths she took were punctuated by chattering teeth and audible shivering.

“Get up.” Missandei said. “You need to stand, to move. You have to keep the cold away.” I can barely hear myself. The girl’s lips were turning blue and it became quickly apparent her life was in Missandei’s hands. I am not strong enough to carry her, along the shores or out to a boat. Nor would saving her now save her from the dead men later. Still, she persevered, even pulling off the tatters of her dress to tie tight around the girl. It’s not like I need them, she noted tersely. They weren’t keeping the cold out and I feel it not, anyhow.

The boat was barely floating, let alone fit to carry two people up the Greenblood to Godsgrace, but it could keep them out of dead hands for now. Missandei tucked the girl as snugly as she could in the driest corner, pushing off with the boat’s pole and hefting it as best she could to power them on. It’s height she needed, not strength, Missandei discovered, as longer arms gave her much purchase with how the pole went into the water. Even so, stronger arms than mine would put my paltry efforts to shame. Or maybe it’s just the fact that I can feel the water creeping up my toes even now. Night would surely put an end to the girl, rags or no, so Missandei kept on as fast as she dared, praying that the boat would not come apart beneath them. A shout loud to Missandei’s ears as a dragon’s roar made her turn in bewilderment, the sight of a poleboat proper swiftly coming up on her right enough to make her want to weep in joy. Or would, had I tears to weep in this withered head of mine. When they came up boat-to-boat she saw they were people of a like coloring to the girl. Either they were concerned with pursuers or busy with their own hasty labors but it was only then that they seemed to spot Missandei, a panicked outcry breaking out. She pointed to the girl, then to the other boat. An old man and his wife, and who must be their son and his. Perhaps their own children are inside the little hut on the back of their boat. Quickly the man left his aghast parents and peered into the shambles that remained of the craft Missandei stood in, snatching the girl up and getting a cry of surprise from his wife. She quickly took her in hand, carrying her inside. Well now, at least she’ll have a chance, Missandei thought, ignoring the water closing over the tops of her toes. They stared at her, the family of Dornish smallfolk, looking as tired as she felt.

“What are you?” the old man asked, no doubt put off odd-looking visitors by the Others’ depredations. His question caught Missandei off-guard. Then she remembered just what the Weaver’s bite had done. No doubt I look a better fit in the horde of dead men. My heart beats still, however, and I drink and sleep as any other man or woman.

“I am Missandei of Naath, sent by the queen, Daenerys Targaryen, to serve as legate to House Martell of Sunspear.” They could not hear her, though, and she could not speak any louder, so she simply stuck her hand in the Greenblood’s cold waters, reached over the side of their boat, and with two strokes drew with her palm a butterfly in the painted wood.

“Naath.” the crone in turn said at once. That she knew it amazed Missandei but further astonishing her was the old woman’s haste to pull her off the sinking boat. If I ever get my voice back, I should very much like to know just how Naath is known to you, she thought, looking at the woman’s wrinkled face, framed by flyaway white hair.

While the younger couple did what they could for the girl Missandei had plucked from the river, the old woman introduced herself and the others. More tellingly, she spoke pure Rhoynish, forgoing the Common Tongue entirely. At last, a tongue I understand. Perhaps I was the right person to send to Dorne.

“I am Yrissa. My husband is Gyran, or Gyran the Grey if you want to tug his tail,” she smiled, “and our son and his daughter are Gyress and Nymeria.” Another Nymeria. No doubt a common name in Dorne. While Nymeria Sand had been all pride and sultry smiles though, the Nymeria that poled the Greenblood with her husband as his parents had before him had no such pretense about her. Her husband and his parents were all Rhoynish to the bone and no mistake, but she looked more alike with the people of Sunspear. Perhaps born in the shadow city beneath the castle. I wonder if she learned the Rhoynish tongue, or if she’s as baffled by us as I was hanging by my feet in the Tower of the Moon. Though her voice had gone, the numbness that pervaded Missandei’s fingers earlier had faded and she found herself quite able to write in answer to the woman’s questions. She told the woman, who read her words aloud for her family to hear, all she could of the last few days. The Weaver in particular was difficult to describe in words though, as was Myrcella, so Missandei drew them as best she could. The Weaver’s delicate, diminutive veneer and her true shape both, and the cold winds that now served as the once-princess’ body. When she saw disbelief in Yrissa’s face, Missandei pulled off the last strips of cloth she had on to show the holes the Weaver’s fangs had left. To her surprise the holes were ever so slightly smaller, the torn skin had rounded out, the black oozing flesh gone to grey. While Yrissa screamed in alarm, her family coming over at once to protect her, Missandei only idly poked the wound. She gave a gasp of her own, feeling as though she’d poked a tender bruise. Well, that can’t be a bad thing, she thought mildly. A little pain is better than no feeling at all. When Yrissa and her family calmed down, the woman asked if Missandei knew what could be done. “Sunspear’s ruin means little and less to us. The Planky Town destroyed, though, that’s a bend of a different current. And you say they intend to sweep all across the land…” Missandei nodded, pointing to the picture she’d drawn of Myrcella, to her written account. She took a long breath, waiting for the right moment. You are lucky to escape with your family intact, she wrote. Many others were not so lucky, and still more did not escape at all.

“We weren’t even at the Planky Town when we heard the screams, we were coming up to sell what we’d caught. Off straightaway, that’s what, and I’m not ashamed of it a bit.” Gyran said, his voice cracking. As he spoke Rhoynish as well, Missandei could only assume they either cared not if Nymeria understood what was going on or, more likely, she knew Rhoynish just fine. You are alive, Missandei wrote in answer. Alive when the Others seek to kill us all, and that is victory enough for now. I believe the best course is to push on to Godsgrace and warn the Allyrions that the dead men will reach them first, as well as prompt them to warn Dorne’s other castles, towns, anywhere there might be people in great number. Dorne has many places, high mountains and empty deserts, where people don’t normally go. Perhaps just now they are our best chance, away from the waters and the Others’ white ships and hulks full of wights.

They rolled out a mat for Missandei and gave her fish fresh from the river. Food flavored with compassion is more delicious than any other.

“We know well the stories of Nymeria and her ten thousand ships.” Yrissa told her as the rest ate. “Among other places, she visited an island at the edge of the world, one full of fruit and friendly people and butterflies of every kind and color. The dread butterfly fever did for the Rhoynish sure as any slavers or corsairs though, and in the end, they had to flee.” Yrissa stroked her chin. “To be sure though, the Rhoynish were fond of the Naathi and the Naathi of them. People being how they are, it seems to me they must have had some Naathi come with them, or at least left some Rhoynish blood on those far shores. You speak our tongue as well as any born and bred on the Greenblood, Missandei of Naath. It may be so that Mother Rhoyne has more still in store for you than what already you’ve seen, felt, done.” Afterward, they checked the riverside for dead men and turned in, each person laying on a mat themselves. The girl whose boat she’d commandeered stirred on her own mat, wrapped tightly in every spare bit of cloth and tack the family had on board. This is not a war to be counted in enemies killed, in lives lost, Missandei thought as she stared at the boat’s ceiling. Others may fall, but few, and no number of dead wights does us the least bit of good. We must count it in lives saved, in lives still to lose. Including mine. She pursed her lips, wondering at her circumstances. No highborn man who hears war stories all his life and trains to hold the weapons his father held and his father before him would ever approach a war as we need now. A war a Naathi is most fit to fight, more so than any knight, any sellsword, any king. A war won by surviving meeting the enemy, not killing them. She thought of Torgo Nudho then, wondering just what use a line of Unsullied would be against a horde of dead men. Unsullied are brave, but not so brave as creatures who will smash themselves against their shields, impale themselves on their spears without a thought. The Unsullied are disciplined, but that does not matter when their positions are surrounded on all sides, tireless numberless enemies pouring in, around, over them. Wherever the boat in the hidden harbor had taken him, had taken all of them, Missandei hoped it was someplace safe. Even if just for now. Let him be safe until I see him again, and then I will take that responsibility in hand. There was the gentlest tickling on her cheek, less than the feeling of an ant walking over her foot. When Missandei reached up to rub her eye, her finger came away wet. Barely, but wet. The Weaver’s poison has done its harm, she thought. Done its harm and run its course. Now there’s only the task of living long enough to see if I will ever be rid of it completely one day.

Chapter 15: Catelyn I

Chapter Text

Whatever was upon them had no interest in catching White Harbor by surprise, if the noise of the drums was anything to go by. Meanwhile, the rains got worse by the moment. Not wholly by our making, either. Nor do we work winds as well as water. Atop the city’s white walls, Catelyn could see only the White Knife running north into the darkness, from whence the drumbeats issued forth. Drums to the east boomed in answer, each seemingly eager to outdo the other even amidst the rising wind.

“It’s fortunate White Harbor’s walls are high. A man would be hard pressed to stand aright in this, much less fight. Behind the white stone though, they’ll be safe from the brunt of it.” Talisa observed, at her side as ever.

“They’ll still be soaked through and freezing besides.” Catelyn replied, feeling a sort of helpless dread. Even as we are, we’re powerless against the endless waiting. Once they come on us, it will be noise and blood and death as in the riverlands with Robb, but I’ll be in the thick of it this time. Distantly Catelyn wondered if there was aught she need to fear. Only that Arya might perish. Her daughter had gone from the wall though, hidden away in the castle somewhere with the other ladies as Catelyn had learned to never expect from her. Nymeria paced along their section of wall, the men manning the nearby trebuchet studiously ignoring the three of them but for quick ashen-faced looks. “Steel yourselves. You’ll not aim true with your thoughts on us.” Catelyn told them, sounding as she had when it was Robb’s lords she was trying to talk off the scaffold a lifetime ago. I wanted them to make peace, to get my daughters back. I sought no crown for Robb, only that he should see his father again. As it pleased the gods, nearly everyone present that night had died either in the war to follow or the Red Wedding. And here I am, in another world altogether. The sounds of men running this way and that on the wall and in the streets below only added to the confusion, even when they sounded like mice skittering inside a barrel compared to the drums thundering from the moor.

“Ships!” came the cry from the southern wall. Catelyn turned, expecting to see wayward arrivals from the dragon queen’s fleet or perhaps a detachment from the Golden Company, if word that yet another arriving Targaryen had hired the sellswords proved true. Instead she saw a slipshod mess of hulks and derelicts bulling directly for the port, making no attempt to slow or change course. Beyond them floated a flat-topped iceberg, shaped sure and sharp as a sword’s hilt. Sinister flickering will-o-wisps the size of proper ships lit in the glassy hull. In short order they were flinging themselves up in wide arcs. Seal Rock lit up in a glowing green shroud, its own projectiles shattering uselessly against the ice-ship’s hull. Another volley of green light saw the whole formation collapse into the Bite. Still another and the southern walls of White Harbor threatened to follow suit, their white bricks swaying like a drunkard struggling to hold his pants up.

Catelyn didn’t remember starting off, didn’t remember rushing toward the sagging wall. One moment she was watching the ice-ship have its way with the city as a whole, the next she was at the gate to the harbor. On impulse she raised her hands, as if she had the strength to hold the walls in place. The water flowing down the stones began to race back up them, the volleys from the enemy more than enough to freeze the walls solid. Catelyn watched the stone crack from cold, freeze in place after coming unmortared, but the new-formed ice caught the wall before it could sag into itself proper. Another volley saw her do the trick again, as did another. Don’t fall, she thought to herself, trying to ignore the ungodly noise of the hulks crashing into the docks.

“Enemy coming ashore!” someone called from high above her, the sound of countless feet staggering up the icy rain-slick piers, no doubt making for the city proper. Bodies slammed themselves tirelessly against the very stones frozen into place with Catelyn’s waters and the ice-ship’s own volleys. Ice-blue eyes became visible through the gaps in the stone where only clear ice held, the fleshless faces that they stared out of void entirely of life.

“Seven save us…” she heard a Bracken archer mutter nearby.

“So long as they’re out there and we’re in here, they’re no concern of ours.” Catelyn said. “You’d do better to look to the walls than beyond them.” The gazes of the dead were unblinking, unthinking, yet Catelyn felt no aversion to them. Perhaps I’ve truly lost the ability to fear, at least for myself. That upset her, or should have, but there was no time to ponder such mysteries. White Harbor’s walls had yet to fall, but if the men defending them couldn’t keep their courage the ice-ship didn’t need to send the white stones tumbling down on their heads. I’m not the one to help them find their courage, no doubt they fear what is beyond them be it walking dead or talking water.

“Steady on, lads. I’ve seen stiffer-looking scarecrows than these sorry bags of bones. No doubt once they’re on us we’ll be scattering them half a dozen at a blow.” The blacksmith-made-lord spoke with a voice that cut through even the wretched wind, it seemed, an untroubled ringing thunder that made the scrabbling dead outside look just that, woebegone cairn-fodder a watchman with a shovel might lay low. He must have followed me here, I’m not exactly hard to miss. Gendry Baratheon stood taller than any man in White Harbor and was likely broader as well. Several of the Dothraki Catelyn had seen were tall, six feet, but lithe and sinewy where the Lord of Storm’s End looked able to fell a tree with a single blow. His armor was piecemeal, whatever fit most likely, and it was clear to Catelyn his hammer didn’t make the most of his reach or strength, but the young man seemed singularly untroubled by the madness unfolding at every turn. “My lady.” he nodded to her when he saw she’d noticed him.

“My lord.” she replied, without thinking. He is taller than Robert was at that age, she thought. After the Battle of the Bells the victorious rebels had come to Riverrun and she and Lysa had married the young Lord Stark and old Lord Arryn respectively in the same ceremony. In the audience had been Robert, flush with victory and wine besides. Robert’s head turned after every skirt at the feast, every washerwoman who bowed low for him to see. It had been the same at Winterfell near twenty years later when the royal family had come to Winterfell, and the seeds of doom were sowed. I doubt a falling star could make this bastard of his turn from his course. A bull, indeed. Arya’s direwolf loped up behind him and he gave her a scratch behind the ears. One of a very few men who can reach them when she’s on her haunches. “I told Arya you both would return to her at battle’s end, if battle comes.”

“And if one of those volleys finds me, her, or us together by black luck, what then? I’m sure you want Arya to be happy, my lady, but no less than I do. Instead of mother-henning us about, you ought to be smashing dead men flat against the walls and streets of White Harbor. You and your young charge.” He did not patronize her, as so many of Robb’s lords had, and her own lord father’s besides, during the War of Five Kings. “You want to make sure we get back to her, put your fist in something’s face. After all, your hand’s not exactly like to break.” Then he started off through the crowd, probably to find his stormlanders. Edmure turned up a few moments later, looking pale. Faces paled to a man when the riverlanders beheld their lord, but he only grinned sheepishly.

“Don’t mind me, my lords. I’ve just been shitting myself sideways for the last few hours, I don’t think that fish agreed with me. I’m as ready for a fight as anyone-” he suddenly lost his stomach, vomiting behind a crate. “-ready as ever.” he said as he straightened up, slapping himself. “When you feel as wretched as I do, you haven’t got room for fear.”

A warhorn sounded from the north cut through the clangor, a note so loud it sent pebbles and small stones bouncing up and down the city’s white streets. Voices followed it, loud and rowdy, fierce and wild. Catelyn got back atop the wall as fast as she could manage, Nymeria nimbly keeping pace with her despite the animal’s size. Talisa was there to meet her, eyes on the blizzard roiling out of the moors. There was no time for warning and then it was on them, a thousand icy knives, a million blinding blows. As chips of ice ran through her harmlessly Catelyn looked for something, anything, anywhere from whence the enemy would come. Even over the screaming blizzard, she could hear the voices. A dozen Greatjons, greater still than Lord Umber had ever been. Then came a deep rumble, an ornery snuffling, a sudden irate trumpeting. Though she was not blinded by the snows as the others might have been, Catelyn could neither see through the wall of white that hid the moors from her gaze. Something moved in them, just out of sight. It was enormous, the largest creature she’d seen by far, and a quick glimpse of a pair of beady ice-blue eyes in the storm told Catelyn it stood taller than four Gendrys each standing on the other’s shoulders. More snuffling, a tempestuous snort. Several figures stepped out of the impenetrable tempest, each man-shaped if definitively not man-sized, between fifteen to sixteen feet to Catelyn’s eyes. Giants, she thought. From what she’d heard through the grapevine though, the giants that had thrown in with Jon Snow and the Free Folk were almost comically withdrawn, content to keep their comings and goings closed to menfolk. Greataxes and mauls are not the tools of shy, retiring mammoth-herders. Nor are horned helms and long beards the color of straw or ivory. The trebuchet nearest Catelyn simply shattered into kindling, a full minute passing (and the ruin of an outbuilding in the street below) before she realized what had happened. They’re throwing boulders. Man-shaped they might have been, but it seemed the giants were stronger still than men, were they of a size. After a few minutes more of boulders pulping men into red mist or shattering the ramparts that ran atop the wall, the giants seemed to conclude that they’d need to close with the city to get past its defenses. They parted, butting their weapons against the ground, chanting.

“LORM! LORM! LORM!” A war-call, a curse, Catelyn could not begin to guess. Out from the swirling cloud-come-to-ground stepped a mammoth, indeed at least as tall as she’d earlier guessed. On its back was another giant, sitting tall and proud with a snow-white beard running to the center of his pelt-clad chest. When his mount snorted, he ran a hand the color of morning sky down its shoulder. The mammoth’s eyes narrowed and its trunk coiled against its face, the giants on foot clearing off at once.

“EGIR VERGIR! EGIR VERGRIR!” he called, he sang, he challenged. Then the trunk shot straight out, there was a sound like a mountain cracking, and Catelyn was launched skyward.

She had no bones to break, no flesh to tear, no blood to spill, but even so when she came back to earth Catelyn splattered against the frozen ground like a rioter’s flung fruit. Another moment and she was on her feet again, none the worse for wear. Not even dizzy, she thought, though despair managed to catch her in its stead when she saw the breach in the walls, white stone crumbling down either side and onto the heads of those on the ground. Her person rippled uncontrollably. The ground is shaking. She turned to see the giants running straight at her, swinging their weapons like berserkers. Then she caught the head of a maul and scattered into uncounted droplets Feeling so much like her body had been stretched, that the greatest effort would only wiggle a finger, Catelyn slowly drew herself back together. I make for a poor soldier, she thought, finding that the mammoth had not moved. Its rider was leaning forward, hand over its eyes as if to see her more clearly. If anything the giant looked positively enraged, booming an order from the mammoth’s back. The sounds of battle joining in White Harbor began, if battle it could be called. There is no one to keep me from my enemy now, Catelyn realized. No Robb to say it is unsafe, no Greatjon to say it is unladylike. She started for the giant and his mammoth too. The snows began to turn to sleet, the winds to thick wet fog. The giant noticed, dropping off his mount and sending it trundling back into the white with a slap on its hindquarters. He gripped his greataxe, steeling himself. As if I were a danger in his eyes. Perhaps he sees what the Lords of the North could not. She broke into a run, her dress a part of her, a vain veneer, and so no impediment. Indeed, I need no legs to move, I have no form I must adhere to. I am the rivers, red and green and blue, free to flow where I will- and over who I may. Once she’d given up her mortal shape, become a rolling tide, the distance closed much faster. A hundred feet, a hundred fists. No fingers to slice, no throat to cut. She was close enough to smell the mead on his breath, to see the fury in his blue eyes. Then she was frozen, only an outer shell at first and then through and through. Catelyn panicked, quickly discovering that though her shape had been manipulated, her form, her nature could not be so easily addressed. In only moments her frozen body began to pool inside itself, leak out of holes in the surface- only to refreeze as soon as she managed it. The giant brought his great fur-laden foot down on her, stomping her into the frozen mud. When again she tried to rise, he gave her another furious stomping, bellowing incredulously.

“You cannot kill them. They are not alive, and so cannot be killed.” Catelyn tried to reconcile what she’d heard. Cracking ice, not words at all. When again she freed herself from frozen form, she found herself surrounded by countless waist-high figures. Unblinking blue eyes told her all she needed to know regarding the children, some scarcely old enough to walk. Or were, when death took them. She looked for where the voice had come from, certainly it had not been the giant who had spoken. In fact he was already making for the city, axe raised high and letting out a savage war-cry. When she saw the one who’d spoken, even bereft of fear as she was, she stopped in her traces sure as if she’d been frozen all over again. He stood in profile, rail-thin but taller even than the Greatjon had been. He wore a sort of black vestment, whorls of grey and white coming and going to match the fog that swirled around him. Catelyn gaped as he reached into a pocket, pulling out a handful of ashes. His blue eyes were fixed on his fist, on the gray trails crumbling out of his grasp. “Fear is more painful than pain itself, more tiring than any labor. Your race feels it with such intensity that echoes of it sound clear to me when the rest of you has crumbled away.” His voice was ice on ice, icicles driven into each other and splitting as they fell. An Other, she realized. As Jon Snow spoke of countless times. An Other. And I understand his words.

“Who are you?” she asked. Rain falling on a frozen roof, water splashing off castle stones caked in snow. He drew the fistful of ashes to his nose, long fingers curled around themselves, and inhaled deeply of them.

“Among those who have but a meager century to live at most, I am called Father Frost. A lurking horror, a spiteful lullaby, to keep the young tractable. Savages, those beneath the obstacle named them, yet they shared a need to keep their children tame.” That almost seemed to amuse the Other, the phantom of an upturned mouth blowing across his face.

“Who are you among your own race, then?” He turned to her. There was not a hair on his head, a characteristic that only seemed to emphasize the Other’s Otherness. I thought I could feel no revulsion, Catelyn thought. I was wrong.

“The True Tongue does not allow for labels, names, as Father Frost is mine. There is no what you are called, there is only what you are.” He cupped his hands to his chest, blowing a long whorl of freezing fog in Catelyn’s direction. Freezing Fog.

“Is the True Tongue what we are speaking now?”

“It is not a tongue that can be spoken, as a collection of grunts and cries and calls can. It is the sounds of the world, of was and will be. Are we speaking it, or is it speaking us?” Dimly Catelyn could hear battle still being joined at White Harbor. When she turned, Freezing Fog spoke again. “Why do you care?”

“It is no business of yours.”

“Bonds that transcend the flesh, that run counter to all base instincts. In time, in endless time, they will fade. Whomever draws your thoughts will die. Tonight, tomorrow, it is all the same to the likes of us.” He is not threatening, or at least thinks he isn’t, Catelyn realized. In his mind, he is simply stating fact.

“Not yet,” she responded, “not yet, if I have my say.”

“And if you do? Can your waters turn aged flesh spry and vital again? Can your rains smooth bones thorned by the decades?” When she moved to leave him and his herd of dead children behind, they moved to block her path. He must know they cannot stop me. Still she did not move to simply bowl them over. Her eyes went wide and she whirled about. Freezing Fog was on his feet, his arms out from his sides, hands in fists. The impassive mask he had removed, his icy eyes bright with hunger. He cannot kill me any more than the giant could, so he must needs defeat me by other means to remove me as an obstacle. Fear, doubt, despair, the like. She lunged, but before she could fill his mouth and nose and ears, Freezing Fog had simply melted into his namesake, reappearing on the other side of the pack of dead. Figures. An Other, and a wizard.

“You are not like me.” Catelyn said. “You are flesh and blood and bone. You can tire, you can hunger, you can die.”

“I am. I can.” Freezing Fog replied, raising his fistful of ashes.

“She can’t.” He blew into them then, “and in her tirelessness, her endless hunger, her deathlessness, she will make an end to this farce that has bored me.” The ashes spilled across the snow, staining them an ugly tarry black. Catelyn saw bits of bone scatter about as well, scraps of charred cloth, a single tooth. “Awake.” Freezing Fog called. The vague memory of waking under a log reared up in Catelyn’s mind. The Other turned to her as the ashes began to burn, lighting seemingly of their own initiative. “I owe you a great debt, in truth. This is no magic of my own, but one worked by the princess. Without her, without her ally, such power is not possible.” Then he was gone, vanished into fog. Meanwhile, the flames began to spread beyond the ashes.

I have less than nothing to fear from fire, Catelyn thought even as the dead children vanished into the hungry heat. Puppets of the Other’s will, to be discarded when they ceased to be of use. The flames folded in on themselves, the dregs that remained of whoever it, she had been catching as well, but were not consumed even by the prodigious heat. Suddenly Catelyn got a very bad feeling. The people in White Harbor are not so proofed against fire as I… They licked higher until the flames flickered on a level with Catelyn’s shoulder. Some fiery revenant, a new tactic where the dead men failed, no doubt. A tendril of flame guttered out from the mass, sprouting tendrils of its own. She made to simply roll over the thing before it could reach her, but when it took shape (if hazily), Catelyn found herself staying her hand. A girl, was her first thought. Though, if this Father Frost as the wildlings name him sends dead children against their living parents to unnerve them further, I should not be surprised. She had no face, certainly no discernible features as to who she had been in life. To Talisa and I, faces and forms are just means to stay tolerable to those still living. No doubt this girl, whoever she is, can see me fine. She has no more use for eyes than I. The noise of battle made the girl’s head turn, unpracticed in being able to see all-round.

“You’re disorientated.” Catelyn said softly, trying not to alarm her. “Give it a few moments, a few minutes.” Then again, I had form of a kind when I came out of the river, as did Talisa. This girl does not, there is no corpse to puppet along from within. The answer came in a crackling hiss, a wave of heat. The True Tongue. No words, not truly, but Catelyn could hear meaning regardless.

“What is happening?”

“Never you mind. Ignore the battle, try to center yourself or you’ll never get anywhere.” Catelyn gave answer in the Common Tongue, trying to help her find her rock. The tendrils that might become arms if the girl could manage to anchor herself went to her face. “A thought, a memory. Someplace, somebody.” Catelyn prompted, coming closer. Steam began to run up and down her front, yet she felt no pain and could feel no compromise in her shape.

“There’s nothing…” Still the True Tongue. Perhaps she can’t remember as much as how to speak. Though the battle raged fierce within the city limits, Catelyn knew leaving the girl to chance would be most abominably irresponsible. Left to my own devices fresh out of the river, I turned the riverlands into a drowned mire. One hand left the girl’s face, fell to her side, and a hand took shape, closing around something. Or would have, had she held anything. Perhaps something she was holding as she died. Catelyn could remember no disaster involving fire, aside from the Blackwater. Two of Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons are missing, perhaps one of them is to blame? But then, surely an appearance by a dragon would be well-known. Not up here, she answered herself. Not in the North. The girl’s outline flickered and she was a fiery shadow no longer. A brow, cheeks, a nose, a mouth…slowly a face that to Catelyn’s surprise she half-recognized emerged from the blaze. Before she could spend too much thought on it there was another flash of green light. One of the New Castle’s proud white towers lit up like a phantom and collapsed into the city streets below, prompting a new outbreak of shouts and screaming. “What was that?” the girl asked in the Common Tongue, as if the sight had jerked her from her fugue somewhat. A southerner for a certainty, and one well brought up.

“An ice-ship. One of the Others’, loosing volleys at the city.”

“What can we do?” Cause great grief, do more damage than we mean to, and cause general devastation.

“What do you mean?”

“We can’t just stand here and watch.” The girl left a burning footprint as she took a step toward White Harbor, one Catelyn quickly extinguished before it could spread.

“You’re not to do any fighting and that’s for iron certainty, my little lady.”

“Why not? I can help-”

“-once you learn how, yes, I’m sure you can. Being that the enemy upon us works in cold and ice, you may well be a godsend, even. Just now, though, you’d set the moor aflame just getting to the battle.”

“So I’m to stand here like a dolt and wait for this to end?” There was something very of Arya in the girl, even through her ladylike manners that so reminded Catelyn of Sansa.

“Well, if you aren’t given the option of staying hidden until battle’s end, I suppose you must defend yourself.” Catelyn looked around for someplace the girl might find sanctuary, if temporarily. “Perhaps the White Knife. If you could melt it, I’m sure that would be helpful in one way or another.” Catelyn pointed to the river, cutting north into the hills frozen over or no.

“As you like. With luck, I’ll do it without getting a crease in my skirts.” came the sullen answer, the girl sulking off toward the ice, this time managing to keep from leaving any flames behind.

Now I know how Uncle Brynden felt, Catelyn thought wearily as she made her way back toward the city. It never seems to stop. There’s madness in every corner, at every hour. To think I once thought direwolves to be songs come to life, found their howling to be unbearable. The great fissure in White Harbor’s wall gave her ample room to get inside, the gap wide enough for the giants to rush through unimpeded if one at a time. The consummate destruction before her made Catelyn gasp all over again. Buildings lie in ruin and dead men were everywhere, half-crushed by great boots, flung against the walls of white stone to leave garish red stains, or else just crushed into paste. The giants’ calls and cries sounded from further on, so Catelyn pressed toward them with all speed, ignoring the touch and sound of corpses squelching beneath her as she moved.

“EGIR VERGIR! EGIR VERGRIR!” Their voices were astonishingly loud, their words steeled and full of wroth. Catelyn emerged into a courtyard to see a cadre of knights force the newcomer up into a corner with their long lances. The giant quickly tore part of the stone stair at his back away and flung it at the men, crushing several and scattering the rest before charging in himself, his icy maul finishing what the stairs had begun. Even the ground cracks when he strikes it. The giant had taken several arrows but if he felt them at all, he kept it hidden beneath his fury. Before he could charge off after fresh prey, Catelyn sent a rush of water rolling out to meet his feet. Surefooted on ice, I’m sure, but you’re no Other, and besides, your feet are clad in fur! Immediately the giant lost his balance, waving his arms wildly as he slipped, crashing through the roof of a townhouse. Exploding out the other side, fury renewed, his blue eyes locked on the New Castle at the center of the city. There was a berserker’s rage in the giant’s face, but also something of deepest hatred. Why a giant from the furthest north would so despise menfolk was a question for someone else, though. Catelyn harried him unceasingly on his way to the Wolf’s Den, near the water, where it seemed the other giants were busily trying to bash their way in. In and up, Catelyn thought. Up the Castle Stair to the Merman’s Court where the helpless, the harmless, the innocent wait to be slaughtered like lambs. What defenders were garrisoned in the Wolf’s Den stood topside, firing crossbows or trying to hit the giants below with boiling cauldrons of pitch. A few had bad hissing burns, ugly whitish-black blotches, on their arms or legs, but they were well wise to the ploy and had taken to ducking out of range of the pitch whenever it came down. They’re all looking up, Catelyn realized. Up, when they should be looking down. Only when their boots soaked through did the invaders look down in confusion- time enough for the men atop the ramparts to bring up a scorpion and angle it downward. Catelyn balled her hands into fists and pulled, the water rushing out from under the giants’ feet like a rug out from under a mummer in a farce. Three landed flat on their backs and one caught himself on hands and knees before falling any further, but it was the giant Catelyn had followed from the courtyard that caught the scorpion bolt squarely between the shoulders. He lurched back, bellowing like a harpooned whale as he reached back to pull the shaft from his back, ripping it out in a spout of grey mist. While he tried to squint through his agony at the bolt’s head, Catelyn knew the black glittering point for what it was. Dragonglass. Eyes filling with numb rage, he tore the bolt in twain, pulled it end from end, as no man could have done even with a small branch. Picking up his maul, he charged, swinging wildly at Catelyn- the icy head finding purchase in the sea-facing wall she had so hastily mended. The ice was thick, the white stone strong, but the giant’s fury soon had the whole thing crashing down notwithstanding. Dead men surged into the breach, rushing blindly past or through the giant’s legs as opportunity allowed, pressing themselves flat against the Wolf’s Den’s walls. The defenders must have somehow blocked the door, made it impassable on the other side, Catelyn thought. No wooden beams would hold ‘neath a giant’s maul.

"ISTROLLEN!!!” the giant bellowed, waving his maul in the air. Following his gaze, Catelyn saw past the dead to the ice-ship that lay waiting in the Bite, its volleys stopped, likely so as not to hit the giants. Still more monsters were leaping from the hulks that had run themselves to pieces on the snow-covered sand, gaunt and lanky with cruel hooked fingers and mouths filled with frightful teeth. Most wore ragged pelts, swinging branches or jabbing with shards of ice on one end. Others were naked, their only weapons being their grasping hands and snapping mouths. They loped through the wights without a second’s hesitation, racing past the giant to stop at the Wolf’s Den’s gate and immediately started hurling whatever they could reach up at its defenders. One of the creatures spotted Catelyn in passing and in his double-take tripped up on scattered rubble, his fellows readily trampling him on their way into the city proper. To Catelyn’s shock he popped right back up, long nose snapping into place, crushed jaw popping back open and his wrenched shoulder coming unwrenched in two dizzying swings of his arm. He flashed a hungry grin and lunged for her, his hand splashing harmlessly through her figure. No decorum, she couldn’t help but think as she sent a geyser through his wide, mad blue eye. At once he reared back in surprise, Catelyn using her stolen second to rush past him only to spot the giants hoisting the new arrivals partway up the wall, their sharp hooked hands well fitted to scale the black stones and attack the defenders on the ramparts. The first one over gave a roar, there was a sickening crunch and he came toppling right back over the side. Landing at the giants’ feet in a heap, head pulped by a stunning blow, he looked of no further concern until Catelyn saw the monster’s cheek simply pop out of his pulped skull, nose jutting forward and crushed socket going round, The blue eye blazed out crazed and hungry a moment later, none the worse for wear. No wonder they throw themselves at us! Catelyn thought. They know there is no risk in it for them! Then her eyes found the broken bolt, tip twinkling merrily at her even as dead men continued to pour into the city. The giant who’d taken the bolt, who’d broken White Harbor’s sea-facing wall, had a hand on the frame of the Seal Gate trying to catch his breath. Time to give you another poke. The dead would not have impeded her, formless as she was, but the bolt needed carrying and it was too much a hassle to hold it aloft as she rolled a path on through, Instead she simply pushed them out of the way, a waist-high tide that crushed them as were in its path flat until she reached the giant’s knee, promptly burying the bolt in the meat of his calf. He gave another tortured bellow, the flesh around the glass head bubbling angrily- and bounded past Catelyn. The giant’s agony renewed, his outrage replenished, he simply drove his left fist through the wood of the Wolf’s Den’s gate, doing the same with his right a moment after. He lifted up, the gate creaking as the giant’s brute strength slowly did for the only thing standing between his kind and the New Castle. The other giants immediately got to tossing extra pelts over him to protect him from more boiling oil, a few lucky lanky brutes making it topside to wreak havoc and further push the defenders back.

“LORM!” the giants boomed, a cheering chorus echoed witlessly by their allies. “LORM! LORM! LORM!” Not a curse, Catelyn realized. A name. It quickly became apparent that even for a savage, even for a giant, this Lorm was prodigiously strong. The gate continued to rise, pushed up from outside instead of pulled up from within by way of a gate-wheel, Lorm not stopping even when the broken wood of the gate poked and pierced into the muscle of his great arms. Even with clear blood streaming from the holes, the sounds of arrows needling his hands from behind the gate, Lorm did not falter, the gate soon boot-high. Dead men began to stagger forth, falling down as they bumped against the gate and crawling under after they fell.

With a last terrible creak and a crack like a thunderclap Lorm simply ripped the gate from its moorings, like a tooth from the top of a mouth. He lifted it, wood still gnawing on his arms, into the air with a wild booming cry of triumph.

“EGIR VERGIR!” his fellows called, Lorm answering at once.

“EGIR VERGRIR!!!” Then he simply pulled the gate in twain, heedless of the deep gnawing his new tower shields were doing. The dead men pushed forth and the lanky brutes with them, finding their path well obstructed by it seemed every barrel, wagon, crate, and other object that could be used to impede their endless tide. It doesn’t matter, Catelyn thought, despairing as she ran to try and slow them still further. They have no number and the barricade will not hold forever. Then a gout of flame lanced past her, lapping up the stumbling dead before they could stagger out of the way. Not that they could think to do so! The giants and their spindly ilk were not so heedless of danger though, yelping and shouting in surprise as they hastily moved off the walls of the Wolf’s Den. Lorm blinked the stars out of his eyes long enough to squint at what was going on in front of him quite as if the sun itself were blazing forth. Catelyn noticed the same behavior in the other giants and their swarthy ilk. They are creatures of the cold, she thought, but of the dark as well! Lorm launched one of the gate-halves at the source of the blaze, an ever-flowing fountain that bubbled up from White Harbor’s streets, but the girl would be no more harmed by the giant’s attacks than Catelyn herself would, she knew. We have no bones to break, no flesh to gash open, no blood to spill, good giant. The wood burst in a shower of splinters and steel studs, the girl emerging utterly unscathed.

“Your pardon, my lady,” she called over the blaze, “but I thought better of waiting for your permission.” Her next lance flew at Lorm’s face. He had only time to hold the other half of the gate out before the flames scattered into harmless sparks against something a foot in front of him. The thin barrier of ice lasted only as long as it was needed, formed from the water in the air, it seemed, checking the girl’s continued attempts even as she tried to go around. Catelyn’s brow furrowed. A sorcerer this brute is not. The mists that came from the open flames warring with the snow-covered ground congealed into a thick fog.

“Show yourself.” she said, forgoing the Common Tongue. Freezing Fog did not oblige, though she was sure she spotted his gaunt outline once or twice in the landed cloud. Thunder began to rumble, a storm sounding from the north. To a one the giants’ faces went from wroth to reverent, snapping north like pups after their mother. Again the thunder rumbled, moving off. Breathing heavily, Lorm snapped off without a second look at the gate, the other giants quickly following his lead. Rather than stay, bereft of their leader, or try and make it back to the ice-ship, the gangly brutes left with them. As the dead men were still well at trying to force their way through the barricade, White Harbor’s remaining defenders were in no position to do anything but watch them go. Catelyn followed as best she could, and only when the last giant disappeared through the great fissure they had come by did the fog begin to clear. A moment later and the storm moved off as well, leaving only a light cold rain mixed with sleet to mark the giants’ coming. That, and the corpse-choked rubble-pile that had once been White Harbor.

“Shall we see to these, then?” the girl’s voice called from behind Catelyn. Only then did she realize that Talisa had been quite absent for the entirety of the battle. Raid, more like. Catelyn turned to see the girl pointing vaguely where the dead massed in their thickest. “Not just the ones that move. The giants killed plenty of people, no need to leave them out for the Others to work mischief with.” Grimly the girl nodded and set about it, Catelyn working to douse her fires whenever the walking corpses took too rapidly. That is, often. Truly, fire spells a quick and utter end to these soulless things. No wonder Jon Snow aimed to get the aid of Daenerys Targaryen. Despite the sheer amount of dead, the ghastly work still to be done, the girl had well steeled herself. Perhaps before she perished, she was no stranger to death. Scouring the streets and pushing rubble into the breaches the giants had created to the north and east took some time, Catelyn making sure her waters froze the white stone into a semblance of place. The breaches were still well visible and quite inconsequential when it came to stopping giants, but the rubble reached a third of the way up to the ramparts and that was more than enough to keep dead men from coming into White Harbor.

“I should like to try and go all the way up. The Seven only know there’s stone enough to use.”

“Unmortared, unsettled, held in place by ice. How long would it last if they came back?” the girl asked. Familiar with death and fortifications as well. More to the point, how long would we last?

“Before we set off from King’s Landing, the Golden Company landed with the intent of putting Prince Rhaegar’s so-called son on the throne. Hopefully they’ll arrive and reinforce us, if they haven’t simply taken the capital for themselves.” The girl’s outline flickered.

“If I’m meant to know what any of that means, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“Talisa had difficulty remembering who she was as well. It came back to her in time, I’m sure the same can be said for you.”

“As my lady says. Uh, should we join the others now?”

“Another trot around White Harbor won’t make its walls any stronger. Better we should take the measure of who’s been killed.”

“Or who hasn’t, to be sure.” Catelyn found herself reminded again of her daughters, Sansa’s politeness and Arya’s optimism. Well, before their father died. Arya was very much how Catelyn remembered in temperament, even if she let her hair be brushed and took to wearing dresses. I used to think her wild. After seeing the Dothraki, even from afar, after seeing the giants… She shook her head. There are people who belong below the Wall, and people who belong beyond it. Then her eyes popped open. The Wall, she remembered. How could they have gotten past the Wall?

Rather than clamber over the barricade that blocked passage through the Wolf’s Den to the Castle Stair or have the girl simply blast it out of the way, Catelyn wove through the rubble as water through rocks in a stream. I could pass through the bars of a cell with more ease, she observed. Plate would be no defense, not with gaps for me to slip through. Thinking on that reminded her of the shadow that had killed Renly Baratheon, cutting through steel and flesh with equal ease. Her budding mood withered. It makes no matter now. Stannis is as dead as Renly, his horrors died with him.

“Is something wrong, my lady?” Evidently distress was plain on Catelyn’s face. The talking flame that struggled to hold a girl’s shape was no less impeded than Catelyn, roving over stone instead of wood where she could.

“Thinking on the ills of the past. Nothing you need worry over.”

“Well, if by past you mean the last few hours, I can think of an ill or two that could use some worrying over.” I only hope when your memory returns you handle it with greater grace than I. There were more cries still higher up, on the ramparts of the New Castle, but Catelyn heard her uncle bark them down.

“She look like one of those big cold cunts? Open the…” Before the Blackfish could finish Catelyn simply seeped through the gaps under the gate, none the worse for wear.

“I don’t think that trick will work this time, my lady…” the doubtful voice came from the other side.

“The fuck is that?” someone cried. A lady, ser, who you will address as such. It seemed waspish to voice the thought at such a time though, so when again the command for the gate to rise was given Catelyn held her tongue. The girl slipped under the gap right away, needing only that to join the rest of them. No shape but for the one we choose. The soldiers’ fear gave way to stunned silence when the flame gave a dainty curtsy.

“Good evening, my lords.” she said when she saw that several of them were obviously highborn. They were either lost for words or never learned the ones to handle such a moment, so Catelyn took the reins.

“My lady remembers nothing. So far as can be determined, she shares a condition akin to Talisa’s and mine own.” A giant of a man, armor dripping with what looked like liquid glass, stepped forward while a pox-scarred man helped him get his helmet off. Gendry Baratheon’s face showed less fear, more awe, as he took the girl in.

“Ever been in a smithy before?” he asked breathlessly, the scarred man giving a rough bark of laughter.

“I’ve no idea. But even I know fire that can think would be rather handy doing forge-work.” the girl replied, totally nonplussed. Her ambivalence made Catelyn smile. No future either, but for the one we choose.

Chapter 16: Bran II

Chapter Text

While others die to defend my home, I’m stuck in the keep. It was like being crippled again, only worse. I have no excuse now not to be out on the rings with the rest of us, the best of us. It had been Howland Reed’s own request that Bran remain with Meera and their child. Than Bran found distantly curious. As cherished as she was by her lord father, the crannogmen and Lord Howland in particular did not strike Bran as the type to leave able warriors behind, even their most beloved daughters. Besides, Howland isn’t a newborn any longer, Meera could leave him for a skirmish or sortie if needed. Howland the elder would no more hear of her leaving the safety of the Great Keep than Bran, however, and so they both stayed. Bran could hear the flinty voices of whatever had come against the outermost ring, the sundering of the frozen earth as it was breached, blown apart. The cries of men as the dead stormed in, gleeful cackling accompanying them. The lanky brutes Sansa mentioned, no doubt. The feeling of helplessness only got worse as whatever was happening at the edge of the wolfswood wore on until Bran simply reached out blindly, hoping at the least to cut a wight’s strings. Instead he found himself wearing flesh that was best described as hunger with limbs. So ravenously, madly hungry was his new friend that its long spindly arms grabbed wights when hot-blooded prey was out of reach, tongue lolling rabidly over sharp slanted teeth as it gnashed them together. Bran only had time to think well, this must be what riding a bull is like before he was kicked out, more on instinct than any willful effort. Even in the Great Keep, Bran heard one of the brutes give a sudden startled cry. Surprise, he thought grimly. His little trick didn’t stop the sounds of battle though, shrieks and hoots only adding to the din. Spiders, Bran thought. Packs of pale spiders, big as hounds. Big as horses. Even the crannogmen would not turn the tide, he knew, not when they were beset on all sides by foes that felt no sting nor bite nor poisoned blow. We can’t beat them through force of arms, he realized. There are simply too many, and every second more are brought to bear. The only way he’d ever seen wights speedily sorted out to the last was fire, as when Leaf had saved them from the skeletal dead waiting in the snowdrifts outside the Three-Eved Raven’s cave. And after, he remembered. He stopped pacing in his tracks. They came into the cave and blew apart like scarecrows in a windstorm. Leaf’s words were loud as if she were at his elbow. The power that moves them is powerless here. He turned to his princess and their little quiet prince.

“We have to go find Branch.” Bran said breathlessly.

The Singers had done much and more to the crypts beneath Winterfell. Tight cramped tunnels were widened, raised, and passages ran from one end of the castle to the other like a great anthill. The Singers themselves rarely came above the surface, the cold too much for them or else the great number of men in such close quarters. Or both, Bran thought. Branch was in the grotto ‘neath even the crypts, eyes closed and hands on one of the trees that grew in spite of the sun’s absence. I wonder how often he stops to sleep, eat, drink.

“Over and over, I heard of how I had to keep my own body alive when I went out as Summer.” Bran said. Lecturing a Singer of the Song of Earth on a tune his people call. When Branch turned to him the little childish face had lost its customary dour pall, alive with mirth. More than mirth, joy. It made Branch look a child proper, his gloomy air quite vanished.

“It works!” he cried, voice echoing.

“What do you mean?” Bran asked, startled by the Singer’s enthusiasm. He caught sight of others of Branch’s kind communing with other trees here and there, the sourceless golden light quite in force.

“The trees, they wake!” Uhh, thought Bran. And I’m supposed to know about this sort of thing.

“That’s lovely. Branch, the wights have broken through the outer ring, to the northeast. It sounds like they’ve marshaled from the wolfswood, accompanied by spiders and…something else.” Branch’s wide grin faltered. “Something happened when Meera and I met our first Singer. A she-Singer, Leaf, who managed to snatch us from out of the wights’ dead grasp.”

“Not all of us though.” Meera said. Bran missed him terribly. Not half so terribly as Meera does, he knew.

“The wights that tried to follow us…when they crossed the threshold of the cave, they…”

“…died?” Branch asked.

“In so many words. They flung apart in every direction.” Meera said, evidently remembering without difficulty. A hard thing to forget, seeing a dead man pop like an acorn in a hearth. Branch’s three-fingered hand trailed down the tree’s trunk, thumb tapping a knot in the bark.

“I wouldn’t think they were many.” he said finally.

“Only two or three.” Bran replied.

“Brandon Stark, the trees are not swords. They are not weapons to swing as you will.” Bran felt his patience for the Singer, moping and snail-slow when most speed was needed, waning quickly.

“If something’s not done right now, we’ll soon be overrun.”

“What you request will no doubt stress this place, perhaps drive it back to sleep.”

“Are there any among the Singers unafraid to show initiative?” Meera snapped, her endless patience it seemed quite at an end and her irate voice likewise echoing off the grotto walls. “It seems to me the Singers of the Song of Earth want to be right more than they want to win. The Others are assuredly not crippled by this attitude, they’ve shown as much by taking on other beings native to the Land of Always Winter, even making common cause with a miscreation of Leaf’s own making.” While Branch looked aghast, Bran could only revel in his princess’ fiery words. I could count on one hand the times I’ve seen her truly angry, he thought, and likely each of those has roots in the Singers’ reluctance to actually do anything.

“You can’t whine about winter’s murderous nature while sitting there waiting to get butchered, Branch.” Bran said, trying to keep a civil tone. “Dismaying and singing sad songs will get us nowhere. We brought you here so you could help us and us you. By coming here, it was understood that you would fight, that you would without a second thought get muddy, get bloody as we will, as the giants will. Point to the Pact all you like but unless you’re actually willing to fight for your right to exist, that right doesn’t exist. Nothing born into this world is owed life, owed anything, unless they learn that way of thinking from those around them. Like many of the highborn of Westeros. Maybe things were different in the beginning, when first your race began to sing, but times are harder now. We have Others all about us, intent on turning the North into a lichyard with the rest of the world to follow. Pouting ‘it’s not fair’ will not bring your paradise back, an ever-dimming memory to your kind before you were born. Now is the time, not then, and today is the only bloody day that matters. If you can do something about the wights, do it. If you can’t, or you won’t, tell me and I’ll have the lads pile dirt and stone at every entrance to this grotto. You and the other Singers can go on bemoaning to each other how unfair it all is while men and giants carry on without you.”

Before he’d come into the grotto, Bran had been jittery and nervous. Now he felt as if he’d run a league in a minute, breathing hard.

“You fought the First Men when they came to Westeros.” Meera said, her own anger receding. “The giants too, in ages before that. Why will you not fight the Others?” Howland had not made a sound, even when Meera had all but shouted, his grey eyes taking in the trees around them. “What they will, you will not, is that the way of it?” Branch gave no answer, hand still on the tree’s white trunk. Then he reached out behind him with the other, toward Bran. He took it at once and they were gone from the grotto, gone into the tree and the ground beneath it.

“By such means can we see what eyes do not.” Branch’s voice sounded in his ear. Then he was above the crypts, above the castle, warging into nothing at all and yet his vision was ever clear. Seeing as trees see, perhaps? The castle was aglow with life, countless living things bustling within even as a black mass gained headway from the north, peppered here and there with pinpricks bright as any of the lives within Winterfell.

“Can we refine this sight?” Bran was well versed in speaking without a mouth, using his thoughts to give his words voice.

“What do you mean, Brandon Stark?”

“We can’t really see the dead this way, or easily tell the living apart unless we focus on one individual in particular.” It was like someone was sliding colored glass in front of his eyes. The formless mass remained ill-defined but Bran could see partitions in the blackness.

“The dead are colder than the ground and cold life is colder still.” Branch said, as the tall pricks of light the wights made no move to attack took on a deep bluish hue. From the depths of Winterfell, awash with light and warmth, Bran spotted a single blot of brightest blue. Alive as any man, colder than any wight. Our prisoner from the Land of Always Winter, stuck fast in his cell. It was as the Raven said. Time is nothing to a tree. Hot and cold, life and death. These are things a tree understands. He could not see much further than the edges of the wolfswood, though. Where the Others must have set themselves to keep an eye on things. “Branch, there are weirwoods aplenty in the wolfswood. In the other castles of the north, too.”

“Overrun by Those That Walk With Winter and their chattel.”

“Do you have to be there, though? Can you not…do what you’ve done here, from here? Through the trees or something, instead of in the flesh?” Then he was back in the grotto. I didn’t even fall down. “If we, if you could do with other weirwoods what you just did here, we could see them all throughout the North. They could not hide from us, even behind ice or stone. Even ice cold enough to hide their cold isn’t alive, and would not hide the light of life. They’d light up like a torch in the darkness when viewed through the trees.” Meera only looked mystified, Howland silent as ever. Branch let go of the tree, his customary melancholy expression gone almost struck dumb. “If it’s time you need, time we have- or will, once we’ve stopped the wights and closed the breach.” Small shapes moved in the trees, other Singers emerging to join the first. They have no head, no foot, Bran knew. They have no kings among their own, no peasants either. All are equal, all are one.

Bran left them to it as they gathered into a circle, taking Meera with him. She needed no persuading.

“It’s easy to forget that they’re as potent as the Others, if in different ways.” she said meekly.

“Easier still for them to forget. Don’t think you acted rashly, Meera. They like to think of themselves as blameless innocents who seek only to sing. Happy little woodland fairies they are not, and it was time someone told it to their faces.” Perhaps it’s because she is a crannogwoman. They’re little people too, yet they don’t give a fig about appearing harmless. Styngs wear that scary black paint, Coyls tattoo themselves to look like the endless body of one great snake… He led his princess and their prince to a high parapet facing the skirmish, standing among several lords from the Vale. Muttered prayers from the lordlings to the Seven did little good to aid the men fighting for their lives, though, and more than one was clearly itching to bury his blade in the gut of a dead man. Meanwhile, the wight tears his face off.

“Just what are we waiting for?” a sudden angry voice called. Only when Bran heard a man breathing shortly in his ear did he realize the question was addressed to him. Thank the gods Meera didn’t get in the way. He wanted not the least bit of harm to come to her, yes, but neither did he want to be known as the prince who hid behind his wife with his son in her arms. Bran turned to see a man with triple ravens each clutching a red heart on his breast. A Corbray, he knew, of Heart’s Home. At his hip was a longsword’s scabbard, made of fine dark red leather. What Bran first took to be a spade-shaped ruby in the pommel he realized was yet another heart, merely upside down. I’ll bet it looks a heart well enough when the sword is drawn.

“In Lord Reed’s estimation his own retainers are more mobile than the rest of us. Each detachment is to hold its position, the crannogmen will augment anywhere that comes under attack.”

“Ants may augment where they like when a child stomps on their hill.” Bran frowned. Impatience was expected, especially among men eager for the fight and denied it at length, as was the case with the Knights of the Vale, but he misliked the man’s words all the same.

“I recognize your arms, ser, but your name escapes me. Pray forgive me.”

“Ser Lyn Corbray of Heart’s Home, with little and less need to heed the words of some bog-walker who’s never seen battle before in his life.” He drew his heart-handled sword. Valyrian steel, Bran knew at once. “Littler still need for shit-smeared arrows when I’ve Lady Forlorn to hand.”

“Go then, Ser Lyn.” Bran said immediately, before he could stop himself. “Take your Lady, lead a charge into the wights afoot or ahorse, the end’s the same. Eventually they will overwhelm you and you’ll come against the living same as any other wight. No doubt the man who puts a flaming arrow through your dead blue eye will be a crannogman.” Bran turned back to the battle, unwilling to engage with the prickly man further. He’s not a Vale lordling I know. Harry introduced me to all of them, I thought. Or maybe just the ones he likes.

“Better than waiting here to die. My forebears would never let me hear the end of it if I went to them surrounded by crannogmen and lawless savages. Small wonder this godsforsaken land puts such stock in trees, trees are all you have.”

“Trees are all we need.” Branch’s voice called from the parapet steps, nimbly squeezing through the startled men. Men in fur and steel where he wears threadbare hides and yet they are the colder. He had eyes only for the skirmish, on the steadily-oncoming tide of dead. Bran saw different shades of red in the Singer’s eyes, flickering like the ever-shifting light of a torch. The other Singers are watching through him. Men began to shuffle out of the way, until Branch reached them at parapet’s front. He raised his little fist. “Trees are all we need.” Then he opened it.

The center of the mass blew to bits, an unseen tide roiling out all around. All the dead it reached were crushed beneath it, shredded by a gale-wind. Bran felt the stones beneath his feet shake and tremble as the Singers’ magic flowed through them, Branch waiting until the breach was again filled with wights before opening his palm again. The same thing happened, with pieces of bone and cold dead flesh flying every which way as the wights were unmade. While Bran’s mind was still reeling at just what he was seeing, another lordling got to a knee to whisper in Branch’s ear.

“F-f-f-forget the d-d-dead, w-we-we-we’ll see to st-st-st-st-stragglers. Close the g-g-g-gap, that’s a g-g-good lad.” Branch’s little hands came up flat, as if holding a dish. He raised them higher, raising them for all to see. A thunderous grinding of rock on rock sounded from the outer ring, the frozen earth rising and flowing over itself. Slowly the breach knitted closed of its own accord, with dirt a dozen men would have needed a day’s time to move. The great wall of force had caused no such harm to the living in the space between the rings, even the brutes and the countless spiders, but unsupported by the wights it was their turn to find themselves buried under an oncoming tide. Not of bony hands, either. Spears, swords, lit torches, cudgels, even loose bricks. The brutes were smart enough to cut and run when they saw the wights go down, scaling the earthen rings posthaste, but the spiderlings it appeared were too hungry for blood to abandon the chase. Even as they were cut down they bit and screeched and skittered about, fighting bloodily to the last. And these the newborns, hatched in the Haunted Forest or sooner, Bran thought as he watched. The Other we captured rode an adult. I only hope the Others have not mastered the cavalry charge. While he struggled to come to grips with what just happened, yet another of the Valemen stirred his fellows up.

“Come on, lads! Before there’s none left for us!” They rushed off, Ser Lyn among them with his lady in hand. We are well quit of that one. I had forgotten about the rest of the people in Winterfell. Then again, my son was just born, I think I was well within my rights to be a little too distracted to play the peacemaker prince. Besides, Sansa’s better at that than I am. Where was Sansa, anyway?

“You’d best go tell your father what’s happened, Meera. I’ll try and sort this mess out.” Bran said. He kissed Howland the younger on the top of his tiny head, making Meera giggle, and then she was off. Bran left Branch to find his own way back down to the grotto, taking every shortcut only he and the birds knew about to reach the site of the wights’ sortie.

It could have been worse, Bran thought as he took in the sight of people lying dead, of bits of wight vanishing beneath a blanket of fresh snow. He stepped over the body of a wildling who wore only blue paint but for a hide about his waist, breath hitching at the sight of a man in plate laid out where he had fallen. Bran caught a glimpse of a broken wheel enameled on his pauldron.

“Ser,” Bran began, stopping at the sight of the man’s face. Grayish-white, veins turning black, the man’s blue lips were dribbling foul black blood. He was shivering violently, the weight of his plate the only thing keeping him from writhing about like a split worm. Bran spotted a pair of puncture holes in his cheek and still another in his neck. Men began to gather ‘round, another near-naked wildling who looked younger than Bran and the stuttering Valeman who’d whispered in Branch’s ear. His eyes were bulging out of his head, mouth moving but lost for words. They have the same lantern jaw, Bran realized. The same stringy brown hair, the same pinched nose. The wildling lad looked pensive, even thoughtful when he lifted his club, bringing it down on the man’s head and ending his suffering with a single blow. He turned to leave but the knight of stutters put a hand on his shoulder. His lips curled and he tried to speak, but the words would not come. “Leave it.” Bran told him, closing the dead knight’s visor. He stood. “Go collect yourself. Take him with you.” He pointed to the wildling boy. Still the knight didn’t move. Oh gods, he’s going to try to talk.

“M-m-Morton w-was my eldest b-b-rother. I m-m-must tell my l-lady m-m-mother that R-Roland is heir to Ironoaks n-now.” Small matter then that it’s unlikely any of you will make it back to Ironoaks.

“What about Roland?” still another broken-wheel knight asked as he came upon them, taking in the sight at hand, including the wildling with the bloody club. Ser Roland went to his knees, looking like he’d gone into shock. A sudden glimpse of the space that had once been the Hungry Wolf’s crypt flitted in front of him then, again quite unoccupied. Bran’s hands went to his face. Not again!

“Do you understand the Common Tongue?” The boy’s uncomprehending expression told Bran all he needed to know on that score. Bran pointed to him, then to the broken wheel knights. Stay with them. Then he was off, heading for the entrance to the crypts. He must know he cannot get away, not with a castleful of defenders and the Singers besides between him and freedom. That thought if anything alarmed Bran even further. He cannot be allowed to cut all down who cross his path. Even a knight with Valyrian steel has nothing to say to an Other.

A half dozen Singers waited for him in front of the cell, the sounds of trickling brooks and leaves crunching underfoot the closest Bran supposed the true Tongue could get to muttering.

“It took much of what power the trees will yet give to turn the dead. The effort caused a break in the circle, in the river that runs through this holy place.”

“Allowing him to escape, and undetected at that.” Bran said tersely. The she-Singer doing the speaking nodded. “Can we not look through the trees and find him that way?”

“They’ve gone to sleep. We must wake them before they can be used again. It may be that they will not wake at all.” Lovely. Where would an Other go? He found it unlikely that the Other would stay down in the earth were the Singers were strongest, so Bran began to search through the highest towers of the castle where only stone and cold empty air dwelled. And icicles, he thought. Then his gaze fell on the broken tower. Where naught but crows go. And me, before I fell. Bran wondered if the Other could climb half so well. Even if he could, it makes no matter. He could be anywhere in there from the cellars to the open eyrie, nobody goes in there but the rats anyway. Rather than head straight for the tower as Bran the Boy might have done, he went back to his chambers. Meera was waiting for him as was her father, with Lady Reed in the far corner softly soothing Howland.

“You’re recovered, my lady.” Bran said, feeling relieved for Meera’s sake if anything.

“It’s nothing catching, my prince. You need not fear.” Jyana called over her shoulder. Meera’s happiness at Bran’s reappearance died when she saw the look on his face.

“The Other has escaped again. When the Singers pulled their trick it must have caused a fault in the cell somehow.” Instantly Meera had her smoke-colored sword in hand, the one from the Raven’s cave that had tasted the Other’s flesh already. With weirwood wrapped around the handle, no less. I wonder how long it laid on that cave floor. “I can’t begin to guess what he might try to do, but the broken tower is where he’ll be able to go undiscovered the longest.”

“We-”

“No, no ‘we.’ Never ‘we.’ My daughter, my darling, you have a son now to mind.” Jyana said from her corner. She strode over and gave Howland to Meera. “Your father will mind this just now, and your husband.” Bran started when Lady Reed came close, close enough to see the torches reflected in her eyes. Dark as before, Bran thought. Clearer now though. With the bogs washed from her hair as well Bran could see it was black as Meera’s, a deep lustrous onyx one woman in a thousand did not have. Skin like snow under the full moon as well. It was all he could think, and the more he tried to put it off the more the thought seared its way into his mind. If she’s a crannogwoman, then I’m a bloody Dornishman. Before Meera could argue Lady Reed rounded on her lord, who to Bran’s amazement did not shy away. “You will go and find this creature and put him back where he belongs. If he will not submit to you, strike him from the world. I will not suffer our daughter or her son being in harm’s way a breath longer than I must.” Well, now I know where Meera gets her fire from, Bran thought shakily.

Outside his chambers Bran found himself face-to-face with a young man of an age perhaps with Sansa, a sword with ripples of red in its grey-black blade cradled in his grip. He appeared in a daze and his face was red from battle but Bran could not stop for every skirmish-shocked squire. Lord Howland was hard enough to keep up with on foot but when they took to climbing Bran found himself just barely shy of being left hopelessly behind. The Lord of the Neck wasted no time tapping for a sound brick or feeling for a firm hold, he just jumped from here to there, guided by eyes an eagle would envy. At last they reached the base of the tower, Bran breathing hard while Lord Howland gave no sign he had moved so much as appeared from the high chambers without effort. Well that was mad, Bran thought as he gasped. When he set his hand on the door to the crumbling tower he felt it straightaway, the cold an Other could not hope to hide, would not think to hide. Not this Other, anyway, Bran thought. Peacock that he is. Before he could push the door open, though, an outcry rang out behind him and Lord Reed put a hand on his shoulder. “A few more swords wouldn’t go amiss, my prince.” What swords have we that they could be made more to, my lord? Still, Bran knew well Howland Reed was not to be second-guessed and so moved to address the noise. Instead of finding men coming off having fought wights for the first time he found another knight with the Corbray arms on his surcoat. Younger, Bran thought. Jon’s age, a little older. He did not look so like Ser Lyn as the Waynwoods did each other but there was enough of the prickly knight in the youth before Bran to make him think they were brothers.

“Ser?” Bran asked, coming near. He got a chorus of “my prince”s as he approached, nodding to the Corbray men-at-arms. Seated under a torch with blood dripping from his lips and eyes wide in shock was the body of Ser Lyn Corbray. Something had run him through, punching through the plate and out the back as well. Something like an Other’s fist, and I see no Lady Forlorn here. His stomach sunk into his feet. “Oh, fuck.” he muttered under his breath. The younger Corbray looked to him.

“What could have-”

“I need you to find your lord, ser. Tell him to bring all his men to the base of the broken tower. Don’t dally. If you see my sister or the Children of the Forest, bid them come as well. Go.” He slapped the man on the shoulder to get him moving. “You lot had best get to the tower directly.” Bran continued, dropping a torch on the corpse of Ser Lyn. “Just wait outside, though. Do not go in.” He knew razor crystal would not last against Valyrian steel blades, Bran thought, rushing back to the tower himself, so he found one of his own.

By the time he reached the tower doors, the men-at-arms behind him, Lord Reed had disappeared. In his place stood Lady Reed, gazing forlornly up the tower’s great height. A hood hid her gentle features from the cold, the blowing snow, but even so bundled she got more than one stare from the Valemen in Bran’s company.

“My l-” A sound like glass on steel pierced the night, Bran’s muscles tensing at once. Oh gods, is he in there?! Bran took a step toward the door but stopped at a look from Lady Reed.

“You needn’t worry, my prince.” She sounded wistful if anything. “Howland will be just fine.” The sound came again, that awful screech, then a meaty thud. Bran heard the sound of an icicle falling and shattering on stone. The True Tongue, he thought wonderingly. If only a Singer were here to hear. The sound kept up, so often that the hairs on Bran’s neck stood on end, every flurry punctuated with another dull thud. In short order though, the screech-rings grew sparser, the thuds more frequent.

“He didn’t go in unarmed, surely.” Bran said.

“Of course not, my prince. No man would last long against an Other without something to hand.” ‘Something’ is right, Bran thought as the fight continued, unseen. Something more than steel, mundane or otherwise. A dozen thuds, more, in quick succession, and the Other crashed through the door, knocking it flat off its hinges. Again he had been robbed of what limbs he could draw from the ice around him, but new were the nicks, the cuts, the dark blue whorls beat into his flesh with the pommel of a sword. He had Lady Forlorn tight in hand though, and that was threat enough to make Bran try tugging Lady Reed out of his reach. Before Bran could do more than loop his arm in hers though, the Other rolled onto his back, rising with the aid of his stolen sword. He’s winded. Winded and wounded. He has not the strength to raise his blade again. Bran could see liquid glass running from his nose where it had been struck, running freely from his lip. The blood of winter. The little Lord of the Neck stepped out of the darkness of the tower’s interior as if fashioned from it. His hands were empty. Bran heard a noise like branches rubbing in the wind and looked up to see the people of the Neck on the roofs and steps above them, each with a bow to hand, aiming at the Other. Even with a hundred arrows on him, he had eyes only for Howland Reed. When he can keep them fixed on him, anyway. Lord Howland’s got him seeing double. Slowly his ice-wrought limbs grew back, those that Meera had cut away. He levelled Lady Forlorn at his enemy, breathing hard through his broken nose. From the crowd that had gathered came the sword the squire had held, which Howland Reed caught in a single hand. Smoky, Bran thought. Of a make with Meera’s.

The Other, once whole enough to move unaided, bent his legs. An ice spider ready to spring. The disdain Bran had seen beyond the Wall was gone, as was his typical uninterested manner. Lord Reed did the opposite, leaning back with legs straight. A bull lizard-lion, ready to swallow the ice spider whole.

“You are going to die.” Sansa’s voice turned every head, the Other’s included, save Howland Reed’s. Flanked by Singers and with her walnut branch to hand, red hair running down to below her waist, she looked positively frightening. One of the she-Singers ran Sansa’s words through the True Tongue. The Other did not reply, did not even look at the creature who had spoken. He has eyes only for Sansa. What does it take to turn an Other’s head, I wonder? His gaze seemed to irritate her. “If to escape from hurt is your desire, die, and hurt no more.” Despite the dozens of people present, despite screwing up his ears, Bran did not hear a single breath. At a glance, Bran knew the Other would drop the sword. The resignation in his eyes has become something else. Still, it was something to see Lady Forlorn’s heart-capped handle fall from his cold fingers. The Valyrian steel clattering to Winterfell’s stones sounded to Bran louder than any giant’s bellow. Slowly he stood aright. His fair mouth moved and the sound of ice creeping up a castle wall filled the air.

“To hurt is to live. Those who live must make the living worth the hurting.” the she-Singer said. Bran shivered. The words of an Other. Sansa was not so unnerved.

“I have hurt enough in my few years to match that in all your many. No life lived can make worth suffering all I have, all my family has.” Again the Singer acted as Sansa’s mouth and the Other’s both.

“No life thus. What about life yet to come? The lives of family yet to come?” Well, that suggests there will be something left of us once your kind have had your way.

“What is your name?” Sansa asked. In answer, Bran heard the sound of frost, the first frost of winter, falling like a curtain over glass.

“First Frost.” The she-Singer said.

“First Frost, you will return to your cell. Whether bound and beaten or under your own power is your choice and yours alone to make.” Sansa sounded like she was talking to any ordinary hedge knight taken captive on the battlefield.

“Lead, and I will follow.” With that Sansa left the rest of them behind, First Frost following with more grace crippled as he was than any whole man could hope to have. Save Meera, perhaps, who took it from him.

“Right, back to stations. Or I’ll have you lot gutted and the hogs fit with hauberks.” Rylis barked from his place in the crowd, shooing away the men-at-arms. Bran looked to Lord Howland. Who this First Frost could not kill even with Valyrian steel, when he could have killed a dozen knights with Sansa’s walnut stick.

He returned to his bedchambers tired as he could ever remember being, everything whirling in his head it made impossible the task of focusing on any one for more than a few moments. The Sansa of his boyhood had been a prim and proper lady, one who never failed to remember her manners or conduct herself with perfect courtesy. The Lannisters did for that sweet girl, and what bits they left behind the Boltons finished off. The woman who had talked First Frost off the ledge, off the edge of the lizard-lion’s bog, was fit more for the Raven’s cave or standing before the Night King than Winterfell’s Great Hall, trading empty courteous words with other highborn lords and ladies. I wonder if Jon will even recognize Sansa, but for her red hair. Even that had become something else altogether. Mother oft brushed it so it ran in a straight auburn river down her back. Now it runs down as it will, unbrushed and unbound. Meera had Howland in her arms, looking like she had just fed him. He’ll not recognize me, that’s for certain. Not with my legs beneath me and a wife and son of my own.

“What is it?” Meera asked when she noticed his mulling things over.

“Just wondering what I’ll say to Jon when he returns. Just what in seven hells I’ll say.”

“Tell him what’s happened, Bran. Think of all I had to tell my parents when first they arrived.” It was her turn to look melancholy. The death of their son.

“Has your father told you what he intends to happen when he dies? Who will take charge of Greywater Watch?” Meera gave him a sad smile.

“Bran, where do you think all the additions to Winterfell came from? One is now the other, sure in building as in blood now.” Bran’s jaw dropped.

“No wonder the Freys never found the Reeds of old.” Meera nodded.

“No fixed position, everyone always says, but more a boon was that Greywater Watch had no fixed layout. It could stretch, widen, shrink, grow as needed, as we waxed and waned.”

“Yet even at its smallest, its primacy was never challenged.” A small shy smile grew on his princess’ face.

“A man may find a hundred deaths in the Neck. Stinging insects, biting serpents, quicksand and the blue death. No sting can pierce a lizard-lion’s hide though, no matter how sharp. No serpent’s fangs can find the flesh beneath the armor, no matter how long. A lizard-lion will move through quicksand as a bird will move through air, and the blue death sleeps in their flesh only to awaken should someone from outside the Neck eat of it.” Yet while you flourished in those haunted hollows, Jojen struggled even to live as long as he did. Bran, to his great shame, could not picture Jojen holding his peoples’ hearts and minds as so obviously his father did. He was with Father from the tourney at Harrenhal through to the end of Robert’s Rebellion, yet Father never so much as breathed his name. Nor Aunt Lyanna’s, nor half a dozen others I only know of thanks to Meera’s story. If anything, it sounded as though Lord Howland had told his daughter some of what had come before, if as a story.

“I should like to ask your father, plainly, what happened between himself and mine own.” Bran said. “Why, only after news reached him of my father’s death, did he send you and Jojen to us.” The only time I’d ever seen him cry, Jojen said. The tears a man sheds, perhaps, when some great terrible burden shouldered between two men is left to one to shoulder alone.

Chapter 17: Theon II

Chapter Text

The rocks dug into his arms, legs and back. It seemed whenever he moved, the seawater soaked into the scratches and stung like seven hells. More than once he cut a hand or foot fumbling through the dark, each wound stinging itself numb in moments. He had no way of knowing if he was heading in the right direction, if there was a right direction, but Theon had no intention of turning back. Nor of waiting here until the tide rises high enough that I can’t steal a breath of air from the tops of these caverns. Thoughts of the others, of Asha and his lady mother and all the rest who might yet live kept him from sinking to tunnel’s bottom and waiting for the end as well. Then he shook them from his mind. I’ve no need to worry about what might come after this, not when this will take whatever strength I have left to see finished. The cavern’s pockets were growing smaller and the water colder both. Maybe I’m moving away from the island proper, then. How is it I can see and hear just fine and yet for all the good it does me I may well be blind and deaf? That lark made him grin despite himself, despite the ruin the Others had rained upon Ten Towers above. Knowing my luck, I’ll spring straight up out of the pool I escaped down just to catch a cold-fingered fist in the face. He went back down, squinting in the dark. He could feel the water on his eyes, the salt in his wounds, but only a quick movement in the ink-blackness gave him pause. Another man might have panicked, have screamed out his last breath only for the water to fill his lungs. Theon swam for what he’d spotted, a hunch forming as he closed with the rock on the flooded tunnel’s floor. The fishwaif stared up at him from behind it, bulging yellow eyes and all. No stink though, Theon thought. Even the eyes do not unnerve one so, down here where they belong. He went back up for another breath only to find the fishwaif tailing him closely, its body, so awkward and plodding on land, moving through the water without so much as a second thought. A she-fish, if Asha can be counted on to know as much, Theon mused. It, she, followed him all the way up to the cavern’s top. Theon didn’t waste breath on words. I’m soon to cease being so fascinating anyway, he thought. Especially when I’ve gone the way of Lord Balon. The fishwaif merely stared at him, the slits at the tip of her pointed head quivering. I wonder if we reek as badly in their nostrils as they do in ours. Then another head broke the surface, blonde of hair and grey of eye. There are worse ways for an ironborn to die than deep beneath the waves and in sight of a mermaid, Theon thought.

“Why have you stopped?” she asked. Theon blinked.

“Er, what?”

“Why have you stopped? You’re almost there.” Almost where?

“I’m not sure it’s apparent to our friend, but you and your lot must know us leggy folk breathe air.” Theon replied.

“They understand that just fine. You made it this far without much air, though.”

“As far as a man in a desert might with a single waterskin.” She huffed. Ass. How would she even know what a desert is? Even as his dry humor failed to amuse her, he felt her hand close around his.

“Deep breath.” she said. Theon knew better than to protest, gulping as much air as his lungs could hold before she hauled him down. He did not bother to try keeping his eyes open, they were moving a deal faster than anyone borne to shore could swim and he was confident he’d only see a dark blur anyway. He kept his arms around her, almost like a dance. If I were dancing with a horse as well as riding it at the same time, anyway. Before Theon could do something stupid like bury his face in her front to stop his head whipping about, they broke the surface and he glimpsed the top of another cavern, stalactites glittering prettily down at him. A great big cavern, he saw, looking around to see the place the ‘maid had brought him was big enough to hide a longship in with room to spare. And has. Uncle Rodrik’s Sea Song rocked this way and that at the other end of the cave, just next to its low mouth. They must have put up the sail and taken the mast down to pass under. Theon wondered if such a trick would have worked on the Crow’s Eye. No telling if he knows the Iron Islands’ secrets as well as their lords. Either way, it appeared the Others did not. Or at least, haven’t troubled to collapse the cavern on top of the Reader yet. Her hand found his face, warm and soft despite the wetness. He turned to her in surprise, eyes wide. I can’t remember the last time I felt a woman’s touch. “You need not fear your own kind.” she said. “Kings and crowns and all the rest, they’re nothing to us. If your aim is to cast the one down who calls himself Crow’s Eye, know that will not serve the greater cause.”

“Staying alive?” Theon asked, utterly befuddled. She looked as if she had not the words to say what was in her mind.

“Beating back the cold, the snows, the dead. Serving the interests of your kind assembled.” She made a circle with her finger in the small space of water between them.

“I could care less what Euron gets up to just now. It wasn’t Euron peppering Ten Towers with volleys of frozen light.” That answer did not please her, exactly, but Theon knew he was on the right track. She turned to Sea Song.

“Their work of ice has moved on, for now.” To raid the other islands, no doubt. “When you get the deck beneath your feet, do not tarry. You must be gone by the time they return.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice. I plan to be quit of these islands but good as soon as I can. Asha-”

“-has gone beyond your reach. It isn’t the mainland you’re bound for just now.” His mouth hung open like a cow mid-chew. She looked like she was on the verge of telling him more than she was meant to.

“What am I meant to do out in the middle of the sea?” Theon asked, baffled and a little irked. You lot beneath the waves are a close-mouthed crowd. Then he remembered one of the banners among the many he’d seen on the docks. A black ship before a red sun, on an orange sky. Farwynds of the Lonely Light, eight days’ sail northwest of Great Wyk. Perhaps twice that from here. His brow furrowed. “We have enough on board just now without sailing blindly out to sea. The Others could find us at any moment, could catch us without a second thought.” She furrowed her brow right back.

“I don’t have the words, Greyjoy. If you go out there and see just what’s going on, you’ll be glad you did.”

“I might suggest it to my uncle. Surely, it’s the course that makes the least sense. Maybe the Others won’t expect it, if nothing else.”

“Whatever gets you to those far rocks. Especially if you can reach them without the enemy spotting you.” Theon floated there, salt in his wounds, trying to work out what could be of such vital importance on the Lonely Light. Aside from its people, I suppose. The more we save, the fewer dead men there are. Mad they might be, but they’re still ironborn. Theon’s thoughts were interrupted by the fishwaif’s restless croak. “As I said, Greyjoy, far you’ve come. Don’t stop now.” The mermaid said, diving gracefully out of sight. Once the tip of her kelp-green tail vanished, Theon gathered himself as best he could and moved across the cavern’s length toward Sea Song, the fishwaif close behind.

The Damphair’s mutterings were unmistakable, even heard at the water line. Well, at least he made it. I doubt he’ll be of much use, though. There was no way by which he might scale Sea Song’s hull, and Theon was musing on how he’d get aboard when the fishwaif simply started climbing up the ship’s side, her clawed hands and feet finding easy purchase in the wood. A curious gurgle from on high advertised her reaching the deck, the crew’s stifled curses perfectly welcome to Theon’s ears. The cave was dim, the ceiling black, yet the fishwaif’s yellow eyes shone in the darkness all the same when she peered over the side, joined by several people Theon couldn’t make out.

“Who’s down there?!” came the panicked whisper.

“Lower a rope and find out.” Theon whispered back, as loud as he dared. The knot on rope’s end neatly bounced off his head when it came down and so Theon had an aching skull when he pulled himself out of the water and onto Sea Song’s deck. The maid’s hands on his face was wonder enough but a pair of arms around him caught Theon so off-guard he thought for a moment he was about to catch a dagger in the gut.

“My boy.” came Mother’s mutter. Somewhat awkwardly, Theon brought his own arms to bear.

“We have to go.” he said gently, but firmly.

“Go where, Theon? Anywhere we might go will catch the Others’ wrath sooner or later.” The Reader was a gray-brown shadow in the darkness, but up close Theon could see the man had come through the attack on Ten Towers in one piece.

“How the fuck did you make it to the water?” Theon asked. “The beaches were teeming with dead!”

“I suppose your fishy friends had yet to quit the shallows around Harlaw when the Others dumped their dead on them. While the lanky brutes tore the castle apart for booty, the tide came in. The dead may not drown, but they handle stumbling around in a vicious rip tide with singularly ill grace, still less when a few hundred angry fish-men are tearing them limb from limb. The dead men already moving inland took a bit of luck to bypass…well, more than a bit, but by the time we were in the thick of things it had become a proper feeding frenzy. After that, slipping Sea Song into one of Harlaw’s harbor caverns was simple.”

“You grey old bunch of goats snuck past a castle full of hulking raiders, ran to the docks through a mob of fish-men and dead men having at each other and managed to hide yourselves, ship and all, when at last the Others bothered to come looking?”

“Theon, look at us. We didn’t run everywhere. Between the Damphair’s ravings and four bad knees between Lanny and I, even a generous man would be pressed to call it ‘running.” Theon tried to wrap his mind around it. Aeron isn’t even old, really, spending so long in the Crow’s Eye’s clutches has just addled him. There were other people working Sea Song’s riggings, oars, rudder of course, but Theon could not well make them out and none of them came forward. Thralls, perhaps, or just smallfolk. He noticed too, the absence of his aunt Gwynesse. “Gwynny would not leave the castle.” The Reader said, supposing what was on Theon’s mind. “She told me that Ten Towers ought be hers, as she is seven years my elder. I bid her do with it what she would and took my leave of her and the castle both.” Diminished as losing his sons in Lord Balon’s rebellion had made him, the loss of his sister seemed to shrink him even more. I don’t doubt that should he live another year, there will be more gray in his hair than brown.

“I’m sorry, Uncle.” Theon said. The gods had seen fit to take Uncle Rodrik’s wife and sons, visit not one but two half-mad sisters on him and when at last he’d made his peace with being their caretaker, it looked to be that even that pittance was not vouchsafed him. I should say something more, Theon thought. “I know you did all you could to steer Asha on the best course in the days leading to the kingsmoot. There’s good Harlaw blood in her, tough like Mother and canny like you. It’s not your fault, nor Mother’s, that there’s Greyjoy blood in her too, pigheaded and bold and reckless.” Despite Theon’s words, the Reader did not smile. I suppose life has had all the few smiles it will of Rodrik Harlaw.

After seeing his mother wrapped in a bit of worn sail to keep her warm as best she’d be, Theon told his uncles where they were headed.

“We know the Others are taking their time with the islands, tearing down strongholds and scouring our shores. They may have missed the Lonely Light, spit of rock that it is.” he said, as if he believed in the madness tumbling out his face. “Even if they came upon it, so what? They’ll have smashed it up and moved on, left anyone alive to die at winter’s hand.” That line of thinking made Theon wonder. The islands are no great prize, not truly. Jon Snow said they were interested in places where people gathered in number. To his mind Casterly Rock was just such a place, hanging with Lannisport like a pair of ripened peaches. Well within reach of a cold hand. Theon had no idea what sort of pace the ice-ship could manage but without need for sail, capable of moving underwater…They could be there anytime, I think. Best we get to the Lonely Light and back before the Others see fit to move still further south. That wasn’t going to happen standing there and brooding, though. “Whatever remains of the Farwynds and their smallfolk will be much appreciated. Men to row, fight, work. Ships to carry us. No reason to leave coin on the table, Uncle.” There was no rebuke from the Reader, who looked as if making it as far as he had had taken the greater part of what strength he possessed. “Get some sleep, you’re dead on your feet. Keep my mother alive as well as you’re able. The burden is not on your shoulders any longer, Reader. I’ll carry us from here.” Theon said, louder. A few short orders later and Sea Song was moving, slowly drifting toward the mouth of the cave. Toward the war. Toward waters full of fish-men and dead men and ice-ships that can race beneath the waves as deftly as atop them. He was tired, cold, hungry, but Theon could not find it in himself to be afraid. An eternity ago he had sat at Robb Stark’s side, after they’d watched Maester Luwin loose Winterfell’s ravens. Well, I must be stupid then, he thought. Once free of the cavern the air got ever colder, the winds fanged and fickle. Theon clenched his teeth as he took up a position by the helmsman, a greyhair so old Theon wondered if he’d reaved during Lord Quellon’s time. The sky was filled with gray-black clouds, day or night irrelevant in the wake of the falling snow and frigid wind. “Get our spare sail over the deck.” Theon said, intent on getting as many of them under a roof of sorts as possible. Forget the Others, we’ll freeze to death in hours if we press on like this.

“Just how quick do you intend we get to the Lonely Light?” another man asked, looking on the wrong side of forty.

“Quick isn’t the word. We just need to get there, and when we do, we do.” Theon said, ignoring the man’s impudent manner. Theon wondered if the man would dare to so much as look Asha in the eye. At least there’s one person on this ship with venom in him yet, Theon thought, bringing out a torn bit of sail to put above his helmsman’s head.

“Many thanks.” The old man said, hands on the tiller with a not insignificant feel for the thing.

“You’ve been at Sea Song’s rudder a good while.”

“The Reader pulled me from the waters off Fair Isle when your father tried to win himself a crown. From that day I was a Harlaw man.” And all it took was my uncle making a place for you on his ship. No knighting, no buxom young wife with a fat dowry. The more Theon thought on it, the less he thought of it. Buying allegiance, nothing more. I doubt the Starks of old brought the Mormonts, the Umbers, the Manderlys, the Reeds into the fold with pretty daughters and pots of gold. They lived for each other, fought for each other, died for each other. Small wonder the Andals never sniffed the north.

“Do you think they’ll find us?” A soft, anxious voice called to Theon when he went under the makeshift roof on Sea Song’s deck. He turned to see a young woman no older than seventeen eyeing him closely. The islands were in her face but her dirty blonde hair bespoke the westerlands, likely borne by such a woman, sired by a reaver. “No.” Theon said. It didn’t even feel like a lie.

“There’s nothing to find out here, no one to chase. Aside from cold and hunger, I don’t see us having much problem reaching the Lonely Light.”

“And if we make it there? When we’ve got their seal-men and spotted whale wargs, what then?” Once, Theon would have laughed aloud at the stories of the Lonely Light. Once, I had ten fingers and might have married Ros just to please her- and to spite Lord Balon. He could see her as if she were standing in front of him, red hair and glorious bosom both. I might have kept her with me. Answered her jest with a “why not?”, maybe given her a babe before I rode south with Robb. Like as not I’d have died at the Red Wedding, and what would have been so terrible about that? Might have been I could stick Roose Bolton before he could kill Robb. Only when she asked again did Theon jerk himself out of his waking dream.

“I think Casterly Rock. Jaime Lannister was dispatched from Dragonstone to neutralize Cersei and then bring the westerlands to bear. Assuming he’s done that, the Rock is where he’ll be. If nothing else we can stick to that part of the plan and take all those golden dunces north with us for the trip to Winterfell.” She looked ready to press another query but the prickly man from before reappeared.

“Edyth, stop your bleating. You need something to do, go wait on Lady Alannys.” At once the girl vanished, leaving Theon perched on a barrel with who must have been her father for company.

“She favors her mother, and she’s lucky for that.” Theon said flatly. “Your looks would do her no favors.” The man gritted his teeth.

“She’s mine own get and doesn’t have sense to fill a shell.”

“She’s still alive. Sense or lacking it doesn’t amount to much when the dead men have torn your guts out or some toothy brute’s bitten your head off. And she’s survived this long having you for a father. A person doesn’t have to be iron to be hard.” The man’s mouth froze in a twist, as if he were lost for words. Likely he’s never heard a compliment of her before, much less from a Greyjoy. Even a ruined one.

“You said the Rock.”

“Aye, I did.”

“Then all the rest, meeting all them lords on Dragonstone, you were there?”

“Asha was, she’s the Greyjoy who matters now. I was there too, but only for lack of a better idea.” And because hurling myself into the sea failed utterly to kill me.

“Are they soft, then, the greenlanders?”

“Depends on the greenlanders. I saw a man who could hammer the Lord Captain into squished squid with one arm, Dothraki screamers who wanted nothing less than to charge their queen’s enemies with the beat of black dragon wings above them. I saw someone steal that same queen from that same dragon’s clutches just to yank his tail.” Despite the man’s worn, wary face, he gave the same amazed expression Edyth had at the mention of dragons. “Aye, dragons. Two vanished shortly after we landed on Dragonstone but I saw them send ship after ship to the bottom of Slaver’s Bay when battle joined out that way. White-and-gold, green-and-bronze, and the queen’s own pet. Black as ebon pearl, he was. With eyes bright and dark at the same time, red that made blood look like milk, red that would shame a ruby.” By the time Theon had finished, several other people had gathered ‘round, listening with rapt ears.

“The Crow’s Eye has a horn he claims can bind dragons to his will.” Another voice, one free of the muttering that had of late occupied it. Theon turned to see the Damphair looking at him from the crowd. “Dragonbinder. I heard it. It was a scream, a laugh, a death-wail and a roar all at once. The man who blew it died, his insides cooked through.”

“No doubt Euron’s been many a place, plundered everywhere from one end of the world to the other. Not Valyria, though. I met the only person with enough of the Freehold’s blood in her to count, and she didn’t strike me as the kind of person who’d make a crutch for those not meant to fly to fly. It seems to me more likely that the Valyrians made such horns and spread tales of them to grow the lie. More likely, indeed, that they made horns that would slay the blower. A lesson, in their purple eyes, to those who would presume to join them in the sky.”

The days passed slowly. Or so I suppose. Without the sun and moon to tell, it could be we’re sailing straight on into the grey sky. As Theon had said, they saw no trace of an ice-ship, not even a normal iceberg drifting past. Every so often Aeron would come to Theon to warn him against the Crow’s Eye and Theon would talk him off the plank, though it seemed a fool’s task to hope the Damphair would lose his crippling fear of his elder brother. Once someone spills Euron’s brains across Silence’s red deck, Aeron will be alright. I was when news came to me that Jon had pulped Ramsay’s worm face, that the Deadfort’s own hounds had been loosed on him. A dead man, a fish-man, an Other, whoever. The Crow’s Eye thinks himself a god in the making. Imagine the disappointment in his eyes when he’s gutted in front of all his lackeys. Thinking on his uncles tempered his mood, and a supper of half-frozen salmon pulled from the sea did not help.

“Fresh, though,” he said when he was presented with it, “and better by far than empty hooks.” He clapped the lad who’d spent all day (night?) bundled up with his pole out off Sea Song’s port side, the only angler who managed to fill his hook a quarter of his casts. “There’s a bag of silver in this for you, boy. Do make sure you see it through.” Theon said.

“Aye!” the lad cried, grinning despite his chattering teeth.

“Land!” came the cry, all eyes turning to the northwest. Theon squinted into the far darkness, at the slightly darker shape that loomed out of the gray world like a sea serpent bearing down on them. The Lonely Light was foremost among several other tiny islands that dotted around it, those same rocks coming into view as Sea Song got closer. A rat among moles, Theon opined. There were no trees on the windswept islands, no shelter but what could be built with supplies brought in from the Iron Islands proper. Themselves relying on what’s brought from the mainland. What the fuck is anyone doing living out here? Even House Farwynd’s seat was no more than a pittance of a stone tower with a whale oil beacon atop it. Seat, Theon thought derisively. Well, “seat” is relative. A privy is a seat as much any throne. The beacon had not gone out though, blazing forth like the sun when the sun itself would not show its face. Theon could hear too the barking of seals on the rocks, the very occasional huff of a spotted whale’s blowhole out still further in the endless grey that had once been the Sunset Sea. Life rules here still, Theon thought, his feelings matching the relieved chatter on deck. More than one hand clapped him on the shoulder, deferent mumbles and impressed mutters. Now I just have to hope some sunken icy bastard hasn’t followed us here, letting us press on if only to find out where we’re heading, a place that they might have missed. They came up on the chief island’s only dock, a dozen ships floating up and down the warped boards. Lord Gylbert Farwynd must have taken the greater portion of his strength to the kingsmoot. Gone to raid the Reach and sunk, kept about the islands and sunk, or else somewhere in this wide world I cannot guess.

With great effort Theon made it to the dock, after a harrowing descent down the gangplank all but blind in the grey darkness but when the beacon blazed overhead. Can’t they see us? Why don’t they keep the beacon on us so we can bloody see? The possibility that the Others had killed everyone after all crossed Theon’s mind. They wouldn’t have wasted a volley on this sorry pile of stones, anyhow. He was joined on the dock by the Damphair alone of his kin, intent it seemed on seeing for himself if the Crow’s Eye had dug his claws in even here. All the better. Rodrik belongs with Mother. Someone who had come along to Theon’s uneasiness croaked along behind him, it seemed unbothered by the unearthly look of the place they’d come to. She’s getting bigger, if only just. Taller. Must be they grow quick. The fish-men didn’t seem to spend much time as babes, if any, and certainly they weren’t born helpless squalling pink things. Of course not. Who has time to spend learning to walk and talk when you’re voracious fresh out of the womb, with a mouth full of needle teeth and claws to rend a man in twain? Theon let her go ahead, nostrils twitching, peering occasionally off the dock and down into the water. Only when it took them ten minutes to go ten feet did Theon try to spur her along.

“What is it?” Theon asked, trying to match the creature’s tongue without unnerving those around him. She straightened up and turned, yellow bug-eyes locked on him. Obviously she understood but either growing up away from her kind had denied her the learning needed to reply in kind or she didn’t think words were worth wasting on one among Theon’s kind. “Get on, then, we’re not staying long. I’ve got to find whoever’s in charge, get their people rallied and get gone while our luck holds.” For the first time Theon saw a fish-man make a face he recognized as the lipless mouth sealed shut in what might have been bemusement. Then her webbed hands flew out with truly astonishing force and Theon flew backward off the dock into the freezing water. Feeling like she’d snapped a rib he wormed to the surface, sucking in wind and crying out as his chest ached. Rough and tumble, hell, he thought, wheezing. There’s wild and then there’s savage. There was at least as much behind the fish-waif’s hands, spindly limbs and all, than in a strong man striking the same blow. A loud bark made Theon freeze, a sleek powerful body slipping past him near enough to make him piss himself. A shark, he thought, until he saw the earth-brown body. The sea lion’s almost wolfish head broke the surface, eyeing him warily with a knowing hazel gaze. “Oh, a fucking riot you are.” Theon grumbled, still wincing as he put a hand up to haul himself up to the dock. He froze all over again when he found himself staring at a fur boot, his party encircled by several people dressed as well for winter as their visitors were not. Fur gloves, fur hoods, thick caps. Are these ironborn or are they northmen? He gulped and pulled himself up. “Pardon the intrusion. Uhh…” A mermaid told me to come see what you lot were all about. “The islands aren’t safe for our people any longer. We came to take you with us, if you would.”

“We won’t.” one woman grunted, stocky as any Mormont.

“You should.” Theon replied, speaking before he really thought through angering an island full of hermits.“What’s out there’s got no qualms about putting the Lonely Light out but good-”

“Only ones who needed that light have gone two year, now. More.” Another islander, a man, interrupted. That Theon did not expect. Well, the Farwynds were always mad, none madder than the branch what rules these rocks.

“Two years? Who rules in Lord Gylbert’s stead?” He got a few smiles in reply, even a snigger from a small girl hiding behind her mother. There are three women, four, to every man, Theon realized. Gylbert must have taken all the men when he went.

“Farwynd.” the first woman said, smiling widely.

“Which one? Asha told me all three sons went with the father-” At his words the people of the Lonely Light laughed aloud, what men there were drowned out and how by the dozens of women’s’ voices.

“Sons and fathers. Fit for precious little.”

“And what little that is, they oft call big.” Another woman called, prompting a second round of laughter. Another hand, fair and soft, appeared from dock’s edge. Theon moved to pull whoever else had been pushed off up but half a dozen fishing spears levelled at him, preventing his approach. From the freezing gray water came a woman, one unquestionably of the Lonely Light. Her hair was a deep brown Theon had recently become acquainted with, her eyes were a bright hazel he would not soon forget. The fishwaif gave a gurgle. Theon blurted it out before he could stop himself.

“What the fuck?”

Of late, Theon had wondered if, ruined as he was, he would lose the ability to tell if a woman was beautiful. Not yet, he answered himself. She was taller than her fellows, clad in nothing where they were bundled as thickly as could be managed. Only when Theon continued to gape did angry muttering break out, several bundles held out from the crowd for the lady to take. Undoubtedly she was a lady, tall and lush where smallfolk were not.

“I am Theon Greyjoy. Here to take you and yours to safety.” he said, voice sounding weak and piping after all the laughter moments before. She didn’t respond, instead looking at the members of Theon’s party dismissively. Maybe I should have brought Mother.

“You are Lady Farwynd?” Her untroubled countenance hardened.

“Kelsie Farwynd, of the Lonely Light.” She said it as if it were a put-down, something unsightly.

“Lord Gylbert was your father, I take it?” Kelsie blinked, turning to her people.

“Her uncle. Milady’s mother, she were his elder sister.” The short woman said, eyeing Theon with fresh contempt. He wondered if it were particularly wise to bring up the laws of succession just now. Aeron mumbled something and Theon elbowed him hard in his bony ribs.

“Damphair, it’s time you got it through your sodden skull. Women rule beneath the waves. Mermaids, fish-heads, the Lady Farwynd. Your pissing about and splashing people with seawater’s not about to change that and if you don’t shut your teeth, you’ll get a thrashing you more than have coming.” Theon’s words got mutters from the islanders, surprised it seemed to see someone from the wider world accept the truth. Fuck, she might have five or ten pounds on me. Never mind a seaweed-strangled scarecrow like the Damphair.

“I’m not here on Gylbert’s behalf, Lady Kelsie.” Theon said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m here on yours, and mine, and everyone’s. Something has come, from the frigid waters of the furthest north. Our ships and castles are no defense against what they can bring to bear, the sea as it stands is wholly lost to us. The addled man who pressed for the Seastone Chair at the kingsmoot? There are dozens of petty lords just like him. Ladies, too, aye. Hundreds, all across the mainland. They don’t care about anything but their purses and their privileges, least of all the smallfolk who make their cushy lives possible and fight their wars when they get into snits with each other. If nothing else, your worthy people look to you. You needn’t feel your dry-land name is something belittling. Farwynd, of the Lonely Light. Their lady, their leader. I’m not here to dispute that in the least. I don’t want to involve myself in your affairs any more than must be done. Just now, that means taking you and yours from a place you cannot leave should trouble come. Lovely as you are, I’d like there to be still more Farwynds in the world after you and never mind arse-headed orange banners with stupid black ships on them. A field of brown, maybe, with grey spots and twin hazel rings.” He tried to find the Theon that had spoken to Seaworth’s mermaid in the cavern near Dragonstone. Kelsie walked toward him, face set. This close, Theon could see her teeth were just a bit sharper than normal. As much beautiful woman as wild animal. Her hand came up and took his own, ripping off the cloth with a single motion. More than one person hissed in surprise at the sight, but Theon only pulled his other glove off, bringing his hands to bear. From the left, Ramsay had taken his little and middle finger. From the left, his pointer, middle and third. “I’m missing some toes as well, among other things.” Theon said clearly. Kelsie, to his astonishment, moved her own flawless hands, soft despite her hard living, over his.

“I know your arms.” she said finally. “A golden kraken, on a black sea.” When she said no more, Theon only agreed.

“Aye.”

“A kraken may lose its arms, did you know that?”

“Only too well.” In the flesh, in the mind.

“Did you know that given time, its arms grow back?” Theon swallowed.

“Are we talking of sea monsters or something else, my lady?”

“One thing is the other, Theon Greyjoy.” She closed her fingers around those he had left and did not recoil, did not shy away. Theon found himself finding the answer, too, to whether he had lost the ability to desire a woman. Not yet, he thought brusquely.

Sea Song pushed off a short hour later, the Farwynd ships keeping close. Kelsie Farwynd stayed close as well, untroubled by the cold. Like Mormont, Theon remembered.

“I suppose I see now what she meant.” Theon said, when it was just the pair of them at the ship’s prow.

“Who?”

“The mermaid in the cave on Harlaw. She said there was reason aplenty to come out to your islands. I thought…I don’t know. That I’d find something more akin to a weapon, I suppose.” He shrugged lamely. “Not that I’m much worth wasting a weapon worth wielding on.” Kelsie didn’t reply, squinting north.

“What is that?” she asked, pointing.

“Your pardon, my lady. I see nothing but gray sea and gray sk-” A plume of bluish-white light lit up the night, something unbearably bright at horizon’s edge that gleamed brighter than the sun and had Theon blinking and stumbling about helplessly. He gripped the deck rail, waiting for the sound of grinding ice. When it did not come, he opened his eyes and looked north to see the light had yet to dim. At least now we can see, he thought. More plumes came and went, though they were nothing compared to the first. It looked, of all things, like the Others were trying to get an enormous fire going. Even as he tried to puzzle it out chaos reigned around him, people shouting on every deck to turn with all speed.

“No.” Theon called, voice carrying to quiet the mob. What the fuck do you mean “no,” Greyjoy? He stood on Sea Song’s rail, hand on a rope, so all could see him. “The Farwynd ships, save the smallest, will sail for Casterly Rock following Sea Song, according to the original Dragonstone plan. I will press on alone with the remaining ship. Perhaps a single foundering ship will allay any suspicions of the Others’ that there is still more prey in these waters.” They looked at him as if he’d started gurgling again. “Before I thought we were far enough away from them that time was in abundance. Just now, I want you all to get gone as fast as can be managed. I’d rather lose one ship ready to be lost than thirteen, with all souls. I’ll not have so many lives on my conscience.” There I go again, blurting out whatever springs up in there. What kind of Iron islander am I? What kind of Greyjoy? Rather than debate with him they set to shuffling from ship to ship, Sea Song taking on as many as it would hold while the rest of the smallest ship’s crew dispersed among the rest. Theon stepped briskly off the Reader’s deck, swallowing as he took the measure of his new command. This would not have made it much further than beyond sight of the Lonely Light’s beacon, let alone reach Casterly Rock. In short, it fit his purposes perfectly. He heard more people coming aboard, turned to see Kelsie Farwynd, the old helmsman and a few young men eager to leave boyhood behind on the deck. Bringing up the rear was the fishwaif. “My lady, I can ask no such thing of you-”

“As I recall, you didn’t.” she interrupted.

“What about your people?”

“They are in safe hands. Safer still if they were yours, missing fingers and all. As you’re headed toward the danger though, not away, with you is not where they belong.”

“Heading?” the greyhair asked, looking like he had more years to his name than all the young men put together.

“North.” Theon replied, without the slightest bit of reservation. “We can’t let them get up to their fuckery where we can’t see it. It’s time we pissed on something of theirs.” The old man grinned, showing still more teeth than remained to Theon. The reaver beneath the grey hairs.

“Aye.” he said, turning to the rudder. Again, he found himself alone with Kelsie Farwynd.

“It is as you said, my lady.” he murmured, hand coming to rest on the mast. “My arms grow back.”

Chapter 18: Sansa II

Chapter Text

First Frost made no attempt to flee, even as Sansa led the Other and his captors back down into the crypts. Even as she kept her pace even, slow and deliberate, Sansa could feel her heart hammer in her chest. This is too much, she thought, trying to keep her breathing steady. I wonder if he can hear the difference between forced breaths and natural calm. She wanted nothing more than to be the girl she was again, head full of knights and songs and whiling the days away with Jeyne Poole or the daughters of Father’s visiting vassals. To be Baelfea no longer, who grows to overshadow Sansa Stark by the hour. Though she could keep a straight face, the hounds were not so easily stilled. They were a nervous yelping chorus, ready to bolt pell-mell heedless of direction. No so when I woke in the kennel, or when they saw Myranda come up from the frozen earth. Speaking of, the dead girl seemed no worse for wear from Howling Wind’s mother seizing her strings, standing just too straight to be normal. The dead don’t fidget, after all. Their muscles don’t ache, their eyes don’t twitch. They had gone green again, as well. I don’t think she was much expecting to be kicked out. Nor had Myranda acted mindlessly. Her stiff dead hands had reached only for me. Perhaps Her Grace believes me threat enough to try killing before their armies proper are brought to bear. Had it been for the sake of the war, though? Sansa had not forgotten the look the Other-queen had given her when she walked in Howling Wind’s mantle. More like to keep her cherished daughter safe, and hang the war. First Frost’s frigid presence intensified as he got closer, passing Sansa it seemed purposefully slowly before limping back into the crypt of the Hungry Wolf. Despite his wounds, his bruises, his rent limbs, Sansa got the distinct impression that the Other was not so displeased with his lot as he might otherwise be.

“The next time you come out of there will be the last.” Sansa said, trying to keep tears from dribbling down her face. It was all just so exhaustingly overwhelming…

“Yes.” The she-Singer who had run Sansa’s words through the True Tongue and First Frost’s back in turn at the base of the broken tower fulfilled such a function now. I must ask her name when I get a moment. Just now though, Sansa felt too tired to do more than stiffly leave the crypts. The Other’s eyes followed her as far as they could, burning bright blue all the way. The pack kept pace with her out of sorts as they were, though whether on account of First Frost’s presence or some bestial fear of the dark Sansa had no notion. They are not used to being chased, she thought. Not used to being prey. Something is clinging to their heels, a hunger in the darkness.

Up in the cold open air the pack was somewhat more at ease, peering back every few trots to the entrance of the crypts, where the hungry thing that ran within their minds dwelled. Perhaps the kings, Sansa pondered. The Kings of Winter and their stone wolves, their steely spirits free to wander now the swords across their laps have gone. People ran to and fro, Jon’s people, northmen and Valemen and Free Folk and more, yet Sansa could only sit on a nearby barrel and bury her head in her hands.

“Alayne Stone.” Dimly the words rang like tinkly bells in the tempest that whirled in Sansa’s mind. Let’s see Howling Wind try something in this, Sansa thought ruefully. “Alayne.” The name came again and hands with it, over Sansa’s shoulders. When she looked up she found herself looking at Myranda Royce, as boisterous as she’d been when they were in the Vale together. When I was merely Alayne Stone, Littlefinger’s bastard daughter. When my hair was dyed brown, like yours. After the Eyrie and the Gates of the Moon had come time in the hands of House Bolton, of course. Time best left forgotten. “There you are.” Myranda sat down on a crate, the wood creaking in protest.

“Hello, Myranda. I’m sure you must know by now-”

“-that you’ll never call me Randa, no matter how many times I ask. That you’re a Stark, not a Stone. That you have red hair instead of brown, and even left to its own wild devices manages to look better than my own!” Myranda finished in mock protest. Sansa found herself endeared to the Royce girl, who seemed to sense her weariness and besides, was able to finish Sansa’s sentences. Or at least Alayne’s. I doubt she’d have much to say to what Baelfea’s seen and done. Despite her small, pretty mouth, Sansa knew Myranda Royce seldom ever closed it. Though, whether because she’s a hopeless gossip or just wants to appear the brainless buxom butterball, I’m not certain. Certainly Myranda was keener than the Lords Declarant who had sought to pluck Sweetrobin out from Littlefinger’s clutches, but that was like saying a man was handsomer than Tyrion Lannister or Sandor Clegane. “Oh!” Myranda cried suddenly, pulling something from her pocket. An apple, Sansa saw, that ran red-and-yellow without ever truly going orange. “As if I needed extra difficulty staying in my seams… our orchards’ apples have been going into pies I’d sooner marry than most men, and happily. At least a well-cooked pie will stay warmer than a man, and keep its sweetness longer, too.” Myranda said, shaking the apple in front of Sansa. Despite herself she gave a giggle. “There’s a laugh, and I didn’t even have to barb any of these passing knightly fools to do it.”

“Speaking of knights, this is scarce a place for you, my lady.”

“You still less, dear princess. Come, come, let’s get us into some dreadful mischief and leave this awfulness to men with steel in their hands- and in their pants- for battle that the Battle of the Bastards scarcely whetted.” Does she not see my skull-capped branch? The wild storms behind my eyes? Does she think I need merely drop this stick and brush my hair to half become Alayne Stone again?

“Myranda, the last time I got into mischief with another girl of high birth, it didn’t go so well.” Sansa said wearily. Much to her dismay, Myranda Royce’s demeanor only brightened as they walked back to the keep.

“Oh? Have you been gossiping with another, my princess? I’m wounded! I knew I should have come to you sooner, but it seemed you were seldom at dinner and even when you were, I thought it best you should spend the time with Prince Brandon and his wife. I haven’t seen that honey-haired wildling in the hall in some time, Val, perhaps it was her you were off listening at keyholes with!” Her words made Sansa’s brow furrow and mouth tighten. Val. I had forgotten her. They had burned the Hungry Wolf, Bran had arrived with Meera…and that was the last Sansa could remember of her. Winterfell is a huge place, only bigger with the additions, and yet I’ve not seen so much as a honey-colored hair in months. One might think Val was hiding. That thought set Sansa ill at ease, her mind far from Myranda Royce’s prattling. I’ll have to find her. She is precious to Jon, he would take it badly if something happened to her out in the Winter Town or an outbuilding when he’d want her in the keep with us.

“…by the way, how have things gone with dear Harry?” In years past, Sansa would have thought nothing further of the question. Having spent so much time in the proximity of Howling Wind, quite apart from cold bothering her no more and being able to see clearly in the dark, Sansa could hear too the difference between a voice at calm and one trying to sound so. Ah, so that’s what she’s after.

“He seems perfectly chivalrous, if a little tactless sometimes.”

“If that’s what you can call tumbling peasant girls without a care in all the world.” Myranda said, making a face. “I hear he’s got a Stone or two of his own, in fact.”

“Alys, yes, and another on the way. If the gods are good, the girl will have an easy time of it and bear a healthy baby.” That Sansa knew Harry had bastard children seemed to confound Myranda. “Littlefinger told me, and besides, Lord Arryn told me himself. He was quite candid about it.”

“Oh-” It was Sansa’s turn to interrupt.

“Lady Royce, suffice it to say that it’s quite unlikely Lord Harrold and I will marry. If you still have designs on him, as you did before Alayne Stone appeared, feel free to pursue them. Alayne Stone was a mummery, a farce, and one in markedly ill taste. I am Sansa Stark and always have been and will be until I die.” And after, Sansa thought. Myranda was silent for the rest of the walk back toward the Royces’ quarters, cheeks pink. Only when she laid her hand on the door did she speak, her almost simpering manner gone.

“I apologize, Princess Sansa. Clearly, you’re made of stronger stuff than I accounted for on first taking your measure.”

“You need not apologize, Lady Royce. Just know that I’m not the starry-eyed maiden with songs and knights in her head you surely saw when you first laid eyes on Alayne Stone. Time with Joffrey, Littlefinger and Ramsay Snow proved quite able to silence every song and slay every knight in here.” She touched her hand to her head.

“More’s the pity, princess.” She turned to go, stopping only when the door was already half-open. “Oh. Speaking of dejected beauties, you haven’t happened to spot Mya Stone, have you?” Just what I needed, another worry.

“No, but surely she came with the rest of Lord Nestor’s retainers?”

“That’s just what I thought, and yet I haven’t spotted her once in all my time at Winterfell. At least there’s space enough and more for all of us…ah, well. Mayhaps she’s off sulking or else spending time with people from outside the Vale for once. I’d bet a golden dragon she’s still cut up over Mychel Redfort marrying Ys.” Yes, Ysilla. Daughter of Lord Yohn Royce and your cousin, of sorts. It was as if Sansa was drawing a great family tree on a parchment in her mind, the stillness and the thought required to keep everyone straight enough to slow the storms, but not stop them. “Lord Horton might have left Mychel to live awhile before killing him with marriage, eh?” Myranda asked. “Before killing Mya too with heartbreak, true.”

“What possessed him to push Mychel into marrying? He’s scarcely older than I am.”

“He might say that once a man is knighted, it’s due time for him to wed. I say old Horton must be playing every angle of the board. In the event handsome Harrold Arryn dies without an heir- unlikely, as our falcon’s got an egg in every nest- the issue of overlordship of the Vale will surely spring its truly ugly head. House Royce of Runestone might be eminent for a time, but Lord Yohn’s day is done and with only Andar left of his crop of three boys, and yet unmatched, it would seem the best way to secure their ascent to the Eyrie would be to have Andar marry you. A princess for a bride, the beautiful sister of the King in the North…aye, that would push things well in Runestone’s favor.” Small wonder, then, that Lord Yohn broached the issue with Jon so quickly after the Battle of the Bastards. He must have been kicking himself for shrugging his daughter off on a mere Redfort when she might have been Queen in the North.

“What has that to do with the Redforts, though?” Sansa asked, keen for once on something other than the ceaseless tempests that raged whenever she closed her eyes. Myranda shrugged.

“Mine own father has only a single son in turn, unwed and my elder. Should this lunacy with the walking corpses prove the end of the Royces of Runestone and the Royces of the Gates of the Moon, any children Ys and gallant Ser Mychel have will succeed to the titles of both. Should Lord Horton live to see it, there’s an outside but not impossible chance the grandchild of such a match might sit the weirwood throne in the Eyrie’s Great Hall.”

“A dozen coins will land on edge before such a thing will come to pass. Lord Arryn may skirt the whole issue by marrying you and giving you a burbling babe to keep you out of mischief.” Myranda gave a laugh that sounded half genuine to Sansa.

“Me, keeping out of mischief? I thought you smarter than that, princess. Besides, what with your stern Stark demeanor, it falls to me to do mischief enough for both of us.” She ought ask Howling Wind how incapable of mischief I am. She ought ask First Frost. Surely word had reached the canny Myranda Royce of Sansa’s talking their prisoner down lest a lizard-lion devour him whole. Perhaps she’s genuinely concerned for me, even if she also desires to marry Harry. A small curious face peeked out the door, going white at the sight of Sansa, wide eyes locked on the skull-capped walnut branch she held. Myranda Royce, quick of eye if not of limb, did not fail to take notice and with a harsh word sent the younger girl back to the hidden gaggle of unmarried maidens from the Vale, no doubt a ploy by their families to keep them out of sight of any wildling men. Shows what they know. There are hardly any left, and those that are have spearwives to reckon with.

“Princess Sansa.” The voice was so unlike Myranda’s that for a moment Sansa wondered if she were hearing things. When she turned she spotted Brienne’s squire, the Payne boy. Perhaps the only westerman in all of Winterfell. His appearance made her think on Tyrion for the second time in an hour. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. He had sent the raven bearing Daenerys Targaryen’s seal to Winterfell, which meant he had evaded capture by Cersei…surely, he would be in the dragon queen’s company when she came north? If she did. Nothing had been heard of Jon, or his companions, after they had sailed south from White Harbor. A long silence, over many months. Not very difficult to think things have gone ill on Dragonstone. Nobody had ever voiced their doubts, at least to Sansa, perhaps because it was her idea for Jon to court the mysterious queen, freshly returned from exile, in the first place. No doubt some must think me foolish now, trying to play matchmaker and see the two made one, like in a tale. Nobody else was about to bring dragons into play against the sea of dead men that raged around the outer ring without respite, though, so Sansa easily brushed away any doubts of her own. No one had seen Ghost since he’d last departed Winterfell in the days before Jon’s own departure, yet Sansa knew he was fine wherever he’d gone. He comes and goes as he will, as does Jon. A direwolf, not a dog. Besides, Sansa had known a dog wilder perhaps than his masters would have liked. The North is a place for wild creatures, fit for them. Direwolves, shadowcats, white owls with eyes that shine like stars…

The Payne boy coughed and Sansa blinked herself back into the moment at hand. How is it he’s been separated from his charge?

“Where’s Brienne?” Sansa asked. Only when she took the measure of his ashen face, his grief-filled eyes, did she realize what must have happened. It was Oathkeeper that Howland Reed held, I might have known then. She would never have been parted from that sword. Half of Ice, Father’s own steel. The thought made her shiver. “Where did she fall?” Sansa asked, Myranda Royce and all her courtly games quite forgotten.

“We were on the ring, out facing the wolfswood. These…things came out of the trees, with the dead men and the spiders. A pair of them made off with my lady after they disarmed her.” Sansa was sure she’d misheard.

“They what?”

“They took Oathkeeper from her and flung it away. Then one of them grabbed her up and off they went, back into the forest.” She can’t be far, then.

“Podrick, worry not for Brienne of Tarth. If she can overmatch Sandor Clegane, she can certainly prove the better of a few lanky savages. Just now, I want you to find Val. Some call her the wildling princess, though she’s not partial to the title. Honey-colored hair in a long braid. Do you know her?”

“Yes. The k- er, His Grace was fond of her. Is. Uh, is fond. Of her.” he said, tripping over his tongue as oft he did.

“Good. You find Val and when you do, bring her to my room.” He did not look any less worried.

“What about you, princess?”

“I’m going to find our blue beauty.” Sansa replied, turning to Myranda Royce.

“Do forgive me. I’m off to make northern mischief.”

“Say no more, Princess Sansa. I ought be minding these cheeping chicks anyway.” With that the older girl vanished behind the door. Sansa made her way to her room, to where the mirror that had been hers since she could remember stood. Arya needed no mirror. She never checked to see if she had leaves in her hair, dirt on her face or mud on her dress. She always did, but more so she lived a life outside such vanities. It wasn’t her own face Sansa wanted to spot, though. If I can go out without really going out, so much the better. I needn’t give Howling Wind another opportunity to wreak havoc behind Winterfell’s walls. Though she gripped the looking glass until her shaking made her reflection ripple, there was no forthcoming glimpse of blue eyes. Tarth blue or otherwise. Finally she moved to the window, staring out across the breadth of Winterfell into the far treeline, the edge of the wolfswood. Dead men coursed from the trees even then, looking like ants from so far away. Once they might have terrified me, she thought, completely calm. Before I knew what bid them walk again. Howling Wind and her mother. First Frost. The Lords of the Long Night. Before too, I saw Branch and his kind scythe them down like so much wheat. Her thoughts wandered over the she-Other in the mantle. I never wanted her, I wanted Lady. Only Lady. The part of me that might have grown into more than a stupid girl fumbling at all that’s mystic like a dockhand with a slippery fish. Bran would be more suited to this, she knew. Bran has a wife and son now to tend to. I have nobody to leave behind. No Lady to mourn my passing. Indeed, perhaps it’s due time she and I are reunited. Summer’s still out there, in thrall of the Night King. Perhaps I can get him back for Bran, in a way. Or just stop the Night King from desecrating his bones any further. She shut her eyes tight, then opened them, looking past the wall, the earthen rings, the black line of trees that hid the enemy from every eye. Save two.

Dimly she could remember a kindred spirit, one that stood on two legs and quite oblivious to all around her to be seen, heard, smelled. Still, the spirit had been warm and loving, had held her when she was small and more than earned trust. The world had been warm and loving too, blue above and green about, with nary a cold breeze to trouble her. When she blinked, that memory faded, as it always did. Quicker than last time, and she knew it would fade quicker still when next it came. If it did. Just now, the world was cold, dark, without a single other voice to join her own to. It did not matter. There had been others, once, but they were hazier memories still than the spirit who had made for her a place in the world. Now it was just her, running without respite in a world in darkness. She’d been afraid at first of course, cold, hungry, but those feelings too faded the longer she ran in the night that did not end. Even with no call to eat or sleep she did not reach its end, nor did the light in the darkness once show its lovely silver face. Once there had been more, to the world and to her, but no longer. A shadow was all she was, barely there and nearly gone. Then came the Call, mesmerizing and utterly undeniable. She shot straight for it, whatever it was, answering as loudly as she could manage. The shadows lifted, the mists parted, and she found herself bounding headlong into a place she remembered. Shapes blundered about, harsh hoarse cries of alarm broke the night’s silence and sharp glittering things lunged out at her, seeking to stick her as the prey’s antlers had once stuck her mother. The cold points found no purchase, for she was no more flesh than blood, no more blood than bone. A hungry face leaned out of the night, mouth agape, and the body that wore it had only time to raise an arm before she was on it, pulling it to ground without a second thought. Her teeth found the long bone in its arm, splintering it in its wrapping of cold stringy meat while its owner screamed. She found its throat next, locking her jaws around the skull and ripping it from its moorings before crunching it between her teeth. Though chaos seethed and raged like a wildfire in all directions, she had ears only for the next note of the Call. There were more of the thing, of whatever she had just killed, bounding away as fast as they could, and things like men but weren’t men that milled about like livestock, utterly unable to withstand her fury. There were others as well, quicker than any man and stronger than any, too. It didn’t matter. They were meat, flesh and blood and bone, no more. Shrieking things with twice the legs she had that only shrieked and squealed when her spectral teeth crunched through their hard bodies like they were roasted chicken, the same as the kindred spirit had once fed her from her own selfless hand. Another cold tooth bit into her shoulder. Or would have, were she still one of the countless creatures big and small, hot and cold, that called this world home. She rounded on her newest attacker, at once flinging its cold body to the hard-frozen earth. She was the larger by far, looming over her fallen foe, muzzle locked in a snarl. A thin wisp of beard, a shriveled shrunken face, clear liquid oozing from its mouth and nose. Bright eyes, bright as stars, that dimmed when the wound she’d given took its toll. Movement caught her gaze and for a moment she was overjoyed, one of her own drawing near. A brother, she knew. But his movements were stiff and no breath fogged the air in front of his muzzle. Behind him plodded a dead man of uncommon size and one alike to the creature whose clear cold blood dripped still from her teeth. What fear she might have felt the lightless world had taken from her and besides, what could they do to her that had not already been done?

Sansa stood at the window, unable to do anything more than listen to the chaos brewing in the wolfswood. Cracking ice, shrill cries of pain, the brutes’ harsh bellowing in the old tongue. The howling of a direwolf. The wolfswood. Not the Otherwood, not the wightwood or the brutewood or the webwood. At last the tide from the trees faltered, dead men rushing to put themselves between whatever had erupted into their midst and the cold beings who drove them. As if I didn’t know. Feeling returned to her legs and in an instant she was off. Her fist pounded on Bran’s door so fast Sansa couldn’t hear each separate knock and when it opened, she found herself facing down half a dozen nocked arrows. How does one take a crannogman by surprise? Sansa found herself thinking. By accident, of course. No doubt the wolfswood has them thinking the castle’s about to come down!

“Sansa, what’s-”

“Bran, reach for Summer! I tried to…I don’t know, I suppose look for him out in the forest, and instead I found Lady, who found him for me!” Her nephew, to his credit, did not cry out at her knocking nor her voice just shy of a shout. All he did was move his grey eyes, wide with surprise, from his mother’s face, to his father’s, to his aunt’s.

“Sansa, Summer’s dead.” Bran, you saw the grotto sure as Meera and I did. What does death mean in a place like this?

“So was Lady, but not completely. A bit of her lived, lives in me, else I could not wreak my mischief on the Others’ heads as I’ve done. You are by far the better warg, I’m sure if you tried you could have Summer return to you.” In one form or another. “A cup of wine may spill, but all that’s needed is to pour another cup from the cask.”

“What about the cask, Sansa? What happens when it goes empty?”

“Better then, to mourn the wine spilled on the floor and let a second cup go untasted? Wine is meant for drinking and life meant for living.” I must sound half-mad. Her euphoria did not fade though, even in the midst of anxious glances between prince and princess. Finally, Bran bit his lip and sat down in a chair. Betraying his experience, Sansa thought wryly. I always forget to sit down first and when I wake up, I’m lying on the ground somewhere. Meera kept Howland near, letting him see his father was alright. The baby mumbled, not sounding convinced. Sansa sat on the edge of the bed, so terribly excited it was a moment before she managed to follow Bran out to the wolfswood.

Lady was bringing down another brute when Sansa found her again. They were spectacularly afraid of her; a feeling Sansa had never thought to experience. They were just tall enough for their heads to be out of reach on foot but bowling them over quite removed that obstacle. Where’s Summer? Sansa thought, Lady snapping her head about to locate him. Why, with Hodor, she answered herself a second later. With the Night King. Even as she ran, Sansa could feel the contempt rising. King of what? A few wandering wights? Of miscreated hapless creatures like himself? It was Howling Wind’s mother who’s bidding the Lords of the Long Night did. Her and her husband, wherever he is. Sansa wondered whether killing him, if indeed he lived at all and happened to turn up, would much stop the Others’ push south. Lady killed a half dozen in the wolfswood and nobody called a halt then. Her quarry had gone further into the forest, where the trees were close and tall and old. Webs covered nearly everything, but they proved no barrier to Lady, who did not even cause the frozen dew to scatter off the silken strands. Summer may not have had a scent to follow but tufts of fur in the webs betrayed his passing. Lady will find him sooner or later. A glimpse of white in the high darkness of the tree branches Lady disregarded as just another ice spider but when the soft hoot of an owl was forthcoming, she stopped. I know that hoot well. Lady looked up to find the bird perched primly on the lowest branch of a massive pine tree. No doubt she’s behind its blue eyes sure as I’m behind Lady’s. It did not appear alarmed, for ferocious as the direwolf was and spectral at that, Lady could not fly. It took off, unrushed, soaring silently ahead. Lady had only to maintain a saunter to keep up. Mischief to put any of Myranda Royce’s to shame. Sansa didn’t like following Howling Wind’s course. As miraculous as the last odd year had been, she was certain her fumblings must seem like just that to someone much the more practiced. Well, she hasn’t killed me yet. Either she won’t, or she can’t. The trees parted to reveal a ruined fastness in the wolfswood, a relic from the time of the First Men. There is nothing so close to Winterfell. Lady has traveled far. It alone among the countless trunks and boulders was untouched by webs, and Sansa could see several figures standing on its ruined ramparts. Ramparts. They’re scarcely at head-height, a giant could reach over them and easily snatch up a defender. As she closed with the ruin, the hairs on Lady’s neck stood up. At the edge of her hearing a low humming could be heard, louder as she got still closer to the stone wall. The owl promptly returned to the arms of the one who’d sent it, Howling Wind’s hooded head looking down at Lady from the top of the ruin.

With her were several of the Others Sansa had spotted the last time she was in Howling Wind’s company. One wore woven web, his bow ever at hand. The other wore plate-ice and in his hand was a sword of the like Sansa had never seen before. That’s not razor-ice any more than it is common steel. It was black, wholly black, as if the Other had reached up to pluck a sliver of starless night out of the sky. He did not feel its point as men like Lyn Corbray sometimes had at the Eyrie, oft to unnerve. In Sansa’s opinion, it only showed how insecure the man was. There was not a trace of insecurity in the Other who held the black sword’s face. He has an older man’s stillness. Something of Roose Bolton came to Sansa then, but he had never been able to hide the lie behind his dirty ice-colored eyes. He turned away from Lady and there was a quick utterance in the True Tongue. Howling Wind’s mother appeared next, and she was as striking a figure as Sansa remembered. Lady was not so taken aback, though, even baring her teeth at the queenly figure wrapped in spidersilk, ice, and diamonds. She paid the direwolf no mind, blue eyes moving to the western treeline. Out stepped the Night King, followed by Summer, Hodor and who knew how many wights. No unseen barrier, Lady observed, hummed between her and the Others’ underling. Now, Bran! Sansa cried. There was no answer, no hint that her brother had made it as far as she had. Lady, ignorant of any plan, simply bounded for the Night King. He whipped his crooked spear off his back, planted his feet- and Lady knocked him to the web-strewn frozen earth, teeth crunching down on his arm. His eyes went wide, his nostrils flared but there was no outcry of pain, only the mob of dead rushing to get him away from Lady. Sweet, simple Hodor, who might have been a wall that could talk for all the Sansa who had known him cared, went down when Lady ripped a leg from his heavy plodding body. What power laid in Lady’s jaws, Sansa did not know, but limbs they parted from the bodies in the wights moved no more, unlike when it was swords that did the parting. The same went for blue-eyed heads. Eerie snapping things that merely grew back when taken by axes snapped their last after Lady pulled them from their shoulders. Only when she felt the Night King’s knee pop between her teeth did the hum kick up, forcing her away from her fallen, helpless prey. No, Sansa thought, as Lady’s teeth snapped shut on empty air. She shied away from the impenetrable wall, no longer a danger, but the Night King did not rise. If anything, stirring in the snow and dirt, breathing through gritted teeth and eye twitching, Sansa was only reminded how unremarkable he was. He bleeds like we do. She turned to the ruin, from which the Others watched impassively. Howling Wind’s dainty hands were sliding out of sight, back beneath her splendid mantle. Then again, I knew she was no helpless maiden in a tower, as I was when trapped in the Red Keep. Were it her in my place, she’d have brought the castle down on her way out. If only Summer was Summer, instead of just another wight! There would be no barrier between the Night King and certain death then. Sansa’s tested patience, Lady’s frayed nerves, it was enough to make her scream. Enough to make Lady howl, and howl she did. It was no common cry that left her then, for she had no lungs to empty of air and no limit to how deep her call could sound. Sansa found herself joining in (or had she been the one to start?) and it was as if all those who had gone before, every member of every pack since the first packs ran, were singing through her. Vaguely Sansa caught sight of the snow growing brighter. It’s the moon, Sansa thought. We are stronger with the moon. The Others, to a one, let out cries of surprise or irritation. Through Lady’s eyes, Sansa watched the wintery queen wrap an arm protectively around her daughter while the rest made do with raised hands. Having seen what she had of the Others prior, she found herself understanding. It’s not just the sun that gives them such grief, it’s light itself. Small wonder then the wolves should so love the moon, full of its own radiance, when the night by right belong to the Others and their ilk. There was stirring and Sansa felt her insides freeze when Howling Wind, eyes protected by her deep hood, pulled Brienne of Tarth onto her feet and into view with a single slender hand.

Frost immediately spiderwebbed down Brienne’s deep blue pauldron, a blue that could not hope to rival that which shone in her eyes. No wight, Sansa saw at once. You are not so blunt an instrument as to simply smash all aside with an endless tide of dead. Instead Lady felt the same as she had when she’d locked gazes with the white owl. Using Brienne as a Myrish eye, Sansa realized. One well-fit to seeing in the light of the full moon. Ire replaced ice inside her and she howled again. Lady, Sansa, one was the other and both were under the moon in all her might, in all her power. One the Others have never touched. Lady’s here-and-gone body was given full shape, if briefly, and Sansa could feel the hole that Lady’s death had bored into her being filling up, filling in, filling over. Flesh has no power here, even the cold kind that can pull a portcullis off its frame. We are in a world of spirit now, where bodies are made of feeling. That notion seemed evident to Howling Wind through Brienne as well, and it was one that by the look on both their faces she fancied not one bit. The Call sounded again, and to Lady’s elation she could hear voices she thought she’d forgotten join in. Her silent brother to the north, something so precious in his protection, her regal sister to the south, setting a city full of men to panic…but it was the wild chorus of cries, carried by a savage booming voice wild to the bone and deeper, that made Summer twitch and jitter.

“You know that voice.” Bran’s own came from everywhere, from nowhere. “As sure as I do. Hear it, flesh-of-mine-own, and run beneath the moon again.” The rich howl that echoed off the stones and trees came again. “Hear him. Alive, alive.” The stiff frostbitten fur began to thaw. The gashes the wights had opened in Summer’s flesh were not so deep, so red, as they had been when Sansa had first found the clearing. “Remember the taste of prey you hunted together, so that you may hunt together again.” One filthy, ragged boy is much like another, and not Jon nor I had seen him in years. No doubt the Umber lands had orphans aplenty after Robb’s ride south. The Smalljon paid Ramsay in his own coin. Summer’s nose twitched, as a wight’s never would. All the while, the Others were beside themselves trying to get their princess out of harm’s way. Get her gone back to the Land of Always Winter then, my cold lords. Sansa thought. This is a place for wolves. While Summer, returning from death a piece at a time before their eyes, drew the Others’ gazes, Howling Wind’s own eyes, and Brienne’s, never left Lady. Leaving the direwolf Sansa reached for the winter princess, imagining a hand stretching out to trace the she-Other’s perfect oval face. Sansa held Brienne in her mind, so stolidly that Howling Wind could not fail to notice. I would have my blue beauty back. It was the waterfall Sansa showed her then, the one at the end of the passage in the crypts. She pictured Howling Wind on the other side of the wall of water, outside Winterfell and thus whatever magics within it held the Others at bay so far. If spottily. Sansa wondered if Branch would be of service translating the True Tongue just then or if he’d be too busy railing against such a dialogue. Howling Wind’s mouth became a hard line. Sansa was shown in turn the fallen leaves of autumn curling in on themselves, turning white with frost. Cairn stones covered under a fine icy sheen. Disbelievingly, Sansa recalled First Frost and at a gasp from Howling Wind she knew the bargain had been struck.

Whoever the prisoner was to Howling Wind, Sansa could not find it in herself to care. Just then she was preoccupied with plucking Brienne from the clutches of the Others without any harm coming to her, a door fast closing if her bluish lips and pale frosted face was any sign. When Sansa pulled away from Howling Wind she found she was on the wall as well, her normal two-legged red-haired self. In the flesh, utterly without recourse. Snarling caught her attention and she turned just in time to see the Night King go to earth again under Lady’s weight, her heart leaping in her chest at the sight of Summer, hale and hearty, tearing into the cold leather and the flesh beneath it. That’s our part done, Sansa thought hurriedly, trying to will herself back into Lady before Howling Wind’s surprise kept her from simply throwing Sansa off the wall as if she were a dwarf in a giant’s arms. The cold slender hand came up, the fingers brushing her cheek. Sansa felt no cold. Though she did not really expect to, Howling Wind it seemed thought her touch would have some effect.

“No longer.” Sansa said, knowing full well Howling Wind spoke not a word of the Common Tongue and never would. Lady and Summer bounded off, the wights too busy slamming themselves to pieces against the ruin’s stones trying to reach Sansa. Not Howling Wind’s puppets, then. Though the corpses managed to simply pile over the ramparts, dead hands surging toward her, Sansa didn’t flinch. You want First Frost back too badly to throw away a chance at getting him back. Her hunch proved true when Howling Wind’s finger prodded her in the shoulder and she was roaring back through the trees, bounding in Lady’s body, faster, faster, until she was writhing around on the floor of her bedchamber. That’s odd, she thought. I started in Bran’s room. Then she realized she was famished and parched beyond words besides. Looking around, eyes spinning in their sockets, she caught sight of Podrick Payne and held onto his face in her mind until the tempest within her stilled. Only when the ringing in her ears faded did she try to speak, sounding like an old woods witch. Podrick handed her a cup of hot lemon water at once, it appeared having it ready in the event she woke up. She guzzled it in one hearty gulp, feeling both exhausted and exhilarated.

“Lord Payne. I apologize if I alarmed you.” she got out finally, if a bit raspy still. He gave no hysterical response as her own maidservants were wont to do, only his wide eyes betrayed that he had seen anything out of sorts at all.

“You were asleep for three days, Princess Sansa. I would wait to move until you’ve eaten and you’re certain your legs will hold you up.” he said quickly when she made to rise. “Perhaps some food as well-”

“It can wait.” Sansa cut him off, getting up on knocking knees. “Come with me.” she said, steadily working feeling back into her calves.

The entrance to the crypts was not an area normally heavy in traffic. Now that the Singers had taken up in the earth beyond it as well as the common knowledge now that an Other languished somewhere in the depths, it was a place positively avoided. Podrick Payne did not caution her against her course, though Sansa rather thought he’d not have guessed it in a thousand years. The Hungry Wolf’s crypt for once looked secure, none other than Branch standing outside it, tending to the red vines.

“Let him out.” she said, Branch not so much has turning to greet her. “I don’t know just what lies between you and them. I don’t care. I know if the prisoner in that cell is brought to the waterfall-”

“-someone lost to you will be given in return, yes?” Branch finished for her. Had he seen all that had transpired in the wolfswood? Probably, Sansa thought. There are weirwoods here and there and everywhere in there. She laid a hand on the vines and they peeled back, curling to the red roots in the stone.

“Tell him to come out.” For once, Branch did not object. First Frost limped duly into view, looking like he’d just been roused from sleep. “Follow.” Sansa said, heading for the passage. She extinguished each flame as she passed them, so that her captive might not walk into a wall or down some side crypt due to blindness. Only then did she realize that in the event something went wrong, she had only Branch and Podrick Payne on hand. Well, at least Podrick can be counted on, as far as his ability allows. Though the lack of light might have kept First Frost on the right path it was the opposite for the boy from the westerlands, and more than once Sansa heard him mutter a curse or hiss in pain at bumping his head or stubbing a toe. The waterfall had not frozen, to Sansa’s relief, but she had no doubt the water was cold as could be. First Frost took a long breath at the sight of it. At the sight of freedom. Should he so much as touch it he’ll be gone. They stood there for a moment, a peculiar group, until the winds picked up on the other side of the waterfall. First Frost’s gasp matched the one Howling Wind gave in the wolfswood. Sansa could hear the water freezing just past the wall of water, the she-Other’s eyes showing through it bright and blue. “Go." Sansa said. Branch relayed her words, curt and grudgingly as the True Tongue could sound. At least you’ll be quit of Others for awhile. First Frost turned toward Sansa but did not move. Her fingers tightened their grip on the walnut branch. “Go.” she said again. He turned toward the waterfall, limped toward it, and stopped just before he could feel its cascading droplets. The True Tongue filled the passage again, the otherworldly sound of ice shifting under a frozen lake. Then he disappeared into the deluge.

The eyes on the other side lost their interest in Sansa, Branch and Podrick at once. Slyly she reached for Brienne. After ascertaining that she was unharmed but for the cold, she took the opportunity to peer through her sapphire eyes. Howling Wind had First Frost by the shoulder, dousing him in water too cold to freeze as Sansa had done to the spider in the Haunted Forest. Washing him clean of the last of the dragonglass dust. They are not my concern any longer. She stayed with Brienne just enough to keep her moving through the waterfall, emerging in the passage soaked and shivering.

“My lady!” Podrick cried, dashing forth and wrapping her in his cloak. The wind outside picked up again and the eyes disappeared. Gone back to their fastness in the wolfswood, I imagine. While Brienne looked too cold to do more than shiver, Podrick’s famously knotted tongue came rather unraveled. “I saw them throw Oathkeeper but I found where it lay and it’s safe so you can get it when you’re ready but not until you’ve had a rest and some food and maybe a wash.” He babbled on so all the way back to the crypts proper. By then Brienne seemed to be finding some manner of strength, shaking off the cold without.

“The cold within is another matter I’m afraid, Brienne. Perhaps the springs would do for that. Before you dash off,” Sansa asked Podrick, “did you happen to locate Val?”

“I did, princess. Or, rather, a girl with a honey-colored braid to her thighs, living in one of the houses at the edge of the winter town. She…wouldn’t come to the castle.” Why would Val flee the safety of Winterfell to live in a hut? While Sansa pondered, Pod led Brienne off.

“I’m going back to Tarth once this is done,” Sansa heard her murmur, “and I’ll not ever leave it.” When she turned to ask Branch what it was First Frost had said before he took his leave of Winterfell, she found he’d quite vanished. With a hood up and her branch left at the entrance to the crypts it was easy enough to move through town, bustling as it was with wounded men, burning corpse pits and panicked horses. There was no air of defeat, she saw, just nervousness. I’m sure the racket Lady roused was well within earshot. The wolfswood must have sounded as though it had come alive. At her side was the black bitch, who’d spent enough time in Winterfell’s hall to know one person’s scent from another. Before long Sansa was standing in front of a homey little hut squeezed between a Manderly knight’s tent and a rack of spears. The smell of roasting chicken caught the dog’s attention, but it was a sound that quite drowned everything else out. Sansa stepped to the door, laid her hand upon the wood, pushed it open. She crossed the threshold, even as a woman in a chair by the tiny hearth stood up. Clutching something to her chest. Sansa walked toward her, even as the woman shrank against the opposite wall. In the light of the hearth Sansa could see her face clearly. Val, in all her terrified beauty. When her face was less than a foot from the other girl’s, Sansa looked down. A baby girl of an age with Howland peered up at her from her mother’s arms. With the same grey eyes, she saw. Grey like Father’s. Grey like Meera’s. Grey like Jon’s.

“I named her Dalla.” Val whispered.

Chapter 19: Jon II

Chapter Text

He woke with the sound of wolves howling in his ear. A glimpse of a half-remembered mill, a glint of gold high atop a tower in the distance. Queenscrown. So that’s where you’ve gone to, boy. The view was phantom only though, and when he blinked he was mired in the sucking mud of the Neck as he’d been the night before. And the night before that, and before, and on. Dawn shone weakly through the thick boughs of the countless drooping trees, the silhouettes of the rest of the party visible in as half-shadows. Daenerys slept as she always did, with her head on his chest. Face untroubled, Jon noted. No dragon dreams. Unfortunately, for all the cheering that sprung up when Viserion emerged from the waters under the lodge, the white dragon seemed as eager to leave the Neck as Jon and the rest were to stay. The huge black cow shadowed him always, the mundane of her kind following close behind. Whenever he stopped to laze she would promptly shuffle atop him while the others made do with his tail, neck and sides, hanging off his head and over his snout. Neither Robert nor Mance nor Stannis, nor indeed even the Night King, seemed better to fit the word ‘king’ than Viserion. Where Drogon had been wary, irritable and possessive, his brother moved almost painfully slowly, as though he could no more be rushed than the sun could in its course across the sky. His affect was one of utter serenity, the men shouting and rushing about no more significant than the bloodthieves that droned on always. Most telling to Jon, he barely gave Dany a second glance. His first act upon their reunion was to strut straight past her, the cream of his scales caked with mud and moss, his retinue ready and in tow. The black cow was last to leave, a low rumbling hiss building in the base of her throat as she passed. Her bulk was so great that Jon and Tyrion had to flush themselves into the sodden wall. Even so, her massive body raked across his front and Jon could only look into the moss-green eye that faced him, into the onyx line that cut it down the middle. She’s no fonder of our kind than we are of hers. The cheering outside, Jon remembered, had stopped abruptly when she erupted from the water, dragging herself across the crannog hissing all the way. When at last they had reached the outside as well Viserion had already fallen asleep, wings held close to his body so that his arms stuck out as a lizard-lion’s did. The heat Jon remembered coursing off of Drogon had been absent as well- at least until the cows took up their posts, and then the air grew hot as it had in the lodge. Curiously, though the other cows opened their mouths to a one as if about to break out into song, the black-of-scale creature’s huge mouth remained firmly shut.

Dany fidgeted a bit, turning over to lay just below his chin. Her lovely silver hair was an abject ruin, clumped with mud in places and brittle as straw in others. He tried to lean away so as not to rest on her arm, only then spotting both her hands resting on his shoulders. A long hiss whispered in his ear and what he thought to be Daenerys’ arm slid lithely out from under the pair of them, its long brown-yellow body striped with black next to impossible to see in the dim light of the Neck. Not a common rattletail, Jon saw as he glimpsed the end of the animal. A sunset snake. The sigil of House Hysh, so named as it went, because its bite could end a man’s life inside a single day. The snake coiled by his ear, adopting a defensive posture to Jon’s despair. Show me the ranger that can catch a striking serpent one-handed, and that hand half-numb from having been slept on all night. A tapping on his thigh, Dany had awoken. Then he again remembered that her hands were on his shoulders and besides, her purple eyes had yet to open. He dared not move, even as the tapping crept higher. From the bottom of his vision an emerald-green spider the size of a dinner plate climbed up his sleeping queen’s back. House Webb’s emerald widow. It stopped cold on catching sight of the sunset snake. For a moment it simply stood there, watching, before getting up on its hind legs in unquestionably a threatening posture, fangs wriggling under its glittering eyes. The snake answered with another snapping hiss, rising perhaps a half-foot off the ground. In Jon’s experience, snakes and spiders were creatures that spent their lives underfoot. Just now, above him, the sunset snake looked a hundred feet long, the emerald widow’s legs scraping the sky. Daring each other to be the first. He didn’t trust himself to call out without startling either or both animals, and anyway all three dragons together would do them no good now. Only when pairs of tanned hands came into view, gently collecting snake and spider both, did he dare even to draw breath. Jon sat up, expecting to see the newcomers carefully loosing the creatures into the safety of the undergrowth. Instead he found his party entirely surrounded by little shadows, the tallest of whom scarcely reached shoulder height. Crannogmen were everywhere. Everywhere. In the branches above, slipping from the waters around the crannog, even from the silt itself. A young woman held the sunset serpent close, letting it coil about her arm, while a skinny boy let the widow creep down about his feet. Jon started at the sight of the woman in particular. Where the boy (and all the other crannogmen) looked eerily similar, with not a one among them unpossessed of olive skin and green eyes, the girl was fair-skinned, with blonde hair to her shoulders and guileless brown eyes. Fair, Jon saw on closer inspection, but for the grey scars that dotted her all over. Snakebites, opening wounds that do not heal.

“Are there more?” Jon mouthed, pointing to the snake. She shook her head. “Dany, wake up.”

“Hmph…” she said sleepily.

“Dany, we’ve got to get going or we’ll never get quit of the Neck.” She got off him, stretching and yawning. Her eyes on opening went round at the sight of the people all around. Jon stood, conspicuously putting himself in front of her.

“Good morning.” he said, voice trailing off as the crannogmen watched, several in brown and yellow coming into the girl’s midst. A pair, man and woman, each took one of her hands.

“You look just as Howland Reed described Eddard Stark.” The man said. Jon’s nerves eased a bit.

“Aye, I’m supposed to resemble him more than a bit. I’m Jon Snow and this is Daenerys, the Mother of Dragons.” He felt Dany’s hand take his own.

“Ferden Hysh, Lord of Deep Pit.” The man replied. “This is my lady wife, Lanse, and our daughter Asper.” Jon looked to the girl again, tall and fair, who might have blushed if her scarred skin allowed. Hysh? Certainly the sunset snake now coiling around her shoulders could find no fault with her, but Jon could not imagine someone looking less like a crannogwoman. The vassals of House Hysh came next, with names like Sicor, Slythe and Crosus, whose sigil was the infamous rattletail. Killers all, Jon knew on sight.

By then the others of the column were waking up, more than one hill tribesman or Dothraki giving a cry of alarm and reaching for their weapons only to find them quite gone. Crannogmen small even for their kind but outnumbering the rest all put together congregated next, each so like the next it was not hard for Jon to guess their allegiance. Sworrm, the arrowhead ant. Then came the Coyls, the mancrusher snake, each man and woman tattooed in diamond patterns to give them the appearance of one monstrously long serpent. The Styngs with their frightening bone-white faces patterned with black woad, Webbs in dresses of green leaves bound in silk. Jon started when he saw that the Webbs in particular were women to the last. There was Redbind with their slaver’s whip, of course, Sourwilt’s hangman vine and Bitterbloom’s bloodflower. Before he could greet the first group even more were coming forth, with names even Maester Luwin couldn’t have taught him. Dipter, the deathsleep fly. Feest, a bloody open mouth, whose members alone among the crannogmen had sallow grey skin instead of olive, moved on all fours more often than not, and went clad in meager loincloths or else nothing at all. Lord Cors Feest in particular drew Jon’s eye, for although he was a man of the Seven Kingdoms, and nobly born at that, there was not a woman in all seven together who would rather marry him than a wildling or Dothraki. Rather than a storied sword, he gripped a sharpened human femur, and his breath smelled so strongly of blood and rotten flesh that Jon had to back away. And Father thought the Umbers proud, the Karstarks prickly, the Boltons untrustworthy. Which of them was like to eat the men they killed? Which of them, by his own people, was named the Hungerer? Even Jon felt rather endeared toward the savages from across the sea, as the southern lords called them, more so than this man born of the same northern earth as he. Jon took it upon himself to introduce Ned Umber, Alys Karstark and Wyn Manderly in turn, as well as the rest of the group. But for Lady Sworrm (whose own brood numbered a staggering fourteen, not a one of which had not shared the womb with a sibling) and Lady Webb (who must have approved of House Karstark’s exclusivity to women) congratulating Alys, Jon found the olive eyes of the crannogmen did not ever long leave him. More than one among the throng seemed as if to expect him. Well, I’ve only been stuck in your bogs a week. You might have made yourselves apparent before we wandered blindly up to the bloody dragon.

“We’re on our way back to Winterfell, to prepare for the coming of the Others.” Jon said, voice louder and he was pleased to hear, a bit more steely.

“Howland Reed went on ahead with half our people, Your Grace, to aid in fortifying the castle.” Lady Sworrm replied.

“He left no castellan to hold Greywater Watch in his absence?”

“He took it with him.” That answer so stymied Jon that he could only stand there in confusion while he listened to the crannogmen of the Neck make themselves known to those from the outside. Wildlings, Dothraki, hill tribesmen…there are crannogmen, and there are not. That line of thinking brought him back ‘round to Asper Hysh. While the little people smeared incredibly sour yellow paste on their visitors' bodies to keep the insects away (and did it immediately), Jon found courage enough to ask Lord Ferden just what was going on regarding his blonde daughter, taller than the tallest of the Hysh-kin by a foot.

“I was younger than you are now, and had wandered from the safety of Deep Pit. I had come to the edge of the swamps, the riverlands opening like a hide tent yet to set up before me. Frey lands, I knew. Among the cattails and ferns that marked the end of one kingdom and the beginning of another, I found a sack, tied tightly shut.” Jon’s stomach sank and he felt Dany’s hand squeeze his tightly. “Imagine my disbelief to open it and find a baby girl, perfect but for her still body and blue lips. A sunset snake had gotten in with her and bitten her half a dozen times. Her good fortune that a Hysh should be the one to find her, then, for only we know how to stop the venom of our sigil. I left Deep Pit a callow youth and went back a father. When I presented her to my lady mother, I gave the baby girl the name Asper, my mother’s name and her mother’s before her. My mother gave her the name Hysh, my father’s name, and his father’s, all the way back to the beginning.” He reached out and tucked his hand beneath the girl’s chin, who looked at him with unashamed adoration. “So was it decreed, so was it done.” Jon was astounded. He had been Ned Stark’s own blood, and yet he’d grown up a Snow. Would any lord, anywhere, have done what Ferden Hysh had done? He could not begin to find the words to make a reply. How many times had he heard, had he thought that he wasn’t a Stark? Yet here came a nameless foundling raised a cherished daughter of a highborn family. No, Jon told himself. She is a daughter of a highborn family. Asper was the only name she was ever given, Hysh the only family she has ever known. All of this was not lost on the girl herself, who never left her parents’ side and was only overjoyed at the sight of their younger children, three girls and a tiny little boy, who’d made the journey from Deep Pit. The boy in particular screamed in delight at the sight of Asper, pointing and burbling.

“Aspa!” he cried, the girl scooping him up and making him scream with mirth.

“Hysh colors on all our children, Your Grace.” Lady Lanse said, watching the little ones gather around their elder sibling. “Hysh to the end, and after.” Meanwhile, a foundling outside Winterfell’s walls would be lucky to grow up a spit-turner in the kitchens. How cut up he felt must have been visible on his face, because Dany found it in her to pipe up.

“Come help me look for Tyrion, Jon.” she said. Jon stiffly took his leave of the Hyshes, the pair of them going off to wrangle their wandering children. Jon tried to think on Tyrion Lannister, when last he’d seen him.

“Last night, sleeping as close to Viserion as he dared.” Viserion and his crannog-queen both. When the pair of them approached, the selfsame crannog-queen hissed in irritation at the sight of them. Her lord had sunk up to his eyes in the muck, only a single golden horn and row of gleaming golden teeth showing to mark him for what he was and not a lizard-lion. Or indeed, some river monster. They found Tyrion nearer to the rear.

“Out of biting range,” he put it when they came upon him. “Though, if she saw fit, I’m sure her tail could turn me to paste with one good wallop.” he added brusquely. Under even the piddling light that peeked through canopy, the cow was a terrifying sight. What bits of her weren’t mired in muck shone a spotless onyx, but her hide seemed less skin, more scale. Then Jon spotted it.

“That isn’t hide at all.” Tyrion grinned from ear to ear.

“No, Jon Snow, it’s not. It’s dragonscale, or I am not a dwarf.”

“What?” Dany asked, sounding lost. Tyrion pointed to where the cow’s head lay at rest, angled up over Viserion’s shoulder.

“If you look closely - but not too close! - you will see her teeth are the same color as her eyes.” A single glance was enough to prove Tyrion correct.

“What does that mean?” Dany asked.

“Your Grace, I’d have thought it was obvious to you of all people. Viserion’s new friend has dragon blood. Quite a lot, I’d say.” His heedless gaiety began to get on Jon’s nerves.

“Yesterday you were as miserable as the rest of us. Just now you look ready to sing.”

“I don’t suppose you know much about the Dance of Dragons, Jon Snow.”

“Only what part Cregan Stark had to play.”

“I thought as much. The civil war that spelled an end to Targaryens on dragonback- at least, for a while. One of the few beasts to survive to war’s end was a vicious nest-raider, black of scale and green of eye. The people of Dragonstone called him the Cannibal. Wild, never ridden, he disappeared at war’s end. Where was anyone’s notion, but it seems he must have paid the Neck a visit.”

“So he did.” A new voice said, Jon turning to see a young crannogman approaching. “Owyn of Greywater Watch, Your Grace.” He bowed his head, ignoring Tyrion completely. “As it goes, this Cannibal took a liking to the bogs and swamps, particularly when House Frey decided the time was ripe for another march on Greywater Watch. I’m sure you know by now that corpses bring lizard-lions, and there were cows aplenty for the dragon to choose from. The bulls were not so receptive though, and before long the Cannibal overreached himself, eating what he would and taking every cow in sight. His excess proved his undoing. The cows wore him down, then as he slept, the bulls tore him down.”

“Surely if he were so rapacious, he’d have left more than a single descendant behind?” Tyrion asked, annoyed to be left out of a discourse he deemed interesting.

“Lizard-lions are born very small, and seldom live to reach adulthood. Of those, still fewer grow to full size. What male offspring the Cannibal left behind were killed by resident bulls in their first breeding year. There were other females of course, but most were made meals of by the countless hungry mouths of the Neck.” He jerked his head toward the cow. “She’s the only one left, and until now any bull who’s tried to court her has fed the flies, size or strength be damned. It doesn’t help that she’s now bigger than the biggest of them.” King, queen and Hand asked the same question at the same time.

“Does she breathe fire?” Owyn smirked, shaking his head in derision.

“She’s a lizard-lion.”

“That’s not a ‘no’, my good lad. Let me put it another way: Can she breathe fire?” The crannogman frowned.

“He’s fond of such word games.” Dany said, sounding almost apologetic.

“Before our grandsires’ time, a Frey column came up the kingsroad as they had since the Coming of the Andals. We waited for them, as we always had, ready to defeat them yet again. With sting and fang, with web and coil, with poisoned arrows and the Neck’s own hunger. We expected to be rid of them in a few days, then gather in our castles and wait out winter. Imagine our surprise when she turned up and with a hiss bathed the entire Frey force in moss-green flame. A bull lizard-lion’s hide will catch a spear, a crossbow bolt, even a swung axe. Hers did not even give that inch, steel blunting against her scales or bouncing off her back. She’s a lizard-lion, and thusly sees the world as a lizard-lion sees it. Lizard-lions don’t breathe fire, even with dragon blood in their veins. That doesn’t mean they can’t breathe fire, given a dragon for a father and someone foolish enough to annoy them sorely.” Like an army of Freys, Jon thought.

“The Dance ended more than a hundred and fifty years ago.” Tyrion said, brow furrowed.

“Lizard-lions, if left to live, live a long time. Longer still, with fire in their veins.” Owyn replied. Jon looked from Tyrion’s elated face to Dany’s. On it he saw an expression he never had before. Her mouth hung open and she was staring into the void, one eye twitching.

“What is it, sweetling?” Jon asked, unnerved by her behavior.

“Nothing.” Dany replied, though her eye continued to twitch.

Despite her claims to the contrary, Jon spotted the most unqueenly expression several times more that day. A sort of frozen half-sneeze paired with purple eyes flecked with green staring into the waters of the Neck, the swamps obviously the furthest thing from Dany’s mind. She will tell me when she’s ready. All the while, Tyrion did not stop wheedling Owyn of Greywater Watch. Of what more he knew of dragons courting lizard-lions, if anyone had seen them at it, if Viserion’s time in the company of the black cow had borne fruit.

“Lizard-lions lay with their mouths open to let heat out. As she obviously has no need to do this with fire in her blood, I daresay you’ve not seen her tease hers open an inch. Even with chatty dwarfs around to tempt her sorely.” The crannogman said in curt reply.

“Does her mouth have something to do with it, then?” Tyrion asked in turn, without a second’s hesitation.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Why don’t you go peek between her teeth and see?” Tyrion looked ready to do just that.

“If you take another step, I’ll punch you in the face.” Daenerys said, a tight hand on the man’s shoulder.

“You wouldn’t think it, but Varys could throw a fist with astonishing acumen. He had to knock some sense in me once or twice once we crossed the Narrow Sea.” Tyrion muttered, more to himself than to the queen. While they bickered good-naturedly, Jon found himself walking over to the cow almost accidentally. Only when he was at arm’s length (and well within reach of her enormous mouth) did he realize what peril he might have bought himself. When the green eye opened, cut as Drogon’s had been by a pitiless black line, it did not look overmuch happy to be in the presence of the King in the North. The nostrils at the black head’s end let out a curt snort. Before she could give further answer, Jon reached for her. The green eye went wide around as a big man’s fist. It was not enough to impose, certainly not enough to wrest control from her (not that I could, he thought,) but just enough to express his intentions in terms she could understand. The closest thing, he figured, would be when he reached for Ghost. Have you got any precious little beauties around, girl? Either from sheer surprise or her patience having run its course, the cow’s countless green teeth parted.

“Awp!” came the prompt squeak. Jon was so taken aback that he started, falling promptly backward as an ivory head poked out from between the parted teeth. “Awp!” it squeaked insistently.

Though the infant was no longer than Jon’s forearm, there was no questioning its sire. Spotless ivory from the tip of its nose down as far as Jon could see, it was. Its eyes, too, were of a like with Viserion’s. Golden pools cut by a thin cream line. Bright enough for a man to see himself in. Bright enough to stop a man in his tracks and hold him tight in thrall. The baby’s interest in Jon faded almost immediately, focusing its energies on escaping its formidable mother’s mouth. Upon sliding into the mud, Jon spotted the reason for her vigilance immediately. Bone-white scales and gleaming golden eyes and teeth make for a poor ambusher. Particularly in this bog-muck. The only prey this poor bugger is hiding from is the sort that’s blind. Jon saw too that even free, the baby did not leave its mother’s shadow. It waded and wandered, aye, but always within reach of a pair of jaws that could crunch fast around a horse and hold it aloft without effort. Speaking of jaws…A second gleaming golden-toothed baby followed its sibling, then a third. By the time Dany worked up the nerve (or the pigheadedness) to make it to Jon’s side, five of the little creatures were poking their snouts into the mud to look for tasty things or else peering up at the two of them, no more worthy of note to the newcomers than they’d been to the first bold baby. Of course, Dany gave a delighted squeal, hands going to her mouth in a fashion Jon found most adorable, but the cow’s blunt snort of retort was enough to keep her from trying to pick one of the babies up.

“Were I to tell a maester the least bit of what I’ve seen today, he’d call me a raving drunken fool.” Tyrion said conversationally, perching himself on a moss-slick rock.

“Says the mongrel of the cur. It’s the raving drunken fool who thinks a gray dress and a chain about his neck give him leave to deny all the wonders of the world but what can be put to paper.” Jon answered. Wonders and terrors both. The dwarf snorted in amusement.

“Where’s that bloody wineskin?” he asked, nearly falling off his rock when the skin Ned Umber tossed hit him in the face. After a long draught, he lowered it and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Well, that puts a period to the age of mundanity and muddling through. Others prowling, dragons breeding, this is a second Dawn and truly put. Miracles be the order of the day, a time for heroes and horrors both. I wonder what Lord Tywin would have made of it.” Jon took the skin from Tyrion before he could get any drunker. I don’t fancy having to carry him on my shoulders to keep him from falling in a pond. It appeared Jon’s efforts were in vain though, for Tyrion trundled over to where Viserion snored and blurted out at him. “Congratulations, I suppose, you magnificent sodden bastard. I’d offer you Arbor gold, but Jon Snow stole it.” His rambling got him an exhale of stifling air, the white dragon rolling further onto his side and sinking to his eyes in the mire of the Neck. At once the cow slid atop him, her children clambering about their sire’s massive head until they managed to wriggle onto his snout. Viserion looked more like to turn to stone than ever move again. We’re not getting him out of here, Jon realized. This is where he belongs.

A sudden shiver from Dany got Jon off brooding quickly.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Just one of your wretched northern gusts, Jon Snow. It seems the north is as eager to meet me as welcome you.” Jon frowned.

“I’m hardly snug and warm, Dany, but there’s no cold wind here. Not with all the trees of the Neck to fend it off.” Her cheeks turned pink.

“Perhaps it’s just a desire to be properly dry again. If I’m cold, I’m cold and there’s not the least bit of a thing your wild thievery can do about it.” she pouted, trying to be playful even in the bogs.

“Isn’t there?” he asked, wrapping her in his cloak before she could huff. He put a period to the moment by stealing a kiss, her lips still full and plush even dry and chapped as they were.

“Hmph!” she muttered grumpily, crossing her arms and turning away. Though he wanted nothing more than to tease her further, the rest of the north awaited them and the Others certainly weren’t wasting time playing such games.

“Tyrion, how can we get him to come with us?”

“Perhaps if he knew how Drogon behaved on Dragonstone, he’d come just to show him up. That sounds more like Rhaegal though, Viserion never much struck me as the type to much care either way.” By the crannogmen’s estimate they were nearly upon Moat Cailin.

“From there, you need only march northeast to reach White Harbor.” they’d said. Meanwhile we sit here trying to divine the mystery of life staring at a few lizards. He found Owyn as quick as he could manage.

“We’ll press on. The dragon will come, or he will not.”

“He will. Lord Howland was iron certain on that point.” That took Jon aback.

“What made him so certain?” Owyn of Greywater Watch frowned.

“Howland Reed is Lord of the Neck. It is not an orphan’s place to question him. Nor a king’s, if he is wise.” His meaning could not have been less blunt. Well, everyone always says northmen are dullards and dunces who need to have their heads shoved in a dragon’s mouth to realize it’s hot in there. Jon took it upon himself to pass word down to the others that they would soon be quit of the marshes.

“But what about Viserion?” Daenerys asked reproachfully, her big purple eyes as harmless and empty of guile as a child’s.

“What about him, Dany? This wet marshy realm is his realm now. It belongs to him more than it ever has to any Marsh King or King in the North, to say nothing of the Iron Throne.” Dany’s pouty lips shrank into a quizzical line.

“Say rather, he belongs to it.”

“One is the other. But you knew that, you clever.” He saw her cheeks turn red and she looked away, a steep contrast to her giggling and feigned pouting. That’s how I know I’ve gotten the best of her, he realized. I’ll just keep that in my back pocket for later. He made himself further useful by taking Harra off her mother’s hands, the crannogmen providing aid as they could. Not in a wet nurse, whose own milk might have contained the gods only knew what, but in snug leather bundles that could be worn across the shoulders, the babe flush to the bearer’s chest.

“Even arms like yours need a rest now and aye, lad.” Tormund told Sigorn, slinging Aynikka’s bundle over a shoulder gentle as if he were a maidservant. The hairiest ever to rock a babe, I’ll wager. Dany took charge of Torrha, whispering to the babe in what sounded to Jon like Valyrian. With the aid of the Neck’s inhabitants they continued north, making time such that their struggles to get as far as they did look as if they had been standing still. We’re well set up just now, Jon thought, but in no shape to be set upon by wights. Much less Others. Hopefully we reach Moat Cailin and find the ruin silent and empty.

The ancient stronghold’s three towers became visible after another few days, the moss-caked ruins looming ever closer even through the foliage of the Neck. The closer they got the finer the edge Jon’s nerves stood on, half-ready to dive into a pond or lake at a moment’s notice. Despite his disinterest in them outside the lodge, they caught the odd glimpse of his great pale body slinking through the muck, thoughtless as though he were sliding through empty air.

“Not so lazy after all.” Jon said as they laid out for the night. Their last in the Neck if Owyn told it true and the gods were good.

“He’s lazier than Drogon and Rhaegal put together. The last to hunt, the one most willing to take food from the hands of men. At least, before I chained him beneath the Great Pyramid. But men tickle his curiosity as well, and I’ll bet it’s the strange-smelling hill tribes and northmen who keep him interested."

“We don’t smell like anything but the Neck by now, Dany. Reeds and moss and mud and still water.” At that, Dany frowned. “Don’t trouble yourself anyhow, sweetling. At least he’s shadowing us.” The white dragon had yet to be joined by the cow and her little ones though. Perhaps she’s content to go back into the lodge and be quit of the lot of us. Jon could not say whether he was more relieved by her absence or Viserion’s presence. She knows nothing of the Others or the war yet to be fought. Men are horses both are merely food in her eyes. Jon remembered the bulls beneath the walls of Riverrun, hides feathered harmlessly with steel bits, even here and there the head of a pike. It was not so with the black cow, whose sides and back were spotless. It stands to reason. No steel is scratching dragonscale. The trees began to clear though the ground was no less marshy and the Dothraki in particular were a bit premature in their decision to remount, horse and rider both sinking up to their necks in a hidden deep pool. Though the man was lucky enough to find a log to pull himself up onto, the horse could only thrash about for a moment before vanishing beneath the pool’s surface. Viserion’s great golden crown of horns broke it a second later, the limp carcass of the horse locked in his golden teeth. Food both in his eyes as well. Maybe he wants nothing to do with us, it’s our horses he fancies. A low contented rasp filled the air even as the horse’s chest crunched together, Viserion happy to let half of the animal hang out of his mouth. He certainly strikes a grand impression, but will he count when he meets the Others and their chattel? It was hard to picture the cream-and-gold stirred to wroth the way Drogon most often was. Eating, sleeping, giving his cow the odd tumble. Hardly evocative of Balerion the Black Dread. While Jon brooded Viserion simply crunched on the carcass, swallowing it down without delay.

“Dragons cook meat before they eat it.” Daenerys said at once, looking up at him with a worried frown.

“Well, Owyn did say lizard-lions don’t breathe fire. He’s been living in the Neck a year or more, attended by who knows how many cows. Might be he thinks of himself as a lizard-lion now.” It was exactly the wrong thing to say, Dany’s eyes going big and filling with tears. Real ones this time. She blames herself still for trying to keep the Meereenese safe. Rather than trip over his own tongue a second time, Jon settled for Dany cozying up next to him, warm despite the sodden chill of the Neck.

Owyn woke him with the sun yet to eke its way over the horizon, quiet as could be.

“What’s wrong?” Jon mouthed at once.

“The moat. They’ve been reinforcing it for an hour.” The crannogman mouthed back.

“Them?”

“Dead men. Thronging from the north and east.” That can’t be right, Jon thought. The Wall, they still have the Wall to contend with. Had the Others somehow frozen the Bay of Ice? It would take so much. A river ran alongside the Shadow Tower, one wildlings forded oft enough to make patrolling it a necessary headache for old Denys Mallister. Freezing that would serve just as well and take much less time. He couldn’t recall getting to his feet.

“How close can we get?” Owyn answered by taking him right up to where the last of the tree line stood, Moat Cailin looming large out of the darkness. Not a thousand feet away, Jon thought. His eyes were not Ghost’s, but even in the darkness he could hear the shuffling and plodding of countless listless bodies. “Could we go past them?”

“You could. You would not long outpace them, though. White Harbor is close as the raven flies, but not that close. Even without the young and the old and fresh horses for all, you might just reach the white walls before the dead men caught up with you.” Jon put his hand over his eyes.

“We can’t linger any longer. Wights do not work bows, they will not be able to take advantage of their position as if they were living men. Should they mass out at us, they will founder and fall in the marshy ground. They may have great numbers, but they will not be able to bring them to bear effectively.” It was not a good plan, merely the best of several bad options, and this fact was not lost on Owyn of Greywater Watch.

“Your Grace, I must disagree. Even if they fail to kill you all, they will fill the dry ground and simply wait. You will not be able to take a step out of the Neck without finding yourself in the midst of the dead standing hundreds deep.” And no amount of tricksy finagling will get us to where we need to be. As the moments passed it became more and more apparent just what was needed. Owyn led him back to where the column was encamped, the pace yet unbroken. Jon brushed his lips against the tips of his fingers and tapped the kiss onto Dany’s cheek, who murmured and rolled over. Ever dozy. Lazier even than Viserion, he thought with a wistful smile. Time to do something stupid.

To Jon’s great apprehension the cow had reappeared, installed resolutely upon the great pale body as was her wont. Such behavior struck Jon as singularly un-lizard-lion like. Cows do not perch on their husbands’ backs and dare others to knock them off. A bit of dragon there, I think. As Jon figured, she turned her great head toward him on his approach and began to hiss.

“Good morning to you, too.” Jon said evenly. Either she understood his words, or she did not care for his tone, because her hissing got louder until it rumbled from the depths of her belly. Less a hiss and more a long low grunt. “I haven’t time for this. Ever since I’ve come south it seems some black-scaled backside or other is always getting in the way, and just now I’m as close to my homeland as I’ve been in more than a year. If I’m going to get my people out of this swamp, I need your husband’s help.” She slid off Viserion’s back, trotting directly toward Jon. Her grunting deepened further, mouth opening wide. Deep green light flickered at the back of her throat. She’s no suckling babe, Jon thought. She would douse me in moss-colored flame without a second thought. She didn’t, though. She sat there, rumbling away with death roiling in her lungs, but did not put period to her threat. Eventually the standoff caught Viserion’s interest, enough even to dredge him from the tepid waters and bring him strutting over. The cow’s ire vanished at once, what might have been a purr issuing from her gullet as she raked his chest with her head. Temper and tenderness all in one. Viserion took her attention in stride, eyes slowly sliding shut until a sudden breeze blew from behind Jon. His snort of alarm made Jon jump high enough to look him in his gone-wide golden eyes. Still as a statue, he rolled his ivory-cut eyes in a long deliberate arc. Finally they settled on Jon, looking infinitely more interested than he had at the lodge. He smells Drogon, he thought shakily. Perhaps he doesn’t fancy a rival for the wild girl’s affections. Perhaps it would have been worse had the little ones been present (or at least within sight) but Jon found it wiser not to push his luck, backing away while Viserion wasn’t paying attention. Unfortunately, he noticed, nostrils shrinking. His head snaked forward after Jon, eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. Oh, hells. Whatever had gotten the dragon’s attention seemed to have taken its leave, though, because after another few moments of Viserion bearing down on Jon, sniffing all the while, jets of scalding air escaped his snout and he made to return to his waiting girl. Panicking slightly, Jon reached for him. He had only enough time to envision the endless tide of walking corpses packed to bursting in Moat Cailin before a blow came with enough force to knock him back into the waking world, setting him flat on his back. Not near so gentle as Ghost would do, he thought dizzily. Even dazed, even lolling, Jon knew full well what had happened. He kicked me out, sure as sunrise. Even Drogon had not reacted so in the riverlands, though… He’s been reached for before. By a warg.

He took a moment to get air back in his lungs, the wights and the realm beyond them for the moment forced from his mind. None of the crannogmen were wargs- or at least, nobody had mentioned it. They are not talkative by nature, but even so I would think they would say something should wargs live in these bogs. Their sigils were not the sort of creatures that stuck Jon as the kind open to wargs, though. Creeping plants and crawling insects, not birds and beasts. Finally he got his feet under him and he stood, half-expecting Viserion to catch him in his golden teeth from behind. When he turned the dragon was flush against the ground, watching him warily. Despite his reserved nature, Jon felt a smile creep across his face. Gently, so gently, he reached for Viserion again, this time with thoughts of giants and mammoths and Ghost. You’ve taken the Neck in hand, that’s clear, boy. You want to make some real noise, though, you come north with us. Your girl and your little ones will be here when you get back, that I promise. Viserion’s curiosity was beyond stoked, no doubt the idea of men as tall as trees as fascinating to him as they had been to the Dothraki. When he went back to the encampment Viserion followed, cantering upright as Drogon had on Dragonstone rather than wallowing forth as a lizard-lion might have done. Jon eased Dany awake, her reluctance not altogether unexpected.

“Dany, we’re nearly out. No need to sit there and sleep until you turn into a mushroom.”

“You’re a mushroom. A Snowshroom. A thiefshroom!” she proclaimed sleepily, rubbing her eyes.

“None of that now. We’re needed at White Harbor, and Winterfell as well.” No telling whatever where Drogon gets it from, Jon thought, rolling his eyes. Her drowsiness vanished on feeling the new-lit heat emanating off Viserion, replaced with wonder at his wired alertness. “His curiosity outstripped his laziness.” Jon explained. Of, course the dragon’s heat, a far cry from the chilliness that had blanketed the clearing, soon saw the rest of them waking. Some, more elegantly than others. The babes began to wail for milk, the Dothraki and the hill tribesmen grumbling and grouchy. “We’re moving on.” Jon announced, loud enough to be heard by all. Such tidings were enough to earn a chorus of whoops and shouts of joy, so elated that he was sorry to cut them short. “We’re marching on Moat Cailin. Somehow, a host of wights have got around the Wall and stand squarely between us and White Harbor. We’ve no way of telling the Manderlys of our predicament and anyway, they’d get here too late to be of help, so we’re going to see to this ourselves.” Unsurprisingly, talk of marching on Moat Cailin earned aghast looks from Little Ned Umber and Lady Karstark both. Even Lothor Brune, the famously unfazed, looked rather uncertain.

“Moat Cailin has never been taken from the south, Your Grace.” Tyrion said, emerging from behind Shagga, son of Dolf.

“Not by men, no. If Balerion could lay Harrenhal low, though, as large and well-garrisoned a castle as ever there has been, then certainly a crumbling ruin infested with wights is well within Viserion’s capabilities.” Their uncertainty melted into realization.

“Jon…you want him to…” Daenerys trailed off.

“Set Moat Cailin alight? Aye. And all the wights as well. The stone will keep, the great blocks of basalt. The wights, cold flesh and dry bone, will not. If it means we’ll make White Harbor unmolested, I’d happily watch Viserion burn Moat Cailin to the ground.”

It made for a splendid picture, surely, but at the Neck’s border Viserion looked confused if anything. Up boy, up. Spread those gold-flecked wings and cover the castle with your shadow. Daenerys seemed to sense what Jon was thinking.

“It is not in his nature, Jon. He is not Rhaegal, not Drogon.” she said quietly.

“Not one to send men to the hereafter without a second thought, you mean. Wights are not men, Dany. Viserion will realize just what needs to be done when he sees for himself.” Oh, gods, I hope so anyway. Or this will go spectacularly poorly. All those who could not fight, the young and old, were put in Alys Karstark’s charge. Jon would have preferred Tyrion, but he knew the Dosh Khaleen would never consent to follow a dwarf. What surprised Jon was that the crannogmen showed no signs of remaining in the Neck, massing at swamp’s edge and in considerable number. A drop in the bucket compared to the wights, though. “All right, let’s go.” Jon said, Tormund and Sigorn close behind him as he advanced on the ruin. Just as dawn peeked over the marsh Jon heard the unmistakable sound of feet uncounted squishing toward him. Implacably, but slowly. Wights are clumsy creatures when given dry even ground to stagger around on, let alone oozing muck. The sound grew louder, until it became impossible to tell one gait from another.

“Snow.” Tormund said suddenly.

“What is it?”

“There’s no call to throw your life away.” he said quietly, hands gripping an axe. Despite his misgivings, he did not leave Jon’s side.

“What?” Jon asked, utterly baffled.

“You have plenty here, now, to live for. Ygritte can wait, in all her kissed-by-fire glory.” Mention of Ygritte stopped Jon cold.

“Tormund, just what the fuck are you on about?” he asked, the wights blown from thought even as they shuffled closer, a black line against the weak light of dawn. Tormund looked as Jon had never seen him, ashen and aggrieved. He did not look so even when he told me of Torwynd. Jon waited for Tormund Giantsbane to speak, but for once the storied blowhard was quite lost for words. Only when Viserion finally took wing, rising slowly with the sun, did Jon look away from the old raider. The dragon drifted lazily toward them, content to merely bob along. At least, until he caught sight of what lay out in front of him like a roving swarm of arrowhead ants. He turned on a pinhead, looking back as if disbelieving of his own great golden eyes. Dead men don’t walk in Essos, after all. “Go on, boy! Go at them! Give them your golden flame!” Jon shouted, waving Longclaw north. Viserion gave a scream from on high, circling tightly overhead. He does not know what to do. He’s afraid to tangle with them, he’s thinking he’ll be chained up again, he- The black cow exploded from the muck, thrashing through the mud toward the oncoming throng with the speed of a running horse. Jon heard her great scaled body crash through the wights, bones crunching and bodies knocked every which way. At once the masses converged on her, prompting a furious scream from Viserion. For a moment Jon despaired, then a moss-green furnace ignited in the pile and the cow had wights falling like leaves in autumn, ash and dust before they could hit the ground. Even as the wights on her back continued to claw and bite, Jon realized they were no more likely to hurt her than the countless Frey knights she had devoured in years past. Another scream from Viserion, this one deeper, fuller. Come on, boy! She’s doing her bit, now you do yours! In moments it seemed the sunrise was coming from the north rather than the east. Far closer, far hotter. Mighty as she was though, the Cannibal had not given his get wings as well as flame. By the time the wights had next reached her, Viserion’s patience had reached its end. With a roar, the proper roar of a proper dragon, the white dragon sent a curtain of whirling golden flame cutting cleanly through the mob. The cow was none the worse for wear, even when her king’s fire cascaded brilliantly off her back, but the dead men died by the hundred, by the thousand. Immediately it was apparent to Jon Viserion’s vantage point allowed for unrestricted targeting of the wights but even incandescently enraged, his fury was not blind. He cut long staggered gashes in the ranks of wights such so that the fires on the ground were soon outpacing him in the wholesale destruction of the dead. All the while, even over the raging blazes, Jon heard more and more pour out of Moat Cailin. This was not lost on Viserion, who with a blood-curdling bellow shot straight for the castle. Jon had time for a single breath before the dragon’s golden flame caught the Drunkard’s Tower head-on, the blaze racing down the moss-slick rock. It seemed in half a moment the entire ruin was glowing bright enough to blind with hungry golden light. Viserion landed on the Gatehouse Tower, bellowing his anger out for all to hear. Staking his claim. The sight, all told, nearly made Jon weep. Dragons, he thought, wonderingly, ecstatically.

“Jon.” a voice said. “Jon.” Tormund’s hand on his shoulder shook him out of his reverie. Dazedly he turned to look on the wild hairy face. “Let’s go.” Tormund jerked his head northeast. “We ought be able to catch the others if we hurry, even in this muck.”

“Tormund…” Jon whispered, turning back to the burning ruin.

“I see it, lad. Clear as I see you. Just now, I’d sooner see that merlord’s feast table again, though. Pale-scale’s going to be at it for a good while, long enough maybe to spell an end to this particular mob. When he’s done though, I want him to have time to cool his head before you go poking him in the eye or some other damned Snow nonsense.” He all but marched Jon onward, keeping him moving even as Sigorn made a point not to turn around. Tormund’s odd behavior, Sigorn’s silence, neither could get Jon’s mind off the destruction Viserion rained down upon the dead. We could win, Jon thought. It was the first time such an idea had ever reared its head. No need for R’hllor, Melisandre or her banal nightfires. What did Melisandre of Asshai know of fire that Viserion of the Neck did not? Even when they had been walking an hour, the western horizon remained a curtain of dull golden light that seemed unlikely to go out in the near future.

“Wipe your face, Jon Snow. Your tears have cut queer paths through the muck on your cheeks.” Sigorn said sternly. Jon’s wrist came up, pulling what mud he could from his face. They walked until the sun began sliding back to earth, finally catching up to the rest of the column. There were more crannogmen than could be believed, an army in their own right. Jon half-expected another mass of wights to come lumbering down toward them out of the moors but they remained unmolested for the moment, their only hindrance the frequent biting gales that raced tirelessly from one end of the North to the other. Dany was of course much relieved to see him, though her reproachful pout told him of what she thought of his actions.

“You had no way of knowing whether Viserion would work it out.” she said, after she’d dashed into his arms to the whooping and cheering of those nearby.

“He’s more than smart enough. It’s just a manner of getting him to understand.” Jon replied, kissing her neck, her cheek, even the tip of her nose until she screamed with ticklishness.

“Just wait ‘till the merlord opens his larder, lads.” Tormund was saying loudly to the hill tribesmen. “Roast chicken, whole sides of beef, pork ribs, a dozen kinds of fish…” Each of them was bonier than the next and most could only stare at Tormund, scarcely able to imagine the largesse he described. And that only the smallest portion, Jon thought. The moors began to flatten somewhat, sheep paddocks and empty snow-swept fields marking the end of the wilderness proper and the beginning of House Woolfield’s holdings. Three white woolsacks on a purple field. Pillows in all but name. And everyone thinks all the northern sigils fierce. They stopped in a small village that stood empty, its smallfolk no doubt taking shelter behind White Harbor's high stone walls. Though Jon had watches set for any hint of approaching dead men, the only disturbance came midway through the night when Viserion sailed out of the west to curl up right in the thick of things and fall asleep, bold as he pleased. At a glance Jon could tell he was none the worse for wear, scales left without a scratch. I suppose the cow slunk back into the Neck, back with her children.

“Maybe he thinks there are other Necks up here somewhere worth peeking at.” Tyrion said dryly, sitting up against a bale of hay.

“With other dragon-blooded lizard-lions in them, no doubt.” Jon replied, making Tyrion snort with laughter. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Dany’s eye twitch again. Her lovely face was always so serious, even regal, but whenever the cow or her ancestry came up it was as if Dany’s face was stuck mid-sneeze. “I’m sure it must be something. You make this face like you’re smelling sour rather than tasting it.” Jon teased as she took her customary place next to him. On cold ground, but blessedly dry. Divinely dry.

“It’s nothing. Nothing, at least, I pray we ever have to deal with.” He knew better than to press her.

“We should make White Harbor tomorrow.”

“White Harbor and a bath. I don’t care if the water’s freezing, I don’t care if I have to set myself alight to get all this off.” Dany said, shuddering in her layers on layers of fur and leathers.

“No need for flame. If it’s to do with getting you wearing moonlight and aught else, I’ll find whatever’s needed and do whatever needs doing.” Jon smirked, giving her a kiss on the cheek. She gave the rosy blush again, looking away, and Jon knew he had won. For today, anyway. Every day is some new game with her, one I’m more than glad to play.

Chapter 20: Asha II

Chapter Text

The halls of Pyke were dreary, so dreary, and the wind screamed at the stones of the Greyjoy castle at every hour, summer or winter. Near as loud as the babe wailing away in his nursery, Asha thought sourly. Of course it was no trouble to Rodrik and Maron, eager young reavers both who lived to brag to Father of their conquests. Conquests, part of her said. Ships of ironborn fighters taking helpless hamlets by surprise on the far shores of Ironman’s Bay. Unfortunately for Lord Balon, he was as assured of his sons’ invincibility as they were. Rodrik learned how blessed he was when it was Mallisters of Seagard armed and armored with castle-forged steel he was squaring up against. Maron, when Robert Baratheon dropped Pyke’s south tower on him. But in this Pyke they lived still, Rodrik bold and brainless as his sire and Maron who fancied himself cunning. Among ironmen, anyway. She was of no interest to them, even less so than the babe, and scarcely looked at her twice whenever they passed her in the corridors. Asha took it upon herself to check on the wailing babe, scarcely tall enough to peek over the edge of the cradle. The image of the flensed pup-babe lingered at the edge of her mind but only baby Theon waited for her in the cradle, face red and eyes shut tight. The sound was so loud, so piercing, so punishing, that it was all Asha could do not to pitch baby Theon out the nursery window. Then the babe’s shrieking stopped. All of a sudden, the air emptied of cries and it was silent. Or, as silent as Pyke would be with the wind howling outside. Looking down, Asha saw the babe reaching for her, his fat little fingers wiggling and his tongue poking out of his mouth in an energetic smile. Astonished, Asha picked him up and he put his hand on her cheek, all his focus needed to pull it off. He burbled curiously. Sounds echoed in her ears. Voices. Some high and sweet, some sharp and deep. They were vaguely familiar to Asha, though when she tried to think on it all she got was a dull throbbing headache. A numbness bloomed out from her nose, covering her entire face just as her right leg gave out. Lying dazed on the nursery floor all but insensate, something moved to block the window. Blood, Asha thought. I smell blood. She could feel it dribbling down her face, taste it on her tongue. A pair of clawed hands swung down to pin her to the stone, the leering muzzle of the wolf-Theon dripping down into her face. Wake up, she thought. Any pain in the waking world would be worth getting away from this.

“Pain.” The word was hoarse, dry, spoken by a thing more dead than alive. “What do you know of pain, Asha Greyjoy? Count my missing fingers, teeth, toes, balls. Count the corpses I’ve left behind, the rot I’ve left in my wake. If I can be trusted to do one thing right, it’s fail.” A foul black tongue dragged itself from the spot on her neck, the sweet one only Qarl knew about, up her cheek over her eye and into her scalp. “Winter is Coming.” it hissed in her ear. The horrible thing threw back its head and laughed, a sound that made the babe’s wailing sound a bard’s sweet ballad.

She woke with the horror’s laugh echoing in her ears even full of blood as they were. She could hear it clearly, even as everything else was an utter cacophony. Be quiet, she thought, trying to will away the nightmare. Then her head thrummed, her face throbbed, and her leg felt as though someone had split it at the knee with a mining pick. She bucked, she screamed, but before she could blink the wooziness out of her eyes a cloth soaked in a chalky substance was shoved in her face. No, she thought, thrashing furiously. Not milk of the poppy. Every time she moved though, some part of her or other throbbed in agony anew. She drifted into empty sleep, this time blessedly free of hurt and horror both. Waking on the other side of her small cabin, head wrapped tightly in cold seawater-soaked cloth, Asha braced for the pain to hit yet again but was greeted only by dull throbbing from her nose and leg both. Her hand came up to find her face wrapped neatly ‘round with a strand of dressing, feeling two small round objects shoved up her nostrils. Are these bloody stones? Were they trying to get me to suffocate? Then, trying to steel herself as much as she could manage, she looked to her leg. I knew what I’d see, she thought. I felt that cunt’s nails drive clean through. The sight of her right leg ending in a wiggling bandaged stump had her bursting into tears all the same. It hurts, she thought. More than the pulsing throb in her knee, though, the shock, the fear, the dismay, they hurt what no cold claw could. The door opened and dawn’s cold light came in a blinding surge. Asha had not even the fire to tell her visitor to go away, her cheek in her palm with the tears falling strong as ever. The door closed as quickly as it opened, the heavy step of Jorah Mormont causing Black Wind’s boards to creak. What am I going to do now?

“Don’t touch your face too much. Your nose wasn’t more than bloody splinters when we got quit of the coast, Gawen thought maybe if we forced it to keep its shape you might at least keep prettier than a certain dwarf we know.” I was pretty before, even with my too-big nose. Qarl thought so. “A few more days, maybe we’ll get that dressing off and see what we’ll see. As for your leg…” he trailed off. “Essos wasn’t a place to live life well, but I saw more than my share of wounds made and unmade. Even lost limbs.”

“Essos was a pit of slavery. You saw slaves hobbled for running and left to crawl and beg, you mean.” Asha finally spat, resisting the urge to sniffle and fill her lungs with snot and blood.

“If you want to paint it so black. A shattered nose isn’t going to kill you, but if you don’t have someone who knows wounds well on hand when your leg’s torn off, you’re not lasting long.” She had her retort ready, but he tilted her head back before she could react, pouring something past her lips. She spat instinctively, only then realizing Mormont had given her hot ale.

“Bloody fuck, give me that.” she snatched the skin from him, guzzling it thirstily until a pleasant warm feeling built in her belly. While she drank, Mormont talked.

“Do you know, of late I’ve had my wife on my mind. Ten years we were married, and I never had a cross word with her. I should have known better than to keep trying for a babe, but Evlyn so wanted a girl. Well, a girl the gods gave her, though the babe never drew breath. Evlyn died in the birthing bed an hour later, the girl still in her arms.” He looked into his hands, once scarred, weathered, and worn by hard living. No more, Asha saw. Aside from the rich brown hair that ran right up to his knuckles, there was nothing to suggest Mormont had ever seen strife. His face was much the same, shed it seemed to Asha of thirty years’ worth of scars, lines and pockmarks.

“The moon.” Asha remembered from their little chat on the voyage to the islands from Dragonstone. Mormont nodded.

“I can smell the beef jerky on Roggon’s whelp’s breath from here. I can hear the sail part the breeze even when becalmed. And I dream.” He took a long, slow breath. “The sun may barely show its face, but the moon’s as fond of us as ever.” Asha was quiet for a little while.

“How much longer ‘till the next full moon?”

“Two days. Three. I suppose it makes no matter.” Mormont said, turning his hands over. “It will out, Asha Greyjoy. A barrel full of silver was all that held it back last time, all that kept it penned up in here.” He tapped his temple. “It’s not enough anymore. Stings plenty, but even a fistful of stags isn’t enough to turn me back the way I ought be. Whatever’s in here with me, waiting for its turn, comes back too quick for silver to matter.” She gulped. Fuck me.

“We’d best get you ashore for it, then.”

“Aye. But no telling what waits for us there.”

“Fuck what waits for us there. If it’s got to get through you, we’ll have all the time we like to get away.” Asha said flatly.

Eventually she felt bold enough to take Mormont by the shoulder so she could stand. After a fashion, anyway.

“You might be worried about walking but having your thigh and calf still will help tremendously. You’ll learn how to move around on a polished steel peg just fine. For now, we’ll make do with what we have.” he said, as Gawen Glover came into Asha’s cabin holding something like a cudgel.

“The Reader had books aplenty on the maimings ironborn gave and took over centuries of reaving. It’s just a matter of getting the balance right.” he said, showing Asha his work. Not pretty, she thought, looking at the wooden peg. When they got it flush to her leg, what remained of her knee throbbed but gave no further protest. “Done proper, there’s some space so your leg isn’t pushing down on the thing and giving you seven kinds of grief. I had a bit of wood and your axe to go on, it’s enough to keep you upright.” Asha felt like a newborn foal learning how to walk again, staggering and limping heavily.

“The bottom is too narrow. I might have two legs again but I’m still missing a foot.” she said through gritted teeth, trying not to cry all over again.

“There’s no foundry on Black Wind. Maybe Seagard will have what we need…” Gawen replied.

“I’ve never seen anyone add a metal base to a wooden leg, anyhow. Puts all the weight on the bottom and fucks up your stride.” Mormont grunted dismissively. Asha looked down her front, down to her toes, where the wooden peg scuffed up Black Wind’s floor and hung off her leg like the stumbling useless object it was. I used to dash about the deck, lead raids and swim nimble as any seal, she thought. Now all I’ll do is limp about and just now I can barely do even that. She flailed her way over to the door. Let’s get this over with. Pushing it open she moved outside, using the doorframe to help hold her up. Fresh salty air hit her nose and made it sting something awful but Asha gulped it down regardless. Day had come, for what it was worth, and a grey-white sky sprinkled fat lazy flakes down on them. Cold, Asha thought as Mormont tossed her coat to her. To her surprise she caught it with both hands, standing unaided for the moment. She pulled it on, studiously ignoring any forthcoming glances from her crew to study the shoreline visible to port. The Cape of Eagles, Asha knew at once. We’re heading right for Seagard. In ages past, the Mallisters would sound the Booming Bell to draw the countryside’s smallfolk behind stone walls in preparation for an ironborn raid. Just now, though, I’d rather hear that bronze monster peal than nothing at all. As the cape rolled by, Asha got practiced at hobbling about.

“I could always have you carry me if we have to get gone in a hurry, as well.” she told Mormont ruefully.

“Sacks of oats get carried. If you can learn to walk again, you can learn to run.” he replied, eyes roving over the shoreline. “When’s the next fishing village?”

“They’re not so close together, Mormont. I’d bet the smallfolk quarrel endlessly over whose fishing waters are whose. The Mallisters don’t care, they get to tax the catch no matter whose nets haul it in- I’d be surprised if we found another village before nightfall. Even with Black Wind flying at full sail.”

“Are we stupid enough to stick ourselves in the same poxy trough twice?” Qarl called incredulously from his post.

“You’d not be so skittish if the Sands were waiting for you on the docks.” Asha said.

“Once you’ve had one Dornishwoman you’ve had them all. Besides, no Sand is worth giving up a Greyjoy for.” The Maid gave her a grin. A whole one, anyway. He’s trying to make me feel better. Further down the deck, Asha saw Tris frowning. Despite his baseborn origins and unmannered way, Qarl the Maid had a gift Tristifer Botley so dearly lacked. Namely, he knows when to shut his fucking mouth.

As Tris approached, Asha tried her hardest to will a village into existence on the eastern horizon. A pack of wolves. An Other showing his ass. Anything.

“Are you in any pain?” Tris asked. The words themselves seemed exhaust her.

“I’ve got a fistful of uncooked crab instead of a nose just now and a monster from the furthest north tore my leg off at the knee easier than a man would pull the skin off a chicken. Muster all the wits you can, take a chance and give an answer. Do you think I’m in any pain?” Asha barely got the words past her gritted teeth. She saw the hurt in Tris’ face, but she could not find it in herself to care. “You cling to one night years ago like a man in quicksand grasping at reeds.”

“We were in l-”

“We were children. I wasn’t bursting from my jerkin to be made a brood mare, either. I’d sooner have no nose, and no leg proper, too, than spend my life in the birthing bed, more than likely dying in it.” She turned to him. “When we make Seagard, if we make Seagard, you can flatter all manner of ladies from the mainland. You said yourself you don’t care if the Botley lands are restored to you as is your birthright, so better you end your days in some soft green court with your soft green manner, wed to a lady more fitting you. Fitting you at all, in fact.” Out of the corner of her eye, Asha spotted Qarl scale the ship’s mast as only he could to peer due east out of the crow’s nest. Blunt as she’d been, Asha knew her words no more moved Tris off his course than his had wooed her. She elbowed past him, limping slightly, to take the measure of the rest of her crew. Hagen and Harl were nowhere in sight, probably fucking somewhere, while Rook darted about the deck keeping wind in the sail. The almost-dwarf was short in a way even the Imp was not, squat and round. A barrel with a beard. His build belied a startling deftness, though- excepting herself, Asha had never seen a better axe-thrower. No one will try him at the finger dance, either. Roggon and Grimtongue were caught up in another of their lovers’ spats as well and it took a sharp word to get them acting less like bickering children and more like seasoned reavers. I should switch one from each pair, Asha thought. Hagen and Harl will be too busy eyeing each other and these two hoary old barnacles do nothing but get into it with each other. I bet it is the beards that have them so oft at odds.

“You seem to be doing half-decently.” Gawen Glover’s voice called from behind her.

“Half-decently for someone newly hobbled. Not so well as I’d be had I still two legs.”

“Well, you haven’t, and you’re not like to until it doesn’t matter anymore. It could have been you smacked in half or smashed against the mast instead of Fingers or Dale.”

“I’m not in the mood to take a scolding from a northern boy lord who’s spent half his life the Reader’s prisoner.” Asha said.

“No more than I am to have to dunk your head in seawater mixed with milk of the poppy until you get your head in the right place.”

“You couldn’t reach.”

“I could on Ser Jorah’s shoulders.” Right, Ser Jorah. As if there were the first knightly thing about him. At a glance Asha could tell the tide was due for the northman, and soon. His breathing was heavy, labored, though surely not from the exertion he was putting himself to. His nose didn’t stop twitching either and more than once Asha caught him wincing or looking fretfully to shore, as if to make sure it was still there.

“Rook.” she muttered as quietly as she dared. Though the short man appeared at her elbow in seconds, she had no doubt Mormont had heard just as easily from the other end of the ship. “You pulled night watch last night.”

“Aye.”

“The moon was out, I’ll wager.”

“Aye.”

“How long until we have the light of a full moon? In case we find Seagard surrounded by dead men in need of killing a second time.”

“Why d’you think I’m scrambling about? I want to have castle walls between me and any northern monsters the next time they roll around. Blue-eyed or brown.” Asha frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this sun’s the last we’ll see before we have the full moon peering down on us. We’d best have dry land underfoot by then.” And out of reach as well, Asha finished, her stomach sinking. For the first time she forgot about her leg, about the dressing knotted around her head. She turned toward the sun. The lazy bastard had already begun leaning westward, like some great fat man who thought getting out of bed for a trip to the privy was a hard day’s work.

“Port!” came Qarl’s sudden cry. Asha dizzied herself turning around even as the rest of Black Wind’s crew rushed to see what they’d come upon. All save Mormont, Asha noticed, seated on a crate with his face in his hands. Getting closer, Asha could see that the Maid had called ‘port’ more out of tradition than any true fact. This pisspot might be even smaller than the last, Asha thought. As before, there was no sign of anybody. Mormont’s getting worse by the hour. We haven’t time to stop and poke around.

“We’d hear an outcry if there were anyone to give it.” Hagen said, suddenly reappearing from wherever she and Harl had gone.

“Right.” Qarl said from his perch, cupping his hands. “OI! There’s worse on these waters just now than ironborn! If you dumb cunts know what’s good for you, you’ll get yourselves to Seagard right quick!” he bellowed across the water. Diplomatic.

“At least this ought be the last village before Seagard. The land’s rolling off where sea was just yesterday. A neat turn right and we should be knocking on the Mallisters’ door before sundown.” Asha headed for her cabin, intent on getting a rest in before she found herself trying to tell Lord Jason a story so mad it couldn’t be a lie. It seemed only moments before shouting on deck woke her, rushing to her feet only to fall flat on her face. At least I didn’t bash my nose to pieces this time, she thought ruefully as she picked herself up, limping to the door and edging it open. The dock that ran alongside Black Wind was a dock proper and no doubt, while the great stone wall that ran along the land behind it had purple banners flying from its parapets. A dozen men with swords bared had her crew surrounded, even when all the ironborn had to hand were harsh words and buckets of bilge. Asha couldn’t help smirking at the sight of one of the Mallister soldiers, who looked as though a bucket had caught him in the face. She stepped into view, wincing at the torchlight after her dark, quiet cabin. Bilge-face looked ready to pull her over to join her crew, paling at the sight of Mormont pushing two Seagard men out of the way (and overboard) as he moved to squarely block the dock patrol’s way.

“I am Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, accompanied by Lady Asha Greyjoy as well as Lord Robett Glover’s own children.” Mormont gave a long swallow. As if words were a trial to get out. “We’re here on behalf of Daenerys Targaryen as well as the Blackfish-”

“-who want to rally the riverlands behind the Floppy Fish of Riverrun. The Tullys were never more than stewards, there’s not a drop of king’s blood in a one of them-” Mormont took the interruption poorly. He grabbed the man and threw him over his shoulder, letting him crash onto the dock.

“We’re here for an audience with Lord Mallister, if you’ll take us to him. Quick, like.” The rivermen to a man were struck dumb by Mormont’s trick, so Rook elbowed one of them in the ribs.

“Quick, like.” he said hollowly, hurrying off Asha’s deck, closely followed by his fellows.

Slick with snow, the deck made for tricky going. Maybe a bit of metal at peg’s end is warranted after all, if just to help me catch the ground. They were stopped again at the castle gate.

“Who goes there?” The sergeant of the watch called, peering down from the parapet. Mormont was giving it his all to keep his wits about him, Asha saw. My turn.

“A sorry mix of ironborn and northmen. Here to get an audience with Lord Jason. Or Patrek, I suppose, if Jason’s kicked it.” The sergeant’s umbrage was apparent to Asha but another head poking over the stones spared her a dismissive barb (and perhaps a loosed quarrel).

“My father’s well and good, no thanks to the ironmen chasing his commons from their villages or the northmen bankrupting him of coin and prestige both thanks to Robb Stark’s marriage to an Essosi camp follower.”

“I’m afraid ironborn are every bit as chaseable to the cold monsters prowling the Cape of Eagles, Lord Patrek. Chewable, too.” Patrek Mallister’s face pulled from incensed to baffled. Before he could say a word more though, Mormont let out a long, slow breath- and drove his fist clean through the wood of Seagard’s seaward gate. The crack of the wood, the pop of the iron studs firing from their divots drew Patrek further out over the wall.

“What the fuck is going on down there?” Mormont, having decided his course too ponderous, simply threw himself through the gate next, crashing through it like a child through a hay bale or perhaps a pile of leaves. Feeling faint, Asha took the opportunity to peek through the Mormont-shaped hole in the gate. Oh, fuck me. It looked like everyone the Cape of Eagles over had come to take shelter in Seagard, commons huddling around small fires, keeping out of the snows thanks to a few torn sails serving as makeshift pavilions.

“Where is Lord Jason?” Mormont said slowly, clearly, in a voice just shy of a bellow. Asha slipped through the hole after him, hearing the rest of the crew file in after her. She caught another Mallister soldier staring at the lot of them.

“What are you looking at?” she snapped. An older man in a deep purple cloak lined with thread-of-silver and a winged helm, flanked by knights true and no common dock guards, came through the gathering crowd.

“Father.” Patrek called from his perch. Asha spoke quickly and concisely, before something worse could happen.

“Well met, Lord Jason. I am Asha Greyjoy. You and your people are in grave danger. Winter masses out on the cape and no doubt it will follow all the fleeing commons straight here, where the food is.” She had not forgotten the mindless hunger in the monster’s ravenous blue eyes. I have no reason to lie, she reasoned. Nothing to gain by wandering straight into their midst all but defenseless, save for Mormont. Then again, Asha wondered if perhaps she was quite well protected. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted one of the splendid purple banners held fast by a knight flicker suddenly. From fluttering due east it snapped smartly south, flying full. Wind from the north. Her stomach tightened. The best warning we’ll ever get.

“Mormont.” She said suddenly. “To the parapets. Whatever it is, it will come from the north.” Anyone foolish enough to get in the northman’s way quickly discovered the gravity of his error, knights armed and armored thrown to the ground with a single hairy hand. Asha followed as best she was able, grateful at least Mormont had not seen fit to create a hole through people as he had through wood.

She was out of breath by the time she joined Mormont up top, panting heavily while the knight remained utterly unmoved.

“Captain.” The word was so unexpected, so out of tone, that Asha straightened out of pure confusion. Then she discovered it wasn’t Mormont who had spoken but Rook. His eyes are not due north, either. She followed his gaze west, to where the sun had found the horizon at last. Sunset, with moonrise to follow. The softest steady thumping in her ears made her feel self-conscious, until she realized to her faint horror it wasn’t her heart’s doing at all. Fuck me blonde, I can hear his fucking heartbeat.

“Asha.” This time, it was indeed Mormont who had spoken. “Go back below. You and the rest.”

“Piss on th-”

“Go, or I’ll throw you.” he said, reaching for the sword that hung forgotten on his back. “Take this, too.” He held it out almost absently. As if it were a shovel. Asha stared at it, her arm it seemed unwilling to take the Conqueror’s sword. Finally, Rook took it for her, giving her a nudge with the dragon’s-head pommel to get her moving down the stairs. When the Glovers, Gawen in particular, saw what she was holding, he immediately tossed her a scrap of the rag Theon had wrapped it in to begin with.

“Why did Ser Jorah give that to you? He knows it’s useless in your hands…”

“Useless in his too, Ga.” Asha said, a hand on his shoulder while her other took Erena’s. “Better where we know it is than lying in the woods somewhere.” Gawen’s brow furrowed. I suppose we won’t know anything until the moon has come and gone. She picked Erena up, the girl laying her head on Asha’s shoulder. Despite her leg, she found herself quite able to leave Mormont’s vicinity with all speed, Gawen hurrying to keep up. The castle. Get to the castle. Get the Glover babes out of harm’s- One of the towers exploded. From the cascade of bricks and bodies tumbled a boulder, wide as a man was tall. It fell on a house, through it, sending its walls collapsing outward. “To ships!” Asha found herself screaming again. This time though, the noise was far the louder and besides, dust coated her lungs and reduced her to a coughing wreck in moments. Don’t fall, she thought, the idea of being trampled by a terrified mob or else crushed under rubble enough to keep her upright. Another boulder flew from over the wall, this one careening down a street and splattering smallfolk and gently bred alike on Seagard’s bricks.

“EGIR VERGIR!!!” The bellows were loud as an oncoming tempest, the answer the thunderclap that must follow.

“EGIR VERGRIR!!!” Even the sound of the northern gate splintering to kindling at the gentle touch of what sounded like an enormous boot was not enough to put Asha on her ass. The sound of the Booming Bell somewhere overhead gave a mad answer to the chaos that reigned- at least until a third boulder split it mid-peal, two bronze halves crashing into the castle yard and armory, respectively. Then Asha saw a giant for the first time. Even as madness roiled around her, the sight was enough to stop her where she stood. Some kind of thick hairy hide around his waist was all he wore. His beard reached his shins, a wild white thing, human skulls clacking away in it the way tinkly bells hung in the braids of the Dothraki. He gave a primal, senseless bellow, loud enough to crack the stones he stood on and knock people to the ground. Peasants, soldiers and everyone in between became the same red mash beneath his great bare foot. Steel plate crumpled in his fist or under it, horses flying like throwing daggers. Some, Asha saw with a detached kind of awe, thrown so hard their legs snapped clean of their bodies in the giant’s grip. Keep going, Asha thought.

Even if she reached Black Wind, Asha realized, there would be no getting away. Not when they have a ruined castle’s worth of rubble to throw. Even a glancing hit would send us to bay’s bottom. That did not stop her from trying to flee the chaos, the slaughter, the utter devastation the giants could bring. Were bringing. A glint of silver to the east was the only light in the darkness, the only thing Asha could see through the haze of screams, dust, snow and blood. Now would be the time, Mormont. Then she remembered Mormont had been on the northern gate, the one the giants had crashed through to get into Seagard in the first place. Well, Asha thought, as earth-shaking footsteps thundered closer. Unless they had silver on hand, it ought not matter. She felt Gawen bury his face in her side.

“HERE.” The word was loud enough to make Asha’s bones twitch. When there was no squashing fist or foot forthcoming, she dared to look around. A man was visible in profile against the rising moon, a dark splinter taller than the giants whose ire he’d drawn thanks to the rubble on which he stood. Bone-beard was closest, a wild wordless bellow his only answer. Asha watched as Mormont’s fists went to his temples. Then his figure grew. Taller, broader, his head twisting and limbs thickening in the indomitable light of the full moon. She tore her eyes away to find the other two giants quite spellbound, faces frozen in disbelief. Bone-beard was not so easily cowed though, screaming furiously at the thing on top of the rubble-pile. He heaved a great stone slab up at his enemy only to watch it shatter on impact, doing not the least bit harm. A low, surly grunt came from the top of the pile, the thing evidently taking exception with being hit by rubble. Asha turned back and nearly blacked out. A bear, she thought. A monstrous bear. To her eyes it was of a height with the giants, or near enough. More significant was that it easily overmatched any one of them in weight. Slowly it- he- clambered off the pile, sniffing around. He’s disoriented, Asha realized. Bone-beard promptly stomped toward the bear and drove his fist into its flank- or would have, had Mormont been an ordinary bear. Instead the creature lowed in furious alarm, swiping out with a paw the size of a tower shield. Asha heard the ribs in the giant’s belly crack with the force of the blow, sending him to earth gasping for air and coughing up blood that looked inky black in the moonlight. Mormont was on him a second later, jaws crunching flush on his shoulder and flailing him around like a dog would a rat. The other giants’ faces went from disbelief to determination, one bringing an icy greataxe down on Mormont’s back. It did no more than the monster on the dock’s claw or Bone-beard’s slab had, while Mormont took the opportunity to crunch down on his assailant’s knee and fling him, bloody fling him, sending the giant bodily through the air and through one of Seagard’s walls. The third giant had only enough time to raise his tree-trunk maul before a bear-paw crushed his skull, dropping dead where he stood. Bone-beard had made it to his knees by then, an inky puddle of spit and blood forming in front of him as he tried to breathe with broken ribs. Mormont, never ignorant thanks to his nose, turned toward the giant, muzzle covered in more of the same. A scream from the giant, a bellow from the bear and they were heading for each other- at least, Mormont was, and at full speed. The giant folded forward when the bear hit him, gurgling out his last when the two great arms crushed him to the bear’s chest. Detecting no further resistance Mormont dropped the giant, turning to sniff after the last.

Asha turned away from the carnage, starting off for Black Wind again. Standing here watching isn’t going to get us to safety. Who’s to say once he’s done tearing the giants apart, he settles for smaller fare? Of course, the survivors had massed near the water, as far from the giants (and the massive rampaging bear) as they could get. What ships laid at anchor were packed to the deck rails, Asha’s own ship lying a bit further out as she’d ordered of Harl. The moonlight threw everything into sharper relief. Wounded, some still coughing from all the dust in the air, others screaming for those they’d lost. Asha found herself climbing on a pile of shipping crates, the Glover children still tight in her grasp, waiting for the mob to realize the threat had been dealt with. For now, anyway. Once she could hear her own breathing, the people of Seagard exhausted and hoarse, Asha spoke.

“This is why Dragonstone sent us. Something from the furthest north has decided it’s going to have its way with Westeros and hard. The Others have already reached the Iron Islands and we met one of their monsters in a cape village on the way here. If you want to live, come with us. More ships are always a welcome sight at sea. The Kingslayer’s task was to rally the west and hold at the Rock, we’ll sail down the coast and meet him there. Maybe with a few of his countrymen rescued from their own bloody castles before the Others knock them down.” From the throng came Lord Jason and his knights, his purple cloak in a dozen pieces and tied around this arm or that head.

“That will keep my people safe?”

“Nowhere the Others can reach is safe. You’d be safer at the Rock than squatting in Seagard’s ruins, though.” He turned to look at what remained of his castle. Grander than Pyke by far, in Asha’s opinion. Reduced to sagging walls, a broken gate and countless corpses. Then Asha remembered something. “We ought burn the dead if we can. The Others can get them up and walking again and it’s not something you want thrown in your face.” Mallister’s aghast face could not go paler.

“There’s no need to be tidy. Corpses burn, stone doesn’t. If you survive to return, you can worry about rebuilding then, my lord.” Gawen said, Asha squeezing his hand. Good lad. Off to the north Asha heard the bear roar, heard a chorus of dismayed raspy voices and even the occasional sound of ice cracking clean through. A flash of red had Asha homing in on Hagen, blood dribbling from her lip where she’d bitten it.

“Have you seen anyone else?” Asha asked. Hagen shook her head, evidently stunned speechless. “Right. You’re to take the Glovers back to the ship, I’m going to help the mainlanders toss a few torches.” Asha said, trying to rein in her own urges. To scream, to run blindly, to swing out at any nearby movement. Grimly she got to prodding the survivors on, seeing to several craters in the ground filled with bodies and set alight. The fires burning from below compared with the blackness of the sky and the brightness of the moon turned Seagard into a hell of opposites. Quiet and loud, hot and cold, blindingly bright and crushingly dark. Recognizing the dead was impossible unless they had faces left to recognize, something Asha realized quickly was not a given. It wasn’t a friendly face she spotted, though, but Tristifer Botley’s lush dark hair. Numbly Asha drew nearer, looking down into his glassy eyes. But for the fallen wall that had cut him near in half, he seemed merely dazed. Not enough time even to realize what had happened to him. He wanted me to have his sons. I wanted to have adventures. She looked around, here and there a dazed, bloody survivor wading through the brown haze that had resulted from the blood mixing with the dust and snow. Walking dead, ice-ships, man-bears and giants. And us, left to scrape ourselves off of the bottom of a boot. Corpses, fires, and bits of broken masonry were all that remained of the proud Mallister castle. Asha sat in the street next to Tris. First a whimper, then she began to sob.

“Up.” A rough voice said. Asha started awake so stiff and cold it was a labor to lift her head up, groaning audibly at the ache. Morning had come, cold and white. A dusting of snow covered the devastation the giants had left, including Asha. She blinked the light out of her eyes. Mormont stood before her with a torn bloodied Mallister banner tied around his waist. Her jest was on her tongue before she could stop it.

“Purple isn’t your color.”

“And you look just as foolish-stupid in white.” Mormont said, brushing the snow off her shoulders and pulling her to her feet. Foot, Asha amended. “Are you hurt?”

“My nose still throbs and my leg aches something hellish, but that’s probably the cold.”

“Aye. That and having it torn off at the knee, ass.” Mormont grumbled, looking around. “Gods, but they hit hard.”

“Not hard enough to keep you off them.” And you hit harder. Was Mormont really going to gloss over what had just happened?

“Well, now what?” he asked, looking down the street to where the docks lay.

“Mormont, I just saw you tear through three giants without stopping for breath.” Despite the cold, despite the devastation, Asha swore she could see a blush rise in the northman’s hairy cheek. “More importantly, so did everyone else. They saw too that nothing the giants did so much as made you sniffle.”

“Well, their blows weren’t silvered, were they?” Mormont asked in reply. “Can you move?”

“I could barely move on flat even ground. With this peg I’d do better getting on all fours and crawling to the docks.”

“A sight that’d be, a sneaking squid.” Mormont simply picked her up and made his way toward the water where the other survivors pooled.

“A sack of oats now, am I?”

“Better a sack of oats than a frozen squid.” If Qarl, Roggon and Grimtongue took exception to seeing Asha carried, they gave no sign. Mormont set her on her feet, making sure she had her footing before letting go.

“Where’s Rook?” she asked of them.

“The maester was killed so nobody’s about who can staunch wounds proper. Rook’s probably out among the riverlanders lopping off what they’ve lost to frostbite.” Qarl told her.

“Lady Asha.” She turned to see Patrek Mallister stepping toward her, hair frozen with frost and armor forgone for leathers.

“Does your father know you’re alive?”

“He does now.” Another man separated himself from the masses, wrapping his arms around his son. A lucky family.

“Father.” Patrek said, voice cracking from emotion or his father’s arm’s squeezing the life out of him. “Father.” Finally Lord Jason released his heir, tears freezing on his cheeks. “We’ve got to get the fuck out of here.” The father’s face faltered. “Look for yourself. Seagard is a smashed ruin. No doubt it was a squashing for us, but there were only three of them. It was a raid, a reaving, happening by chance. More will come. We must be well gone by then. Somewhere they can’t follow.” This eaglet is quicker on the uptake than his sire. He and I have that in common.

“Patrek speaks true, Lord Mallister. That we’re alive at all is pure luck, no more. Had… had we come tomorrow, there would be nobody alive to ferry south.”

Jason’s eyes flicked to Mormont, who seemed unbothered by the cold all but naked.

“Ser-”

“A whole month until the next full moon. Time enough to sail south and more, but I’d bet Blackfyre the giants will be back before then. Every moment we linger here puts your people in peril.” Talk of the sword only mystified Lord Mallister.

“You’ll see. My dolt brother pulled it out of the surf at Dragonstone and nearly cut his own head off with it. Bloody idiot.” Asha said, playing it off as Mormont had. “Come, my lord. Get your people on your ships, and south we’ll go.”

“There are a hundred villages between here and the lip of Ironman’s Bay. After them, the castles on the coast. The Banefort and the Crag. Faircastle on Fair Isle. Kayce and Feastfires.” Patrek intoned. All full of people, Asha thought. The Others will be on them soon, and the giants, and the Drowned God knows what other monsters they’ve brought.

“Then we’ll beat the Others there.” Asha said. “We’ll fly our bloody underclothes if it means more speed, but we’ll pinch every person out of their cold grasp we can all the way to the fucking Rock. By the time we get there, we’ll have enough people to fill it twice over. The western lords might not take the word of an ironwoman or a northman, but Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard would go a long way toward bringing them ‘round.”

“Though, we have to get there first. That’s not getting done except by doing it.” Mormont said, walking off to move what needed moving and haul what needed hauling. Lord Jason turned to look at his crumbling fast one more time.

“Never mind, Father.” Patrek said. “We’ll build it anew when we come back. Higher and stronger than the Eyrie, even. What falcon can claim to be the equal of an eagle?” Despite his spirited words, Asha could see the tears threatening to fall in Patrek’s eyes.

“Fuck, you might come back with more Mallisters than you started with. There are unwed women aplenty in the westerlands, I’ll bet, after the War of Five Kings. You’ll get the chance to show your pretty son off in every western court, if nothing else.” In the end Patrek had to lead his father to the ships by the hand, the Mallister ships just big enough to take on all the rivermen wounded and whole both. A few of the more seaworthy men Asha picked out for Black Wind. At last the coast began to shrink into the distance, the sounds of the other ships a sharp shift from the silence Asha had arrived in. She spotted Mormont sitting by the steps up to the aft deck, wearing garb Gawen Glover had scrounged for him. “How do you feel?” she asked, almost sheepishly.

“Fine. Not so scrambled up here, though I doubt I’ll feel the same when the full moon draws near again.” Out of the blue, Asha recalled something.

“You spent a lot of time with the Dothraki.”

“Aye.”

“Once or twice in Meereen, I heard them talk about Daenerys’ surly shadow. Jorah the Andal, they called you.”

“What of it?”

“If they’d seen what I have, they’d know how ill it suits you. You’re First Man to the bone.” At first the northman did not react, then his eyebrows rose so high they threatened to join his hairline. He began to laugh, loud and strong, until his face was in his hand. I wonder if that hurts him, Asha thought mildly.

Chapter 21: Samwell II

Chapter Text

After the last of the rubble had been cleared, stock had to be taken. The dragonglass, helpfully stockpiled in one of the New Castle’s cellars where it was needed least, was brought out and inventoried down to the last twinkling bead. The Manderlys’ maester with his head of curly blonde hair could barely be counted on to put ink to paper so shaken was he, let alone bind wounds or perform triage. Sam himself did what he could, popping fingers and noses back into place, staunching bleeding and even taking bits lost to frostbite. Gilly too, he thought. She recognizes the plants White Harbor has laid by, sure as any woods witch. He’d spotted her smacking a Blackwood knight on the back of his helm gesturing to his fallen companion she’d been assessing with a grim look on her face. Death is no stranger to her. Not like it is to the southern ladies, far from every battle of the War of Five Kings. Sam let his hands fall to his sides when the lad he was trying to keep conscious simply went slack. Many and more where he came from, I fear.

“Samwell.” He looked up from the body to spot old Lady Olenna coming toward him, for once forgoing her fine black mourning clothes for simple common garb. More able to handle a little mud. Or blood. Olenna might have been dressed to blend into the crowd but her twin guardsmen, seven-footers and not an inch less, could hardly be disguised. She could be common born as they come. Hulking shadows at her sides would make lordly men get out of the way all the same. “A noble effort, but you’ve been at this for hours. I think some food and rest would do you good. Dinner will be served soon up in the castle, you and Gilly ought get a decent meal if only for the baby’s sake. Little Sam is with my mother and sister just now, if only because Gilly couldn’t find you once the raid ended. He was so tired that only then did he realize Olenna was not talking about Little Sam at all. Oh, right. How had he forgotten? Maybe I have been down here too long. He looked around. The street was filled with wounded, each laid out on a bit of banner or cloth or nothing at all, in the case of the unfortunate. The only mercy afforded them was that a tent of sorts had been erected overhead, a great expanse of sail that kept the snow off them. Still more in the castle, no doubt. “Come, Samwell. A bath for you and your Gilly, and perhaps the quacking ducks will shut their bills long enough to plot out just what to do next.” Sam let her lead him off to where Gilly poked and prodded those still coming in, more than once fighting to keep his eyes open.

“It was more the panic that did for the wounded, that or getting hit by rubble. If anyone ended up in a giant’s way, they died. The same for the wights and the toothy nosy things.” Gilly said as they made their way up. Istrollen, the giant called them. Sam had not been atop the ramparts when the giant tore the gate down, but he could have been clear on the other side of the city and still hear his every word. Egir vergir. Egir vergrir. Whatever the words meant, they were burned into Sam’s mind as deeply as the face of the Other he had slain. They had the weather, too. Gusts and gales and sweeping curtains of freezing rain. Perhaps it was not so much a mystery why they were missing as many as they were. We’re still waiting on the bulk of Daenerys’ army and Jon besides. Not to mention this princeling claiming to be her nephew. It was no business of Sam’s, he could not care any less about the restoration of House Targaryen one way or the other. Daenerys told us she was Ser Bonifer’s natural daughter in the throne room before the dragon burned the throne. No more Targaryens. No more Iron Throne. It is time now to survive, to see tomorrow, to make sure Gilly and Little Sam do too.

“I’d call for hot water but I’m not sure now’s the best time.” Olenna said uneasily.

“Cold water cleans good as hot. After we get some rest, we’ll join you on your way to the food.” Gilly replied, already getting to pulling off Sam’s jerkin. The inside stank of blood and sweat and while Olenna gave a polite cough that quickly turned into a hoarse barking wheeze, Gilly did not flinch.

“I say, this was my first time left in battle’s wake and I could well have done to see the honor pass me by.”

“There are words that exist for what White Harbor just went through, my lady. Battle is not one of them.” Sam said grimly as he pulled off his cloth shirt, just as hopeless as the jerkin. Gilly tossed both in the hearth without a second thought.

“The fire could do with it, anyway.” she said. Once a serving maid had shown up, coughing likewise at the stench, Sam called for water himself.

“No need for a tub. Just rags and full buckets, we’ll work the rest out. Lady Olenna, if you’ll excuse us.” he added.

“Of course. I’ll see your son is brought up forthwith.” She left immediately, no doubt eager to be quit of the smell while Sam pondered her words. My son. I’m a man of the Night’s Watch and by rights should still be copying books at the Citadel. Besides, there’s no ‘interpreting’ whether Gilly’s coming babe is mine.

“It’s not so bad now we’ve got the soiled clothes off you.” Gilly opined, opening a window all the same. “Did you save anyone?”

“As many as I could. Mostly I fixed up those who could still walk. Anyone at death’s door was like to die regardless of what I did. Maesters can set broken bones and free a person of frostbite, but they can’t fix a leg crushed under rubble or put a man’s insides back in for him, at least out in a freezing dark street surrounded by hundreds of other people. Bit distracting.”

“Still. People will appreciate meeting Samwell Tarly at White Harbor when they’re old and their noses still point straight and their fingers haven’t healed bent up.”

“Bugger me. How do you feel?”

“Bit like last time. Different, though. Lighter and not so shaken. Might be this one’s a girl.” She bit her lip.

“Or, you’ve been out from under Craster long enough to be able to take it on your terms. Could be a girl, and why not? She’ll be smarter than any maester and start her own Citadel somewhere, only for women.” Sam was trying to cheer Gilly up, but her face remained crestfallen.

“He was a kneeler in a gray dress. He won’t do in all his days what you have in the last hour.” Sam, you blind fat fool, he cursed himself.

“Well, if it is a girl, what ought we name her?” That seemed to pull Gilly out of her melancholy a bit.

“Well, at first I thought maybe a flower like me, but I’m not at my father’s keep anymore. And I’ve been south of the Wall a good while, so maybe a southerner name.”

“There will be a hundred ladies huddled in the New Castle’s hall trying to keep warm alongside the survivors of the raid, so we won’t want for inspiration.”

“Well, I was thinking about the Reach, mostly. With its fruit and flowers. Horn Hill was not so bad, your father aside, and I was thinking maybe Melessa…then old Olenna told us about her granddaughter before we left that King’s Landing.” Margaery.

“I think it’s a grand name.”

“You don’t think she’ll mind?”

“Just the opposite. She’ll be overjoyed, in her prickly thorny way.”

A bit of cold-soaked cloth later and the pair of them were ready to go. A rapt knock at the door advertised the Queen of Thorns’ return, Little Sam’s burbling echoing queerly in the corridor. As if a dozen Little Sams were chasing each other all about. Sam opened the door dressed in a fresh hunter green doublet, a big smile on his face. Immediately the little boy pointed at him from huge Erryk’s shoulders.

“HA!” came his signature cry.

“What are you doing up there? You’re taller than me now!” Sam said, the babe roaring with laughter as he leaned down for Sam to take. He pointed again when Gilly came into view, mother kissing son on the cheek. Olenna kept up the chatter all the way to the hall, Sam wondering if the old woman wouldn’t simply will herself though the war. Inside was a shambles as Sam suspected, a notion of decorum quite forgotten in the face of shock and terror. Despite the noise Little Sam seemed only more overjoyed, laughing at the chaos and pointing at anyone he half-recognized. At least one person is having fun. Lord Wylis’ table was laden with food, but simpler fare by far than Sam knew the lord enjoyed. Perhaps I don’t look so fat next to him, Sam thought. Lord Wylis or no, I’m not near so fat as I was when I rode for the Wall. Lord Manderly himself sat in his father’s seat, talking almost without stopping for breath to his knights. Fat, yes. Feeble, no.

“That ice-ship still floats at the mouth of the Bite. Anyone still sailing north will have it between them and port.” said one of the worthies, a man with three white blocks on his surcoat. A Woolfield man. Sam squeezed Gilly’s hand before going over, clearing his throat to announce his presence.

“Samwell Tarly.” Manderly said, nodding. His face was pale, his many chins dancing tirelessly, but he had yet to lose his nerve.

“My lord, I know you must not be in much a mood to bestir yourself, but the plan outlined on Dragonstone was to converge on Winterfell.”

“That’s all well and good, Samwell, but His Grace and the dragon queen have yet to show themselves. He went south to procure her aid and since then we’ve not heard a word, to say nothing of three dragons.”

“The Dothraki are real enough. The Unsullied, too. Surely if brought into the fold, they could be put to use.” Sam replied.

“I’m sure the dragons exist as well, wherever they are. After seeing what a few giants can do, my lord, do you really want a dragon brooding atop the New Castle anyway?” Lord Wylis gulped.

“I suppose not. Still, a dragon might have stopped the situation from growing any worse-”

“Who cares where the fire comes from? Fire is fire, and fire slays wights.” The faintly-accented voice of Lady Catelyn’s Volantene shadow asked, rising from the bricks of the floor. People nearby gave startled murmurs, but more in a hurry to give her room than get away.

“Ah. Uh, of course…do you perchance know where Lady Catelyn and…our new guest have gone?”

“They’re out in the yard. I think they want to make sure she can move about without leaving a trail of embers in her wake.”

“That was a grand trick she pulled, whoever she is. Cut the dead men down to the last, and not so much as a bony finger left to wiggle after us.” Ser Rolland Storm, the imposing Bastard of Nightsong, intoned as he joined them. Another seasoned campaigner.

“A trick that worked the first time. Behind White Harbor’s walls, where wind and rain could not stymie her efforts. The open ground of the north will be another tale.” Sam said. That, and the giants did not so much run from the flames as toward the thunder.

“We’re not going anywhere. Winterfell could have the cure to all the ails of the world, it makes no matter. We’ll not make it three leagues before the winds do for us, or the snows bury us, and Seven alone know what else is out there.” Ser Rolland said. The Seven mean little and less here, ser. The Snowy Sept might have gotten the same treatment as the walls but for the thunder calling the giants back.

Sam found himself turning back toward the table where he spotted Desmera Redwyne gingerly opening a bottle of Arbor red. Just as he heard the pop of the cork, the Volantene’s words hit his ear.

“Lady Stark told me what she saw atop the city walls. Giants, yes, but a mammoth, too. One that could throw cold volleys, like the ice-ship.” In Sam’s mind he could see it all. The mammoth, with its long trunk coiled. The white walls of White Harbor, standing in civilized defiance. Cold breath instead of hot, loosed with devastating force and precision, the walls crumbling before the giants could even bring themselves to bear. It tickled at him like a sweet scent without an apparent source. Back and forth, between the bottle and the mammoth. The cork and the projectile. They had no mammoths on hand so it was the bottle Sam focused on, growing until it was big enough for a pretty girl to straddle. Glass wouldn’t work, or even wood. The force would tear it apart from within rather than discharge properly. The voices around him blended and faded, Sam deaf to everything but his own thoughts. Iron, he decided. Heavy enough to withstand the force, but how to control the recoil? A crossbow was no good if it broke the shoulder of the man who tried to fire it… Unless there’s give. Wheels on the bottom by which it might roll from the force required to discharge its projectile. Iron was heavy, though. Wooden wheels would not do. Iron wheels as well. The practicality of such a weapon steadily sunk in Sam’s estimation. Even if it worked, it would be too bloody heavy to move, wheels and all. Besides the fact that such an object, in his extensive knowledge, had never existed before. I’m no smithy either. It couldn’t be made piece by piece, with room for every sort of error and imperfection. I’d need a bloody mold. And then there was just what it would loose. Stone, he mused, but how to shape it? More iron, he amended. In the end Sam had something like a great iron Myrish eye on wheels. Having an idea was one thing, though. Realizing it was quite another.

“Sam!” Gilly’s voice broke the spell, perhaps the only thing that could.

“Still too heavy…” he muttered without realizing it.

“Huh? What is? You’re not too heavy, Sam.” Gilly said, confused.

“I remember you. You’re Jon’s friend from the Night’s Watch. I saw you herding people on the docks when we came into port.” Sam turned to see Jon’s half-sister sitting primly next to him, her towering bull having forgone a cleaning-up.

“Princess Arya.” he nodded to her. “Lord Baratheon.” When he got no reply, Arya elbowed the man in the ribs.

“That’s you, dolt.”

“Hands of a blacksmith. Hands of a silk doll, more like.” The northern princess’ face went red. Just as she opened her mouth to reply, Baratheon kissed the end of her nose and went right on filling his plate while she spluttered on. What stormlanders were near laughed aloud while Sam realized just who had sat down. A smith. His foolishness bloomed backed into sight, just beyond reach like fruit in a tree too high to reach. It could really be something.

“My lord-”

“Ship!” Oh, hell. Now what?

“Everyone stay put. No need to trample one another like crabs in a bucket.” Lord Wylis called, while the soldierly types made their way toward the doors. Sam found himself following the bull and Ser Rolland, despite his utter lack of skill at arms. As soon as they made it outside, they were greeted with the North’s customary greeting, a biting slap of freezing wind that numbed even as it gnawed. And people think frostbite a matter of ill luck. Sam could see movement on the ice-ship’s deck even from afar, tiny white slivers darting about the top deck while Ser Rolland gave his impression of the situation.

“They’re getting closer.” Even his grim observation couldn’t shake Sam, mind still three-quarters on iron foolery.

“Why have they stopped the volleys?” Jonos Bracken asked, half-ready to duck behind a rampart. As if a foot of stone would save him.

“Maybe they’re out of projectiles. Maybe they’re not keen on loosing as they advance.” Sam said, shrugging. Closer and closer, and nothing for us to answer with.

A sudden plume of heat had Sam turning to stare into open flame, the barest outline of a face visible within it.

“What is that?” the blaze asked, even pointing. I know of you, was Sam’s first thought, but his mind seemed to be unable to reconcile what he was seeing with itself. The face was sometimes more there than not, the outline of it anyway, and he could just glimpse a little pair of gentle hands clasped in one another as she quickly brought her arm back to her side. “Oh, I should be more careful…” it muttered. She muttered. Too much wine, Slayer, he was telling himself when another though crossed his mind. I know you. You taught Gilly how to read. More than queer, it was eerie how even as she was, the sound of her voice had not changed. Only her being, he thought shakily. He remembered the day Stannis left the Wall, with only one soggy onion left alive to bob along on the waves of fate as he always had. Why fire? He could not help but ask himself. Among the browns and greys and blacks, there was the red silk of Melisandre of Asshai at the head of the called-king’s army. They got caught in the snow, or at least that was what Sam had heard. The only reason Davos had survived was because Stannis had sent him back to the wall before the sudden snows. And the Boltons did the rest. A shiver went up his spine.

“A ship, it seems worked from an iceberg.” he found himself spluttering, quite without need. Our mothers were cousins, he thought unhelpfully, and you are the bull’s. Thinking on the smith made Sam’s thoughts freeze yet again, the weapon real enough in his mind’s eye to reach out and touch. “My lady, how might you fare in the forge?”

“That’s the second time someone’s asked me that.” she replied, crossing her arms in what might have been a huff. “I can do other things. I can read.” I know you can.

“Reading isn’t going to sink that ship. Smithery might.” He heard the other men turn from her to him. Without looking at the man, Sam reached up and put his hand on Lord Baratheon’s shoulder. “If you’ll accompany me my lord, my lady. I think, if you’ll allow me a moment, I know just what to do.” He ran back to the castle as fast as he could manage, the girl keeping up without a hint of effort while the tall lord took long heavy breaths. The smithy, he thought. Ink and paper. Parchment was too small though, so Sam laid out a spare white sail on a table outside the hot confines of the smithy. The first time he put point to it, his hand shook so badly he had to wait to let it pass. Then he was off, clear dark lines spanning the length of the sail while Lord Baratheon’s confused murmurings fell suddenly silent. A bell stretched long, Sam thought. A Myrish eye with an open end. A mammoth trunk. A wine bottle. When the body was done, Sam drew the wheels, making them big and heavy on purpose. So that they might bear the load without breaking but also keep steady even in recoil. By the time he was finished his sweat dotted the sail as well, falling freely from his brow. He straightened up, back aching. Lord Baratheon was not looking at him. His blue eyes roved over the image on the table, from one end to the other and back again.

“Is it a spitfire?” he asked at last.

“No.” Sam could think of nothing more to say. “Ten spitfires could not do what one of these could, if one existed.” At last Baratheon’s gaze left the sail, finding Sam’s own.

“And you think I can make that happen?”

“You can make anything.” Arya Stark’s voice called from up the street, her wolf with her as always.

“You ought be back up in the castle!” Baratheon exclaimed. She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Not until you say you can do it.”

“You don’t even know what we’re-”

“What you’re talking about doesn’t matter. You’re standing outside a smithy, so obviously hot metal and a lot of hammer blows are involved. Well, I know well you’re born to hold a hammer, so what’s the problem?” When the fireling appeared from inside the smithy the northern princess’ grey eyes went wide.

“Hello!” she said, oohing at the sight of the direwolf.

“I know how to make swords. Armor. Spear and lanceheads. This is something as has never been done before, by anyone.”

“Then do it yourself and be the first. It’s everyone else’s fault for not doing it before you, anyway.” Arya said.

“I wouldn’t even know how to hit it-”

“Well, if you want the metal to hold a shape, I suppose I could help. Heat this bit, not that bit, let you do it that way?” the flames suggested.

“A mold would be better. One solid piece of iron, so as to not allow for flaws in the making. Otherwise, it may well just fall apart.” Sam guessed.

“Iron is too heavy,” Lord Baratheon interjected, “much, much too heavy. Bronze would work better. It’s lighter and easier to shape as well.” He went back into the smithy, coming out with bags of sand.

“What are you going to do with those?” Sam asked, mystified even as Arya smirked at the sight of her betrothed lugging the heavy bags, one under each arm.

“I think I’m going to make your toy, Tarly.” he replied.

Sam watched as Gendry had the fireling scorch two rectangles in the broken street. Then he filled both with sand, having her scour the two halves of the ‘toy’ into each pit, one the mirror of the other.

“They must be exact, as Tarly says.” he told her.

“They are.” she replied. “Now we just need to find a load of bronze.”

“I’m sure a bell or three came down in the raid, plus whatever we happen to pinch out of a few wealthy houses.” Arya said bracingly, cracking her knuckles.

“Princess! There you are!” An older woman’s much-relieved voice cried. While Arya rolled her eyes much to Gendry’s amusement, Nymeria sniffed at the sand curiously- though, Sam noticed, she was very careful not to disturb it. “Whatever are you doing out of the safety of the castle?”

“Indeed, what are you doing out of the safety of the castle?” Arya asked of her betrothed, adopting the septa’s affect.

“Meh.” Gendry replied, scooping her up in an arm and sporting her on his shoulder as if she weighed nothing while she screamed with mirth. The septa could not keep her coddling pout, lips trembling into the ghost of a smile for just a moment. She studiously avoided looking at the fireling.

“Septa, if you could bring a request before Lord Manderly, we’re in dire need of bronze. Anything the New Castle can provide would be appreciated.” Sam asked.

“Bronze?” she asked, baffled.

“Or the Sept of the Snows, with its great bells.”

“How are we supposed to get bloody heavy bells down here?” Arya asked from atop her to-be lord’s shoulder.

“Maybe your mother and her friend can help with that. Surely the bells would be too heavy to move for men, but not-”

“For us.” A lilting Volantene accent joined the conversation. Sam looked to see the younger of the two whatever-they-weres peering into the sand while Lady Catelyn had her eyes on Arya. Sam felt rather foolish.

“Is that within your ability?”

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t be. Getting the bells down for us to move is another matter.” Lady Maegyr answered, not looking up from the molds.

“I could just…singe through the ropes that hold them in the steeples. It won’t be pretty, but everyone is in the castle or off the street anyway so the falling bells aren’t like to hurt anybody.” As apt as you were at the Wall.

“Sounds like everyone’s got something to do. Come, septa. We’ll go back up together, we’re only in the way down here.” Arya said, nimbly vaulting off Baratheon’s shoulder. He neither groaned nor buckled. The son found the peace that ever eluded the father. If what I hear of Robert Baratheon is true, somewhere he’s laughing himself breathless.

While the others went off to mind their own tasks, Sam busied himself with refining the drawing as best he could. Lighter, he told himself over and over. Baratheon is right, I was daft to ever think iron would work. I mean, it would, but not just now.

“What the fuck are you doing?” someone called.

“I’ll let you know in a bit.” Sam replied absently, barely aware of an advancing presence in the wake of several distant echoing crashes. When the person got too close to ignore, he looked up to see a knight in a white surcoat and a gobsmacked look on his face standing before him. On the surcoat was a deer on a pole, as befit the man’s house. Hyle Hunt. Sam recalled the man from when he was a boy in the Reach, Ser Hyle scarce a man himself. Lord Randyll had tossed Sam into a pond so that he might learn to swim. Instead, Ser Hyle had the sense to pull me out before I drowned.

“Is it a spitfire?” he asked, markedly less careful around the sand than Nymeria had been.

“Careful, ser. Or if you like, we’ll see just how well you manage to sink the Others’ ship.” Hunt took an automatic, almost reflexive step back. The clanging of bronze on stone alerted Sam to the first bell’s approach. It bobbed along bizarrely, carried by a rushing rapid that pushed it up even as it pushed it along. Still, every so often the bell would scrape along the street, until it stood upright a neat few feet from the mold. Out from under the bottom oozed a steadily growing puddle, Lady Maegyr’s fluid face pursed in uncertainty.

“That was very strange.” she finally said, only then realizing Ser Hyle had joined them.

“Did you steal that from the sept?”

“It was doing no good up there. The septons were less than pleased, but the Seven are no more venerated in Volantis than the north, this city aside.”

“How did you beat the fireling here?” Sam asked.

“She stopped to wreak some havoc on the beach, push the dead back into the Bite a bit. She’ll be along in no time.” It was Lady Catelyn though who returned next, swearing under her breath as she pushed, dragged, carried the bell near. “Never mind, my lady. This sort of thing should come easier once we’ve had practice at it.” Maegyr said, ignoring Ser Hyle’s gawking stare. At last the little flame rejoined them, jumping down from the roof of a two-story inn. Though her rough shape gave from the fall and the impact, she was none the worse for wear.

“Hello!” she said cheerfully to Ser Hyle.

“No, thank you.” the knight replied, looking as though he’d quite had enough. Turning on his heel he stared walking back to the castle, leaving the girl a bit uncertain. Ass, Sam thought. Lastly, Lord Baratheon emerged from the confines of the smithy, having committed the drawing to memory just in case.

“Are we ready, then?” he asked.

“As ready as we’re like to be.” Sam answered. He turned to the girl. “I suppose it’s just a matter of taking a bit at a time.” The bells stood tall as grown men so the matter at hand concerned action rather than amount.

“So…I should try and carve off bit by bit? Like a wheel of cheese?”

“If you can manage, my lady.” The barely-there face in the flames pressed her lips together, turning toward the nearer bell.

“Bronze gives long before iron does-” Baratheon began, interrupted by the water on the bell turning to steam instantly as it went from gleaming bronze to sun-yellow, melting faster than any candle. Sam turned away, hand over his eyes and actually staggering away from the stunning heat, the sound of yet more steam drowning the bell even as it boiled. The heat died instantly, the girl backing up and apologizing profusely even as Sam blinked stars out of his eyes. As if I’d looked directly into the sun. He put his hand over his eyes and waited for the spots to dull and fade. “Fuck me.” Baratheon groaned, emerging out from behind the barrel he’d fallen over.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know how much to do-”

“There’s no harm done, my lady. At least we’ve found you can shape metal with little effort.” If by ‘shape’ you mean ‘boil’, Lady Stark. The bell had been reduced to little more than a still disc seared into the street with only the base still intact and even that a smoldering red. Just as the dragon had done to the Iron Throne.

“You could get it done with half the muster, my lady. With half of half.” Lord Baratheon advised shakily.

“Indeed.” She sounded if anything still more shaken. She reached down with cupped hands just as an ordinary girl might have to a cool stream for a drink. Instead she came away with a handful of bubbling bronze, glowing and glowering even as she held it. “Oh, I can hold things.” she said in a small, surprised voice.

“If they’re metal, yes. You just have to make sure not to hold them too hot.” Baratheon replied as she slowly, carefully, made her way to the waiting molds. In went the bronze, the metal pooling at the bottom of the mold. It took her a dozen trips to fill the molds, splitting between the two halves of Sam’s toy. “Uhh, how are we going to put them together?” the fireling asked.

“Can you take the heat from them as easily as you give it? I suppose we could have Lady Catelyn douse the metal but that would get steam everywhere and I’m not sure what that would do to the bronze.” Sam suggested. The girl mumbled under her breath, peering at the glowing metal.

“Let’s see…” she said, putting her hands to one of the halves. At once it began to dim, the molten bronze going solid before Sam’s eyes. “Oh, look at that! It does work!” She sounded just as excitable at the thought of learning as she had at Castle Black.

“Lovely. Now we just need a few lads to pull them up and press them together for you to do the tying-up. Like the layers of a cake, perhaps.”

“No need for lads, my lord.” Lady Maegyr said, as if she found the idea distasteful. She merely pushed her fists into the sand, water passing through it without a second thought, only to lift the half up and out without the need for a second pair of arms. Lady Catelyn caught her gist, though the act of sliding the halves together to fit completely seemed to tax their fine movements a bit. More than once Sam heard the Starks’ widows swear colorfully, the fireling biting her lip and looking off in another direction. “How’s this?” Maegyr asked finally. Sam could find no fault with how they’d done, though he had Lord Baratheon provide a second pair of eyes. Besides, I’m not about to know more about his own craft than he. The huge storm lord turned to his cousin.

“Seems good as it’s like to get. Now, if you overdo it you’ll send the bronze running about like butter in the sun. Less than half a breath, less than half a half a breath.” She nodded, using a fingertip’s lightest touch to close the seam between the halves, leaving a single piece, a single length of bronze. “Pretty. If you want it to actually loose something other than a torch’s reflection, though, you’ll need something to push the projectile out.” Maegyr said.

“A spitfire uses niter, charcoal and sulfur to kick up its fiery belch. This will use a similar mechanism, though to propel a solid object will require, obviously, a larger ignition agent.” Flesh or flame or flowing water, they gaped at him. “We need more to make this work than to work a spitfire of similar size.” Sam amended.

“Charcoal and sulfur shouldn’t be so dear in a city like White Harbor. I’m not sure about niter, though.” Baratheon said. Right. The ice-ship bloody destroyed Seal Rock and with it the city’s spitfires.

“Maybe the Manderlys keep a few barrels at least in the castle, just in case. Perhaps you could impose on their hospitality once more, Lady Stark? I seem to recall you’re passing familiar with them.”

“You don’t need any more help?”

“Oh, I may. But that’s what our Volantene friend is for.” While Lady Maegyr looked around mockingly, looking for the phantom friend, Sam got to working out what sort of wheels would be needed to move the toy. Not just wheels, he discovered early on. It needs a wooden crossbar at least to steady on, if not a little cart of sorts. Perhaps four wheels are fitter than two, but for now two will do. “After the bell, I can’t imagine moving this will be much a challenge for you. We didn’t even use all the bronze.”

“Hardly a challenge. Where I’m moving it to, now that’s a question worth answering. Do you intend to find out if it works only when the dead men bear down on us again?” Maegyr asked.

“No. I’m going to sink the ice-ship with it.” Sam replied briskly.

While Talisa Maegyr cradled the bronze tube like it was a bundle of straw, Sam kept an eye out for any cart sturdy enough to hold the thing in place and not go to pieces at first discharge. They got plenty of incredulous stares from the other defenders of the city, be they southron, Harborer or even scattered Essosi.

“Let’s find a vantage point facing the docks. We can just…poke it out a window or something and aim as best we can.” Sam said.

“Won’t they see it, if their eyes are so good?”

“I have no doubt. They’ll have no idea what it means though, at least until they’re well within range.” Maegyr gave the tube a doubtful look.

“Are you so confident?”

“A cork loosed from a wine bottle can end up on the other side of the room. This has rather more loosing power than a bottle.” Sam replied.

“We still need a cork to take the loosing, though.”

“That won’t be near so hard. A ball of iron, solid through, to punch through the ice.” Maegyr’s fluid eyebrows went up.

“Hold on. In Volantis, when the bounty hunters came back to the city with escaped slaves, sometimes they had queer knots tied around their ankles. Not really knots, actually, more like…heavy round weights on either end of a rope.” Again, it was not hard for Sam to extrapolate her point.

“Two, then? A length of chain connecting them, perhaps? Swinging each other through the air?”

“Even if it doesn’t work on the ice-ship, it would cut down dead men in their swaths.” Not bad, Sam thought. Not bad at all. Not for the first time, the Volantene girl’s insight surprised Sam. Thinking as no Westerosi ever would. Then again, were she a typical Volantene she’d still be in Volantis with the rest of House Maegyr. Making the ordnance and the priming proved much simpler than the means by which it might be loosed at the ice-ship, the other smiths of White Harbor picking up where Sam and Lord Baratheon left off with the aid of the fireling. It’s not worth waiting to see if it works. They should keep busy instead of waiting with their knees knocking together for the cold armies to make another run at us. At last, the Volantene waters pushed the iron spheres into the mouth of the weapon one carefully after the other, three feet of chain in between. Perhaps a bit too much, Sam reasoned, but even if they break off each other they’ll cause holy havoc. There was only waiting to do after that, Sam whiling away the time overseeing the making of several more toys in the image of the first. By then a small crowd had gathered, equal parts mystified and intrigued at the prospect of giving the Others a nasty surprise. Those of more esteemed birth were not so engaged, though Sam hardly suspected a different reaction. Men who have spent their lives fighting with sword and lance and mace can scarcely be expected to embrace another way. Sword and lance and mace wouldn’t remove the ice-ship as an obstacle to any of their own ships yet to make port in White Harbor, though. Tarly tricks it is, then.

The ice-ship’s advance came both silently and agonizingly slowly. If it was a ploy to stew fear in the city’s defenders though, Sam was pleased to see it had not worked. The goings-on and bustle of White Harbor, even battered as it was, kept peoples’ minds off the Others and their allies if for the moment. In the time it took for the ship to come within the suspected range of Sam’s toy, three more had been built, placed and armed. Trails of the priming mixture ran like little lines of soot from the back end of each toy to the thresholds of whatever room they were aimed from.

“Why not close the distance?” Lord Tully asked when his turn came of the lords to see what Sam was up to. “Surely it would make them loose faster.”

“It would indeed, my lord. If the weapons prove to be ill-proportionate, though, they could also just explode where they sit. With their crew in the corridor lighting off the primer, they should be safe from any...mishaps.” Tully looked back at the toy with new interest.

“Even if it just explodes…that’s not the worst thing a man’s spent an evening working on.” Sam could not be bothered to puzzle out his meaning, if indeed he had one in the first place. In the last minutes before the ship came into reach of the toys, those unable to fight took refuge to the last in the New Castle or the Wolf’s Den while the city’s defenders massed behind the sea-facing gate. Sam could hear men above on scorpions and heating hot oil while the spitfires were brought to the lower levels where they might dissuade any Others on foot from much defacing the hastily supported gate.

“I hope this works, Tarly.” Ser Hyle said, Sam’s black luck that he managed to end up next to the man.

“No less than I do, ser.” Sam replied. He opened his hand and Hunt’s squire filled it with a lit torch. Somewhere, three others have just got their own torches. With the distance so closed between himself and the ice-ship, Sam could hear them. Ice cracking ‘neath a lake. He found himself wondering what an Other’s scream might sound like. I suppose if all goes well, I’ll find out shortly. He touched the torch to the priming, watching the sparks titter off the fine black powder even as they raced toward the weapon. Sam found himself remembering his Night’s Watch vows. The watcher on the walls, he thought. More like the watcher in the walls. Gods only know I’ve utterly failed at being anything else. Then again, what had been the Wall’s purpose? To guard the realms of men, I told Maester Aemon. But here the Others are, coming right at us while the Wall proves spectacularly unhelpful. What purpose does the Night’s Watch now serve when the Others can without effort go around it? The flame met bronze, the sparks cascading off in a green shower.

A clap of thunder from ten feet off deafened Sam to the three that followed almost in tandem, though he felt the stones beneath his feet shake just fine. Well, at least it didn’t expl- A sound like a trebuchet-launched stone through a sept window told Sam the toy’s aim was true. Three times more did the sound crack out into the air quick as a breath, quick as a blink, though those near the bronze tubes were in no shape to hear. A maddening needle-whine broke through the senseless din that had deafened Sam, piercing his skull until he put his hands to his ears. So that’s what they sound like when they scream.

“Again.” was all he got out before he was dashing up the spiral stair faster than he thought himself able. The front of the ice-ship brought Sam back to boyhood, when he saw a bunch of wasps build a nest just outside his window. Their movements were inscrutable, their methods unknowable, the bottom of the nest honeycombed with holes. Except it isn’t paper full of holes just now, Sam thought. Quite alarmingly, only a few moments after the toys had had their say the Others simply began jumping off the top deck. What are they doing? Then he saw the greenish light flicker in the ice of the ship’s battered bow. Intermittent at first, then more rapidly, until it seemed the light would never go out. Sam shut his eyes, a purely instinctive reaction. There was another sound, one utterly unlike anything Sam had heard before. It made the toys’ thunder-clap seem hushed, it made the Others’ wails seem muted. A wind that near to knocked him off the ramparts caught him across his body, frost forming in his hair and on his cheeks instantaneously even as he collapsed, his breath taken away. The night sky unfolded out to forever, the stars sashaying maddeningly as his eyes rocketed around in his skull. Then it was over. The cold wind vanished as quick as it had come, he forced breath back into his lungs and without such a force as he’d just been subjected to ready to blow him back to the bloody Wall, he was back at the reins of his own eyeballs again. He heard people screaming, vomiting, sobbing, laughing madly. Sam the Slayer. It was the first thought he could remember having. I wonder what they’ll call me now. Then someone was looming over him, a foot prodding him in the side. He heard something warbling in his ear.

“Tarly! Up you get, my lord! Take a look at this!” Sam found himself being helped to his feet by a man in a faded purple surcoat, Woolfield’s three woolsacks running across it. Sam turned to the Bite, where a few nimble white slivers were picking themselves up from the sand of shore looking singularly unlikely to pose a threat. Now, anyway. A different song once their fellows in the Haunted Forest arrive. He took a full quarter hour to make it down the stairs, legs shaking so badly he wondered if he might fall and crack his head open then and there. Even half-coherent though, Samwell Tarly could not stop his mind from working. That wasn’t us. That wasn’t me, he knew. That was the ice-ship. Somehow, some way, we hit it right where it didn’t want to be hit.

He staggered back into the feast hall, arms stiff as steel rods and limp as sodden rope all at once. The place was full of women, children, men who wished they were still in their grey hairs. He spotted Gilly, pale as a full moon, her big brown eyes locked on his face. Say something, he told himself. His mind, busy as it was, did not yet seem to have found his tongue.

“The lad’s had it.” he heard Olenna Redwyne say.

“Samwell! What happened? Are the Others coming?” Wylis Manderly asked, his bulk greater even than Sam’s had been before he first left Horn Hill.

“No.” Sam finally forced out.

“What about the ice-ship?”

“Gone.” Sam uttered, before the shock took hold of him. Weeping through howling laughter, snickering through graceless sobbing, Sam let Gilly lead him from the hall. In a storeroom she embraced him, content to wait until the fit had passed. Slowly at first and then more rapidly the heedless typhoon within calmed, then stilled. With a final long gasp, Sam composed himself, wiping tears and melted frost from his cheeks.

“Sam, are you alright?” was all Gilly asked.

“If not now, I will be, Gilly.” he replied, kissing her cheek, then her nose, then her perfect mouth. I needed no Valyrian steel to do what needed doing, he thought. Bronze and charcoal, sulfur and niter. And I did it better than anyone who’s ever swung a sword. Gilly helped him stand, took him to their room among the tumult of people running about the castle. Men had women in their arms, people were hugging each other, so they went unnoticed. Once in their room, Sam got Heartsbane from where it lay. He found his father where he knew he would, in the midst of all the other lords of the Reach. Sam set the sword on the table in front of Lord Randyll without a second’s delay. “I don’t need your sword.” he said. “No more than I need your sigil or your castle or your lands. I’ve walked where the First Men fought the Dawn War, slain an Other, sent an ice-ship to the bottom of the Bite. Dickon is free to claim your title and your name. One day his children will chase each other about, playing at heroes. Symeon Star-Eyes, Aemon the Dragonknight, Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Among their number your grandsons will count Sam the Slayer, too. The country over will wonder at me as they do at all the other heroes. They’ll wonder, too, at the man who thought me not worthy to be his heir. Pray tell, my lord, what makes you worthy to be my sire?”

Chapter 22: Jaime II

Chapter Text

“Changed your mind yet?” Bronn called, mind still clearly on the palisaded town as the First Army of King’s Landing filtered into the wooded foothills of the western mountains.

“Not particularly.” Jaime replied, not bothering to turn back at the sellsword. And I don’t want to see what a shambles we’ve shrunk to.

“Makes me miss the days I was following your brother around the city and getting paid to hear him talk.”

“Tyrion kept you around because you’re a killer without the first scruple.”

“He did far and away more talking than I did killing. In fact, I reckon I’ve never been paid more to do less.”

“It seems to have rubbed off on you.” Whereas Bronn scarcely shut up, Varys said little and Matthos still less. Small wonder. Varys says only as much as he’s comfortable with others hearing and Matthos has been absent from the airy world for years. As different as they were in nearly every other way, Lord Renfred Rykker and Shitmouth, the Mountain’s aptly labeled last remaining lackey, refrained from speaking due to simple cold. They have not spoken up even to complain. No doubt the town was on more than a few minds but the further they got away from it, the better Jaime felt. At first he could not quite put a finger on why, then when he nearly turned his ankle in the snow it hit him. “No footprints.” he said aloud, more to himself than the others.

“What was that, my lord?” Rykker asked.

“No footprints. Not from beast nor man, nor grumkin nor snark now it comes to mind. Were that town as fit a respite as we would have liked, there’d surely be a trail of prints coming and going back to Deep Den.”

“The snows fell hard and fast, my lord…” Rykker reasoned.

“All the more suspicious it is that there’s no trace of anyone caught in the mess. We’re the first to come through these hills since first the snows fell.” That did not reassure Jaime. This is the bloody goldroad. The passage from the King’s Landing to Casterly Rock and back again. It should be well-travelled even in winter, particularly this close to a castle.

“Ah, well, now, this is just my two pennies, but might be what’s come and gone before us simply hasn’t left a trace.” Shitmouth said, glancing up at the sky through grey eyebrows warily. Jaime put on a bemused face, though he was certain the dragon was the least of their worries.

“We’re likely to hear trees afire or animals panicking, or else just the ornery bastard’s roars before we spot him awing.”

“Eh.” Shitmouth grunted in reply, though Jaime’s words seemed to do the trick. The sun began to leave them soon after, Jaime passing down the line that the last of them would do well to lose themselves in the trees rather than be caught out in the open.

When he saw stars twinkling through the frosted trunks, Jaime thought perhaps the cold had done for his senses. He took a sharp breath of cold air that cut into his lungs as he got closer. The webs ran from the base of one tree to another, some ten feet wide and tall enough to roll up Gregor Clegane.

“Shit me fucked…” Shitmouth hissed at the sight, fearful murmurs coming from the men in the front who had caught a glimpse. Freglyn and Joss Stillwood were no less unnerved, the lads’ eyes dinner plates at the sight of the diamond-dusted webs.

“Well, what the fuck now?” Bronn asked. It was the first time Jaime had ever heard fear in the man’s voice. Jaime tried to remember if he’d ever heard Tyrion go on about the Others before. No. It was ever dragons on his mind. Before the army could go to pieces out of fear, Jaime ordered they dig in.

“Pack snow, raise tents, I care not how you do it. Make sure your men are out of the wind’s reach, though. The trees will help but so will cloth and packed snow.” He turned to Freglyn while the rest were busy playing at being badgers.

“Could you scale a tree free of webs and have a peer about?”

“Never doubt it, ser. Don’t know what I’m like to see up there, though. Meaning aside from snow and naked branches.”

“If that’s all you see, I should be glad to hear of it.” The common lad paled at the thought of spotting something else but did not shy from ably climbing a nearby oak. Jaime tossed him a few bundled blankets as well, the better to keep him warm. Then he mused on just what they’d come upon. For all the people of Westeros liked to curse the Others, Jaime found he knew very little about them aside from what Jon Snow had relayed at Dragonstone. Even if they have the dead men and the giant spiders, it should matter little. By rights all this should still be on the other side of the Wall. He wondered if perhaps in his efforts to keep Cersei alive, a lost cause from the first, he’d neglected the rest of the people in his power to help. King’s Landing is now beyond my reach. I’m not the king nor the overlord of the crownlands anyway, my task was to rally the west. Jaime had no way of knowing how the rest the dragon queen’s supporters had fared in setting their own lands to rights, but he hoped they were making better time than he. I’ve yet to so much as put eyes on the Rock yet. “Anything, Freglyn?” he called up the tree.

“Nothing, ser. Not animals, not people.” Wonderful. I guess that answers whether we’ll find any food in here.

“Never mind. Careful on the way down, ice and whatnot.”

“I did get up the tree, milord. I think I can f-” Abruptly his words stopped. Jaime looked up to where the lad had bundled himself in the tree, unharmed thus far. Perhaps committing the land to memory. Jaime’s terseness had spread to his officers, soon the rest of the men quieting as well. The sound had been lost among the countless voices before, but in silence it was unmistakable. The raspy growling did not stop, sounding for all the world like one of Tommen’s cats, only much larger. An animal padded out of the trees, the icy webs separating them from it. A lion, Jaime thought at first, until he could more easily distinguish its white hide from the snows. It was definitely a cat of some unknown breed, the size of a horse with a head bigger than a man’s. Jutting from its top jaw was a pair of long curved teeth, like a pair of icy sickles. The blue eyes that blazed out of its skull told Jaime the cat would gladly have made off with one of them, but for the messy issue of the webs. It had no mane, though a longer trail of gray-white hair ran from the base of its neck down to its tail. And I thought Robb Stark’s wolf a monster. Despite the biting cold and its sparse light fur, the cat gave no hint of discomfiture. Winter-blooded, Jaime thought. Its interest in them faded quickly, though, giving a yawn that showed a set of teeth no common hill lion could hope to match before turning and wandering back the way it had come. Not in a straight line though, Jaime observed, but winding in a staggered path through the trees. He heard Freglyn reach the ground behind him. “I don’t think the forest is the best way to Deep Den, milord.” he said through his shivering. Now what gave you that idea, lad?

"Did you see that fucking thing?” Bronn was hissing as they camped for the night, Jaime willing to wait until the whole lot of them were rested as they could get before pressing on. Elsewise someone or something will start picking off the stragglers and those who wander off. Torches on poles were set here and there and everywhere, a ring of them around the poor man’s thousand that constituted Jaime’s army.

“If a torch goes out, don’t send someone to relight it. Pull back toward the center and light another. We have wood to spare. Men are another story.” he’d commanded. Even with wood all around for them to burn though, what flames would take were pitiful sputtering things, even when fed with leaves and dry brush. “What of it? So the westerlands have lions in them again.” Jaime said, shrugging.

“If that was one of your Lannister lions, then I’m your big blue beauty.” Bronn answered. Dinner turned out to be one of the fallen horses. It had not withered before its end, though, so most everyone got a mouthful of broth or a bite of dried horsemeat. Jaime ordered their weakest animals killed as well. When some of the men whose horses fit that description turned out to be knights, Jaime told them horseflesh could fill their bellies or the cat’s and monsters like it.

“An easy meal will have all the horrors of the north on us before dawn comes. If we want to keep them at bay long enough to reach Deep Den, we need to put on a strong show. That we’re more trouble than we’re worth. D’you think that cat would have spent a second idling if the webs weren’t there? No, it would have torn a dozen of us into tasty strips and bounded off through the snow before the rest could shit themselves.” Dawn can’t come soon enough. Now the lot of them won’t get a wink of sleep peering into the trees imagining what’s out there. Thinking on the spiders and their cold masters made Jaime remember the Valyrian link that had come with Qyburn’s written farewell. Pulling it out, he watched it glitter like black glass in the spluttering torchlight. Scarcely a weapon, he thought. Though… he spent the next few hours tearing off soiled strips from his saddle, tying knots with Freglyn’s help.

“Well, ser, I suppose you could shiv someone with it, but keep in mind it is Valyrian steel. It could just as well cut backward and…” he blushed, trailing off.

“Cut through the strips and reopen my stump, aye, lad. Better to have something in hand than nothing. Better still to have a hand to begin with, but I’d sooner wish this winter away than be whole again.” Even the ground is frozen. Some men had tried to get dug in to get out of any wind that found them through the trees, finding the dirt hard as rock. When he looked up, Freglyn’s eyes had gone wide again, the boy’s face alert and wary. Looking south, though. The sounds of a large group of men on approach silenced the army all over again. Jaime’s first glimpse was not one to be much inspired by. They stumbled right toward the torches in a half-blind daze, wrapped in what looked like whatever they had been wearing when they fled wherever they had come from. Men groaning, women sobbing, even here and there the high voice of a child. Jaime looked in vain for badges, sigils, seeing quickly that it was a futile effort. Houses and homage cease to much matter when you’re frozen to the bone. Jaime had Freglyn rustle Varys and the others up while he headed for the torch line. The first person he met, to his great surprise, was a girl of rough age as Myrcella had been when last Jaime saw her. Myrcella was not pale, though. The tip of her nose was not black, there was no frost in her hair. Jaime whipped off his cloak and wrapped it snug around the girl, who had not even the strength to resist. Indeed, once his arms were around her Jaime found himself holding her up. For a moment Jaime thought she had died then and there, only relaxing when her breath continued to come in soft white clouds.

The rest were in no better shape, what horses had made the journey in even sorrier shape than the ones brought from King’s Landing. At last Jaime spotted a golden tree on the barding of one of the animals. Rowan, of Goldengrove, from the heart of the Reach. They had a shorter jaunt than we, why do they look so dreadful? He saw the three oak leaves of Oakheart next. Old Oak, nearer the coast. There were others as well, lesser houses of the Reach or simple smallfolk who had survived the journey. Has the Reach fallen to the snows? All told, daybreak came before the last of them, what order Jaime’s camp had achieved utterly lost in the wake of so many newcomers. We’re barely fed ourselves. Here come as many mouths, if not more, and the lot of us sat in a frozen forest empty of food.

“We’ll never keep like this.” Varys said in a low voice.

“I’m nothing near so smart as my brother. Still, I’d have thought your opinion of my wits higher.” Jaime replied, thinking hard.

“Your wits and witticisms both will not feed all these people.”

“Deep Den-”

“-may have stores enough for those already in the castle. Should we come upon them as such, we may well be turned away.”

“Lord Lydden will not turn away a Lannister. He was in my lord father’s funeral train.”

“It was your lord father who so held the west in sway. Your brother is a dwarf patricide who fled the country and you’ve spent just as much time missing or imprisoned as not these past few years. Certainly more so than you have in the west. Perhaps your name does carry some weight. But is it weight enough to take in such a shambles as us?” On finding Bronn and asking for his opinion, the sellsword put it rather more bluntly.

“We’re fucked.” he said, shrugging.

“If you fold now, you’ll never make it back to that Dornish girl.”

“Your brother liked to give me shit about that, too.” Bronn said, in a rather unsporting tone.

“Tyrion’s the kind to turn the screw, aye. Keep in mind I was bloody there in Dorne and got you out of Sunspear’s cells.”

“Bully for you. You went down to that sandpit to bring a girl back. You came back to King’s Landing with a body.” Jaime raised his eyebrows. Bronn had a singularly dark sense of humor but it wasn’t like him to care enough to put venom in his barbs. To care about much at all. Which means this Dornish girl is more than a passing fancy. That amused Jaime so that he began to chuckle, fist to his mouth to stop from going any louder. Bronn didn’t deign to so much as scowl, instead striding off into the mix of people. Perhaps that’s for the better, Jaime mused. When it comes to killing people, few are more practiced than Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. When it comes to keeping them alive… Jaime sought out Lord Rykker to get the Reachmen situated, or as well as they were like to get, while he himself spoke to the preeminent knights who had led them into the western foothills. An Oakheart retainer did the talking.

“The lords gathered at Highgarden failed to let us know what they were about before they all left for the capital. By the time we got wind of what was going on, winter had fallen and there was little point leaving the safety of Old Oak. We had trouble enough worrying how we’d feed ourselves before the mist rolled in.” That startled Jaime, and his party besides.

“Mist?” he asked, baffled. The knight nodded, an earless maester limping over.

“Omer, once of House Florent, now a maester of the Citadel in service to Old Oak.” he introduced himself. Jaime nodded and bade him continue. “What’s to tell? It rolled in off the coast, thick as a white cloud come to earth. Cold. Cold as death.”

“You fled?”

“What else was there to do? All the castle fled inland, the smallfolk the countryside over too.”

“All the way to Goldengrove?” Jaime asked. Surely the young and the old were the first to fall as the walk turned into a run, the run into a rout.

“All the way here.” Jaime blinked.

“It followed you?” Rykker asked, face pale.

“Like a pack of dogs after a corpse cart. By now it must cover all the Reach.” Omer said, nodding ruefully. He put his hand to his mouth. “It never stopped. Even when we put hours between it and us, what rest we could get was plagued with nightmares and dread.”

“You can scarcely be blamed, maester. At least you made it here.”

“Small peace in that, ser. More and many of us fell to the mists than survived the journey.” Almost on reflex Jaime’s eyes flicked up toward the southern horizon. There was nothing in sight but hills giving way to snow-swept fields.

Despite his own obvious frostbite, Omer spared no time getting to addressing the wounded now that he had time to.

“You’re hardy, maester, and unafraid to get your hands dirty. I’ve heard it’s precisely the opposite when it comes to members of House Florent.”

“I’ve gone without a fox on my breast for near twenty years now, ser. I was well quit of Brightwater Keep the day I left for the Citadel. Grey mice, I’ve heard my order called, but better true mice than false foxes.” Jaime snorted humorlessly.

“No less.” He introduced those in his camp.

“If I might press you, maester, have any Oakhearts or Rowans come with you?” Varys asked from over Jaime’s shoulder. Omer swallowed. That answers that, Jaime thought grimly. Omer turned to the knight from Old Oak.

“No Oakhearts, but there was that Rowan girl…”

“She disappeared into the trees before we reached them.”

“Oh, her.” Jaime said. I hope she hasn’t died on Freglyn. When he returned to the pair of them, he found Freglyn tucking a bundled ball of rags behind her head, a small fire crackling nearby to try and warm her frostbitten face. “Is she dead?”

“No, ser. In and out of it, even talks some. Or tries to, her voice is too raspy to tell just what she’s saying.”

“No matter. You did well to get her warm, Freglyn.”

“Do you know who she is, ser?”

“If what I hear from the men who came here with her is the truth, she’s a Rowan of Goldengrove.” Very possibly the Rowan of Goldengrove, he thought. Jaime left Freglyn to splutter nervously as he sought out the seasoned campaigners among the arrivals. Once they were assembled, Jaime detailed the course he saw in his head as best he could. “There’s nothing to be gained from staying here. Deep Den is the closest castle, its garrison comparatively small. It stands to reason there will be stores enough to keep us, at least until we reach the Rock. Once past Deep Den it should be an easy journey, a short meander along the goldroad, no more, and then all the bounty of the Rock for us to reckon with. Eventually we’ll have to sail north, but a chicken must be plucked before it’s roasted.”

“Why not plant down in the safety of the Rock until winter passes, Ser Jaime?” one of the Reachmen asked.

“According to the plan laid out on Dragonstone between all the lords of Westeros- and one barmy cripple- we’re to converge on Winterfell with all speed. By now I’m sure they’ve all met up and are taking turns pissing on the west for our tardiness, but that can’t be helped. No more than you could help being overlooked when the lords of the Reach left for King’s Landing.”

“My lord, we’re in no shape for combat, scarcely fit to stand-”

“-then sit and rest. We’re in no more hurry to rush off in the dark than you are. We’ll leave at dawn, certainly we should make Deep Den before we lose the light.” He made no mention of the webs, nor the cat. Winter’s had its pound of flesh from them already. “In the meantime, get some rest, good sers. We’re safe for now, or so I’m convinced. I’m also convinced we’re unlikely to stay this way, especially out in the woods.” While the army and the Reachmen rested, Shitmouth took the opportunity to express his opinion.

“Shit’s fucked.” he said, spitting into the snow. “We’re strewn about like a bag of dead rats what’s got a hole in the bottom. The mongrels will come.”

“Better asleep than dead.” Jaime replied, shrugging.

“Eh, but sleep can become death if cold has its say. Never mind the cold, what about them webs, eh?” Jaime waved his stump indifferently.

“Freglyn would have seen something if there was something to see. Besides, once dawn comes we can get moving and the next time night comes we’ll be safe behind Deep Den’s walls. Ah, there’s the lazy bastard.” he said, looking to the light peeking through the trees. “Time we got off this hillside, I think.” Jaime said, trying to rub feeling back into his arms and legs.

“It was time when we got here.” Bronn grumbled from his spot beneath a blanket.

When he checked on Freglyn and the girl, he was unsurprised to see she hadn’t come to. She may not, he thought bleakly.

“Can you get her up?” Jaime asked the lad.

“Yes, but I’ll need to get her on a horse to move her.” She stirred feebly, eyelids fluttering then opening. “Oh!” Freglyn cried, pointing. He moved to help her but Jaime put a hand on his shoulder.

“Give her a moment, lad. She may be awake but that doesn’t mean she’s sensate.” Omer clapped his hands in delight at the sight of the girl awake, though it was Goldengrove men in service to House Rowan that took charge of her then, not Old Oak’s maester.

“Bully for them. You’d think a girl’s never gotten up from a bloodying before.” Bronn muttered when Jaime found himself in the sellsword’s company once again, Varys, Matthos and Lord Rykker falling in soon after.

“Now we’re on to Deep Den. It shouldn’t take long-” Jaime began, a panicked wail cutting him off and making him grit his teeth. We’ll never fucking get there. Jaime made his way through the crowd toward the outcry, spotting for the first time a billowing line of white to the south. That wasn’t there when I fell asleep, he thought uneasily.

“It’s coming for us!” one woman shrieked. If it is, it’s taking its merry time.

“Forget the mists, good lady. The sun robs winter of its power, I read it in the Seven-Pointed Star once.” That made her hiccup, nodding through her frozen tears. Once the lot of them were as ready as they were like to get, Jaime led them west.

“You’ve never read a word of the Seven-Pointed Star.” Varys muttered under his breath when they came up alongside one another.

“I can barely read to begin with.” Jaime replied. At first he avoided the deep tangles of the forest, the hills growing steeper by the hour, until they found the first of Deep Den’s border fastnesses. Had it stood freely it might have been a tower, but it had been carved into the flat face of the mountains the goldroad wound through. A window above the entrance and another above that would have allowed for archers to pincushion an enemy force coming up the way, the angles of the windows and flats anything but an accident. House Lydden’s white badger on a green-and-brown field hung in the space between the second and third floors, but there was no sign of anybody. In Father’s day, fifty men might have garrisoned this building. He went inside, peering about warily in the light of a torch. Nothing seemed amiss, save the absence of Lydden soldiers. Lord Lewys well have recalled everyone to Deep Den Proper. In the larder, though, Jaime found something that quite drove the missing men from his mind. Barrels and crates had been piled in the far corner of the room, evidently to bury whatever lay beneath them. Not just two or three either, Jaime saw. Everything in the holdfast seems to have been piled on.

“The fuck went on in here?” Shitmouth grunted as he came in, looking around cluelessly.

“Maybe they let a fire get a little too big.” Jaime said, poking one of the outlying crates with his foot. A sudden rapid scuttling from behind the wood made him freeze, the sound of several agile bodies scurrying about and bumping into each other just below the pile filling Jaime with a nameless revulsion.

“Fuck. That.” Shitmouth opined, all but taking Jaime by the shoulder and dragging him from the room. Even outside in the sun it was hard to get the sound out of his head, the image of the wood rattling with the movements of something below. Of several somethings.

“It could have been rats.” Bronn shrugged when Jaime told him what had happened.

“Rats, aye. Rats the size of dogs, could be. With twice as many legs as they ought have.” Shitmouth growled back, shuddering violently. “How’s this for a plan? If we come on the next badger hole and it’s as empty as this one here, maybe we don’t go any further?” They were saved the task of exploring the next holdfast, big enough for two windows on each landing. Webs coated the stone and ran out the windows, covered the ground around the threshold and, most importantly, hung fast between the valley walls, a thick glinting wall of frozen silk lined with frozen droplets. Shitmouth noisily trying not to gag up his breakfast did not improve matters.

“I suppose this means we must turn around…” Lord Rykker said.

“Only for a bit. We’ll head back just enough to find passage into the mountains and continue west. We won’t lose a day.” Jaime said, ignoring the webs quite completely.

“We’ve got to keep moving. Most urgently. When night falls, we’ll be trapped in this pass with nothing between us and whatever’s netted the place up so prettily.” Lord Rykker said, in the tone of an officer.

“Keep the women and children and those in their grey hairs away from the walls.” Slowly they maneuvered about, the of the column heading back the way it had come. Jaime had the captains blurt out more than once that the pass was blocked by snow, that they’d simply have to go around.

“It will be handy to have the cliff to piss off of as well. Beats accidentally pissing on each other as we sleep.” one of the officers added, getting rather a sporting laugh from the people around him.

Once back at the mouth of the valley Jaime led the trek up the hill, into the trees.

“Keep a hundred feet between us and the drop-off. It may be that the ice has made the edge treacherous.” And whatever lingers in the walls might not hear or smell us pass from so far off.

“Eh. I’ve fallen on me arse more than a handful of times on flat friendly ground. I’d sooner piss in me own eye than shimmy along that edge.” Shitmouth added, aptly reinforcing Jaime’s position to those who were not trained for combat, who did not know good ground from bad. If we’re going to be ambushed, we won’t have a hundred-foot fall to worry about while we are. While they walked, Jaime told Freglyn all he could remember from his lessons as a boy about the country through which they passed.

“It isn’t just the Rock with veins of ore running through it. All through these mountains, thought the westerlands at large, wind tunnels old and new. Mining was the livelihood of many a westerman since the coming of the Andals. Since the First Men held this land.” Freglyn nodded, committing as much of it to memory as he could. It intrigued Jaime that a lad common as the deer he hunted should be more interested in the history of the westerlands than Jaime had been at his age, and he heir to all of it. The fate of the west bubbled up in Jaime’s mind once again. I am a member of the Kingsguard, or so I account myself. I cannot be Lord of Casterly Rock. That left Tyrion…or would have, had he not committed the small oversight of murdering Lord Tywin. The westermen will never have him. Jaime knew that for an iron certainty. Lord Tywin’s Bane, they called him once. A monster. Jaime breathed. He was only ever the monster Father made him. Cersei, too. Small wonder he ran half a world away to join the dragon queen’s cause. Only, the dragon queen’s cause was the lion’s as well, in the end. The wolf’s too, and the kraken’s, and the falcon’s, and all the rest. Here I am, creeping like an outlaw through mine own country, without once setting eyes on what’s got us so to ground. When they began to pass small barrows here and there, Jaime figured they must have covered petty kings dead a thousand years. When they headed further west and webs began to cover them, with single great holes sunken deep into each, he wondered if new occupants had not made themselves at home.

“We won’t make Deep Den before we lose the light.” Matthos said, Jaime initially not recognizing him due to his hood.

“There may be ruins in these hills the bulk of the people can rest in, with men able to bear arms standing in their defense.”

“That haven’t already been webbed over?”

“Ser?” Jaime had almost forgotten Joss Stilwood’s voice. Indeed, it was squeaky as if from disuse. Silence served one well in the service of the Mountain, Jaime thought. He turned to the lad, the squire’s eyes on the nearest barrow and the hole within it.

“What is it?”

“Mines honeycomb these hills, you said.”

“So I did. So they do.” He ought know that, he’s a bloody westerman by birth himself. Then again, I doubt Ser Gregor had him studying much history.

“Could it be the barrows lead to tunnels? Might be you could run from one end of the west to the other without once coming up to light.”

“Even if one could, a barrow is no place for a lad.”

“Neither was riding with Ser, ser.” Stilwood replied, Bronn murmuring colorfully in agreement. He chose his words carefully before he spoke again.

“If we can’t get to Deep Den through the pass or the forest, blocked by webs…”

“…you are aware, lad, that webs come from somewhere? They don’t simply happen, like rain or snow.” Lord Rykker said.

“Yes.” Joss Stilwood’s reply was unabashed. “I’ve not seen what might have made them, though. What if they don’t like the sun? Sleeping during the day and coming out at night with only a sliver of moon to light down on ‘em.”

“That doesn’t remove the obstacle of ‘them’ to begin with.”

“Sure it does, so long as they’re asleep. They’ll go out when night comes. While the people are holed up in the ruin, as my lord said, and ‘them’ scattered about the woods looking for food…the tunnels would be ours to use.” The others, Jaime included, gaped at him like fish.

“Boy, serving under Ser’s gone and done for your wits.” Shitmouth said brusquely.

The ruin they came upon was as Matthos predicted. Webs coated it like glaze on a tart. The creatures that made them, Jaime did not fail to notice, were absolutely nowhere to be seen, leaving the silk-spun stones to glitter beautifully in the sunlight. It was very quiet. Not even a single cawing crow, Jaime realized. He turned to see how the rest of them were doing following, stopping cold at the sight of Freglyn staring at the ruin.

“What is it, lad?”

“Ser, I can see two or three snares at least set about the place.” Jaime looked again and saw only webs.

“Well, you’re the poacher. Can, uh, you point them out?”

“I could, but if you don’t know what you’re looking for you’ll step on one before you see it.”

“Well, then, how about a bit of pruning?” Jaime flipped him the Valyrian steel link. “I hear it works wonders on ice. Why wouldn’t it on cold silk?” he said while Freglyn spluttered, bobbling the link in his hands. “If you like, someone could-”

“Everyone should stay here.” Freglyn said once he’d caught hold of the black steel. “Elsewise you might set something off or wake something up. Or both.” he said, swallowing as he looked back to the ruin. Before Jaime could stop him he was off, bobbing and hopping like a drunken rabbit here and there, only doddering more severely the closer he got to the stones. Then he was at it, on all fours to snip seemingly random strands Jaime could barely see as he went. He crawled through the threshold much to Jaime’s dismay, disappearing into the ringfort like a morsel down a wide mouth. I wonder if Tyrion ever feels like this when he has a bad idea. When the sunlight began to wane Jaime brought everyone closer to the ruin, their fearful mutterings notwithstanding. Then Freglyn was limping out, looking as stiff in the knees as he was sore in the back. Small wonder, thought Jaime, if he spent all that time mucking about looking for deadfalls and the Seven only know what else.

“I think that’s all of them, milord.” he said, straightening up with some help from Joss Stilwood. “I found three holes that will want filling though. Might be we light fires around them to keep them off us, coming topside elsewhere and giving us a nice spot to go below at the same time.” Jaime had trouble quite organizing his thoughts.

“It’s supposed to be your brother purveying the suicidal notions.” Varys advised as the lot of them stared into one of the holes, ringed by torches as the sun began to dip behind the ruin walls.

“I’ve not yet gotten close enough to a dragon to tweak its snout the way Tyrion has.” Jaime replied.

“If you do this, you may well never do.” Jaime had been rather pleased earlier by the captains’ unfailing obeisance of Lord Rykker’s order, and so left the column proper in his charge. And you’ll know best what to do if I and mine don’t come back, he thought. Varys was unlikely to be of much use despite his infamous nickname, so Jaime bid him stay above as well.

“Seaworth, you can see in the dark so I’m afraid you’re in whether you like it or not.”

“I don’t mind. It’s cold up here.”

“Cold down there too, where the sun’s never reached.”

“Whereas it shines most every day at the bottom of the Narrow Sea, does it?”

“I want to go!” Freglyn said enthusiastically, trying to keep the fear from his voice and failing.

“Lad, you’re a loud noise from filling your trousers-”

“They may have more snares down there, who’s to say otherwise? I know what they look like and I know how to snip them so we might slink by.” To Jaime’s amazement, Bronn made clear his own intention to be in on the plunge.

“I’m not fond of sitting about waiting to get pounced on. Besides, between you and the dwarf it’s almost a contest who gets themselves killed first. Should I save your arse down there, I expect I’ll get my time’s worth in gold when up we come.” If up we come, Jaime thought.

The torch fell ten feet before hitting the ground, sputtering out almost immediately. A frigid draft welled up from the tunnel, making Jaime’s teeth chatter. Shitmouth whistled. They all braced for movement, for noise, for something to happen. When nothing did, Jaime dared to peek back down the hole. Only darkness was there to greet him. A clutch of dragon eggs could lie down this tunnel, Jaime thought, and I’d never see them. He took a long breath, exhaled out the side of his mouth, and slid down into the hole. As soon as his feet hit the ground someone dropped him a torch, which he blindly thrust out in front of him. There were webs of course, but just as Joss Stilwood had suggested, there was nothing else to see. Well, except the bloody tunnel, Jaime thought, looking around. It was almost five feet tall and similarly wide, so Jaime could get by with bent back and knees. Freglyn came next, squinting warily into the darkness. Though by rights a scout or spotter belonged in front, Jaime kept the lad directly behind himself. Matthos came down next, followed by Bronn. To his displeasure Stillwood tumbled down after, Shitmouth muttering a nonstop stream of nonsense and looking utterly dreadful as he brought up the rear.

“Who invited you?” Jaime asked the squire.

“Your mother.” Stilwood replied, getting to his feet. Jaime felt his jaw drop as he heard Bronn’s hands clap to his mouth, face red behind them, trying not to fill the tunnel with a roar of laughter. “You haven’t got any practice being a rat in the walls- you’ll leap out at the first finger or toe left out for you.”

“Ser, I’m rightly sorry, let me get this jackass back above and I’ll beat him right bloody-” Shitmouth spluttered, as eager to get out of the tunnel as he was to spare Stilwood whatever consequences might come to him.

“That isn’t necessary. Every moment we tarry leaves the people longer in jeopardy.” He turned away from the others, looking down the tunnel. Easy does it, he told himself. Freglyn’s gaze, meanwhile, stayed locked on the ground before them.

“How far away are we from Deep Den, anyway?” Matthos asked, the darkness no obstacle to him, as he’d said. Eerie, Jaime thought.

“The path through the mountain is not a long one, it just winds a lot and heads past plenty of defensible positions, making it a nightmare for an invading army to negotiate. Depending on whether you ask a westerman or someone from the Vale, one got the inspiration for their own defenses from the other. Not that I believe it. The Vale’s defenses are known the realm over, and besides, dug into mountains proper and not just between one’s toes.” His words made Shitmouth snort in amusement. Though Freglyn’s vigilance never wavered it must have been glinting silk he was looking for- which explained why Jaime found himself tripping on a root running along the bottom of the tunnel, falling flat on his face. Suddenly the sound of dirt crumbling quickly and the feeling of handfuls of it showering his back had Jaime on his feet fast as he could manage, the lot of them running forward to escape the cave-in. Only when they reached open air above their heads did they stop for breath, Jaime panting hard with his hands on his knees and the cold winter air playing havoc with his lungs.

“One thing…after the next…” he hissed, wincing in pain.

“Always fucking is with you, Kingslayer.” Bronn said hoarsely, coughing hard himself.

A fresh rush of cold let Jaime know it had begun to snow again.

“Come on.” he told the others, heading for the darkness of the tunnel ahead. “No reason to wait for one of ‘them’ to notice we’re quite boxed in down here.” It was only the steadily nearing sound of skittering legs that got them safely down the tunnel, the lot of them all but holding their breath as they waited for the animal to wander off. Instead, to Jaime’s dread, the skittering got closer. Shitmouth’s eyes went round as dinner platters as loose dirt tumbled down from the tunnel mouth, a single long pale leg poking into view. It hooked around the lip of the tunnel, the tip of a second leg slowly sliding down to accompany the first. White mists and cave-ins and giant ice spiders, Jaime mused darkly. When after several minutes no panicked morsels scurried past into the open for easy grabbing, the legs retreated. A clicking sound followed, soon accompanied by a haunting hoot. Above, unseen, the spider scuttled off after the sound, hooting in reply.

“Might just have been poking around after the cave-in.” someone said. In the darkness with his heartbeat hammering in his ears, Jaime couldn’t tell who.

“Let’s get on.” he bid them, getting moving himself though now without a torch, Seaworth had to do the seeing for all of them, so when he stopped dead in his tracks it caused yet another pileup.

“You can’t be fucking serious…” Bronn muttered as they regained their feet.

“Ser Jaime.” Matthos bid.

“I’ve gone nowhere. The next time you decide to plant it midstride-”

“This is no mining tunnel, Ser Jaime.” His blood went cold.

“Well, what is it then? I’ll take your word for it, whatever it is.” Seaworth actually bothered to get another torch lit, making Jaime’s frayed nerves go numb. The walls were earth and stone, alcoves dug who knew when pitting them here and there. Each held the bones of someone who must have died long before, the crude pictures of lions on the walls between the alcoves hint enough of that. When they were plentiful in the westerlands, hunting beast and man as they pleased. “We’re in a barrow.” Jaime realized. “Likely closed since the last of these men were put here, opened only by the spiders’ tunnelling.”

“Aye, and a Lannister barrow at that.” Bronn added, looking oddly pleased.

“The lions tipped you off, did they?”

“No, that did.” He pointed to one of the skeletons, briskly stepping over.

“Oi, leave off. He’s right there.” Freglyn said indignantly, motioning vaguely to Jaime.

“And he’s the only Lannister man left.” Bronn replied, shoving the bones aside. “Were these lads in a talking mood, might be they’d thank me for keeping their line alive. As it happens…” he straightened back up, a heavy gold ring of clumsy make pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m well inclined to accept.”

“Graverobbing aside, we should burn the bodies.” Seaworth said. “One trick the Others are dearly fond of is bringing up the dead to fight on their behalf.”

“These are just bones, though.” Joss Stilwood observed, pointing at one yet undefiled. “How could they get up and move around?”

“Ask an Other when you see him.” Seaworth replied.

“Right, well, let’s sort them just in case. No call to leave anything worth taking behind, either.” Jaime said indifferently. The long-dead westermen were just that, and anything that kept his mens’ minds off the Others and all the rest was worth letting them have. Joss Stilwood got a bronze sickle and there were crude coins half the size but twice the thickness of the Seven Kingdoms’ gold dragons, but it was Freglyn who found the real prize. A golden armband stuck over with garnets, and at its wearer’s bony side was a spearhead wrought of black glass.

“Dragonglass.” Bronn said immediately. “I scarce heard else while on Dragonstone and besides, I found myself surrounded by the stuff when I went underneath the castle. Come to think of it, this whole place sort of reminds me of then. Except it’s just lions on the walls and not a tide of dead killing everyone.” The armband was too big to fit around Freglyn’s arm, so he just slapped it ‘round his ankle. When Jaime looked at him bemusedly, the lad grimaced.

“I’m not about to leave it behind. Should I make it through the winter, it might well mean me owning a house instead of begging at a window.” Since Matthos Seaworth was the only one among them who could see unassisted by a torch, he was given the spearhead.

“You know what to do. Just get in and like this.” Shitmouth said, making a quick jabbing motion. “Just right in the fucking neck.”

After they’d seen to the skeletons they kept on, Jaime taking them down every tunnel that led southwest (or so far as he could tell). They had to do a fair bit of backtracking and nearly lost one another several times, eventually working out that moving down was the way yet untried.

“It makes sense. If we want to come up from under Deep Den, we must needs first well bloody get under it.” When the tunnels became cleaner, not the work of scraping limbs but iron tools, Jaime grinned in the darkness. “Quiet now. We don’t want to scare the wits out of some serving maid looking for wine in the cellar.” Jaime told the others. We’re rats in the walls proper now. Eventually they left the tunnels and found themselves in a proper corridor, though the torches that hung from the walls were unlit. That’s odd, Jaime thought. Then again, it was proper freezing down here, maybe Deep Den’s lowest levels saw little use during winter. “That’s enough of going down. Time to stop some stairs, I want to see the sun again.” Jaime said. They passed the rusted iron bars of a cell. Not the cellar. The castle dungeons. Jaime did not envy whatever smallfolk on Deep Den’s lands might have found themselves the target of House Lydden’s ire. Up a stair that hugged the wall, and that coated in treacherously slippery frost while to the right only a sheer drop off the steps to the floor below, and then they were standing on the threshold of a heavy wooden door. We should hear people, Jaime thought. Maidservants gossiping, guards complaining about the cold. Together he, Bronn and Shitmouth pushed the door open as quietly as they could manage. I really should ask him what his name is, Jaime mused as he bit his lip with the effort. At once Jaime saw just how wrong he’d been to come to Deep Den. The walls were coated in frost, the floor slick with patches of ice. Shimmering splashes of red on the stones on closer inspection were revealed to be blood, frozen where it had been spilled. An unearthly howling filled the corridor, wind whirling off the walls with nowhere to go. It sounded like the mother of all drafts…until Jaime realized it stopped and started so cleanly it could not have been the whims of the wind. They all looked at one another. Matthos Seaworth was uneasy, Bronn frozen into ill temper, Shitmouth scared of his own shadow and the two boys all but hugging one another from nerves. He put an arm on Bronn’s shoulder, mouthing his next words. If I’m not back in ten minutes, leave. Then he went on alone.

It was plain that Deep Den had been caught unawares by whatever had befallen it. Frozen splashes of blood spattered here and there, random castle articles lying about in the chaos, everything Jaime saw told him the Lyddens had fared poorly in the defense of their home. There was not a single body though, an oddity that became a danger, preying on Jaime’s mind as he remembered what Seaworth had said of the Others’ penchant for necromancy. He kept an eye out too for any glimpse of the other side of the castle, praying that the goldroad to the west had not been obstructed. I might be so lucky from atop one of the towers. It wasn’t a tower he found next, though, but the doors to Lord Lewys’ hall. The next best thing, he figured, pushing them open. Immediately as the doors swung inward, Jaime reflected that every door he’d found so far in Deep Den would have been better left shut. This one proved no exception, from the thick white mists that billowed up from between the bricks like bubbles in boiling water to the people in the room themselves. On glimpsing two lithe figures through the mist he braced instinctively for an attack and promptly flying backward as if he’d been hit by a charging bull. He went straight through a wooden bench, cracking his skull on the floor for his trouble, while from out of the mist-filled room stepped a person such as Jaime had never seen before. His skin was so white it hurt to look at (or that might have been Jaime’s head), with nearly translucent white hair falling to his shoulders. He wore armor that seemed to shift in color as its wearer moved, ice that took on the hue of whatever was around it. In each hand was a weapon not unlike the horselords’ arakhs, though thinner and longer. As Jaime blinked blood out of his eyes, he looked to the creature’s own. Before he managed to get a glimpse of anything other than two stars through the blood there was an ear-piercing sound of ice splitting against itself, then shattering altogether. Nearly insensate, Jaime could only wriggle feebly and flop over like a drunken worm while footsteps rushed the threshold of the hall and battle joined- or would have, had the winds not picked up again. Finally managing to sit up, the room still spinning hellishly, Jaime spotted the long twin blades lying in a pool of icy water. He made for them, crawling like a baby, only to soak his stump in the pool and cry out in shock at the cold of it. Too cold to freeze. The rest of them, those who had followed him to this tomb-called-castle, were pushing at what had once been the inhabitants of Deep Den. Dead men in green-and-brown, a maidservant with a bloodless gash down her front and frost in her hair, they came at the living in number, pouring form the hall, only to meet the waving torches of those they sought to destroy. The dead crumbled into ash at the merest lick of flame while through the madness Jaime spotted a woman of a kind to the man who’d launched Jaime before he knew what had hit him. She bore no arms and wore no armor. But for the spare strands of icy silk that wound about her, quickening belly included, she would have been quite bare. Jaime needed no knowledge of the Others to know she was the important one. Standing there without so much as a dagger in hand, all but daring me to rush into the room and do something stupid. Another trap. Another palisaded village, another Whispering Wood, Jaime thought as he glared at her through the flames, the mists, the battling bodies. The second male Other made no move to assist the dead men, the pair content to watch the wights keep the living at a distance. He turned to the she-Other, the sound of ice beneath a lake echoing madly off Deep Den’s stones even above the cacophony. The mists began to twirl and spin until a third Other took shape. Another she-Other, if her gown was any hint, but her head was hidden completely by a white veil that hung to her hips all about her and even somewhat impeded her arms. Or maybe you’re the important one, Jaime thought. The Other beneath the veil did not spare the living men burning through the dead a single glance. A hand beneath the silk came up to take the pregnant she-Other’s shoulder while the male made do with taking hold of the mist-maker’s deep white shroud. Then the mists rose, hiding them from view- and scattering abruptly, leaving no trace that the Others had ever been there. The sconces promptly ignited to a one, filling the hall with warmth and light. Jaime found himself collapsing to his knees, groaning at the feeling of knocking his right one funny. Only after several breaths did Jaime realize it no longer hurt to breathe, to think, to be. Wherever the Others went, the maddening cold had gone with them.

Chapter 23: Arya II

Chapter Text

Even given the battle, even given the chaos of the giants’ raid, Nymeria was beside herself. The direwolf could not focus on a single sight or smell for more than two or three seconds at a time and it dizzied Arya something awful from behind Nymeria’s eyes. Easy, girl, was all she could think, but the chorus of howling that was not Nymeria’s own echoed in her mind. Between Nymeria on the wall with Gendry and the soldiers and Arya in the castle with the other highborn women, it was impossible to keep the plot of either situation. Then the night sky light up in an otherworldly green glow, freezing Nymeria in place and thought both. The green light faded as quickly as it had appeared though, Arya left at a total loss for what to do or how to feel. This isn’t Lannister soldiers against Stark soldiers. Not dueling bravos on the canals of Braavos. This is pure brute force smashing against itself. I want to go back to Storm’s End, she thought, feeling smaller than ever she had. The other ladies were near as loud as the chaos outside, given that they were all cooped up in the New Castle’s ballroom. Then the madness outside calmed, the giants’ bellows receded. A knock at the door made them all jump, then the doors simply fell forward, knocked off their frames by a man who could make even the Hound look small. Arya dashed for him, for the direwolf behind him too. His gaze is only for me, Arya thought, while Nymeria’s head is on a swivel as bad as any owl. Once they were alone she’d try to reach her but just now all she wanted to do was wrap her silver-sleeved arms around her lord.

“Gods, no, princess.” Rolland Storm said, hastily getting between them. Up close Arya could see something like liquid glass running down his helm and armor, frost forming wherever it ran.

“What is that?” Arya asked, more than a little concerned for Gendry’s safety.

“Blood. Bloody cold blood, too.” He lifted the hammer he’d gotten from the armory. The same icy substance dripped sluggishly off the steel, leaving frosty white streaks.

“Blood from what?”

“Whatever it was, my lord bashed its head in and sent it flying off the wall.” Rolland said with an air of deepest satisfaction. He’s glad Gendry isn’t just a paper bull. Then again, so am I. “There were plenty more where he came from. They ran off with the giants when they heard the storms, though.” Arya only let a sigh of relief out when Gendry was freed from the battered armor. She wasted no time, heedless of the sweat soaking into her silver gown. Better sweat than blood. Only when Gendry gave an innocuous cough did she let go.

“You can cough all you like. I don’t care what a spectacle I’m making of us.” He coughed again, louder and most definitely feigned, making Ser Rolland chuckle. She coughed right back, a loud obnoxious hack.

“Is that so?” Gendry asked, lifting Arya as if she weighed nothing and kissing her neck, her forthcoming tickled shriek very real.

“Come, my lord. We ought get that off you before you catch a chill.” Rolland said.

“I’ll be right back. No marrying any turnips until I get back.”

“Try and stop me!” Arya declared, poor Ser Rolland laughing aloud now.

“Only a real anvil-head would try and stop you from doing something. More fun to watch and see you go all red and bashful.”

“I’m not bashful!” Gendry kissed her cheek and Arya promptly felt a rosy flush fill her face. When they left, Arya turned to see all the ladies’ gazes fixed on her. Oh, she thought. I forgot about them. With as much dignity as she could muster Arya moved over to where Nymeria twitched and glanced about, causing the women nearest her a deal of unease. “Come on, girl.” she said. Nymeria shot her an uncertain glance, as if she wasn’t quite sure herself what was going on. It wasn’t the battle, of that Arya was sure. It’s bloody something though, it isn’t right for a direwolf to act like a skittish fawn. Up a spiral stair and in the privacy of the room Arya and Gendry had been quartered in, as well as Nymeria, Arya took the great grey head in her hands and tousled her wolf’s fur. “What’s wrong, girl?” Her golden eyes were so big and wary Arya could practically see herself in them. Nymeria’s weary whine was enough to make Arya reach for her, intent on finding out whatever had her so anxious. The first thing she saw was herself, her own face, through Nymeria’s eyes. Well this is bizarre, she thought. It was not so startling as it might have been, though. Arya was not a southern girl and she’d long since learned that the line between her and Nymeria was much hazier than between, say, a hunter and his hounds. She quickly found that rather than something present bothering Nymeria, it was something that had passed. The howling echoed in her wolf ears. When once she could only hear her lonely brother and barely at that, the chorus of the pack was so near and so numerous it was as if they were in the room with her. Nymeria could no more smell than see them, though, and it made her nervous and more. Never mind them, girl, Arya thought. You’re alright. More concerning were the half-remembered dreams that lingered on the edges of Nymeria’s mind like wolverines in the bushes waiting for her to move off a kill. Bloody ones of howl and hunt with absolutely no sense of self. Savage. Arya tried to dredge up Nymeria’s fuzzy memories of Winterfell, when she’d thought the wolf could be trained to pack her gloves for her. At the time I wondered if you understood what I meant. Now I know you knew exactly what I meant, but you weren’t going to do it, not for a whole side of beef. Memories of the world when it was bright and warm eased Nymeria’s worries a bit, but also made the dark wilds at the limits of her being all the darker. Queen of the Fords, Arya thought sadly. The heart of the riverlands, hardly anyone’s idea of the darkest wild. Perhaps it was the pack Nymeria had called to her in those days, calling in turn for their leader. Nymeria herself dismissed that notion as readily as Arya offered it up, their wordless exchange void of words but full of understanding. They were small gray cousins, kin of the weakest sort. It isn’t common timber wolves calling to you from who knows where. Arya thought back to when she saw a hairy goat with one horn fall to something truly terrible, Nymeria’s idea of a monster. Even the notion of it seemed to distress her, the wolf giving a low whine as she rested her head on her paws. From the dark corner of the room a low growling hit both pairs of ears. Arya’s heart stopped in her chest as something in the darkness moved, barely visible in the deep shadow created by the light from the window. Fresh-spilled blood hung so heavy in the air it made Arya’s knees knock. I can see the light glinting off its teeth, she thought. In its green eyes. It was another direwolf, but that only seemed to make Nymeria’s misgivings worse. Her hackles rose and she bore her teeth, a gesture their visitor took with no ill grace. It would not come into the light though, would not leave the world of shadow from which it had emerged. It was fixated on Nymeria, staring across the way even as Arya moved slowly to the curtain- and yanked it from the wall. At once the light flooded in, the other direwolf gone as if it had never been there. I suppose because it wasn’t, Arya reasoned shakenly. Except in Nymeria’s mind. She went cold all over when she spotted the muddy prints of a wolf’s passing on the stone floor, though, and the scent of blood was still apparent, if only just.

Arya was still staring openmouthed at the prints on the floor when Gendry came in the room, in fresh clean garb.

“See, now I told you I’d marry a fish-” he stopped his jest at once when he realized something was wrong, coming over to Arya’s side of the bed. He took in the footprints, brow furrowed over his blue Baratheon eyes.

“It was here, Gendry. The one that ate the goat. Here, in our room. It might well have killed me too, but for Nymeria.” He scooped her up and she curled into him, trying not to burst into tears. What is happening? she thought. Nymeria ran her head across her mistress’ side, trying to comfort her in her own way. To her shame she felt a few hot drops escape her eyes. Before the rest could come though, Gendry’s hand came up and cradled her head.

“I’ve never seen an anvil cry before.” he whispered into her ear. Instantly her shame turned to storminess. In another instant, the tip of her nose was a hair apart from his.

“Better an anvil than someone stupid enough to marry a fish.”

“Stupider still to try and talk sense into you.” Gendry replied, the edges of his smile visible at the edges of Arya’s view. She knew he was teasing her as he always did when she was upset, a trick that never failed to work. But I’ve got one that will cut even the Lord of Storm’s End to the quick. When she backed up so she could see him proper, he let her go.

“Gendry?”

“Arya?” he asked in reply, already preparing to parry her next nonsensical insult.

“Will you marry me?” His jaw dropped. I win, Arya thought. Before she could trip over her own tongue Arya seized her moment. “I don’t know much about being a princess. I barely know left from right. I know I love you, though. I knew I did the moment you told me you were joining the brotherhood without banners. Even if I made it home to Winterfell, it wouldn’t have been with the person I wanted to bring there. When I told you I can be your family, I meant it.”

“And when I told you you’d be my lady, I meant it.” Gendry replied, almost on instinct.

“I’m no lady. I’m a bloody princess.” she crossed her eyes, wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue, making Gendry snort in riotous amusement. “Or at least that’s what everyone keeps saying.”

“Well…” Gendry sounded breathless, on the verge of tears. “We all want things we can’t have.”

“Have this!” Arya cried, leaping at him and tackling him backward on the bed.

“I suppose we’ll have to ask the septon in charge of the Sept of the Snows if he’ll accommodate us.” Gendry mused, her atop him as if she weighed not an ounce.

“After what’s happened, I don’t think I want to wait until after the war. The Manderlys mean the best, but no doubt if Ser Wylis knew about it he’d want to give a feast, pack the sept with every guest…” The notion of such an event made Gendry go deep red. “What’s wrong? You took the stormlanders flocking around you well enough.”

“Storm’s End was not half-full and the people were tired, no-nonsense. A whole city is something else.”

“So what? We need only wave a red kerchief in front of you and you’ll never know the people were there.” Gendry rolled his eyes.

“Meantime we’ll get someone to wave me in front of you and you’d never know the crowds were there.” It was Arya’s turn to blush.

As the world had taken a break from ending for the moment, Arya got a bath in as well as her pick of dresses, largesse provided by Ser Wylis as well as the seamstresses of White Harbor. I wonder if Sansa will recognize me when we next meet, Arya thought. Not for the first time, either. I have a hem, I have sleeves, I have bloody shoes on my feet and my hair isn’t a sparrow nest of tangles. Wearing black made her look mournful, an idea she thought appropriate until the septa suggested the ladies of White Harbor would follow her lead.

“’Tis not my place to question you, my princess, but there will be ample time to mourn the dead. Just now, perhaps something brighter. Or at least more spirited. A court of color instead of one steeped in gloom.”

“Black and gold are Baratheon colors.” Arya replied with a frown.

“They are. But you’ve not married Lord Baratheon yet, wearing such fare might be a bit premature.”

“I’d rather be premature in wearing Gendry’s colors than never get to, septa. He or I or both may die before this war sees an end.”

“Seven save you both from anything more than a stubbed toe!” the septa said, shocked.

“Besides, I could wear all the black I liked but without the gold it’s scarcely representative of Gendry’s house. I’d rather not short-change it and wear a cheap yellow sash, either.” The septa swallowed.

“Deep green would go nicely with your eyes, a harmless enough gesture both welcoming and unpretentious.” Rather than say something without thinking, as Arya the girl might have done (would have done), Arya the young woman let the septa bring her handmaidens in, getting her into just such a dress. I don’t much care about seeming unpretentious, septa. A band of giants, gangly brutes and dead men just cracked this city open easier than Ser Wylis might crack open a crab at dinner. There was a knock at the door and one of the girls hurried over to crack it open and peek out. No doubt hoping for a glance of Gendry. When she returned to Arya and the others she had an uncertain look on her face.

“There’s an archer outside. He says he’s to escort you to the hall, Lord Gendry and your- uhh, Nymeria will meet you there.”

“A common archer?” The septa was not pleased.

“He’s one well-known to Gendry and I. In truth, he’s late.” Arya said, effortlessly putting on a cross face. At once the septa herself rushed for the door, opening it wide.

“Where have you been!? The princess has been expecting you!” The man mumbled an apology and shuffled into the room, looking every bit the common soldier.

“You know him, princess?”

“I do, more’s the pity. After escaping King’s Landing, Gendry and I spent a lot of time on the kingsroad. We met a lot of people, some with fairer temperaments than others. This man is not one of them. Had things gone according to plan, we would have reached Winterfell and he the Wall.” The girls shied away from the archer as if he were a leper.

“A criminal?” The septa was aghast.

“It’s no crime what to pick through what others gone and left behind.” he said sullenly.

“It is to start the fires that cause people to abandon their homes for you to loot after the blaze has done its work.” Arya said, voice hard. The man mumbled and looked at his feet. “I’d tell you to look at me when you speak and in a respectful tone, but just now I don’t much want to meet your gaze or hear what you have to say.” Arya said in an irate tone. “Take me to my lord and quick, or I’ll tell him you wasted my time and he’ll have you peeling potatoes until the next battle.” She turned to the septa. “I’ll be fine in his company, poor as it is. Perhaps you should see to the ladies in the ballroom, septa.” Arya advised, before leaving. Once they were out of earshot, the archer spoke again, his peasant’s mumbling gone as if it had never been.

“A girl plays the princess well.”

“That’s because I’m not playing. You play the commoner just a well, I almost had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing.”

The hall had brightened somewhat, new torches burning in the sconces, the hearths full of crackling logs. Cherry, Arya knew at once. The smell brought her back to her girlhood at Winterfell. Mother only had it used when we had an important visitor. This lord or that one, or some officer from the Night’s Watch. Cherry wood had filled every hearth when Robert Baratheon had come north as well, of course. Now all those people are burned away sure as any firewood. Her wistfulness must have shown.

“A girl is home, as she told a man she was going.”

“White Harbor isn’t my home. I told you and her both a hundred times, the Starks come from Winterfell.” The archer sniffed rudely, his insolent air a true master’s mummery.

“One place is much like another. A man speaks of a person, not a place.” That startled her. Did he always know I was going back to Gendry, even when I didn’t?

“Well, if I’m so known to you, perhaps you’ll be so kind as to tell me what I’m going to do next. And not in some stupid confusing way.” The archer scratched his nose.

“A man has many gifts, but one the god never gave was knowing what went on in other heads. He saved that gift for a certain lovely girl.” Arya frowned.

“I said don’t be confusing.”

“A girl spent some time in the house of Black and White, just so. She may have even learned this thing or that thing. Did she learn well enough how to see without eyes? A man thinks not. Her own eyes were dead and blind, a man knows this, but she saw him all the same. That another girl could not see the cats lurking in the shadows or poised overhead only tells a man she was too proud to truly serve the Many-Faced God.”

“You weren’t there when she attacked me.” Arya said bluntly, but quiet enough so that they’d not be overheard.

“How would a girl know? A man might have been anyone that day and a girl would never have known.”

“We were the only ones in the room.”

“Just so. A man can see what may be happening around him without using his eyes, if he’s in his senses. If he sees another man drink too much wine and then leave the room, he can see that other man is drunk somewhere. A girl may do this as well, and no need for the eyes of cats and rats. Or wolves.” He knew what would happen when she came after me. That I’d spot her through the eyes of the animals around us, even as she flailed in darkness. The eyes of men and girls both, even trained in the House of Black and White, fail utterly levelled against eyes born to the dark. His mysterious air vanished before Arya could blink. “Will that be all, princess?” he asked, barely hiding his contempt.

“Go and find my lord. Don’t come back without him.” Arya waved him away as if Gendry had been the subject the whole time. When she turned to see who had Jaqen changing his tune so fast, she beheld a very pretty girl with the softest dusting of rosy freckles ‘cross her cheeks who looked at least as old as she imagined Sansa. No, she corrected herself. She’s Jon’s age. The girl curtsied.

“Desmera Redwyne, my princess.” she introduced herself with the exact same kind of blameless blushing beauty Arya had once so hated about Sansa. This one hasn’t got her head in the clouds, though.

“A Redwyne of the Arbor? I should think you and yours are welcome at every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, even a few places in Essos and beyond the Wall.” Desmera put a hand to her mouth and giggled. Arya could hear amusement both feigned and real.

“I suppose we are, or at least the wines coming out of the Arbor. I should rather hope to make a better impression than some grapes, though.”

“That’s the trick for highborn girls, being seen as more than a name and a claim to this or that.” Arya replied, looking back to the dinner crowd slowly filling the table. “Highborn men too, I should think. Particularly if they’re the last of their house.” Arya turned back to her. Desmera Redwyne had a mournful look on her face but Arya knew better than to trust a mask. She strikes me as too bright to be so direct, at least about Gendry. A Redwyne would not care about the stormlands or who rules them in any case. “If you must know, my lord and I have pledged ourselves to each other this very evening.” Desmera gave a happy gasp.

“Oh! What wonderful news! Any occasion to cast off this wretched cold and the gloom of the city with it. It’s not my place to correct you, princess, but Lord Baratheon was not who I was speaking of.” Rather than ask straight out, as she imagined her father might have done, Arya tried hard to remember if there was anyone this Redwyne girl could have in mind that was somehow relevant to Gendry. Then her grey eyes opened.

“I suppose only the gods know what the future holds, but I know the prospect of holding Nightsong distresses Ser Rolland almost as much as it fascinates him.” Desmera’s own brown eyes widened and her pretty mouth opened in surprise. “I would not be too presumptuous, Lady Redwyne. Ser Rolland has spent these long years aiding Ser Davos in keeping the influence of the red fanatics in Stannis Baratheon’s court to a minimum. Their failure is no mark of incompetence, far from it. That they kept Stannis upright as long as they did marks Ser Davos, Ser Rolland and those in their camp as stalwart Baratheon men, well worthy of regard.” Arya would never say it aloud, but she did not truly see Ser Rolland refusing Nightsong, particularly if Gendry was the one offering it. Better still if he just gives it and is done with it. Stormlanders like short and sweet. While Desmera fumbled for something to say, someone cleared their throat behind Arya.

“Lord Gendry Baratheon, Ser Rolland Storm and the Queen of the Fords.” Jaqen announced dryly.

The southern girl went from blushing to pale at Nymeria’s approach, but Arya knew the direwolf had eyes only for her. And besides, her mind is on whatever’s past chasing her in dreams and has followed her into the waking world. Arya gave her a fond scratching behind her ears but Nymeria’s troubled attitude did not diminish.

“Right, I’ll be off. Can’t have those as born in hovels eating alongside those as born in castles, the sky might fall.” Jaqen shoved off, making room for Gendry to approach.

“Too bad you outfoxed him when he was made up like an archer. Had you stuck him in the trappings of a lord, he might be less full of venom.”

“Don’t worry, it’s all a mummery.” Arya tried to assure him, but Gendry only shrugged.

“It wasn’t a Faceless Man who sold me to the red woman for her to roast. So far as I’m concerned, he can skulk around all he likes.” She rolled her eyes. As she was quite sure Desmera had gone to chat up Ser Rolland the moment she’d turned her back, Arya was not worried that the girl from the Reach might have overheard anything. On looking back for her, she found her guess spot on. Desmera was blushing, freckles and all, as she listened to Rolland’s account of some battle or other, ‘oh!’ing and gasping as if she were following a master mummer’s script. Arya was wondering how best to rescue the poor knight when another outcry somewhere on the walls made her stomach flip. Not more of them! The voices were not dismayed, not terrified, though. The calls of “Ships!” were lively, excited even. Gendry let out a breath. “Come on, ser. We’d best get out there. See what all this is about.” Arya pulled her fur cloak tight around herself and followed, head on Gendry’s shoulder. “You know this could be something bad.” he murmured.

“Could be. But between you and Nymeria, I ought be safe.”

“What if it’s more giants?”

“Then I suppose I’ll hurt some great frozen foot terribly when it steps on me and finds I’ve an anvil for a head.” She stuck her tongue out at him, earning her a kiss on the neck and him a scream of tickled giggling. Outside the wind had gone for the moment but it was cold as ever, prompting Gendry to pull Arya’s hood up past her ears when she did not do it herself. When she grumbled annoyedly he shook his head.

“I like your ears the way they are, not black and stiff and froze.”

“Frozen, you-” her smart reply was cut short when he simply scooped her up and kissed her nose, making her giggle all over again.

“Froze. Frozen. Each as cold and dead as t’other, and neither’s what I want your ears to be. The rest of you, either.”

“Mlhhh.” He kissed the tip of her tongue. Then he stopped dead in his tracks, eyes on the inlet as it rolled south to the Bite proper. The Nibble? Arya thought, smiling until she caught sight of the ships within it. Those aren’t Westerosi, she knew at once. They were too far away to count but Arya knew a fleet proper when she saw it. Some of them were landing on this side or that of the inlet in rather a haphazard fashion while a tighter-knit group pressed on, headed it seemed for the beached hulks of the dead ships where once White Harbor’s outer docks had stood. Or would have, had sudden twin lances of flame at water’s edge not begun to clear away the wreckage.

“That’ll be that fireling. Helped Tarly and I make his toys.” Gendry said, while Arya watched openmouthed. The image of the Iron Throne melting like a cheap candle popped up in her mind yet again. Despite her reputation as a spitfire Arya found herself shrinking into Gendry’s chest, a reaction he did not begrudge her.

Arya the girl would have dashed out to meet the newcomers. Arya the young woman was more reserved. It would be different if I thought Jon was on one of those ships, she insisted to herself. He left on one of Dragonstone’s, though, not some Volantene vessel.

“I wish we knew what was going on down there…” Arya said wistfully as Gendry set her to her feet, correct in his wordless guess (as ever he was when it came to her moods) that she was not much in a playful mood any longer.

“Well, no doubt they’ll come up for a chat, whoever they are.” Gendry squinted toward the inlet. “Probably that princeling. Brought the Golden Company with him and the sweepings of the Free Cities with him, didn’t he? Stands to reason he’d need a lot of ships.”

“Good of him to turn up with his army right after White Harbor’s taken a battering.” Arya replied crossly.

“Not his fault, is it? Those storms on the Narrow Sea were something awful, made the deluge in the stormlands look a dainty spring rain.” That much is true, Arya thought. I thought the ship was going to shake apart around us even before it got a chance to sink.

“I suppose we ought get ready for them, then.” Arya said sulkily. And hang any chance of getting married before everyone busies themselves with our business.

“Why not? We’ll snap up some seamstress and she can make you a lovely dress of black-and-gold.”

“The septa says it’s better to wait until we’re wed before I wear your colors. It would be unseemly, you see.”

“Oh, save me, I forgot the septa.” Gendry slapped his palm to his forehead as he led her back to the New Castle. “D’you know, even with toothy horrors from the coldest hell trying to chew my fucking face off and giants turning men to red mist with thrown boulders and smashing the city walls to pretty white chips besides, nothing would be so unseemly as you wearing something so forward as black-and-gold.” His manner was one of grave stately seriousness, blue Baratheon eyes wide as he spoke. Yet Arya was laughing, and no giggle at that. Her glee echoed off the stones of the New Castle and would not stop, not even when they reached their room. Only when they found Nymeria snarling at the darkness did Arya’s joy depart, replaced so quickly by fear it made her feel sick. The black direwolf had returned, and this time he was no shadow. Larger than Nymeria, fur a wild tangle and wide eyes green as emerald, he was as magnificent as he was terrifying. Though his nose twitched, betraying his awareness of the men in his midst, he had eyes only for Nymeria. Arya reached for her, unsurprised to feel fear of the direwolf’s own but wholly stunned at the nature of it. The animal before her was no stranger to Nymeria, insofar as he was there as a yipping black pup in the hazy memories she had of her time as a pup herself. When I was tall as the walls of Winterfell and fed her with a glove soaked in milk. Other thoughts were harder for Arya to quite understand. Nymeria did not think as she did, people and places and words and times, but the black direwolf seemed as likely to attack her as she was eager to attack him. Realization came slow as a winter dawn. They were all grey at first, all but Ghost, Arya remembered. Only one had fur come black, though. But what had been his name? Rickon was barely more than a baby when Father and the rest had come back with the pups, and the name he’d given his was the sort a baby might think up. Rickon had died, though, killed by Bolton’s bastard before battle joined proper. The black direwolf’s green eyes glittered with hungry glee. Arya was on her knees before him before she realized she’d moved.

“You’re Rickon’s. Or were, I don’t know.” she whispered. The direwolf’s nose twitched. He knows the name. It was not so recognized as Arya might have supposed, though. Maybe he’s forgotten, maybe they’re not together in the hereafter. That thought made her feel sad until she felt something reach for her, for Nymeria, for both of them.

The furnished bedroom she shared with Gendry had vanished. White Harbor’s chill had become a balmy summer day in the face of the wickedly sharp cold that seeped into her flesh, the smells of the city wholly gone. Where Arya was still trying to warm herself even in Nymeria’s body, the direwolf herself was not caught so ill-prepared. This is where we ate the goat, Arya realized. Where all three of us did, I looking through her and she through him. Snow coated most everything but the sheer sharp walls of razor rock that jutted out of the frozen earth. The pines were back as well, the forest huge and trackless. Utterly absent, Nymeria noted, was the scent of men. We must be in some realm of the old gods’, Arya thought. Even the wolfswood is not so vast, its trees not so tall. Her black brother let out a joyous booming cry, deafening to Nymeria who was used to the piping notes of the timber wolves of the riverlands. The forest came alive with the answering notes of countless of their kind, their true kind. Then the Call sounded. Richer, louder, deeper than any direwolf’s and Nymeria was caught utterly between the twin urges to dash heedlessly straight for it and to flee as fast as she could. In the end the latter won out and she joined the frenzied rush of fur and teeth that rushed for the source of the Call, the black brother the swiftest, the strongest, the most eager. They came upon the Den then. Not just a den, as one of theirs might have been. The Den. Bones of every sort lay scattered here and there, goat and direboar and moose and man. The source of the Call was waiting for them, its great body half again the size of theirs. Its breath billowed up from its muzzle in a never-ending stream of white fog. This is no hereafter, Arya thought numbly. It’s some wild cold hell. Their liege, their lord, their leader without question put its muzzle skyward toward the moon, huge and silver in the sky. The Call was not for her to question, a song her kind had run to since its first sounding. This close it was almost too loud, drowning out the packs replies without effort. It let the note echo off into the trees until silence fell once more.

Then it stood.

Run. The pace was breakneck, trees flying by too fast for Arya to avoid. She needn’t have worried. Though she did not have the reins, the body in which she found herself never hesitated, never slowed, never tired. Ground to tree, tree to tree, tree to rock, rock to ground again, the Den was soon as far away in body as it was in mind. Though she recognized Nymeria’s howling in the midst of the other wolves, the pack was soon left well behind. Run. The primal rush smashed to dust her scattered thoughts, even thoughts of Gendry and Jon. The memory of his face earned a snort of surprise from the monster, clawed hand swiping at its face as if to free it from a spiderweb. So quick did the image come that Arya almost didn’t catch it, but a memory that was not hers flitted briefly, so briefly across her mind. The crypts, Father’s statue newly added, Jon’s face in manhood so as his had been. Run. Yes, but from what? Arya cried back. Are we running toward or running from? There was no answer, not that she’d expected one. Suddenly there was a scent, one they both knew. Where Arya was relieved at the scent of men, though, the creature’s hackles rose. Somewhere she felt her stomach turn. No, she thought, but too late. It, they were upon them in moments, men with powerful muscled bodies and hard strong limbs. What little they wore were loose fur pelts, despite the cold. Neither was proof against their teeth, neither could turn aside a frenzied rush of claws. Despite the utter carnage they did not break and flee. Perhaps they knew death was on them this night and saw fit to meet it with spear or club or raised fist. One such man who looked as if he could have sent Brienne of Tarth tumbling down after the Hound spat a stream of warm blood across their muzzle when a sweep of their arm snapped him nearly in twain. The column numbered two dozen, more, and in the span of a few bloody minutes they’d been strewn across the cold ground in still more pieces than they’d come. They sounded the Call, trying to will away the thoughts that chased them. Off they went, speeding northward so far as Arya could tell. Even the icy surface of a frozen pond did not deter them, rushing over it in a few long bounds. A taste hit their tongue, a far cry from hot bloody meat as befit a member of the pack. It was so strange, so sudden, so strong that Arya could only blurt the word out. Walnuts? The thought of them, an image in her mind, stopped the rushing body she was in on a pinhead. No tumbling forward, no momentum sending them into a snowbank. They just stopped there on the lake, from manic to motionless quicker than any earthly beast ought be able. I can taste them, she thought. The bitterness was nothing like hot red meat heavy with blood. Nothing like the sweet marrow they found whenever they found bone cracking clean apart beneath their teeth. These thoughts are not mine, she realized, but those of the monster I’m peeping on.

As she could hear its thoughts, though, it could hear hers. She saw Winterfell’s yard again, a glimpse of Bran struggling to fly an arrow true. I remember that day, Arya though wonderingly. I was behind him, though, with a bow of my own. Then she was, not its memory but hers. Her eyes drifted past Bran, flanked by Jon and Robb. Rickon, far from the giggling six-year-old who had been watching that day, loomed forward off the saddle like a gargoyle, teeth bared and eyes a deep shade of mesmerizing gold rather than Tully blue. Where are you? Arya thought, ignoring Father’s voice sounding from the walkway above. The moors of the north, windswept and empty. Eastward, Arya thought. Every day toward the rising sun. Shaggydog was there as well, and so their belly was never empty. Only when they reached a bleak shore with the roiling grey sea before them did they see people. The villagers were too poor to be rightly called poor, but they neither drove them away nor fled upon Shaggydog’s approach. Arya could hear their words, talk of Lord Stark’s children finding direwolf pups in the wolfswood. Loyal to Father even as they scrape what sustenance they can from the sea. She wished they could share in the bounty of White Harbor. The debate on what to do with Rickon lasted but a single night.

“He cannot stay here. The lords in their castles cannot be trusted with a Stark.” One careworn woman said.

“There’s only one place we can hide him. One place he’ll never be found.” An older man agreed.

“You may as well bring him straight back to Winterfell and whatever turncloak holds it!” the woman cried.

“He has the wolf. It will protect him.”

“Who will protect us? Those shores are rocky and treacherous anyhow, small aid a wolf will be when the ship he’s on goes aground or sinks altogether-”

“It won’t. He has the gods about him and the bay belongs to the gods same as the cold earth ‘neath our feet.”

“And those people? Godless doesn’t begin to describe them-” The old man, who seemed to be the village elder, turned a foot-long horn over in his gnarled hands.

“They belong to the gods too.” Morning had come, and then a voyage still further east over the storm-churned waters. The haziest peek of a monstrously mountainous island looming out of the mist at them- and then she was warm again, her own harmless pink perfumed self, wriggling her way out of heavy covers.

“Arya!” Gendry’s voice was so startling it made her start- and Nymeria yelp.

“I’m alright…” Arya burbled, not altogether convinced herself.

“Horseshit, you’ve been asleep for two days!” That cut right through the fog.

“What?”

“You and Nymeria both!” Arya had seen Gendry bracing to be tortured once and he looked less afraid than now. She managed to pull herself free of the blankets, trying to find the words.

“Did I… do anything?”

“Nymeria scarce went an hour without a yelp or a snarl, but you might have been a statue.” The color slowly worked back into his face. “Might be it was Nymeria’s dream you were stuck in rather than your own.” Something about that sounded right to Arya…

“She dreamed of Shaggydog.”

“Of who?” Arya looked into her lap.

“The black direwolf.”

“His name is Shaggydog?”

“He was my baby brother Rickon’s.”

“Isn’t Rickon dead?” Gendry asked, brow furrowing as he struggled to keep up.

“That’s what Jon told me. Shaggydog, too.”

“So what, the black wolf that’s been giving you fits and scaring me witless besides is a ghost?” Arya’s lip quivered. All that had happened in the woods, inside the mind of the ravening beast…there had been cold and hunger. The dead do not feel cold, no more than they do hunger.

“It wasn’t a ghost that pulled Nymeria into the dark trees and rocky passes. It wasn’t a ghost, either, that tore two dozen men apart within a few breaths.” The more she thought about it, the more obvious it became. “Nymeria, at least, must not think Shaggydog is dead.” She got out of bed, Gendry wrapping her in a fur-lined robe.

“Common wolves can be black same as direwolves. The north under the Boltons was full of orphans…maybe the Boltons were paid in false coin.”

“Jon saw him die, though.”

“Jon hadn’t seen him in years. I don’t think it would have been too difficult to find a boy of the right coloring.” I should feel excited, elated even. My trueborn brother may yet live and all I can feel is scared. Memories that could only have been Rickon’s had reared up inside the monster’s mind, hadn’t they? And he had known Arya, after a fashion. But only after a fashion. Whatever might remain of Rickon is buried within the beast that killed those wild men.

Her jumbled feelings must have shown because Gendry wasted no time sweeping her off her feet and into a chair by the hearth. More cherry. Was it Arya smelling it though, or Nymeria? As if to reassure her, the direwolf trotted over to her mistress and lay her head in Arya’s lap. Or would have, had it fit. Instead, it was more like someone had laid a warm furry anvil of all things on Arya’s legs. Despite her unease, the thought made her hiccup and smile weakly.

“Two days is a long time these days. What did I miss?” Gendry whistled.

“Well, that King Aegon and all his lot have made their way up the Bite and landed at the Manderlys’ doorstep.”

“Poor Manderlys.” Arya said, shuddering at the thought of more courtly complications.

“Have you met him?”

“Didn’t think it’d be taken too well for Robert Baratheon’s son to stroll up to Rhaegar Targaryen’s. From what I hear, a lot of his mates are stormlanders themselves. A Connington’s his Hand, and already the old man and his dead cousin’s son are arguing the white walls down who’s the one true Lord of Griffin’s Roost.” He stuck out his tongue and pressed a finger to it. “Bleegh.” Arya snickered.

“Anybody else?”

“Oh, well, there’s that Littlefinger…” he looked into his own lap while Arya’ stomach did a flip. It took her a moment to realize that Gendry had stopped speaking.

“Who else?”

“A certain Edric Storm. One of…one of Robert Baratheon’s bastards with some Florent girl. My half-brother, I suppose.”

“And…you haven’t talked to him yet?” Gendry looked like she’d started speaking Valyrian.

“I’ve never met him before. You were insensate, Arya. For two days. Save to talk to Davos at the door, I haven’t left your bedside. ” Arya went from pink to red.

“You could have been more helpful in the hall, trying to keep the stormlanders on your side!”

“Your hard head must be made of Valyrian steel. No common iron’s so dull and dense.”

“It is not-” she began hotly. He kissed her on the cheek.

“Storm’s End is a lovely castle. I wouldn’t piss in its direction if it came to a choice between you and it, though. I wasn’t going to leave until I knew you were alright.”

“Did you raise a fuss and get a maester? Will that septa break in here with a battering ram in a few moments?”

“No, I figured you were up to your typical wolf-mischief when Nymeria wouldn’t wake either. What would a master know of that? Or a septa? Now your back though, we can go to the hall together.” Arya was about to agree when she chanced to look out a window and see a white building that seemed to glow in the moonlight, halfway across the city. The Sept of the Snows.

“I have a better idea.” she said.

While Gendry set to asking after the storm lords, Arya had the septa clean her up. I’m a princess after all, she thought dryly. She answered the older woman’s constant fussing with short vague answers, mind on an island across stormy gray water when Wylla Manderly found them.

“You’re awake!” Arya groaned inwardly at having to answer more questions when one suddenly sprang to mind.

“Are there any islands around here? Big ones, with mountains on them?” Wylla stopped mid-blather.

“Uhh…the only islands near White Harbor are the Three Sisters, nearer the Vale in truth than the North.” Arya shook her head. “It would be much bigger than all the islands of the Vale put together. Stuck in the middle of an iron-grey sea, with choppy waters and formidable rocks that make approach a chancy thing at best.” Wylla was mystified but also mesmerized.

“Have you been there-”

“No, and gods save her, she never will be. She’s talking about Skagos, Wylla.” Lady Leona told her daughter, coming in from the corridor. Wylla’s face went from enamored to aghast. Skagos? All Arya knew of the place was the old maps Maester Luwin had shown her when she was young. I remember now. It looks kind of like a wolf’s paw, if you count Skane. She had liked that part. Not so much the island being stuck in the Shivering Sea, half below the Wall and half beyond it.

“Are there goats there? Shaggy goats with one horn?” Lady Manderly’s mouth tightened, as if to speak of the place was bad luck.

“So there may have been once. Or so the rumors go.”

“I thought Skagos belonged to the north? Uh…ships stop there from time to time…” Arya said, confused.

“Ships stop to trade with the people on the island’s rocky shores. Only desperate ones, though, and most that make Skagos their destination do not return.” Well, those villagers were definitely desperate enough to get Rickon out of the north.

“Whether or not Rickon is there is beyond our help just now, Arya.” Gendry said steadily. “We can’t keep a fishing sloop from upending on the Bite let alone sail all the way to Skagos.” Arya bit her lip. What good is knowing Rickon is alive if he’s somewhere we can never reach him? If he’s someplace no one would ever go? Thoughts of Rickon receded though when she saw the storm lords assembled in the hall. Absent was Lord Buckler, who’d fallen in the giants’ raid. Not the last of them to die either, I think. Ralph Buckler had been one of the most overjoyed to see House Baratheon retake its rightful seat of Storm’s End, and the man’s absence made Arya still sadder. “Should we find your mother?” Gendry asked softly as they prepared to make for the sept.

“I suppose. It wasn’t the Seven that made her as she is now, though.” Nor that set that song-storm loose on the voyage north. Thinking on the old gods made her shudder as it never had when she was a girl. When they found her lady mother she was with Robb’s wife, as usual. Fled of skin, though, you’d only know she was Volantene from her name. Certainly she had no accent to speak of.

“Hello!” called a cheerful voice, a whorl of flickering embers emerging from the boiling water the other two had going to keep the soldiers nearby in hot soup, if nothing else. Arya started badly when she caught the outline of a head, her and there a hint of hand. Talk had reached Arya of her, of course, but that didn’t make her any less off-putting in the flesh. Or rather, in the flame.

When they told Lady Catelyn their intentions, her face fell. It was not the reaction Arya was expecting. Here I am, a lady just like you always wanted, a proper bleeding princess. Now what’s the matter?

“I suppose I would have liked to have Ned with me to see you get married. I would have liked to see you grow from the girl whose hair clumped in dreadful knots to the woman you are now.”

“We all want things. I’ve learned to hold fast to what comes my way and put dreams of Father coming back out of my mind.”

“Jon Snow came back, though.”

“He did. Not because I wanted him to, though. Not because anyone did. This is old northern country and it belongs to old northern gods. Why they sent him back is not my place to question.” Nor yours. She let the thought hang in the air like a sword on a string. “And anyway, neither of them are here just now. Neither ever followed the Seven. Maybe you’ll find some peace from this, however small.” Lady Catelyn had been at the art of keeping a shape for longer than the fireling, and so her face was well-defined in its melancholy. I’m less her daughter now than the two beside her. As if reading her mind, her lady mother’s hands came up and took Arya’s own.

“I wasn’t there when I might have been. Seven save me, I should never have let the three of you go south in the first place.” Were she able she’d be crying, Arya realized.

“Never mind. You’re here now, and I’d sooner have you at my wedding than not. If only because I thought it might bring you some small consolation. Your daughter a princess, marrying a lord.” She noticed the fireling looking at Gendry- or that’s what it looked like, it was hard to tell when Arya couldn’t always make out the girl’s head and eyes.

“Are you all right?” Talisa asked her.

“I don’t know.” came the reply.

“Speaking of giving people their due, I think it’s past time you receive yours, Ser Rolland.” Gendry said, clapping his hands together decisively. At once the man’s pox-scarred face went pale.

“My lord, I-”

“-can take Nightsong at the end of a hand on your shoulder or a fist in your face.” Gendry cut him off serenely, earning a few hearty snickers form the other storm lords.

“Where is Ser Davos?” Arya asked, noticing the old knight was not among their party. A wave of warmth told her the fireling’s gaze had drawn on her.

“Who?” she asked.

“Ser Davos Seaworth. As leal a man as ever there’s been known, perhaps more commonly as the Onion Knight.” Ser Rolland said, ignorant of the definition building in the girl’s face and form. Arya saw her mouth the work ‘knight.’

“Ka-niggit.” she said. Before anyone could reply she took her leave of them, a dress weaving itself out of the embers with every step.

“What’s her problem?” Ser Rolland asked.

“Leave her, ser. She’ll come back when she’s ready. Speaking of knights, though, you needn’t rely on your spurs alone any longer.” Gendry cracked his fingers. “Never done this before. I wonder what will happen?” Resignedly the Bastard of Nightsong went to a knee. “Something something, honorable. Something something, lordly shite. Whether or not I do this you’ll be just as dead one day, so best wise up and drink the wine you’re served. Arise, Rolland Caron, Lord of Nightsong.” Gendry saw that the man was too knock-kneed to rise under his own power so he simply gripped him by the shoulder and hauled him to his feet.

“You honor me, my lord. May I ask a simple boon?” Gendry nodded. “That this be kept between you and I. And, I suppose, the rest of us hardheaded stormlanders. There’s a war on, I don’t need fathers with unwed daughters fighting to get me to sit next to them at dinner.”

“As you wish. It will be for you to let the others know I prodded you on the shoulder once.”

“Better than a punch in the face.” Rolland said with a rueful half-smile.

“Not to be the crass one, but can we well and get this done? I declare I’m colder than any man ought have to put up with.” Lord Estermont broke in.

“You’re not wrong, my lord. Come on lads, let’s see what that sept looks like from the inside.” Gendry said bracingly, offering Arya his arm and leading her on.

Barely halfway to the steps up to the Sept of the Snows a fresh alarm sounded at the city’s northern gate. People around them panicked but Arya couldn’t hear any giant voices and besides, Nymeria for once seemed perturbed rather than put upon. If we live to see this through, we’ll go where you can rest easy, girl, Arya promised.

“Shall we go see what’s wrong this time?” she asked the others.

“Nothing we can’t fuck up worse.” Gendry replied genially, already stretching his arms as Rolland laughed, shaking his head. “Seriously. You want something utterly wrecked, all you need do is loose the two of us at it. We’ve made something of a habit of wrecking plans beyond repair.” Gendry said, Arya turning red. They argued about what was whose fault all the way to the northern gate. Shouting atop the ramparts had Arya craning her neck to see who, what and all the rest.

“There’s someone out on the moor!” one of the men manning the wall bellowed down to the street.

“Grand. A giant or one of those toothy jobs? We’ll aim as befits our visitor’s height.” The officer of the watch replied.

“You’ll need to aim a lot lower then, it looks like a man!”

“Well, no use wasting good rubble on a single dead man.” The officer sounded put out. Men.

“How about a live one?” Arya was atop the wall in half a breath, Nymeria bounding aside her as she squinted out into the night, determined to spot whatever was going on outside White Harbor. Jaqen was right. When mine own eyes won’t do… She reached for Nymeria. Even with the moon waning into a slip of silver she could see fine, and that included the slight figure running headlong for the city. That’s no wight…but those are! Behind the ragged figure came a mob of them, staggering and stumbling heedless of the terrain.

“OI! We’re in luck!” cried the officer happily.

“We won’t even have to aim, either! We’re bound to hit at least a few of them!” his lackey replied. Arya smacked her forehead.

“Well, hurry up! Don’t want to-” The stone beneath her feet grew hot and she caught a whiff of burning wood. Oak, like the city gates. Then the fireling was striding out to meet both parties. When the person fleeing the dead collapsed into the snow she sent a gout of flame at the wights dogging his heels, cutting them down in their dead droves as she bent over the prone figure, even picking him up. Arya winced from within Nymeria’s skin but the poor bugger seemed no worse for wear, even as the fireling carried them back to the (relative) safety of the city. Even faster than she’d climbed Arya descended, finding the pair of them surrounded by gawking onlookers. The fireling’s form had gone from barely-there to quite breathtaking. Her dress was white flame but more striking was the girl herself, with skin of molten brass. And yet her touch does no harm to him. Her face was an inch from his, studying him carefully. Arya did not need the training she had received to know tenderness when she saw it. She knows him. Or at least, she did in life. A fit of ragged breathing betrayed Ser Davos’ approach. Just as he seemed ready to speak, he caught sight of the girl and the person in her arms. As if sensing his gaze, she looked up, eyes black holes in a brass mask.

“He’s cold,” she said, “and I can only do so much.”

A litter was hastily assembled, the soldiers nearby as eager to get warm in the fireling’s presence as avoid her chilling gaze. Ser Davos staggered toward her, as heedless it seemed to Arya as the wights had been. In the end he was on his knees in front of her, mouth moving but quite mute. The invalid mumbled from the litter and despite her misgivings Arya got closer, her curiosity regarding Ser Davos overriding her fear. As is typical for me, she noted dryly. Looking down into the bundle that had been made of their visitor Arya beheld a common face framed by lank brown locks and a few wisps of hair on its chin. A boy just come to manhood. His eyes opened, jittering and unfocused, widening at the prospect of the Onion Knight before him. A high whistling note like a dog’s whine issued from him, followed by a rasp. “Father.” Davos looked down, his own eyes bulging still further.

“Devan!” he cried, pulling the lad into a sitting position on his litter as he groaned. The young man’s next utterance was an unintelligible pained wheeze. “What?” the old knight asked, as if on instinct.

“The Wall. Father, they knocked it down.” Elation turned to dismay as the young man coughed. With the fireling’s hand on his chest to banish the cold form his lungs, it did not seem his life was so imperiled.

“We need to get him to the castle and tell the others.” Gendry said, though hit looked like his tolerance for oddities and quirks was just now sorely strained. On the way up Devan recounted how he had come to them.

“When the black brothers turned on the Lord Commander…I ran. I didn’t want to be there, I wanted to run south as fast as I could to Stannis and be by his side in battle against the Boltons as a squire ought. Instead I found the traces of a massacre, so I doubled back toward Eastwatch…hoping I suppose to find a ship to take me south. While resting on a berm, I heard the thunder roll overhead. The sound of a horn…and then the Wall came down. Well, that got me running south again, through Umber lands and over frozen Long Lake. I thought I had a decent head start on whatever was coming down from the wilds…but dead men don’t tire and cold giants astride cold mammoths can quick catch up to one squire near dead of fear. Even with their stopping to feast or raze any building they came across, they were making better time than I was. At least, until tonight.” They laid him up in bed, gave him hot mulled wine even as the fireling somehow managed to drive warmth back into his black cheeks and nose and his awful swollen black feet.

“How are you doing that?” Arya asked.

“Very carefully.” the girl replied.

“Devan, you spoke of giants. Dead men, too. We forced them away some weeks back- or rather, she did.” Davos said, nodding to the fireling. Devan shook his head.

“A raiding band. They’re coming in force now they know there’s a fight to be had, and the old gods only know what else besides.” What Arya thought was blood rushing in her ears grew steadily louder until she could hear the rhythm in it, Devan Seaworth groaning as he passed out. Drums, she knew.

Chapter 24: Tyrion II

Chapter Text

Morning found him sore and stiff, feet aching and arse chafing. Even nose-blindness did nothing to hide the reek of dried mud, bog-muck and still water that permeated his clothes, yet Tyrion Lannister could only spread his arms and legs out and do a happy little wriggle. I’m not in the Neck, he thought. It was so fine a thing that soon the prospect of hard solid ground under him, of every step not imperiled by hidden fangs or stingers or biting mandibles or sudden bottomless sinkholes that in short order he was laughing, loud to his ears as wildfire explosions on the mouth of the Blackwater. A few muttered curses in Dothraki answered him, fierce jingling screamers who slept nearby, out under the sky but defiladed by the moors to hide from the winds the morn had brought. The ruckus roused several of the Feest retainers. They shuffled over impassively, staring at Tyrion with their beady black-green eyes, clutching their sharpened bones, their ears pierced not by jewels as he’d seen in Essos but by human teeth. And Cersei thought me a terror, a monster, worthy of seeing in every shadow. The crannogmen did not seem amused by his antics but just then Tyrion couldn’t find it in himself to care. When the Dothraki began to stir and beheld the north proper for themselves, theirs was a very different sort of reaction. On their copper faces Tyrion saw disbelief, numbness, awe.

“A man on a fast horse could ride until day turns to night and night day again before he sees anything but rolling moor.” Jon Snow said, looking at it as lesser men might look at a pile of gold. Not the Dothraki, though, Tyrion saw. There were no grumblings about stone tents because there were no stone tents. No complaining about the smell of animal dung because there was none. Just wide endless green a screamer could ride across all night and all day until the horse drops dead out from under him and still he’d be someplace identical to where he started. When the queen saw he was listening to them she came over, translating.

“It is a second Great Grass Sea.” The Lhazareen youth among the Dosh Khaleen was saying to her elders, tears in her eyes. “It stretches out like a big man’s hand and off into the distance until green becomes white and earth becomes sky. On and on and on forever.” The crones did not seem able to believe their own eyes. One’s mouth quivered, another gaped like a landed fish. The bent-backed eldest among the elderly stooped with the Lhazareen girl’s aid and scooped up a handful of dirt. She held it to her nose and breathed deeply, closing her blind eyes for some purpose unknown to Tyrion.

“This is a hard land,” she uttered, “hard and cold. And clean.” The word caught him somewhat by surprise.

“Clean?” he asked while Daenerys relayed.

“The Great Grass Sea grows in softer earth. There are no winds that race across it sharper than a swung arakh. People who dwell in stone tents and hide from the stars have little place here.” The men among the Dothraki were already racing themselves from one end of the field to the other, eager to outride one another. Though the rest of her people looked to have fallen in love at first sight, the blind crone had an uncertain look on her face.

“What troubles her?” Tyrion asked. When the crone answered, Daenerys’ own face grew worried.

“She says clean, but I think she means something else.”

“That much I understand.” Tyrion replied. Sometimes I forget she’s as much girl as queen and has had more important things to do in her life than read and whore.

“Clean as in sharp, unspoiled. No animal pens or stys, because they’d never last here. Clean as in dangerous, where no life is taken for granted. The Great Grass Sea was not a hard world to live in, the Dothraki just made it so.” Ah, now I see.

“Not so here. It doesn’t take a man trying to kill you to die in the north.” he concluded. She bit her lip and nodded grimly.

That sobering thought pushed the Neck from Tyrion’s mind. All for the better. I might have been blind to the perils of the north at hand remembering those of the Neck. When next he looked to the hilltops and the cresting moors, he shivered. I wonder what might find us on the way to White Harbor.

“We’d best get on,” Tyrion told the King in the North, “I don’t fancy being out in these hills at night. Not with wolves and shadowcats about, not to mention your white specter.”

“Ghost is far away.” Jon Snow replied automatically. “Near Queenscrown if I saw right.” That took Tyrion aback.

“Any idea why?”

“Maybe he was keen to be quit of men. Maybe he took up with a pack somewhere.” His broodiness seemed to worsen by the moment.

“Well, Ghost or no Ghost, we should start moving.” Tyrion said bracingly. “No doubt the next time you see him you’ll find a few little white pups tumbling about in tow.”

“Or a mob of wights.” Cheery. For a moment I forgot I was talking to a northman. He rubbed his cheeks to keep them from going numb. I’m not made for this sort of country. A sudden trumpeting quite drove his cheeks from his mind and Tyrion saw Jon Snow go to ground at once, creeping up a hillside to peek over the top. More sounds joined the trumpeting. Rowdy bellowing voices roaring curses and shouting boasts drowned out even the Dothraki who abruptly stopped their fooling and looked toward the north in alarm. Before Tyrion could make up his mind on what to do himself, Jon came back down the hill and over to them, all without a sound. “Giants.” The word made Tyrion’s spine tingle uncomfortable.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Daenerys asked.

“No. They don’t look like normal giants, the kind that are at Winterfell. And the mammoth they have is massive. The best thing to do would be to go around, to keep as close to the coast as possible. The giants I know have a poor attitude toward the sea, maybe these share their view.”

Once word had filtered to the Dothraki that there were giants over the berm, their first reaction was to surge over the hill and meet them head on. A sharp rebuke from the queen chastened them somewhat, along with what Jon Snow said next.

“Horses are terrified of mammoths, and this one is the biggest by far I’ve ever seen. Small help your horses will be when they buck you off at the smell of mammoth and leave you ripe for pasting.” Tyrion was sure he’d misheard.

“Pasting?”

“Aye. An angry giant can turn a man into so much red splatter without a second breath. It was a big problem when they first joined Mance’s host. Only took a few lessons from the Free Folk to learn to let the giants and their mammoths be.” Tormund Giantsbane said in an almost reverent tone. Some Giantsbane. The voices only got louder and rowdier until there was a sudden thud of fist meeting face and then it sounded as though the mother of battles were happening not a half-mile away.

“Come on,” Jon Snow said, while the horselords’ eyes widened around him. “They don’t sound much in the mood for visitors anyway.”

“What do you suppose they’re doing over there?” Tyrion asked, not bothering to whisper.

“Fighting about something, another telling difference from the big lads I know.” He made to go around the hill and head northeast when Viserion stirred behind them, finally roused by the noise. He gave a sweltering yawn that quite drove away the cold for a moment before turning toward the berm, as if to make certain what he was hearing wasn’t just a dream. Then the cream wings spread. Uh oh. The dragon launched himself into the air, sliding gracefully toward the unseen giants even as he idly rose. After a heart-stopping moment the sounds of conflict abruptly died. A decidedly feminine (for a giant’s) voice blurted out in a stony language that might have been something of the Old Tongue. The giants’ shouting resumed, elated this time and the furious row not a minute past forgotten as if it never happened. Quick to anger, quick to calm. Wicked storms made flesh. Wonderful, Tyrion thought queasily. The noise of heavy pounding feet joined the giants’ voices and they began to move off after Viserion. Should he wish to, he’ll leave them cleanly in the dust. Tyrion waited until he could no longer hear them before turning to the King in the North to see what he ought do next. “We’ll press on,” Jon Snow said, tongue between his teeth, “as quietly as we can manage.” Daenerys’ quivering lip was not lost on Tyrion.

“Viserion will be fine, Your Grace. He just went over for a peek at them, that’s all.” he told her. They started northeast again while he thought. A bloody dragon swooped over them and they didn’t flinch. That they were simply unfamiliar with dragons and what they could do was the possibility that loomed foremost in Tyrion’s mind. Then again, he thought, nobody’s ever been as far north as the Land of Always Winter, no more than they have the northern shores of the Shivering Sea or the White Waste. It could be that tales of ice dragons are no tales at all.

No one was particularly keen on meeting more giants on the way to White Harbor. The suggestion to make for the coast and follow it straight north to the port city won over the others, even with the winds whipping off the Bite worsening steadily as they got near the water. Voices found them once again but the bastard Valyrian of the Free Cities as well as shouts and swears in the Common Tongue sounded sweet as music to Tyrion’s numb ears. As before, those in front went flush against the hillside while those unfit for battle stayed behind. Jon Snow peeked over.

“Golden banners. No device.” he said at once. The Golden Company. “I can see a small detachment of Unsullied. No more than two or three dozen. The whole lot are coming off half a dozen ships that look to have barely made it this far north.”

“The storm must have scattered the whole fleet, not just tossed us on the Vale’s shores.” Tyrion whispered back. Varys’ words lingered in his mind. “I dream of the voice.” Well, my unfortunate friend, the voice I heard on the Narrow Sea will stick with me until I die. He saw too, the look on Jon Snow’s face. “Sellswords they may be, but they’re a disciplined lot. Exiles and the sons of exiles, no less Westerosi than you or I, Jon Snow.”

“When your counsel is wanted, it will be asked for, my lord.” the king replied, looking singularly irritated. The sound of wings overhead quite rendered the question of whether to greet the sellswords moot as Viserion descended, his golden gaze locked on the men coming ashore. Just as he had with the giants, the dragon provoked a stark change in attitude. Shouts and screams made it clear there was no hope of making it up the shoreline undiscovered so Jon Snow stood up, muttering something in the Old Tongue which made Sigorn snort in amusement. Tyrion let Jon Snow go on with the queen, the Dothraki in fighting shape and a horde of crannogmen before he asked the big Thenn what was said.

“A kneeler is a kneeler, no matter what side of the water he is from.” Tyrion was almost touched in an offended sort of way. The Dothraki of course barely tolerated Tyrion’s presence as a pet of their khaleesi. As a rule, the horselords did not suffer a dwarf to live among their people. The other Westerosi lords who had rallied to Daenerys’ banner found him repellent in a different way, cunning and dangerous. But still the dwarf, he thought. At Winterfell I’ll be reviled for my name before my height. For being a kneeler, not for being a dwarf. A first, to be sure. Even from far off Tyrion could see that Fortune was not one of the ships vomiting its passengers out onto the snow-dusted beach. Perhaps he reached White Harbor, then. All the better he’s someplace civilized, perhaps the last place in the north that could rightly be called so. The crone had it right, the north has a nasty habit of imposing itself on all that live within it. The Dothraki can call it “clean” all they like, but it’s just too bloody unforgiving for people with sense in their skulls. The same principle applied to the Neck and the Mountains of the Moon. He watched a passing Redbind man pause at the sight of Lord Umber’s wriggling burlap bag only to pull out a slaver’s whip of even greater length from his pocket, making Ned go white. Below them still more crannogmen pooled about the white dragon when he landed like a droning horde of bone hornets while the sellswords did their utmost to keep at a good distance. Is it the dragon they’re leery of or the people of the Neck? Soft southerners are we, Jon Snow? Tyrion mused. Shit on that. A savage is a savage, no matter what side of the Narrow Sea he’s from.

Before Jon Snow could provoke the sellswords Tyrion took it upon himself to get into the middle of it all las quickly as possible.

“There are giants and the gods only know what else loose on the northern moors. Just now we ought get to White Harbor as fast as we can manage. We can start getting prickly with each other when there’s hot food and drink to get prickly over.” What men among them didn’t speak the Common Tongue translated for their brothers-in-arms. The prospect of a hot meal was carrot enough to get them moving while the men in charge as could be found relayed the situation.

“The storm smashed us. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of anyone else…”

“The others won’t have sunk.” Tyrion assured him. “Most likely the fleet’s just been scattered along the shores of the Bite. We were bringing up the rear when we lost the rest of you and we ended up running aground at the base of the Mountains of the Moon.”

“Then how the fuck did you get here?” the officer asked.

“We went through the mountains with the help of what hill tribesmen remain, through the Neck by the grace of the crannogmen and here we are.”

“The dragon wasn’t on Dragonstone, though.”

“No, he wasn’t. We found him basking in the Neck.” Tyrion shrugged, as if the circumstances were so mundane. “At least now we know how he remained hidden for so long.” He took a closer look at the man while the rest of the column that had come by land came down the hill. A knight, with a knight’s aversion to our swamp-dwelling friends. Though the crannogmen were of astonishing number they didn’t seem to make the noise such a crowd ought and they left precious little traces of their passing compared to the rest, even the northmen.

“I remember my father telling me stories of the Neck.” he said.

“The real thing is worse than any story. Who was your father?” Tyrion asked.

“Ser Alek Thorne, and I’m Ser Alyn.” Tyrion remembered the time he’d spent in the company of Ser Alliser Thorne when he visited the Wall. A singularly unpleasant man.

“The Thornes are from the crownlands, what drove your father to exile?” Ser Alyn chuckled dryly.

“Why, your own, my lord. He and my mother had been married not a fortnight when the Sack came. Rather than stay and face the lion’s wroth, he fled to Essos. One of many.”

“Lord Tywin did not execute all those who fought under Aerys’ standard until the end.” Tyrion said, surprised at such a reaction.

“A quick death at the end of a sword or rope or a slow one at the hands of countless cold nights on the Wall. Pardon me, my lord, but I rather feel my father made the right decision.” Tyrion frowned. It was true enough that once the dragons fell, the crownlands’ significance diminished considerably. And shrank still further with Stannis as their overlord, brooding on Dragonstone while the capital turned its eyes westward. Jon Arryn might have been Robert’s Hand but it was Lord Tywin who held the scepter. That was most probably deliberate, as certainly he had been astute enough to realize whittling away at possible Targaryen loyalists must needs be done even as House Lannister was in the ascent. And now the Rock’s golden pride of lions is gone, down to one doddering dwarf. What, I wonder, would you have made of that, my lord?

As they went they found others who had come ashore in similar shambles as Ser Alyn’s group. Mostly sellswords and Dothraki, the former quick to gape at Viserion overhead and the latter flush with relief at the reappearance of the queen. The dragon, Tyrion observed, was not slow to notice that their aim seemed to be picking up as many people as possible. Occasionally he flew out ahead only to return a scant few minutes later, the growing column coming upon the men he had alerted in due course. He scarcely turned his eyes inland, making Tyrion breathe a sigh of relief. Nothing to see. There were Westerosi to meet as well, sworn to this lord or that who had heard tales from their lieges of what had happened in the throne room. If only Balerion had turned his breath upon the throne as soon as it was forged. With Drogon on the mind Tyrion sought out the queen, now astride a palfrey thanks to one of the parties being made up more of animals than men. Even a lone elephant trundled in their midst, a few archers peering down from the small tower on its back. The horses refusing outright to go anywhere near the animal even at the urging of the Dothraki. Jon Snow told it true. The King in the North spend the journey with a hand on the reins of the queen’s horse, making her giggle every so often with some unheard Snow wisdom or jape. Their closeness could not have been missed by a blind fool, and the Golden Company was not comprised of those. Then again, what do they care? Their captains and commanders might be loyal to Aegon but the common sellswords will follow anyone who feeds them. The next people they found were alone but for each other, without a ship in sight. Oh gods, what now? Tyrion thought, despairing at the sight of long red robes. He turned to Jon, who looked as eager to greet the red priestess and her cohort as Tyrion himself.

“You go talk to them.” they both said at the same time, making the queen laugh aloud. The sound drew their new friends’ gaze while Tyrion felt his pockets, pulling a golden dragon out of one.

“I’ll flip you for it.” Tyrion said.